It’s not you. It’s me.

No, seriously. It is me. Not only does my name literally mean “unfortunate,” but that’s the story of my life.

Everything I touch turns to cr*p. An apartment fire—that I swear I was not responsible for—means I’m living back at home with my s*x-mad parents. Yay, me!

Which is why I need my new job as personal assistant to Cameron Reid to get back on my feet. Three months in this job and I can move back out and, hopefully, remember to turn off my flat iron once in a while.

Ahem.

On paper, my job is easy. Make coffee. Book appointments. Keep everything in order.

Until I walk in on my boss, half-naked, wearing nothing but the kind of tiny white towel that dreams are made of.

Now, nothing is easy—except our mutual attraction. But he’s my boss, and you know what they say about mixing work and pleasure: unless you do p*rn, it’s just not worth it.

Or is it?

Download your copy today!

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Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.

She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.

Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.

Yes, really. She’s that sarcastic.

Connect with Emma

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

BookBub: http://bit.ly/2Dr0atq

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2Dq42ez

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2EBbZNe

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2D91d3T

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

Stay up to date with Emma by joining her mailing list: https://www.emmahart.org/newsletter

Website: https://www.emmahart.org/home

It’s not you. It’s me.

No, seriously. It is me. Not only does my name literally mean “unfortunate,” but that’s the story of my life.

Everything I touch turns to cr*p. An apartment fire—that I swear I was not responsible for—means I’m living back at home with my s*x-mad parents. Yay, me!

Which is why I need my new job as personal assistant to Cameron Reid to get back on my feet. Three months in this job and I can move back out and, hopefully, remember to turn off my flat iron once in a while.

Ahem.

On paper, my job is easy. Make coffee. Book appointments. Keep everything in order.

Until I walk in on my boss, half-naked, wearing nothing but the kind of tiny white towel that dreams are made of.

Now, nothing is easy—except our mutual attraction. But he’s my boss, and you know what they say about mixing work and pleasure: unless you do p*rn, it’s just not worth it.

Or is it?

Amazon IT: https://amzn.to/2Pn0Bt9

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

AppleBooks: https://apple.co/2Jtpp1m

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

Nook: http://bit.ly/2OmHHT2

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2RrrzkN

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

Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.

She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.

Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.

Yes, really. She’s that sarcastic.

Connect with Emma

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

BookBub: http://bit.ly/2Dr0atq

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2Dq42ez

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2EBbZNe

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2D91d3T

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

Stay up to date with Emma by joining her mailing list: https://www.emmahart.org/newsletter

Website: https://www.emmahart.org/home

1.Hate-screw my high school nemesis.

2.Remember to hate him.

3.Prove my brother wrong.

It should be easy.

It isn’t.

As the owner of Pick-A-Dick, New Orleans’ premier hook-up website, my job is simple. Connect two people for a no-strings, no-expectations hook-up. The plus for my clients is that I’m the one who gets to sift through the dick pics—except this time, they’re required.

My problem? My brother, co-owner of Pick-A-Dick’s sister dating site, doesn’t believe it’s possible to hook up with someone three times and not fall in love.

I disagree. I know it’s possible.

And my disagreement is exactly how I end up reconnected with my high school nemesis, Elliott Sloane. The guy who asked me to junior prom and then stood me up. Who egged my car when I rejected him, and convinced my senior homecoming date to ghost me.

It should be easy to hate-screw him. If only he was still that person, instead of a hot-as-hell single dad, working as a builder to make ends’ meet, fighting for custody of his daughter.

Not to mention packing in the pants department…

Three hook-ups.

One outcome.

Right?

FIND OUT MORE: http://www.pick-a-dick-net

“Is she okay with that juice?” Peyton watched her go.

I selected the Blu-ray from the cupboard and shot a smirk her way. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re getting a juice box.”

“I can live with that.”

I turned away and hit the eject button on the player. “You didn’t have to say yes to her, you know.”

“Of course, I had to. Have you seen those eyes? How do you say no to her, ever?”

“I think of all the times she screams and swings her arms like a tiny terrorist, and it’s pretty easy.” I put the disk in and turned around.

Peyton had one eyebrow raised. “See, now, I’d think that’s reason to say no.”

“It depends on the day. Sometimes it results in her being put to bed to calm down, which means she ends up taking a rare afternoon nap, and I get some peace and quiet.”

“That’s a thing around her? She was talking to me for thirty minutes flat about what I did and didn’t like.”

“Only thirty minutes? Lucky you. She has about three hours of material of that.” I took a seat on the sofa, making sure to leave space between us for Bri. “Did she get started on hedgehogs yet?”

Peyton looked a little confused. “Hedgehogs?”

“YouTube is the devil.”

“That…was quite the jump in subject.”

I laughed as the main menu music hit on the TV. “I’m going to preface this by saying kids are weird.”

“Some get that from their parents.”

I blinked at her for a second. She wasn’t wrong if half these people who had a mini-career opening fucking toys on YouTube were parents.

“There are a bunch of stupid videos on YouTube, and apparently, watching people open toys is thrilling.”

Now, she looked really confused.

“And on one of those she watched, the person had a pet hedgehog who wasn’t having the nonsense of her opening a Hatchimal on camera, so it stole the egg.”

She blinked several times in quick succession. “I have no idea what you just said, and if I’m honest… Please don’t explain it.”

I laughed and hit play on the TV.

“Here’s your dooce-box,” Briony said, handing Peyton two. “And das mine. I can’t do the straws.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Peyton looked at the two juices that had been thrust at her.

Smiling, I took one from her. I pulled the straw off the back, out of the tiny plastic slip, and poked it through the foiled hole in the top. “There you go,” I said to Briony. “What do you want for dinner?”

She put the straw in her mouth and pursed her lips as she sucked the juice up. Peyton watched her, lips twitching, as she put her straw in place.

“Pizza!” Briony announced.

Oh no. I’d eaten too much pizza lately.

Was there such a thing as too much pizza?

Maybe if the toppings were changed up…

“Peydon, do you want pizza?” Bri asked, leaning right into her.

“I like pizza,” she replied, smiling sweetly down at her. “What’s your favorite?”

“I like spots and cheese.”

“Spots?”

I coughed on my water. “Pepperoni,” I explained. “They look like spots on the pizza.”

Peyton’s eyes met mine for a minute. Silent laughter shone back at me. That really was toddler logic at its finest.

“You know,” she said, looking down at Peyton. “Spots are my favorite, too!”

Once again, Briony gasped. “Reawy?”

“Really, really. I love spots.”

Oh, Jesus.

It might have been a mistake introducing these two. Not only was my daughter becoming increasingly obsessed with someone who seemed to be a brunette, adult version of her…

No, that was the problem. Peyton was the brunette, adult version of Briony, attitude and all—and if there was anything my daughter didn’t need, it was someone who could teach her a thing or ten about sarcasm.

“I’ll order pizza,” I said, going to stand.

“Oh, you got it last time. I’ll go call them.” Peyton put her juice on the side table and tried to move, but Briony stopped her.

“No. Mimi told me that only gentlemen buy dinner. Princesses sit and look priddy.”

Peyton looked down at her. “Sit and look pretty? I like to buy my own pizza sometimes, and that’s okay.”

Without missing a beat, Briony said, “Princesses sit and look priddy so the mens buying dinner don’t know dat we can kick dere butts.”

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

1.Hate-screw my high school nemesis.

2.Remember to hate him.

3.Prove my brother wrong.

It should be easy.

It isn’t.

As the owner of Pick-A-Dick, New Orleans’ premier hook-up website, my job is simple. Connect two people for a no-strings, no-expectations hook-up. The plus for my clients is that I’m the one who gets to sift through the dick pics—except this time, they’re required.

My problem? My brother, co-owner of Pick-A-Dick’s sister dating site, doesn’t believe it’s possible to hook up with someone three times and not fall in love.

I disagree. I know it’s possible.

And my disagreement is exactly how I end up reconnected with my high school nemesis, Elliott Sloane. The guy who asked me to junior prom and then stood me up. Who egged my car when I rejected him, and convinced my senior homecoming date to ghost me.

It should be easy to hate-screw him. If only he was still that person, instead of a hot-as-hell single dad, working as a builder to make ends’ meet, fighting for custody of his daughter.

Not to mention packing in the pants department…

Three hook-ups.

One outcome.

Right?

FIND OUT MORE: http://www.pick-a-dick-net

“Is she okay with that juice?” Peyton watched her go.

I selected the Blu-ray from the cupboard and shot a smirk her way. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re getting a juice box.”

“I can live with that.”

I turned away and hit the eject button on the player. “You didn’t have to say yes to her, you know.”

“Of course, I had to. Have you seen those eyes? How do you say no to her, ever?”

“I think of all the times she screams and swings her arms like a tiny terrorist, and it’s pretty easy.” I put the disk in and turned around.

Peyton had one eyebrow raised. “See, now, I’d think that’s reason to say no.”

“It depends on the day. Sometimes it results in her being put to bed to calm down, which means she ends up taking a rare afternoon nap, and I get some peace and quiet.”

“That’s a thing around her? She was talking to me for thirty minutes flat about what I did and didn’t like.”

“Only thirty minutes? Lucky you. She has about three hours of material of that.” I took a seat on the sofa, making sure to leave space between us for Bri. “Did she get started on hedgehogs yet?”

Peyton looked a little confused. “Hedgehogs?”

“YouTube is the devil.”

“That…was quite the jump in subject.”

I laughed as the main menu music hit on the TV. “I’m going to preface this by saying kids are weird.”

“Some get that from their parents.”

I blinked at her for a second. She wasn’t wrong if half these people who had a mini-career opening fucking toys on YouTube were parents.

“There are a bunch of stupid videos on YouTube, and apparently, watching people open toys is thrilling.”

Now, she looked really confused.

“And on one of those she watched, the person had a pet hedgehog who wasn’t having the nonsense of her opening a Hatchimal on camera, so it stole the egg.”

She blinked several times in quick succession. “I have no idea what you just said, and if I’m honest… Please don’t explain it.”

I laughed and hit play on the TV.

“Here’s your dooce-box,” Briony said, handing Peyton two. “And das mine. I can’t do the straws.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Peyton looked at the two juices that had been thrust at her.

Smiling, I took one from her. I pulled the straw off the back, out of the tiny plastic slip, and poked it through the foiled hole in the top. “There you go,” I said to Briony. “What do you want for dinner?”

She put the straw in her mouth and pursed her lips as she sucked the juice up. Peyton watched her, lips twitching, as she put her straw in place.

“Pizza!” Briony announced.

Oh no. I’d eaten too much pizza lately.

Was there such a thing as too much pizza?

Maybe if the toppings were changed up…

“Peydon, do you want pizza?” Bri asked, leaning right into her.

“I like pizza,” she replied, smiling sweetly down at her. “What’s your favorite?”

“I like spots and cheese.”

“Spots?”

I coughed on my water. “Pepperoni,” I explained. “They look like spots on the pizza.”

Peyton’s eyes met mine for a minute. Silent laughter shone back at me. That really was toddler logic at its finest.

“You know,” she said, looking down at Peyton. “Spots are my favorite, too!”

Once again, Briony gasped. “Reawy?”

“Really, really. I love spots.”

Oh, Jesus.

It might have been a mistake introducing these two. Not only was my daughter becoming increasingly obsessed with someone who seemed to be a brunette, adult version of her…

No, that was the problem. Peyton was the brunette, adult version of Briony, attitude and all—and if there was anything my daughter didn’t need, it was someone who could teach her a thing or ten about sarcasm.

“I’ll order pizza,” I said, going to stand.

“Oh, you got it last time. I’ll go call them.” Peyton put her juice on the side table and tried to move, but Briony stopped her.

“No. Mimi told me that only gentlemen buy dinner. Princesses sit and look priddy.”

Peyton looked down at her. “Sit and look pretty? I like to buy my own pizza sometimes, and that’s okay.”

Without missing a beat, Briony said, “Princesses sit and look priddy so the mens buying dinner don’t know dat we can kick dere butts.”

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

1.Hate-screw my high school nemesis.

2.Remember to hate him.

3.Prove my brother wrong.

It should be easy.

It isn’t.

As the owner of Pick-A-Dick, New Orleans’ premier hook-up website, my job is simple. Connect two people for a no-strings, no-expectations hook-up. The plus for my clients is that I’m the one who gets to sift through the dick pics—except this time, they’re required.

My problem? My brother, co-owner of Pick-A-Dick’s sister dating site, doesn’t believe it’s possible to hook up with someone three times and not fall in love.

I disagree. I know it’s possible.

And my disagreement is exactly how I end up reconnected with my high school nemesis, Elliott Sloane. The guy who asked me to junior prom and then stood me up. Who egged my car when I rejected him, and convinced my senior homecoming date to ghost me.

It should be easy to hate-screw him. If only he was still that person, instead of a hot-as-hell single dad, working as a builder to make ends’ meet, fighting for custody of his daughter.

Not to mention packing in the pants department…

Three hook-ups.

One outcome.

Right?

FIND OUT MORE: http://www.pick-a-dick-net

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

Two mechanics. One rivalry.

She’ll prove she’s as good as she says she is.

He’ll prove her place isn’t under the hood.

It’s over it.

“Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

For twenty-six years, I lived by my daddy’s motto. Which is why “Mechanic Wanted” is all it takes for me to apply for the job at the garage we once owned.

And I meet the biggest bastard of them all.

Dexter Ryne. Hotter than Hell in July and a firm believer that my place is on reception, taking phone calls and looking pretty. Not getting dirty under the hood of a car.

Determined to prove each other wrong, we make a deal.

I have three weeks to prove my worth as a mechanic. If I don’t, I’m on telephone duty.

If I do, he’ll accept defeat and make my job permanent.

Now, all I have to do is fight my attraction to the cocky little… beep.

Problem is, an engine isn’t the only thing he knows how to make purr…

“Can I help you?” I asked. He blinked and met my eyes. “What the hell are you doing over there?” I pushed to stand up straight. “Right now?” He capped his water bottle. “Well, honestly… I’m just thinking you’d look better over the hood of that car than under it.” I unhooked the hood and slammed it down, spinning on the balls of my feet. Our eyes met properly. I didn’t like what I saw in his—desire, attraction, need. Which was obviously why a shiver ran down my spine. I cocked a hip, putting my hand on it. “The only time you will ever get me over a hood of a car is if a wiper blade needs changing. So, unless you’re a wiper blade…” Dex pulled his phone from his pocket and started tapping the screen. I blinked. “What are you doing?” He peered up at me through his unfairly thick eyelashes. “Seeing if I can get a wiper blade costume for Halloween.” “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” “You can buy wiper blade glasses.” “What?” He raised his eyebrows. “And a lady here on eBay will hand-make any costume. There’s my Halloween sorted.” I stared at him. “You’re not getting me over anything, Dex. Definitely not a car hood. No matter what you think.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.” “Unfortunately not fatally,” I muttered. “You also underestimate me.” “There’s a lot of that going around in this garage.” I put the bottle of coolant away. “Touché.” “Thank you.” “Can I ask you something?” I sighed and turned to face him again. “What?” Earnestly, he asked, “Can you stop wearing those tiny shorts? Or yoga pants that make me want to touch your ass every five minutes?” I looked down at the ripped shorts of my dungarees. “Can you keep your thoughts to yourself? Control yourself, maybe? Not look at me and see someone worth screwing?”

  By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

Two mechanics. One rivalry.

She’ll prove she’s as good as she says she is.

He’ll prove her place isn’t under the hood.

It’s over it.

“Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

For twenty-six years, I lived by my daddy’s motto. Which is why “Mechanic Wanted” is all it takes for me to apply for the job at the garage we once owned.

And I meet the biggest bastard of them all.

Dexter Ryne. Hotter than Hell in July and a firm believer that my place is on reception, taking phone calls and looking pretty. Not getting dirty under the hood of a car.

Determined to prove each other wrong, we make a deal.

I have three weeks to prove my worth as a mechanic. If I don’t, I’m on telephone duty.

If I do, he’ll accept defeat and make my job permanent.

Now, all I have to do is fight my attraction to the cocky little… beep.

Problem is, an engine isn’t the only thing he knows how to make purr…

ADD TO GOODREADS

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

One handywoman.

“I swear, messing with me is your new favorite hobby.” “It is,” he admitted, eyes sparkling. “You’re so easy to mess with, I don’t even have to try.” I rolled my eyes. “And to think—I let myself be guilt-tripped into this.” “More fool you. I warned you about her, and you obviously didn’t listen.” “That’s so not fair. I did listen, I just don’t have freaky skills to avoid the guilt like you do.” “I don’t avoid the guilt. I pretend.” “Would you have pretended if you were me, knowing you’d leave a poor guy to be lonely?” He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have been lonely. I’d have watched TV with my pants off.” “You don’t get to use my plans as an excuse,” I scoffed. “And unless your daughter is a master manipulator, you would have been lonely.” “She’s four. All four-year-olds are master manipulators. If kids came with manuals, that would be the title of the chapter that talks about age four,” he said. “There are technically manuals. They’re these wonderful, futuristic things called books.” “None of which are geared toward a single dad,” he pointed out. “The last time I Googled something, I diagnosed Eli with a rare, deadly disease, learned that there are way too many styles of braid for any human being to master, and also found out how to get the kids out of the door by eight and have time to do my make-up.” I paused. “I can see how that last one would be of use to you. Your mascara looks wonderful today.”

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

ADD TO GOODREADS

“So, are you seeing him?”

“Tomorrow.” She paused. “I have an interview at The Scarlet Letter for a position as a bartender. I have to call my sitter.”

“Charity?”

“You’d think, right? But no—Dahlia was very clear. I’m not being offered a job, merely an interview. She’s savvy and smart, I’ll give her that.”

I smiled, looking out as Zac cannonballed into the pool.

Perrie rolled her eyes for me. “Zac! No balls, okay?”

I grinned.

Zac looked back at her, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, Zac! No balls! I don’t want your balls in this pool!” Lola shouted.

Perrie slapped her hand against her face. “Goddamn it.”

I did all I could do—burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Zac asked.

“No cannonballs, Zacco!” I reiterated, forcing my laughter under control. He saluted me, and I snorted when he dived underwater. Judging by Lola’s shriek, he was going for her ankles.

Not a smart choice after the dinosaurs last night.

Lola screamed at the top of her lungs. “Dinosaurs!”

Zac sputtered with laughter as he broke the surface.

“Zac!” I said sharply. “Stop it.”

“’Kay, Dad!” He turned to Lola, and apologized loud enough that we could hear it.

Perrie sighed heavily. “Kids give me a headache.”

I laughed, leaning right back. The grill was smoking and I’d probably wasted the chance to cook, but fuck it. I’d order in. The kids were having fun and we were talking. Hell, I was learning things about her I never thought I would.

I’d buy fifty pizzas if we could carry on like this. Unraveling the mystery of Perrie Fox was priceless.

“Are you nervous about seeing Damien?” I asked her, looking at her. My eyes skirted her profile, from her button nose to the freckles that dotted it and the lashes that fanned against her skin to the lips that pursed in the perfect pout of her indecision.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. He’s my brother, but eight years is a long time.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “I didn’t think I ever would again, so maybe that’s the thing I can’t accept. That I am going to see him.”

“I get that.”

“Do you?”

“No. I was trying to be sympathetic.”

She laughed anyway. “I think the grill is screwed.”

I sighed. “I know, but when you talk, I listen.”

“That sounds like a line.”

I side-eyed her. “If it was, would it work?”

“For what?”

“To get my cock inside you again.”

She pursed her lips. “At least you’re honest.”

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE