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?

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…

If people have polar opposites, Luca Rossi is mine.

His butt is in the baseball hall of fame. Mine’s comfortably seated in the hall of lame.

When he’s not snagging fly balls out in center field, he’s modeling in shampoo commercials. I once jammed my own finger while stirring cookie dough, and sometimes I forget shampoo is a thing.

He’s a total cynic when it comes to love.

I make a living writing love stories.

But after my latest broken engagement (no, I don’t want to talk about how many times that’s happened), it’s clear he’s exactly the man I need.

If anyone can teach me to be the opposite of me, it’s him.

The first thing I want him to teach me?

How to not fall in love.

And as luck would have it, he’s in desperate need of a fake girlfriend to get a meddling grandmother off his back.

We couldn’t be more perfect together, because the last thing Luca Rossi will ever be is the next man to leave me at the altar.

Or will he?

Real Fake Love is a line drive straight to the heart featuring a grumpy athlete, a jilted bride, a fake relationship, and the world’s laziest cat. It stands alone and comes complete with sibling rivalry, the world’s most awkward shower scene, and a sweetly satisfying happily ever after.

Chase

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.

Ambrosia

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.