When my ex dumped me right before Christmas, I was left with a luxury, all-expense paid trip for two to Cabo—private jet and all. Somehow, my best friend roped me into giving away the other half of the trip as a contest prize on her podcast. Kelly won the “World’s Worst Dump Story.” She and I didn’t meet until we arrived at the airport, which was when I discovered she was actually a he. Apparently we’d forgotten to include open to women only in the rules. My trip to Cabo started as a disaster, but as time went on Kelly and I grew close. Until someone unexpectedly showed up…
Christmas in Birdville by Jewel E. Ann
Henry Bechtel’s mom is coming home for Christmas. Only, he lost the family house in a game of poker. Days before his mom’s arrival, he meets the new owner and seizes the opportunity to coerce her into letting him move back “home” for the holidays. What he doesn’t know is that she has questionable motives, too.
The Lucky One by Sarina Bowen
Finnish hockey player Ivo Halla is new in town. He can’t speak the language, he can’t understand the coach. Life is hell until he walks into an Italian cafe (thank God “pizza” is the same in Finnish and English) and falls for the waitress. He’d better learn the language soon, or she won’t agree to date him…
First Holiday by Katee Robert
After a year of turmoil, Hades and Persephone prepare for their first holiday together.
A Cloverleigh Farms Christmas by Melanie Harlow
Christmas Eve at Cloverleigh Farms is even more exciting this year, thanks to a blizzard, a power outage, and a baby that wants to make a dramatic entrance. Catch up with the beloved Sawyer family and find out what happens when Meg and Noah’s bundle of joy gives the family a wonderful–and sudden–reason to celebrate!
Have Yourself a Grumpy Little Christmas by Pippa Grant
Trevor Stafford hates Christmas. But his best friend’s little sister, whom he stupidly agreed to take in as a temporary roommate when she got a new nannying gig down the street from him, loves it.
She’s turning his house into a freaking winter wonderland of bad memories.
But the bigger problem?
He’s had a crush on her for years, and there’s no amount of annoying holiday cheer that can cure him of his attraction. If anything, watching her in her natural element is making it worse.
What’s a grump to do when the last thing he ever wanted is suddenly the only thing he needs?
COVER CREDIT:
Cover designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative
Title: Irresistible Trouble Series: Copper Valley Fireballs #4 Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Romantic Comedy Release Date: September 29, 2022
BLURB
I, Cooper Rock, baseball god, worshipper of women, hometown hero, beloved son and brother, and owner of a well-deserved ego, have always reached for the stars. Usually in baseball.
In love? Nah. When you’ve played the field as much as I have and haven’t been bit by the bug, you’re immune.
Or so I thought until she walked back into my life.
Waverly Sweet. Pop music sensation. Universally beloved for good reason. She’s freaking awesome. Kind. Funny. Talented. Sexy as hell. Real. And still completely out of my league.
But I have been hit by the Waverly Sweet tour bus of love, tumbled head over heels, and come up in a field of Waverly-scented roses. This is it. She’s my one and only, and this time, I won’t screw it up.
I’m cleaning up my reputation. I’m ignoring the doubters. I’m channeling everything I have into proving to her that I can be the man she deserves.
No matter what else I have to sacrifice for love.
Including baseball.
Irresistible Trouble is a hilarious home run of a romcom about a baseball player whose ego is catching up to him, a pop star who’s a bit of a hot mess when the cameras aren’t looking (and sometimes when they are), and the kind of family and teammates that everyone deserves… in small doses. While this laugh-out-loud romance stands alone with a sweet-swoony HEA, you won’t go wrong if you dive into the entire Fireballs series, starting with Jock Blocked, first. And for more Cooper Rock cameos, check out Master Baker (a standalone featuring Cooper’s brother) and the Bro Code series.
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.
The Copper Valley Thrusters Series Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Romantic Comedy
#1 The Pilot & the Puck Up
He’s the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing motherpucker on the ice…
When you’re named after the king of the gods, the world expects certain things of you.
Tough? Damn right.
Smart? Don’t let the hockey uniform fool you.
Large and in charge? Honey, I’m the biggest, baddest, mother pucking-est machine to ever own the ice. I shoot. I score. In and out of the rink. I don’t come early, but I come often, if you know what I mean. And I always leave the ladies wanting more.
Until that chick last night.
I’m no one-thrust wonder, and you’re damn right I’m going to prove to her I can do better. But every time I think I’m finally on my way back into her pants, she one-ups and out-balls me.
I should cut my losses, lick my wounds, and walk away.
But Zeus Berger doesn’t walk away from anything.
Especially when she’s the only woman in the world who might be able to handle me.
The Pilot and the Puck-Up is a standalone romantic comedy featuring a hockey player whose ego is the only thing bigger than his shoe size, the most badass woman to ever fly a plane, rubber chockey (don’t ask), and no cheating or cliffhangers.
A hockey-playing prince, a most improper lady, and one accidental pregnancy…
When you’re an heir so spare that getting attacked by a shark is more likely than you ever wearing the crown, you’re only allowed certain liberties. Yet still, those liberties can bite you in the ass.
Good thing I’m such a charming devil.
Even then, I’ve been banished to America for a year under the pretense of playing professional hockey while my father cleans up my latest mess. But trouble follows me wherever I go. Generally trouble of the beautiful female variety, and Gracie Diamonte is no exception. Or possibly, she’s the best exception.
Until the dinosaur suit. The cookie incident. And the accidental pregnancy.
Of course I’ll do the right thing.
Just as soon as I solve that pesky problem of my royal betrothal.
I’m about to be the biggest scandal to rock my country and there’s a good chance my father may throw me to the sharks after all. The funny thing is I’ve heard that raising children may not be so different from swimming with the sharks. So no matter how you look at things I am Royally Pucked.
Royally Pucked is a hilariously wrong romance between a spare heir and the lady least likely to ever wear a princess crown, complete with dirty cookies, an emotional support monkey, and lots of pucking around. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating, cliffhangers and ends happily with a family of…more than two.
There are two kinds of women in the world – those I can bang, and those I can’t.
My teammate’s sister?
She’s a can’t.
I moved in with her to protect her from a nasty ex, not to be the next guy in line.
She’s the brains.
I’m the brawn.
She’s the fruit.
I’m the sausage.
She talks too much.
I don’t talk at all, if I don’t have to.
Should be easy to resist her.
But every minute I spend with Felicity is another minute she gets under my skin. She makes me feel like something more than a dumb puckhead with a big Zamboni pony. And it’s getting harder to remember why I need to keep my hands to myself.
Beauty and the Beefcake is a vegan-friendly standalone romantic comedy featuring a hockey player whose vocabulary is the only thing smaller than a hockey puck, a book smart but aimless ventriloquist with too many voices in her head, a dilapidated old house that may or may not be haunted, and no cheating or cliffhangers.
Nick Murphy. Hockey god. My best friend’s big brother. My friend-with-mindblowing-benefits. The best thing to happen to my nether regions since my subscription to the toy of the month club. The man I’ve been secretly in love with for years.
And total ass.
I am so done with him.
Except there’s one small problem.
Now that I’ve cut him off, his hockey game is in the toilet. He’s convinced I’m his good luck charm, and he wants me back. But only for his game.
I’ll be strong. I will. I’ll resist.
Asses don’t change their stripes.
Or do they?
This plan would be so easy if the man wasn’t Charming as Puck…
Charming as Puck is a romping fun romance between a hockey player and his sister’s best friend, complete with farm animals, epic birthday presents, and Berger Twin sightings. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends with a pucking awesome happily ever after.
You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love?
I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not.
I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral.
Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.
And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger.
Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.
Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.
I know a mismatch when I see one.
Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.
After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?
I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.
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.
He’s a hot single dad. A military man with abs of steel. My brother’s best friend. My biggest enemy. And now my fake date to my best friend’s wedding. Disasterville, here we come…
Mission: Survive my best friend’s wedding, where I must play nice with my ex and his perfect new girlfriend.
Strategy: Bring the hottest fake boyfriend on the planet.
Target: Grady Rock. Master Baker. Dimples. Muscles. The unicorn of fake boyfriends.
Complication: Wyatt Morgan. My brother’s best friend. My sworn enemy. Military man. Sexy as hell single dad. The man I let into my panties for one night of hot hate sex after my ex dumped me.
And the man who just scared off that perfect fake boyfriend.
By pretending to be my real boyfriend.
I can roll with this though. What’s the harm in Flirting with the Frenemy if it helps me get the job done?
Complete my mission and move on.
Or so I thought.
Until Wyatt kisses me again and I start feeling things I shouldn’t.
The thing about weddings…nothing ever goes as planned.
Flirting with the Frenemy is a rollicking fun romantic comedy featuring a single dad military man, an irritatingly attractive blast from his past, pirates, cursing parrots, and a wedding gone wild. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.
Remember that time you accidentally sexted your boss?
Yeah. I just basically did the equivalent. Except worse. Now my millions of social media followers are reading and sharing the rude, smartass message I meant to send privately to my little sister as a joke…and I’m officially public enemy number one.
I’m Beck Ryder. Former boy bander. Underwear model. Fashion mogul. And I buried my entire leg in my mouth—not just my foot—modern internet style, and publicly insulted my sister’s neighbor.
Sarah Dempsey.
Also known as the woman of my dreams, who loves geeky TV shows, baseball, and giraffes, who’s just as turned on by food as I am, and who has a huge secret that I didn’t see coming.
Now it’s time to grovel and apologize publicly on social media and hope that those same followers who helped start the raging shitstorm will help calm the waters.
Because Sarah doesn’t want the spotlight. For very good reasons that I can’t tell you right now and trying to convince her to be my fake girlfriend to fix this mess and make me look like less of a jackass is worse than taking a kick to the nuts by Jackie Chan.
And I thought modeling underwear made me feel naked.
Trying to start a relationship in the era of the Twitterazzi isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
America’s Geekheart is a rockin’ fun romantic comedy featuring a billionaire fashion mogul who got his start modeling underwear, the geeky girl next door with a secret the size of California, and more superstitions and secrets than you can shake a baseball bat at. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” “Kiss me? I thought you wanted to throttle me.” “Kissing and throttling aren’t mutually exclusive with you.”
Tripp Wilson has to go.
Yes, yes, he’s gorgeous, he’s an adorably patient mess of a single dad, he kisses like a god, and he’s possibly the only person in the world who can turn around this baseball team I just inherited, but still, he has to go.
I don’t trust him.
That kissing thing?
Let’s call it a mistake. Pretty sure he’d agree. After all, he was the one pretending to be someone else when it happened.
But if I don’t take him on as the president of operations of the Copper Valley Fireballs, the worst baseball team in the history of professional sports which now belongs to me, I’ll be forced to sell the one last link I have to my family.
But there will be no more kissing. No more flirting. And no more swooning over him with his two preschoolers.
First of all, because he lied to me.
And second of all, because I might be lying to him too.
All’s fair in business and baseball, right?
Tell that to my heart.
Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire is a rocking fun romance between a single dad obsessed with baseball, an heiress with secrets, baseball pants, a rundown team, and rabid ducks. It stands alone and comes with a guaranteed happily-ever-after.
He could have the world, yet he’s looking at me like I am his world.
You don’t know me, but you do know me. I’m your neighborhood hot mess single mom, doing my best to keep my head above water while running my little slice of heaven and keeping my youngest from shoving marbles up his nose, which is exactly what he’s doing the first time Levi Wilson, pop star god, world’s sexiest man, and my all-time number one celebrity obsession, walks into my bookstore.
Related: I’m writing this from beyond the grave, because I’ve died of mortification and am now residing in an alternate universe.
I have to be.
Because Levi Wilson came back.
And we had a moment.
Like, a moment moment. The kind that makes me remember that adult pleasure isn’t all about hoping the lock holds in the bathroom so your kids don’t interrupt on the rare occasion you feel like taking an extra-long mommy-time shower.
So when he proposes a no-strings fling?
Count. Me. In.
Thrill of a lifetime, right?
Surely, nothing will go wrong…
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob is a rockin’ fun, sexy romantic comedy featuring a celebrity panty-melter who doesn’t know what he’s been missing, a sassy single mom hanging on by a string, three adorable children who would never burst in on a woman when she’s on a toilet (ha!), and shameless ovary-busting moments between a guy who never thought he’d be a dad and a family who thought they got along just fine without him. It stands alone and comes complete with a happily-ever-after.
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.
The Misfit Brides Series Author: Pippa Grant writing as Jamie Farrell
Genre: Romantic Comedy Cover Design: Najla Qamber
#1 Blissed
Welcome To Bliss, the Bridal Capital of the Midwest!
Single mom Natalie Castellano isn’t feeling so blissful these days… Natalie’s made a career out of screwing up all over her hometown. But it’s redemption time, and she’s putting on her big girl panties to make sure this year’s bridal festival goes off without a hitch. Even if it means she has to play nice with the man who broke her fairy tale.
She’s definitely not the one for him. Or is she… World adventurer and reluctant local hero CJ Blue doesn’t want to be in Bliss anymore than Natalie wants him here. But family obligations have brought him back, and now, and now he’s somehow been roped into saving the town tradition he’d rather forget with the woman whose kiss he can’t forget. She frustrates him and drives him nuts but he’s had more fun giving her a hard time about the bridal festival than he has in years.
And their fun is just starting… Despite their rocky past, these two wounded souls have more in common than they expect. They’ve both loved and lost, they’ve both tried to move on, and now they’ve both been been banned from the local church confessional after…well, they’re not supposed to talk about it. But by joining forces for the sake of Bliss, they might find the courage and the sparks to risk love one more time.
A country music heartthrob and his long-lost love walk into a wedding…
Will Truitt grew up living the saddest kind of country song. Now, though, as superstar Billy Brenton, his life is perfect. Or so people think. But he hasn’t been able to write a decent song in months. Crashing a wedding in a quirky little bridal-obsessed town is supposed to provide inspiration to get his career back on track. Instead, all he finds are regrets when he comes face-to-face with the woman who got away, taking his crushed heart with her.
Lindsey Castellano gave up on love a long time ago. As a cutthroat divorce attorney on the outskirts of a town devoted to brides, weddings, and happily ever after, she’s honed her skills at avoiding love, commitment, and inevitable heartbreak. Or so she thought until Will Truitt reappears in her life.
When Lindsey shattered Will’s heart fifteen years ago, she’d been a sorority girl on her way to the top. He’d been a lowly janitor with a dream. Now he’s on top of the world, and she’s the last person he should need or want.
But she’s the only person who has ever inspired his music. And he’s the only man she’s never been able to forget. Have the years made them wiser, stronger, and better able to love, or this time, will they simply crash and burn harder?
Dahlia Mallard has finally found her destiny—running an ice cream shop in Bliss, the happiest bridal town in the Midwest. Problem is, her heart is bigger than her bank account. After spending her last dime on a less-than-worthy cause, she needs a serious influx of cash to get through the winter. Her last-ditch effort? Convincing country music superstar Billy Brenton to attend the risqué flavor-tasting event she’s planned to boost sales. But the closest she can get to Billy is his drummer, the womanizing Mikey Diamond.
Mikey loves the ladies, and he makes no secret of it. But he’s not such a fan of this town devoted to weddings, love, and marriage. And he’s even less of a fan of people using him to get to Billy. When circumstances land Mikey in Dahlia’s house as her new roommate, though, all his caution—and all his interest in any other single ladies—flies out the window. Dahlia’s quirky and funny and, unlike his usual women, she doesn’t tolerate any of his baloney. But when Mikey discovers that Dahlia, too, is using him to get close to Billy, will he take the chance to be her hero instead, or will he revert to his manwhore ways?
When Chicago’s Hottest Snack Cake Heir… Josh Kincaid went from rags to riches when he was adopted by the family who owns the Sweet Dreams Snack Cakes empire. But now the company is floundering, and Josh will do anything to save his parents the way they saved him. Including using his charm on a small-town wedding cake baker.
Takes on the Misfit Princess of the Bridal Capital of the Midwest… Kimmie is flighty, she spouts off weird dreams when she’s nervous, and her frizzy hair and fashion sense make her the girl least likely to snare a debonair snack cake heir. But Kimmie can bake a cake that’ll make a grown man cry, and that’s exactly what Josh needs to turn his parents’ business around.
They Just Might Find The Recipe for Love Josh’s plan should be easy, except Kimmie isn’t all cupcake underneath. Her help comes with a price. If Josh wants to save his family’s company, he’ll have to do something he’s never done: be himself.
He’s the Spare Heir of Bliss’s most famous jewelry shop Max Gregory’s family is best known for creating and displaying the world’s most cursed diamond ring, but here in the bridal capital of the world, Max is best known for having a cursed love life. Not that he believes in curses. Or he didn’t, until he met Merry.
She’s the daughter of a notorious jewel thief Merry Silver’s parents have wreaked havoc on her life. After her last romantic disaster—thanks, Daddy—she’s fleeing the country for a chance at normal. But first, she has to avoid her favorite ex-boyfriend while she gets her mom married off. Again.
And they’re about to get a second chance at love
Max was horrified when he discovered why Merry disappeared last year. Now she’s back in Bliss for a wedding, and her father may be after his family’s most prized possession. But is it the diamond Max is worried about? Or is he afraid of losing the only woman who’s ever made him want to settle down?
Dueling neighbors, baby fever, fake boyfriends, and pizza… Life in Bliss has never been better!
Pepper Blue wants a baby. Forget the husband. She’s better at training men to be good husbands for other women than she is at getting one herself, so she’s doing this on her own.
But she hasn’t exactly shared the news with her family, and they’re determined to find her a date to the next family wedding. A date that won’t ditch her for one of her sisters or cousins. This time.
Which means Pepper Blue needs a fake boyfriend. A fake boyfriend that she has no chance of actually falling in love with. A fake boyfriend like her obnoxious neighbor.
Tony Cross is a pizza god with a sausage problem. He’s putting on a good show—a different woman at his house every night, flirting with all the right customers, flexing his muscles when called upon—but since his divorce, his meat has been more on the undercooked side. If you know what he means.
Except, unfortunately, when it comes to his annoyingly perfect, always put together, too good for him neighbor. Pepper Blue. Who is not a viable candidate for fixing his “little problem.”
So he’s not sure why he’s coming to her rescue, pretending to be her boyfriend to save her from a bad date at his pizza joint. He just knows it’s fun. And it irritates her. And it turns out, she might be able to help his flagging pizza sales as much as she’s helping his flagging… you know.
So long as this is just business, he’s happy to keep pushing her buttons.
What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas!
Tarra Blue found out the hard way that her Vegas annulment didn’t take, and now she’s hunting down her accidental husband to finish what they started ten years ago.
Ben Garcia left the corporate world behind when his business partner dropped dead of a heart attack, and he’s doing his best to embrace life as a beach bum. But running an umbrella stand isn’t quite enough. And he doesn’t know what he’s missing.
Until Tarra walks back into his life.
Suddenly, the wife he once didn’t want is everything he never wants to give up. But she comes with complications. BIG complications.
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.
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.
There is a giveaway for Grumpy Player Next Door Book Box full of goodies plus bonus signed paperbacks (1 winner, open internationally – please note international winners may be responsible for their own VAT should it apply)
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.
If I’d known he had dimples, I never would’ve agreed to marry him.
Some people are born for parenthood.
Not me.
But I’m about to get it anyway, since there’s no one else who can take care of my wild child baby sister. I’m supposed to be spending my days running a flight adventure company with my best friend, but instead, I’m inadvertently getting myself into trouble, just trying to do the right thing and keep her out of trouble, to the point that it’s clear I cannot do this on my own.
But who else would want to help us?
Turns out, my biggest enemy.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Cranky just inherited a country, but in order for Amoria to crown him as King—you know, that job they give to people with no more demanding qualifications than flared nostrils, proper manners, and a taste for crumpets—he needs a wife. Now. Obviously the only person he would ask is as irresistible (and desperate) as me.
And I see no better way to prove I’m ready to take care of my sister than to wear the crown of a queen. No one’s ever found fault with royalty, and hey, the job comes with round-the-clock security.
Except in return for helping save my sister, Mr. I’m-Not-Sure-You’re-Even-A-Real-Prince Viktor tells me he needs the teeniest, tiniest favor. You see, he doesn’t just need help saving his crown. He needs help saving his country.
Remember when I said no one ever found fault with royalty? Try asking that question after you see your frazzled face under the front-page headline of a small country’s leading gossip mag…
Hot Heir is a romping fun marriage of convenience romance between a surprise heir and a southern hot mess, complete with the bedroom to end all bedrooms, a run-down alpaca, and that thing with the hot air balloon. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends with a royally awesome happily ever after.
But soothing a terrified, sobbing, otherwise competent woman is not something I’ve often—ever—accomplished successfully, nor have I ever found myself in many situations in which it was necessary.
I stroke her back, and gradually, they both cry themselves out.
Which is good, because seeing a chink in Peach’s armor is bloody terrifying.
“Papaya,” she says, her voice thick and wobbly, “you’re on kitchen duty for the next four weeks.”
“What?”
“And if you get fired by the chef, you’ll be on maid duty. And if you get fired by the maids, you’ll be shoveling shit in the stables. And you don’t get to see Fred until your chores are done.”
I suck in a surprised breath.
Papaya gasps. “You can’t do that.”
“And if you don’t show up for kitchen duty, you won’t be going to Joey’s wedding next weekend.” She swipes at her eyes, which silences any objections I might have to keeping track of Papaya whilst Peach is away for a week. “You scared the ever-loving patootles out of me. I thought you were kidnapped. And instead, you’re here, spooking the daylights out of these poor guards who were trained on an invalid king who couldn’t even get out of his own bed to pee.”
Ah. I’m beginning to see from whom Papaya gets her creativity.
And it hasn’t escaped my notice that Peach is still leaning on me.
My knees are going quite numb from squatting, but I could crouch here for hours if that was what was required to make her feel better.
“You have two choices.” Her voice is growing steadier, more Peach-like. “You do your punishment, and we’ll find you a better outlet for all your creative energy, or we’re going to have one hell of a rough year.”
Papaya scowls. Her tears have also left her. “I don’t like those choices.”
“They’re what you’ve got.”
“I want to go home and live with my daddy.”
Peach’s entire body goes so rigid, I have to stop myself from grabbing Papaya and dangling her by the ankle for being such an ungrateful arse.
“He lost the privilege to keep you.” Peach’s voice wobbles again. “Meemaw and me and Viktor and Alexander and Samuel are what you’ve got.”
An emotion I cannot name blooms in my chest, swells into my throat, and renders me momentarily tongue-tied.
She’s just claimed us all as family.
“Get up. I want that armor shined and sparkling before it goes back where it belongs in the tower study, and don’t you dare give me any lip, or you’ll be shining and sparkling every single suit of armor in this whole entire castle if you so much as think at me wrong.”
I swallow hard, wishing my own voice were not so much more husky than I intend it to be. It seems emotions are going around. “I believe there are fifty more stored in the dungeons, my lady.”
My shirt is damp and cold where the tears from Peach’s cheek have soaked through, I’ve nearly watched a teenage girl outwit and terrify an entire team of guards who were quite ready to maim, if not outright kill her, and I’m playing parent for the first time in my life.
Being a team.
With Peach.
It’s disconcerting at best.
Irresistibly attractive at worst.
I’ve a kingdom to run. There’s no time to fall for my wife.
But I fear it might be too late.
AUTHOR BIO
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.
You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love?
I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not.
I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral.
Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.
And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger.
Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.
Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.
I know a mismatch when I see one.
Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.
After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?
I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.
We all have to be at practice tomorrow morning—check that, this morning, as it’s shortly after midnight—but I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to screw.
I want—
Dammit.
I want a bucket of greasy fried fish and chips, because it’s what my big brother used to take me to get every time he came home on leave from the Marines and got annoyed at being hen-pecked by the four sisters between us.
My car’s cold, thanks to the early November weather, and no, I’m not telling you what kind of car I drive, because yes, it very much feels like compensation tonight.
It gets me where I want to go.
That’s all that matters.
That, and getting my ass to Cod Pieces before they close for the night.
Could I stay at the bunny bar and get fried fish and chips?
Yes.
Will I?
No fucking way.
I’m still stewing in my own misery when the bright neon sign with the armored cod and the storefront that looks like a medieval castle comes into view at the edge of a strip mall four miles the wrong direction from my downtown condo. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of chilly air and the scent of fries.
Just in time.
I holler my order over the sound of my engine, then pull around to the window to get my fish.
Debate calling my brother in Miami.
It’s one AM. He and his wife recently celebrated their kid’s first birthday, and I think they’re working on baby number two.
If I call him in the middle of the night to bitch about how I can’t get it up, he’ll probably hang up on me, then tell our sisters.
And Mom.
She’s a professional comedienne with her own popular Netflix special. There’s no damn way I’m bothering West in the middle of the night for this.
I’ll talk to the fried fish and call it even.
Has as much personality as West had before he married Daisy.
The window swings open. “That’ll be fourteen seventy-three, please.”
My car lurches forward before I remember to put it in park, and I gape up at the woman staring down at me. “Muffy?”
My brain is playing tricks on me.
It has to be.
Because there’s no way the curvy, clumsy, smart-mouthed goddess who’s haunting my dick is standing there wearing a Cod Pieces polo and hat.
But she is.
And I swear to god, her long brown braids are recoiling in horror as her whole face twists, her lip curling, her left eye squeezing shut, before she snaps herself together. “For the hundredth time today, I have no idea who this Muffy person is. My name is Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen.”
Fuck me.
There are two of them? She looks exactly like Muffy. I’m not seeing things, and I’m not projecting just because I want my dick to work again and the bunnies made me think about screwing Muffy in the walk-in fridge at the bunny bar.
“Fourteen seventy-three, please.” She turns away as she holds out a hand, twitching her fingers like she’s waiting for cash or a card.
And that’s when I see the tattoo.
Rufus.
Her cat’s name. It’s on her wrist.
Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen, my ass. This is Muffy.
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.
You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love?
I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not.
I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral.
Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.
And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger.
Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.
Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.
I know a mismatch when I see one.
Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.
After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?
I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.
We all have to be at practice tomorrow morning—check that, this morning, as it’s shortly after midnight—but I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to screw.
I want—
Dammit.
I want a bucket of greasy fried fish and chips, because it’s what my big brother used to take me to get every time he came home on leave from the Marines and got annoyed at being hen-pecked by the four sisters between us.
My car’s cold, thanks to the early November weather, and no, I’m not telling you what kind of car I drive, because yes, it very much feels like compensation tonight.
It gets me where I want to go.
That’s all that matters.
That, and getting my ass to Cod Pieces before they close for the night.
Could I stay at the bunny bar and get fried fish and chips?
Yes.
Will I?
No fucking way.
I’m still stewing in my own misery when the bright neon sign with the armored cod and the storefront that looks like a medieval castle comes into view at the edge of a strip mall four miles the wrong direction from my downtown condo. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of chilly air and the scent of fries.
Just in time.
I holler my order over the sound of my engine, then pull around to the window to get my fish.
Debate calling my brother in Miami.
It’s one AM. He and his wife recently celebrated their kid’s first birthday, and I think they’re working on baby number two.
If I call him in the middle of the night to bitch about how I can’t get it up, he’ll probably hang up on me, then tell our sisters.
And Mom.
She’s a professional comedienne with her own popular Netflix special. There’s no damn way I’m bothering West in the middle of the night for this.
I’ll talk to the fried fish and call it even.
Has as much personality as West had before he married Daisy.
The window swings open. “That’ll be fourteen seventy-three, please.”
My car lurches forward before I remember to put it in park, and I gape up at the woman staring down at me. “Muffy?”
My brain is playing tricks on me.
It has to be.
Because there’s no way the curvy, clumsy, smart-mouthed goddess who’s haunting my dick is standing there wearing a Cod Pieces polo and hat.
But she is.
And I swear to god, her long brown braids are recoiling in horror as her whole face twists, her lip curling, her left eye squeezing shut, before she snaps herself together. “For the hundredth time today, I have no idea who this Muffy person is. My name is Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen.”
Fuck me.
There are two of them? She looks exactly like Muffy. I’m not seeing things, and I’m not projecting just because I want my dick to work again and the bunnies made me think about screwing Muffy in the walk-in fridge at the bunny bar.
“Fourteen seventy-three, please.” She turns away as she holds out a hand, twitching her fingers like she’s waiting for cash or a card.
And that’s when I see the tattoo.
Rufus.
Her cat’s name. It’s on her wrist.
Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen, my ass. This is Muffy.
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.
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