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NEW RELEASE – Hate The Player by Max Monroe

Hate the Player (official 9x6)

I hate him.

I want him.

He’s a jerk.

A player.

Addicting.

Trouble.

Hate the Player, a slow burn and hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!

“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”

That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!

And that’s not even the worst of it.

My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.

Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.

It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.

As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.

Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.

I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.

I’m sure of it.


HTP - AN

Download your copy today or read for Free on Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2C7tklj

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HateThePlayer

Add Hate the Player to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2ZLb2y4


HTP - Teaser 3


Excerpt

Birdie

True to my name, I’m about to take fucking flight. At least, I would if I could.

In this moment, it really would have been helpful if my trainer hadn’t successfully eliminated all the extra flappy meat on my upper arms. Surely, if I got them going fast enough, the wind beneath those bat wings could have carried me up and through the ceiling of this place.

C’mon, you big baby, I coach myself. You can do this.

One cavernous breath into my lungs and then another and another, and eventually, just before my vision turns tunneled, I will my feet to move away from the door.

Gleaming marble floors, golden statues, and a freaking fountain in the center, the lobby of Capo Brothers Studios is everything I should have expected and more.

If everything is bigger in Texas, then everything is most certainly richer in LA.

I check in with security quickly, my voice only a little croaky thanks to the frog in my throat, and head for the elevator bank at the far side of the lobby.

I’m to head to the fifteenth floor, I’m told, and then go straight down the hall to the glass doors on the left at the end. There, I’ll find William Capo’s office—the head honcho and only surviving brother of Capo Brothers.

My cowgirl boots are noisy on the marble floors when I do as instructed. The sound you make when you walk is such a small detail—one I don’t normally think about—but the echo of their clack today makes my heart feel like it’s knocking into my rib cage and each step across the ornate floor is merely a sound effect.

Fifteen floors eclipse quickly—clearly, they’ve spared no expense on their elevator—and the hallway that leads to William’s office seems strangely one-directional. Like once I go down it—once I take this step—there will be no going back. Which is probably why, after forcing myself to go the distance to the end, I pause at the open door, the points of my booted toes just shy of crossing the line.

“Good morning.” A pretty assistant dressed in a white power suit greets me before I’ve even cleared the threshold of the door, and all thoughts of escape are dashed. Like it or not, I’ve just been shoved over the line. I will my feet to do the same as she continues to speak. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Birdie Harris,” I answer and have to swallow hard against the dryness threatening to close my throat. “I have an audition.”

My nerves are so obvious, the assistant offers a sympathetic smile.

If she were from my childhood hometown in West Virginia, she’d most likely be thinking Bless her heart.

She taps something across the keyboard of her iMac and places her hand to the Bluetooth at her ear. “Mr. Capo, I have Birdie Harris here.” Immediately, she looks away from the computer and meets my eyes. “They’ll be ready for you shortly. You can take a seat over there.” She points behind me, back through the door and across the hall to what I’m assuming is a fancy-schmancy waiting room of some sort. I haven’t encountered a place in the building that doesn’t have some sort of gilded or marble inlay, so I highly doubt I’m going to step through that door and into a room styled by the set designer for Saw. Though, I can’t say some sort of torture device wouldn’t be completely misplaced right now. I’m already doing a pretty good job of mentally waterboarding myself with worry.

I offer a little nod, keeping my twisted, sicko thoughts to myself. I doubt they’re interested in hiring a woman on the brink of a hysterical episode.

The secretary quirks a brow, and I realize, though I’ve nodded my affirmation of understanding, I’ve yet to move.

Good God, Birdie! Go sit down.

Annoyed with myself, I turn on my boots and march across the hall so violently, it’s like there’s an invisible person helping me along with a heavy hand at the nape of my neck.

When I cross into the room, a man is sitting on a swanky leather sofa with his booted feet up on the coffee table. He glances up briefly before returning his eyes to the phone in his lap. Embarrassed, I smooth my clomps instantly.

You’re a gazelle, Birdie, not a herd of buffalo, I coach. Move like it.

With his attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw.

I’d love to get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might draw his attention again.

When he smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

Oh no. I know exactly who this man is.

Andrew Watson.

The very man Rocky warned me about and I subsequently Instagram stalked. A laundry list of different women dotted through his timeline, it confirmed everything Rocky told me and then some.

All relaxed and cool, he sits on the white leather sofa with one arm outstretched across the back. Confidence and charm ooze from every freaking cell in his body. No doubt, Andrew Watson is more than capable of commanding the attention of everyone in the room, no matter the situation.

No wonder he’s one of Hollywood’s most famous actors.

The only time I have that kind of quiet confidence is when I’m onstage, singing my songs, lost in the music I created.

Just play it cool, Birdie.

On a deep breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch.

My eyes are immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain. After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic.

Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson, complicating things even more!

I must make a noise I don’t realize—the sound of my saliva gurgling in my throat while I choke on it, perhaps—because Andrew looks at me with curious eyes. I try like hell to keep my calm and act like I haven’t just gone to mental war with the soldier in his pants, but there’s only so much hysteria containment my mind is capable of.

“Uh…hi,” I say, trying so dang hard not to glance back down at his crotch that I start spewing diarrhea of the mouth about goddamn military-themed movies. “I never saw A Few Good Men, but I hear Tom Cruise was good in it.” When I realize what I’ve just said makes absolutely no sense to him—punctuated perfectly by his eyebrows drawing together noticeably—the gurgling saliva turns into a full-blown choke, and suddenly, the only way to breathe is through a hacking cough.

Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and I hold up my hand in some kind of gesture. I’m not sure of its technical name, but its meaning is clear—please forget I exist right now.

He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile.

“Sorry,” I apologize. I didn’t mean to drag him into an impromptu SNL sketch where I choke on spit and say ridiculously inappropriate, off-the-wall things. “I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.”

His responding smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands and knees and thank the Lord above.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating his words with a wink.

If my mind were a screenplay, the nerves would be exiting stage left.

Did he seriously just wink at me after assuming that I’m nervous to be in his presence?

Surely, I’m hearing this wrong. No one is that obsessed with themselves…right?

“Excuse me?” I ask, and his megawatt smile is still ever-present.

“If you’d like me to sign an autograph or take a selfie with you,” he enunciates slowly, as if my being able to understand him clearly was the problem. “I can probably sneak that in before I have to head in there.”

His autograph? You have got to be kidding me. He sure is a cocky bastard—and for the first time today, I’m not even talking about his dick.

Like the tip of a match being swiped across the edge of a matchbook, aggravation bursts into my veins.

“I’m here for an audition,” I assert.

Unfazed, he quirks a brow as if to say, my invitation for an autograph still stands.

Attractive or not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around.

“I’m Birdie Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.”

And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick.


About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/


BLOG TOUR: Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl by Max Monroe

WHGG - BT banner

A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new not-to-be-missed, surprise baby romantic comedy standalone by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!

WHGG Official cover 6x9 (2)

Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.

That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong.

One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse.

A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.

But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk.

Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.

As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head.

Good thing I’m all in.
Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.


WHGG - AN

Download your copy today exclusively on Amazon or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl

Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j


WHGG - Teaser 2


Excerpt

Harrison

Never cry over spilled milk.

That’s what my mom always said, but I have to admit, until today, I never paid it much attention. As a kid, I spilled shit all the time. Milk. Juice. Water. If it was liquid, I was splattering it all over fucking creation.

Our mop got a lot of action, sure, but every time, my mom would simply laugh. Not a little, demure giggle, but big, uproarious belly laughing. Ellie Hughes thought life was made for living, and she’d be damned if she let me dwell in the valleys. Hell, maybe that’s why I was always wreaking havoc on all of our flooring—my accidents were a precursor to something upbeat.

Anyway, I haven’t thought much about all those puddles of laughter in a long time.

But today is proof positive: my mom—well, she was a teacher way ahead of her time.

Cereal poured and the financial section of the New York Times in hand, I make my way to my circular, glass kitchen table and take a seat that faces the TV.

Hello, Today!, the syndicated fluff show during the eight o’clock hour on TBC, prattles on about the perfect Christmas breakfast for a family of four while an obnoxious elf bounces around in the background. I roll my eyes as some celebrity—fuck if I know who it is—pretends to know how to make frittatas and turn my eyes back to the paper.

Growing up, television was forbidden fruit in my childhood home. My hard-ass of a dad thought it was more important to read the Wall Street Journal and understand the stock market than watch what he called drivel. He was one of those top 1% people, and his power-wealthy position in life included uber-rich hedge funds, strategic million-dollar stock market swing trades, and a money-hungry mind-set.

The only time the one television—I’m serious, one fucking TV—in our home was actually used, it revolved around big news conglomerates and State of the Union addresses by current presidents.

But despite the old man’s eccentric views on television and movies and normal people’s forms of entertainment, I can’t deny that learning about the stock market at an early age and being forced to understand things like the global economy and trade deals has served beneficial in adulthood.

My morning routine normally synchronizes beautifully for an all-out news download before heading to the office. But today, because of a late dinner meeting last night and too many Christmas-themed cocktails that have nothing to do with the holly-sprig adorned ones on TV, I’m running behind schedule.

The great news is, as CFO of one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, I’m actually allowed to do that on occasion without getting docked on my time card. In fact, I haven’t seen an actual time card in ages. The only punching I do is at Tommy John’s Kickboxing on Wednesdays in a basement studio all the way over on 75th and Broadway.

In the interest of full punching disclosure: I suck at it. Mohammad Ali in training, I am not. But flab is real, friends, even for the studly men in your life, and punching a bag with little to no precision keeps the excess weight off me. In layman’s terms, it keeps the ladies from grabbing on to anything other than muscle in bed.

Ha.

Scratch that last line. They grab my dick; I didn’t mean to make it sound like they don’t. There’s actually more penile touching than any other kind of touching in the cottony comfort of my sheets, and I’m very good at touching the ladies, in turn, with my mouth and penis. In fact, when my dick hears the words dick pic, it asks for photo credit because it was most certainly the one taking the picture.

Okay, maybe I’ve gotten a little carried away, but my point is the same.

What I meant to imply was that they don’t grab on to a beer gut—and trust me, if I didn’t work out, they would. I love beer and chicken wings, and I indulge in them both on way too many occasions to maintain some kind of quota weight “naturally.” If it weren’t for all the strenuous, practically nightly kickboxing workouts, if I were a woman in the public eye, I would be a constant ludicrous headline for my “fluctuating waistline.”

Thankfully, I am trim, toned, and able to binge on buffalo wings whenever the fuck I want.

My cell vibrates across the table, and I snag it off the glass surface to see Incoming Call Cap flashing on the screen.

I sigh at the idea of listening to Caplin Hawkins’s bullshit before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee, but I answer it despite my better judgment.

“Harrison, you sly motherfucker, those stock tips you gave me last quarter have my portfolio growing green like I’m a damn cannabis farmer.” He forgoes a greeting and dives straight into what is most likely his selfish needs. “Should I be concerned you’re getting insider info?”

“Wow, it’s so great to hear from you too, bud.” I smirk and lick my finger to get traction on the thin paper and flip through the pages until I get to yesterday’s closing data for the Dow Jones and S&P 500. Quickly, I scan through the numbers. It’s only one week away from Christmas and a few weeks away from New Years’, and this month’s upward trend appears fairly optimistic for avoiding a choppy close to the year.

“Yesterday, HawCom was up five-fucking-percent. Seriously, dude, are you dragging me and my father’s company into some illegal bullshit?” he asks, and I look away from my newspaper to roll my eyes.

HawCom is the company I’ve been with for the past decade, and it just so happens to be owned by Cap’s father, Jared Hawkins. Financial management for a company of its scale has been tricky these days with the ongoing uncertainty of the market, but all in all, HawCom’s performance numbers have been stable and steadily growing for the last nine quarters. As a major media company with “silent” ownership in some of the world’s most relevant technology companies, it’s not completely unexpected, but it’s certainly not guaranteed.

“Is it difficult being the most ridiculous bastard on the planet?” I retort. “Because, fuck, I can imagine it gets hard coming up with new ways to be this insane.”

Despite this idiot’s stupid question, everything I do is by the book. No insider trading. No fraud. It all comes from a mind that’s been trained since childhood to be strategic and understand economic patterns.

And even if I shouldn’t, for the state of my motivation to maintain a certain work ethic, I do allow myself to take a little credit for HawCom’s success. I’ve been charged with a large job due to my leadership role in the company, but I cherish the opportunity. It’d be hard not to with an uncharacteristically kind and charismatic boss like Jared at the helm.

And for the last four months, I’ve made it a point to cherish everything.

See, I choose to be happy every day.

I choose gratitude and intention in my every action.

I choose the way my life plays out—all of us do.

It took me more than three busy, painful decades and the loss of both parents to figure that out, but now that I have, the freedom in it is impressive.

The truth is, until we die, all of us get to choose our own destiny—

“I swear to God,” Cap grumbles. “I will end you if I wind up in some kind of high-security prison for stock fraud.”

I laugh at the absurdity. “I help you grow your portfolio—without commission, mind you—and you’re threatening murder?”

“Are you deflecting, son?” he questions, always the fucking lawyer. “Because I swear on every-damn-thing, I will—”

“Relax.” I snort. “The only thing illegal about the stock tips I gave you was the fact that I handed them to you on a silver-fucking-platter without asking for anything in return.”

“Speaking of handing shit to me on a silver platter, let’s do that again,” he says, a cunning smile apparent in his voice. “Who is looking profitable for the first quarter of next year?”

“And why should I give you anything, you prick?”

“Because you love me. Because you don’t want to see me become a vagabond, living on the streets.”

“You’re one of the most successful corporate lawyers in North America who already has some of the world’s best advisers handling his money. I’m pretty sure a lack of financial investment advice from me isn’t going to break your bank.”

“Minor details.” He chuckles. “C’mon, dude. Help your best friend and his sweet, lovely, beautiful wife out.”

“Now you’re bringing Ruby into this?” I tsk. “For shame.”

“You and I both know, shameless or not, I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want,” he retorts, and I laugh outright.

“Are you wanting stock tips or to get me into bed? Because, truthfully, it feels like it could go either way at this point.”

Of course, he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “I’ll even toss in a candlelit dinner and champagne if that’s what it’s going to take.”

Just for the sake of ending this insanity, I start to open my mouth with a few companies that are worthy of investments in the upcoming quarter, but a shrill voice on the screen of the TV steals my attention. I wouldn’t normally refer to any woman’s voice as shrill because I find it incredibly sexist and demeaning, but I’m telling you, for the sake of painting an accurate description, this particular voice, regardless of its bearer’s gender, is like the distress call of a wounded rabbit. I couldn’t miss it if I were in an underground bunker with six feet of sound-dampening dirt between us. And somehow, somehow, she still made it on TV.

“Thanks, Chris,” she continues, her voice still painful to my ears. “Today is anything but business as usual in sunny Southern California. It seems, folks, that the impossible has happened. Hollywood is abuzz this morning with the most infamous immaculate conception since the Virgin Mary herself.”

My eyebrows pinch together at the ridiculous drivel as I lift the spoon to my mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph must be rolling over in their graves.

“Twenty-nine-year-old famed virgin sexpot, Raquel Weaver, was photographed leaving Beverly Hills Obstetrics today with a noticeable bump front and center on her normally trim figure.”

Brakes squeal to a stop inside my head.

What the fuck? Did she just say Raquel Weaver?

I gape at the television, trying to make sense of why that name of all names just came out of Screechy’s mouth, but the instant a photograph pops up on the screen and all-too-familiar violet eyes stare back at me, I have my fucking answer.

Holy shit. It’s her.


About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK
Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS
Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW
Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau
Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/


COVER REVEAL – Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl by Max Monroe

WHGG - CR banner

A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new fun and flirty romantic comedy by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is releasing June 11th, and we have the irresistible cover!

WHGG Official cover 6x9

Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.

That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong.

One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse.

A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.

But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk.

Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.

As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head.

Good thing I’m all in.
Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.


WHGG - PO

Pre-order your copy today exclusively on Amazon!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl

Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j

Cover Photo by Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Jacob Cooley


About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK
Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS
Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW
Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau
Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/


RELEASE BLITZ – Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy by Max Monroe

THBB - RB banner

Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?

Asking for a friend.

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, an all-new hilarious enemies to lovers standalone from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

Taming Hollywood_s Baddest Boy(final cover)

Okay, fine. I’m not asking for a friend.

I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common.

Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked.

This probably happens all the time…right?

Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk.

Please. Please. Please. Tell me I’m not alone in this.

For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it.

Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames.

Gah. Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?


THBB RB- AN 99c

Download your copy today for only 99¢ or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2U1vlUW

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TamingHBB

Add TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2U46YI7


About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/


BLOG TOUR ~ THE BILLIONAIRE BOOK CLUB by Max Monroe

TBBC - BT Banner

It’s going to take a strategic attack from more than a couple brilliant minds to win her affection, but luckily, I know exactly where to find the right guys for the job…

The Billionaire Book Club, an all-new hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

TBBC Official Cover (new)

The Billionaire Book Club Questionnaire

#1: Who is your least favorite character in the book?

Me—Caplin Hawkins. I am an absolute idiot.

#2: Who is your favorite character?

Gorgeous, addictive, insanely challenging Ruby.

She’s smart, driven, self-confident, and so beautiful, she makes my chest ache.

#3 What is your biggest takeaway from the story?

Ruby Rockford and I are meant to be.

I just have to prove it to her.

For the entirety of my adult life, I’ve been content.

Content in my single lifestyle, content in my stressful-but-extremely-successful job as the main corporate counsel for almost every Fortune 500 company in North America, and content in my playful, spontaneous ways.

I had no idea it was possible for someone to change my mind.

The endless women and work are no longer enough, and just as Ruby Rockford told me—it’s about time I grow up.

It’s going to take a strategic attack from more than a couple brilliant minds to win her affection, but luckily, I know exactly where to find the right guys for the job…

The Billionaire Book Club.

It’s safe to say that I, Caplin Hawkins, the man most women would call The Ultimate Player, have finally met my match, and man oh man, has my end game changed.

I’m coming for you, Ruby.

And soon, you’ll be coming for me, too.


TBBC - AN

Download your copy today and read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2khvCWc

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Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2MGEbFV


Except:

Cap

Errands officially run and work and Hell-ary’s margs with the girls out of my fucking head, I settle into poker night with the guys.

This, right here, is exactly what I needed.

Just the guys, smoking cigars, and playing poker.

Smoke swirls above the green felt of the table as Thatcher Kelly knocks the ashy end off his cigar, puts it back in his mouth, and deals a round of cards.

I catch them under my hand as he throws them, placing them one by one into the palm of my other hand and studying what luck has dealt me.

This hand gives me a queen, a king, and a trio of shitty other random cards, but in my actual life, it’s a whole lot of really good shit.

I’m a happy guy with a job he loves, friends he can count on, and more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.

I don’t have to worry about making the mortgage every month, I don’t have a sordid past with demons to conquer and wounds to heal, and I get more pussy than the SPCA.

There are occasionally stressful situations that come with being the top corporate lawyer for nearly every muckety-muck in the country, but I thrive off the pressure. It feeds my need for adrenaline and puts a nice layer of padding on an already swollen ego.

Which is, frankly, just how I like it.

Confidence keeps my life balanced. If I weren’t confident in my abilities at work, I’d be spending this time poring over files instead of enjoying a game of poker with my rarely available, pussy-whipped friends. But I know myself, I know my tenacity, I know my willingness to work an all-nighter, and most importantly, I know a little free time for pleasure does the business part of my mind a whole lot of good.

Kline Brooks, Thatcher Kelly, Wes Lancaster, Milo Ives, Trent Turner, and Harrison Hughes sit around the table in front of me, arranging their cards and smoking their cigars in comfortable silence. Quincy Black and Theo Cruz couldn’t make it tonight—something about a baby and a new hip nightclub respectively—but as I understand it, they have a standing invitation to poker night as well.

When the last card is dealt, Thatcher Kelly, a numbers genius, friend, fellow billionaire, and client of mine, places his cigar in an ashtray and shoves back in his chair to make his massive frame look even bigger. Frankly, I’m the only one in this group of guys who even comes close to his size, but I’m still not a giant like him. At six foot three and just over two hundred pounds, I’m leaner, but I can still pretty much guarantee I’m the stronger of the two of us.

“Welcome, motherfluffers…to the official Thatcher Kelly Poker Night, trademark.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics, and trust me, I’m not the only one. Thatch has been trying to get a poker night going for our group for months, and now that it’s finally happening, I’m not even a little surprised he’s treating it like the first night of the Olympics. “What happens here, stays here, locked away from the women, the men, the children in your lives. This is a sacred table, a sacred ritual, a sacred game, and you will respect it.”

“Jesus,” Kline Brooks, another client of mine, CEO of the popular dating app TapNext, and Thatch’s best friend in the whole world, mutters.

Thatch carries on, unaffected. “I know you have other things in your lives, and I’ll allow it, but from here forward, this biweekly game is to become your priority.”

“No,” Wes Lancaster, owner of the New York Mavericks and another one of Thatch’s best friends, remarks. “I’ll be here when and if I have time. Fuck your sanctity. And, for the sake of everyone’s sanity, let’s keep your text reminders of poker night down to one in the future.”

“You’re disrespectful and disappointing, Whitney. You should be happy I allowed you, a woman, to participate.” Thatch smirks. “This is supposed to be boys only.”

Wes holds up his middle finger and takes a puff on his cigar, and I jump in as a colorful referee.

“Relax, guys. I think what Thatch is trying to say is that he misses you guys. You’re all so busy with your pussy—”

“Hey!”

“Yo!”

“What the fuck?”

“I’d tread lightly…”

The chorus of responses is loud and overwhelming, but I shush them with a hand and continue. “That we never really get to hang out anymore. This is a chance to bond like men. To talk about things you can’t talk about at home. To relax and play poker and not give a fuck about anything else.”

“I’m pretty fucking relaxed at home,” Milo interjects, and unfortunately, the rest of the band of misfits nods in agreement.

“Well, fuck you guys very much,” I say with a sour laugh. “Do it for me, then.”

“Technically, they’re doing it for me,” Thatch corrects. “And I’d keep your voice down. If Cassie hears you say some of this shit, I’m not gonna hold her back for you.”

“Your wife is here?” I question with a groan. “I thought this was about the guys. A sacred ritual locked away from the women and children in your lives—”

“It is, it is,” Thatch interrupts with a sigh. “But Cassie wouldn’t let me come into the city to have poker night at our Manhattan apartment and leave her with the kids at the New Jersey house, so she got a sitter, and the girls are having a meeting in their space, all the way on the other side of the apartment. Don’t worry. This is the guys’ space. They know that.”

Manhattan apartment. New Jersey house. Talk about first world problems.

Thatcher Kelly has more houses and apartments than he has members of his family.

Not that I can’t say the same for myself, but that’s minor details.

I roll my eyes at his pathetic words. Cassie Kelly wouldn’t follow a directive given by her husband if it literally saved her life. She wears the pants in their relationship, and Thatch usually doesn’t deny it. Instead, he just presents her tits as evidence.

They’re great tits, I’ll give him that, but I play with my fair share of great fucking tits, and I do it without having someone holding my balls hostage in exchange.

“So, we should expect her to pop in within the next ten minutes, then,” I remark, and even Kline, the most adult of the entire group, snickers behind a hand.

“She’s not gonna pop in, okay?” Thatch booms. “Fluffing hell. It’s like you don’t trust—”

“Yoo-hoo!” his wife interrupts appropriately, peeking her head around the door of the smoky room. “You guys hungry, or are you too busy punching one another in the dick?”

Thatch sighs and closes his eyes as I give him a hard glare. The rest of the group breaks out in smiles. Thatch places his cards on the table and turns to look over his shoulder so he can meet his wife’s startlingly blue eyes.

“Honey, I thought we talked about this. Poker night needs separation from ladies’ night. Like church and fluffing state.”

“Well, excuse me,” Cassie replies pseudoangrily, opening the door fully to step inside, “for fluffing checking on the status of your big, ogre stomach. From here on out, I’ll let you starve.”

I bite my lip and lower my cards to the table before letting my head drop back as Thatch jumps up so they can bicker in closer proximity.

“Christ, woman! Did you get your annual exam today, or are you just raging for no reason?”

“Your exams are gonna be reduced down to annual if you don’t cool your fluffing jets.”

“My jets are cool!” Thatch shouts, and the rest of us groan as Cassie lunges forward and punches him…right in the dick.

Ah hell.

As annoyed as I am at him, my crotch throbs sympathetically.

Cassie storms off, and Thatch, hunched over in a ball of agony, turns back to the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Still almost fetal, he waddles through the opening at a surprisingly brisk pace.

As the door closes behind him, the other guys start to chatter.

“The rest of our lives, guys. It will be this way for the rest of our lives,” Kline mutters, and Wes laughs.

“Not if we cut him out of the friendship circle.”

Kline smirks but simultaneously rolls his eyes. “Like that’s possible. Try to cut that fucker out, and he’ll end up shadowing you during your colonoscopy.”

“I’m not scheduled for a colonoscopy,” Wes refutes with a laugh.

Kline clucks. “Ah, but you will be. That’s how ridiculous his power is. You won’t even know how it happened until he’s snapping on latex gloves and suiting up.”

Harrison Hughes, a longtime employee of my father’s media company HawCom and friend of ours, laughs. He’s a little older than I am, but I’ve known him long enough that it doesn’t feel like there was a time when we weren’t friends. He also played rugby with Wes, Kline, and Thatch for a while, and he still throws his old, dilapidated ass into a game in the park every now and then. But, as the only single guy left other than Theo and me, I’m fairly certain he does it all just so he has a way to impress the ladies. “Wait. He’s the doctor now? What the fuck?”

Kline shrugs and chuckles. “Trust me. After this many years of friendship, I don’t put anything past that guy.”

Wes nods begrudgingly. “He’s surprisingly adept at making just about anything possible. That’s how Lexi ended up interning for fucking Hugo Clouse. She’s a teenager, and he’s basically the Wolf of fucking Wall Street, without the cocaine and hookers.”

I laugh. “Geez. Where’s the fun in that?”

They all ignore me.

“How’s she liking it?” Kline asks.

“All those numbers?” Wes questions with a laugh. “She loves it. Pretty sure she’s going to be managing my hedge fund by the time she’s twenty.” Kline smiles. “Win’s feeling the blues, though. Says her baby is growing up too fast.”

Milo smiles, even though I’m not sure he’s ever met Wes’s stepdaughter, and I don’t miss the pathetic fucking longing that goes with it. The bastard’s been a fucking goner since he got involved with his best friend Evan’s little sister. Now, he’s engaged to be married and apparently ready to add some mini-Milos into the mix.

Wait a minute…

“Oh God,” I groan at him, throwing my head back dramatically. “Don’t tell me Maybe is pregnant already.”

“Is she?” Trent asks, his inflection going noticeably upward at the end. Because, unlike me, he’s excited.

Love-sick fools. The whole lot of ’em.

“No,” Milo says with a little smile. “I’m just thinking about the day she will be.”

“Ugh,” I groan, miming sticking a finger down my throat. “First of all, you just got en-fucking-gaged, you bastard. And secondly, are we really talking about women and babies during poker night? And not, like, the good part of women, like how well their pretty mouths can wrap around our cocks. But how lovely they are?”

Trent laughs. “Yeah, Cap. If you stopped sleeping your way through the entire city, you might find out why.”

I scoff. “Fuck that. I’m not like you guys. I like a plethora of pussy, and I like it often. I’m not gonna tie myself to one chick for the sake of…what? Insanity?”

Trent shakes his head, while Milo smiles behind his drink, the fucker. They’re absolutely convinced I’ll be just like them one day, twiddling my dick while some high-class chick shops with my money.

But they don’t know me like they think they do. I like my life the way it is. Full of freedom and fucking and anything else I want to do.

My time is my own, and my body, a free agent.

I get to sample the best of the best, over and over if I want or just take a taste. I have my cake, and I eat it too, and fuck anyone who thinks just because it’s the way of the world, I need to change my ways.

In fact, after today, there’s a new pussy on the horizon, new fun to be had.

The pretty blonde with the hot body at the library who apparently likes to listen to audiobooks that are reminiscent of some of sixteen-year-old Cap’s favorite pornos.

Goddamn, she was something. A petite little bombshell whose choice in listening pleasure has me more than intrigued.

She didn’t give me her name, but it doesn’t matter. I am a man who thrives off a good challenge, and I already know my future romp with her will be a better time than any of these fuckers has ever had.

And hell, who doesn’t love a good naughty librarian fantasy?

Certainly not me.

That pretty little librarian doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the new chase.

My new mission.

And I won’t stop until I’ve tasted her and fucked these guys and their monogamy right out of my damn head.


About Max Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.

Connect with Max Monroe

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter


BLOG TOUR ~ Wildcat (Mavericks Tackle Love #1) by Max Monroe


Blurb: 

Wildcat: a football formation in which the ball is snapped, not to the quarterback, but to another player lined up in the quarterback position.

Wild, Cat: a beautiful woman from the sky, who hooked me against the rails, and has me on the ropes. Sweet like honey, with a hint of sass burning behind her pretty brown eyes, she took over my heart without warning.

I’m Quinn Bailey, quarterback for the New York Mavericks.

Sports analysts predicted I’d break records and take my team all the way.

But no one predicted this.

And just like the other team, I never saw it coming.

*This is the 1st book in the Mavericks Tackle Love Series and can be read as a complete standalone. 
*Audio release date TBD.


#
WILDCAT
 #MAVERICKS #GetDrenched #MaxMonroe

#RomCom #LaughOutLoud #SwoonyBookBoyfriend

Disclaimer:

Things this book is:

·      Romantic Comedy

·      #1 in the Mavericks Tackle Love Series

·      Can be read as a complete standalone.

Things it isn’t:

·      Paranormal: The only thing magical is inside Quinn Bailey’s pants.

·      Boring: Pssh, please. Max Monroe doesn’t do boring.

·      Short: Prior to reading, prepare yourself for one huge, long, thick…book.

Disclaimer: 
Unfortunately, you many not MARRY this book without proper consent from the authors.

Though the idea of a spouse who does nothing but provide you endless laughs for hours at a time, turn you on, make your heart swell, and require nothing but your undivided attention for several hours in return sounds nearly orgasmic, there are laws. And the Fictional Municipality only allows twenty book wives at a time.

Due to high demand for a significant other that encourages you to leave the dishes in the sink, the laundry in the washer, and the vacuum in the closet unattended, we’ve implemented a shift schedule of marital proprietorship. You will be rotated accordingly.

Applications can be submitted by hitting the “buy” button on the following retailers:

Amazon US: 

Amazon UK: 

Amazon AU: 

Amazon CA: 

iBooks: 

Kobo: 

Nook: 



There is also a TOUR WIDE GIVEAWAY: 

Help spread the Quinn Bailey love! Two $25 Amazon gift cards up for grab!

GIVEAWAY POST Link


ABOUT THE AUTHORMax Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series…& more. 

New writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half.

Stay tuned for the future—this is where the fun begins.

Max Monroe is represented by Amy Tannenbaum of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

AUTHOR LINKS

Email
Website
Facebook
Twitter



 

BLOG TOUR ~ Alex in Wonderland by Max Monroe

    
BLURB:

I’m Matt Hadder. 
I’ve been called ruthless, savage—even brutal—by the men and women who work for me. And I’ve earned my reputation.

Wonderland Inc., a party planning organization for every major player in the world, is Oz, and I’m its Wizard. I can make anything—drugs, prostitutes, deals—appear for a night and disappear just as quickly.

This doesn’t make me good or bad—it makes me essential.

Wonderland Inc. was my life, until a beautiful contradiction of innocence and impurity, obedience and rebelliousness named Alex Little stepped in and turned both of our worlds upside down.

Welcome to Wonderland, Alex. 
A place where everything appears normal. 
But we’re all mad.


DISCLAIMER:

Please keep your arms crossed over your chest and feet crossed at the ankle as you fall down the rabbit hole. The urge to open your mouth in shock will be strong, but we encourage you to keep it closed. There’s no telling what could end up inside.

*Authors not responsible for personal injury on your ride through Wonderland.

BUY LINKS:

iBooks: https://goo.gl/LzhaXL
AMAZON: https://goo.gl/ptgvCx
AMAZON UK: https://goo.gl/JS1rqH
AMAZON AU: https://goo.gl/fyN787
AMAZON CA: https://goo.gl/PWeogP
Kobo: https://goo.gl/UwJg5f
Nook: https://goo.gl/ACjMsX
Google Play: goo.gl/zywr1C


Alex in Wonderland Playlist: 

Tour Giveaway LINK:




TINY TEASE:

“It is. It’s just…jarring.”

      “You don’t find it natural?” I asked, putting a hand to her back and making her step closer. The pleasure girl moaned and writhed, her skin a flushed rose of arousal as Spade continued to play with her. Lou Diamond had joined them now too, feasting on her breasts and stroking his cock while kneeling on the plush red couch behind her opened leg.

      Alex shook her head and nodded at the same time, her every nerve ending buzzing with confusion over what she’d been taught was appropriate, and the very opposite way she felt.

      “That could be you,” I whispered, leaning into her back and grazing the shell of her ear with my breath.

      She shivered—for about a millisecond—before bounding away and turning to meet my eyes, panic stark in hers. “Me? Do that? Like…right here? In front of people?” she stuttered. “No. No. Um, no.”

      Excitement shot down my spine at her anxiousness. “No?” I questioned, careful to keep my tone reproachful. I wanted her to feel pressured—just to see if she could withstand it.

      After a brief pause, she confirmed with a curt, determined shake of her head. “No.”

      At six foot six and two hundred and seventy pounds, I was nothing short of physically intimidating. I was impressed by her backbone.

      “Okay,” I agreed easily. Her eyes widened, and her plump lips parted. I took pleasure in her surprise.


ABOUT THE AUTHORMax Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series…& more. 

New writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half.

Stay tuned for the future—this is where the fun begins.

Max Monroe is represented by Amy Tannenbaum of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

AUTHOR LINKS

Email
Website
Facebook
Twitter


 

BLOG TOUR ~ Dr. ER by Max Monroe

Blurb:

Dr. Erotic.

That’s what they’ve decided to call me, Scott Shepard, the head of St. Luke’s Hospital Emergency Department.

Just thinking about it makes me smile.

As the new face of the reality docuseries, The Doctor Is In, I plan to take his power and recognition right to the streets of New York City and into the pants of willing women.

Well, that was my plan.

Until her—feisty, beautiful, and addictively sexy Harlow Paige.

A gossip columnist that just loves writing about yours truly, she’s everything I thought I never wanted and then some.

She drives me crazy.

Problem is, she doesn’t want to be anything when it comes to me—not friends, not lovers, not even adversaries.   

God, I love a good challenge.

Get ready, Harlow. Love is contagious.


Disclaimer:

All activities for the day have been canceled to allow time for you to read Scott and Harlow’s tale of romance by way of contagion.

Disclaimer to the Disclaimer: All activities have not actually been canceled. We don’t have that kind of power. Please remember to feed your children.


Tour Giveaway:

LINK



Wee Teaser:

“Was he the man who was riding when you got injured, Low?” he questioned, and I internally groaned at his ironic choice in words.

      The man who was riding? Good Lord, that sounded terrible. And a little too close to the actual scenario…

      “No, sir,” Scott answered, and if the strain in his throat was any indication, he was one breath away from losing himself to laughter. “I was, in fact, not doing the riding when your daughter got injured.”

      My father looked at me. “If he wasn’t the one riding, then how do you two know each other?”

      Fucking fiddlesticks, I needed everyone to stop saying riding before I fainted from discomfort.


Dr. ER Playlist:

https://goo.gl/ s9mZiQ



About the AuthorMax Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series…& more. 

New writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half.

Stay tuned for the future—this is where the fun begins.

Max Monroe is represented by Amy Tannenbaum of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

Author Links

Email
Website
Facebook
Twitter


BLOG TOUR ~ Sex Says by Max Monroe

33397807   

Blurb:

From New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Max Monroe comes a new standalone romantic comedy.

Lola

My name is Lola Sexton, and I’m a sex addict.

Okay…that’s a lie.

Truth is, I’m a serial dater turned dating and relationship columnist for The San Francisco Times. My readers call me Sex. Sex Says.

I love my job.

I love my life.

And I hate Reed Luca.

Reed

My name is Reed Luca, and I’m a liar.

Ironically, that’s the truth.

I’m 31, and my occupation is…well, complicated.

My favorite kind of woman comes in all shapes and sizes, but always has a big brain.

I’ve never hated anything.

Lola Sexton hates me.

Luckily, it’s a thin line between love and hate, and with my help, pretty Lola will only be able to straddle that line for so long.

 

Disclaimer: You may feel emboldened to quit your job at the conclusion of this book. Proceed with caution. This is a work of fiction and the authors cannot be held liable.



sstourteaser1

Sex Says Playlist:


Tiny Tease Excerpt:

Normally, I needed a face-to-face encounter to read a person’s intentions, but something about what I knew about Lola from her column and the careful way she’d arranged her words when emailing me spoke to violence I wasn’t sure I’d ever witnessed.

      Limb amputation, genital mutilation, and a healthy hock in order to leave a loogie behind on the tattered body.

      Would meeting up with the woman behind the words lead to anything other than some kind of police involvement? Though, really, I kind of miss them…

      No, no. I was supposed to be reformed.

      But even the converted could find themselves in trouble when they least expected it. An impulsive video on YouTube that led to millions of views was proof of that. My inbox was now cluttered with interview requests from various media sources, as well as hate mail from angered Sex Says fans who didn’t appreciate my candid view regarding their favorite dating and relationship column.

      I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen where I’d opened a return email and volleyed.

      Red wire, blue wire, red wire, blue wire…

      Goddamn, I couldn’t help myself.

      Fuck it. I’ll cut both of them.


sstourteaser3


About the AuthorMax Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series…& more. 

New writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half.

Stay tuned for the future—this is where the fun begins.

Max Monroe is represented by Amy Tannenbaum of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

Author Links

Email
Website
Facebook
Twitter


RELEASE BLITZ ~ Scoring Her (A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella) by Max Monroe

RELEASE BLITZ

Scoring Her
A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella
by Max Monroe


scoringherlive


Blurb:

The end of the Billionaire Bad Boy era, the series comes to a close.

From Kline and Benny to Wes and Winnie with Thatch and Cassie in between, spend time with the characters that have stolen the hearts of both each other and readers alike, and meet the men of the upcoming spinoff series Mavericks Tackle Love.

**********************

Disclaimer*: 9 out of 10 early readers claimed some combination of heart palpitations, sobbing, and incoherent muttering about it “not being the end” when coming to the final pages of Scoring Her. Use caution when reading.

*Some evidence suggests the Acknowledgements may lessen the side effects enough to breathe normally again.

For links the new release and to all of the other books in the series, click HERE:

man and woman holding each other with love


BLITZ WIDE GIVEAWAY

Link to MM’s Facebook Page – go enter for your chance to win:


SCORING HER SPOTIFY PLAYLIST: 

Happy couple in bedroom enjoying sensual foreplay


About the Author: Max Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series…& more. 😉

New writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half.

Stay tuned for the future—this is where the fun begins.

Max Monroe is represented by Amy Tannenbaum of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

Author Links:

Email
Website
Facebook
Twitter


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