Bottom Drawer is proud to present I’m Your Man by Joanne Rawson, a rising star in the chick lit genre.
Title: I’m Your Man by Joanne Rawson
Publisher: Bottom Drawer Publication
Genre: Contemporary, Chick Lit
Length: Novella /Word Count: 20,000
Ruth Jones loves her boyfriend Justin. He is handsome, has a killer body, and the sex is awesome. He does have one major fault though. He travels so much with work that she only gets to see him once or twice a week, and that is his reasoning for always wanting to . . . stay in. At first she’s happy that he only wants to be with her, but over time, his habit of jibbing out at the last minute for every family occasion, work function, or any bloody occasion that involves socialising, really does her head in. All she wants, for goodness sake, is for people to get to know her boyfriend. Okay, so she wants them to see she has a hunk of a boyfriend, but is that so wrong?
When Ruth wakes up in a hotel room one morning suffering from a major hangover, she tries to piece the events of the previous night together. Feeling let down by yet another no-show by Justin at a work function, she headed to the bar and ordered a drink. The last thing she remembers is sitting next to an average-looking guy with a nice accent and large hands, and wondering just what those hands could do given half the chance. When the bathroom door opens and Mr. Average walks out, she realises that at the ripe old age of thirty-three, Ruth Jones has experienced her first one-night stand.
A one-night stand that is about to send her world into utter turmoil.
The book is also available at Kobo, Bookstrand, Smashwords, Oyster, Scrib’d, and other select booksellers.
THREE HOURS LATER, I pulled into The Plough’s car park, the only pub around for miles on a Sunday that you didn’t have to fight for a table, or queue for hours to order your food. Or when finally you put in your order an exasperated manager would ask you how many “fun packs” you would like with your boil-in-the-bag stew or microwave lasagne that came with branded six chips or two potatoes and limp warm salad or soggy frozen vegetables. The Plough served such delights as fresh grilled tuna steak on a bed of chilli, vegetable noodles, cooked in an open kitchen where you could see the chefs and be confident they were not behind closed doors with their hands down their chef whites scratching their hot sweaty balls.
As I turned off my engine, I gave a sigh of relief that it was Sunday and the traffic had been light. Had my dad been with me, he would have said, “What the hell, Ruth, are we bloody crash dummies for Volkswagen?” A regular statement he’d shouted when I was seventeen after an hour-long driving lesson. We would pull up outside our house, Dad with both hands pressed firmly on the dashboard, head between his knees bordering on a crash landing position.
To be fair, today I had been somewhat distracted, but that was no excuse. In Brighton town centre, I had nearly made a full strike, as I narrowly missed a two-point-four family and their Labrador dog walking across a pedestrian crossing. By the skin of my teeth, nearly missing my turn off, I just managed to avoid a truck crashing into the side of my car as I shot over two lanes of the dual carriageway. Not to mention the police had stopped me for speeding, apparently doing forty mph in a thirty zone. Thank goodness, I’d had the foresight to eat a pack of mints, initially to get some sugar into my dehydrated body and mask the taste of rancid wine. Had the officer poked his head farther through my window, no doubt he would have smelt the Chardonnay oozing from my pores. As it was, he let me off with a warning. Looking dishevelled helped my barefaced lie that I was on my way to visit my sick grandmother. God rest her soul. Well I was hardly going to tell him I was upset that I’d just had a one-night stand and betrayed my boyfriend. But as my mum used to say as Dad swigged from the brandy bottle after our driving lessons. “At least you’re back in one piece.”
Half an hour later, I’d finished telling Vikki and Jenny the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Joanne Rawson was born and brought up in Derbyshire, England. After leaving college in 1984, she headed off to be an au pair in the Loire Valley, France for one year.
Returning back to England, she worked for Derbyshire Education Authority in special education, and then for Derbyshire Social services working with adults with learning and physical difficulties.
In 2005, Joanne and her husband decided to give up their hectic lifestyle, after ten years of managing branded restaurants around London’s M25, and spend their time in England, Goa, and Malaysia. Now a published author, she writes romantic novels and short stories.
Author Link: Website