Publisher: Soundhaven Books
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Adrian Turner, Mountaineer, Secret Agent, Fireman… Ade would dearly like to be any of these things, though he’d trade them all to win the heart of feisty Public Relations Executive, Paige.
Instead, he’s a disillusioned school teacher, on suspension, after an unfortunate incident with a heavy piece of computer equipment. And somebody’s foot. And Paige? Despite being his girlfriend for the past eighteen months, she still seems to have one foot out of the door and hasn’t quite committed to leaving a toothbrush in the bathroom.
Of course, it doesn’t help that she’s working with her ex-boyfriend, Sebastian. A man who in almost every way imaginable is better, taller, wealthier, hairier, and infinitely more successful than Ade.
Is Paige still in love with Sebastian? Why then did she suggest they get away for a few days? Some place romantic…
But when Adrian finds himself in Slovenia – with Sebastian in the room down the hall – he realises there’s serious possibility that he’s in danger of losing his job, his mind, and the woman he loves…
From best-selling author Peter Jones comes this hilarious romp about love, and the things people do to keep it from getting away.
Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for My Girlfriend’s Perfect Ex Boyfriend! I have an excerpt from the book to share today.
I’ve had plenty of massages over the years. Most left me feeling a little… uncomfortable… which was the inspiration for this scene. We join Ade and Paige in their ‘spa hotel’ bedroom.
The toilet flushes for the third time since Paige made her early morning dash to the bathroom. And judging by some of the other sounds coming from that room, I’m guessing the Rakija is still punishing her for excesses on Sunday night. At least I hope that’s all it is. The last thing we need as a couple, on top of me losing my job, and Sebastian’s unwelcome attendance at the wedding, is a serious illness.
Paige staggers back into the room and crawls back into bed.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Peachy,” says Paige into the pillow.
“I can go down to reception and see if they can call a doctor?”
“It’s just a hangover,” she groans.
“A two day hangover!” I add. “How about we go down to breakfast? Give your body something more substantial to work with?”
“It really is very good. They’ve got everything. I’m pretty sure I saw pancakes and maple syrup.”
“You go. I’m staying here.” I fold my arms. Grumpily. Well, as much as it’s humanly possible to express an emotion with the simple act of arm folding.
“How about another walk around the lake? That might make you feel better. You can build up an appetite. And there was that restaurant you liked the look of on the other side.”
“I really don’t think I can move,” groans Paige.
“You can’t stay here all day,” I reason.
“Just watch me,” she says.
“But this is our only free day! Tomorrow is the wedding!”
“Okay, okay,” she says. “How about a massage?”
“A spa treatment,” she says. “This is a spa hotel.” I screw up my nose, and shake my head.
“Nah, I think that just means they have a pool and a steam room, I don’t think they offer anything in the way of ‘treatments’.” Which is of course, total rubbish. I know exactly what treatments they offer, as well as where they offer them. I found all that out and more whilst Paige was sleeping yesterday. Paige props herself up with pillows.
“No – I remember seeing it on the website,” she says. “They do all manner of therapeutic treatments. And they do couples. Don’t you think that would be nice?”
“Hang on,” I say, suddenly realising I don’t have to fake ignorance after all. “Wasn’t there a sign in the lobby when we checked in? Something about not being about to offer massages due to staff sickness?”
“They’re back on again,” she says, “according to the note by the door.” I frown, get out of bed, and sure enough, there on the floor, is a note, scribbled on a small sheet of hotel note paper.
Couple massages now available!
I pick it up, my frown still firmly in place.
“Where did this come from?” I ask, coming back into the room.
“Someone must have pushed it under the door,” she says.
“Why did you leave it on the floor?”
“Well, forgive me for just wanting to get back into bed! When did you suddenly become so concerned about tidiness?” She has a point. “So are we getting a massage or not?” she asks.
“Hey!” I say brightly, “I could give you massage – how about that?” Her eyes narrow.
“What’s your problem with massages?”
“Problem? I don’t have a problem.”
“Like hell you don’t.”
“I just… I just don’t like them. Very much.”
“You never seem to complain when I give you a massage.”
“Yes well, that’s different. It’s you. You’re naked. And other stuff usually happens. As well as the massage. There’s nothing… weird.”
“What do you mean by weird?”
“Er, no. That’s why I’m asking.”
“You don’t… wrap me in seaweed… or rub me down with an octopus, or spray me with squid ink… or something.”
Paige laughs. “What kind of massage places are you going to!?”
“Seriously! They’re all at it. I saw an advert on the internet the other day offering ‘rock massage’.”
“Rock? As in music?”
“As in pebbles! They heat them up to about a hundred degrees and then lay them along your spine. I mean… what’s that all about!?”
“Hot stone massage. It’s meant to be very nice.”
“It’s barking mad is what it is! I honestly believe there are gangs of therapists trying to outdo each other by inventing ‘new and exciting therapies’. If you told me that you could pay someone to beat you senseless with a pleasantly scented bamboo sitar I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised.”
“Please yourself,” she says, laying back down again. “No massage. Though it’s a shame. I rather like a good sitar beating.” She says nothing for a second or two, then adds: “You know, Sebastian actually has a qualification in massage.”
“What?” I say, after a pause so pregnant an ultrasound would identify at least ten more pauses all waiting to pop out.
“It’s true,” says Paige through a yawn. “He took some course or something, few years ago, when he was travelling round India on one of his trips.”
“Well, of course he bloody did,” I grumble under my breath. “Is there anything that man hasn’t done?”
“I bet he’s nowhere near as good as the masseuses here though,” murmurs Paige. “Not that I’ll ever know.” And with that I get out of bed, and pull on my jeans and a sweater as quickly as I can. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“To get a leaflet,” I say. “Back in a tick.”
About the Author:
Peter Jones started professional life as a particularly rubbish graphic designer, followed by a stint as a mediocre petrol pump attendant. After that he got embroiled in the murky world of credit card banking. Fun times.
Nowadays, Peter spends his days writing, or talking about writing. He’s written three novels; a Rom-Com (Romantic Comedy), A Crim-Com (Crime Comedy), and a Rom-Com-Ding-Dong (a sort-of Romantic-ish Comedy, with attitude). He’s currently working on his fourth novel, which – if it’s a musical – he’ll no doubt describe as a Rom-Com-Sing-Song. (Spoiler: It isn’t).
He is also the author of three and a half popular self-help books on the subjects of happiness, staying slim and dating. If you’re overweight, lonely, or unhappy – he’s your guy.
Peter doesn’t own a large departmental store and probably isn’t the same guy you’ve seen on the TV show Dragons’ Den.
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