Calamity Rayne Gets Hitched Read Online Lydia Michaels

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)

Calamity Rayne—fiancée of very sophisticated and powerful billionaire hottie, Hale Davenport—has a wedding to plan! With no clue how she managed to out-Darwin a bazillion other women and land one of the world’s most desirable bachelors, she becomes the paparazzi’s newest target. Receiving a crash course in charm school and wedding etiquette, she fights tradition and ends up following a lazy bride's guide to catastrophes and chaos in this laugh-out-loud, opposites-attract, billionaire romantic comedy from bestselling author, Lydia Michaels.

Save The Date! Here comes the awkward bride—with a heap of poor judgment and tequila on the side!

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Listen to the Soundtrack on Spotify!

Best of My Love by The Emotions

Newsies King of NY from Newsies Original Motion Picture

No sleep til Brooklyn by Beastie Boys

Theme from New York by Frank Sinatra

Shoop by Salt N Pepa

Rapper’s Delight by Sugar Hill Gang

Benny and the Jets by Elton John

You Don’t Bring Me Flowers by Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond

Welcome to New York by Taylor Swift

Can’t Stop by Red Hot Chili Peppers

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now by Celine Dion

Chapel of Love by The Dixie Cups

Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine

I love it by Icona Pop

Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

Someone Like You by Van Morrison

You Make My Dreams (Come True) by Daryl Hall & John

Listen to the Calamity Rayne Series Soundtrack on Spotify!

No Tiger in the Bathroom


No Clue Where I Am…

48 Hours Pre Wedding-gate

Bed sheets twisted about my body like a straitjacket. I shivered, skin clammy and damp with chilled sweat. Despite the cool air I was roasting. Was I sick?

I tried to kick my foot free of the covers. Hale grunted when I accidentally nailed him in the shin with my heel. It was hotter than Satan’s taint in this bed and I was having a Hades-grade-hot-flash.

Frustrated, I tussled through a middle-aged cage fight with the blankets and winced when pain lanced into my skull. Then my stomach sloshed and I stilled, covering my mouth and unsure what my body planned to do next.

Something wasn’t right, so I sagged back in defeat. Ugh.

Blankets one, Calamity zero.

My brain buffered until I realized what this was. The world’s most unpleasant surprise…a hangover. Right.

Hangovers were sneaky little fuckers. Souvenirs acquired through intoxicated decision-making, therefore always showing up unexpectedly. But if you want the truth, life’s basically one long line of surprises, and in my thirty years I’ve never been prepared for a single one. So why start now?

Hello, I’m Calamity Rayne—fiancée of very grownup and powerful billionaire smoke-show, Hale Davenport. No clue how I got here or how I somehow managed to out-Darwin the bazillion other women who dreamt of waking up in my circumstances. I can only blame sheer luck, vagina magic, and the sporadic twist of fate.

My stomach gurgled and I groaned. Moaning hurt, and based on the throbbing in my skull, today would be another day passed on the struggle bus.

I was afraid to open my eyes. Was it normal for a bride to feel like a washed-up hooker days before her wedding? My fermented organs pumped through whatever sludge poisoned my insides as I tried to think of anything that might help.

God, thinking fucking hurt.

Arm partially numb, I blindly dragged a hand over my face. Long gone were the ideals of waking up like the polished, slightly tussled, beauties shown in the movies. That shit was pure fiction.

The reality was terrifying. Sweat-kinked hair, morning breath rank enough to make roadkill run again, an empty belly packed with toxic gas, and the gunked-up remnants of yesterday’s makeup caked in the corners of my Venus flytrap eyes. This nightmare wasn’t even neighboring the zip code of slightly attractive. I needed to get out of this raging inferno of a bed and wash the sweaty stink off me.

“Hale…” I groaned, nudging the scalding body beside mine and grimacing at the flammable scent of my breath.

How Prince Charming inexplicably wanted me above every other fair maiden in all the land was beyond me. It wasn’t like I ever pretended to be more than the hot mess that I was. If there was such a thing as fixer-upper kink, Hale would be president of the club because, bless his overbearing, bossy heart, the man loved my catastrophic soul to a fault.

Long gone were the expectations of perfection. Poof. Vamoose. Hale knew exactly what he was marrying the moment he slipped that Victorian doorknob of a diamond over my unmanicured ring finger. He not only accepted the real me, he adored her—stubbled legs, unfiltered, profane blatherings, raging insecurities, and all.

Why? Because we were in love. L-O-V-E, love. I’m talking Jane Austen-grade desire with a dash of obsession and a heavy-handed dose of power. I could wake up looking and smelling like death because Hale could handle it.

Our bond ran deeper than some namby-pamby sort of lusty newlywed champagne. We were a potent, Russian-grade, punch-you-in-the-face-good-morning kind of love vodka. Tough. Resilient. The real deal.

Which was why I had no problem elbowing his scalding body off of me.

“Oomph,” he grunted as my arm shoved against the unmovable slab of muscle suffocating me.

Unlike normal mortals, Hale didn’t stink like roadkill or regret in the morning. No. He smelled of fantasies and authority, sort of like the cool air of a bank that pumped James Bond-level pheromones through the ductwork.

Hale was a God. A walking aphrodisiac. A painfully beautiful masterpiece of perfection the paparazzi adored and gold-digging whores slobbered over on the regular.