Accidental Attachment Read Online Max Monroe

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)

A successful writer accidentally sends her new (and super-dreamy) editor the wrong manuscript. Instead of the full-length paranormal novel she promised Longstrand Publishing, she sends the fan fiction she’s written about her crush…on him—including every detail of the hot, steamy “physical activity” she’s fantasized about happening between them.

And Chase Dawson may be the hottest man alive and a super-talented editor to boot, but he’s completely oblivious that he’s the star of the manuscript he just convinced his boss to green-light.

Brooke Baker has been through a lot in her thirty-one years of life.

A divorce.
A career change.
A move to New York City from “small-town” Ohio.
Not to mention, she has a bit of a medical condition that involves occasional fainting spells, mild embarrassment, and the companionship of her adorable service dog and canine sidekick, Benji.

But none of it has prepared her for this.

None of it prepared her for Chase Dawson.

Strong jaw, blue eyes, cut muscles, and a perfect swoop of superhero-worthy black hair, Chase’s features are those of a book boyfriend and then some. Obviously, Brooke would know—she literally filled an entire manuscript with it.

A manuscript no one was ever supposed to see.

Will she survive two months of revising and editing the sizzling romance she imagined with Chase in extremely close quarters with him? Or will the constant white lies and overwhelming attraction make her spontaneously combust?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Sunday April 8th


Spending a week with a serial killer, a car-crushing interstate pileup, and deadline day.

This may not seem like a list of events you’d group together, but the truth is, they all have a bevy of horrible things in common.

Bloodshed. Tears. Begging to be put out of your misery.

I realize that may sound a tad dramatic to say about a writing deadline, but I’m in the pits of deadline hell, and I won’t apologize for it. I’m a writer. A novelist. It’s my duty to paint a portrait with my words. To reel a reader into my web of description in such a way that they’ll never escape its clutches.

This is what I do, and normally, I revel in the task. In the past, I’ve even been praised and awarded for it. I’ve been on the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal best-seller lists, have topped the charts on online retailers like Amazon and iBooks, and was awarded Author of the Year by the Author’s Guild two years ago.

I have three of the most successful books of the last decade with one of the biggest publishers in the United States—Longstrand Publishing—and have even become somewhat of a household name, thanks to an upcoming show on Netflix about my first series.

At least, that’s what you’d learn about me if you took to Google. My Wikipedia page is just one big “Everyone come see how great Brooke Baker is!” commentary, but none of it even scratches the surface.

On the inside, I’m a no-good, talentless hack, and the book I’m about to turn in to my new editor at Longstrand might as well find a home at the bottom of the Staten Island dump.

In defense of my inward pointing offensiveness, writers are known for being self-deprecating, no matter how successful they might be on paper. Pretty sure it’s part of the job description.

Still, this book is a piece of crap.

Frustrated, I huff out a breath, shove away from my keyboard, and stand. But in the process, I bump into my sweet German shepherd Benji who’s curled up at my feet. The abrupt motion propels me forward into a running fall.

“Shit, Benji,” I mutter as I bang my foot on the coffee table, do a three-sixty spin, and finally come to a stop when my lower back slams into the edge of the sofa just as my Dolly Parton CD gets to the crescendo about a woman named “Jolene.”

Dramatically, I let myself slide to the hardwood floor of my apartment and release a long exhale when my ass gently hits the floor. The motion makes my glasses slide to the bridge of my nose, and I reach up to adjust them on my face.

Benji stands up, crooking his head in concern. His ears perk up and his snout alarms into a frown, but the Batman costume he’s currently sporting makes it hard to see him as anything but adorable.

Note to self: Benji in a Batman costume is impossible to get annoyed with, even when he sends me careening across my apartment like I’m a stuntwoman in the movie Jackass.

I might be biased, but my furry buddy is a superhero, and I always make sure he’s dressed the part. His closet is nearly as big as mine, containing every superhero outfit from DC to Marvel because we don’t choose one over the other in this household. We are superhero connoisseurs who don’t discriminate. From Batman to Thor, we are fully inclusive.

“Okay, Batman Benji,” I say, looking into his big and assessing brown eyes. “I’m going to overlook this little problem we just had because, first of all, you’re so dang cute I can’t even stand it. And secondly, the number of times you’ve saved my life far outweighs this endangerment.”

He tilts his head to the side, and I get to my feet and walk toward him because I can’t resist giving my canine superhero a rubdown.

Plus, he always lies at my feet when I’m writing. Always. So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise and, therefore, shouldn’t have caused me to nearly split my head open.

“Sorry, buddy,” I apologize and scratch between his ears. “I’m not myself tonight, you know that. I’m in severe emotional distress about the fact that I’m a piece-of-garbage writer. Thank goodness for the Netflix deal on the Shadow Brothers, huh? Otherwise, I’d be worried about keeping us in kibble.”

I head toward the kitchen, intent on pouring myself a glass of wine as my CD ticks over to the next song, “Living on Memories of You.” As Dolly sings about a lack of sunshine during both day and night, I’m reminded why Dolly Parton, to me, is life.

Thanks to my fun (not fun at all) medical condition otherwise known as vasovagal syncope, I’m always one anxiety-ridden meltdown from passing out, and let me tell you, living in that kind of vacuum can turn someone cynical.