Frenemies and Lovers by Michelle McCraw

When Carly Rose, a recent divorcee, needs a date to her ex’s wedding, she agrees to a deal with a devilishly handsome younger man—her frenemy’s son, Andrew, who happens to be her one-night stand. What could possibly go wrong? Readers who love vacation romances with long standing crushes will fall hard for Frenemies and Lovers by Michelle McCraw, a steamy, fake dating, age gap, one-night stand romantic comedy.

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Blurb

Fake partnership, real attraction, and one hilariously haute disaster waiting to happen…buckle up for this age-gap rom-com.

Carly Rose, forty-five and fiercely independent, is rebuilding her life. Newly divorced, she’s determined to make her stylist business blossom, even with the thorn in her side: Audrey, her frenemy with a tongue sharper than her designer stilettos. Enter Andrew, Audrey’s son, a charming blend of geek energy and fierce loyalty. Who happens to be Carly’s completely off-limits secret one-night stand.

When a chance for Andrew’s dream promotion hinges on a polished public image, he makes an unexpected proposition: a mutually beneficial charade. Carly, facing the gauntlet of her ex’s destination wedding in Barcelona, agrees to become his pretend girlfriend. What starts as a carefully curated act evolves into stolen moments whispered over tapas, kisses in front of Gaudi fountains, and feelings as warm as a cashmere scarf on a crisp autumn day.

Caught between ambition and a forbidden yearning, Carly and Andrew navigate a minefield of sabotaged styling appointments; cringeworthy encounters with exes, bosses and disapproving mothers; plus the undeniable truth that attraction doesn’t follow age brackets.

Swoon for this steamy standalone romantic comedy featuring fabulousness after forty, making friends with enemies, and finding love with a wildly inappropriate fake date.

(Shh, don’t tell Audrey, but Andrew’s dimples are definitely the hottest accessory this season.)

Excerpt 

Copyright 2024 Michelle McCraw

A waft of fresh, clean air cut through the fog of perfume. An awareness made the back of my neck prickle.

My gaze locked on the back of a man standing nearby. Broad shoulders narrowed to a trim waist. His sharp black tuxedo pants hugged a taut behind. The suit itself was nothing special, a run-of-the-mill Brooks Brothers, but it fit him like a dream.

Oh, no.

I tipped my gaze up to his slightly too-long sandy-blond hair as he turned to face me.

I’d pulled fifteen hundred dollars out of my fuck-you-Brad account to attend this gala, and spiteful irony had thrown this man into my path again. I’d planned to dazzle the crowd with the old Carly magic and convince them I still belonged. More, that they needed me.

Hubris smacked me across the face like a Real Housewife.

Andrew Jones stood not six feet away, all muscular shoulders, chiseled jaw, and bottomless gray-blue eyes. His blond hair? I’d pulled it while he buried his face in my pussy. He had the power to upend my life by telling everyone I’d temporarily lost my sanity after a few glasses of chardonnay.

No styling client would take me seriously if they knew I’d slept with one of their sons.

I’d never meant to do it. Andrew had seemed sweet, someone you could trust to bring in your mail and water your plants while you were on vacation. Not that I’d ever asked him to do that. When I was married to Brad, our housekeeper took care of the plants and brought in the Wall Street Journal and Financial Times.

I’d never thought of him as anything more than the nicer of Audrey’s two sons until seven weeks ago when I’d spotted him across the bar in Monterey. He was no sweet kid that night. He’d gone and grown up in the ten or so years since I’d given him a purely platonic hug at his college graduation party.

When he’d peeled off his button-down shirt, I’d run a finger across his hard pecs. His voice went deep when he called me his fantasy come true. I’d been sore for two days, unused to a thirty-two-year-old’s impressively short refractory period.

I’d lost my mind.

It was the only way to explain how I’d hooked up with Andrew Jones, a man who was thirteen years younger than me and the son of my frenemy.

His handsome face split into a broad grin. Those dimples—my kryptonite—dented his cheeks. He’d laughed that night. I’d laughed, too, more than I had in the lonely year before.

In his hotel room, he’d made me feel powerful and adored, like I was the only woman he’d ever cared about. Something reckless inside me wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, to see if my skin still sparked when it met his. I felt my lips curving into a reflection of his smile.

But tonight, exposed here in the ballroom, those gentle hands were dangerous. Those soft lips threatened my plans. My heart hammered, demanding I flee. But my feet stayed firmly planted on the carpet. Maybe they were right. Running away would only draw attention.

Two of his long strides brought him in front of me. “Carly, you look amazing, as always.”

I focused on the sharp points of his bow tie. “Andrew, what are you doing here?”

“My mother asked me to come.” 

Ice coated my belly. Audrey Jones Hayes could not see me talking to her son. I glanced to the side, where a heavy curtain created an alcove by the window. But dragging Andrew behind a curtain would look more suspicious than talking to him in the middle of the ballroom.

I stared at the center of his tie, trying not to think about the hollow behind it where I’d dipped my tongue that night. “It’s great seeing you again, but—”

“That’s what you want? To be strangers? After that night? You left without saying goodbye, without saying anything at all. And I couldn’t call you because of the rules—”

“Shh!” I stepped closer and almost put a hand over his mouth. There were people everywhere, people who’d love to pocket the currency of a juicy bit of gossip like that. That’s why I’d made rule two: we’d never tell anyone, especially his mother, that we’d slept together. The one he was talking about was rule three: it could only be one night.

“Dance with me.” He held out a hand, palm up. “We should talk. No one will hear us on the dance floor.”

“No!” I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. They were the color of storm clouds in spring, dark and dangerous. If I danced with him, everyone would notice the indecent heat in his stare.

“Come on. I danced with Bianca Waddingworth. No one will think anything of it. It’ll look like we’re networking.”

My stomach clenched. I’d danced with dozens of Brad’s business colleagues over the years. But I hadn’t slept with any of them.

“One dance,” I said. “And then we go our separate ways.” I tore my gaze off his eyes. One dance was like rule three…with our clothes on.

About Michelle McCraw 

Michelle McCraw loves reading kissing books and working in tech. One day, she decided to combine her two interests, and now she writes steamy, nerdy contemporary romance that just might make you laugh. Her Synergy workplace romance series features characters who unashamedly love science, engineering, and technology. Her novels have been finalists in the RWA Vivian Contest, the Contemporary Romance Writers’ Stiletto Contest, and the Windy City Romance Writers’ Four Seasons Contest. A native Texan, Michelle has shoveled snow during nor’easters and knows the proper response when someone yells “O-H.” She now calls Georgia home, where she doesn’t miss snow AT ALL. She enjoys reading, traveling, drinking bourbon, and spoiling her extraordinarily ill-behaved but adorable dogs.

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