Spotlight & Giveaway: The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister by Meghan Quinn

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Meghan Quinn’s new release: The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister.

From USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn comes a deliciously delightful romantic comedy centered in New York City about falling in love with your best friend’s sister.

How do you date your best friend’s sister? Easy.

Step one: Pretend you want her to set you up with someone else. That will bring the two of you closer.

Step two: Go on date with lots of random women, proceed to get stupid drunk and talk about your best friend’s sister, thus gaining the courage to finally make a move.

Step three: Randomly show up at her apartment and confess your love. Women love that, right?

It all seemed so simple. A fool-proof three step process that will guarantee the love of you life to fall madly in love with you.

At least–that’s what I thought was going to happen. But my attempts to win over Julia Westin backfired in more ways than I can count. The thing about Julia? She’s smart–really smart–and her wicked gaze cuts through all the charm I’ve tried slinging her way. She’s not interested in games, my gifts, or my stories. She might want me too; but she’s not giving in that easy…

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister:

PROLOGUE

**BRAM**

I have a stupid-as-shit crush on my best friend’s sister.
I know the exact moment it happened too.
It wasn’t when I first met her, no, that was when I first found out she liked to wear tube socks with shorts. Nor was it the second time I ran into her, because she was a sour, bitter girl with an attitude that struck me dead in the nut sac. But even in her scary rampage, I thought she was pretty and interesting, but a crush? Not so much. No, it happened many times after the first. I was a senior, and she was a sophomore in college. A nervous sophomore, who forcibly ventured out to yet another frat party, captured by her friends, and held hostage to have a good time. She was a fish out of water, and I couldn’t help but keep my eyes fixed on her as she awkwardly bumped into drunk assholes and tripped over empty beer cans, fixing her glasses that kept getting displaced from their perfect perch on her nose. She was unlike any girl I had ever met. Strong-willed, obnoxious at times with her intelligence, cunning, and never too scared to back down. She intrigued me, held my attention, made me want to know what was spinning around in that beautiful head of hers. I had to find out. That night changed everything. Maybe it was the beer coursing through me, or the sheer curiosity in the girl who looked completely and utterly out of place, but I was drawn to her. I knew, in that moment, that I had a choice to make: either continue to sit with Lauren Connor
and listen to her boring-as-shit stories, or remove my ass from the leather couch and say hi to Julia Westin.
Can you guess what I did?

Chapter One

**BRAM**

Any other man in my position right now would not press the button to the eleventh floor that leads to my friend’s apartment.
They would walk away, tail tucked between their legs, probably researching all the ways not to be me. Especially right now.
But I’m not like most men.
Never have been.
Sure, I have my moments. I like money and power. It’s why I own a shit ton of real estate in New York City and continue to invest, turning money into more money. I’m thirty-three and could retire now if I wanted to. But the real estate game is addictive and I love the chase, the runaround looking for the next best investment.
I also like to fuck. What man doesn’t? I’ve had many random fucks, never looking for more, because there hasn’t been one person to make me want to settle . . . well, besides one, but we’ll get to her.
And like most men, I love sports. Football, baseball, basketball . . . college sports, professional. The Olympics. Hell, throw me some synchronized swimming and I’ll watch the shit out of that.
My love for sports is why I’m here actually, walking the plank like a dead man, waiting for my sentencing.
“Hold the elevator, asshole.” The Irish lilt of Roark McCool bounces through the lobby right before he presses his large hand against the door of the closing elevator.
I make no attempt to hold it for him. That’s the kind of friend I am.
When he steps in, he eyes me up and down and starts chuckling. Reason number one why I didn’t stop the elevator. His gaze fixates on the twelve-pack of beer gripped at my side. Nodding toward it, he asks, “Thought you could bribe us with beer, did ya?”
An exchange student from Ireland, we met Roark at one of our frat parties our sophomore year. The minute we realized he could drink what seemed like a keg a night and not show an ounce of a hangover the next day, he was an instant match with our group of friends. The dude is one hundred percent Irish and has the hotheaded temper to go with the Guinness running through his veins.
Plus, how could you not be friends with a guy who’s named Roark McCool? It’s impossible.
“Nah, just making my contribution to the night.”
“Don’t think we’re going to take it easy on ya. A bet’s a bet.”
“I know.” I hide the smile that wants to peek past my lips.
A bet is a bet and the assholes better hold me to that bet, especially since I have a plan.
Losing was a decision I didn’t take much time to think about. The minute I knew what was on the line, I had no doubt who would be the ultimate loser in our fantasy football league.
Yes, three powerful executives, derived from a frat house, living in penthouses in Manhattan all participate in a fantasy football league. It’s our guilty pleasure, the one thing that provides a break from the constant and grueling grind of work for a few hours a week.
Every football season, we gather around the table, make a bet, draft our players, and then play out our season. In the past we would bet money, winner take all, but once we all maxed out our bank accounts, we wanted to start betting on more interesting things . . . like tasks.
We all have more money and possessions than we need, but experiences, you can never have enough of those.
That’s why I wanted to lose this year, to earn the chance of the best experience we’ve ever bet on. Oh yeah, I put up a front about it, scoffing at the idea, but fuck I could not wait to lose.
I’m not going to blow rainbows and unicorns up your ass—it was hard work at first, trying to strategically lose without being obvious. The last three years, I’ve won, and it’s been fucking great to watch my friends scramble and groan over the points I racked up every week. But this go-around, shit, it was hard and at one point, when my secondary players started doing really well, I was nervous as shit that I wasn’t going to lose. Somehow I pulled a loss out of my perfect ass and took the big L.
For once in my life, I’m earning this loss like a goddamn win.
The doors open up to a monochromatic and sleek apartment that overlooks downtown Manhattan. A plush white rug spans the length of the living room, reminding me of all the nights I’ve spent sleeping face-planted, ass in the air, on the plush motherfucker.
We might have money and run billion-dollar companies, but fuck if we have any class.
Maybe it’s why we’re not invited to many events around the city.
Hand clasped on my shoulder, Roark pushes me into the apartment and guides me toward the kitchen where Rath is already cracking open beers and celebrating.
“There he is,” Rath calls out, looking toward us. “Dead man walking.”
I plop the beer on the counter and let out a heavy breath, because I’m that good of an “actor.” I have to keep things authentic, after all.
“Christ, how long am I going to hear about this loss?” See that right there? Oscar worthy, especially with the added slump in my shoulders.
Rath, the winner of this season, looks between us and says, “I think you get to hear about it all year, just like when the rest of us lost. You never let us live it down.”
True. I’m a sore winner.
“Maybe you can take pity on me.”
Rath shakes his head. “Not happening. I set up a courier to bring you a reminder every day for the next month, a reminder of how shitty you played this year, just in case you forget.”
“How fucking noble of you.” I crack open a beer and take a giant swig.
“Who benches Russell Wilson?” Rath shakes his head at me.
I groan. “I told you, it was an accident.” That was no accident. I sat that charitable motherfucker right on the bench . . . and then donated some money to the children’s hospital he visits because he’s an inspiring man, and I was hoping for some good karma so my decision would be the final nail in the coffin for me.
It was.
I shake my head and walk to the table where there is a bowl of chips and guac. We still eat like frat boys. Beer, chips, pizza rolls; it’s all we need. No man ever really grows out of that frat-boy food, unless a good woman comes along who can cook and therefore offers incentive to eat properly. And we all know what incentive I mean.
I scoop a plentiful amount of guac on a chip and pop it in my mouth, chewing for a second before I swallow. My friends keep their eyes on me, crooked smiles gracing their smug faces as they watch my every move. I need to pump up the self-hatred, bring on the angry eyes.
“Will you assholes stop staring at me? I get it. I lost. Let’s collect on the bet and move the fuck on.”
Rath steps up to the table and motions to the chairs. “Boys? I think we have some rules to discuss, don’t you think?”
“We do.” Roark takes a seat next to me, sitting in his chair backwards and propping his arms on the back. “Bram isn’t leaving this apartment until we finalize every last piece of the bet.”
We might act like a bunch of immature idiots a lot of the time, but we are businessmen at heart, which means when we make a bet, we get that shit drawn up by lawyers and notarized. Having all gone to Yale, we’ve learned the ins and outs of being shrewd and relentless when it comes to business, so every year we apply the same tactics to our bets. It’s so we make sure the loser follows though without any hiccups.
When the contract rolled around this year to sign, I couldn’t find a pen quick enough.
“Okay, boys, are you ready for this?” Roark rubs his hands together, looking like a cocky motherfucker. Little does he know . . .
“Can we add a stipulation to the contract?” Rath asks. “Something like he must document everything for us?”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
“No stipulations,” I say. I don’t need any of what I have in mind documented.
Rath hands out legal folders to each of us with the bound contract inside, with every page laminated. Told you we’re official. “We already laminated, dude, so no stipulations.” Lamination always seals the deal. Literally. “Now, please open up to page one.” Rath takes control of the meeting, like usual.
The smartest between all three of us and the biggest tycoon, Rath has always led the group. A preppy yet sporty nerd, he brings the ideas to the table, the true brains with a shrewd business model. He’s dangerous, ruthless, and incredibly intelligent, making him vastly lethal in the business world.
Over the next few minutes, Rath lays out the rules and stipulations of losing, how I have to follow up on my bet in the next week, give updates, all that bullshit. And then he gets to the good stuff.
It’s hard to hold back my smile, to tamp down my excitement, but fuck, for the first time in a while, I finally have my excuse to talk to Julia Westin again.
Chapter Two
**BRAM**
I rub my palms together and stare at Julia’s office building that overlooks Bryant Park. She has a very small office, just her and her assistant, but she’s rented the space for a good chunk of change so she has a place to meet her clients.
Yes, her clients.
I guess I’ve failed to mention to you what Julia does.
Let me give you some backstory.
Julia Westin, smart like her brother—I like to say smarter but Rath will tell you differently—shy, but if you put a hoagie in front of her, she will down that Italian delight like she was at a hot-dog-eating contest. Shoves it right down her throat. She has a PhD in behavioral science and is damn proud of the title, Doctor Love, as some call her. She’s spent the last eight years refining a program she created from the ground up called, What’s Your Color?
Intrigued? You should be.
She’s narrowed down the dating world into six general colors and their complementing hues. To put it in layman’s terms, she developed a dating program for smart and shy girls like herself who need help finding a man with a vast amount of interests that expand past shitty craft beers and video games. She promotes finding a worldly man, a man of class and refinery. A man who wants to be intellectually challenged by the opposite sex.
I know what you’re thinking: Bram, you’re the furthest thing from class and refinery.
Fuck if I already know that.
But hey, I wear fancy-ass suits, I’ve traveled all over this goddamn world, and I have no intention of dating anyone but Doctor Love herself.
So what was the bet, you ask? Can’t you figure it out already?
Roark, the asshole of the group, came up with the brilliant idea that the person who loses has to attempt to find love through Julia’s dating program. Swearing to be eternal bachelors, this was a huge bet to be lost . . . well, for some of us.
Last year we raised the stakes, which was a simple bet of having to take hot yoga classes for an entire month and wear fucking leggings while doing it. So glad I didn’t lose last year. Rath owned it as if he was already a professional yogi though and ended up loosening his hips, which according to him has incredibly improved his sex life. Something about being able to fuck harder without cramping.
The elevator ride to the sixty-ninth floor—believe me, the number doesn’t escape me—is a little more nerve-racking than I expected.
For one, Julia doesn’t know I’m coming in to “find love.”
She also has no idea that I have no intention of falling in love with any of her matches.
And . . . I haven’t seen her in six months, so I think the unexpected visit is going to throw her off.
Ding.
The elevator doors part, and I make an immediate left down a hall to a colorfully marked door.
WHAT’S YOUR COLOR?
A small smile pulls at my lips right before I enter the office.
White furniture—chairs, coffee table, and desk—fills the space, while white-framed solid-colored squares hang on equally white walls. The Dating Spectrum is written in bold letters above the squares, giving a small hint into what What’s Your Color? is all about.
I’ve known Julia ever since this idea was just that, an idea, and to see her bring it to life and so successfully, fuck, it sends a shot of pride through this asshole’s heart.
“Can I help you?” Anita, Julia’s assistant asks, as she makes her way back to her desk from the small kitchenette. “Do you have an appointment?”
One hand in my pant pocket, I shake my head. “I don’t, but if you tell Julia that Bram Scott is here to see her, I’m sure she’ll make some time.” I give her a wink and wait.
Anita eyes me suspiciously, I don’t know why because I’ve met her before, and then picks up her phone. “Miss Westin, there is a Bram Scott here to see you.” Anita nods. “Okay.” She hangs up. “You can go in.” Anita motions to Julia’s office with her hand.
“Thank you.” I offer her a tip of my head and another wink before strolling into Julia’s office.
Casual and confident, I open the door, only to be brought down a peg when my eyes fixate on Julia.
God. Damn. My heart races.
Her head is turned down, her fingers typing away on her keyboard, and there is a concentration in her brow that I know all too well. I’ve seen that pinch between her eyes, that well-known Julia pondering expression that is barely hidden behind her thick-rimmed glasses.
She gives the screen one more glance, leaning forward ever so slightly so her blouse parts between buttons. If I were at the right angle—i.e., bending my head down and to the left—I’d catch the color of what I’m imagining is a hot lacy bra. And her panties would be matching under that black skirt of hers because she’s a fucking lady after all.
Satisfied with whatever the hell she’s working on, she straightens herself and looks up in my direction as I let the door click shut.
Her blue eyes shimmer past her glasses that she pushes back on her nose with her finely manicured fingers. They’re never a color, at least as long as I’ve known her. She’s always painted them a nude hue. I asked her once why she didn’t paint them pink and her response was that she didn’t want to change the color with every outfit. Nude was easy.
Hey, I think nude is easy too. I prefer nude . . . her nude.
Not that I’ve seen her nude, but I will.
“Bram,” she says with a nervous surprise in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
She smooths her sleek blonde hair and fidgets under my stare.
“Are you just going to sit there? Or are you going to come give me a hug?”
Like the shy girl she is, she takes a second to gather herself before standing and making her way toward me, one short heel in front of the other. I close the last few inches and pull her into a full-frontal hug. None of this side hug bullshit. No, I want her tits pressed against my rock-hard chest and my crotch whispering sweet nothings to hers.
Tentative at first, she doesn’t embrace me the way I would have hoped, so I tease her, like I always do. “I’m not going to explode if you squeeze me, Jules. Get in here.”
She chuckles quietly and sighs, pulling me in closer.
“Yeah, that’s it, give me the good stuff.” Her subtle perfume floats to my nose and kicks me dead in the dick. Shit, she smells good.
The embrace doesn’t last long, it never does, and before I get comfortable with her in my arms, she’s pulling away and straightening her blouse, pushing those glasses back on her nose.
“Do you want to take a seat and tell me why you’re here?” She’s never been one to simply shoot the shit. She’s orderly and professional, and so fucking smart, so she doesn’t waste her time talking about the weather, unless it has to do with a scientific thought. It’s how she’s programmed.
But talk about the humidity in NYC in the summer and how it’s ruining your outdoor life, she wants nothing to do with it.
In front of her desk is a sitting area with two chairs and a couch on a deep blue rug. She chooses the couch, and so do I. It’s all about body proximity.
“Good to see you too, Jules.” I adjust my cufflinks. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
Even if you try to shoot the shit with her, she doesn’t elaborate. Some people might find it awkward, but I take it as a challenge.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. This rug, is it Pottery Barn?”
She eyes me, hands in her lap, shoulders poised. “My assistant found it.”
I bend at the waist and rub my fingers through the rug’s fine threads. “Hmm, feels like Pottery Barn quality.” She doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Had this beef pocket thing the other day from a pub in SoHo. Had potatoes in it and was so fucking good. They call it a pasty. Ever have one of those?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“You’re missing out, Jules.” I casually pick at the arm of the couch. “Is it because the weather has been sickly lately? Is it just me, or does the humidity feel like you have to part the air to walk?”
She sighs loudly and relaxes into the couch, dropping the strong set of her shoulders. “Bram, what do you want?”
She’s giving in so quickly. I was just getting started. But since I know she is busy and I technically didn’t have an appointment, I get to the chase. “I came to find love.”
The room falls silent as Julia slowly rises from the couch, chest forward, as if some kind of exorcist shit is pulling her forward and spinning her head in my direction. Her reaction is valid. I haven’t necessarily been known as the settling down type, so this is coming out of left field for her.
“Excuse me?”
I rest my forearms on my legs and focus my gaze, growing serious. “I want you to run me through your program. I want to settle down, and I couldn’t think of someone better to hold my hand while going through the journey.”
Her nostrils flare.
Her jaw works side to side.
She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Is this one of those bullshit bets you do with my brother?”
Err.
“Because football season is over and someone lost. Was it you, Bram?”
What in the ever-living hell is going on right now?
“What?” I laugh awkwardly. The urge to pull my phone out of my pocket and call out my boys is strong.
Abort. Abort. The mission has been compromised.
“What would make you think that?” Trying to look as casual as possible, I sit up and drape my ankle over my knee, as my arm runs the back of the couch.
She gives me a once-over, her eyes raking over my finely tailored and pressed grey suit, never blinking, looking so damn serious that I’m not going to lie, I feel a little nervous with what she might do or say.
That gaze, hard as stone, just like her brother’s. It must run in the family. Ruthless killer runs cold through Julia’s veins—mental note made.
“Well, I don’t know, Bram, maybe because ever since I’ve known you, you’ve thought love is for douchebags. Your words, not mine.”
Every guy is an asshole in college, and there are very few of us who make a good impression. There are also very few of us who sit back on a Friday night doing all the romance crap women live for. In case you were wondering, I wasn’t one of those guys . . . obviously.
“People change, Jules.”
She gives me a pointed look. “A year ago you told me marriage was for the desperate souls walking this earth.”
“Okay, I didn’t say desperate.” I point at her. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I said marriage was for the delirious. Huge difference.”
“Not really, because it still shows that you don’t believe in love or marriage. So tell me the truth. Why are you here?”
“For love.”
“Bram.”
“I’m here for love, damn it.”
She shakes her head. “Rath told me about the bet, so stop trying to act like you’re here for any other reason.”
Okay . . . I see what she’s doing here. She’s trying to trick me. Did I mention she’s smart? Not just book smart too. She’s trying to get a reaction from me, one where I say something like, “He fucking told you?” which would confirm her suspicions.
But what she doesn’t realize is that I’m onto her.
Not today, Julia, not today.
“How did he tell you?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, looking a little flustered from my response, or lack thereof. She’s smart, but she’s also a bad liar.
“I mean, how did he tell you about this ‘bet’?” I use air quotes. “Was it during brunch yesterday?”
She nods, her eyes lighting up. “Yup.”
“Aha.” I practically jump off the couch like Sherlock Holmes does when he solves a relentless and tiresome case. “Bullshit. I had brunch with that dickhead yesterday. Caught you, Julia.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t have time for this, Bram.” She starts to make her way to her desk, but I’m on her in two seconds, pulling on her hand so she has to face me. Both standing now, I stare at her and try not to get lost in her ocean-blue eyes, eyes I’ve been lost in before.
“I’m serious, Julia.” I pin her with my stare, trying to show her how committed I am.
And yeah, I might not be serious about going through her program—it’s just a gateway to get to her—but I’m dead set on finding love. And I’ve picked the person I want to find love with.
Honestly, I’m making her job easy. But maybe I’ll keep that small detail out of it for now.
And why don’t I just ask her out, you ask?
Because, I tried telling her how I felt once and fucked it up. But that’s a story for another day.
“You really want to go through my program? You’re not going to be a dick about it?”
“I’d never be a dick to you.”
Counting off on her fingers, she says, “The time in the hot tub at Rath’s place. The time you stole my hot dog. The time I was blow-drying my hair—”
“Okay, settle down.” I straighten out my suit jacket, hating that I’ve been that elementary school boy toward her pretty much our entire relationship, picking on her and acting like her older brother’s best friend, which is exactly what I am. “I’m not here to be a dick. I’m here to try out the dating scene. I don’t want to pick up girls at the bar. I want someone smart, sophisticated . . . beautiful.” My eyes fall to her lips for a brief second before I meet her eyes again.
She must not catch my blatant flirtatious move, because there is zero reaction on her face. And to be honest, I’m not surprised. Julia has always had a great poker face.
“You really want to date?” I nod. “Fine.” She spins on her heels and goes to her desk where she takes a seat, her professional veneer cloaking the girl who used to wear white tennis shoes to a frat party. “I can squeeze you in next Wednesday.”
I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, ready to start my offense.
“Wednesday? What time?”
“One.” She clicks around on her computer.
“Okay, but you’re going to have to come to my office.”
Her brow quirks up. “Excuse me?”
I type the appointment into my phone and include her on the email invite. Her computer dings as I pocket my phone. “Wednesday at one, my office. I’ll make sure my assistant has that beet salad you like cooled and ready for you.”
I start to walk away.
“Bram, I don’t make office calls.”
“Can’t wait to get down to business with you, Jules.”
“Bram.”
From over my shoulder, as I’m parting, I wink. “See you Wednesday.”
“Bram,” she calls out one more time before the door shuts behind me, a huge smile on my face.
I give Anita a quick nod before I hit the down button to the elevator. I’m well on my way to dating my best friend’s sister.
Might not seem like it, but Julia is a woman who needs to be eased into something slowly. I found that out years ago. She is thoughtful about her decisions and never jumps into something on the spur of the moment. No, she has a pros and cons list, she measures out her reasoning, and when she’s ready, she makes a decision.
Knowing that about her, I’m going to take my time easing her into the idea that Bram Scott is a relationship man and then . . . oh fuck . . . I’m going to throw her for a loop, catch her off balance, and then swoop in like a goddamn knight in shining armor and claim her as mine. Yeah, because like Julia, I make my pros and cons list, measure my reasons, and when ready, make my decision. She is my decision—has been for a while—but now it’s time to make magic.
Julia Westin has no idea what’s about to happen to her.

Excerpt. ©Meghan Quinn. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

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Meet the Author:

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!
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