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Peyton ha una gigantesca cotta per il suo capo. A lei non importa che sia considerato un bastardo arrogante, il sadico dell’ufficio. Semplicemente non riesce a resistere al fascino magnetico dei suoi occhi. Ed è convinta che fuori dal posto di lavoro ci sia un uomo affascinante, tutto da scoprire. Così, dopo una notte ad alto tasso alcolico, invia una e-mail anonima, confessando i suoi sentimenti… focosi. Quando Rome riceve il messaggio, non sa cosa pensare. Naturalmente è inappropriato, e poi è probabile che sia uno scherzo. Ma ne è davvero sicuro? Una parte di lui vorrebbe andare a fondo, perché, anche se fatica ad ammetterlo, è intrigato. Era da tanto tempo che qualcuno non riusciva a farlo sorridere. Chiunque sia questa donna, vuole trovarla. Anche se sa che risponderle potrebbe essere un grandissimo errore…

Peyton è attratta follemente dal suo capo. Follemente. Da anni. E ora sta per andarsene. Ha deciso di fare il grande passo e mettere in piedi un’impresa tutta sua. E’ brava, sa quello che fa, e poi… Forse allontanarsi da Rome Blackburn le farà finalmente dimenticare quanto lui le piaccia e quante volte lo ha sognato a fargli cose che… uuuh!

Insomma, a trent’anni appena compiuti è il momento di mettere ordine nella propria vita e, magari, trovarsi qualcuno che quei sogni li faccia diventare realtà.

Ma succede che, la sera del suo compleanno, dopo un buon numero di bevutine ad alto tasso alcolico, confessa tutto alle amiche: sì, ha una cotta per il capo più gelido e scostante che ci sia, e sì, vorrebbe davvero, davvero portarselo a letto! Così, un po’ per dispetto, un po’ per ubriachezza molesta, scrive una mail anonima nella quale confessa il suo desiderio di… strapazzarlo moltissimo!

Rome Blackburn, il capo. Cuore e occhi di ghiaccio, lingua tagliente, modi scostanti:

– Non è un segreto che sia un bastardo implacabile; non mi piace la gente allegra. Né essere allegro. Né la gente. Già… senza dubbio non mi piace la gente.-

Intrigato, irritato, confuso, Rome decide di stare al gioco, suo malgrado, e risponde alla mail. Certo, non si scioglie subito, ma è preso, catturato da qualcosa, e lo scambio continua…

Cosa farà Peyton? Se Rome dovesse scoprire chi è a stuzzicarlo potrebbe compromettere il suo futuro? E Rome, metterà da parte quel che è stata la sua vita fin da quando ha deciso che si sarebbe fatto strada negli affari, per dare la caccia alla donna che lo sta “molestando”?

Scoppiettante, divertente, solare, questo romanzo è così. Nello stile della migliore commedia sentimentale: equivoci, segreti, sesso, amore, tutto condito da ironia e leggerezza.  Ora non ci resta che aspettare un secondo volume, quello che potrebbe riguardare lo scanzonato, simpaticissimo Hunter O’Rourke, vecchio e unico amico di Rome oltre che socio in affari, e Bailey Blackbourn, sorella di Rome… Oh, le premesse sono niente male…

Buona lettura!

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For better or for worse,’til death do us part . . .

The better captured me; she’s who stole my heart.

And made me realize I couldn’t live without this woman.

The worse of her took my breath away–kicked me when I was down and twisted me into a million knots.

When I first met her, I thought she was someone I would never see again.

The second time I ran into her, it was a random coincidence.

The third?

I didn’t know it at the time, but she was the girl I was going to marry.

But life isn’t always perfect. You have to take the better and the worse–even if it means giving her up, having her slip between your fingers, and letting her walk away.

I’m getting married.

This is forever, ‘til death do us part.

In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . .

It sounds so simple, to love someone unconditionally.

To give them your heart.

So why is she slowly eating away at my soul with every unanswered phone call, every unread text, and every door left unopened?

She said yes, and yet, in order for her to be with me . . . I need to let her go.

Her hands rest on her hips, the navy-blue Grecian-style dress draped down the length of her body, a small slit on the side that barely reaches her knee. “You’re really fixated on this, aren’t you?”

“Nah, didn’t care too much. A homemade dinner would have been nice, though.”

“I can’t cook.”

“Neither can I,” I answer honestly. I either eat out, or I make myself scrambled eggs, and that’s about it. Rory taught me how to make meatballs once but hell if I can remember how to do that. All I know is that I enjoyed crushing the beef between my fingers. I get by with limited knowledge in the kitchen.

She chuckles. “Well, aren’t we a pair?” She turns to watch Stryder and Rory together. Apparently not giving a shit about the even bigger elephant in the room, Ryan asks, “Is this weird for you?”

“I have a flask in my jacket pocket, so you tell me.”

She lifts her bouquet and pulls out a mini bottle of alcohol. She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Thought maybe we’d both need this since we have to sit through having all these pictures taken with them.”

“Smirnoff? That’s what you brought with you?”

“It was all I had. Don’t judge me.”

“I’m judging.”

Playfully she whacks my arm. “You shouldn’t be judging me. It was innovative. I carved out a little space in my bouquet for this bottle. If anything, you should congratulate me on this genius idea.”

“Was it your idea?”

“I mean”—she toes the ground—“I might have seen the idea on Pinterest along with a recipe for beer cookies that tasted like vomit.”

“Beer cookies?” I shake my head and take the little bottle from her. Twist the cap, tilt the bottle back, and swig. I hand it back to her, leaving half the bottle. “Even I know better than to think beer cookies would taste good.”

“They were for a boyfriend I was trying to impress.”

“Impress or poison?”

“Impress.” She laughs. “Although after our breakup, I should probably say poison. Teach all future suitors: if you mess with me, you get poisoned.”

“It’d keep me away, that’s for damn sure.”

She finishes the rest of the little bottle and returns it to her bouquet. She pats it and says, “I can recycle it later.”

“Get drunk and save the earth. Sounds like a good combination to me.”

“Ryan and Colby, can we get you over here for a few pictures?” the photographer calls out.

“That’s our cue.” Ryan pokes my cheek with her index finger, looking sincerely at me. “Don’t forget to smile, because these pictures will last forever.”

“Scowling not in the job description of best man?”

As we walk over, she says, “I would normally say no, but given the bride is your ex-girlfriend, one scowl is allowed.”

“One scowl? Damn, better make it a good one.”

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

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For better or for worse,’til death do us part . . .

The better captured me; she’s who stole my heart.

And made me realize I couldn’t live without this woman.

The worse of her took my breath away–kicked me when I was down and twisted me into a million knots.

When I first met her, I thought she was someone I would never see again.

The second time I ran into her, it was a random coincidence.

The third?

I didn’t know it at the time, but she was the girl I was going to marry.

But life isn’t always perfect. You have to take the better and the worse–even if it means giving her up, having her slip between your fingers, and letting her walk away.

I’m getting married.

This is forever, ‘til death do us part.

In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . .

It sounds so simple, to love someone unconditionally.

To give them your heart.

So why is she slowly eating away at my soul with every unanswered phone call, every unread text, and every door left unopened?

She said yes, and yet, in order for her to be with me . . . I need to let her go.

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

Facebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website | Amazon Author Page | Instagram | Follow on BookBub

I don’t know what love is anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

Except I haven’t felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem–but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

That’s how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I’m a pro. I can handle this.

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I’m doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don’t think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

Facebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website | Amazon Author Page | Instagram | Follow on BookBub