Sun of a Beach E-Book

Mia Sosa

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 134

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Fun in the sun awaits in this funny, flirty, and deliciously sexy rom-com novella by USA Today best-selling author Mia Sosa. Perfect for fans of Talia Hibbert, Olivia Dade, and Alexis Daria! No-nonsense executive Naomi Reyes can't believe she let her boss manipulate her into babysitting Donovan Taylor, the most insufferable creative director of all time. Worse, she'll be trapped on a private island with him, while a bevy of gorgeous models vie for a coveted chance to grace the cover of M-Class Magazine's inaugural Swimsuit Edition—and, if the office rumors are true, an equally coveted place in Donovan's bed. Still, if she survives the trip with no major mishaps, she'll earn a shot at landing a dream job as an M-Class writer. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. Donovan detests people who try to undermine his artistic control, and his boss's latest machinations send Donovan to a very devious place. Sure, Naomi will get her precious photo shoot, but it won't be what she expects. Bonus? Ruffling the feathers of the humorless exec who's never liked Donovan will be satisfying too—assuming she doesn't drown him in the ocean first. Let the beach games begin.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

A Note from the Author

1. Naomi

2. Donovan

3. Naomi

4. Donovan

5. Naomi

6. Naomi

7. Donovan

8. Naomi

9. Donovan

Excerpt from THE STARTER EX

Excerpt from THE WORST BEST MAN

Also by Mia Sosa

Praise for Mia Sosa

About the Author

This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Sun of a Beach

Copyright © 2023 by Mia Sosa

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972598

KDP POD ISBN: 9798392672462

IS POD ISBN: 9781641972666

Cover illustration by Kim Ekdahl

Cover design by VMC Art & Design

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

https://www.nyliterary.com

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thank you, dear reader, for purchasing or borrowing a copy of Sun of a Beach, my sexy contemporary rom-com novella set on a fictional island in the Caribbean. SOAB was originally published as an Audible Original, and I’m delighted that it’s now available in digital and print editions. Still, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the audiobook narrators, Sean Crisden and Valentina Ortiz, who delivered spectacular performances as Donovan and Naomi, respectively. If you haven’t listened to the audiobook, I highly recommend it. In any case, I hope you enjoy reading SOAB as much as I enjoyed writing it. Now, grab your favorite beachside beverage and hop on for the ride!

For the changemakers

1

NAOMI

As I approach M-Class magazine’s inner sanctum, I repeat this morning’s mantra in my head: If you can’t beat them at their own game, change the game altogether.

“Good morning, Naomi,” my boss’s assistant says when I reach her desk.

“Good morning, Anabelle. Linda asked to see me. Is she in?”

“She is.”

“And on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate her mood today?”

“Hmm. I’d say about a four? Breathing isn’t a fireable offense just yet, but it might get you a warning notice in your HR file.”

“Oof. Figures. But I’m not going to let Linda’s mood get in my way. Because today I will not be deterred.”

“You go, girl.”

“Unh-unh, Anabelle. Step away from Twitter and retire that phrase forever.”

“Sounds like I’m trying too hard?”

“Among other things.”

“Noted. Well, head on in when you’re ready. And whatever it is you’re hoping for, I’m crossing my fingers you get it.”

“Thanks.”

Mentally swatting away the butterflies in my stomach, I push open the massive door to my boss’s office—and trip over the threshold strip as I enter.

Puñeta.

Grimacing at my untimely clumsiness, I quickly gain my bearings and take in my surroundings.

Linda Swanson, a tiny woman with a severe expression and a chilly disposition, sits behind her mahogany desk, a pair of turquoise-framed spectacles resting on her hawkish nose. The intimidating frown dominating the lower half of her pale face is no match for my resolve, though.

When she looks up from the papers in front of her and sees me, she curves her ruby-painted lips into a welcoming smile. Uh-oh, that right there is a sign of trouble.

“Naomi, my dear, it’s so good to see you.”

And . . . that’s another red flag. In the four years I’ve been employed at M-Class magazine—first as a circulation clerk, then as an audience development manager, and now in my current position as assistant to the publisher—Linda has never claimed to be happy to see me. Sure, I know she appreciates my skills and expertise, but happiness simply isn’t a part of her repertoire. She’s brilliant, yes, and she’ll move mountains for her employees, but she’s a grouch in designer clothing. A smart, loyal, grumpy boss—that’s Linda. Sidenote: I’d never tell her this, but I want to be her when I grow up.

“Good morning, Linda.” I approach the guest chair, my damp palms hidden behind my back, and meet her unwavering gaze head-on. “Did you read my email about the circulation and subscription information you requested?”

I’m guessing she hasn’t because the numbers, in short, are depressing, and no one ever smiles at the bearer of craptastic news. No matter. I’m prepared to give her the highlights.

“I did read it.” Linda slides her rolling chair back and sits up straight. “And I see you took the initiative to make some recommendations on how to move forward.”

She dons a placid expression, making it difficult for me to guess her true reaction to the suggestions I laid out for her. Linda may not always agree with me, but she values my opinion, a fact that has landed me a place as her trusted right hand. This situation is different, though: Today, I’m advocating for myself.

I sit as gracefully as possible in a skirt that seems to have grown snug overnight—bloating’s a bitch with a shiv—and lean forward. “May I explain?”

“Of course.”

My opportunity to lay the groundwork for steering the magazine in a different direction and altering the trajectory of my career rests on delivering my carefully worded speech in less than three minutes; Linda rarely cedes the floor longer than that. After blowing out a long breath, I begin my pitch. “I’ve studied the numbers and those of our competitors, and I think we should consider several tweaks to our editorial focus. For years, M-Class has catered to certain readers, namely, single white heterosexual males with disposable income, but we’re not tapping into numerous demographic groups that do and could comprise our readership if we catered to their interests as well. I’m not suggesting a complete overhaul, mind you. I know it wouldn’t be prudent to make sweeping changes to M-Class’s brand overnight. So what I’m proposing is that we test the waters first. Run a few features with a more inclusive editorial bent and see how they do. And I was thinking that I could write—”

A rap at the door jolts me out of my persuasive zone. Shit. I turn my head and visibly cringe when the magazine’s creative director, Donovan Taylor, pokes his head in.

“Linda, you asked to see me?”

The only man at M-Class who makes me queasy, like damn-he’s-ridiculously-hot queasy, sweeps his gaze from the top of my head to the heels of my nude pumps and rolls his eyes at me. Yes, rolls them. Like a surly pre-teen. He’s also the only person who irritates me to no end. It’s a lovely—and frustrating as hell—combination.

“Donovan, come in. You and Naomi are just the two people I needed to see.”

That’s the third sign of trouble. Why Linda needs to see us both—together, presumably—is anyone’s guess.

Donovan grazes a hand over his thick curly hair, then drops his arms as he waltzes inside as if he owns the place. In truth, he doesn’t deserve to be at the helm of anything except his own self-admiration society.

He slides into the guest chair beside mine and dips his chin. “Ms. Reyes.”

Despite how much I wish it wouldn’t, his voice rumbles over me like a storm surge at high tide. All I can do is mentally stand my ground and refuse to be pulled under. I hate that this man affects me in any way, but I especially hate that he affects me in a way that’s highly inappropriate in the workplace. Damn him and double damn my suggestive imagination. That tingle that hits my belly and rolls over me each time I see him? It’s terrible news. Very terrible, no-good-can-come-of-it-so-don’t-go-there news. Returning my gaze to Linda, I acknowledge my co-worker in a curt tone that masks the churning in my belly. “Donovan.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Our interactions have never been pleasurable in any sense, so I take his greeting as the sarcasm he most definitely intends and address our boss instead. “What did you need to see us about?”

“Donovan, I trust you’ve reviewed Naomi’s report on the state of circulation and subscription rates.”

He nods, his easy grin faltering. “I have.”

Linda, as both publisher and Editor in Chief, typically keeps the creatives apprised of the company’s financial picture, disregarding the traditional divide between their department and the business staff, so Donovan would have received my report as a matter of course.

“Naomi was just sharing a few of her ideas about the direction of the magazine. Go ahead, dear. And please make it quick.”

She wants me to continue in front of Donovan? Hard pass. One, he’s not interested in my ideas, a fact he made abundantly clear when I attended my first editorial meeting a year ago—at Linda’s invitation, I should note. Two, he’d undermine me just for kicks. “I, uh, I think I covered all the salient points already. Happy to share the specifics another time.”

“Are you sure?” Linda asks.

“I’m sure.”

“All right, well, I’ll say this: You’ve done a phenomenal job identifying the gaps in our readership, and your suggestions are the kind of forward-thinking I’ve come to expect from you.”

If Linda were the type of woman to cheer, I’d stand and fist bump her right now. But she isn’t, so I merely smile and nod, thrilled that she obviously agrees with my analysis.

“However, I’m not ready to give up on our current readership just yet.”

Linda swivels her head in Donovan’s direction. “So I’d like to do something different for the anniversary issue, and I’m trusting you to implement an important part of it.”

Donovan scrubs a hand down his face and gives her a long-suffering sigh. Must be nice to take that liberty, knowing there’ll be no repercussions for doing so. Linda has a motherly soft spot for Donovan; I wish I knew why.

“You’ve always given me carte blanche with the direction of the anniversary issues,” he tells her. “And it’s been in the planning stages for months.”

“Well, Naomi’s report makes clear that circumstances have changed. Now we need to readjust our plans to thrive within the evolving landscape.”

Donovan gives me a withering glance before he responds to Linda. “So what do you propose we do instead?”

“We’re going to publish a special edition swimsuit issue. This December.”

I hold my breath for several seconds, only letting it whoosh out when lightheadedness threatens to make me collapse in my chair. My vision for the magazine does not include thongified beauties on its cover. Quite the opposite, actually. If it were up to me (and admittedly it isn’t), M-Class would cater to a broad spectrum of male millennials who proudly identify as feminists, represent and embrace the LGBTQ+ spectrum, and want real advice about dating (or not) and looking good while doing so. That’s the version of M-Class I want to write for—and maybe even serve as an editor for someday. To get there, I need to show Linda there’s an audience hungry for more diverse content. A swimsuit issue will muck up my plans.

“You’re joking,” Donovan says. “That’s only four months away.”

“I don’t joke, Donovan. You know that. And neither of you can deny the genius of my plan: For months, a private charter company has been hounding me about trying its services. And it just so happens that they’ve offered to charter one round-trip flight at a significant discount to us so they can demonstrate their value to our business.”

“What does any of this have to do with Donovan and me?”

Linda removes her eyeglasses and cleans them with a soft cloth, squinting at us as she continues to speak. “We’re going to take them up on their offer and save the company money while doing so.”

Donovan cocks his head to the side and pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. After a beat, he says: “We’re taking that chartered flight, aren’t we?”

Eyes bright, Linda smiles and puts her glasses back on. “Yes, a flight to gorgeous Coco Bay, a small private island in The Bahamas. You, the essential members of your team, given the obvious space constraints, the models, and Naomi.”

My eyes bug out as I process their exchange. “Me? Why me?”

“You’ll be my eyes and ears on the ground, dear. Or on the sand, to be more precise.”

Donovan lets out a low-pitched groan, but when Linda pins him with her don’t-you-sass-me gaze, he coughs into his hand. “In other words, you’re sending her to babysit me.”

“Now, Donovan, I’m sending her to keep an eye on things and make sure we stay within budget.”

“Sounds like babysitting to me.”

“Sounds like my prerogative as the publisher to me.”

Donovan draws a deep breath and gives her a dazzling smile. “Right. Of course. If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen.”

“No objections?”

Donovan hesitates, his mouth opening and closing in a span of seconds. “Nope. You’re the boss.”

Linda’s expression falls, almost as if she’s disappointed he’s not pushing back. But that makes no sense, so I disregard the notion as quickly as it comes to me.

“How long will we be there?” Donovan asks.

“Three days. I’d prefer it to be two, but the charter company wants to make it economical for them as well, so they’re picking you up on the way back from another charter. Which is fine, right? I can’t imagine an extra night in paradise would be an imposition on anyone.”

Donovan rubs his hands together and licks his lips. “Works for me.”

So this is what it’s like to watch a train jump the tracks before your eyes, huh? That’s two scoops of shit with sprinkles on top.

No.

No, no, no.

I’m not going out like this. I need to step in and make my concerns known. “Linda, none of this will address our declining subscription rates and dwindling advertising revenue.”

She smiles at me—for a record-breaking second time in a single encounter—prompting goosebumps to dot my arms. “Ah, but you haven’t heard the best part. We’re transitioning to digital, and the swimsuit issue will reside behind a paywall for everyone except our current subscribers.”

Well, shit. Charging new online subscribers to see the swimsuit issue? That’s fucking brilliant. Consumers are far more likely to sign up for an online subscription than a print one. And with a swimsuit issue as enticement, the advertising department will sell ad space in minutes. Damn Linda and her excellent ideas that absolutely undercut mine.

“What about content for the issue?” Donovan asks. “Have you talked to Seth about an editorial plan?”

Seth Magnuson is M-Class’s features editor. He does what he’s told, and Linda does the telling.

“There won’t be much of any, I presume. And anyway, Seth is too busy to join you. He’ll work with what you give him.”

Donovan’s brown eyes flash with an emotion I can’t pin down. Deviousness, maybe? “I see.” He tilts his head, his dimpled chin catching the light slipping into the room through the slats in the window blinds. Is his brown skin as soft as it looks? Why are his eyelashes so goddamn long? Must he roll up his sleeves to reveal the corded muscles in his forearms? Everything about him is so damn rude.

“And you’d like me to hire the photographer and models?” he asks.

“Yes. I figure you’d appreciate that fact.”

“Given your reputation, I don’t doubt for a second you will,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for Donovan to hear.

“Something just clawed at me,” he says, giving me side-eye. “Is there a cat in here?”

“Seems more like a dog to me,” I grumble in reply.

Linda, oblivious to the hidden meaning of Donovan’s question, sniffs the air in her vicinity. “I don’t have pets. Does it smell like there’s an animal in here?”

“No, not at all,” Donovan says. “Must be my imagination and not enough sleep.” Wearing a self-satisfied expression, he rises to his feet and brings his hands together in a single, loud clap. “Well, I guess I should get going, then. If we’re going to make our internal deadlines, I’ll need to move on this quickly.” With a smirking glance in my direction, he pivots and strides out of Linda’s office.

What the hell? Is this a dream? What am I supposed to do now?

“Don’t look so out of joint, Naomi. Donovan will be on his best behavior with you around.”