Not Just Another Romance Novel
Read Not Just Another Romance Novel Online
Authors: Lisa Suzanne
| Not Just Another Romance Novel |
| Lisa Suzanne |
| Books by LS, LLC (2015) |
Not Just Another Romance Novel
© 2015 Lisa Suzanne
Books by Lisa Suzanne
HOW HE REALLY FEELS (HE FEELS, BOOK 1)
WHAT HE REALLY FEELS (HE FEELS, BOOK 2)
SINCE HE REALLY FEELS (HE FEELS, BOOK 3)
FREE AUTOGRAPHED BOOKMARK!
The greatest compliment you can give an author is an honest review.
To receive your free signed bookmark or postcard, leave a review for
Not Just Another Romance Novel
on Amazon.com and fill out this google form:
http://goo.gl/forms/qRicPN5WgL
*open internationally*
Thanks for reading!
NOT JUST ANOTHER ROMANCE NOVEL
© 2015 Lisa Suzanne
All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law and except for excerpts used in reviews. If you would like to use any words from this book other than for review purposes, prior written permission must be obtained from the publisher.
Published in the United States of America by Lisa Suzanne.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.
All songs and titles mentioned in this book are property of the songwriters.
Cover Art by LM Creations
His thunder stick pounded ferociously into her delicate flower.
“Thunder stick?” I muttered aloud to myself.
I’d seen some interesting terms over the years, but “thunder stick” had to be one of the dumbest ones I’d seen used to describe a man’s penis. I supposed it sounded better than “meat popsicle” or, my personal favorite, “fuck rod.”
I set my Kindle on my nightstand. I was in the middle of reading a sex scene, but the stick entering the flower managed to kill the mood.
I stood and headed toward my kitchen for a snack as I pondered books.
I had a top ten book boyfriend list, which of course changed (often) depending on what I was reading. I had a collection of signed bookmarks. I had a bunch of signed paperbacks I never opened, preserving the beautiful words and the new book smell with my favorite authors’ signatures inside.
But what I didn’t have was a real, actual, living leading man.
I needed some excitement to spice up my life. I needed an adventure like the ones I’d been reading about in romance novels since I’d first stolen
The Flame and the Flower
from my mom’s closet shelf when I was twelve.
I needed a boyfriend who could pound his thunder stick into my delicate flower. It was getting a little dusty down there. There may have been a cobweb situation happening.
In addition to the woes of my love life, I also needed to figure out a research topic for my master’s thesis.
I was less than a year away from my master’s degree in Psychology. I just needed a few more classes, including the one class I’d been dreading since I first filled out my student application: Master’s Thesis Research.
I had to generate a topic I’d research over the next few months. I’d need to complete field studies. In April, I would have to defend my paper to a panel of professors who had the power to negate my two years of post-graduate work in Psychology. If they hated my project, I was screwed. I’d end up on deep fryers at a fast food joint instead of counseling couples whose marriages were in trouble.
I thought about the thunder stick book still lighting up my Kindle in my bedroom. If only I could write about romance novels. Now
there
was an area where I was a true expert.
A knock at my door pulled me out of my thoughts.
I glanced through the peephole and found my best friend in the world, Scott Redland, and I opened the door.
“I’m looking for a treasure. Mind if I take a look at your chest?”
I burst out laughing, and then Scott held up a six-pack of Stella Artois bottles—my favorite beer. I grinned and opened my door wider.
“Are you religious? Because you’re the answer to all my prayers.”
Scott laughed as he walked past me. “I win tonight.”
I nodded in agreement. His cheesy pick-up line outplayed mine. “What’s the occasion?”
“
Big Brother
starts in fifteen minutes.”
I giggled, glancing over at the clock on my oven. Scott claimed to hate the reality show, yet we spent the entire hour of the broadcast psychoanalyzing every “character.”
But really, he loved the drama. In any event, it was a good excuse to get together with my friend to practice our burgeoning analytical skills.
“Who got sent home last time?” he asked, setting the six-pack down on the counter.
“Jasmine was
evicted
.” I stressed my word to encourage him to use the correct show terminology—a constant uphill battle.
Scott narrowed his eyes at me. “Right. You want a beer?” He grabbed the bottle opener from his keychain and popped the top off of one before he took a long gulp.
I nodded.
He popped the top off of another one and grinned as he handed it to me. “Then lose the attitude.”
I giggled, and we settled into my couch to analyze our favorite (but Scott’s non-favorite) show.
“Piper, have you figured out your topic?”
I glanced over at Scott, and then my eyes moved back to the window. I studied the rain as it fell harder than I’d seen in a long time.
Scott and I had met a year earlier when we started the master’s program together at San Diego State University. We, along with two other students, had been assigned to the same mentor professor, Dr. Prestbury. That threw the four of us together pretty much all the time.
Because of it, I’d grown to label them as three of my closest friends, but Scott had become my best friend over the last year. We laughed together, we watched old movies and reality television while we chilled on my couch, and we went out to dinner nearly every night of the week. Our relationship had never been strained by sexual tension, which I appreciated. I loved having a guy friend who was nothing more than a friend.
Scott was probably the smartest person I knew. He wanted to teach high school or college level Psych classes once he finished his degree, and I could just imagine how perfect he’d be in front of a classroom of students eager to learn.
I took a sip of my Starbucks while we waited for Shannon and Austin to join us. We had a big test the next day in Clinical Psychology, so we planned a long study session.
“I don’t know yet. You?”
“Social effects of gay marriage on children.” His answer was immediate and assured. “Do you have any ideas at all?”
I shrugged. “Sort of. You know I want to work with married couples, so I’m thinking something about love. Happily ever after. I haven’t worked out the details yet.”
Scott laughed, his blue eyes hidden behind black frames bright with merriment.
“What?”
He ran a hand through his messy dark blond hair, flustered at the glare I pinned on him. He was kind of an adorable nerd sometimes.
“You read too many romance novels, that’s all.”
“No shit,” I muttered just as Shannon and Austin walked through the door.
Austin shook the rain from his nearly black hair as he glanced around Starbucks. When his chocolate eyes landed on me, a wide grin graced his face.
He was really too handsome for words…but he was also way too metrosexual for me.
Shannon and Austin placed their orders before joining us, and then we got to work.
After our study session, we chatted about thesis topics.
Shannon, who wanted to work with kids, planned to research academic motivation. Austin, specializing in Sports Psychology, focused his research on athletic goal-setting.
Everyone had their specialty sorted except for me.
“We are going to figure yours out before we leave,” Shannon announced, flipping her long, wavy blonde hair behind her shoulder. It always amazed me when she looked just perfect despite the inclement weather. Meanwhile my hair was a frizzy, crumpled mess.
“What about something with divorce rates?” Austin asked. He looked at me like he was trying to brand me to my seat.
Good Lord, Scott was right. I had been reading far too many romance novels if I felt the heat from Austin’s eyes.
“I’d rather research something about successful marriages.” I picked absently at the corner of my well-worn textbook.
“Positive effects on the children of parents who attend regular counseling?” Shannon asked.
She was the child expert, not me. I shook my head.
“You know what?” I asked, reaching into my purse and pulling out my Kindle. I switched it on. “I’m just going to read for a bit while you all flesh this topic out for me.”
All three of my friends groaned at me.
“What about something with romance novels?” Scott asked.
“Like how big a man’s cock has to be in order to—”
“Shannon!” I practically yelled, garnering looks from the tables nearby. I blushed and set down my Kindle while Scott and Austin laughed.
“Can you do some sort of plot structure thing?” Scott asked. He was always so academic. It was one of the things I loved about him, but analyzing literature sounded worse than watching a documentary on how grass grows.
I must’ve flinched at Scott’s suggestion, because Austin suggested another one. “Long-term health effects of reading romance novels?”
I shook my head, and then my friends started firing off ideas at me.
“Do women who read romance novels have better sex lives than those who don’t?”
“Can reading romance novels save marriages?”
“Do women who are pregnant while they read romance novels have kids who are more sexually active later in life?”
“Do romance authors have amazing sex lives?”
“Do you still have to tip if you bang the pizza delivery guy?”
“That’s not romance,” I said, addressing Shannon’s suggestion. “That’s porn. And a little off-topic.”
After two hours of exhausting every possibility—and an awful lot of laughing—Scott nearly yelled in triumph. “I’ve got it!”
Three sets of eyes turned toward him expectantly.
“How romance novels create unrealistic expectations of modern men.”
I stared at Scott for a minute. All of us did.
“That’s not bad,” Austin finally said, breaking the silence that had descended on our table.
Truth be told, it wasn’t bad at all.
Truth be told, I could’ve kissed Scott.
Instead, I gave him a high-five. That was sort of our thing. That and the pick-up lines.
This was perfect! I was in awe that Scott had managed to combine my passion for reading with my future career.
And I couldn’t wait to get started on my research.
* * *
Later that night, the rain had stopped and I was still thinking about my topic as I paced around my apartment. Scott had the right idea, but it needed some tweaking.
Somewhere between coffee and note cards about Piaget and hippocampus, my actual field research began to take shape in my mind.
I needed a question to guide my research, and I had it: How does the modern day romance novel leading man create unrealistic expectations for a prolonged adult relationship?
But the underlying question was a little different.
Which stereotypical romantic male hero could lead me to my happy ending?
I had both my thesis and a personal project…something I’d call a “Social Experiment.”
I would date every stereotype in the books. I’d give them all a shot to see if a real life happy ending just like I read about was actually possible.
Billionaires, bad boys, rock stars, athletes, a dominant, bikers in motorcycle clubs, my teacher, and…my stepbrother?
I gagged a little at the thought, but those books were all the rage.
Maybe there was something there. This was purely an experiment, anyway.
I knew I was missing some of my leading men, but I had a good start to my list.
I’d need to analyze each leading man against the same set of criteria, so I started scribbling down a list that I’d be able to apply to each man. For the positive traits, I’d listed Romance, Physical Attraction, Mental Stimulation, Conversation, Emotional Connection, Laughter, and Character. On the negative side, I listed Awkwardness, Annoying Traits, and Non-Negotiables. I’d define them later, but I had a good start.
Next I had to figure out where the hell I could find all of these men so I could begin conducting my “research.”
And the answer to my question?
The internet, of course.
Dating websites of every size, style, and variety were at my fingertips. I settled in with a bottle of wine—I was going to need the whole damn thing if I was seriously considering hitting on my stepbrother—and I got to work.
Six hours later, I was a member of twelve new dating websites and really glad I lived in an apartment by myself.
I may have been more than a little drunk after putting an entire bottle down on my own, and I needed sleep. It was after six in the morning. Sleep would definitely help me prepare for my huge test the next day…well, later that same day.
Suddenly the entire bottle didn’t seem like the best idea in the world.
When I woke up from my wine-induced sleep, I had exactly fifteen minutes to make myself presentable and get to class. I ran through the doors and slid into my seat just as Dr. Prestbury started handing out the answer documents. Scott caught my eye and mouthed, “You okay?”
I nodded. I was more than okay.
I had my thesis topic.
And an epic hangover.
Or maybe I was still a little drunk. It was hard to tell, really.
* * *
I raced home from my exam, not all that concerned with my performance…or etiquette, apparently. Scott, Shannon, Austin, and I always met out by the big palm tree in front of the Psych building after a test. I’d been the first one finished, and I should’ve waited, but I was dying to check my email. I hadn’t had a chance earlier in my rush to get to class.
When I logged into my email account, I literally gasped.
I had seventy-six new emails.
Apparently the photo I’d chosen for my profile picture on all twelve dating sites was a winner.
Or maybe I had a nipple hanging out and hadn’t noticed. I rushed to check the photo before I opened any of the emails.
Definitely no nip slip.
I blew out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a “breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding,” as the novels I read liked to say. I knew damn well I was holding that breath, and I let it whoosh out of me as I tried to get my heart rate back to normal after the nip scare of the year.
I opened the first email. Apparently someone had “winked” at me. Another email told me I’d gotten a nod. As I glanced through the notifications, I’d also been poked, prodded, dinged, and dreamed about.
And the seventh and eighth emails I opened were just penis pictures.
Seriously?
A couple of meat popsicles right there in my email. Skin flutes. Steamin’ semen trucks.
I deleted them as I realized that finding my potential happy ending might require more work than one night with the internet.
