Not Used to Cute was a fairly quick book to read and I really enjoyed it. It’s mostly a light story with very little angst. There is just enough conflict to keep things interesting.

Elijah is pretty much smitten with Seb the first time they meet but he doesn’t want to admit it. When he learns that Seb needs a job he immediately offers him one working in the office of the bar he owns. Seb is attracted to Elijah but doesn’t know what to make of his hot and cold attitude towards him; it’s left him very confused.

It takes Seb getting hurt during a hate crime for Elijah to admit his feelings. The two of them finally get together and things are going along pretty smoothly. I honestly kept waiting for something more to happen in regards to the hate crime. I almost thought there would be nothing more so was pleasantly surprised when it did.

I don’t think this book is part of a series but I must say that there were some interesting secondary characters that I think could have good stories of their own and I wouldn’t mind reading more.

Reviews for Becca Seymour

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“What happened?”

His words registered though made no sense.

“Just,” he clarified, “everything was fine. You smiled, then it all changed. I lost it.”

“Lost it?” I was convinced I’d been dropped into a conversation midpoint as I floundered to catch up. Elijah was direct, as I was, or usually was. I liked that about him. A lot. But he also had a habit of using clipped questions, or short sentences that took me a while to work out what he meant.

“I lost your smile.”

“Oh.” Oh! What the heck was a guy to say to that? Yeah, he’d asked a question that he wanted answered, but hot damn, that he’d lost my smile? I really hoped to God that that meant what I thought it meant. But far out, I wasn’t sure my heart could handle a man like Elijah.

From the moment we’d met at his bar, there’d been a connection. It was undeniable, but still, at work he kept his distance. Admittedly, he took time out to make sure I was coping and settling in okay, but he was the boss. And he occasionally brought me treats. And maybe we chatted about a few things other than work sometimes. It was his job. Right? Right? Okay, so perhaps he didn’t quite keep his distance at work.

And then when I’d told him about what had happened with the paint, he’d seemed to have lost his guard for a few seconds and had mentioned an “us.” At the time, a flurry of activity had burst free in my gut, pretty similar to the havoc currently taking place there. The thought that it was more, the possibility that he could actually like me like me and that Harriet was right…. Then there was the mention of that kiss, which I was sure had happened and hadn’t been a figment of my imagination brought on by shock.

Heat crept through my body. I had no idea where it travelled from or was heading to, but my senses flared to life. The subtle shift of his fingers as they still made contact with my cheek, the fresh masculine scent of his aftershave hovering between the two of us, the controlled sound of his breathing, which actually deepened a little… all caught up with me and, honest to God, weakened my knees.

I wobbled a little, and he reached out his other hand, not realising I’d been leaning into him. He placed his hand on my hip to steady me.

Not quite flush with him, it didn’t seem to matter as his body heat pushed against me. Warmth that was welcome and comforting pulled me in and made unbidden words spill forth. “You like my smile?” When his lips moved and it looked like he was about to speak, my filter vanished, was whisked away into the abyss and I was powerless to stop it.

“So does this mean you like me”— please stop—“because if you do, which is great, but are you sure? It’s just that you said I was, well you know, small and stuff, and I don’t know, everyone at work says you’re into big guys, or at least bigger than me.” Please, make it stop. I didn’t listen to myself, despite my last comment causing his brows to lift. “You just don’t seem like the kind of guy that would go for someone like me. It’s just, I’m not saying I’ve been bashed with the ugly stick or anything”—a nervous, awful laugh escaped my lips, carrying my words—“I know some people think I’m good-looking. Not that I’m vain or anything. Nothing like that. But I saw some of the men at the bar who I know you’ve hooked up with, and they’re nothing like me. They have a good few inches on me—in height,” I quickly added. “I’m packing, and”— for the love of all that is holy, make it stop. I prayed for a hole, a tsunami, a vortex—“anyway, I just, well, I like it when you smile, too.” I finally ran out of steam with no clue what I was talking about or even if I had a point or answered his damn question.