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Under the Table and Into His Heart
Under the Table and Into His Heart
Under the Table and Into His Heart
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Under the Table and Into His Heart

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At the Under the Table host club, Valentine’s Day means one thing: cash. Neglected housewives, newly ex-girlfriends, and lovelorn thirtysomethings pay for the attention of handsome men. Shy bartender Jem has always wanted to be a host, and when the club’s owner, Miss Rye, accepts a contract from a MensLove Convention, Jem volunteers to flirt and make out with another host for the ladies’ entertainment. Bailey, an older man who’s had his eye on Jem, convinces Miss Rye to let him be Jem’s partner, and everyone gets more than they expected—especially Jem and Bailey.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 4, 2014
ISBN9781627987578
Under the Table and Into His Heart
Author

Raine O'Tierney

Raine O’Tierney loves writing about first loves and friendship. She believes the best thing we can do in this life is be kind to one another, and hopes her stories always reflect that. Raine loves encouraging people to write and has been known to repeat the phrase “I believe everyone has a story to tell” endlessly, until she breaks down even the most stubborn nonwriter! Raine lives outside of Kansas City, Missouri, with her husband, fellow M/M author Siôn O’Tierney. When she’s not writing, she’s either playing video games or fighting the good fight for intellectual freedom at her library day job. Contact her if you’re interested in talking about point-and-click adventure games or about which dachshunds are the best kinds of dachshunds! Website: raineotierney.com Facebook Fan Page: www.facebook.com/RaineOTierneyAuthor Twitter: @RaineOTierney Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/7770350.Raine_O_Tierney

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    Book preview

    Under the Table and Into His Heart - Raine O'Tierney

    Under the Table and Into His Heart

    RYE FONTAINE lived for Valentine’s Day. She lived for the little foil-wrapped chocolates and the stuffed puppy dogs with their I Wuv U hearts. She lived for the sappy greeting cards and the even sappier made-for-TV movies. Commercials for heart-shaped jewelry thrilled her, and as the supermarket aisles exploded in an abstract painting of pinks and whites and reds, her heart warmed. Valentine’s Day, for Miss Rye, was the single best day of the entire year because the sheer happiness of all those gooey, ridiculous couples spelled misery and loneliness for her patrons. When her clients were miserable and lonely, they turned to her establishment for companionship. Valentine’s Day was profit—pure and simple.

    You’re grinning, Tyrone warned her in his smooth baritone. It looks a little creepy.

    Blinking, she reached up and touched her lips. Oh, she was definitely grinning like a woman gone mad. With a little exhale, she fixed her face in a mask of serene pleasure.

    Better?

    Better, he agreed. What’s on your mind? Another man-meat auction? A booze cruise? Costume night? You look like you’re machinating.

    I’m not machinatin’, she argued in her Southern-cum-Midwestern accent. I’m just enjoyin’ the season.

    Ass-cold February?

    Valentine’s Day. She couldn’t keep the pleasure of profit out of her voice. Valentine’s Day, Valentine’s Day, Valentine’s Day.

    You figure Callum’s finally going to make it public? Ask you to marry him in front of the whole club?

    Miss Rye scoffed at the thought of her number-one host—and secret boyfriend—outing their relationship. If everyone knew, he’d have to quit, and neither of them wanted that. The money he made was far too good.

    He won’t if he knows what’s good for him.

    So, what, then?

    I’m just thinkin’ about my money. She smiled. Losin’ myself to thoughts of all those sad, lonely, singles and those miserable housewives whose husbands don’t even remember what day it is. I’m just thinkin’ about every purse that’s gonna walk through the door—spendin’ more tonight than she’d ever dream of normally spendin’, all under the flag of red, white, and pink.

    You do realize you’re sort of soulless, right? Tyrone asked.

    And you do realize you usedta be my number one, right? ‘Tyrone, Under the Table’s number-one host; never mind being princess or queen—an hour in the company of this ebony beauty will make you feel like a goddess.’

    God. That was an eon ago. Don’t quote the menu, Ms. Fontaine.

    You’re still the floor manager, she reminded him, meaning that even if he no longer hosted, he benefitted from whatever profits the club made. Also, he needed to watch it with the Ms. Fontaine stuff. All her employees called her Miss Rye.

    True. But I’m not rubbing my hands together like some caricature of a supervillain, eagerly awaiting a procession of women sobbing into their champagne.

    "But Tyrone, they won’t be sobbin’—that’s the point! Miss Rye argued. Because my boys will make ’em feel happy and loved and so entertained and attended to that they’ll forget they’re alone and neglected on this, the most glorious of manufactured holidays. Right?"

    "I take it all

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