The Brooklyn warehouse is filled with graffiti and pigeon poo. It’s practically begging to be converted into luxury loft apartments.
And yet, will my mother sell it to me, her only son, the investment wunderkind?
“Darling, buildings have souls,” she says, between sips of green juice.
“Show me that you’re on the path to spiritual wellness, and I’ll give it to you.”
Enter Sydney Taylor, my best friend’s little sister, spiritually well enough for even my mother’s past selves to approve of, and my least favorite person on earth…in this life or any of the others I’ve supposedly lived. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on earth. I’ve repeatedly fantasized about shipping her to Mars.
Instead, I marry her.
I know, I know, my crew has quite the history with phony relationships, but this one’s different.
No matter what my mother sees in our auras.
Or how much I want to hate-boink her maddeningly sweet little…
Yep, once my mother signs over that building, I’m definitely going to walk away from this hot-fakery totally unscathed.
And if you buy that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.
Love just means you haven’t scored yet. Keep playing. Keep hitting that ball until you make a winner out of yourself. In tennis, a winner can’t have love.
And I’m a winner. I’m the one who wins, and wins, and then sleeps with the prom queen. Normal people wish they could walk in my shoes for a few hours, then they feel jealous when they meet me.
I’m a stone-cold winner. Twenty-eight, TriBeCa penthouse, over a billion in the bank, a dick that could choke a giraffe. Women love me, then hate me later on. That’s fine, as long as they love me first. I’ve won every single game I’ve ever played. Well… except this one.
“That’s the match!” my mother says, beaming at me from across the court.
Fuck, I let that last volley of hers sail right past my head. I glare at the stupid yellow ball as it bounces off the court.
Yep. That’s the set. Four games to two. At least I didn’t get love though. That’d make me a real fucking loser.
“Good job, Maryann,” I mutter. Mom doesn’t mind that I call her by her first name. She didn’t think it was weird even when I started doing it at six.
“Chin up, sweetheart.” My mother walks off the court at my side, beaming as she slides her sunglasses on top of her ageless blond head.
“You know, you only lost because you never commit to your backhand.”
“I lost,” I say, “because Sydney Taylor kept distracting me.”
Honestly, the Kensington Tennis Club is the exact last place I ever thought Sydney fucking Taylor would show her face. It’s the summer meet-and-greet locale for all of New York’s high society. While Sydney got a membership to that club by being born into one of the richest families on the planet, she’s never wanted to hang around with any of us “trust-fund assholes.” Her term, not mine. Like I said, WASP-y tennis club isn’t her idea of a good time. I’d have expected her to be building outhouses down in Guatemala or getting into a fist fight with Richard Spencer.
Not that I’d blame her.
But here she is, seated at a table on the patio, shooting me one smug grimace after another. When she catches me staring, she cheerfully flips me off. Then, in case anyone becomes shocked by her unladylike display, she uses her middle finger to scratch her forehead.
Classy save, Syd. I fucking hate her, and the feeling’s mutual.
Piper Marlowe is an absolute legend, if you know where to look. And trust us, you don’t.
For national security reasons, her identity is a secret. As a matter of fact, there’s a good chance that at this very moment, she’s undercover, speaking with a bad Lithuanian accent to a bunch of shady characters. She can neither confirm nor deny that she’s writing ultra-fun, uber-witty, hot-darn-sexy romance to distract from the stress of her current clandestine operation.
Or maybe romance writing is the cover for a cover?
She could tell you, but then she’d have to . . . you know. That.
Growing up as the oldest Kingston sibling, I knew what was expected of me.
King Corp. was my legacy, and my siblings were my responsibility.
The world was ours for the taking. For the living.
But I neglected to live it for myself . . . until her.
Daphne Brenner wasn’t meant to be part of the deal.
I never intended to acquire a new assistant with my new hockey team, but here she is.
Constantly challenging me. Continually Intriguing me. Never backing down.
Even if I’m the villain in her fairytale.
He stole my legacy, and now he holds the key to my future.
When he sold our family’s hockey team to Max Kingston, my father destroyed my dreams without a second thought. And that was only his first betrayal.
Now I have to play nice with my new boss in order to carve out my new future.
But when long days and late nights lead to so much more, I realize I’m falling for the intensely arrogant, beautiful man who quietly puts everyone else’s needs before his own.
Playing nice with the enemy isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be.
Bella Matthews is a Jersey girl at heart. She is married to her very own Alpha Male and raising three little ones. You can typically find her running from one sporting event to another. When she is home, she is usually hiding in her home office with the only other female in her house, her rescue dog Tinker Bell by her side. She likes to write swoon-worthy heroes and sassy, smart heroines with a healthy dose of laughter thrown in.
He’s walled himself inside his pain. Can he break out of his shell to save everything he holds dear?
Kris McLean desperately needs to bust out of his darkness. After a series of unspeakable tragedies send him to the psych ward, staying strong for his daughter is the only light at the end of his tunnel. And when he hits his blackest hour and reaches for a rope, he’s devastated to survive and find his parental rights under threat.
Struggling daily not to grab the bottle, the broken man can’t risk failing the only thing left worth living for. But with his heart too damaged to swell at even sunrises and poetry, Kris finds each day a crippling battle to salvage his life.
Can this fractured father defeat his demons and feel his little girl’s embrace?
Hate Me is the powerful fifth book in the complex Claiming Kristopher series. If you like troubled characters, chaotic struggles, intense passion, and the extraordinary depth of the human spirit, then you’ll love Angel Jendrick’s torrid tale.
His heart thumped a commanding beat, content for a time to just soak up his daughter. Her unsteady steps, the late afternoon daylight gleaning off her eyes, the mischievous smile she had solely for Courtney as she stumbled into her waiting arms.
It felt like the sun rose and landed around her, like his little girl could move mountains and stop global warming. He was fucking star-struck.
“Our little girl is so beautiful.”
Drew’s sentiment threw him off guard, and he faltered.
Angel Jendrick is the author of gritty contemporary romances. She’s also been known to dabble in poetry from time to time. When not writing or editing (or thinking about writing or editing), she can be found watching movies, jamming to her favorite tunes, running after her kids, or working on her latest home reno or DIY project.
Angel lives in Canada on thirteen beautiful acres of land with her wife, their three children, Ellie their energetic lab and a blind cat name Taz.
She is currently working on the final book in her Claiming Kristopher series, as well a brand new venture into the world of YA romance!
