The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2) Read online

  The World According to Vince

  What readers said about Vince when they met him in Gym or Chocolate?

  Dedication

  Reviews

  More books with Stuart Reardon & Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Reviews

  Vince’s English-American Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Meet Vincent Azzopardi

  More about Stu Reardon & Jane Harvey-Berrick

  The Baby Game

  Exclusive extract from The Baby Game

  The World According to Vince

  Copyright © 2020 Stuart Reardon & Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Editing by Tonya Allen

  First published in Great Britain, 2020

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you do, you are STEALING. We earn our living from writing; we’d ask for you to respect that. Thanks!

  Stuart Reardon and Jane Harvey-Berrick have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Cover photographs by Stuart Reardon & Shutterstock

  Cover models: Stu Reardon and Vincent Azzopardi

  Cover design by Sybil Wilson / Pop Kitty Designs

  Formatting by Cassy Roop / Pink Ink Designs

  ISBN 978-1-9999186-8-2

  Stuart Reardon Publishing

  What readers said about Vince when they met him in Gym or Chocolate?

  PLEASEEEEEE tell me there’s going to be a book 2... Vin NEEDS to be hog tied and dragged to my book shelf! #VinIsMine

  The secondary characters: Vin, Rick’s best friend who is a top male model and Cady’s best friend Grace, a solicitor, make an interesting pair and I bet these two would make a hilarious partnership. I hope they get to have their story, too.

  I loved Rick’s best friend, Vin, and will be watching out for his book.

  Rick’s best mate, Vin, had me in fits, swears like a trooper and dishes out dodgy advice like hotcakes, and Grace, Cady’s bestie is lovely.

  Add in secondary characters like Vin (‘fooker’ seems to be his favourite word) and Grace (as elegant and as spirited as her name) to round out the craziness that is this story.

  There are other delightful friends included in the narrative, Vin and Grace, the besties.

  Speaking of panty melting ... the athlete turned model that is Rick’s friend, Vin. He’s goofy, irreverent and hot! And then there’s Cady’s lovely friend, Grace. The gals have a wonderful friendship much like Rick and Vin’s. I can’t wait for Vin and Grace’s story.

  Although he’s not a main character, I also found myself really enjoying Vin! He's hysterical in his lack of giving a care and softens and warms your heart with how sweet he can be (I love the animals, too, Vin, so I feel ya!).

  This book was so funny from beginning to end. Loved the secondary characters. Can’t wait for Vin’s story.

  To Pip, Rocket and Winnie—and all our four-legged families.

  We really hope that you enjoy this story because it was born out of readers wanting to know more about Vince when they first met him in Gym or Chocolate? And you were right! We fell in love with Vince’s sweet craziness and the straitlaced Grace who saves him from himself over and over: The World According to Vince is the result.

  We hope that you’ll leave a review, too. It’s not just for us (but we do love it when we know that you’ve enjoyed our books!), but reviews also helps other people to make an informed decision before buying.

  So we’d really appreciate if you took a few seconds to do just that when you’ve finished this story. Thank you!

  Goodreads

  Jane & Stu x

  More books with Stuart Reardon

  Grace

  It was close to midnight when my cell phone rang. I’d already worked another 14-hour day in the office plus two more at home, and I was wearing my pajamas, cocoa in hand, ready to call it a night and crawl into my enormous and comfortable bed. So when I saw the name ‘Knob-head’ flashing up on my phone, I let it roll over to voicemail. But then he rang again and again and again, and on the fifth ring, against my better judgment, I answered.

  “Faith … I mean, Grace! Don’t hang up!”

  Ugh, knob-head! The stupid British guy never could get my name right. Why had I answered? Oh yes, because he was the best friend of my best friend’s fiancé.

  “It’s late, Vincent,” I said sharply.

  At least I was able to remember that his given name was ‘Vincent’ and not ‘Knob-head’.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve been arrested. I need a lawyer.”

  “What? Oh my God, what?! You got yourself arrested three weeks before Cady and Rick’s wedding! What did you do?”

  I may have panicked slightly, but Vince’s voice was annoyingly calm.

  “Yeah, I know. Fookin’ bummer. I told the policewomen that, but they were hard arses. They said they had to take me in, asked for a couple of selfies and booked me anyway. They let me use my phone though—cheers, girls!”

  I heard a woman laughing in the background and wondered if this was one of Vince’s stupid pranks.

  “What have you’ve been arrested for?” I asked skeptically.

  “That don’t matter but…”

  “It really does matter, Vince! It kind of matters a lot.”

  “Um, hang on,” he mumbled, “I’ve got a list somewhere.”

  I could hear rustling and in the background drunks were yelling. My stomach sank—this wasn’t a prank, which had been my first guess and fervent hope. Then Vincent’s voice came back on the line.

  “Alright, yeah: burglary and larceny, whatever that is. I think that’s everything.”

  My eyes bulged. It sounded serious.

  “I know a couple of criminal lawyers who can…”

  “No! I need you, Fa— Grace. Please! I’m at the 20th Precinct police station, but they’ll be moving me to Central Booking and then the Tombs. Fook me! I don’t like the sound of that!”

  “Vince, I’m a corporate lawyer. I do mergers and acquisitions. I’m not a criminal lawyer. I can’t help you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not a criminal, so that’s okay.”

  “Vince
, no! Listen to me for once! You need…”

  “Please, Grace! For Rick’s sake! For Cady’s sake! For the sake of puppies and kittens—especially the puppies. Please! You’re my only hope!”

  He made it sound as though he was about to be taken away and locked up for a hundred years, which might have saved the world a lot of angst.

  I heaved out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll come. I’ll do what I can … just … don’t talk to anyone. Don’t say anything. Don’t even comment on the weather.”

  “Is it a nice evening?”

  “Shut up, Vince!” I took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t work. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  My question was sarcastic, but I should have known better.

  “Yeah, ta. Could you go to my flat and let me dogs out for a slash.” He paused. “And if they’ve shit on the floor, could you chuck it in the back garden.”

  “What?!”

  “Cheers, Gracie. You’re a mate.”

  He hung up.

  I really, really couldn’t stand Vince Azzo.

  Grace

  I really, really couldn’t stand Vince Azzo. Wait, let me back up and I’ll start at the beginning.

  My best friend in the whole entire world is a superb human being named Cady Callahan. She’s kind, clever, funny as hell, and last year she ran the New York City marathon raising a ton of money for veterans’ charities. Seriously, my girl is awesome. She’s also the top radio breakfast host on the Atlantic seaboard and happens to be engaged to the almost equally awesome Rick Roberts, who owns the number one gym in Manhattan and used to be a professional athlete. He’s British, too, a little on the reserved side and quiet, like me. And to be fair, Cady creates enough noise and chaos for both of us.

  It was almost perfect, as perfect as life can be, that is. We all got along great and I was really excited to be Cady’s Maid of Honour at their wedding in three weeks.

  I did say almost perfect. Except for one thing—the proverbial fly in the ointment, the bump in the road, the pain in the ass that was Vincent Azzo—Rick’s best friend.

  The trouble was, he thought the world revolved around him—the world according to Vince. Well, I had plenty to say about Mr. Vincent I’m-always-right Azzo.

  First, he’s a jerk.

  Second, he makes me so mad because he never listens.

  Third, he’s a douche.

  Fourth, he can never get my name right.

  Fifth, he’s a knob-head.

  He just doesn’t listen to me—and I’m his lawyer and OMG how on earth did that happen?!

  Well, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me—Vince was a law unto himself and I was supposed to uphold the law. He made it so darn hard. That man … that jerk made me crazy.

  He’s an opinionated, rude, crude, knob-head, whose every-other word is ‘fook’, ‘fooking’ or ‘fooker’. Yes, that’s what he is—a giant knob-head. And a manwhore, don’t forget that. Tinder was invented with him in mind. His Tinder account includes ‘dates’ with dozens of models, actresses, A-, B-, and C-list celebrities.

  ‘Dates’? Yeah, that’s a euphemism for ‘slept with’ which is a euphemism for ‘brought to a screaming orgasm’—allegedly. He’s the one alleging, obviously, so the evidence is circumstantial, subjective and therefore to be struck from the record. I’d call it a mistrial. He’d call it, “’avin’ a laff”. Because he’s a stupid British knob-head. Case dismissed. Or so I thought.

  Any redeeming characteristics, Your Honor?

  He’s kind to animals. And that’s where this story starts. With a dog. Seventeen dogs, to be precise. You kind of had to be there. Seeing is believing, right? And that sums up Vince—he had to be seen to be believed, and then you had to look again to make sure you weren’t having a daytime nightmare, and that he really was that much of an jerk.

  You needed the full surround-sound 360o version to really understand the extreme level of his knob-headishness. That’s his word of choice to describe himself, by the way, but my gosh, it fits him!

  Oh, what does he look like? Well, 6’4” with abs that you could use for a ladder. It pains me to say it, but he’s gorgeous, a former Armani catwalk model (yes, really). But when he opens his mouth, which he invariably does at exactly the wrong moment, his personality screams knob-head.

  Mostly, I just ignore him—or try to—but right now, he’s my problem.

  He’d been arrested on serious charges, and I knew for a fact that he was supposed to be having a suit-fitting with Rick at Armani’s Fifth Avenue store tomorrow afternoon for their wedding suits—and they didn’t reschedule appointments for anyone.

  The clock was a-ticking and I hurried to dress.

  It was cold out, the temperature dropping like a stone as a freezing wind howled down from the Arctic threatening snow, and I was not relishing a hike across the city at this time of night, checking on his unruly hounds, then schlepping back to the Manhattan Detention Centre on White Street.

  Although the possibility of snow was the least of my worries. Besides, as a kid from the mid-West, snow was just a fact of life for four months of the year.

  Fascinating factoid: Minnesota averages 110 days of snow annually.

  I was just as happy driving with chains on a truck as tires. I’d even driven a snowplow the winter I’d dated Paul Lund.

  But in New York City, it’s different. Sleet, snow and puddles outside; Savannah-heat on the Subway and in buildings; and the next Polar-vortex could arrive anytime through April.

  In short: it was ass-freezing cold.

  I bundled up with layers, pulled on my trusty Ugg boots and slid on a quilted down coat that was more duvet than item of clothing. A knitted hat and gloves came next, but it was my Maxwell Scott chestnut tan briefcase that completed my ensemble—and screamed lawyer. No, it hadn’t been a gift from my parents when I graduated law school a decade ago because although I received hugs and good wishes, they would have thought spending that sort of money on a bag as frivolous. I agreed, but still enjoyed the frisson of guilty pleasure every time I touched the butter soft leather. It was a man’s briefcase, or so the saleswoman had told me when I’d bought it for myself.

  “But, madam, ‘The Lorenzo’ is a briefcase for a gentleman!”

  Which made me love it even more, and now it went with me everywhere—and especially to chilly police stations in the middle of the night. It was part of my armour, my shield of justice … and I say that with just a hint of irony.

  I’d never wanted to work in criminal law—it was too messy, too unpredictable, too ugly. I preferred corporate law where I understood the intricacies, the loopholes, the ways another lawyer would try to trip me up during a deal, poring over wordy contracts hundreds of pages long, due diligence reviews an inch thick. I had a large, comfortable office, with a large corporate Cherrywood desk and three assistants. It suited me.

  Traipsing around New York City at one in the morning to see the Knob-head did not suit me.

  “You owe me for this, Cady,” I grumbled to myself as I jumped in a yellow cab.

  Vince had only recently relocated from Los Angeles and now rented a tiny basement condo with attached yard in Brooklyn Heights, not far from the Transit Museum.

  My cab driver only agreed to wait for me when I promised him a tip of fifty bucks—half now and half when I came out again.

  I punched in the access code and woke the dogs as the door swung open. I like dogs, I do, but I wasn’t keen on being slobbered all over or having them jump up and try to lick my face.

  At least I knew what to expect as I’d met them once before in a park, so thank goodness they knew me and didn’t try to bite. If anything, they seemed desperately pleased to see me, whining and crying, then charging for the backdoor and begging to be let out. It took me a few seconds to undo all the bolts, by which time, they were almost frantic, scrabbling at the polished wood and leaving claw marks.

  “Alright, you guys!” I snapped. “Take
it down a notch—you don’t want to wake the neighbors.”

  I was surprised when they seemed to listen to me and stopped yelping, but as soon as the door was open a crack, they squeezed through, Tap being the last, which didn’t surprise me.

  They all took long and satisfying pees, and I was as relieved as they were when I couldn’t see any puddles or mess anywhere in Vince’s shiny, white kitchen.

  Tap was the first to return, shivering from the cold. She was a scrawny little thing with three legs, but very affectionate as she nuzzled against me, peering up with her big beautiful eyes and no doubt asking me why I was here and not Vince.

  “I’m going to try and save your dad,” I said to her, rubbing her soft ears. “Mostly, I’m trying to save him from himself. Wish me luck.”

  The other two dogs spent longer snuffling around outside, and eventually I had to call them in.

  Tyson was a large mutt of indeterminate heritage whose long, pink tongue was always hanging out the side of his mouth like he was grinning at you. But he was tall, with heavy shoulders and very strong, and without such a sweet personality, he would have been intimidating.

  Zeus was the one in charge—a tiny Yorkshire terrier with a loud, high pitched yip, who could have sat comfortably in the palm of both hands, but seemed convinced that he was a Rottweiler. But then again, he did have Tyson to back him up.

  He eyed me warily, then pointedly stared at his empty food bowl.

  Vince hadn’t said anything about feeding them, so I hoped there was nothing complicated about their diets as I carefully placed a Milk-Bone into each of the empty dishes, and filled up the communal water bowl.

  I swear the dogs’ faces fell when I relocked the backdoor, and Tap tried to follow me as I left, but I gently pushed her back inside the kitchen, feeling horrible as her soft whines reached me outside.

  I gave the cab driver the rest of his tip, then sat back with my eyes closed while we re-crossed the river to Manhattan.