Southern Hearts Club
The Divorce Attorney
A Steamy Romantic Comedy
*Now in Kindle Unlimited!*
When she said she wanted a mature man...
He wasn't exactly what she had in mind.
What are you supposed to do when your insanely hot divorce attorney leans over after you’ve signed your divorce papers and seductively whispers in your ear, “Give me a call if you want to know how it feels to be handled by a real man since you were clearly too much woman for him,” before sliding his business card over and walking out the door?
I mean, what do you do with that?
Sure, I’m tempted. I just lost a hundred and eighty pounds of stupid, cheating man. I deserve to treat myself.
The thing is, I think he might be too much man for me.
After all, he’s fifteen years my senior, though he doesn’t look it.
But the urge to learn what this seasoned pro could teach me proves irresistible.
And as it turns out, he’s a pro at a lot of things…like destroying people’s lives.
The Six Month Lease
A Steamy Romantic Comedy
They don't have to love each other.
They just have to live with each other.
Never have I ever…decided to move in with a guy after dating him for only three weeks.
Just kidding. That’s exactly what I did.
And like most of you are probably thinking, it inevitably blew up in my face when we broke up two days after signing our lease.
Now, I’m stuck living with my ex. The same man who turned my life completely upside down in record time.
For. Six. Whole. Months.
It doesn’t matter how many times he flashes those abs at me after a shower, or how close his bedroom is to mine. I will resist him because he’s simply not the right guy for me.
But if I thought he’d done a number on me before, that’s nothing compared to what happens after I finally learn the secret he’s been keeping from me this entire time.
A Steamy Romantic Comedy
She thought she accidentally slept with her boss...
She didn't know he had a twin brother.
Real talk: I slept with my boss. Back before he even was my boss. Back when I had no clue who he was.
Real talk: My boss is an arrogant jerk. I hate him. If we didn’t work so well together, I would have told him exactly where he could shove his pompous attitude a long time ago.
Turns out…my boss has a twin. Identical twin.
Now I know why he’s always acted like our one night together never happened. Why he acted like he’d never met me before when I started working for him.
It wasn’t him that night. It was his brother.
A brother who’s just as gorgeous as my boss and a hell of a lot nicer.
Real talk: I’m kind of…bothered that it wasn’t my boss that night.
But that’s before certain revelations about that night come to light.
The Bareback Cowboy
A Steamy Romantic Comedy
He might be one of the best riders in the world,
but she’ll give him the buck of his life.
WOULD YOU RATHER… Go through your entire life without ever falling in love?
OR… Have a rough-and-tumble cowboy stomp all over your heart with his sharpened spurs before riding off into the sunset like John f***ing Wayne?
Yeah, that happened. And frankly, I knew better. All cowboys are trouble. I’ve grown up around them my entire life, so I know how they operate. I’ve broken some of the toughest horses in the business. But for some reason, I found this thoroughbred impossible to resist.
A lot of good it did me too. Nothing but tears and comfort eating in the aftermath.
Suddenly, after a year away with no phone calls or texts to show for it, he’s back. He thinks we can pick up where we left off. But I’ve got news for him: His eight seconds with me are already up.
Little do I know, there’s a reason why he’s come back.
And it’s the absolute last thing I expect.
Try as I might, I can’t help when my eyes automatically dip and zone in on his worn jeans that hug his tree trunk-like thighs to an almost uncomfortable looking degree. Howdy there, cowboy. There’s no way any manufacturer makes jeans that could accommodate those thighs. They just don’t make ‘em that way. And considering bronc riders primarily use their legs—their thighs, in particular—for balance in order to keep from getting bucked, the best riders have legs the size of NFL linebackers’.
Trace Marino here is one of the best bareback riders in the world.
And those thigh muscles speak to that prowess.
Lawd, the stamina he would have…
Dragging my gaze up from his scuffed boots, I take in his faded t-shirt emblazoned with the emblem of a rifle company that I know to be one of his sponsors. The planes of his pecs are clearly defined, even though the material is loose fitting and not clingy at all. He’s just that big and broad. Same with his biceps that are roped with bulky muscle and tattoos that disappear up into his sleeves. Instead of the cowboy hats I usually see him sporting when he’s competing, he’s wearing a baseball cap that has clearly seen better days.
There’s only one word to describe his brand of man candy.
When our eyes finally meet, he seems momentarily surprised. But he quickly masks that reaction—whatever it was—and replaces it with confused indifference. Not that his morphing facial expressions take away from his attractiveness. Pretty sure one of those broncs he rides could kick him in the face, and he would still make People Magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive issue.
“You must be an apprentice,” he says, as if thinking out loud to himself. “I can’t imagine the Prescotts actually hiring on minors.”
At the sound of my last name leaving his firm, yet sumptuous lips, I’m jolted out of my trance-like once-over. Two seconds in his presence and I’ve already fangirled. Cool. But damn, those piercing blue eyes can really hook a girl. I’ve always assumed it’s photo editing that makes them appear so luminous in his promo shots and every picture I’ve ever seen of him on the internet.
The blue of his eyes is a real color and one I will forever refer to as Marino Blue.
Wait a second…minor?
He thinks I’m underage?
Is he actually serious? Sure, I’m short. Barely 5’1”. And yeah, I’m pretty small and petite. Always have been. I was teased relentlessly about it in grade school because I always looked years younger than everyone else in my class. Among their many nicknames for me, I think their favorite was “Pipsqueak Prescott.”
But a minor?
This dude must be trippin’ off gin and juice.
Nevermind that his lazy Texas drawl might very well hold the key to unlocking the secret of spontaneous orgasms.
“I’m twenty-four,” I state very clearly and a little impatiently.
A line forms between his brows as his gaze once again skates down my body. It’s as if he’s taking my measure, trying to see me in a certain way but struggling with it. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m not?” The sarcasm that drips from my words is instinctual. “Then maybe I should call the DMV and tell them they made a mistake on my ID.”
His frown only deepens, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’m not a minor and I’m not an apprentice. I’m Quinn Prescot.”
His expression clears…and there it is. However he was struggling to see me before, he’s somehow figured it out and is now looking at me like he suddenly has free rein to do so. As if he’s actually letting himself really look now.
But when he continues looking and not speaking, I start to get antsy. Awkwardness gives me hives. If I don’t do something soon, I’ll surely put my foot in my mouth and try to fill that void by saying something stupid. Like telling one of my awful knock-knock jokes. Such as, “Why don’t horses wear underwear when they race? Because it rides up on them.”
Clearing my throat, I pull up my own big-girl underwear and hold out my hand to him. This man may have basically just called me a child, but I’m not easily rattled. In my racket, politeness goes a long way in making everyone’s jobs easier.
“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Marino.”
“I’ve heard that Morty and Quinn Prescott are some of the best horse trainers around,” he says dubiously without taking my hand. “And that you specifically have tempered some of the most unmanageable animals. They say you have a gift.”
My arm drops. I’m not entirely sure what to say to that. My chest swells with enormous pride at his compliment, as well as the knowledge that our expertise is being touted by our colleagues in the business. But it’s the tone with which he says all of it that rankles on my already prickly nerves.
Huffing, I plant my hands on my hips. My inner brilliance comes up with, “What exactly were you expecting? A two-hundred-pound cowhand with a sailor’s mouth and a wad of dip in her lip?”
I immediately realize I shouldn’t have said that. Because he seems to take it as an invitation to conduct a more thorough inspection of my body. From the top of my shoulder-length brown hair and diamond stud nose ring, to the tank top and untucked flannel shirt, to the denim shorts, and finally, to my lace-up, calf-high combat boots.
Despite the fact that I first sat a horse at three years old and have grown up in the rodeo world, cowboy boots have never been my thing. I really only wear them when I’m actually working at a rodeo. They aren’t a prerequisite to being an expert horsewoman, thank you very much. I just feel more comfortable this way.
“The combat boots were a shock,” Trace eventually answers after his gaze finds mine.
The urge to grin hits me, but I instantly quash it. Something still has me on the defensive with this cowboy. Then again, I’m always on the defensive. With almost everyone. I can never seem to turn it off.
And something else tells me that with this guy, I’m going to have to keep my back up.
Because if I so much as blink, he might try to get me on my back.
The Extra Myles
A Steamy Romantic Comedy
*Coming December 21st*
NOW HIRING… Fake boyfriend for 27-year-old desperate female. Must be able to deal with pretentious, New York City socialites. Attendance at family Christmas events required. Seasonal work only. Applicants not named Myles Colson need not apply.
The position has been filled. Granted, Myles is the only man in Blair McCauley’s life capable of looking her dragon mother in the eyes and not bursting into tears. Blair will need that steel whenever her mother helpfully reminds her over a glass of eggnog that a career is pointless when she could just marry rich. Thankfully, the barbecuing, beer swilling, football watching guy’s guy doesn’t even sort of fit in with her flashy New York lifestyle.
Which is exactly the point.
Although Myles is a lot more than a former jock with a pension for frosted mugs and Sweatpants Sundays. He also happens to be a gifted artist, and Blair is helping him carve out his space in the art world. Lucky for her, she’s the only one who gets to see the man behind the pottery wheel. Sans shirt.
But when Blair and Myles both come to the realization that they’ve just been pretending at pretending, they never see what’s coming for them next.