Pity Play
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series, #6)
Publication date: March 23rd 2025
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
I’ve loved my brother’s best friend for as long as I can remember. Newsflash, he doesn’t see me that way. But now that Luke Phillips is coming to town and needs a place to stay… could this be my big chance?
It’s not like I’ve sat around for the last twenty-eight years waiting for Luke. Not really. But ever since I moved back to Elk Lake, I can’t help but hope I’ll run into him. Enter my big brother calling and asking if his bestie can bunk with me. My younger self is doing backflips at the possibilities.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like Luke is looking for a long-term situation. He’s made it clear he’s got some business to take care of and then he’s on the first train back to Chicago.
But then he kisses me. And everything changes.
At least, I hope it has…
Pity Play is a brother’s best friend, close proximity, small town rom-com that takes place in the resort town of Elk Lake, Wisconsin. This is the sixth book in a series that read as standalones.
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EXCERPT
After climbing the stairs, I open the door to my room, and I’m immediately filled with the comforting familiarity of my early years. I’ve thought about redecorating now that I’m an adult but being that I spend as much time living in my parents ’room—when they’re in Florida—as I do here, I haven’t quite pulled the trigger. Also, I’m twenty-eight, and even though I tell Noah there’s nothing wrong with me still living at home, I have started to wonder how much longer I’ll be here.
Once again, I let my feather duster take flight and when it gets to the posters, I perform a ritual from my teenage years. I swipe it across Mel B’s face and sing, “I tell you what I want, Luke Phillips. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna go out on a date with you!”
I’m so busy jamming around my room that I jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t even be eight o’clock so I have no idea who it is. I know it’s not Luke because he won’t be here until ten. That leaves old Mrs. Bing from next door.
My bluish-haired neighbor isn’t generally a bother, but ever since her husband went into the nursing home, she regularly stops by when she needs a jar opened or a spider killed. One time she told me that our weeds were growing out of control and kindly offered to send her gardener over. I let her do that once but then she hit me with a bill for a hundred and fifty dollars. Now we all just live with the weeds.
I run down the stairs with the Spice Girls still ringing in my head, and apparently out of my mouth because as I swing open the door, I practically shout, “If you wannabe my lover …” And that’s when I realize Mrs. Bing isn’t my guest.
All six-foot two inches of Luke Phillips is standing in front of me, and man, does he look good. It’s March in Wisconsin so he’s dressed for winter in a bomber jacket and wool scarf. Nicely fitted jeans showcase every gorgeous inch of his long legs.
I know I should say something to him, but my mouth pools with so much saliva that if I don’t swallow it soon, I’m liable to drool on the man. Swallow your spit, girl.
Once I manage that monumental, and embarrassingly audible, task, I blurt out, “Hey … Hello … Hi there!” Oh yeah, I’m a real orator.
“Hi.” Luke’s beanie-covered head tips to the side. His gorgeous brown eyes narrow like he’s inspecting a moldy piece of cheese. “I’m looking for Lorelai Riley.”
This is my chance to tell him she’s not here and that he should come back at ten when he was supposed to arrive, but my synapses aren’t firing. That must be why I throw my arms into the air and practically shout at him, “I’m Lorelai!”
Luke takes a step backward like he’s going to make a run for it. Instead of fleeing, he moves his gaze from the top of my purple bandana all the way to my bare feet. This of course means he’s aware I’m wearing a pink flowered flannel nightgown from Lanz of Salsburg. A favorite with grannies everywhere.
“Hi,” he repeats. Yet he makes no move toward the door. In fact, there’s no movement at all. It’s like he’s turned into a marble statue. He even stays put after I step back and gesture for him to come in.
Well, this is awkward. I start stammering, “I didn’t expect you until ten. I mean, that’s when Noah said you were coming so that’s why I’m not dressed.” He looks borderline terrified, so I hurry to add, “I was cleaning. Getting ready for you.”
He lifts his foot like he’s going to take a step forward, but the action is so slow it’s like he’s trying to push his way through a wall of frozen molasses. “I can find a hotel or something …”
“What? No! Come on in! You’re staying here!” The image of Kathy Bates from that old movie Misery pops into my mind. From the look on Luke’s face, he’s thinking something similar. I want to assure him that I won’t hobble him, chain him to the bed, and keep him as a hostage, but I think that might scare him more.
Author Bio:
Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries — not always in that order.
Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.
She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.
Gold Medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2017.
Silver medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.
Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.
Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.
Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017
Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017
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