Show Off: A grumpy sunshine, opposites-attract romantic comedy (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book

Chapter 1

CONFESSIONAL 1079.5

Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)

What’s it like being the youngest of six? [dramatic eyeroll]

I mean, my siblings are great. Mostly. Our mother still introduces me as “the baby.” Yeah, I know. I’ll be twenty-eight next year.

[sips from mug that reads “It’s too peopley here”]

You know what a director said on my last big PR gig before I left Hollywood?

“If I want some little girl to shove sunshine up people’s butts, I’ll give you a call, creampuff.”

Yes, I’m serious.

I gave him a helpful, alphabetized list of alternatives I would cheerfully shove up his butt.

* * *

“So, we all feel good about how the season wrapped?”

Big brother Dean snaps my focus off the notepad I’m clutching. That’s my cue to jump in. To sit just a tiny bit taller in my chair.

“I think we’re in good shape.” I tap my pink pen twice on my equally pink notepad. “People magazine calls it Hollywood’s strongest season finale.” Never mind that our show films literally a thousand miles from Hollywood. “The article hits newsstands tomorrow.”

My siblings nod like I’ve said something smart, and maybe I have. Only Mari looks worried as she tickles her infant son’s cheek. Count on our shrink sister to spot the elephant in the room.

“What’s public sentiment around…the incident?”

Ah, the incident.

“It’s like I’ve said from the start,” I begin, glad I’m on top of this. “Everyone loves a grumpy chef.” Admittedly, Chef Dal Yang calling a restaurant guest a twatwaffle might’ve gone a step beyond grumpy. “It helped that the guy really was being a twatwaffle.”

“Waffles.” Cooper looks up from his fidget spinner. “Anyone else want one of those stroopwaffles from the bakery?” He’s already out of his chair and headed for the counter. “I’ll grab six.”

“About the finale.” Dean drags us back to the business of running our little self-contained community. “That could’ve gone sideways fast. We’re lucky it was a jackass journalist and not another resident.”

“We certainly are.” Lucky isn’t the word I’d use. Skill sounds closer, but I’m not one to brag.

It’s true, though. My public relations magic made the jackass journalist back off before things got ugly. It wasn’t just that, though.

“You saw the footage.” I look at Lauren and Gabe, who filmed the damn footage. “I’m not saying the guy deserved to have a saltshaker upended on his head, but he was out of line.”

Lauren gives a curt nod. “I would have used the hot sauce.”

Of course she would. “Anyway, it’s over,” I continue. “Our ratings are good, viewers are happy, and Dal Yang’s got approval ratings up the wazoo.”

Thank God Cooper’s still at the bakery counter. He’d make some smartass comment about me wanting Dal up my wazoo, whatever that means.

Brothers suck sometimes.

My oldest consults his notes. “All right,” Dean says. “So on with the next season’s show arcs.”

The chatter shifts to filming schedules and new community members joining the show. I take copious notes, but who am I kidding?

My brain’s still stuck on Dal. About what set him off that day we filmed the finale at his restaurant, Serenade. Some pipsqueak reporter from a shady online news outlet showed up saying he’d spill the beans on how Dal’s brother wound up in a wheelchair.

“Do it,” Dal snarled, with cameras rolling. “Hell, I’ll make it easy for you—I caused the fucking accident.” He struck his chest with a fist and faced the camera. “You heard me. I’m the reason my parents got killed. I’m why Ji-Hoon lives in a fucking wheelchair. I was horsing around in the backseat like the twelve-year-old dipshit I was. You got that?” His dark eyes flashed on the screen. “That’s reality. No excuses. No sugarcoating. It’s the truth. And I’ve never fucking run from it.”

It was brave. It was honest. It was heartbreaking.

And it was damn good television, even with the bad words bleeped.

“Sound okay, Lana?”

I blink myself back to Dean’s question. “Chowder contest.” I consult my notes, which apparently I kept taking even as my brain wandered. “Ji-Hoon entered his brother’s coconut curry chowder in the Best of Oregon contest, but he wants it to be a surprise if Dal wins.”

Mari looks fretful. “I don’t like keeping secrets.”

Says the woman who kept a whopper from the guy she was banging. It’s all good, since the secrets spilled out like they tend to do, and she married Griff and had the cutest baby boy on earth. I lean over to tickle Sawyer’s plump cheek as Gabe speaks up.

“I think a secret about chowder is fine.” He takes a stroopwaffle from Cooper, who’s passing them out like blue ribbons. “We’ll break it to Dal on camera if he wins, and if he doesn’t?” Gabe shrugs. “No harm, no foul.”

“Moving on.” Dean clears his throat. “More ideas for getting Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge into the public eye?”

I’m full of ideas, thank you very much. Like the good little sister I am, I raise my hand.

“Yes, Lana?” Cooper points with the hand not gripping a stroopwaffle. “You have something to share with the class?”

I maturely do not command my brother to bite me. “Organic gardening’s very on-trend, and there’s a reporter at Entertainment Weekly who owes me a favor,” I report. “I guarantee they’d do a puff piece if I ask.”

My siblings nod like I’ve thought up the cure for chronic hiccups. Could be they’re humoring me, or maybe it’s an excellent idea.

“We’re having dinner tonight with Tia.” Cooper grins, still tickled to speak as we. Marriage suits him. So does having his pretty cop wife primed to bust out a baby any day now. “I can ask Tia if she’ll talk about her role in the gardens,” he adds. “She helped with agricultural setup.”

Mari bounces my infant nephew in his holster on her chest and Sawyer responds with a squawk. “Good idea.” She pats her son’s back. “Aren’t the gardens more Dal Yang’s domain?”

Aaaaand, we’re back to Dal.

“That’s true.” Lauren slides her eagle eyes to me. “He wanted more fresh produce in the restaurant.”

Big sister’s watching me, searching for clues to how I feel about Dal. She’ll have to do better because, dammit, I’m a professional. So what if his name plops a fizzy pink bath bomb in my belly?

“Tia consulted on the project, but Dal spearheaded it.” I meet Lauren’s piercing gaze with my perkiest PR smile. “And your husband built the deer-proof enclosure, so I’d love to include him in interviews.”

She smiles, placated, and I pat myself on the back. Knowing which buttons to push is part of my job. My key to public relations success. The reason I’m really fucking good at putting the best possible spin on anything life flings our way.

Almost anything.

My gut spits out the bath bomb with an uneasy lurch. There are parts of this job—this role as the Judson family’s official sunshine spinner—that I don’t love. So what? It’s not like my brothers and sisters love their jobs all the time.

“All right then.” Big brother Dean folds his hands on the table. “I agree Dal Yang’s got the leading storyline this season. Let’s tee him up for that.”

Mari nods and types something on her laptop. “Let’s clear things with the appropriate parties and get rolling.”

We all stand up, assignments in hand. A figure of speech, since Mari’s plugging marching orders in our spreadsheet that tracks who’s doing what. Baby Sawyer flails his little starfish hand and gives me a toothless smile.

“Hey, buddy.” I tickle him under the chin as my siblings start for the door. “Got a kiss for Auntie Lana?”

Gabe bumps me like a butthead as he files past. “Auntie Lana sounds like a laxative.”

“Or an antidepressant.” Cooper slips into his Hollywood voice as they head for the door. “Now presenting Auntie Lana—may cause dizziness, fatigue, and anal leakage.”

Flipping the bird at my idiot brothers, I let Sawyer wrap a finger—index, not middle—in one chubby fist. “Who’s the cutest baby in the world? That’s right, it’s you!”

Mari nudges her glasses up her nose. “Did you have a question?”

“Nope!” I paste on my perkiest smile and aim for nonchalance. “Just offering to talk to Dal Yang about the community gardens piece. I’m meeting someone for dinner at Serenade tonight, so I can stop by early and?—”

“That’s great, thanks.” My sister scrolls to that field and types in my name. “You’ll have the best luck anyway. He bit my head off last week when I asked him to set up a therapy session.”

That sounds like Dal. “I can mention the therapy thing when I talk to him.” I’ll do no such thing because I want him to like me. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Put it in the spreadsheet,” she calls as I sashay toward the door. “Nice mug, by the way.”

I glance at the insulated cup in my hand and smile at the cheerful inscription.

Don’t tell me what to do unless you’re naked.

I chug some coffee and mentally scroll through my day. I’ve got a press conference at four and dinner at seven with my favorite reporter from the Today show. But for the next few hours, there’s time to kill.

My phone pings in my bag and I fish it out, wincing when I see the screen.

MOM: Call me, baby girl.

Another text popsup while I’m reading that one.

MOM: It’s urgent.

And another.

MOM: Sweetie? I need to hear from you.

I gulp backsome guilt and shove the phone in my bag. Mom can hold her horses.

Or not, since the phone’s ringing now,a buzzy reminder that Shirleen Judson can’t be kept waiting.

With guilt gripping my throat, I send it to voicemail and type out a quick text.

ME: In a meeting. Will call later.

That buys me some time.And no, I’m not worried she’s hurt or hospitalized or has crucial news. Her last “urgent” communication was to let me know Prada released their new summer line.

Summer’s here, with no new Prada in my closet. I smile at my toes in their basic pink flip-flops from Target. My cutoff shorts aren’t the artfully slashed sort that cost a thousand bucks from Balmain, but an old pair of jeans I hacked with my own damn scissors.

Small-town living is my jam.

Never would have guessed it five years ago, back when I poured myself into the hottest couture hoping my dress didn’t invite ass grabs from sleazy directors.

As I stuff the phone in my bag, I realize I’ve marched right past the turnoff to my cabin. That’s what I get for texting and walking.

But hey, here I am, right by the community gardens, and would you look at that—there’s Dal Yang’s bike propped on the fence! It’s a sign. A sign to tackle the next task on my to-do list. Efficiency, baby. Not a lust-starved attempt to stalk the brooding chef, whose Korean-American good looks fill way too many of my fantasies.

I’m just doing my job.

Shifting my mug to the other hand, I survey the sprawling gardens. The plants are too big to see much through the leafy lace of tomato vines and Concord grapes. No sign of Dal’s sleek black hair, his broad shoulders, or those tattooed arms to die for.

It’s an impressive garden. Rows of tall corn march like leaf-covered soldiers toward the open field to the east. There’s squash and beans, all tangled together in lush clusters. Off to the right stands a scarecrow Cooper built to look like Dean. He even dressed it in our brother’s old shirt, which I’m sure Dean’s wife sneaked from their closet.

I pause at the fence to pull a compact from my bag. My makeup looks good, not much to it. Just a little pink gloss and some mascara. Beachy blond waves frame my shoulders and I smile to check if there’s gloss on my teeth. Nope! Perfectly presentable.

A moan cuts the silence and I freeze. That was a moan, right?

Holding my breath, I listen again.

Mmmmhmaamm.

There! For sure a moan. What the hell?

“That’s it.” Dal’s low rumble stalls my heart. “Oh, yeah. You like that, baby? Do you?”

Oh, God.

I swallow and search for clues to his mystery lover. There’s only Dal’s bike by the fence, so the woman must live nearby. Or maybe she parked at the lodge and walked?

Another moan springs from the sweet pea patch.

“You like when I rub there?” A sexy chuckle stirs sparks inside me. “That’s it, huh? That’s the spot.”

Holy Christ. I’m tingly and hot and just a little bit jealous. I didn’t know Dal was dating someone. Not that we’ve said more than two dozen words to each other in all the time he’s lived here. The smokin’ hot chef hails from keep-to-yourself New York, by way of fast-paced Seoul, Korea. He’s burly and gruff and wired for efficiency rather than idle chitchat.

Is that why I find him so sexy?

Something moves by the blueberry patch. Is that him?

“Okay, okay. Slow down, girl.” Dal’s sultry chuckle kills me on the spot. “Go ahead and lick it. There you go. Easy, girl. That’s it.”

Holy shit. What have I walked into? I glance around, grateful for the lack of witnesses. These gardens aren’t open to everyone. Dal made that clear when requesting space for organic growing. He wanted to let the plants get established before turning the rest of the residents loose.

But another groan gets me wondering at the real reason. Living with his brother, caring for Ji-Hoon like he does, Dal can’t have much privacy. Is this where he goes to get busy?

“Oh, yeah.” He chuckles again, and my toes curl. “You want some more, girl?”

Um, yes, please.

No!

I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t hear what comes next. Jealousy sends my feet shuffling backwards as my palms start to sweat.

“There you go,” he growls, and I freeze. “Yeah. That’s right. Good girl.”

Oh.

My.

God.

Those words make my mouth dry, make the rest of me…um. Not dry.

Holy shit.

“You’re such a good girl.” Why do those words get to me? “I need you to come when I tell you to, okay?”

A gasp slips out and I stumble back. I’ve already heard too much. I turn to run, but my shoe snags a rock and I trip.

“Oh, God!” I’m whimpering, scrambling, my whisper an echo of what I’ll hear Dal’s date scream in six seconds or less. “Oh, my God.”

My ass hits the ground and I yelp. “Shit!” I hiss out the curse and lurch to my feet, praying I can still make a run for it. Just sprint to my cabin and forget this whole thing ever?—

“Hey.”

I halt mid-jog to turn around, and oh my God.

I wish I hadn’t.

There, standing tall between two rows of corn, is Dal Yang. He’s shirtless and rippling with muscle as his forehead furrows. I can’t see him from the waist down, which makes this worse. Is the girl on her knees in front of him, hands on his hips as she?—

“What’s wrong?”

It takes me a sec to see he’s talking to me. I swallow hard, glancing around. Thank God we’re alone, no cameras rolling. Patting my hair, I try to play cool.

“I, um—was just passing by.” Kill me now. “I needed to talk to you, but it can wait.”

He folds both arms over his bare chest. “Talk.”

Really?

Okay, we’re pretending I didn’t hear what I heard. Or maybe he thinks I just got here?

Pretending’s not hard, and it’s kinda my job, so I paste on a smile. “Actually, I should run. We’ll chat another time.” Maybe when you’re not naked in a garden. “How about I catch you at the restaurant before the dinner rush?”

“Now’s fine.” He’s not smiling, not blushing, though he did just glance down with a funny half smile.

Oh, God. She’s right there, isn’t she?

“Talk,” he commands again, and my idiot mouth obeys.

“Uh, so, the season finale.” I can’t believe I’m doing this. Does Dal even know my name? “Viewers loved it, and we’d like your storyline to be a big part of the new season.”

A silent glower is his only response, so I keep going. “We want to share your softer side and—” My voice cracks as I take in his tawny pecs. I’m not sure there is a soft side to Dal. “Anyway, I’d like to have Entertainment Weekly do a feature on the gardens.”

I can’t look at Dal. Can’t stop imagining what he’s doing here. Drawing a breath, I jerk my gaze to the tomato plants, their plump fruit glistening. There’s corn next to that, and a blueberry bush to Dal’s left. I look anywhere but at him, though my gaze drifts back to those peek-a-boo spots between leaves.

“Oh.”

That’s reddish-blonde hair right at Dal’s crotch level and, Jesus save me, I’m discussing business with a guy getting a BJ.

I’m dimly aware it’s not the first time—Hollywood moguls are assholes, and Zoom calls make everything obvious, but this is Dal Yang we’re talking about. Deep down, the man’s a damn teddy bear. One with manners and grace and abs that look like?—

“Stop.” I’m talking to me, but Dal frowns.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.” I clear my throat. “I meant you don’t have to answer now. About the Entertainment Weekly piece? Take some time, think about it.” Maybe when you’re wearing pants. “I’ll check back later.”

“I’ll be busy later.” Dal cocks his head with a curious look. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yep! Peachy keen.” I square my shoulders, determined to be professional. I’ve covered up movie stars’ jail stints. Put positive spins on actors’ divorces. Even at Juniper Ridge, I’ve kicked ass controlling the press. Throw me a story and I’ll steer it. It’s a gift. A job.

And if Dal Yang needs to pretend I’m not interrupting sexytimes, so help me God, I’m up to the task.

“Right, so.” I clear my throat. What were we talking about? “Entertainment Weekly. I’m reaching out to them about featuring the gardens.”

“Okay.”

He’s frowning now, arms at his sides. Through thick stalks of corn, I see movement. A roll of his abs, Dal’s fingers threading through silky hair. The woman moves and it’s just too much.

“Oh—I just remembered! I have a meeting.” I take two steps back, turning to sprint for my cabin. Not sprint, walk. Like a calm, rational person, playing my role, pretending I see nothing, I hear nothing, I?—

“Gah!” A stupid rock trips me—same fucking rock from before—and down I go, ass over teakettle, tumbling to the dirt as I scramble for purchase.

I’m down on my knees as footsteps thump the dirt behind me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I flail one hand behind me. “Dal, stop! Zip up your pants, put on your shirt, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

The footsteps stop. I keep my eyes pinched shut; his chance to escape. If I don’t see, it didn’t happen.

“Jesus.” His voice rumbles low, so sinfully hot even now. “Lana?”

“Yes?” Oh, God. He knows my name?

There’s a shuffle of footsteps and I sense him behind me. “Are you drunk?”