The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Love Romance? (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Nic Tatano (#u0f047d89-72cd-5982-915a-978341715d31)

I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts.

I spent fifteen years as a television news reporter and anchor. My work has taken me from the floors of the Democratic and Republican National Conventions to Ground Zero in New York to Jay Leno's backyard. My stories have been seen on NBC, ABC and CNN. I still work as a freelance network field producer for FOX, NBC, CBS and ABC.

I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

Follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.

For Myra … who makes everything beautiful.

And Steve … the brother I never had.

CHAPTER ONE (#u0f047d89-72cd-5982-915a-978341715d31)

“Dating you would be like dating Mike Wallace,” said the dark-haired hunk, who could easily be considered for a certain magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue.

Before you get the wrong idea about that comment, let me say that I do not in any way, shape or form physically resemble the legendary reporter. I’m actually a slender redhead with emerald-green eyes, classic high cheekbones with a constellation of freckles, little dimples when I smile, and a whiskey voice that sounds like it lives in a smoky bar and channels Demi Moore. Tonight it’s all packaged in a brown-paper wrapper consisting of a bulky sweater and pants, while my hair is up (as it always is) in a tight bun and my eyes peer through Coke-bottle glasses. Gotta maintain the journalistic credibility. If you wanna be taken seriously as a woman in my business, you can’t play the glamour card.

But as for the Mike Wallace comment, I am the city’s most recognizable and feared investigative reporter who channels the 60 Minutes icon every chance I get.

So I sorta get what the guy’s saying, but then again I don’t. Does he mean that he admires my work as much as that of the broadcasting legend? Or that when he kisses me he’ll be thinking of an eighty-year-old guy who’s dead?

So I said, “I’m not sure how to take that.”

He leaned forward and I felt his knee gently brush mine, sending a subtle jolt of electricity through my body. “Oh, it’s a compliment,” he said with a smile. “I mean, everyone knows you’re the best reporter in town.”

I tried to hold back a smile but couldn’t as I looked at this Greek god with the chiseled jawline sitting before me in a dark-gray windowpane suit. The rest of the bar faded to grayscale as he provided the only color in the room. His deep-blue eyes became beacons as I caught a faint whiff of Fendi cologne. A subliminal daydream whipped through my mind and I saw myself being carried to the bedroom by those broad shoulders, my legs wrapped around his slim hips.

However, given enough ointment, there’s always a fly.

“But … ” he said.

Oh shit, here it comes.

Again.

“I just know if I asked you out you’d probably run a background check on me and unearth any skeletons I have in my closet. And I would never be able to lie to you. I mean, no one lies to Belinda Carson and gets away with it.”

Investigative reporter red flag alert. “Does that mean you lie to all the women you date?”

“I didn’t say that—”

I leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “But you have lied to women before or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Your previous statement implies that you have been less than truthful with previous girlfriends. What aren’t you telling me?”

He looked to one side, flashed a crooked smile. “Geez, lady, turn it off.”

“Turn off what?”

“The investigative reporter thing. What’s next, hot lights and thumb screws?” He downed the rest of his drink and stood up. “Look, I don’t think this is gonna work. It was nice meeting you, Belinda.” He shook his head and smiled. “Wait till I tell the guys at the office I got interrogated by the Brass Cupcake.”

Yeah, that’s my nickname in the Big Apple, courtesy of those clever headline writers at The Post. Great for journalism, a killer when trying to meet men.

The colors returned to normal in the trendy watering hole. Half the crowd leaned against the brass rail running the length of the dark oak bar, while the Tiffany lamps above the small round tables provided subdued light to the other half. My best friend Ariel Baymont slid her tall, willowy frame into the next chair and quickly noticed the previously occupied seat at our table was now empty. “What happened to the total package who was here five minutes ago?”

I exhaled, shook my head and looked down into my nearly empty glass.

“You did it again, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, then slugged down the remainder of my rum concoction.

“Trying to drown your sorrows?”

“I would, but the little bastards have learned how to swim.”

She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and I leaned my head on hers. “Aw, sweetie, we’re going to have to work on your bedside manner.”

“You’re assuming a man has been remotely close to my bed.”