Irresistible Bachelors: Books 1-5 by Landish, Lauren (bts books to read TXT) 📕

Irresistible BachelorsBooks 1-5

Lauren Landish

Edited by Valorie Clifton Edited by Staci Etheridge

Contents

Also by Lauren Landish

Anaconda

Mr. Fiancé

Heartstopper

Stud Muffin

Mr. Fixit

About the Author

Also by Lauren Landish

Big Fat Fake Series:

My Big Fat Fake Wedding || My Big Fat Fake Engagement || My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Standalones:

Drop Dead Gorgeous || The Dare

Bennett Boys Ranch:

Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts

The Tannen Boys:

Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country

Dirty Fairy Tales:

Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After

Get Dirty:

Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets

Anaconda A Sexy Romantic Comedy

Brianna

“This is fucking disgusting,” I mutter with revulsion, looking around the hotel room and barely able to hold back the nausea twisting my stomach from the foul stench. I clamp a hand over my nose, trying not to breathe the acrid air in through my mouth and shaking my head at the horror before me.

Actually, disgusting is an understatement. The room looks like a frat house after a night of binge drinking and wild orgies. There are pizza boxes, crushed beer cans, and dark stains everywhere.

Holy shit.

No wonder the smell is so bad. These guys are pigs. My eyes continue to roam and I spot at least one smashed bottle of vodka before…

“Oh, hell no!” I croak, almost dry heaving and turning away from the revolting sight of several used condoms. I can even see something white and sticky nearby. I grab the top of my uniform and pull it up over my nose, no longer able to bear the stench. “They don’t pay me enough for this shit!” Holding my breath, I beeline for the door. I gasp as I exit the room and enter the hallway, letting go of my shirt and sucking down a lungful of air. I normally can’t stand the air in the smoking section of the guest rooms, but right now, this air is sweeter than a double-fudge chocolate chip sundae.

After a few grateful breaths, I pull out my walkie talkie from my side pocket and shake my head as I press the microphone button. “Maintenance, this is Housecleaning.”

“Whatcha need, Bri?” asks a familiar scratchy voice, and I sigh, relaxing. It’s Jimmy, an older man who still wears corduroy and thinks he’s in the 70s. But besides his penchant for living in the past, he’s pretty cool and will empathize with my pain. This isn’t the first wrecked room that I’ve walked in on, and it certainly won’t be my last.

“We have a problem,” I tell him, letting the direness I feel seep into my voice. “A big, big problem.”

“Is it that bad?” Jimmy asks. There’s a slight note of hope in his voice. I know what he’s thinking. He’s hoping that maybe it’s nothing a little bleach and elbow grease won’t fix.

I feel sorry for him. And to think I didn’t even step foot into the bathroom.

I shudder at the gross images that flash in my mind as I reply, “Yes! Your boys will have their hands full. Room 333. Bring steam cleaners, a sandblaster . . . and maybe a hazmat suit.”

Jimmy groans over the radio. I hear him inhale as if he wants to say something, but the transmission cuts. He knows that he can’t say much about it. Our radios aren’t monitored like the police scanners, but they can still be listened to. And with what’s going on, we can’t take chances. A crackling sound pops my ears.

“If you guys get it done, I’ll worry about the towels and sheets,” I add.

“Grand Waterways Hotel . . .” Jimmy says forlornly. “Grand Water Sewer Way would be a more apt name.”

I huff out a chuckle at that. Jimmy shouldn’t have said that over the line, but it’s the damn truth. “Can’t argue with that,” I say wholeheartedly. To the hotel’s credit, though, it can’t help what guests like a team of pro and collegiate ballers do to its rooms when they’re hosting drunken parties. I’ve heard that they stay here instead of in the city to keep the players ‘out of trouble’. But they still have their parties.

“I’ll handle it, Bri. We’ll be up in a half hour. Maybe you can catch the rest on the back half of your shift?”

A feeling of relief washes over me. The man is a lifesaver. There’s no way I could handle these types of situations without him.

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

“No worries. Maintenance out.”

“Poor man,” I mutter, tucking my walkie talkie back into my pocket.

Grateful to be free of that disaster, I make my way to the elevator, press the down button, and wait for the doors to open. Once inside, I mull over which floor I should go to, but my watch beeps, reminding me that I need a break.

I jam the button for the basement, leaning against the wall as the carriage starts to go down. My back aches, my feet ache, and I’m pretty sure that my skin needs to be scrubbed with something stronger than soap and water after just walking into that filthy room. The image of the used condoms on the floor flashes in my mind and my skin crawls.

I can’t wait until I finish my degree and never have to step foot into this place again, I think with disgust.

I definitely don’t feel like working the rest of my shift after that. I’m aching and sore all over. I’m seriously overworked, and I don’t think I can take any more surprises.

But at least I’m mostly finished, and I’ve got the next thirty minutes to chill out, try to get myself back together, and maybe pop a Tylenol or two before I do the last set of regular rooms, the suites, and then the floor that I normally hate most because I never know what to expect, the penthouse suites. They can range from sparkly clean to a pigsty as bad as the room I just left… depending on who’s been staying there. Sometimes, the ballers