5/5 Amazon Review - I'm Your Man

Fun, sweet and insightful romance.

By Aubrey Wynne on April 11, 2015

Format: Kindle Edition

I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
I'm Your Man is a fun, sweet and insightful look into love in your 30's. Rawson combines her usual sense of humor with a compassionate look at being single and experiencing a one night stand. It brought back some memories for me and made me root and cheer for Ruth. She struggles to find friendship with a man she unexpectedly wakes up with one morning. Rawson does a wonderful job in this contemporary romance.

Bottom Drawer Publications

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Summary:

Ruth Jones loves her boyfriend Justin. He is handsome, has a killer body, and the sex is awesome. He does have one major fault though. He travels so much with work that she only gets to see him once or twice a week, and that is his reasoning for always wanting to . . . stay in. At first she’s happy that he only wants to be with her, but over time, his habit of jibbing out at the last minute for every family occasion, work function, or any bloody occasion that involves socialising, really does her head in. All she wants, for goodness sake, is for people to get to know her boyfriend. Okay, so she wants them to see she has a hunk of a boyfriend, but is that so wrong?

 When Ruth wakes up in a hotel room one morning suffering from a major hangover, she tries to piece the events of the previous night together. Feeling let down by yet another no-show by Justin at a work function, she headed to the bar and ordered a drink. The last thing she remembers is sitting next to an average-looking guy with a nice accent and large hands, and wondering just what those hands could do given half the chance. When the bathroom door opens and Mr. Average walks out, she realises that at the ripe old age of thirty-three, Ruth Jones has experienced her first one-night stand.

 A one-night stand that is about to send her world into utter turmoil.

Excerpt:

​​A WAVE OF nausea ascended from the pit of my stomach to my throat, not sure if I was annoyed more with myself for getting so drunk or the recollection of what I had got up to last night. I rolled over, curling myself up in a ball. I am Ruth Jones, for goodness sakes, Recruitment and Training Officer, a respected cog in the company for her hard work and dedication to one of the UK's top high street fashion stores. How many times had I told new young managers that even though they were technically off duty at company social events, eyes would still be watching them? But that was precisely what happened to me. Last night was a work function, in a sense, a big retirement party for the company’s Managing Director.

 It was one thing getting shitfaced at the weekend, waking my neighbours at four in the morning trying to get into their apartment with my door key, or giving a taxi driver my address, then waking up twenty miles later and finding myself at my parent’s house, which I’d moved out of fifteen years ago. Maybe, just maybe, my philosophy of life—to work hard, play hard—had gone seriously wrong this time. You see, it started with Justin saying he would meet me at the hotel. An hour before the party, he called uttering his usual pathetic excuse; well actually, this time no excuse at all, just, “Sorry babe, something has come up.” With that he’d hung up and, when I tried to call him back, conveniently his phone was off.

 You would think after four months I would have grown accustomed to the sneers of my colleagues as I made my solitary entrance, after guaranteeing Justin would be accompanying me for sure this time. Last night, however, I was well and truly pissed, not only from the amount of wine I had consumed to blot out the pain of being publicly dumped again, but also the humiliating cracks of, “Justin not with you again?” and “I’m beginning to think he’s a figment of your imagination, Ruth.” It was acceptable, to a point, from my family and friends, but from my colleagues, come on, really? So I had no alternative; I left, in shame, and headed for the public bar.

 I could remember seating myself at the only vacant stool and ordering a glass of wine. At that point—I had still been coherent then and therefore still able to recall it—the man to my left turned and gave me one of those healthy-teeth smiles that said, “my dentist advised Colgate toothpaste,” and in an accent I knew that was not from London, said, “I hate drinking alone too. May I buy you a drink?”

 Obviously, I had the just-been-stood-up look yet again—one that my friends told me I achieved so splendidly. I accepted. He thrust a large hand towards me, and I couldn’t help thinking how big and chunky his fingers were, and what delightful stimulation they could give, given half the chance. Oh hell, have I gone totally mad? Undoubtedly! You see, last night, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, I’d experienced my first one-night stand.

 Yes, I know it’s amazing in this day and age, with equality and all that. Perhaps that is why my friends all call me Miss Prude, but, I’m sorry, I have strong principles. No man will see me naked until at least the third date. One has to prepare so much for such an activity. I mean there is all the shaving, exfoliating, and moisturising, not to mention the right lighting and underwear. Having no time to consider last night’s lighting effect, or what underwear I had worn, least of all cheating on my boyfriend, the bathroom door swung open and through a mist of steam emerged the Colgate Man.

 Feeling as if someone had thrown a ten thousand-piece jigsaw in front of me, I frantically began to try to put the pieces together, all the while scrutinizing my conquest. Had I been a character in a Jackie Collins book, my hero, who had broken my vow of the three-date rule, not to mention leading me to betrayal, would have been a six-foot gorgeous Adonis. A tightly toned bronze body glistening with droplets of water would appear as he rubbed his hands through his thick black hair. Tingling sensations of arousal would erupt through my loins like a burning inferno. Fuelled with passion, I would pull back the silk sheet, slide down the bed seductively, rubbing my hands up and down the burning flesh of my inner thighs. Determined to extinguish my raging passion, he would rip off his towel, and like a true professional fire fighter, he would slide between my thighs to douse my burning loins until they smouldered.

 I waited with bated breath for the mist to clear, and my Adonis fire fighter to emerge. A flicker of arousal igniting in the pit of my stomach, I quickly ran my fingers through my tangled mane of curly auburn hair. That and my cat-green eyes were, if I say so myself, my only good attributes. Positioning myself in such a manner that the sheet was baring a tad of nipple, my belief being if I’d cheated once, even though I couldn’t remember a darn thing, I may as well enjoy a second time that I could. A wave of hysteria came over me. Hang on, what if he is hideous? What if I’d just felt sorry for him and agreed to have a drink and then . . .? There was no time to consider as he stepped forward and walked towards the end of the bed.