Sheltered with the Jerk (Jerks of Miami #6) Read Online Amaryllis Lanza

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Jerks of Miami Series by Amaryllis Lanza
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Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
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Expert:

I’m Jenny Banks and I’m pretty sure I should stop drinking mojitos now. Not that I can get one right this minute, but honestly, I’d settle for a beer. After a college party that is mostly a blur, I find myself stuck in a stranger’s house somewhere in South Dade, way too near the zoo, as hurricane Hank tries to take the roof off. Juan Ruiz—said stranger —is being a total jerk about it too. It’s bad enough that I have like the worst hangover in history, and I’m terrified of storms, but does he have to make such a big deal about finding me passed out on the couch in the small office behind the den? I mean, I don’t want to be here either.
But now there’s nowhere for me to go and I don’t just mean during the storm—which, oh my God, let’s never do that again—because we’re the last house standing for miles and my car flew away or somebody stole it. Now, I’m stuck here in the Hank-pocalypse with mister bossy pants— Juan—who has all these ideas about how I should live my life. Who asked him, anyway? Me. I’m the idiot who asked for this. In my defense, Juan is intense and hot, and he turns my legs to jelly. But now, every time he barks an order, I can’t help answering, ‘Yes, sir.’ It’s becoming a bad habit. Please send help.

Full Book:

Chapter 1

I really shouldn’t drink mojitos, but I’d give anything for a beer now.

Hangovers suck. Drinking until you black out is a terrible idea. College life is dangerous enough without losing consciousness and suffering gaps in memory, but partying was what I did best. You can judge me all you like. If you don’t enjoy life while you’re young, then you wind up with regrets. I’d seen it happen to my mother, and I would not allow it to happen to me. I planned to make the most of my youth and beauty, while I could. Carpe fucking diem. Right?

That said, I had plenty of regrets when the cold water splashed on my face, waking me out of a pleasant dream about swimming with dolphins.

“The fuck?” I shouted, rising from the couch, my eyes struggling to focus. My head ached like a sledge-hammer had played the chicken dance on repeat, on my skull. “Ow…” I whimpered. My mouth was sticky cotton for a moment, then it filled with bile and last night’s mojitos as my stomach woke up too. Blech. I threw up before I could stop it, right on the combat boots of the giant asshole who drowned me awake.

“Jesus Christ!” He hopped back, his deep voice booming in my ears like a cannon.

“Shh.” I waved my arms, begging him to quiet down, at least while I vomited. Blech. I threw up again on the worn rust carpet of—where was I? It looked like a small office. The gray tin trashcan my torturer placed between my legs looked like someone had stolen it from a local school. Was he the Principal? I looked up from the boots to the broad, firm, hairy calves and the cut-off fatigues, to an enormous chest wrapped tight under a khaki t-shirt, but then I had to throw up again.

“What time is it?” I asked, still staring at the trashcan, my voice little more than a croak.

“Two.”

“In the morning?”

“In the afternoon.”

“Why is it so dark?”

“Hurricane shutters are down.”

“What?”

“Hurricane. Shutters. Are Down.”

“Are you speaking English?” I asked. I couldn’t make any sense of what he was saying.

“Who are you?” He ignored my question.

“Jenny Banks,” I said, then I threw up again. My stomach was mostly empty, but I was retching my liver. This was the downside of the party life. Which party was this? I tried to recall. “And who are you?”

“Juan Ruiz.” Nope. I didn’t know him. Still, I went to lots of strangers’ parties. I tried to remember what had happened. It was Friday night, and I went to a club in South Beach, dancing with my girlfriends, then we all got invited to a party somewhere far. I remember driving for a long time to get there. After that, though, things were blurry.

“Where am I?”

“In my fucking house!”

I put my hands over my ears. “Could you not do that, please? The shouting. I can’t take it. Do you have Alka Seltzer, or a Bloody Mary, or a beer?” I needed serious pain killers or some hair of the dog. “Maybe all three?”

Juan stomped out of the room, loud enough to shatter my eardrums. That’s how it felt anyway, despite the carpet. The man walked like a storm trooper.

The small office smelled of vomit—mostly my fault. Soon I was hugging the trashcan again. Blech. It was almost all saliva and bile this time, though. I needed fluids.


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