Road-Tripped: Ad Agency Series, #1

By Nicole Archer

What's worse than losing everything? Try driving a phallic-shaped RV across the country with a coworker you hate.

Copywriter Callie Murphy has a bad attitude, a vicious tongue, and a serious aversion to Shimura Advertising's resident manwhore, Walker Rhodes. Know where he can stick his good looks and Southern charm? She can think of a few creative places. Avoiding him wouldn't be a problem, except her boss threatens to fire her if she doesn't go along with him on their RV client's cross-country tour.

Walker is sick of his job, tired of women, and in a big old creative rut. The upcoming client road trip is just what he needs to shake things up and rediscover his lost passion. But his plans go south when his partner drops out at the last minute, and Callie, the foul-mouthed tiny terror, takes her place. Unless he can find a way to thaw his icy coworker, he's looking at two months of pure hell.

On the road, they experience one hilarious misadventure after another and soon find themselves on a life-changing journey. But when their paths veer off in different directions, will they hit a dead end?

Debut author Nicole Archer's funny new contemporary adult romantic comedy series is a workplace enemies-to-lovers romance novel that'll have you laughing, crying and steaming up. 

Road-Tripped is a stand-alone novel and the first book in the Ad Agency Series.

*Adult language and explicit situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twist Idea Lab, LLC
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536524604

Nicole Archer

Nicole Archer’s lengthy career as an advertising copywriter not only polished her writing skills—it provided a lifetime of book material. Many months her book purchases are as high as her mortgage. As a full-time, working single mom of a beautiful, brilliant, and horrifically energetic son, she has little time to do much else but work, write, read, drink wine, and breathe. She believes the best books make you laugh, cry and orgasm. In real life, she lives in Dallas, Texas, but she’d rather live in Switzerland.

Book preview

Chapter One

Flippin’

Manhattan, New York

I do not like my state of mind. I’m bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn’s recurrent light. I hate to go to bed at night.—Dorothy Parker

Soundtrack: Heartless Bastards, Blue Day

String razor wire across the bottom of the slide

Disguise a bomb detonator in the video game controllers

Mix poisonous powder in with the pool table hand chalk

Spike the liquor bottles with arsenic

Callie Murphy reviewed her list then titled it, Murder Methods for Merrymaking Co-workers . Alliteration made everything better, except her lousy, loathsome life.

How pathetic was it that that was the most creative thing she’d written in a month? Chicago’s most award-winning copywriter, and she could only manage to get four acts of death down on paper. What a hack she’d become at that joke of a job.

It was no wonder her work sucked, given the constant distractions.

On cue, loud laughter spilled out of the break room next to her desk as more of her co-workers gathered for yet another happy hour.

Pool balls cracked, video game machine guns rattled, more guffaws erupted. What next? A drum circle?

She growled. Could there possibly be a worst spot for a writer to work? Right next to the bar?

Skip, her boss, had purposely set up her up next to party central, worried that as the new girl, she might get too isolated in an office all by herself.

I want to be isolated! she’d told him.

But all the action is up in heya! he’d replied.

I don’t want action. I want to do my work and go home.

You don’t have a home, he’d reminded her.

Move me, or I quit.

Make me, he’d told her and then galloped off for a boozy lunch.

The blender crunched and whirred.

She added another item to her list: Short circuit the blender.

More noise pollution interrupted her murderous train of thought—a scream, followed by a sob. Gwen, the office manager, had just broken her ass on the new slide Skip had installed between the upper and lower floors.

Callie winced. That slide was nothing more than bright, yellow pain in everyone’s ass. No one could make it down without injury. No one could make it down without shutting-the-fuck up. Why must one shout whilst sliding?

When Skip’s dad died and he took over the agency, he’d built the stupid thing, citing speed as the making reason—taking the stairs took a whole five minutes longer.

Callie suspected it was really more about the coolness factor— Skip had mentioned Google had a slide. Plus, it boosts office morale! Slides are hashtag fun.

Here’s a hashtag tip, she’d told him. Money boosts morale more than playground equipment. And, bonus, cash doesn’t require liability insurance or workman’s comp coverage. Someone breaks a leg on that slide, and you can kiss your tight-ass purple pants goodbye.

As usual, he’d blown off her sage business advice, as well as her comment about his pants. What did he care about lawsuits? Or turning a profit? Or running an agency? Skip was richer than God and had never worked a day in his life. The sum total of his professional experience added up to three things: surfing, smoking dope, and throwing killer parties. Running his father’s business was nothing more than an amusing side-hustle, a silly hobby, a simple pastime between parties.

Don’t get her wrong; she loved the man with all her heart. Skip may not have been a good businessman, but he was a stellar dude. That’s only reason why she put up with him, and the parties, and that place. But also, she had no choice and nowhere else to go.

And so, every night, right at six o-clock, the bell tolled and she was subjected to yet another nauseating Staff-bonding Hour, as Skip so lovingly referred to tragic events.

Monday, it was Mojitos. Tuesday, Tequila. Wednesday, Wallbangers. Alliteration made everything better, except Skip’s Staff-Bonding Hours.

She boycotted all of them. By God, no one would force her to have fun, least of all Skip. Instead, she became homicidal.

Oh God. A tap, tap, tapping on the floor grew louder. The sound of her co-worker’s heels clacking down the hall triggered an almost Pavlovian teeth-clenching response. Account Manager Barbie arrived like clockwork, wearing blood-red stilettos and painted fingernails to match.

Barbie’s real name was Sabrina Driver, but like the doll, she was blonde and brainless. Even worse, she littered her sentences with the words literally and like—a huge pet peeve of Callie’s—which made even the laws of physics sound stupid coming from her mouth.

Like, for every reaction, there’s like, literally, an equal, but opposite, reaction. Like, you know?

It wasn’t just Sabrina’s speech that grated on Callie’s nerves; it was her whole entire being. Perhaps it was because she bore a striking resemblance to her arch nemesis, Hillary. Both were blond bombshells and VIP members of the Mean Bitch Club. Both were professional manipulators and back-stabbers. And both had made a daily habit out of degrading Callie. Albeit, Hillary’s insults had been a tad more passive-aggressive, whereas Sabrina’s had been openly hostile from the start.

On Callie’s second day there, Sabrina had doled out at least five backhanded compliments, one of which included a head pat. Aw, you’re so cute and itty-bitty. Like a little kid.

Callie had replied by coughing, Fuck off, into her fist.

A day later, Sabrina had made another lovely comment about her complexion. Like, I could never get away with wearing no makeup. I’d look like death warmed over.

Like, I could never get away with showing that much cleavage, Callie shot back. I’d look like a cheap hooker.

Sabrina snorted. Skip said you were funny.

In short, Sabrina sucked as much as Hillary. It was uncanny how alike they were—like evil twins.

Callie closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to keep from passing out. Just thinking about Hillary swamped her lungs with rage.

Although, she must admit, Sabrina did provide fairly decent entertainment value. Her ongoing soap opera was far better than Callie starring in her own. Nothing like a little schadenfreude to make the day go faster.

Oh, look! The account manager’s next saga was about to begin.

Act 1: Sabrina bounced into the break room and headed straight for Eli St. James.

Side note: According to Skip, Eli was not only a talented graphic designer; he was also Manhattan’s hottest club DJ.

If he’s so hot, why does he work here? Callie had asked.

All the cool people want jobs here, Skip had replied.

Boy, had she laughed her ass off at that.

But, let us get back to show…

Oh my gawd! Sabrina squawked. Like, your dance set was so awesome last night, Eli! Did you see me? I waved at you.

Eli told Barbie’s tits, Thank you, and, No, he’d somehow missed them. But he was about to head out for another gig, and would her breasts care for another drink before he bounced?

Vodka, Barbie’s tits replied, I’m watching my carbs.

Eli nodded then wandered over to the bar, poured himself a shot, and left without telling Barbie goodbye.

To say his blatant rejection had upset her would be putting it mildly. Sabrina literally shook in her stilettos.

Callie silently snickered. Eli St. James had just made her day.

And then, wouldn’t you know it, Walker Rhodes strutted by, and ruined the whole moment.

Let’s all curtsy and bow. Shimura’s Creative Director had finally graced everyone with his presence

As usual, the minute he stepped inside the room, dumbassaphoria took hold, and every female brain within a six-foot radius shrunk to the size of a Tic-Tac.

Perfectly demonstrating this affliction, a crowd of drooling, lash-batting, hair-tossing vultures circled him and giggled at his stupid jokes.

But how could anyone possibly resist that swept-back, coffee-colored hair, big dimpled grin, and tall, lean, swimmer’s body? And when he donned those artsy, black-framed glasses and winked an electric blue eye? Watch out, because women practically fainted at his feet.

Oh how the office ladies swooned over his slow, syrupy Southern charm. When he held out their chairs, opened their doors, let them sit first, and stood when they did? Well, let’s just say there wasn’t a woman in New York who’d turn down the opportunity to procreate with that sacred, white buffalo.

Yes, indeed, Walker was the last of a dying breed—handsome, polite, smart, creative, and one hundred percent single. And everyone knew men like that were almost extinct.

Such a shame he was a colossal man-slut.

Yeah, yeah, he may have been pretty to look at, but inside he was all slime.

Every time Callie turned the corner, there he was, flirting his way into the panties of yet another one of his willing victims. He incited an almost Shakespearean rivalry amongst the agency’s bachelorettes. And he just kept on grinning and winking and playing the game. And they just kept on falling for it.

How many conversations had she overheard concerning him and his big body part, and things that he’d done with said body part? Too many. The man was an agency legend. A sexual myth. The favorite topic of every office gossip.

From what it sounded like, Callie was the only woman there he hadn’t tapped. And she would die on a cross to make it stay that way.

Good thing she’d developed a recent immunity against charming man-sluts. Now she was ultra-prepared. As such she’d taken drastic measures to avoid catching her creative director’s potential STD’s—hiding behind her desk, taking the stairs when he took the elevator, never attending his creative meetings, and always boycotting Skip’s ludicrous bonding events.

As a result, Walker had no clue she existed. Fine by her. Womanizers like him deserved to rot in the sewers of Hell. And if need be, she’d learn the ancient art of calligraphy to hand-address the order to send him there.

But not all were so clever and wise as she.

Take Sabrina Barbie, for example. She’d already rapidly recovered from Eli’s rejection, and was making a beeline for Walker. She screeched out his sickening nickname, Walkie! Where have you been! We missed you, birthday boy.

No, we didn’t, Callie mumbled.

Walker clutched his heart and gasped, Look at all the beautiful works of art in this room. I swear I’m the luckiest man alive, working with all you gorgeous women.

Thanks, Dude, Jerry, the finance guy said adoringly. We got you a cake.

Walker chuckled, shook the guy’s hand, and read the frosting inscription out loud. ‘Happy dirty thirty to the best boss ever.’ Aw, y’all made me blush. He wiped a fake tear out from under his eye.

Glowing smiles galore filled everyone else’s faces.

Callie pulled out her trashcan and fake-puked into it. That guy was so full of shit. He had better sit down before the weight of it toppled him over.

Good ole’ Don Juan Rhodes continued the sidesplitting comedy routine by lifting his glass to the crowd, Here’s to being single, seeing double, sleeping triple, and having a multiple.

Oh my God, no! She cackled internally. Did he just toast to himself? Unbelievable. Callie gagged again. He was just that nauseating.

More giggles followed. Someone moaned. Liberty.

Liberty, the moaner and social media manager at the agency, was Walker’s number one Fan Club president. She followed him around like toilet paper stuck to a shoe. Poor thing. Just witnessing that desperation made Callie cringe.

According to Skip, Liberty had won the Miss Ohio pageant at age sixteen, then went on to earn a scholarship at Yale. An Ivy League education, and she still didn’t have enough sense to see through Walker’s man-whore ways.

Though it was possible Liberty had already ridden Mr. Rhodes. Who knew, with him.

Out of nowhere, Avery, his co-creative director, shot past, hand over mouth, and ran to the bathroom, looking like she was going to spew chunks.

Callie knew how she felt.

Over the sound of Avery’s vomiting, poor Liberty continued to humiliate herself even further by spanking Walker’s butt. Twenty-nine more to go, birthday boy!

Callie shook her head. That poor, poor thing.

Walker spun around and grabbed Liberty’s hands, kissing her knuckles as if he were a southern prince. Sugar, he crooned, on my birthday, it’s me who does the spanking. He raised a hand in jest and winked.

And Liberty squealed like an illiterate muffin-head.

Appalling. Shameful. Callie could relate though. She too, had once been a mindless idiot.

Never again!

Thank God Walker didn’t actually spank Liberty back, or Callie would have had to join Avery in the john.

That place was killing her. A little while longer, and then she’d sneak out. In the meantime, a little loud music might drown out the drama.

Headphones on. Volume up. Eyes closed. Soon it would be bedtime. Not that she’d actually sleep, but at least she had something else to look forward to: surviving another twenty-four hours.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jerked up and found Skip looming overhead, staring down at her with smug superiority — a look he’d perfected by age twelve. He flipped his intentionally shaggy black bangs off his brow and mumbled something.

She turned down the volume. Huh?

He huffed, peeled off her headphones, put them on, and listened for a spell. Vagina rock? Thought you had better taste in music. He snapped his fingers to the beat and bleated out, Is this song called ‘I Hate Men?’

She stopped the music, laughed like a dying pig, and then frowned. I see you’re taking time out of your busy drinking schedule to insult me.

He tossed her headphones on the desk. The Queen of Sarcasm can’t take a joke?

Oh, that was a joke? She turned to him, ripped out another obnoxious laugh, then frowned again. What do you want?

He hit her with another down-the-nose stare and shook his head. What happened to the bubbly blonde I used to know?

The doormat? She’s dead.

Remarkably, pity poured off Skip’s normally robotic visage.

The shock of it caused panic to rise in her throat. She tamped it back down and blotted the sweat off her upper lip with her shirt corner. Is there a reason you’re standing here?

This black-haired bitchsplosion thing? He flicked a finger at her. How long’s it gonna last?

Bitchsplosion? You come up with that on your own?

Overheard it at lunch. He sat on her desk. You never come to Happy Hour. All you do is scowl and pout. Frankly, it’s destroying Shimura’s office morale.

She swept a hand toward the burgeoning celebration, where everyone was now wearing sombreros and drinking the finance guy’s frozen margaritas. Looks like I’m doing some serious damage.

Well, it looks shitty when my best friend won’t attend the mandatory Staff-Bonding Hour. For some reason, he’d put air quotes around shitty.

It’s shittier—she mimicked his air quotes—when you hire your best friend and put her office by the bar. She paused for a reaction and three, two, one...

You’re fired, he said.

Yep, right on time. Skip threatened to fire her at least forty-seven times a day, and that was number forty-seven. Time to go.

She shifted her attention back to her computer. Well, hey, I’m kind of in the middle of something, so…

He read the text on her screen aloud. "Ways to Whack Your Loud Coworkers? The rest he read silently with his mouth gaping open. Dude, you need help."

She shrugged. Move me to a quieter spot.

But how would I know when you were about to blast us all with mustard gas?

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. What do you want, Shimmy?

Sorry, your mental health issues sidetracked me momentarily. He pulled off a convincing hand tremble then continued. So tonight, I’m taking the whole agency out to the Boom Room for Rhodes’s birthday. Big fun. And guess what? A counterfeit smile rolled up.

She groaned and sank down in her chair. It was rare when Skip smiled. And when he did, something terrible usually followed.

Strap on those dancing Chucks, Murph. He slapped her back hard. We’re going clubbing.

She slammed her laptop shut. Can’t. Busy.

He dry-chuckled. Busy. Good one. But I’m afraid your attendance is mandatory.

Mm-hmm. And still, you have yet to point out the page number in the employee handbook where it states I must get wasted with my boss after hours.

Since there wasn’t such a page nor an employee manual, Skip judged her attire instead—another favorite pastime of his. You’re not going out dressed in that, are you?

She mimicked his creepy smile. I’m not going out dressed like this, because I’m not going out. You’re shit out of luck, Shimura. Go dance your ass off without me. She stuffed her laptop in her backpack.

He ignored her. Where’d you get that hideous thing, anyway? Did you shoplift it out of Spencer’s at the strip mall? A real smile twitched. Remember that day? I stole a Van Halen keychain, and if I remember correctly, you nabbed a pack of glow-in-the-dark condoms.

That wasn’t me. That was my criminal of a sister, but I love the new bribery material.

Good times. He dug in his pocket and peeled off a hundred from his money clip. Go buy a frock down the street.

Thought it was tempting to take his cash, she couldn’t bear to rehash the fact that buying things, particularly clothes was a wee bit traumatic after losing everything, including three dress-sizes in a month.

Never mind. Clearly the subject matter required active listening and compassion, both of which Skip lacked. Or all the pot had ruined his memory. Either way, she wasn’t bringing it up for a third time. Shopping won’t be making my list of priorities any time soon, I’m afraid.

Don’t you have something a little less potato sack-y you can wear? He curled his upper lip. What size is that, anyway? Men’s extra-large?

She closed her eyes and prayed. Please, go away.

Don’t you ever want to get laid again?

Actually, just talking about sex made her stomach churn. Move over, Avery, it’s my turn.

Tell you what. He struggled to dislodge his giant phone from the back pocket of his skinny jeans. I’ll call my personal shopper and have her buy you something besides that—he recoiled—hideousness.

She snatched his phone. Walk away now, or I will rifle through your personal photos, and you know what happened last time.

For the briefest of moments, Skip’s blank face dialed up to slightly worried before flattening back out to the usual barren desert of emotion. Fine, Wednesday Addams, wear that sack of crap, and get your bag of bloody hearts, ‘cause we’re goin’ clubbin’. He pumped a fist and made club sounds. Oonce. Oonce. Oonce.

She blasted him with a Mach-Ten-Level-Murphy-Death-Glare™ then kicked her feet up on the desk. Apparently, someone needs a good Harass-el-hoffing.

Skip’s eyes slid into angry, black slits. You wouldn’t dare.

Do your employees know about that boner you got from sitting in David Hasselhoff’s lap?

He lowered his voice substantially and ducked behind the partition. I was ten! And an extra on Baywatch! The director forced me to sit in his lap after Dave’s daring rescue.

She held up a stiff pinky finger. Did they make you pop a stiffy, too?

I wasn’t hard! He peeked over the wall for stray listeners, found none, then slouched again. It was that mankini they made me wear—it hugged my nuts.

Callie let out a villainous comic-book laugh—one that had yet to be trademarked—and watched her boss sweat for a painfully long minute.

A staring contest followed. She won.

Skip raised his chin. I burned that memory along with the tape and some killer spleef. Plus, you promised the evidence would be destroyed the last time you bribed me.

Maybe. Or maybe I sold it on eBay. Or maybe I uploaded it to a cloud somewhere.

He straightened and donned another disturbing smile. Bribing your gift horse and personal savior. My, my, how the mighty have fallen. He spun on his four hundred dollar sneakers. Meet me up front in five, or you’re fired.

She didn’t move a muscle. Be right there, she sang.

I’ll move your desk if you go.

She shook her fists at the sky. Damn you!

His hands went jazzy. Bonus! Tonight’s on Double Dick’s tab. You can drink to your shriveled-up little heart’s content, dude.

Don’t call me ‘dude.’ And who’s Double Dick?

New RV client. Richard Dickson. Total penis. Like I said, order as many froufrou designer cocktails as you can, because that guy is like having a second asshole right now, and Papa needs to pay for extra toilet paper.

Did you just call yourself ‘Papa?’

Meh. Get ready. He sauntered to the lobby, humming the Addam’s Family theme song.

Speaking of TP, know what sounded more fun than celebrating that man-whore, Walker’s, birthday? An explosive case of diarrhea on an overbooked airplane. Add in a drunken crowd and loud club music to the mix, and it’d be a close approximation of her personal version of Hell.

Skip would pay dearly for this.

Chop, chop, Murphy! Her boss snapped his fingers. What’s taking you so long? Baggy-ass t-shirt weighing you down?

Your mom’s weighing me down.

The side of his cheek flickered, amplifying the usual smirk. Guess you haven’t totally lost your sense of humor.

Maybe not, but she’d lost everything else.

Chapter Two

Hatin’

Soundtrack: Goldfrapp, Ooh La La

The Boom Room’s lights lowered as the Manhattan summer sky darkened to a starless cobalt blue.

Walker nursed his scotch at the bar, while heavy bass-driven music pulsed through his brain.

A rail-thin blonde squeezed next to him, followed by her cumulus cloud of perfume.

She shouted her name—Alexa Something. After that, ten words per second came out of her mouth with gusts up to fifty. Blah, blah, blah, she was Russian, a model, and obviously coked out of her damn mind. Her phone rang and the yammering stopped.

Walker made a break for the men’s room. Just when he thought he’d escaped, the model walked through the door and rammed her bony pelvis into him. I vant you. Her skeletal fingers ran down his zipper.

Despite her drugged-out superhuman state, he managed to peel her claws off his crotch.

No, honey. Not interested. Nyet. Nyet.

She locked her giant pupils on him and ground her jaw. Want some coke?

A guy in the next stall screamed, I do!

Christ almighty. What a nightmare. Walker marched to the door and held it open. All right, honey. You have a nice night.

Oversized lips out in a pout, she pushed past him with her red nose in the air. I suck you cock good, she hollered in the doorway. Find me later, if change mind.

He cringed. Damn models. Just skinny messes beaten down by a twisted industry until nothing was left but an empty vessel filled with drugs and insecurities.

A while ago, he dated a six-foot tall bag of elbows and antlers who’d destroyed his boyhood swimsuit-model fantasies faster than you could say, No, honey. I swear you don’t look fat. After her, he’d developed a severe allergy to them.

The guy in the stall came out shaking his head. You must be drowning in pussy to turn that down.

A sudden headache blasted Walker. How much longer was he obligated to stay at that shit show? He walked out and ran into Liberty.

She weaved and wobbled and clutched his shirt to stay upright.

Hey, Lib. Feeling all right?

She gave him a sloppy smile. I like you, Walker.

He patted her head. I like you too, Lib.

"No, I really like you." She reached between his legs and massaged his balls.

He batted her hand away. Christ, girl, what’s wrong with you?

She mumbled something to the ground.

What’s that? He cupped his ear.

For your birthday, I want to give you a blow job!

The entire club heard her that time.

A melodramatic laugh burst out behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The new girl stood in the bathroom line, her nose wrinkled up in disgust.

The music was loud, but he had zero trouble reading the words, What a fucking tool, on her lips.

That thar’s what you call an eyeful of the wrong impression.

Liberty’s little drunken demonstration was liable to turn into a big pain in his ass if he didn’t set the new girl straight pronto.

Before he had a chance, she disappeared inside the restroom.

Liberty tugged his hand.

He brushed it away and shepherded her toward the entrance. Let’s get you home, darlin’.

Outside, he stuck her in an cab.

"Come home with me, Walker. Please. Please." Liberty continued to beg past the point of humiliation, and went right on down to the level of pathetic.

Walker slammed the car door. Night, Lib.

She opened the window and burst into tears. Nobody wants me.

He handed cash to the driver. Better get her home quick, before she passes out.

The guy nodded and peeled away from the curb.

Walker stared down the street long after they left, too filled with misery to move.

Thirty-years-old, working at a job he hated, in a city he didn’t like, getting man-handled by women he didn’t want—not exactly the way he’d imagined his life turning out.

But next week he was going to fix all that.

Like a kid at Christmas, he’d been counting down the days. Only seven more, and he’d be sitting pretty on a fancy motorhome, taking an all-expense-paid trip across the country on the client’s dime.

An adventure was exactly what he needed to fire up his passion that had burned out many moons ago, back before he’d started slinging ads for a living.

It was the perfect opportunity to make a change, and Skip’s nepotism hire could ruin it all. If he didn’t explain what had happened back there, he’d be kicked off that tour faster than a prom dress.

Back inside, he swam through the sweaty crowd until he found her at the bar hunched over a drink, looking lost at sea. Such a tiny thing she was, sitting

Reviews for Road-Tripped

[Gloria · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Nicole Archer has created an enjoyable, vivid, raw, but also oddly heartwarming story about being saved by love. "Road-Tripped" sucks you in at the start with jaded, but entertaining characters who are a living description of all that is wrong with the big city life. The well-developed, three-dimensional characters grab you and hold you, as if you are able to see and hear what they are experiencing. They are edgy, crass, rude and wounded, but are so real, you can't help but identify and connect with them. As Bluebell and The Office Jiggalo set out across the country to do a job they both dread, they find themselves exposed, vulnerable and overly protective of their own hearts and boundaries. But as they each start to let their guard down, the insults and profane language towards each other transitions into real, messy emotions that create passion and intense desire. You, as the reader, find yourself understanding how each of these two feel, and yearning to learn more about their journey, just hoping to be able to experience that same love in your own life. "Road-Tripped" took me on an emotional trip that I loved, from laughs to cringes to heated breath, this book grabbed me and held me to the end. Bravo.

[Laurie Williamson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's not often that you find such excellent writing in the romance genre. This book was both beautifully written and funny. The way the author describes scenes is lovely — you can imagine yourself there. The lead male character, Walker, is a photographer, and when she describes the images he is setting up, you can visualize how they would look. As the characters travel across the U.S., they visit interesting places that make you want to go on vacation while you're reading it... funny to feel a bit jealous of fictional characters! The dialogue is highly entertaining; I laughed out loud many times. This is a very entertaining book, and it's not your typical empty, shallow "beach read" romance. This is a smart book, for intelligent people, that just happens to be in the romance genre. I look forward to reading the next one by Ms. Archer. Highly recommend!

*****Received an advanced copy from the publisher for an honest review****

[Eileen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've read a few romance novels before, but I've never been impressed with the quality of the writing, the depth of the characters, or the originality of the plot. Girl meets boy and romance ensues, with clunky sentences and predictable plot lines. I read Road-Tripped as a favor, and let's just say my expectations were not high.

Nicole Archer blew past my expectations in every way. My guess is that she chose this genre because she enjoys it, but she could write anything. Her characters are fully fleshed out, her writing is superb, and the story was fun and unpredictable. And to top it all off, she curated a playlist that sets the mood for each part of the story. Genius!

If you don't like dirty words or naughty situations, don't read this book. But If you enjoy good writing with a heavy dose of spice and fun, don't miss Road-Tripped! Personally, I can't wait for the next book in the series.