{A Pity Series Release} Pity Prank by Whitney Dineen

Pity Prank by Whitney Dineen
Series: Pity Series
on March 30th, 2026
Genres: Comedy, Fiction, Adult, Romance, Contemporary
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What happens when a quirkier than normal girl meets a hunky doctor from New York?

It’s not that I have subpar intelligence, or that I’m a total weirdo. In fact, I would consider myself kind, creative, and an all-in-all great catch—if you can get past a few peculiarities.

I love soft things. ALL soft things, and I surround myself with them to help self-sooth my way through the day. I have very particular opinions about sand, aluminum foil, and gum snappers. You wouldn’t believe how many men find this odd. In short, being on the spectrum has not exactly done wonders for my love life.

Enter Dr. Thomas Culpepper. Never in a million years would I have predicted someone like him would move to tiny little Elk Lake, Wisconsin. Then he gets sent to my photography studio to have his picture taken. I misunderstood the assignment, and instead of taking a boring old headshot like the hospital wanted, I forced him to take sexy pirate photos.

As far as meet cutes go, it was awkward. I won’t even mention the baby oil …

Pity Prank is a laugh-out-loud, small town romantic comedy featuring misunderstandings galore, a tiny bit of fake dating, a lot of fuzzy sweaters and socks, and oh, yeah, some sexy pirate photos.

Perfect for fans of Hallmark vibes. Book eight in a feel-good series of standalones.

*** For fans of The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang

Exclusive excerpt from Pity Prank

Finley

As soon as I enter, I notice a man sitting on one of the two overstuffed shabby chic chairs by the window. He looks up and makes direct eye contact which causes every thought in my brain to pour out like sand in a sieve. Holy. Hot stuff. Batman. This man is extraordinarily handsome, but his appeal is more than just physical. He emanates a kind of golden energy that’s positively intoxicating.

“Hi there.” As soon as he stands up, I can feel the room start to sway. I stagger to the counter, so I don’t fall over. He’s well over six feet and from what I can tell he’s built like he spends hours at the gym every day.

“H…h…hi, yourself. Thomas Culpepper?” I ask, both hoping he is and isn’t at the same time. How in the world will I be able to take sexy pictures of this man and keep my wits about me? I can’t even look at him fully clothed without stuttering.

“That’s me.” He flashes a brilliant smile which makes me wonder if he’s ever starred in toothpaste commercials. His hair is the softest looking wavy chocolate brown I’ve ever seen. My hand lifts of its own accord like it’s trying to reach out and touch it. Which of course I know I can’t do. At least until it’s time for me to style his hair for the shoot. I practically drool at the thought.

Thomas looks at my hand suspended in mid-air before copying the gesture and waving at me. “He-llo.” He breaks the word into two syllables like I’m new to the English language and might not understand otherwise.

I drop my hand immediately and try to regain my composure. “Constance is very excited about these shots.”

“Really?” He looks confused, like he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.

“Really,” I assure him. “She’s ordered the basic package to start but if she likes what she sees…” In lieu of finishing my sentence, I give him an exaggerated wink.

“I didn’t realize this was such a big deal to her,” he says. I wonder if I got it wrong and they aren’t a couple? Darn it, that’s the thing with me, I have an awful time reading people. 

“Oh, it’s a very big deal.”

Thomas’s hazel eyes narrow in confusion before he bends down to pick up the bag he brought with him. “I brought some different shirts.”

“Oh, we won’t need shirts.” There’s no way, I’m covering up this man in unnecessary clothing. No way. Unless of course it’s a pirate shirt, wide open, and billowing in the wind. Lucky for him, I have such an item in my costume collection.

Thomas’s gorgeous brow furrows, drawing my attention to the golden flecks in his eyes. “I brought a doctor’s coat too, if you prefer that.”

“A doctor’s coat?” I love the idea of turning him into a sexy doctor. It’s decided then, we’ll do a pirate look and a doctor one. Constance is going to love these.

Motioning to Thomas, I tell him, “Follow me into the backroom and you can get ready there.”

As he approaches, I inhale his spicy aftershave. Cloves, cinnamon, and orange, oh my! “You smell great.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. That’s another fun thing about me, I don’t always think before speaking, which can sometimes make other people uncomfortable. Like the time I told a woman in the grocery store that her pants made her butt look amazing. While meant as a compliment, it was clear she wasn’t used to such a forthright comment from a stranger. I figured that out when she walked out of the store, leaving a full cart behind.

The last thing I want to do is make Thomas nervous, so I hurry to tell him, “You smell like my favorite Christmas cookies.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“It’s a compliment of the highest order,” I assure him. “My mom makes the best orange spice shortbread you’ve ever tried.” Just when I think I’ve saved the moment from getting too awkward, I groan suggestively and declare, “Yummy!” Thomas’s eyes pop open wider in an expression I once again worry is fear.

The backroom of my store is one big unfinished space with a variety of backdrops scattered about. I point toward the barber-style chair in front of a big lighted mirror in the corner and tell him, “Let’s start there. I’ll get your hair and makeup done first and then we’ll settle on wardrobe.”

“Hair and makeup?”

“Yeah, you know, so we can get the look we’re after.”

“I thought I was okay the way I am.”

“You’re fantastic,” I assure him. “Really great! But I want to make sure we capture your character to the fullest.”

“I’m a doctor,” he tells me. I’m starting to think Thomas might be the one new to the English language.

“Doctor, pirate, sexy duke with a superiority complex… you can be anything you want and I’m here to make that happen.”

Thomas sits down in the makeup chair looking highly uneasy. “I really am a doctor.” Then he asks, “Do you get a lot of pirates and nobility in here?”

“Tons,” I assure him.  

Thomas sits down with the same amount of enthusiasm he might have knowing he was about to be electrocuted. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need hair and makeup,” he says again.

“I’m not putting lipstick on you, Thomas.” Picking up a bronzing palate, I tell him, “Just a bit of contrast to sharpen your angles.”

“Why exactly do I need sharper angles?” How is it possible that he’s even sexy when he’s acting stupid?

Turning to look him square in the eye, I ask, “Why do you think you’re here?”

“I’m here to get my picture taken for …”

 “Constance,” I finish his sentence for him. “You’re here for Constance. And you want to make her happy, don’t you?”

“I… suppose?” He isn’t selling it.

“You suppose? She’s paid me four hundred dollars to take very specific pictures of you and that is exactly what I’m going to do. Do you understand?” He nods his head almost imperceptibly, so I tell him, “This is my job, Thomas. My job. It’s what I do for a living. It’s how I pay my bills.”

“Yes, but…”

“Constance came in here herself to tell me what she wants, and as she is my client. I’m not going to let her down.”

Thomas sits as still as a statue while I brush bronzer on his cheeks and jaw. By the time I’m done with him, he could have posed for a Michelangelo statue of a Greek god. I can’t take all the credit for that though; he practically is one on his own.

Once I’m convinced his face couldn’t look any better, I put the makeup brush down and face my model once again. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. After turning the chair so his back faces the mirror, I lift my hands and run all ten of my fingers through his hair. Holy heck. It’s even softer than it looks. It’s better than all my furry sweaters combined. It’s like running my hands through a litter of baby minks. It’s softer than the Barefoot blanket I spent way too much money on. But only because it lost some of its softness after being washed. Until then, it was worth ten times as much.

Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is to rub Thomas Culpepper’s head every day of my life until I die.

Reluctantly, I remind myself that Thomas is Constance’s boyfriend, not mine. Yet I don’t understand how that can be because this man is so vital and alive. Constance has the warmth of a vampire bat in winter. But they got together somehow and now it’s my job to give my client the best fantasy material I can.

She never has to know it’s doing the same for me.

***

I’m so lost in my reverie I don’t realize there’s a person standing in front of me until she clears her throat. “Oh, hey, hi.” I stumble over my words while staring at the rigidly prim woman across the counter. Her vaguely annoyed expression says it all—she thinks I’m a silly airhead. Take a number, lady.

“Hello.” Her tone is not only brittle, it’s condescending. “My colleague, Margaret, recommended your services. She said you were the best photographer in town.” While I should enjoy the compliment, from her it sounds more like an accusation.

Margaret and Bob Rogers are my favorite clients. Half the business I currently have is from their referrals. Although, I thought they were both retired, so the “colleague” portion of this woman’s comment is a little lost on me.

Without asking for clarification, I inquire, “Are you and your husband looking for something special?” Margaret and Bob have recently been reenacting covers from those bodice-ripping romance novels sold at the pharmacy. For the life of me, I can’t see this woman wanting to do the same, but who am I to judge? Maybe her ice queen demeanor hides the heart of a wild woman. I hope that’s the case, for her husband’s sake, anyway.

“I’m not married.” Her left eyebrow arches abruptly nearly touching her hairline. She brushes the razor edge of her blonde bob aside, hooking it behind her ear. Yikes, even her ears are pointy and sharp.

“Oh, okay. I can certainly take some nice pictures of you. What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t want pictures of me. I’m here to book a session for a man named Thomas Culpepper.”

“And you want me to do for him what I do for Margaret and Bob?”

“Who’s Bob?” she wants to know.

“Margaret’s husband.”

“I thought her husband was named Randal.”

At this point, I probably should have considered the possibility we were talking about different Margarets, but I didn’t. Social cues have never been my strong suit and as such I’ve gotten to a place where I ignore half the things that don’t make sense to me. It’s either that or accept feeling like I’ve perpetually lost the plot.

Forcing a smile, I announce with great authority, “Margaret’s husband is Bob.” Which in my defense, is true in the case of Margaret Rogers.

With a shrug, Miss Snippy tells me, “Then that’s what I want you to do. If it won’t be too much trouble.” Her half eyeroll is a clear indicator she’s being sarcastic—another indirect use of expression I have a challenging time understanding.  

“No trouble at all.” I pull out a notepad from under the counter and pull off the top sheet. Picking up my favorite felt tip pen—Papermate fine tip flair—I ask, “do you have any special instructions?”

Her green cat eyes narrow like my question is too ridiculous to be believed. I normally enjoy interacting with the public, but that isn’t currently the case. “I’ll just take the standard package.” Margaret and Bob never do the standard package.

“That’s only two wardrobe and background changes,” I tell her.

“That will be more than enough.” Talk about a lack of imagination. She pulls a Coach wallet out of her Coach handbag—an uptight brand if there ever was one.

Glancing at the payment screen, she says, “Four hundred dollars? You’d better be good.”

“I am,” I assure her before adding, “The cost includes hair and makeup, set changes, one nine by twelve print of each pose, and of course all of the digital files.” Her eyebrow arches again, so I add, “We could be at it for hours.”

As she taps her credit card on the screen, I open the calendar on my laptop. She agrees to have the man I’m assuming is her boyfriend here one week from today at ten a.m. Then she walks away without so much as a goodbye. After two steps, she turns around. “If the shots are any good, I might be interested in hiring you to put together a calendar for us.”

Tingles of excitement shoot across my scalp. “Like one of those firefighter calendars?” I wonder why I never thought of offering those before. I could probably make enough on them alone to pay for an expansion.

Snippy Von Sharpstein looks confused. “I don’t know anything about firefighter calendars, but if they do them, then yes. I suppose like that.”

I don’t believe for one second she’s never seen those smoking hot pictures of shirtless public servants, flexed muscles glistening in baby oil—an occasional puppy thrown in for good measure.  Clearly, she wants me to think she’s above such common enjoyment, which makes no sense at all. Especially as she just booked a sexy session for her man friend.

As my new customer walks out the door, I look down at a copy of her receipt. Constance Brucker. The name suits her. Uptight and rigid. I hope Thomas Culpepper gives me more to work with. If not, there’s no way four hundred dollars will be enough.

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