Holy moo moos–Cindi Madsen is my gurl!
Hello doll, let’s get it on.
… yeah, that is creepy. I won’t say that anymore.
I have a handful of books that I turn to in my times of need. That means books I go back to to self medicate with when I feel like crap. Lucky Number Seven is all over that list and Beck and Lyla are my book boyfriend and book girlfriend. It’s a bit of an awkward and complicated relationship but we are quite happy together. In my times of need and when I just need a few moments to myself.
… yeah, that sounds creepy too. But I make no promises of not saying it again.
Lyla is a prisoner of all the hype douchie people have filled her head with. She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s fun. And she has a BFF who would drop everything in the blink of an eye for her. The real problem isn’t her so much as it is her marketing. She is selling herself short and all of that is about to change, ’cause this woman is about to ROAR.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Just a little bit.
Her roommate’s a–hat friends have no vision. With them it’s all x is hot and y is here because math is soft-hearted, they don’t know how to solve this to make them look good from the right angle. They might not be able to see Lyla Wilder for who she is but this little pupa is about to bloom, and the first guy about to see her upgraded wings is none other than the BFF: Beck Davenport. Let me-tell-you-me, He’s about to be knocked senseless because the beautiful girl who he adores is about to become the beautiful girl he can’t stop touching, kissing, lusting, and loving. When the legends fall it always is with the grace of a hockey player struck dumb by a slap shot to the head. Beck has no idea what hit him but he needs to get his game on.
Ms. Wilder’s 7 step program to self improvement:
- New edgier look
- Do a keg stand (remember not to wear a skirt that night)
- Make out with a beautiful stranger (exact level of making out TBD as the kissing happens)
- Sing karaoke
- Dance on a bar (learn how to sexy dance, so I don’t look like a fool when the bar dancing happens)
- Get a tattoo
- Have mind blowing sex.
I won’t lie I was trying to get her to see me for numbers 3, 5, and 7 but she had eyes for someone else. I love her to death but our girl-love is not meant to be because she and Beck are as good together as coffee and jalapeños. I love coffee and jalapeños.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Just a little bit.
I poop you not this book is the one you want to warm you in your time of need. Hell, let it treat you right when you get home some night after work. It is also great for quickies between classes. Pay for the experience, it’s worth every cent.
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Getting Lucky Number Seven Synopsis:
What’s your lucky number?
Lyla Wilder is done being the shy, chemistry nerd extraordinaire. While every other college student is out having fun, Lyla is studying. With her cat. Well, she’s played it “safe” quite enough, thank you. So she creates a “College Bucket List”―with item #7 being a night of uninhibited, mind-blowing sex…
But she needs some help from her man-whore best friend.
Hockey player Beck Davenport thought Lyla’s transformation would be subtle. Man, was he wrong. With every item she ticks off, Beck finds himself growing seriously hot for his sweet, brainiac best friend. And if he’s not careful, he’ll end up risking their friendship in order to convince Lyla that he might just be her lucky #7…
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Getting Lucky Number Seven Excerpt:
My lips hovered over Monica’s as I debated my next move. I’d ignored my ringing phone, because, well, I had my hands full with Monica. The knock on the door wasn’t quite as easy to ignore, especially when accompanied by Lyla’s voice.
“Beck, are you home? I’m having a bit of an emergency.”
As soon as I sat back on the couch, Monica’s eyes flashed. “Are you kidding me?”
Was I? Shit, I was as revved up as she was, but what was I supposed to do? Leave Lyla out on my doorstep? When it came to her, “a bit of an emergency” could be that she’d gotten a B, there was a cat in need of saving, or a slasher was after her. She really only spoke in one level, and that was “quiet.”
“Give me just a sec.”
Monica gripped my shirt and ran her tongue over my jaw, which I’m sure she thought was sexy, but left me feeling like I’d been licked by a Labrador. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Much-needed cool air hit me as soon as I opened the door. Lyla stood on the walkway, arms wrapped around herself.
She didn’t have on a coat, just a long-sleeved shirt and one of her multi-colored scarves. “Hey, I’m kinda busy,” I said. “Can we—”
I froze at the sight of her splotchy tear-streaked cheeks. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
She shook her head and blew out a white puff of air. “Not physically, anyway.”
I glanced from her to Monica, who was draped across the couch, wearing only her bra and jeans.
Damn, she was gonna be pissed.
Lyla glanced inside and her eyes went wide. “You’re obviously busy—I knew you would be. It’s nothing, really. I’ll just see you tomorrow for movie night, ’kay?” She turned to go, and I reached out and caught her arm.
“Come on inside.” There was no way I could focus now. Sure, it’d only take a few minutes to get back into things with Monica, but I’d worry about Lyla off and on all night. Somewhere along the way, I’d started to feel responsible for her, and if anyone hurt her, I’d personally hunt them down.
After I closed the door behind us, bringing this Saturday night to a three-way kind of sitch—and not the good kind—I ran a hand through my hair. “Uh, Monica, we’re going to have to catch up another time.”
The girl looked Lyla up and down with a disgusted scowl on her face that screamed You’re choosing her over me? and it suddenly got that much easier to say good-bye.
“In your dreams, asshole,” she spat at me as she walked past. So no love lost there. I still walked her out, even though my thighs burned from tonight’s game, and it involved too many stairs, because I like to think I’m at least half a gentleman.
When I got back inside, Lyla looked up from her spot on the couch. “How’d the flavor of the week take it?”
I flopped next to her, flinching when I bumped the side where I’d been checked earlier tonight. Dude thought he was real tough, but I ended up with the puck and the score—it made any resulting bruises worth it. “Actually, I met her three weekends ago, thank-you-very-much.”
“Ooh, a repeat offender. I’m impressed.”
“I can hear you judging me. Pretty harsh after the cock blocking. Guess I’ll just have to make do with you.” I leaned toward her, mouth open as wide as I could get it, tongue out.
“Ew!” She laughed and shoved me away. Good. She was smiling now. The sad face was killing me. But all too soon, it was back. If it were anyone else, I would run as far as I could go to keep from discussing emotions or getting into whatever had made her cry. But Lyla was my girl, and like I said, I felt responsible for her. Probably because hanging with her was always easy—the break from life I occasionally needed—and I didn’t have many close friends who knew me as well as she did. I liked it that way, and honestly, I wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get in so easily.
She ran her palms down her thighs, focusing on the motion. “I got set up on a date tonight. Or more like I was the sixth wheel pity-date option.”
“Sixth wheel?” I asked.
She told me about the set-up, the drinking, and when she looked down and whispered the part about some asshole calling her fugly and boring, I clenched my fists, wanting to find the guy and use them on him. “I just don’t think I can go back tonight.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Can I crash on your couch?”
“You know you can. Anytime.” Over the past few months I’d forgotten how fragile she could be. She had no problem speaking her mind around me anymore, but it’d taken a while, and sometimes I worried people would take advantage of her. I’d never expected someone to go out of his way to be outright mean, though. “That guy was wrong, Lyla. He’s clearly a giant douche.”
She unwound the scarf from her neck and tossed it aside. Then she pulled her light brown waves into a messy bun, took a pencil off the side table, and shoved it through her hair to secure it in place. “I don’t think I’m quite as bad as fugly, but I am plain. And I am boring. All I ever do is study. Just like I did in high school. I thought I’d go to college and live in a big city, and things would be different. Only everyone else is different, and I’m as awkward and nerdy as ever. That whole things-get-better-after-high-school is total crap.”
I didn’t even know where to start with that. Seemed like a lot of landmines that could explode if I said the wrong thing.
“I’m sick of it, Beck. I don’t want to do the safe thing anymore just because I’m too afraid to try anything else.” Resolve set into her features—it was the same look she got when we were solving difficult chemistry equations last semester, or when one of our labs didn’t go quite right and we needed to figure out why. She got scary-focused sometimes. “It’s time for a change. Time to let loose a little. I’m in my second semester of college, and I haven’t done anything you’re supposed to do. Like get so drunk you puke and don’t remember the rest of the night.”
Cindi Madsen is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance and young adult novels. She sits at her computer every chance she gets, plotting revising, and falling in love with her characters. Sometimes it makes her a crazy person. Without it, she’d be even crazier. She has way too many shoes, but can always find a reason to buy a new pretty pair, especially if they’re sparkly, colorful, or super tall. She loves music, dancing, and wishes summer lasted all year long. She lives in Colorado (where summer is most definitely NOT all year long) with her husband and three children.
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