Chapter Reveal – Hooking Up by Helena Hunting

HOOKING UP, an all-new sexy, standalone romantic comedy by New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting, is coming November 7th!


Genre: Romantic Comedy | Contemporary Romance

Title: Hooking Up

Author: Helena Hunting

Publisher: Swerve

Release Date: November 7, 2017


Amalie Whitfield is the picture of a blushing bride during her wedding reception–but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of proclaiming his undying love, her husband can be heard, by Amalie and their guests, getting off with someone else. She has every reason to freak out, and in a moment of insanity, she throws herself at the first hot-blooded male she sees. But he’s not interested in becoming her revenge screw.

Mortified and desperate to escape the post-wedding drama, Amalie decides to go on her honeymoon alone, only to find the man who rejected her also heading to the same tiny island for work. But this time he isn’t holding back. She should know better than to sleep with someone she knows, but she can’t seem to resist him.

They might agree that what happens on the island should stay on the island, but neither one can deny that their attraction is more than just physical. 

Filled with hilariously scandalous situations and enough sexual chemistry to power an airplane from New York City to the South Pacific, Hooking Up is the next standalone, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Helena Hunting, the New York Times bestselling author of the Pucked series and Shacking Up.

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Wedding Unbliss


This is the happiest day of my life. I allow that thought to roll around in my head,

trying to figure out why it doesn’t seem to resonate the way it should. This should be the

happiest day of my life. So I’m not exactly certain why the uneasy feeling I associate

with cold feet is getting worse rather than dissipating. I’ve already done the hard part;

walked down the aisle and said “I do.”

My husband excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago and,

based on Armstrong’s itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to begin promptly at

eight-thirty. According to my phone, that’s less than two minutes from now, and he’s not

here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrong’s return before he begins. And

then the real party can start. The one where we get to celebrate our commitment to each

other as partners for life. As in the rest of my breathing days. Dear God, why does that

make my stomach twist?

I sip my white wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea with my

dress, even though it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t want it to stain my teeth. That

would make for bad pictures.

I glance around the hall and see my parents, who are probably celebrating the fact

that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My dating

history pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.

The sheer number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in front of

all of these people makes me want to drink more, which is a bad idea. Tipsy speeches

could lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my phone under the table again. It’s after

eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong takes to return, the further behind we’ll get. The

music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking efficiency, leaves no room for

tardiness. If we don’t start on time I’ll have to take out a song, or possibly two, to

compensate for his delay and he’s selected the order in such a way as to make that

difficult and that will annoy him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective

of my decision to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices

and am not a disgrace to my family.

“Where the hell is he?” I scan the room and take another small sip of my wine. I

should switch to water soon so I don’t end up drunk, especially later, when all of this is

over and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to each other without clothes on. I’m

hopeful it will last more than five minutes.

Ruby, my maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on my

shoulder. “Would you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”

Bancroft, or Bane for short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been living with for

several months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous of how affectionate they

still are with each other, even after all this time. Cohabitation hasn’t slowed them down

on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will be more like Bane and

Ruby now that we’ll be sharing the same bed every night.

I’m about to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz suddenly fills

the hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start to panic—they can’t start the speeches

without Armstrong at my side. What’s the point of speeches if the groom isn’t present?

I’m halfway out of my seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever is behind the mic,

he needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes through the room. The acoustics are

phenomenal in here, it’s why we chose this venue.

I glance at Ruby to make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are wide. The kind

of wide associated with shock. The same shock I’m feeling.

Another moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words,

“Oh, fuuuck.”

A collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words

themselves are scandalous among these guests, it’s the voice groaning them that makes

me sit up straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under the table.

“Fuck yeah. Ah, suck it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good little slut.


My mouth drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost my mind.

“Is that—” I don’t finish the sentence. I already know the answer to the question, so it’s

pointless to ask. Besides, I’m cut off by yet another loud groan. I clap a hand over my

mouth because I’m not sure I’m able to close it, my disbelief is as vast as the ocean.

Ruby’s expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since she’s an

actress. “Oh my God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are no more than a whisper, but

they sound very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, that’s just Armstrong on the verge of

an orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes when he’s in the throes

of passion with me.

I clutch Ruby’s hand. The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid between a

hyena laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest at our wedding is hearing

the same thing I am. Our wedding. Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my

own wedding. My mortification knows no end.

I grab the closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my glass. Some of it

sloshes over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty

more where it came from. I chug the glass, then grab Ruby’s.

People lean in and whisper to each other, eyes lift to the speakers. A few people,

the ones who are probably just here for the social-ladder-climbing potential, question

who it is.

“Is the deejay watching porn?” That comment comes from a table full of mostly

drunk singles in their early twenties.

Several eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and someone asks

where the groom has disappeared to.

The grunts and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing like what I’m

used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty words aren’t something he ever uses with me,

mostly it’s just noises and sometimes a “Right there” or “I’m close,” but that’s about it.

He’s never talked to me like he is to the woman currently providing oral pleasure. And

I’m very adept at oral. Although with Armstrong it’s very polite, neat oral, with no

sounds other than the occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite no-no.

I reach past Ruby for the bottle of red since I don’t really give a flying fuck about

purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another glass of wine, surveying

the people in the ballroom from behind the cover of the centerpiece. The centerpieces are

huge and excessive and I don’t like them at all, but at least provides a protective barrier

between the guests and my disgust, which I’m certain they must share. He sounds like a

wild animal rutting. It is entirely unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with,

but I’m suddenly very glad it’s not me.

And doesn’t that tell me more about our relationship than it should.

It’s only been about thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty seconds of my

life—before Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he says, very clearly,

“Keep sucking, baby, I’m coming.”

And “baby,” whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It sounds like

some form of alien communication. It’s way over the top, and apparently Armstrong is

loving it, based on the string of vile profanity that spews from his asshole mouth.

“Holy crap. Is this for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.

I guzzle my glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and take a long

swig from the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine dribbles down my chin and onto

my chest, staining the white satin purple. My dress is ruined. I should be freaking out.

But I really don’t care.

“Come on,” Ruby tugs on my hand. “We need to get you out of here while people

are still distracted.”

My older brother Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle of the hall,

gesturing wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson, is on his way

toward the podium in an attempt to do something. I don’t think there’s anything he can

do to stop this train wreck from there.

Ruby tugs again, but I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly just

happened. Well, I know what’s happened. I just can’t believe it.

The sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks for that, now I’ll

be able to last later tonight,” Armstrong says.

“What about me?” A female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.

“What about you?”

“Well I helped you, aren’t you going to help me?”

“Didn’t you come with a date?”

“Well, yes, but—” God her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure out where I know

it from.

“My cousin, right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I gotta get

back to my ball and chain.”

Gasps of horror ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These people

really are assholes.

I think I’m going to throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come out here and

pretend nothing just happened. Like some other woman didn’t just have her lips around

his cock. His distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly below average in length, if I’m

being one hundred percent honest.

A door opens and closes.

Lawson turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching

feedback through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did that a minute ago.

Murmuring grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as

Brittany Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting through the doors, using

a compact to check her lipstick. She’s made it her mission to attempt to get into the pants

of half the eligible men in this room. She’s followed, not five seconds later, by a very

smug-looking Armstrong.

“I’m going to kill him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears my hasty, and

possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers leave their respective posts and stalk

toward him. Across the room my mother is gripping my father’s arm, whispering

furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I need, additional family drama.

“Oh shit,” Ruby gasps.

I follow her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my brothers.

Bancroft is a tank and he used to play professional rugby. I’ve seen him with his shirt off,

he’s built like a superhero and he’ll probably crush Armstrong, or at least break

something. Possibly multiple somethings.

For a second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from destroying

Armstrong’s pretty, regal face, but then I realize I don’t actually care. In fact, the

possibility that he might break Armstrong’s perfectly straight nose fills me with glee.

Armstrong’s wellbeing is no longer my concern, it’s more about Bane ending up in

prison for murder.

“I hope Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need it once Bane is

done with him.” Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her chair tips as she jumps up.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” She nods to the right.

I notice my mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with Armstrong’s

parents. I really don’t need this right now. Not the drama. Not the humiliation. All I

wanted was a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband who gets a blow job during

our reception—and it’s broadcast to everyone attending.

Ruby urges me into action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff and we’ll get

you the hell out of here. I’ll have the limo meet you by the entrance near your bridal suite

as soon as I can.”

I nod and stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the better

part of a bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. It’s amazing how ninety seconds can

change a person’s entire life.

All hell breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or extract Armstrong

from the pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the table, gather up my stupid, too

puffy gown, and head for the bridal suite, where I had prepared for what was supposed to

be the most amazing day of my life. And now it’s likely the worst, at least I hope the

mortification level I’m experiencing can’t exceed this. I feel like the foulest version of

Cinderella ever.

I rush down the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in my

clutch for the key. I’m surprised when it turns. I thought I’d locked it before we left for

the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from everyone before I either lose it or

commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my victim. And

maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.

I thrust the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from the inside.

Tears threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it matters since there’s no way

I’m going out there again. I can’t believe my forever lasted less than twelve hours. I can’t

believe the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life loving couldn’t be faithful to

me for even one day. What the hell is wrong with me? With him? I’m as devastated as I

am angry and embarrassed. Once I annul this farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I

should probably go ahead and adopt six or seven cats tonight.

“I need to get out of this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind me and pull the

bow at the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and I only succeed in pulling it

tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I growl my annoyance and rush over to my

dressing table where my makeup and perfume are scattered from earlier today. Half a

mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of red roses Armstrong had delivered.

The card read: I can’t wait to spend forever loving you.

What a load of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not caring

that the drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass, because it feels good and the

sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses, which explodes

impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of glass across the floor.

I yank out a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They actually look

more like gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but I don’t question it. Instead I

reach behind me with my back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut myself free. It’s not

easy with the way I have to crane my neck.

“Goddammit! I need to get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my reflection. I think

I might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing around with the laces in the

back and shove the scissors down the front. I nearly nick myself with the blade—they’re

a lot sharper than I realized—but that doesn’t slow me down. I start hacking my way

through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate beading sliced apart with every

vicious snip.

I just want out of this nightmare.

Available Now


Ruby Scott is months behind on rent and can’t seem to land a steady job. She has one chance to turn things around with a big audition. But instead of getting her big break, she gets sick as a dog and completely bombs it in the most humiliating fashion. All thanks to a mysterious, gorgeous guy who kissed—and then coughed on—her at a party the night before.

Luckily, her best friend might have found the perfect opportunity; a job staying at the lavish penthouse apartment of hotel magnate Bancroft Mills while he’s out of town, taking care of his exotic pets. But when the newly-evicted Ruby arrives to meet her new employer, it turns out Bane is the same guy who got her sick.

Seeing his role in Ruby’s dilemma, Bane offers her a permanent job as his live-in pet sitter until she can get back on her feet. Filled with hilariously awkward encounters and enough sexual tension to heat a New York City block, Shacking Up, from NYT and USA Today bestselling author Helena Hunting, is sure to keep you laughing and swooning all night long.

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About the Author

Helena Hunting

Image result for shacking up helena huntingNew York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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