L is for Landon – An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Read Online Natasha L. Black

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)

Landon could be the story that makes my career,
Or he could be the man who breaks my heart.
Interview the famous writer living like a recluse in my hometown,
Kickstart my dream career, crush my goals, live happily ever after—that’s the plan.
A fiery one-night stand with the writer whose scars are more than just physical,
Was not what I had on my agenda.
He’s been in hiding since the wreck that nearly killed him,
Struggling to write his next story.
I have to find a way to get him to open up,
Or I’ll never get the piece I need to start my new career.
I finally get him to trust me,
But now we’re getting too close.
And I have to decide what I want more,
The story, or the man?

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



S was for the squares on the tie of the man seated next to me. T could be the tiled floor or Tired Tara. I giggled to myself. Uh-oh. I tended to get slap happy when I was way past tired. And I was definitely way past tired. The droning of the presenter was quickly pushing me past the point of no return. Shifting in my seat, I willed my eyes to remain open. The alphabet game I played as a kid wasn’t really working and counting the number of times the speaker said “and so” hadn’t either. Crossing and recrossing my legs, I got a dirty look from the woman to my right. Not having the energy to glare back, I checked my phone for the thirty-third time in half an hour and noticed a new notification. It looked like my mother had texted. I squeezed my eyes shut as I opened the texting app. Was it bad to wish for a family emergency?

I have the best news. Call me when you get a chance!

The clock on the wall ticked the slowest rhythm, making each second that passed seem like an eternity. I wondered if anyone else was having a hard time focusing. I’d dreaded this conference the minute my boss assigned it to me. I hadn’t expected much, and it was more than fulfilling my expectations. When I’d dreamed of being a famous reporter, I hadn’t considered the horrible gigs I might have to take on my way to the top. Jobs like this one, covering a conference on emission standards and incremental changes in international taxes. Did anyone truly care about those things?

My pencil rolled off my lap, earning me another glare. I guessed the woman to my right cared.

My boss told me it was a big deal, hobnobbing with political leaders from around the world. Honestly? It probably was, but it just wasn’t the kind of thing that got my heart pumping. I fanned my face with the conference brochure, hiding a yawn behind the glossy pages. How much longer does this last? A quick look in the brochure nearly caused me to groan aloud. There was no way I was making it through the whole afternoon.

Ten minutes before the scheduled lunch break, I weighed my options. I doubted anyone would actually miss me if I ducked out. I was just a sideline reporter, not a major player in the game. Decision made, my mind and body perked up a bit, making the last few minutes fly by. I practically ran up the aisle when we were dismissed, asked to come back in an hour. Not this girl but thank you.

Slipping out the side door, I was excited to get out in the fresh air and wander through Brussels. It was one of my favorite cities, and it would be a shame if I didn’t enjoy it a bit. I opted for real food rather than choosing my meal from the food court. There was a diner around the corner I tried to visit each time I was in town that had the best soups and salads.

The breeze whipped through the street, blowing my auburn hair across my face and shaking the last bits of boredom from my soul. Brussels was an amazing city, with an old-world feel tucked into modern-day adventure. A blend of languages flowed through the people who passed me by. I caught snippets of Dutch, but the overwhelming conversations were in French. My two years of high school French barely helped me order room service. Thankfully, English was a widely used language as well.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the diner’s outdoor seating area was almost full. A gentleman held the door for me, allowing me to slip in before him.


I smiled, breathing in the smell of baked bread. Carbs were a definite weakness, especially fresh out of the oven. I paid for my meal and moved back through the line and chose a seat outside. A few had opened since I first walked up, including one under the shade of the diner awning. Its colorful stripes made me smile. This was how Brussels should be enjoyed. Not in a stuffy conference room. Minutes later, my meal was delivered, and the sleepiness from earlier had completely washed away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man from before who’d opened the door for me. He glanced my way, motioning toward the free seat across from me. He seemed harmless and appeared old enough to be my grandfather. I nodded, moving my bag so he could sit down.

“I’m Simon. Thank you for letting me join you.”

“Hi, Simon. I’m Tara.”

“Are you enjoying your time in Brussels?” he asked, cutting the lettuce in his bowl.

“I am. I love the city and the wonderful architecture. Unfortunately, I’m only here for a short time.”