Overall, I highly recommend "Here to Stay" for all fans of contemporary romance. This was the first book I've ever read by Adriana Herrera, but it definitely will not be the last.
Award-winning, highly-acclaimed author Adriana Herrera delivers the sexy, modern enemies-to-lovers romance you’ve been waiting for.
Starting over is more about who you’re with than where you live…
Julia del Mar Ortiz is not having the best year.
She moved to Dallas with her boyfriend, who ended up ditching her and running back to New York after only a few weeks. Left with a massive—by NYC standards, anyway—apartment and a car lease in the scorching Texas heat, Julia is struggling…except that’s not completely true. Running the charitable foundation of one of the most iconic high fashion department stores in the world is serious #lifegoals.
It’s more than enough to make her want to stick it out down South.
The only monkey wrench in Julia’s plans is the blue-eyed, smart-mouthed consultant the store hired to take them public. Fellow New Yorker Rocco Quinn’s first order of business? Putting Julia’s job on the chopping block.
Julia
I
stepped into the elevator and shoved my phone into the pocket of my
dress, took a moment to send a prayer to the employee discount that let
me buy bomb clothes on a nonprofit worker budget, and did some mental
math of what could be going on.
Was the program really in trouble? Could we actually get shut down?
Nope,
I would not go there. I would not think about what it would be like to
get on a plane back to New York dumped and unemployed. Not happening.
A
distraction. That’s what I needed. Just as the door to the elevator was
about to close, someone got in. The fact that I was eye level with the
base of his throat was a good clue as to who it was, but when he opened
his mouth and the now familiar knee-weakening baritone echoed off the
walls of the elevator, I got my confirmation.
“Morning, Ms.
Ortiz.” That voice could be used for interrogation tactics. Every muscle
in my body loosened at the same time whenever I heard it.
I
squeaked out a “Morning” and took my time lifting my head all the way up
to look at the last person in the world I wanted overhearing my
conversation with my mother.
Him.
Rocco Fucking
Quinn, otherwise known as the “Team Leader” for the consulting firm
looking to bag my job. The guy with the New York City-est name on the
planet. I hadn’t exactly gotten personal with Mr. Quinn, but I picked up
on that accent the first time we met.
“What’s good?” I really
tried to sound polite, but my Queens jumped out in situations like this.
I did not gulp, because I could not let this fucker see me sweat. I
managed not to cut my eyes at him, but it was a close call.
I
took him in, ramrod straight, every hair in its place, not a wrinkle in
sight, and decided he could not be the proprietor of the laugh-choke
from before. The man seemed to be completely lacking a sense of humor. I
knew he must have teeth but I’d never seen them.
Yeah,
definitely not him. That fact rallied my spirits a little bit as I stood
close enough to pick up on how he smelled. Like the ocean and something
woodsy. That was not helpful information.
Without saying another
word, I ran my eyes over him. It struck me that he was not wearing
something bespoke like pretty much everyone here. Don’t get me wrong, he
still looked good enough to eat, but he was clearly on a budget. And at
a place where everyone looked like they were heading to a New York
Fashion Week photo shoot, it was sort of jarring. Still, the suit fit
him well. And there was no question, this guy could wear the fuck out of
a suit. I held back a whimper when I envisioned him in a Brioni or a
Zegna. They’d have to put out a heat advisory for the building if that
ever happened.
“I thought I could detect a familiar accent when I
was coming down the hall.” His perfectly blue eyes twinkled at what I
was certain was an expression of utter mortification on my face. He
sounded pleasant enough, but he was also alluding to the fact that I was
yapping on my phone. This wasn’t the first time he tried to be cute.
Rocco Quinn seemed to like fucking with me. And it was only a matter of
time before he stepped on my last nerve and I reamed him out.
Thankfully,
just as I was scrambling to respond to his comment, the elevator got to
my floor. I was planning to just leave him hanging and run off, but he
was hot on my heels.
Dammit.
“Sounds like your mom misses you.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why did he have to act all fake nice?
I nodded without looking at him. “She does. Listen, Mr. Quinn—”
“You can call me Rocco.”
Nope,
that was not happening. I was not letting this sexy bastard talk me
into getting all chummy with him. I was already on thin ice as it was.
He could keep his pheromones and his slick-as-fuck expressions to his
damn self. I came to a dead stop a few feet away from the conference
room door where my boss—and whatever shitty news she was about to give
me—was waiting.
When I turned around, Rocco was looking down at
me with an expectant smile. God he was handsome, that jet-black hair so
dark it almost had a tinge of blue and those eyes, piercing. And I guess
he had teeth after all, and of course they were perfect. Asshole. I
shook my head hard when my traitorous brain started wondering what
Pantone color his eyes would be.
Get your head in the game, Julia del Mar.
I
straightened my back, determined to fight off the debilitating effects
of those gleaming teeth and perfectly pink lips. I had to remember this
niceness was probably his way of getting us to let our guard down. He
was here to find ways to cut jobs. I was not about to mouth off and get
myself fired, but I needed to get some things clear.
“Look.” I
was proud of myself for not rolling my neck or pointing at his face. “I
know you’re trying to be nice, but you make me nervous.” I pulled on the
hem of my blue polka-dot dress and smoothed my yellow cardigan,
avoiding eye contact at all costs.
“Why do I make you nervous?”
Uh, maybe because you’re here to close down as much of the foundation as you can.
I
refrained from actually saying that because I had not been raised by a
Puerto Rican man and Dominican woman just so I could act like I had no
home training with the guy who could get me fired. But it was a close
call.
“I’m sorry for saying that. You don’t make me nervous.”
Lies.
Adriana Herrera was born and raised in the Caribbean, but for the last fifteen years has let her job (and her spouse) take her all over the world. She loves writing stories about people who look and sound like her people, getting unapologetic happy endings.
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