Check Yes, No, or Maybe

Stormie Skyes

Description

Crappy job. Yes.


Take back an annoying ex. Definitely no.


Hit on the sexy new firm partner looking him over…maybe?


For Aaron Cambrian, life is lived by checklists. No matter how promising, everything - jobs, potential partners, cars, drinks, food, etc. - needs to meet all his criteria or he walks away.


Everything changes one night at the cocktail bar when his best friend challenges Aaron to abandon his list and ask the first hot guy who catches his interest if he can buy him a drink.


Thanks to his old nemesis alcohol, Aaron takes the dare. The next thing he knows, he finds himself in the condo of an absolute stranger! It was supposed to be one drink. One accidental kiss… Good thing he’ll never see the guy again.


Wrong! When the sexy new partner at Kimball & Marks law firm turns out to be the hot stranger, Aaron is faced with a life-changing decision: keep the checklist or lose the hottest, most frustrating man who ever stole his heart.

Sujets

• Romance
• Romance LGBT
• Romance contemporaine
• LGBTQ+
• Romantic Comedy
• Gay
• Fiction
• M
• Sexy

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 15 janvier 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781644504437
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table o f Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30







Check Yes, No, or Maybe
Copyright © 2021 Stormie Skyes. All rights re served.


4 Horsemen Publication s, Inc.
1497 Main St. S uite 169
Dunedin, FL 34698
4horsemenpublicat ions.com
info@4horsemenpublicat ions.com
Cover by 4 Horsemen Publicatio ns, Inc.
Typesetting by Aut umn Skye
Edited by Amanda T . Miller
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain per mission.
This book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belong to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or pu blisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 20 21951153
Audio ISBN: 978-1-644 50-442-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-644 50-443-7
Print ISBN: 978-1-644 50-444-4


Chapter 1
Y ou know that opening moment in comedy movies when the main character wakes up screaming? The frame freezes, revealing that stupefied face—mouth agape, eyes wide—once they realized they’d done something stupid in a drunken binge. Sometimes the director wanted to give the audience more chances to revel in their humiliation, so he has them pull the sheets to cover themselves. Sometimes they see their mysterious partner and fall o ut of bed.
You get the picture.
That was me after realizing I wasn’t in my apartment in yet another, probably humiliating, line of horrible relationship/hookup decisions. I didn’t fall out of the bed, but it took all my willpower to replace the horrified scream with a gasp. Don’t misjudge. I didn’t make a habit of going home with strange men, letting them sex me into a stupor, then waking up wondering what the hell I did—or let happen to me—the night before. No one had properly laid me in almost three years. Well, the word “properly,” in this case, was in the beholder’s eye. Truth was, I hadn’t gotten laid at all. Pathetic now that I that I thought about it. The point was, hooking up with anyone after getting royally screwed never went well. I often white rabbited—yes, I made that a word—any time someone showed the slightest inter est in me.
Okay, okay, don’t panic. Hasty breaths raced from my lungs. Sweat beaded on my temples. My hands ran through the mid-cut waves of deep auburn—almost black—hair as I jerked my head to survey the room. Let’s step back and start with figuring out where the hell I am.
I took a quick glance around the room, noticing all my cheap furniture had been replace that expensive modern furniture. You know the kind. Sleek, black, often with no cushioning at all. Why is it always black? And leather? Silky sheets cradled my ass. The pillows and duvet probably cost more than my car. At least the be d is nice.
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I didn’t drive an Audi or Aston Martin. But why replace a working vehicle when my college tuition was at stake? I barely made enough to keep ramen noodles in my pantry and my dog fed. Not important right now. I shoo k my head.
I couldn’t remember how the hell I got here. My head throbbed with the worst hangover I’d had since my boyfriend broke up with me. I remembered going out with my best friend, getting sloshed, and then it all turned into a fuzzy televisi on screen.
What the heck happened last night? I stared at the bedside table and saw a bottle of water and two Tylenol— or Advil, who knows —waiting. At least whoever I was with cared enough to leave them there. I swiped the two pills, tossed them in my mouth, and gulped the water. Hopefully, there’ s no GHB.
Things got more insane when I realized I was wearing nothing but my green cotton boxer briefs. Holy crap! How didn’t I notice this before? My eyes bulged, and I fought the urge to scream again. God, please tell me I didn’t take a flying leap into some stranger’s bed and let him screw my b rains out.
How embarrassing of a conversation would that be? Especially in a work environment like mine where gossip ra n rampant.
“Hey, Aaron, how was your weekend?”
“Oh, you know, went home with an utter, hopefully hot-as-hell, stranger—nothing too eventful.”
Josh wouldn’t let me live it down, and Frankie might fall out of his chair belting laughs at the top of his lungs. Either way, my work reputation is officia lly FUBAR.
I smacked my forehead, regretting it im mediately.
My mind shifted to the defense mechanism I’d had since I was seven. I placed my palm on my eye socket, clenched my teeth, and tried to ignore the throbbing in my ears. Out at the cocktail bar with Elliot? Yes, that sounds about right. It was Friday. My ex had pissed me off by calling again … definitely. Everything else is blank! Completely blank! A low growl rumbled in my throat. How could Elliot do this to me? I’m going to kill him.
Somewhere in the distance, rushing water buzzed to life. Is that a shower? I threw the sheets aside and stood, using the bed to stabilize myself as I staggered a bit. My fricking head! I had no time to waste. I had to get out of there. If I ran into whoever owned this swanky place, my face wo uld burn.
It wouldn’t be the first time a bout of humiliation ruined my life, leading to endless spewing of apologies and awkwardness. My reputation for landing in horrible relationships should earn me a medal. If screwing things up was a sport in the Olympics, I’d be the founder. I was the sad case who would actually cry in any reality show I starred in where the main character pretended to sob while calling their ex a selfis h asshole.
Besides, not like I’d ever see the guy … or girl . A strong smell of musk struck my nostrils. Definitely a guy. At least I got that right. It doesn’t matter. It was one night. One … frustratingly vague, alcohol induced, most likely horribly deci ded night…
Like a cartoon, I stumbled around the room trying to find every article of my clothing and tripped over my jeans while putting them on. Time was my enemy if I planned on avoiding my mystery “night lover” before he finished his shower. Being frantic didn’t help. I stubbed my toe on a fancy wooden chest o f drawers.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. Tying shoes became another hassle, then I got my shirt and hoodie, hauling ass d ownstairs.
Woah. I froze upon seeing the spectacle in fr ont of me.
The paned glass offered a beautiful bird’s-eye view of Manhattan. Honking cars and taxis filled with impatient morning people looked like kids’ toys. It was audible from here because the buildings acted like huge, empty walls. Everything echoed! Giant billboards advertising the latest fashion sensation and upcoming blockbuster flashed on both sides of the streets.
I recognized the place as one where the elite live. I was in a Park Avenue condo with the largest living room I’d ever stood in. The furniture continued the boring, monochrome, modernist feel that the rooms upstairs completed with leather sofas with white pillows. A glass coffee table sat on a white— why is it always white? —sheepskin carpet. Everything faced a large, mounted entertainment center made of sleek, black wood shelving on both sides that took up the same space as a large bookshelf. And not the small ones either. Hell, the guy had speakers mounted in all four corners of the room. The weirdest and most out-of-place thing that resembled a normal house was the electric fireplace.
The entire far glass wall opened to a balcony adorned with palm trees, folding sun chairs, and … a jacuzzi a nd a pool?
Man, who is this guy?
The shower stopped, and I was reminded I needed to keep hauling ass if I didn’t want a confrontation. “Hi, Mr. Unknown, I’m Aaron Cambrian. Look, I have no idea how I got here, but would you mind telling me what happened last night?” How awkward woul d that be?
I grabbed my cell and wallet from the kitchen counter, carefully opened the door, and snuck out into a hallway that was as fancy as the condo. Floral wallpaper decorated with expensive paintings lined both sides. Plush, red carpet led the way to bronze eleva tor doors.
I am REALLY out of my element here. I walked to the elevator and jabbed the button multiple times with my thumb. Like that ever speeds things up. A quick check over my shoulder told me my bed mate hadn’t followed me. That’s good. I sighed heavily, eyes on th e ceiling.
The doors finally opened, and I repeated the manic button pressing inside the elevator, watching the door at the end of the hallway. Please don’t come out. Please don’t come out. No one did, and I was free to forget— or try to remember —what happened.
While waiting to reach the lobby, I checked my phone to see if Elliot had texted. He hadn’t, which led me to believe he was busy getting his ass pounded or dealing with a hangover. Karma, please be on my side and let it be the latte