That Kind of Guy is book 3 in the Ravenswood series, a set of steamy, small-town romances in which outcast heroines are swept off their feet by the strong, sweet heroes who love them. Previous titles are as follows:
#1: A Girl Like Her (Ruth Kabbah and Evan Miller)
#1.5: Damaged Goods (Laura Burne and Samir Bianchi)
#2: Untouchable (Hannah Kabbah and Nate Davis)
She wants a fake relationship. He needs something real.
If there’s one thing Rae can’t stand, it’s pity. She’s forty, frazzled, and fed up—so attending an awards ceremony alone while her ex swans about with his new wife? Not an option. To avoid total humiliation, Rae needs a date of her own. And her young, hot-as-hell new best friend is the perfect candidate…
Zach Davis, king of casual hookups, has a secret: the notorious womaniser craves emotional connection, and anonymous encounters leave him feeling hollow. After years of performance, Zach’s desperate to be himself. So why does he agree to play Rae’s fake boyfriend? And why does it feel so easy?
When the line between pretence and desire blurs, Zach’s forced to face an unexpected truth: there’s nothing phoney about his need for Rae. But the jaded divorcée’s been hurt by playboy men before. Can a weekend of faking it prove that Zach’s for real?
Forty, frazzled, and fed up, divorcée Rae is in need of a fake date for a weekend-long work event. Luckily, her friend Zach Davis is young, hot, and up for anything. But when she asks for his help, Rae has no idea that Zach’s more interested in something real…
This book contains instances of emotional abuse and controlling behaviour from both a parent and a significant other. It also features mentions of depression, unwanted sexual encounters, and serious parental illness.
Available in ebook format on the 2nd of May 2019. Paperback and audio release dates to follow.
Amazon ASIN: B07PDHMSQG | £3.99 GBP | $3.99 USD | $4.99 CAD | $5.99 AUS
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-9164043-3-5 | £10.99 GBP | $12.99 USD
Available on my blog (almost 5000 words).
This conflict scene is 650 words.
How the hell had this happened?
Zach was caught between outright panic and sheer disbelief. He’d brought Rae to the park to interrogate her about emotional shit, yet somehow, she’d ended up in his lap. Did he produce I’m up for it pheromones or something?
She fidgeted impatiently, staring down at him while he quietly lost his mind. What was the polite thing to do in a situation like this? In the past, he’d solved these sorts of problems with his dick, but these days he was giving the poor guy a break. Which meant he’d actually have to be diplomatic or something. Shit.
Rae smoothed curious hands over his chest as the silence stretched between them. Her eyes widened as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Is it weird being so built? Are muscles heavy?”
Ah—he’d forgotten she was absolutely smashed. His panic faded a little. He laughed, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her off him. “You’re so fucking wasted.” That was the problem, right? She didn’t actually want to sleep with him. She was just drunk and horny, so her boundaries had dissolved.
Or maybe not, because she didn’t take the hint. She reached for him again, beautiful and breathless in the dimly-lit shadows. “Come home with me.”
He didn’t want to say yes, but he would hate to tell her no—to see her wince or shrink away from him, to watch as injured pride and hurt rose like a wall between them. Maybe he should just go along with it. One last time. He’d done it before, after all, and for people he liked a hell of a lot less. For a moment, he teetered on the precipice. Even raised a hand to touch her. But then, through the haze of old habits, purifying anger shone bright.
Zach stiffened. Scowled. Asked himself one question.
Why the fuck should he?
Rae was a grown woman; she wasn’t going to die if he turned her down. And Zach deserved better than forcing himself into sex just to save a friend’s ego. Jesus, what was he, a participation trophy? He didn’t want to do this, so he wouldn’t. The world would have to keep on turning without his fucking dick.
He scrambled to his feet, shaking his head. “No.” He should say more to soften the rejection, but anger still pulsed at the back of his mind. It wasn’t directed at Rae, or even at himself—it was directed at a world that had made him think saying Yes was a gentlemanly obligation. That performing hetero-masculine always-available bullshit mattered more than he did. Because who ever heard of a man saying no?
Rae stood too—slowly, and without any ominous wobbles. “Because I’m drunk?”
Please don’t make me explain this. His jaw tight, Zach strode to the park gate, opening it for her and Duke.
She walked through with a sunny smile. “Thanks. Anyway, I’m really not that drunk—but we could wait until tomorrow if you’re worried.”
He followed her out of the gate and onto the field, hands shoved in his pockets, the glittering night suddenly dark and oppressive. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to stop this train.
“I’m always free on Sundays,” she said, like they were discussing brunch. “I know you’re often busy, but I’m not asking for a marathon. I’d just need you to pop my cherry.” She snorted at her own words.
He paused, staring at her. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”
“Oh, my God, Zach, I know what it means.” She laughed and kept walking, or rather, weaving. “I don’t think I’m explaining this very well. I meant my post-divorce… oh, never mind. I just need to get it over with, you know?”
This snippet is 200 words.
It was evening and he was here. He’d shown up with a sweet smile and damp hair, wearing jeans that adored his thighs and a T-shirt that worshipped the breadth of his chest. She’d offered him a beer and he’d noticed the dead spotlight in her kitchen. Now he was changing it for her, because he was that kind of guy.
His T-shirt was riding up. While he fiddled with the light, she held a torch and tried to ignore the eye candy. She’d already ogled him enough, and she wasn’t a pest or a bad friend… but it turned out she was highly susceptible to wanton gorgeousness, because she couldn’t tear her gaze away. He was a carefully carved slab of marble with those sharp, diagonal lines at his hips that acted like blinking arrows. Those lines had no sympathy for the plight of a woman hopelessly in lust. Hey, they said, look down here. Lower. She resisted, focusing on the faint trail of dark hair that dusted his abdomen. But that was pointing downwards, too.
This was a conspiracy. Zach’s body was out to get her, and she wanted to be caught.
Talia Hibbert is a Black British author who lives in a bedroom full of books. Supposedly, there is a world beyond that room, but she has yet to drum up enough interest to investigate.
She writes steamy, diverse romance because she believes that people of marginalised identities need honest and positive representation. Her interests include makeup, junk food, and unnecessary sarcasm.