The Dating Experiment is book two in The Experiment series but can be read as a standalone.
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1.Get over my best friend’s brother.
2.Remember that I’m over him.
3.Prove I can date other people.
It should be easy.
It’s not.
2.Remember that I’m over him.
3.Prove I can date other people.
It should be easy.
It’s not.
Especially since he’s my best friend’s brother—thankfully, she’s okay with the fact I’m pulling a Sandy and I’m hopelessly devoted to him.
Which is why it’s time to get over him.
So I do something crazy and ask Dominic Austin to find me a date. He does—if I find him one, too.
Since we own Stupid Cupid, it should be easy, right? And it is.
My date is perfect. His date is perfect. Everything is perfect.
Until he kisses me…
Three dates.
One kiss.
And a big-ass mess…
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READ AN EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT:
“What did you do now?” Peyton shoved open my office door and stared at me.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Elliott said you needed help. Here is your help.” She gestured extravagantly to herself before she shut the door behind her. “And I know it’s about Chloe and her date, so cut to the chase.”
Girl-talk. Of course, she already knew.
“I need to fill out her application,” I told her. “But I’m stuck.”
Peyton rolled her eyes. “And you can’t ask her to do it?”
I stared at her flatly.
“Right, no, of course,” she drawled, a tiny hint of her New Orleans drawl twanging at every word. “Why would you ask the woman you’re in love with to fill out her own dating record?”
“Can you shut the fuck up and help me?” I threw my hands out to the sides. “I found her a match. Help me out here, Peyt.”
My sister stilled. “You found her a match?”
“Of course I did. I said I would, so I did.”
“Wow. You’re actually going through with it. Kudos, bro.” She rounded my desk and perched on the arm of my chair.
I glanced at her. “Can you put your chest away?”
She tugged at the neckline of her shirt and pulled it right up. “Put away. Let me see what you’ve written so far.” She snatched the mouse out of my hand and scrolled. “Jesus, Dom,” she said after a minute. “This is basic. This won’t get her laid.”
I didn’t want to get her laid. I wanted to get her a good date, not a fucking orgasm.
“Whatever. Can you make her attractive to a random stranger?”
“You can’t?” Peyton quirked an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’ve been attracted to her for at least ten years. Surely you can do better than this.”
“Peyton. I want your help, not your bullshit.”
“Good luck with that,” she muttered. “All right, move your ass. Let me do this for you.”
“Don’t make her sound too attractive.” My voice was no louder than hers had been as I stood and made way for her to take my seat.
She snorted, deleting everything I’d written except the first couple of questions. “I’m gonna make her so attractive that she has every eligible bachelor in New Orleans clambering for her attention.”
I shot her a look so dark I felt my blood turn black.
“Relax, Dominic. You’re getting over her, remember?” She answered my dark look with one as equally annoyed. “This helps you get over her. That’s what you told me.”
I perched on the edge of the desk and crossed my arms. “Fucking whatever. I don’t have to like this.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” She typed. “But you do have to do it.”
“Whatever. Like I said. Whatever.”
“You’re like a petulant teenager who’s just been told to do his own laundry.”
“Peyton…”
She sighed and turned in the chair. “Dominic, if you’re not going to admit to her how you feel about her, then shut the fuck up and suck it up. You don’t get to whine about something you’re unwilling to act upon. You have the potential to change the situation you’re in, but you won’t. It’s that simple. End of.”
“It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t say to her. She hates me. Every time we speak, we fight. She. Hates. Me.”
“Yeah, well, I hated Elliott,” she said, turning back to the computer. “Now I paint his daughter’s nails, bring her to work, braid her hair, cook her dinner, and read her bedtime stories.”
“Congratulations, Saint Peyton.”
“Don’t go that far. I accidentally taught her how to say “fuck.””
“How do you accidentally teach a three-year-old to say fuck?”
She shrugged and glanced at me. “Apparently, she was saying fork. Toddlers. They can’t pronounce shit for shit. Totally not my fault. Nobody wrote that in the handbook for girlfriends of single dads.”
“That’s a handbook?”
“No, but I sure as hell wish it were.” She shook her head turned back to the screen. “I’m winging it more than a flock of migrating birds, but whatever.”
“Does that mean I’ll be known as Uncle Dom soon?” I smirked.
“Nobody needs you as their uncle, Dom. Unless you count losing things as a life skill.”
“I still have the photos of you grinning while making your Barbies have sex.”
She waved one hand, expertly typing with the other. “Puh-lease. Literally every woman who ever owned Barbies made them bone Ken. And you know what happened? The awkward toddler called Sally. Wait, no. Sophie? Shelly? Whatever it was. Unless you had the pregnant Barbie, then your newborn went from breastfed to tantrum quicker than a Ferrari can get from zero to sixty.”
I coughed. “I can’t help but feel this conversation has taken a weird turn.”
“It’s following after my life.” She peered over at me with a grin.
She could claim that, but she was happier than ever. And I was happy for her. Despite how much we bickered, she was still my baby sister. Seeing her happy was all I’d ever wanted. I’d take a bullet for her if it came down to it.
Shit, I’d take an army for her.
“No shit,” I said. “Can we get to the point now?” I gestured to the computer screen and Chloe’s profile.
“Right. Sorry.” Peyton turned back to the screen. “Well, don’t crowd me. I can’t make her attractive if you’re peering over my shoulder and judging me.”
I made a non-committal grunting sound and headed for the kitchen.
She was right.
I was totally fucking judging her.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Elliott said you needed help. Here is your help.” She gestured extravagantly to herself before she shut the door behind her. “And I know it’s about Chloe and her date, so cut to the chase.”
Girl-talk. Of course, she already knew.
“I need to fill out her application,” I told her. “But I’m stuck.”
Peyton rolled her eyes. “And you can’t ask her to do it?”
I stared at her flatly.
“Right, no, of course,” she drawled, a tiny hint of her New Orleans drawl twanging at every word. “Why would you ask the woman you’re in love with to fill out her own dating record?”
“Can you shut the fuck up and help me?” I threw my hands out to the sides. “I found her a match. Help me out here, Peyt.”
My sister stilled. “You found her a match?”
“Of course I did. I said I would, so I did.”
“Wow. You’re actually going through with it. Kudos, bro.” She rounded my desk and perched on the arm of my chair.
I glanced at her. “Can you put your chest away?”
She tugged at the neckline of her shirt and pulled it right up. “Put away. Let me see what you’ve written so far.” She snatched the mouse out of my hand and scrolled. “Jesus, Dom,” she said after a minute. “This is basic. This won’t get her laid.”
I didn’t want to get her laid. I wanted to get her a good date, not a fucking orgasm.
“Whatever. Can you make her attractive to a random stranger?”
“You can’t?” Peyton quirked an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’ve been attracted to her for at least ten years. Surely you can do better than this.”
“Peyton. I want your help, not your bullshit.”
“Good luck with that,” she muttered. “All right, move your ass. Let me do this for you.”
“Don’t make her sound too attractive.” My voice was no louder than hers had been as I stood and made way for her to take my seat.
She snorted, deleting everything I’d written except the first couple of questions. “I’m gonna make her so attractive that she has every eligible bachelor in New Orleans clambering for her attention.”
I shot her a look so dark I felt my blood turn black.
“Relax, Dominic. You’re getting over her, remember?” She answered my dark look with one as equally annoyed. “This helps you get over her. That’s what you told me.”
I perched on the edge of the desk and crossed my arms. “Fucking whatever. I don’t have to like this.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” She typed. “But you do have to do it.”
“Whatever. Like I said. Whatever.”
“You’re like a petulant teenager who’s just been told to do his own laundry.”
“Peyton…”
She sighed and turned in the chair. “Dominic, if you’re not going to admit to her how you feel about her, then shut the fuck up and suck it up. You don’t get to whine about something you’re unwilling to act upon. You have the potential to change the situation you’re in, but you won’t. It’s that simple. End of.”
“It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t say to her. She hates me. Every time we speak, we fight. She. Hates. Me.”
“Yeah, well, I hated Elliott,” she said, turning back to the computer. “Now I paint his daughter’s nails, bring her to work, braid her hair, cook her dinner, and read her bedtime stories.”
“Congratulations, Saint Peyton.”
“Don’t go that far. I accidentally taught her how to say “fuck.””
“How do you accidentally teach a three-year-old to say fuck?”
She shrugged and glanced at me. “Apparently, she was saying fork. Toddlers. They can’t pronounce shit for shit. Totally not my fault. Nobody wrote that in the handbook for girlfriends of single dads.”
“That’s a handbook?”
“No, but I sure as hell wish it were.” She shook her head turned back to the screen. “I’m winging it more than a flock of migrating birds, but whatever.”
“Does that mean I’ll be known as Uncle Dom soon?” I smirked.
“Nobody needs you as their uncle, Dom. Unless you count losing things as a life skill.”
“I still have the photos of you grinning while making your Barbies have sex.”
She waved one hand, expertly typing with the other. “Puh-lease. Literally every woman who ever owned Barbies made them bone Ken. And you know what happened? The awkward toddler called Sally. Wait, no. Sophie? Shelly? Whatever it was. Unless you had the pregnant Barbie, then your newborn went from breastfed to tantrum quicker than a Ferrari can get from zero to sixty.”
I coughed. “I can’t help but feel this conversation has taken a weird turn.”
“It’s following after my life.” She peered over at me with a grin.
She could claim that, but she was happier than ever. And I was happy for her. Despite how much we bickered, she was still my baby sister. Seeing her happy was all I’d ever wanted. I’d take a bullet for her if it came down to it.
Shit, I’d take an army for her.
“No shit,” I said. “Can we get to the point now?” I gestured to the computer screen and Chloe’s profile.
“Right. Sorry.” Peyton turned back to the screen. “Well, don’t crowd me. I can’t make her attractive if you’re peering over my shoulder and judging me.”
I made a non-committal grunting sound and headed for the kitchen.
She was right.
I was totally fucking judging her.
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
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