Monday Jones
All Monny wants is to make music with her best friend, Hendy. She’s comfortable with her routines and working behind the scenes, which helps her avoid comparisons to her legendary father. Love and romance have always been things to avoid, that is, until she meets the one man who cracks her heart wide open.
Baxter Marlow
Bax has always been baseball’s golden good guy. Kind, polite, and unspeakably handsome; everyone wants a piece of him. When Bax meets the girl of his dreams, he’s up for the challenge. Helping her learn how to trust herself may be his biggest play yet.
A burnt dinner, a pissed-off kitten, and nosey friends can't stop Monny and Bax.
Favorite Day of the Week is a contemporary romance with a happily ever after guaranteed.
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Review of . . . FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK . . . Here we meet Monny (Monday Jones) and become a part of her world. She wants to be more than the daughter of a rockstar. She wants to be more than the girl that does not know her mother. She wants to be more than a former dancer. Monny wants something for herself and maybe a little to prove that she is more than the things that define her.
Monny was a strong woman with a different view on her own life. She had friends, a father, and her many accomplishments. She did not see herself worthy of someone to love her. She did not think she could love anyone. Monny thought of herself as being toxic to a possible relationship. What I loved about Monny she worked at her own pace. She had her own way of working things out in her head. It took her time to get there, but she made it work for her. What I did not like about the story? There were points of confusion on my part. No matter how many times I went back to read the section, I still felt confused. The dates, ages, and timeline back and forth had me confused. I pushed one and loved how Monny said "I'm sorry".
Baxter was the sexy athlete. He did not start off on his best foot with Monny, but that did not stop his determination. He wanted to make that connection he felt with Monny become more. He was struck and struck hard by the presence of Monny. His family's defense and desire to stand by Monny was amazing.
The secondary characters had their own identities. The stood out. Monny had a very strong group of friends/big brother and one amazing father that taught her well.
Reasons I enjoyed this book:
Entertaining Strong female Strong family/friends
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“Where is whatshisname? It’s unprofessional to be late. You know how I feel about punctuality.” I let out a loud huff as I pace the floor, trying to deflect from my growing nerves and hoping that Hendy doesn’t catch on.
Naturally, I fail. Damn, his Jedi mind tricks!
“It’s unprofessional to pretend not to remember the name of who you are working with, Monday Jones. You heavily researched him beforehand, so don’t act ignorant. I’m sure he’s getting touched up somewhere. Retract the claws and sit down,” he replies curtly.
Ugh. I hate when Hendy uses my full name; it’s not like I always call him Jamal. Usually, I only get the “Monday Jones” treatment (or, god forbid, “Monday Marianne Jones”) when he can feel my defenses going up and my bitch mode activating. I shrink down in my chair and start picking at my cuticles. I know I shouldn’t ruin my new manicure, courtesy of the magazine’s beauty team, but I don’t want to look at him now. He’ll see straight through me. It’s one of the dangers of being friends with Jamal Henderson for so long.
“Monny. This opportunity is a big deal for us. Seriously,” Hendy says more kindly. “I know we’ve both been on the cover before, but this is a first for Black Cat Records. This is about us and the music we make, the songs we love, and what we want for the future. Think about that, okay?”
Although, as much as I hate to admit it, Hendy is right. He usually is. “For the record, I was on the cover with my dad when I was five. I don’t think that counts.” Hendy glares at me. “Okay, Okay. I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about my music, and I don’t think anyone will take me seriously; I mean, why should they? You know how I get. I just worry that somehow this will be about my dad or some other wild child bullshit that the blogs love to make up about me and not about us.”
“Presenting: Monday Jones, daughter of rock god Miller Jones, music’s greatest product of nepotism! Watch her sleep her way through this year’s crop of new boy toys!” Hendy uses a silly, fake announcer voice to make me laugh. It works.
“Thank you! Thank you!” I offer him a slight bow. “But for real, I’m freaking out about stepping out in front of the camera. That’s usually your gig.”
“Monny girl, it’s time for you to shine and get your flowers. It’s been long enough.” He is sincere, holding my gaze. “I know that this isn’t ballet and that you like to keep your musical talents under lock and key, but you deserve credit for how gifted you are.” I blink back tears as he continues. “ We built this company from scratch, just the two of us, without outside help. You’ve made countless beats for me and written lyrics for every big name under the sun without taking credit publically. Claim your prize, Monny.”
“Is it weird I’m thinking about Jake?” I wipe away the one tear that has managed to escape. “It would be weird if you weren’t. Parts of the song are about what happened with him.” Hendy reaches over and squeezes my hand. He really is the best friend a girl could ask for. I attribute much of his emotional availability to his parents; they’re big into family therapy. He’s been nagging me for years to find someone to talk to about my childhood and the accident.
Steeling myself, I quickly reply, “Whatshisname better do it justice in the article.” I do love the song that the sportsball dude picked. It’s a perfect blend of the two of us. Hendy’s contributions are witty and, at times, sardonic. Mine are aggressive and raw, all about reclaiming your power. It’s different from all the other songs I’ve written for other artists.
“Come on, Monny. You know his name,” goads Hendy, punching my shoulder lightly, clearly trying to get me to lighten up. He loves to push my buttons. It’s part of a game we play; I am the gloomy storm cloud to his blinding ray of sunshine.
I’m over it.
“Fine. Baxter Marlow,” I shout.
“You called?” asks a deep voice.
I whip around in the flimsy director’s chair the PAs set up for us. Standing in front of me is the sexiest man I have ever seen. He’s tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence. The suit he is wearing is one flex away from falling away from his perfect body, and I really must send the stylist a fruit basket. Baxter Marlow is not wearing a shirt. Everything about him is masculine, strong, and big - like really big - like you know he could absolutely ruin you with a single thrust big.
When I finally lock in on his face, I lose my breath; It’s so beautiful, it hurts. Baxter’s visage looks open and kind, almost in contrast to his sharply defined body. His full lips are smirking, like we’re sharing an inside joke, and I want to kiss that look right off of him. But it’s his eyes that slay me. They’re the color of the ocean and seem to bore into the deepest part of me.
This whole exchange couldn’t last more than two seconds, but it feels longer, as if time is slowing down and stretching out, allowing me to soak in every detail. My skin starts to tingle, begging to be touched. Reflexively, something in my belly sparks, lighting a fire I haven’t felt in a long time.
What the hell is happening to me? Is this normal, or am I about to break out into a rash?
Naturally, it’s at this moment that gravity and the flimsy chair fail me.
I fall out of my seat and onto the ground.
For more information about Lola Kate Bolen and her books, visit her website:
https://lolakatebolen.com
