A bodyguard with a secret past, and the woman he loves to torment...
If I had to pick a bride of convenience, my first choice would NOT be Peach Maloney.
My fiftieth choice would NOT be Peach.
Top spot on my list of occupational hazards? Yes.
Royal pain in the crumpets? Yes.
A bride of convenience? No.
But I’ve unexpectedly gone from royal bodyguard to monarch, having inherited a crown that was stolen from my family long before my birth. The kicker of this unexpected royal gift? In order to take the throne I must find a wife.
Have I mentioned Peach would NOT have been my hundredth choice?
But I’ve no other options, and she needs a favor that my new position can fulfill quite nicely. So we’ve agreed to play the doting newlyweds out in public.
In private, though, our rules are simple:
And certainly no sex.
I should have known better than to marry a rule-breaker.
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, cliffhangers and ends with a royally awesome happily ever after.
A Rockstar Bridenaps a Preschool Teacher...
Kidnapping the bride seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her fiancé stole my fortune, so I stole his woman.
Tit for tat. Or tat for tit. However you want to look at it.
The one thing I didn’t expect?
Willow Honeycutt, preschool teacher, boy band super fan, is completely crazy.
And somehow she’s turned the tables on me.
Now, she’s holding me hostage, and she won’t let me go until we hit every item on her sparkly new, completely insane bucket list.
And that last item?
That last item might cost me more than any fortune.
It very well might cost me my heart.
Rockaway Bride is a romping fun romance between a down-on-his-luck rock star and a boy band-loving preschool teacher, complete with a road trip, handcuffs, and fun with nuns. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends with a rockin' awesome happily ever after.
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.
I’ve just bought the woman of my nightmares.
Technically, I bought the company she works for. Point is, she cost me my two best friends ten years ago. It’s payback time, and I’m going to make her life hell.
When I’m not banging her silly and myself stupid.
I need to get my head back in business, because getting off is great, but He was a man who had sex, and lots of it, and in the worst locations, with the woman of his nightmares isn’t the inscription I want on my tombstone.
Even if it’s true.
There are three things I hate:
Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking loudly like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett.
Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It’s been ten years since he took my virginity—I’d make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth is that it would have to be a bratbest joke, which also pisses me off—and now he’s not only a billionaire, he’s also my new boss.
Turns out our hate is mutual. And this kind of hate is horrifically twisted, filthy, and banging hot.
I just might have to hate him forever.
Mister McHottie is 45,000 gloriously hilarious, hot, sexy words that your mother warned you about, complete with an organic happy-ever-after (or seven), a Bratwurst Wagon, ill-advised office pranks, and no cheating or cliffhangers.
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