Novels by J.D Penn

I’m not blushing.Okay, maybe I am blushing, but in my defense, how does anyone not melt when their hot helicopter pilot winks at them and calls them sticky like it’s a pet name instead of a personality flaw?Have I mentioned he’s hot?Julian elbows me hard as we step onto the tarmac, where the helicopter gleams under the London sun like a smug little insect made of money. The air smells faintly of jet fuel and sunshine, and the blades are already spinning in slow motion, casting long, flickering shadows across the landing pad.“You’ve got a crush,” Julian sings under his breath.“I do not,” I hiss, adjusting my sunglasses to hide the flaming embarrassment crawling up my neck. “He just-he startled me.”“He startled you into flirting with your whole face?”I swat at him. “This is a work trip. I’m here to be professional and photogenic.”“Mission halfway accomplished.”We walk toward the helicopter, our steps echoing across the concrete, and that’s when a voice calls out behind us.“Tho

The world tastes sweeter with a double scoop of sea salt caramel dripping down my wrist.“Tell me again how you conned me into this?” I mumble around a mouthful of waffle cone as Julian drags me across the tiny parking lot of the private terminal.“You looked sad,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m a good friend. I’m legally obligated to bribe you with overpriced artisanal ice cream.”I squint at him. “You don’t even know what happened last night.”He grins, shameless. “Didn’t have to. You stormed into the hotel room at two A.M. looking like a kicked puppy and threatened to set fire to men’s dress shoes. I read between the lines, babe.”I snort, wiping sticky caramel off my fingers with a paper napkin that’s already falling apart.The morning sun is hot against my shoulders, my hair is frizzing at an alarming rate, and my stomach is vibrating from the unholy combination of sugar, caffeine, and suppressed rage.A tiny mean part of me wants to feel guilty for what we’re planning, but eve

The next day, I’m trying not to spiral.Really, I am.I sit at the little vanity in my hotel room, brushing out my hair in long, even strokes, willing myself not to look like a depressed Victorian ghost. The brush snags against the ends and tugs at my scalp, but I barely feel it.The room smells like that stupid lavender pillow spray the hotel leaves on the nightstand.My itinerary says I have a luxury underground wine tasting to attend this afternoon, and even if my soul feels like a stomped-on crumpled receipt, I have sponsors to impress.So, I slip into a casual but sophisticated little white dress, short, flowy, effortless, and pair it with kitten heels that make me feel vaguely like a woman who has her life together.I blow out my hair into soft waves and do my makeup just enough to hide the wreckage under my eyes. Concealer is a modern miracle. God bless the girlies who invented it.The plan is simple: look cute, take pictures, survive.Julian meets me downstairs, camera already

The rooftop suddenly feels too small, too bright, too witness-y for whatever the hell is about to happen.I blink up at Axton like maybe if I don’t move, he’ll lose interest and wander off like a bear in a campground. Spoiler, he does not.Julian gives me a slow, dramatic sip of his champagne, eyes glittering with you’re so screwed energy.I clear my throat, trying to play it cool, even though every nerve in my body is short-circuiting like a Christmas light that’s seen some things.“Uh, hey,” I say, because apparently words are hard now.Axton’s gaze slices through me like he can see every terrible thought I’ve ever had. His jaw is tight, his whole body tense like he’s holding himself back from flipping the entire table over.“We need to talk,” he says again, voice low and rough like gravel, and somehow even hotter for it, because my self-preservation skills are nonexistent.Julian kicks me under the table. Subtle. Real subtle.I plaster on a tight smile and push my chair back, the l

The elevator doors slide shut, trapping me inside with the last person on earth I want to breathe the same air as.The air feels too tight, too heavy, like it’s pressing against my skin. I press myself into the corner of the elevator like maybe if I become one with the wall, I can disappear entirely. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Axton in a black suit that looks criminal on him, like he should be arrested just for existing. His tie is gone, top buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up. His jaw ticks, his hand flexes, and then, because God loves to humiliate me, he rolls his eyes at me. Full-on, dramatic, slow-motion eye-roll like I’m a particularly stupid pigeon that wandered into his penthouse.I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might snap. Oh, I’m sorry, sir, am I the villain for revealing your fiancée’s secret double life? I was minding my damn business when your Dollar Store fiancée decided to wreck both our lives.And yet here I am, guilt curdling low in my stomach, while I

If I had my way, I'd still be in bed right now, buried under a mountain of fluffy white pillows with the blackout curtains drawn and nothing but overpriced room service on my tray and a murder documentary humming softly in the background.And for the record, I did order the room service, full English breakfast (fancy, I know), mimosas (plural), half a papaya that came with edible flowers I immediately posted on Instagram.But lounging all day like a spoiled heiress wasn’t in the cards, because, surprise, I have a job. Even if it involves drinking mimosas for the aesthetic.Callie, in all her Type-A glory, sent over a schedule so meticulous it practically had footnotes.She even color-coded it. There’s a little sticky note next to each item with encouraging things like “Smile, bitch!” and “Tag the brand or perish.” Classic Callie.I take a few quick Instagram stories, complete with a dreamy slow pan of the skyline outside my window and a fake-laugh selfie where I pretend I just happene