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.
Kiera’s capacity to face death stems from training, begun when old enough to wield a knife. Befriended by wolves and raised by a group of psychic men sworn to protect humanity, she now faces mercenaries intent on reshaping the world using equal talents.
Prodigious keyboard skills and innate curiosity has led Wyatt McGlauklin to invent the unimaginable. He’s long since claimed status as the top computer science geek. Little do people know, there’s much more to Wyatt.
When a blonde spitfire steps out of nowhere to prevent his assassination, his life’s direction takes an extraordinary turn where his analytical mind can’t validate paranormal phenomena.
Fate decrees Kiera find her life partner, but she learns you don’t always get to choose whom you love. Wyatt’s arrival challenges destiny as they combine forces to preserve the world as they know it.
Wyatt stiffened when something furry dropped onto his right shoulder. Warm and agile, the monkey wrapped its tail around his neck to secure its place with an arm around his head, latching on to his left ear.
“You have a monkey?” He thought keeping wolves was strange.
“He’s a Capuchin monkey. Name’s Simon.”
Wyatt held very still, not wanting to startle the critter that had jumped down from one of the ceiling fan’s paddles. “That explains the thickness of the paddles and size of the motor. Does he like to ride?” An image of the fan on low with Simon hanging by his fully haired prehensile tail and a primal scream filling the air came to mind.
“Yeah, but he gets so excited and makes so much noise, we don’t let him do it often.”
Wyatt held his hands out, an offering for the monkey to vacate his new perch, then slowly moved to pluck the primate from his shoulder. Round-headed with a white face, an eerie intelligence shone from deep within its gaze. “Capuchins are supposed to be one of the most intelligent of the New World monkeys.”
“He won’t let you forget it.”
“Um, Kiera. Simon is actually a Simone.”
In response, the monkey slapped Wyatt on the cheek and shrieked its rage.
“Ow. What was that for?”
“He doesn’t like to be referred to as a girl. And before you ask, he likes to perch high to have a visual advantage. It gives him a bird’s eye view. Of note, if he doesn’t like you, he’ll toss things at you while you sleep. He has a penchant for stealing and hording Dacien’s jelly beans.”
“Sounds like he makes good use of opposable thumbs.”
As if understanding the complexities of English, Simon patted Wyatt on the head before tweaking his nose.
“See? He likes you.”
Wyatt wondered what devilment the monkey stirred up and if he led or followed in Kiera’s steps. “Where’d you find him?”
Reily Garrett is a writer, mother, and companion to three long coat German shepherds. When not working with her dogs, she’s sitting at her desk with her fur kids by her side.
Author of chilling suspense and snarky romance, her stories span the distance of romantic thrillers, paranormal romance, and erotic romance. Regardless of genre, each book delves into a dark and twisted imagination yet is tempered with romance and a touch of humor.
Reviews by Kirkus Reviews, San Francisco Bay Review, and BestThrillers.com best describe her work:
“This could be James Patterson, Lee Child, and Tess Gerritsen rolled into one, but the dark, twisted methods used by the serial killer could surprise even those readers…” – San Francisco Bay Review
