Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Emotional, Billionaire, Second Chance Romance
One night will never be enough.
~
We made a pact. One night.
No strings.
No attachments.
No numbers exchanged.
I caved and gave Harrison Decker my number anyway. He just chose not to use it.
Four years later, his job brings him back into my world looking more handsome than ever and now making an effort to befriend me. Is my heart willing to take another chance on that man?
Call me crazy or crazy in love. Either way, I’m not falling for him. Again.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not heartless. I’m just wise as to why they’re trying to pin me down. If I’ve learned one thing while growing up in Los Angeles with my last name, it’s that nothing comes without strings attached. Everyone wants something from me. Besides my good looks.
At this point in my life, I’m more interested in building my career in real estate and proving to my dad that I’ve earned a spot in the family business. Women are fun but a major distraction. I leave my dates sexually satisfied while keeping my emotions out of it. I get in, in every sense, and I get out.
So why am I staring at the woman sleeping naked beside me, trying to figure out how to make this last more than one night?
Meet S.L. Scott:
Living in the capital of Texas with her family, Scott loves traveling, avocados, beaches, and cooking with her kids. She’s obsessed with epic romances and loves a good plot twist.
Scott writes character driven, heart-racing, and swoony romances to suspense that will leave you glued to the page. Her stories are regarded as emotion-filled and soulful. With stories ranging from light and witty beach reads to heart wrenching and heart healing, Scott has a story for all readers. Her books are more than escapes for the voracious readers of today. They are journeys of the heart that always come with a happily ever after reward at the end.
“Finding Ronan’s Heart by Melanie Moreland might just be my NEW favorite Melanie Moreland book!
Ronan oh Ronan….. how this hero touched my heart, with his big heart and his search for himself outside of his big family and being the oldest of the Callaghan Triplets.
From the moment Ronan sees Beth, you feel the connection…. and I was GLUED to my kindle from the opening words!
Moreland is such a masterful storyteller that when Ronan lies the reader actually feels BAD for HIM!” – Shh Mom’s Reading
BLP REVIEW – Tracy
Melanie Moreland is a favourite of mine and with every book she reminds me why.
Finding Ronan’s Heart was a great read and another well executed instalment in the ABC Corp series.
Ronan & Beth’s story was engaging, uplifting and heartwarming.
Ronan is part of a huge family and one of triplet brothers but it seems he sometimes feels lost in the crowd. Always ‘one of the boys’ he doesn’t feel he’s seen as the individual he is, until he meets Beth. She doesn’t see him as his family and friends do, she just sees Ronan.
Beth, gods, she’s a sweetheart. Hard working, taking care of her little brother and a loyal friend and family to her best friend and her little girl, she’s not had the best of times in the last few years. Ronan gives her some relief from the weight on her shoulders and let’s her just be ‘her’ when she needs a breather from life.
I love this series as we always catch up with the BAM family and see just how they care about each other. That Ronan felt the need to hide them – even if his reasons felt solid at the time – was sad, but understandable. You knew that if/when they got to know about Beth they’d welcome her with open arms.
Truths coming out caused some heartache but I do think that was necessary for both characters to grow and develop to an extent within themselves, to see the truths about what they believed and to make them stronger in the long run.
I’m so looking forward to reading about Liam – even though we know how things are going for him from Ronan’s book.
A solid 4* read from Ms Moreland.
Author Bio:
New York Times/USA Today bestselling author Melanie Moreland, lives a happy and content life in a quiet area of Ontario with her beloved husband of thirty-plus years and their rescue cat, Amber. Nothing means more to her than her friends and family, and she cherishes every moment spent with them.
While seriously addicted to coffee, and highly challenged with all things computer-related and technical, she relishes baking, cooking, and trying new recipes for people to sample. She loves to throw dinner parties, and also enjoys traveling, here and abroad, but finds coming home is always the best part of any trip.
Melanie loves stories, especially paired with a good wine, and enjoys skydiving (free falling over a fleck of dust) extreme snowboarding (falling down stairs) and piloting her own helicopter (tripping over her own feet.) She’s learned happily ever afters, even bumpy ones, are all in how you tell the story.
Melanie is represented by Flavia Viotti at Bookcase Literary Agency. For any questions regarding subsidiary or translation rights please contact her at flavia@bookcaseagency.com
Title: The Grumpy Player Next Door Series: Copper Valley Fireballs #3 Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Romantic Comedy Release Date: July 8, 2021
BLURB
An enemies-to-lovers / sports / grumpy-sunshine / neighbor romance
I, Tillie Jean Rock, am not in love with my brother’s teammate. Sure, he might have those biceps and that “I am the grouchiest of grouchy bears” smolder, and he might shovel snow off his driveway next door wearing nothing but boxer shorts and rubber boots, and he might be running a side business feeding all the stray goats in town, but studliness is only skin-deep.
And I might flirt with him every chance I get, but I swear it’s only to annoy my brother.
And him.
Because Max Cole?
Under all of those glorious muscles and chiseled cheekbones and searing glares beats the heart of a heartless devil.
I could no sooner fall in love with a guy who treats me like a kid, and judges me at every opportunity, and sets an army of garden gnomes loose on my yard, than I could fall in love with my grandfather’s pet parrot.
But I can definitely annoy him. I can one hundred percent get on board with annoying him.
That’s what you do when you don’t like your neighbor, right?
But you know what they say about love and hate…
It’s a very thin line.
Especially when the real reason I’m not in love with Max Cole—that he’s incapable of love—might not be true at all.
The Grumpy Player Next door is a fun-filled enemies-to-lovers romcom featuring a ray of sunshine on a mission, an athlete who’s only grouchy around her, and an epic prank gone wrong. It stands alone and comes complete with small-town shenanigans, a goat who’s not nearly as wise as his name suggests, and proof that sometimes, love is the best kind of vengeance.
There’s a fine art to revenge, and today, I am arting the hell out of it. I’m talking cackles of glee, evil cartoon overlord-style, rubbing my hands together while bouncing on my toes. Reminding myself to shut up because my brother will be home from his morning workout any minute now, and I don’t want to tip my hand when he doesn’t know I’m waiting for him here in his house up on the mountainside. You would think he would’ve learned to engage his security system more often by now. But he hasn’t, which means I’m here, armed and dangerous and ready, and I’m cackling with glee all over again. I know, I know. Is this really how you want to pay him back for having a box labeled “dildos” delivered to you at your parents’ house in the midst of all the pre-wedding activities for your other brother last week? Yes, actually. Yes, it is. It’s payback time. Also? I have zero doubt Cooper will have mad respect that I’m doing this. Sort of like while I was pissed when he replaced my coffee beans with roasted goat poop before he left for spring training nine months ago, I very much respected that he pulled it off, even if I wasn’t pleased at having to admit that that was the prank that took him over the top to win in our annual off-season prank war. But this winter? This winter, my brother Cooper “Stinky Booty” Rock is going down. The universe told me so. Why else would it have hand-delivered that video into my social media stream to inspire me right after I finished figuring out where to donate an unopened box of dildos? I cackle again. And then I slap my hand over my mouth. He’s home. There’s his dark head, bent toward the knob, beyond the tempered glass panel beside his front door. He’s dressed in Fireballs red, which is more orange than it is red, and he’s probably worn out from lifting at the gym. Yesterday was cardio day. I know, because he ran past Crusty Nut, our dad’s restaurant where I’m the manager five days a week, at least two dozen times without stopping in once to say hi. I haven’t seen him since the wedding several days ago, which either means he’s avoiding me and the revenge he knows I owe him, or he has a stick up his butt and has forgotten the little people. Or, possibly, he’s distracted, in which case, he needs this. I squat into position at the top of the stairs, as hidden as I can be while still seeing my target, Nerf blaster locked and loaded, waiting while he fumbles with his keys. For the record? It’s not easy to hide at the top of a curved staircase. I’m on my belly now, half-angled behind the wall of the hallway to his guest bedrooms, peering between the slats of the banister, hoping all my target practice pays off. Steady, TJ. This is what you trained for. The lock clicks. I flatten myself lower and take aim. The door swings open. Dark hair in the foyer. Go go go. I squeeze the trigger, sending a rapid blast of modified foam darts at the six balloons floating in the space above the door. The needle sticking out barely an eighth of an inch in the tip of the first dart connects. One helium balloon pops. Then two more, followed by the fourth and fifth. The sixth shifts after getting hit, like it’s a tough guy balloon. It’s the ninja of balloons, and it doesn’t want to participate in my dastardly plans today, but that’s okay. The other balloons are bursting in a sparkly, shiny, beautiful pink glitter spray that’s splattering on the walls, exploding from its nylon shell and raining down like a spring shower, coating the walls, making the air sparkle, and dusting all that dark hair as Cooper’s lifting his head. “What the—” And in the span of a heartbeat, before he can finish that sentence, I realize my mistake. My terrible, horrible, very bad miscalculation. If I were a superhero, I’d be sucking all that glitter into my lungs and redirecting it into my brother’s bedroom, which is likely what I should’ve done in the first place—hindsight, right?—but I didn’t. This was so much more dramatic and didn’t risk me having to find out which local he’s screwing around with in his spare time, as she’d be coated in glitter too after rolling around in his sheets, except my prank has failed. It has failed spectacularly. “Oh my god,” I gasp. That’s not Cooper. That is so not Cooper.
Pippa Grant is a USA Today Bestselling author who writes romantic comedies that will make tears run down your leg. When she’s not reading, writing or sleeping, she’s being crowned employee of the month as a stay-at-home mom and housewife trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be productive members of society, all the while fantasizing about long walks on the beach with hot chocolate chip cookies.
Genre:Standalone Contemporary Romance Release Date: July 12, 2021
Excited about Vi Keeland’s upcoming release, The Spark? Check out this SNEAK PEEK of CHAPTER 1!
CHAPTER 1
Autumn
I’m definitely getting too old for this. I tossed a pile of mail on the couch and plopped down beside it. It was barely six o’clock, and I wouldn’t have minded climbing into bed and calling it a day. I needed a vacation from my four-day mini vacation. Thank goodness I’d scheduled myself a weekend to recover. My girls’ trip/early bachelorette party in Vegas for my friend Anna—the one where we were all going to relax by the pool and get spa treatments—had turned into all-night clubbing and almost missing my flight home earlier today because I’d overslept. It had definitely been a while since I drank more than two glasses of wine in the span of a week, and I was feeling my ripe old age of twenty-eight before the sun had even set this Friday night. Thank God I didn’t have to work tomorrow. I briefly considered going the hair-of-the-dog route and sucking back a vodka cran while zoning out on Netflix, but then my phone rang, crashing me back to reality. Ugh… Dad flashed on the screen. I should’ve just gotten it over with and spoken to him, but I didn’t have the energy. Nonetheless, allowing myself to avoid the stress speaking to my father would inevitably cause reminded me of the other thing I needed to do that I’d been avoiding all afternoon. Laundry. One of my least-favorite tasks—mostly because it required me to sit downstairs in my building’s dingy basement laundry room. Up until a few months ago, I would start my laundry and come back forty-five minutes later to make the switch to the dryer. But that practice had come to a halt after one of my loads went missing—an entire load of wet bras and underwear. Who the hell stole wet clothes? At least nab dry ones. Nevertheless, it was an expensive lesson, and now I didn’t leave the basement until my clothes were washed and dried. Sighing, I begrudgingly went to the bedroom, where my suitcase still sat on the bed, and unzipped it. I’d packed a linen skirt on top that I hadn’t wound up wearing, and I figured I’d hang it in the bathroom and hope the wrinkles worked themselves out over the course of a couple of steamy showers. I hated ironing almost as much as I hated doing laundry downstairs. But when I flipped open the top of the suitcase, my linen skirt wasn’t on top. At first I thought my bag must’ve been selected for search, and things hadn’t been put back in order… Though the wingtip shoe I lifted was most definitely not mine. Shit. I rummaged through the suitcase in a panic. Slacks, running clothes, a men’s dress shirt… A sickening feeling washed over me, and I scrambled to look at the luggage tag. I’d never filled out the identification card inside, but the leather had my initials embossed on the outside. And this one…had no initials. Crap. Crap. Crap. I’d grabbed the wrong bag off the luggage carousel. I started to sweat. All of my makeup was in that bag! Not to mention a week’s worth of my best outfits and shoes. I needed to get it back. Rushing to the kitchen, I grabbed my cell from the charger on the counter and Googled the number for the airline. After wading through a half-dozen prompts, I reached a recording. “Thank you for calling American Airlines. Due to unprecedented call volume, your estimated wait time is approximately forty-one minutes.” Forty-one minutes! I blew out a rush of air. Great. Just great. In the meantime, while I waited on hold on speakerphone, listening to staticky music, it hit me that whoever’s luggage I had might very well have mine. I hadn’t even checked the luggage tag to see if, unlike mine, the identification information was filled in. I zipped back down the hall to my bedroom. Bingo! Donovan Decker—kind of a cool name. And he lived here in the city! Thankfully, Donovan even had his phone number listed. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? I doubted it, but considering I still had forty minutes before I could speak to someone at the airline, I wasn’t losing much for trying. So I swiped to end my call. I started to punch in the numbers on the tag, and then decided to hit *67 first to make my number private. With my luck, the guy wouldn’t have my luggage, but he’d be a total creeper. I was caught off guard when a man’s deep voice answered on the first ring. I hadn’t yet figured out what I was going to say. “Uhhh. Hi. My name is Autumn, and I think I might have your luggage.” “That was quick. I just hung up with you guys two minutes ago.” He must’ve thought I was calling from the airline. “Oh, no. I don’t work for American. I traveled home this morning and must’ve grabbed the wrong bag at JFK.” “What are your initials?” “My initials?” “Yeah, you know, the first letter of your first name and the first letter of your last name.” I rolled my eyes. “I know what initials are. I just don’t understand why you would ask—Oh! Does that mean you have my luggage? I have my initials embossed on the luggage tag.” “That depends on what your initials are, Autumn. The first letter matches.” “My initials are AW.” “Well, then it seems you are indeed the thief who clipped my luggage.” Sure, I hadn’t checked my luggage tag, but it offended me that he was calling me a thief. “Wouldn’t we both be thieves? Since you’re in possession of my luggage?” “I only took yours because it was the last one left rotating around the carousel. You see, unlike you, I checked the luggage tag the first time it passed, and when I saw it wasn’t mine, I left it for the rightful owner to claim. But the line at baggage customer service was twenty deep, and I had a meeting I was already late for. So I took the one I have hostage until the airline could sort it out.” My shoulders slumped. “Oh. Sorry.” “It’s fine. Are you here in the City?” “I am. Could we possibly meet to swap bags?” “Sure. When and where? I’m out now, but I’ll be back in an hour or two.” The tag had an address on the Upper East Side, but I lived on the West Side, farther downtown. “Could we meet at the Starbucks on 80th and Lex?” That was closer to him, but at least I’d only have to drag the suitcase onto one subway. “I can’t think of any excuse not to. What time?” That was sort of a weird way to phrase a yes, and the way he emphasized the word excuseseemed odd. But hey, I was getting my bag back. So what if he turned out to be a little strange? At least I’d hidden my phone number, and we were meeting in a public place. “How about eight?” “I’ll see you then.” It sounded like he was about to hang up. “Wait…” I said. “How will I know it’s you?” “I’ll be the one holding your luggage, Autumn W.” I chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Sorry…long week in Vegas.” I bent and lifted the shoe from the top of the bag. Ferragamo. Expensive. And big, too. A quick peek revealed it was a size thirteen. The inner teenager in me couldn’t help but think big feet, big…. Plus, the guy had a deep, sexy voice. I would definitely be exploring more of the dude’s luggage after we hung up. “I’ll meet you at eight,” he said. “See you then.” I was just about to swipe my phone off when something hit me. Oh God! “Hello? Wait…are you still there?” It took a heartbeat or two, but the sexy voice came back on the line. “What’s up?” “Ummm… Did you…open my bag?” “I unzipped it at the airport to make sure it wasn’t mine when I noticed the luggage tag initials.” “Did you…see anything?” “There was a pink thong on top, so that pretty much sealed the deal that it didn’t belong to me. But I didn’t rummage through, if that’s what you’re asking.” I forgot I’d shoved that thong in at the last minute. It had been at the back of a drawer when I’d checked the hotel room one last time on my way out. But I’d take him seeing my underwear over the other stuff inside my bag. I blew out a sigh of relief. “Okay, that’s great. Thank you. I’ll see you at eight at Starbucks.” “Whoa. Hang on a second—not so fast. You sounded pretty nervous that I might’ve gone through your bag. Are you hiding something sinister in there? I’m not going to be walking around with a suitcase full of drugs or something, am I?” I cracked a smile. “No, definitely not. I just…I’d prefer if you didn’t go through it.” “Did you rummage through mine?” I glanced at the shoe in my hand. Taking out one measly piece of footwear wouldn’t be considered rummaging, right? Nah. “No, I didn’t.” “Are you planning on it?” he asked. I had no idea what the man looked like, yet I could tell by his voice that he was smiling now. “Nope,” I lied. “Alright. Then we have a deal. I won’t go through your bag, and you won’t go through mine.” “Okay. Thank you.” “Do I have your word on that, Autumn W? I might have some things I’d prefer you didn’t see in there.” “Like what?” He chuckled. “See you at eight.” After we hung up, I tossed the shoe back into the suitcase and bent to close it. But as I reached for the zipper, my curiosity got the best of me. Was he just screwing with me, or did he really have something in here he didn’t want me to see? Of course, I knew what I had in mine, which made me extra curious. I shook my head and started to pull the zipper closed. About halfway, I laughed out loud. Who was I kidding? Now that I didn’t have laundry to do, I had almost a full two hours to kill before I met Mr. Bigfoot. This suitcase would taunt me all that time. I’d most certainly give in eventually, so why not put myself out of that misery and just take a little look-see inside now? Then I’d be able to relax. He’d never know I hadn’t lived up to my end of the bargain. Not to mention, for all I knew, he was elbow deep in my suitcase right now. In that case, it would only be fair that I got to go through his, right? I nibbled my lip for a few seconds as a wave of guilt washed over me. But I quickly forced that out of my mind. Of course I’m right. Feeling justified now, I unzipped the suitcase and took a minute to mentally note how everything was packed: a white dress shirt was folded on top, and two shoes were set on either side, heels facing up. I carefully unpacked those and placed them on the bed next to the suitcase in the same order. The next layer had more folded clothes: two expensive dress shirts, a pair of sweats, boxer briefs, and a few T-shirts, one of which had something emblazoned on the front—familiar lettering that began HA—so I unfolded it to see what it said. Harvard Law. Ugh. One of those. No wonder he could afford Ferragamo shoes. Underneath the pile of clothes was a white laundry bag—the kind a hotel gives you to put your dry cleaning in, but most people used it to separate their dirty clothes. With no desire to sort through smelly socks, I started to fold the clothes back into the suitcase, feeling a twinge of disappointment. But when I smoothed out the layers of the pile, I felt something lumpy and hard underneath in the plastic laundry bag. So I took the clothes back out and looked inside, hoping to find…I’m not sure what. Though what I found was definitely not what I expected. The bag was filled with at least twenty or thirty of those little shampoo bottles hotels give out. Actually, a closer inspection revealed some were conditioner and a few were moisturizer. Buried on the very bottom were also three little sewing kits and half-a-dozen toothbrushes wrapped in plastic—the kind you could get at the front desk of a hotel when you forgot yours. What the heck had Mr. Bigfoot done? Rob a housekeeping cart? This kind of stuff, though a lesser quantity, is what you’d usually find in my suitcase since I was broke all the time. But it wasn’t the type of thing you’d expect in the suitcase of a man who had gone to Harvard and wore seven-hundred-dollar dress shoes. Now I was even more curious to meet Donovan Decker.
***
I arrived at Starbucks almost twenty minutes early, so I went online to treat myself to a flat white with honey almond milk. Even ordering it had me salivating, thinking about the sweet, creamy drink. Expensive coffee was my indulgence, but it didn’t happen too often with the five-dollar price tag and my skimpy budget. I stood at the end of the counter, waiting for my drink and mindlessly scrolling on my phone, when a man walking through the front door caught my attention. Oh, wow. Now that was one good-looking man. Describing him as merely tall, dark, and handsome didn’t cut it, not by a mile. Jet-black hair framed a magnificent face with a chiseled, masculine bone structure, full lips, and a Romanesque nose. I wasn’t the only one to notice, either. I watched as the Adonis took a step back outside to hold the door open for a woman exiting the store, and the poor lady caught one glimpse of him and literally tripped over her own feet. Seemingly oblivious that he’d caused the incident, he extended a hand to help her up, flashed a killer smile, and strolled inside. His bright blue eyes scanned the room, stopping right on my ogling ones. Embarrassed at being caught, I quickly diverted my attention back to my phone. A few seconds later, I was still pretending to be enraptured by my screen when footsteps came to a halt in front of me. I glanced up and blinked a few times. The guy from the door flashed a crooked smile. “Were you able to control yourself?” My forehead wrinkled. “Excuse me?” His eyes danced with mirth, and his voice lowered. “I bet you couldn’t.” I stared at him for an awkward moment before finally shaking my head. “What on Earth are you talking about?” The man’s brows furrowed. “We made a deal, remember? I wouldn’t go through yours, if you didn’t touch mine?” I’d watched the man walk in, stood right in front of him staring for at least a solid minute, and it took until nowfor me to notice he had something in his hand. “Oh my God. You have my suitcase!” He laughed but still looked perplexed. “What did you think I was talking about?” “I…I don’t know. I was thoroughly confused.” “I thought you saw me walk in.” I did. But I hadn’t made it past your face. “No, I hadn’t noticed. Sorry. I guess I was just zoning out.” The barista behind the counter yelled my name. I was glad for an excuse to put some distance between this guy and me. I needed a moment to gather my wits. Though when I returned, I still felt a little off-kilter. “Thank you for meeting me to swap suitcases,” I said. “I’m really sorry I took the wrong one.” “No problem.” I rolled his case forward and released the handle. But the Adonis didn’t do the same. In fact, he pulled my bag closer to his side. “Before we switch…” He tilted his head and studied my face. “I’m curious to know if you kept your word.” I mimicked his pose and tilted my head. “What if I say I didn’t?” “Well, then you’d have to pay a penalty for violating the terms of our deal.” I raised a brow, intrigued. “A penalty?” He nodded. “That’s right. There’s a penalty.” I laughed as I lifted my coffee for a sip. “I just got back from a girls’ weekend in Vegas. Pretty sure this overpriced drink just used up the last five dollars in my bank account.” “I wasn’t referring to a monetary penalty.” “What kind of a penalty, then?” He stroked the stubble on his chin for a moment. “You’d have to have coffee with me.” Did this guy really think that would be a hardship? I debated how to answer. If I told the truth, it would be embarrassing. I mean, I went through the man’s personal belongings. But the flipside was I’d get to check him out some more over coffee. Then again, I’d be agreeing to spend time with a complete stranger. Though…whenever I met a guy online, I usually met him at a coffeehouse, and I probably knew more about this guy after going through his suitcase than I would from an online chat. Not to mention, none of my online dates had looked like Donovan Decker lately. In fact, none had made it further than coffee in a while. Adonis had been watching my face as I debated my answer. His smirk made me think he already knew I’d checked out his bag. So, what the hell? I stood tall and met his stare. “Was the lady from housekeeping harmed in the robbery?” His eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, but then a giant smile spread across his face. He held his hand out toward the seating area. “After you, Autumn W.” ★★★
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AUTHOR BIO
Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall StreetJournal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles have appeared in over a hundred Bestseller lists and are currently translated in twenty-five languages. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.
Love isn’t fated. And anything revealed by a sideshow fortune teller about soulmates is also bogus. But when the same unique name is called over the loudspeaker at a hospital years later, even a skeptic like Zara can’t fight the curiosity. And when he turns out to be a witty, good-looking, intelligent and successful lawyer, a girl might rethink her stance. But is he everything he claims to be? Or is he too good to be true? Crazy attraction and an undeniable connection make for a lethal combination. And he is either her ultimate true love or her greatest mistake.
T Gephart is a USA Today and International bestselling author from Melbourne, Australia. With an approach to life that is somewhat unconventional, she prefers to fly by the seat of her pants rather than adhere to some rigid roadmap. Her lack of “plan” has resulted in a rather interesting and eclectic resume, which reads more like the fiction she writes than an actual employment history. She’d tell you all about it, but the statute of limitations hasn’t expired yet. But all those crazy twists and turns have led her to a career she loves–writing romantic comedy. When she isn’t filling pages with sassy and sexy characters with attitude, she’s living her own reality show in the ‘burbs of Melbourne with her American husband, two teenage children, and her fur child–Woodley. She loves adventure, to laugh, travel, and strives to live her life to the fullest.
“Stop speaking,” he mutters against my lips. He rolls over until he’s hovering on top of me, keeping us connected with his tongue. I’ve rarely been kissed, but the few times I have pale in comparison.
He kisses me like he’s reaching inside my chest and stealing my breath for his own. Like he’d let the world burn, if only I’d ask him for the ashes.
Finally, he breaks away, his eyes roaming over my face, the weight of his body pressing on mine the only thing tethering me to the ground. “I’m going to say something, and I need you to listen to me.” His palm runs down my hair again, and I lean into his touch. His other hand grips my chin, his thumb pressing into my bottom lip. “Being with you is what I like. However you need. However you want. Getting you off gets me off. Feeling you… learning all the different parts of you—” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s a fucking gift. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
My chest spasms, stomach warming. Emotion swirls in the center of my gut like fog, unfurling through my body, filling up the empty space. My hand lifts, fingers scratching against his stubble. “And who gets to be what you need?”
His eyes flash with heat, his lips turning up in the corner. His hand moves from my chin, skimming up my cheek and wrapping around the back of my neck. Leaning in, his nose brushes against mine, the moment thick with a tender energy.
Emily McIntire is an author of painful, messy, beautiful romance. She doesn’t like to box herself into one subgenre, but at the core of all her stories is soul deep love.
A long time songwriter and an avid reader, Emily has always had a passion for the written word. When she’s not writing you can find her waiting on her long lost Hogwarts letter, chasing her crazy toddler, or lost between the pages of a good book.
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