Hope Breaks: A New Adult Romantic Comedy

121 Pages·2013·0.45 MB·English

by  Bello Alice

Hope Jones has two problems: one is new, the other is depressingly old.

The new problem: the bestselling author the publisher she shoots romance novel
covers for hates her newest batch of covers. She has until the end of the week to
come up with a breathtaking shot or she’ll be replaced. And there’s a sudden
model shortage; they’re out of season.

The old, depressing problem: she hasn’t had a date, sex or a relationship in over
two years.

She also has one hell of a headache.

Hope finds the cures for her two problems during a search through Wal-Mart for
a painkiller to kill her headache.

Turns out the aisles of the retail giant are rampant with hot young model worthy
specimens. And when her trusty Ford Taurus breaks down in the parking lot, a
hunky mechanic in the Tire and Lube Express department fixes more than just
her car.

Seemingly her troubles are good as gone…but then her new, fabulous cover is
rejected, and in a desperate moment she has to choose between keeping her job
and keeping the man she’s just starting to fall in love with.
Hope Breaks ***

Alice Bello Copyright , 2013
Kindle Edition Cover Image, Istockphoto.com Edited by the incredible
Stephanie T. Lott (aka Bibliophile) This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If
you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not
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Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard
work of this author.
Chapter 1

HE TICKLED MY FOOT: one big, strong hand holding onto the ball of my
foot, the other hand’s forefinger running languidly down the curve of my
instep.
I squirmed and tried to pull my foot free of his grip. He scowled at me and
gave me one of those roguish, stunning smiles of his. No wonder women—and
quite a few men—had been in love with him for the last two decades. It was
more than the fact that he literally got better looking every damn year. It was
more than the amazing shape he kept his body in.
It was even more than the restless leviathan between his muscular legs that
was now discreetly covered by my Hello Kitty pink and white sheets.
Brad Pitt was just the sexiest man to ever live…and—tabloid rumors aside
—he was a great guy… a humanitarian. Heck, he’d done more than FEMA for
New Orleans.
“I’m not done yet,” he admonished, his voice deep with want.
“Well, stop with the tickling, then, and get to it,” I said, pressing my free
foot into his hard, hairless chest. Good god, his flesh was soft and warm… and
he smelled delicious.
He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
As Brad reached over to the bedside table, his thick fingers caught hold of
the nail polish applicator, and then he set to work once more on painting my
toenails. A subtle pink called Unabashed.
I can only imagine he does the same thing for Angelina…
And isn’t it nice that she lets him come here too. Those two really love their
fans…
Brad looked up and frowned, and I realized a phone was ringing
somewhere.
“The machine will get it,” I said, wiggling my toes at him. He smiled and
dipped his head to resume my pedicure.
I heard the machine click on, and then a beep. And then my boss’s voice
shrilled into the room, as if the damn machine was right by my head—which
was ridiculous, since I kept my answering machine on my desk in the studio.
“Hope! I know you’re there… where else would you be!” Janine groused.
“You never leave the house.”
That made me mad. I was not some hermit. I went out all the time: to Wal-
Mart, to the fruit and vegetable market, to…
Well, I wasn’t much for painting the town red, but I was not some pathetic
shut in… I just wasn’t!
“Hope…this is a code red emergency! I haven’t gotten any new cover shots
from you, and Olivia is getting nervous.”
I groaned and looked up at the ceiling. This was bad… very bad.
“This is bad… very bad!” Janine echoed.
Brad looked to me confused, and I could only shrug my shoulders. Bye, bye
Brad… hello reality.
I woke from my daydream sitting at the desk in my studio, my mouth dry as
cotton balls, my body feeling hot and sweaty all over.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up!” Janine brayed.
My heart leapt and I lunged for the telephone. “I’m here,” I said
breathlessly. My daydreams featuring Brad always took it out of me, even if
we’d never gone any further than a naked foot massage, or his washing my
hair… also naked, in the shower…
“Thank god!” Janine bellowed with relief. “You’ve got to fix this.”
I had to fix it. Me? Why didn’t that thought fill me with confidence?
“Hope… are you still there?” Janine called from my phone. She was the
owner, CEO, and Senior Editor of Branded Publishing, and she was the busiest
woman I’d ever met: organized like a general or an accountant… and quite
possibly the most annoying human being on the planet.
I covered the phone’s receiver and took a deep breath, held it for a ten
count, and reminded myself—again—that it was the copious amount of work I
was getting from Janine and her ever expanding e-publishing house that insured
I was caught up on my mortgage and not working shifts at Wal-Mart or
Denny’s.
“I’m here… just had to load some images onto my laptop.” Which wasn’t
exactly true.
I already had all my recent photos loaded on my laptop… and as I clicked
them open they were coming up… lacking. Really lacking. I couldn’t put my
finger on exactly what was wrong with them.
The young man I’d shot was handsome and very well built, and the girl was
what they’d call rockin’ in the body department.
But the pictures of them together just seemed so… flat… lifeless…
Maybe he was too buff? Maybe the shine on her recently capped teeth and
spanking new breasts was causing havoc with the lighting?
Whatever it was, none of my new batch of images was going to even make
it to my next round of cuts. And I needed a cover for the new Olivia Lovelace
novel by next week.
“You know we need to get the advance copies out to the reviewers by next
week, don’t you?” Janine queried.
“Yes,” I sighed, clicking rapidly through my new collection of mediocre
shots, hoping that speed might make one of them look more appealing. “Believe
me, I know.”
“Hope, nothing says cheap and rushed to romance bloggers more than
sending out ARC copies with no covers.”
“I know, I know… and I promise I’ll have something gorgeous for you in
plenty of time.” I just had no idea how. It was the middle of summer, and the
bevy of hot young men and pretty girls who usually signed up to model were
away, back home—wherever the hell that was—since college was over until fall.
“Olivia’s our hottest burning star, so we need to keep her happy. She’s only
contracted for one more novel and she’s already let it slip that Doubleday and
Penguin have made offers.”
Oh… now it all made sense. The unprecedented hype and publicity for the
new Olivia Lovelace novel, and why Janine was so hell bent on getting the cover
done.
Olivia had already rejected my first cover, saying it looked too much like
some of the other covers I’d done before. That’s why I hadn’t even looked at
my stock photos and had plunged right into securing new images with fresh
faces.
I stared at a picture that was almost good, almost passionate…and
absolutely gratingly generic.
Maybe my ego was bruised? I mean, after having my first effort brushed
aside with such a prickly rebuke, I could just be looking at my new crop of stills
with an injured ego.
I clicked on the “almost right” picture and threw it to Photoshop and played
around with colors and contrasts.
Still no good.
“Don’t worry, Janine. I’ve got it all under control. I promise.”
Janine sighed on the other end of the connection. “I know you do, babe. I
know you do. It’s just that Olivia’s ebooks account for over half our sales this
quarter. I can’t afford to lose her to a… Legacy Publishing House.” She said
those last words with real venom in her voice.
Janine had started out in the traditional publishing world, working for
Harlequin and then St. Martin’s. But then ebooks went viral, and the print
publishing industry started cutting authors and whole publishing lines.
Janine had been one of those cut at the editorial level. It had devastated her,
and she’d been teetering on the edge of becoming a statistic in the Print/eBook
war when she ran into a fellow “downsized” editor named Greta from a rival
publisher, and her stinking rich ex-boyfriend who owned half of downtown
Dallas and three sports teams.
In her usual browbeating manner, she pulled both her ex and the other editor
into her wake, and pitched them an idea off the top of her head. A new kind of
publishing house where only ebooks were put out and the prices for them could
rival even those of self-published ebooks.
She’d been right, of course. And she and her fellow downsized editor put
out no less than twelve top ten Amazon romance novels in the first year.
But this year she’d ratcheted up the tension with two a month publications.
And two months ago she’d added two new lines: Hot Branded and Night
Branded. Erotica and Paranormal romance lines.
Just thinking about it made me exhausted. I couldn’t imagine putting out so
many books. Nevertheless, I was making the covers, and it was turning out to be
more and more hectic.
I had to. That or she’d find a new photographer.
And that would be bad.
“I’ve got it under control,” I told Janine, and then told her I’d call her in a
couple days.
When I hung up I called Vincent Call, my contact at the modeling agency.
“Need a model, call Vincent Call!” the man cooed into the phone.
I rolled my eyes. Good god, he was tacky.
“It’s Hope Jones. I need two more models, and I need them quick.”
“Sorry, toots,” the little shitweasel said, sounding anything but sorry. “But
we don’t have anyone we can send you until next month.”
I huffed out my held breath and fumed. “How about one of your
competitors?” I cringed the second the words left my mouth.
I heard him hiss out the breath he’d taken. “I don’t have any competition
down here. This is San Antonio, Texas, for crying out loud, not Manhattan!”
And he hung up.
Crap. Not only didn’t I have any models coming in for my much needed
shoot, but I’d inadvertently pissed off my supplier. I’d have to send him some
booze, or a strip-o-gram.
First I needed to find some models.
I checked the phone book—zilch: turned out that Vincent the shitweasel
really was the only game in town.
I googled modeling agencies in Houston, Dallas, and then for all of Texas.
None, it turned out, were running any actual models this time of year.
Models were out of season.
I shook my head and then rested it on my kitchen table.
Maybe if I looked far enough back in my stock photos I’d find something
I’d forgotten about, something that was fresh and new looking.
Problem was that before I started shooting racy covers for romance novels, I
pretty much shot weddings, birthdays, and graduation pictures…
I cringed just remembering some of the dead eyed, pimply teenagers with
too much eyeliner, too much hairspray, and way too much cologne and perfume
on. Thank god, you can’t smell that crap through a picture.
If I didn’t find a way to keep my position at Branded Publishing, then I
might end up doing portraits at Wal-Mart, if not stocking the shelves there as
well.
I lifted my head and there it was… a headache from hell—pounding,
throbbing, sharp pains around my eyes, and a heavy weight squeezing my frontal
lobe.
I staggered over to the cabinet in my kitchen where I kept my mini-
pharmacy: band-aids, salves, balms, first aid kit, ice packs, and painkillers.
I picked up my bottle of Tylenol and found it empty. When had I used the
last ones?
I sighed deeply and reached for my car keys. Prophetic or not, I was going
to have to go to Wal-Mart before I could go any further with my model hunt.
Chapter 2

MY CAR WASN’T THE newest model. It ran well, it always started, and it
got me from point A to point B and then home again. But its air-conditioning
was anemic at best, and since I lived a mere six miles from the closest Wal-Mart,
it hadn’t even started blowing cold air yet.
I stepped out of my car, sweaty and with an even worse headache than I’d
started out with. I was tempted to get back in the car and go to a bar. At least
then I’d be in air-conditioning, and a few drinks might make my aching head go
numb.
Of course, it might just make my headache worse.
Besides I hated cigarette smoke, so walking into a bar wouldn’t be a good
idea.
So I kept my heading and walked into the retail giant.
At first their air-conditioning seemed heavenly, but that was just the blower
stationed over the front sliding glass doors. Five paces in it became abundantly
apparent that their air-conditioning was on the fritz.
Good lord, could this day get any worse?
As if on cue, the theft deterrent scanners went off like the death screams of
Valkyries, and shot directly into my brain. I stumbled and almost got myself
mowed down by a husband/wife team racing handicapped motorized scooters
back towards the dairy department.
Guess there was a sale on Activia.
I went to the left and headed back toward the pharmacy department. The
glare from the cheesy jewelry counter made my headache flare even hotter, so I
swerved into the other lane and quickened my pace toward the painkiller aisle.
That’s when I started to hear the clanking. It was loud, and getting more