Hello, and welcome to the Billionaire with Benefits Blog Tour! *fanfare, etc*
You might have noticed this book took me a while to write . . . or maybe you didn’t notice, but take my word for it, it did. That might be why it ended up longer than it needed it to be. Ultimately we trimmed over 15,000 words from the original Billionaire manuscript, so posts from me (as opposed to spotlights and reviews) are all going to be cut scenes from the book. Sort of like the extras on a DVD, but, you know, not.
A list of stops on the tour can be found here. Why would you want to follow the tour? Well, because I’m giving away a fabulous, one-of-a-kind Voodoo Ken Kit, which the winner can use to seek revenge on any or all of their exes. How do you win? Check the bottom of each tour post for details.
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It’s just a friend thing
Before confessing his gayness to his best friend, Tierney Terrebonne’s sex life is strictly restroom. After confessing his gayness to his best friend . . . it doesn’t improve much. Why bother trying when the man he’s loved for fourteen years (see: “best friend”) is totally unattainable? Good thing Tierney is an old hand at accepting defeat; all it takes is a bottle of bourbon. Or fifty. Repeat as needed.
Dalton Lehnart has a history of dating wealthy, damaged, closeted, lying, cheating, no-good, cowardly men, so of course he’s immediately attracted to Tierney Terrebonne. Fortunately, Tierney is so dissolute that even Dalton’s feelings for the man would be better described as pity. Which becomes sympathy as they get to know each other. Followed by compassion, concern, caring, and hopefulness as Tierney struggles to change his life. When the man comes out very publicly and enters rehab, Dalton finds himself downright attached to Tierney. And as everyone knows, after attachment comes . . .
Uh oh.
But post-rehab Tierney can’t handle more than friendship, so Dalton should be safe from repeating his own past mistakes, right? Right?
http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/billionaire-with-benefits
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Okay, Sam fans, here you go. It’s the missing lunch scene. For those of you who haven’t read Billionaire (or Too Stupid to Live, where Sam and Ian find twue wuv), let me tell you a little about Sam—he’s a romance novel addict. He’s also a self-styled counselor to the lovelorn, or so he thinks. Dalton thinks Sam’s cute but that his advice is more akin to reading a horoscope on Facebook than a personalized star chart. At least, that’s what Dalton thinks initially.
This scene is right after Tierney and Dalton have a moment together, then Tierney leaves for an indefinite amount of time for rehab. Not long after that, Dalton has to meet Sam for their weekly lunch.
Note: some of this scene actually made its way into the later moving scene with Sam, Dalton and Ian, so if you’ve read the book it might seem familiar.
Sam was too damned perceptive to fool. “Is something wrong?” he asked looking from Dalton’s plate to his and back after the waiter brought their food.
“With my order?” Dalton shook his head. “No. Why?”
“You ordered fettuccine Alfredo” Sam pointed at Dalton’s pasta with a french fry, then turned it toward himself and bit off the end.
“Yes.”
“You usually have chicken Caesar salad.”
Dalton contemplated his plate. Normally he thought cheese sauce too clingy, but today it appeared . . . Satisfying. “I didn’t feel like having Caesar.”
Sam nodded and returned his focus to his french fries.
“What’s that mean?” Dalton straightened up.
“What?” Sam blinked at him.
“That nod.” He pointed at Sam’s head. “You’ve attached some significance to what I’ve ordered.”
“Oh.” Sam’s eyes went wide and he nodded again. “I have. See, lettuce is green, which people automatically consider ‘healthy.’ I was thinking you probably order chicken Caesar salad when your life is following the path you think it should. Like, when you feel in control.”
That made a strange kind of sense. Dalton tilted his head. “But my life is going the way I want it to. I like my job, I’m about to move into my apartment—“
“Even though you couldn’t afford one in the gay ghetto?” Sam lifted his brows.
“Yes, even though I couldn’t afford one in Simpson. I like my life.” Dalton tipped his chin for emphasis and returned his attention to his food.
All that sauce really was fattening.
Soooo creamy, though. Full of stomach-filling, taste-bud tickling goodness. An indulgent food.
The kind that gave one a little bit of a hug from the inside.
Gasp. Dalton jerked his head up. “I’m eating for comfort.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“How come you knew I was eating for comfort before I realized it?” Well, hello there, denial.
“I’m observant. It’s because I’m going to be an author.”
Uh-huh. Dalton waved him off. “You’re not going to be an author, you’re going to be a literature professor who teaches students about romance novels and we both know it.”
“Okaaay, so you’re observant too, but . . . is it Tierney?”
Dalton let his fork clatter onto the plate—not even flinching at the sound—and propped his forehead in his hands, elbows prominently on the table. Of course Sam would think of Tierney, because as much as Dalton tried to avoid the subject—much like he had today—they always ended up circling back around to him. As if Sam knew he was hiding something.
Much like he had been today.
Sam’s fingers landed on his forearm. “You did hear? I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up.”
Why am I not talking about this? He couldn’t come up with a real reason, so in the end he told Sam almost everything. It was sort of like cleaning a wound. His friend even knew more of the details of the coming out, since Ian had been there.
“Oh, and at the end he said, ‘I hope you get the afterlife you deserve, you controlling, manipulative motherfucker.’” Sam nodded while Dalton stared at him with wide eyes.
He sat back, wiping his mouth and thinking about it. “Well, he kinda deserved it.”
“The grandfather?” Sam asked excitedly through a bite of french fry. “You knew about him? That’s more than Ian knew.”
Dalton picked up his fork and busied himself. “He only told me a little bit.”
“What little bit?”
He gave Sam a look from under his brows.
“Sorry, never mind.” Sam took a drink of his pop. “So, you don’t know where he went and you don’t know when he’ll be back?”
“No.” He poked at his congealing pasta, scowling at it.
“Okay,” Sam nodded, doing something with a fry in Dalton’s peripheral vision. “So, you got freaked out he was going to do himself harm, went rushing over to his place this morning to make sure he was all right, had some kind of interaction that assured you he was all right—physically—found out about him leaving for a sort of mental health break, but you didn’t ask for how long?”
“He said he didn’t know.” Dalton took a very proper sip of his ice water.
“That’s not a lot of conversation.” Sam waggled his burger back and forth. “You told me you were there about five minutes, and he admitted he’d come out last night, and that he had a plane to catch. That’s like . . .” He flailed his food in the air, staring at the ceiling a second. “Thirty seconds of conversation.” He fixed Dalton with an inquisitive eye. “Unless you’re leaving out details. Or maybe you had a lot to say?”
Dalton picked up his fork from where he’d rested it on his plate, prodding his noodles again. “I didn’t really say anything much to him.” Just let his emotions run riot and kissed him. “Other than telling him I was proud of him.”
“It did take a pair of brass balls to come out that way,” Sam agreed, then dropped his burger in the basket and leaned forward. “But that’s like another five seconds. What about the other four minutes and twenty-five?”
There was only one defense left to him. “What do you think happened?”
“I think he expressed his undying love for you and begged you to wait for him.” Sam nodded when Dalton jerked his head up and stared. “Then he kissed you.”
“OhmyGod.”
“Seriously?” A huge grin broke out all over Sam’s face, and he wiggled like a delighted puppy. “I’m right?”
Dalton wiped his face with his napkin, pausing a few seconds while it covered his mouth. Possibly hiding from saying too much. Or convincing the words to come out. “Well . . . not exactly right . . .”
Sam clapped his hands together, joy flushing his face. “You kissed him?”
Dalton hung his head and nodded.
“Did he kiss you back?” Sam’s breathless voice asked from centimeters away.
Dalton nodded again, twisting his napkin around his fingers until he cut off the circulation.
“And the undying love part?”
Finally he could shake his head “no.” “I think he still has a thing for, you know, your boyfriend. But, um, he asked me if I’d go on a date with him when he gets back.”
His friend’s next question came out all in one word. “And did you say yes?”
He went back to nodding, but lifted his chin to bring up the big, obvious stumbling block again. “You think it’s possible he could get over Ian?”
Sam leaned forward. “Yes,” he said, all over Dalton’s plate. “He only thinks he’s in love with my boyfriend.”
“How do you know he’s not?”
“Because it doesn’t work that way. Only one soul mate per person, it’s like a law.”
“This isn’t a romance novel.”
“Romance novels have an often uncanny ability to predict reality.” Sam smiled dreamily, eyes glossing over. “The wounded billionaire. Such a cracky trope.”
“Cracky?”
Sam’s cheeks flushed. “Uh, like crack. Love-crack. You know, if you’re into, um . . .”
“Romance novels.” Dalton finished, mind on the more important point. “He’s hardly a billionaire. Millionaire, probably.”
“Yeah, but ‘millionaire’ just doesn’t have the cachet it used to. You have to say ‘billionaire’ even if he’s not to fulfill the parameters of the trope.”
“Um, do we need to fulfill the parameters of this trope?”
Sam froze mid-bite, the fry he was still clutching half in his mouth. He blinked a few times, then began chewing again, eyes narrowing slightly.
That was probably answer enough.
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Want a chance to win Voodoo Ken? Well, keep looking, because this isn’t the post with the magical question. FYI, I’ll ship worldwide, so anyone can enter.
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Raised on a steady diet of Monty Python, classical music and the visual arts, Anne Tenino was—famously—the first patient diagnosed with Compulsive Romantic Disorder. Since that day, Anne has taken on conquering the M/M world through therapeutic writing. Finding out who those guys having sex in her head are and what to do with them has been extremely liberating.
Anne’s husband finds it liberating as well, although in a somewhat different way. Her two daughters are mildly confused by Anne’s need to twist Ken dolls into odd positions. However, other than occasionally stealing Ken1’s strap-on, they let Mom do her thing without interference.
Wondering what Anne does in her spare time? Mostly she lies on the couch, eats bonbons and shirks housework.
Check out what Anne’s up to now by visiting her site. http://annetenino.com
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Need this book.
Why yes, you do. 😉
Love the rose. =}