Book Spotlight - HOT FOR HIS GIRL by Rachel Blaufeld

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"Hot for his Girl is a fantastic blend of smartly-written comedy and poignant, sexy romance that shouldn’t be missed." -- Mary, USA Today HEA

Hot For His Girl, an all-new standalone new adult romance from Rachel Blaufeld is LIVE!

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Andonia “Andi” Schwartz is the kind of gal you love to hate. Snarky, skinny, and jaded, Andi’s goodness lies hidden beneath her sharp edges. But it’s there . . . this independent single mom has it going on.
Reid Fellows is a lovable dude. Bespectacled tenure-track statistics professor by day, shirtless blogger by night, he’s a catch on paper and easy on the eyes.
Andi wields her power and unruly commentary from behind her laptop as the anonymous proprietor of The UnAffectionate Blogger. Reid’s blog, Grill and Groom, began on a dare. Now, he regularly shows his abs of steel while grilling.
He may love this gig more than his day job. She needs her page views and advertisers to support her daughter. Until the two meet and spin a web online and IRL . . . in real life.
What happens when two bloggers fall for each other?
A new blog is born.


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Excerpt:
He’s tall, lean, and muscular in track pants and a long-sleeved tee underneath a glow-in-the-dark skeleton-adorned apron. Jet-black hair, mussed across his forehead. Even under the darkening sky, I can tell he has deep olive-toned skin. His eyes, I’m not quite sure. Maybe dark. I feel my feet walking toward the object of my desire, but suddenly halt them. Whoa, horsie. For a second, my brain kicks in and I take stock of my disheveled appearance. This isn’t how I want to meet the man I’ve internet-stalked for a week. The man my brother-in-law wants to emulate, supposedly to win the heart of an overeager preschool teacher. The man who grills shirtless and does it oh-so-well. Just yesterday, he made rosemary-and-thyme veal chops. I don’t believe in eating veal, have never even tried it, and I was salivating over my laptop. Reid, Grill and Groom, whatever his last name is, doesn’t hide behind the anonymity of his laptop. Nope, he’s right out on the wild, wild web for anyone to see. This man is everything I’m not. He writes a successful blog, puts his name out there. And now he’s standing a few feet from me, joking with my daughter and her friend like he has nothing better to do and all the time in the world to do it. “Mom! Can we have two?” “Ms. Andi, this guy said we could have two big bars! Can we?” “Hey there . . .” Three voices call to me, but I’m stuck in Reidville, the small town that had only just begun to grow in my mind. Not the real, live man currently calling out, “Hey there,” to me. “Mom!” Gabby shouts, finally dragging me out of a dense mental fog. “Um, are you sure?” I holler from where I’m standing, because there’s no way in hell I’m allowing myself to move any closer to the door. “It’s no prob. Evening’s almost over, and I don’t want to be stuck with all this leftover candy,” Reid yells back. He’s tall. I’m guessing six foot two or three based on the way he towers over the girls and his head almost meets the top of the door frame. “Make sure to say thanks,” I tell the girls, my voice squeaking, the stupid crumpled coffee cup dangling in my hand. “Would you like one?” Reid, Reid, Reid, just let me get out of here alive with my limbs attached and my lungs still pumping air in and out. But no, he can’t. The girls sing, “Thank you,” and he’s following them out to me, candy basket in hand. I fight the urge to sniff under my pits again, but I can’t seem to stop my free hand from smoothing down the front of my shirt and gathering my cardigan tight across my belly. It’s flatter than most, but still—I’ve had a baby. “Would you like one? To go with your coffee?” He’s dead center now, right in front of me, wearing flip-flops despite the chilly nighttime air, holding the basket with his strong hands I’ve seen pictured on the blog, working the grill. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve fantasized about those hands working me . . . just about everywhere. Okay, everywhere. I admit it. I ended up perusing this guy’s site more than I care to say. Green. His eyes are dark green, deep like the forest, clear like the sea, inviting like a patch of moss. A frog settles in my throat, and I can’t make a sound for fear it will alas be a croak. I shake my head and clear my throat, banishing the toad. “Tempting, but no thanks.” “Actually, I really do have apples, if that’s more appealing.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, light from the rising moon twinkling in his eyes. Reid, Reid, Reid, go back to your grill.



About Rachel
Rachel Blaufeld is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense, New Adult, Coming-of-Age Romance, and Sports Romance. A recent poll of her readers described her as insightful, generous, articulate, and spunky. Originally a social worker, Rachel creates broken yet redeeming characters. She’s been known to turn up the angst like cranking up the heat in the dead of winter. A devout coffee drinker and doughnut eater, Rachel spends way too many hours in local coffee shops, downing the aforementioned goodies while she plots her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end as lusciously as her treats. As a side note, Blaufeld, also a long-time blogger and an advocate of woman-run anything, is fearless about sharing her opinion. She captured the ears of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog, BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and running a business, often at the same time. To her, work/life/family balance is an urban legend, but she does her best. Rachel has also blogged for The Huffington Post and Modern Mom. Most recently, her insights can be found in USA TODAY, where she shares conversations at “In Bed with a Romance Author” and reading recommendations over at “Happy Ever After.” Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two beagles. Her obsessions include running, coffee, basketball, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues. When she isn’t writing, she can be found courtside, tweeting about hoops as her son plays, or walking around the house wearing earplugs while her other son, the drummer, bangs away.

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