When unassuming mail room worker Kate Little agrees to become an underwear tester for a marketing company, things get uncomfortable fast. Not only has she never worn "fancy" underpants before, she has to work closely with handsome marketing manager Bryan Eddleman and that's enough to keep her in a constant state of confusion.Trouble is Bryan's competing with another manager for a promotion that hinges on the results of the test group. Kate can't determine if his sudden interest is really in her or her surprisingly insightful weekly reports on foundation garments.
Add a jealous co-worker out to sabotage Kate's budding love life, an overly helpful gay friend with nothing better to do than shove her into Bryan's arms, and a rambunctious teacup dog to the chaos and you’ll have a typical day in Kate's less than ordinary life.
The last thing she needs is panty lines.
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Excerpt
“I’m sorry, but I can’t test your underwear.”
“That’s exactly why we need you for this project. You’re the everyday woman, Miss—I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name.” A vivid green gaze held mine. “In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. You don’t mind that we pulled you into this brainstorming session, do you? It’s just that I heard your comment about whose job it was to test the product and thought you’d be interested.” Full lips parted with his easy grin and revealed perfect teeth that practically screamed they’d seen years of braces.
“My name’s Kate. Kate Little.”
He nodded, and my stomach lurched. I mentally berated myself for the pleasure that gripped me because he approved of my name.
A snort from Pamela. “That’s funny. You’re hardly a little anything.”
My cheeks heated—this time from anger. “That’s it. I’m not going to hang around and take abuse from you underfed, over-tanned, rude people.” I shot out of the cushy leather chair and angled my way around the conference table, aware that everyone watched my departure.
Yeah, so I’m a thirty-year-old, plus-sized woman. I wear a size 16. It’s not a crime, and it’s not fat. It’s average. And, by the way, I’m just Kate. Not Katherine with a “K” or even with a “C,” and if you attempt to call me Katie, I’ll ignore you. If the nickname persists and I become annoyed, I’ll throw a pencil at you.
I paused at the head of the table to glare at the guy in charge. What’s-his-name in the tailored suit.
“Get someone else to be your guinea pig.”
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