Made in Manhattan Read Online Lauren Layne

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Funny, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Made in Manhattan

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Lauren Layne

1982152834 (ISBN13: 9781982152833)
Book Information:

From the New York Times bestselling author of the Central Park Pact comes a reverse My Fair Lady for the modern era about a pampered and privileged Manhattan socialite who must teach an unpolished and denim-loving nobody from the Louisiana Bayou how to fit in with the upper crust of New York City. Perfect for fans of Christina Lauren and Sally Thorne.

Violet Townsend has always been a people pleaser. Raised in the privileged world of Upper East Side Manhattan, she always says the right things, wears the right clothes, and never rocks the boat. Violet would do anything for the people closest to her, especially her beloved grandmother. So when she asks Violet to teach the newly-discovered grandson of her friend how to fit in with New York City’s elite, Violet immediately agrees. Her goal? To get Cain Stone ready to take his place as heir to his family company…but to say he’s not exactly an eager student is an understatement.

Born and raised in rural Louisiana and now making his own way in New Orleans, Cain Stone is only playing along for the paycheck at the end. He has no use for the grandmother he didn’t know existed and no patience for the uppity Violet’s attempts to turn him into a suit-wearing, museum-attending gentleman.

But somewhere amidst antagonistic dinner parties and tortured tux fittings, Cain and Violet come to a begrudging understanding—and the uptight Violet realizes she’s not the only one doing the teaching. As she and Cain begin to find mutual respect for one another (and maybe even something more), Violet learns that blindly following society’s rules doesn’t lead to happiness…and that sometimes the best things in life come from the most unexpected places.
Books by Author:

Lauren Layne


Violet Victoria Townsend was plenty aware that she was the very epitome of a stock character for snob.

Ask any sketch artist to draw a pampered Upper East Side princess, and Violet would skip straight to the top of the suspect list. Shiny, bouncy hair? Check. Expertly applied yet barely noticeable makeup? Check. Pretty, but not in the “look again” kind of way? Yup.

Her nails were never chipped, her ends never split. Her outfits tended toward neutrals and were always paired with a strand of simple, understated pearls around her neck. Even her home address was eye-rollingly cliché. She’d lived in the same apartment off Madison Avenue since age eleven, when her grandmother took her in.

Did that make Violet a caricature? Perhaps. But a self-aware one. Violet had heard all the Blair Waldorf, Charlotte York, and Holly Golightly comparisons and had made peace with it a long time ago.

So, yeah. She could and often did rock a headband. She had a purse dog named after a luxury brand of handbag (Coco, as in Chanel). Did she sometimes summer in the Hamptons? Indeed, and she was guilty of using summer as a verb.

But Violet Townsend was also kind to strangers, considerate of others’ feelings, and generous with her time. She always brought the perfect hostess gift to a party. Her brunches offered bountiful mimosas with high-quality bacon and vegetarian options.

Violet was also heavily involved with a half-dozen charities, volunteered as a tutor every Wednesday afternoon, and was adamantly opposed to gossip, though still somehow found herself knowing everything about everyone.

Not that she expected a medal for any of this. It was just that she figured if she was lucky enough to be born a privileged heiress, she sure as hell better be a good and generous person to go with it.

Which was why, when her late grandmother’s best friend had commanded Violet’s presence on a Sunday afternoon, Violet hadn’t hesitated to reschedule her longstanding Sunday date with her best friend.

Edith Rhodes was a precise, specific sort of woman. Violet would know; she’d been serving as Edith’s right hand of sorts ever since graduating college. But while Edith was a demanding, high-powered CEO, she was no diva. She planned everything down to the minute, believed that urgent was synonymous with ill-prepared.

In other words, not the sort of woman to cry wolf. If Edith needed Violet now, it meant now. And that something was amiss.

The January afternoon was sunny but brisk as Violet made the short walk to Edith’s Park Avenue home. She was perfectly polished as ever, because if Edith had taught Violet anything in the few years since she’d taken her under her wing, it was that emergencies were best approached with lipstick and a great pair of heels.

Violet was dressed in burgundy pumps, gray slacks, a white blouse, and, of course, the ever-present pearls that had become her trademark of sorts, even if their legacy was a bit sad.

But Violet didn’t like to think about that.

“Good afternoon, Alvin,” she said, stepping into the foyer and smiling at Edith’s live-in butler, maintenance man, and all-around loyal companion.

He looked pointedly at Violet’s feet, where Coco was usually happily prancing around her ankles. “And where is my little lady?”

“At home, getting her beauty sleep. She hates the cold, and her best sweaters are dirty,” she said with a wink, though her little Yorkie really did have a pile of doggy-sized sweaters in Violet’s laundry basket.

She gave Alvin an assessing once-over. “How are we today?”

He took her jacket with one hand and patted his slightly rounded belly with the other, looking forlorn. “It’s the stomach, dear. Probably an ulcer. Could be much worse.”

“Mmm.” She made a sympathetic noise, even as she tucked her tongue into her cheek. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What did Dr. Howell say?”

He frowned at her, looking just the slightest bit sulky, closer to six than his actual sixty.

Violet waited. Patient.

His frown deepened a little as he huffed, relenting. “Gas,” he admitted. “But the doctor seemed off his game. I may go back in a week when he’s got his head on straight.”

“Of course,” Violet said. She pointed at his foot. “And the toe?”

Last week, Alvin had self-diagnosed a sore toe as gangrene, for which amputation was the only likely cure, even as Edith had reminded him he’d stubbed that very toe on the sideboard in the dining room.

He blinked, no doubt struggling to keep track of his many ailments, then a little sheepishly said, “Oh. The toe’s better.”

“Wonderful.” Violet smiled. “I’m glad you got to keep it after all.”

He narrowed his eyes, then waggled a scolding finger at her. “When you were little, you didn’t used to sass me.”

“Who’s sassing?” she asked innocently, kissing his cheek as she moved toward the parlor. He was an exhausting hypochondriac, but he was her hypochondriac. “Edith in here?”