WANTED: ROOMMATE. Must be tidy, polite, and absolutely not my brother's hot-as-sin best friend. I have no idea why I said yes. Maybe I'd had one too many wines. Maybe I'd done it accidentally. Maybe I'd been sleep-texting. One thing I know for sure is this: I absolutely do not want Ethan Hawkins in my apartment, up in my business, taking over my space. Yet he's here, moving his stuff into my spare bedroom, sending a wave of panty-melting, musky man-scent my way every time he walks past me. Here's the thing. We don't get along—at all. We never have, and I don't think we're going to start now that we're under one roof. There's also that little issue where I'm kinda, sorta, totally in love with him...Uh-oh.

Kiss Me

Kiss Me Again

Let your homeless best friend stay with you, he said. Being roommates will be fun, he said. It's only temporary, he said. He never said I'd fall for him. You know what isn't temporary? The endless stream of dirty socks in my bathroom and empty food packets under the sofa—and don't even get me started on the hot guys who take over my living room every Sunday to watch sports. I can't take anymore. So I propose a roommate agreement. One that will bring peace and order back to my life, complete with rules that might just stop my newfound crush on my best friend in its tracks. After all, there’s only so many times you can see your best friend naked before you start to lose your mind.

The Roommate Agreement

Look, I didn't go out of my way to sleep with my next-door neighbor. It just happened. On the counter. Over the counter. Probably under it, too, if we hadn't moved it to the bedroom. But take it from me: a one night stand with your neighbor? It's not all it's cracked up to be... The One Night Stand Next Door is a short, flirty, and dirty prequel to The Girl Next Door. You don't have to listen to it before you dive into The Girl Next Door, but why wouldn't you?

The Girl Next Door

The One Night Stand Next Door

After four years living the single life, it’s decided that I, London Stuart, am back on the market. I’m not even mad when my cousins and best friends put my name down for the speed-dating sessions. In fact, I’m actually a little excited about it. But then one of my dates turns out to be my six-year-old son’s irresistibly sexy soccer coach—his irresistibly sexy British soccer coach. Oliver Hayes is too good to be true—he’s tall, dark, handsome, hilarious, and genuinely loves kids…especially mine. But he’s not sure if he’s even staying in the country, and I’m not sure I can handle giving him my heart if he’s only going to leave. So why is he over for dinner almost every night? Why is he giving Leo private goalie lessons in the backyard? Why is he sending flowers to my desk at the newspaper? And why, oh why, can’t I stop kissing him?

The Introvert's Guide

The Introvert's Guide to Speed Dating

Let it be known that I, Saylor Green, am wholeheartedly against blind dating. I think it’s superficial, unnecessary, and designed wholly to force people into relationships they aren’t ready for. So when Dylan Parker takes the seat across from me, I’m ready to dismiss him at one glance. The problem? He’s hot and funny and sweet and the exact kind of guy I read about in the romance novels I sell like hotcakes in my bookstore. He’s also my new roommate... who likes to walk around in his sweatpants and peer over my shoulder and comment on all my online dating escapades. When he offers to help me flirt my way to dating success, I’m all for it. But what am I supposed to do when the only person I want to flirt with is Dylan?

The Bookworm's Guide

The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting

With all my best friends off the market, it’s time that I, Tori Sussex, join them. So where better to find my future husband than the internet? It’s great. I get to get all the awkward stuff out of the way and already know if I’m going to like the guy before we meet in person. It’s a shame nothing's ever that simple. My relationship with Colton Lane, my best friend’s brother, is the very definition of complicated—dirty little no-strings-attached hook-ups we’ve somehow managed to keep secret from all our friends for the past six months. We’re bound to get caught, and if I’m serious about dating, I only have one choice: call it quits; end our little covert booty calls for good; tell him my parking space is off-limits to him. It should be easy. It should be simple. And I’m sure it would be… if only I wasn’t in love with him.

The Introvert's Guide to Online Dating

What I wanted for my birthday: Books. What I got for my birthday: my brother’s best friend playing matchmaker. Let it be known that I, Kinsley Lane, am one-hundred percent against being set up with somebody. And I’m one-thousand percent sure that Josh Carter is not the man to find me a boyfriend. I mean, if I’m so great, why isn’t he the one dating me? (For the record, I don’t know the answer. That’s just what the guy on the internet asked.) Still, I’ll humor him. If I go on his little dates, he’ll teach my bookish, introverted self how not to be totally, completely, utterly, unforgivably awkward on every single one of them. And all I have to do is fall in love with one of the lovely gentlemen he’s serving up for me on a silver platter—all of whom fit my very specific guidelines. Simple, right? It would be. If only I could stop falling for Josh.

The Bookworm's Guide to Dating

As the last woman standing, I, Piper Carter, am officially a loner. Apparently, that means it’s time for me to get out there and find myself a man. My protestations that I have no time for it falls on deaf ears, and the next thing I know, I’m on a blind date with someone my best friends assure me will be perfect for me. Maverick Donovan, a guy I, uh, know very very well… After one conversation that makes my disdain for this setup very clear, the superstar playboy author asks me for only one thing: my help with his research for his next novel. It turns out that the heroine in his next hot romance is the owner of a bakery, but all his ill-fated efforts are baking the batteries in his fire alarm. I agree. I’ll create some recipes for his leading lady, and he’ll credit me and my store, giving me the recognition I need to help me on my way to franchising. If only we didn’t have to spend almost every free waking moment together to make it happen. I don’t want to give my heart to the guy with a trail of broken ones behind him, but there’s a fundamental problem with that plan: I’m pretty sure I’m doing just that…

The Introvert's Guide to Blind Dating

BAD IDEA #241: Sending a dirty text to your number neighbor. In my defense, my friends did it too, and their neighbors took it as the joke it was. Mine didn't. He responded with a dirty text of his own. Next thing I know, I have a standing texting date every night at ten-thirty. Until I have to miss it because the stray kitten who adopted me one week ago is sick. The only person I know who can help me at this time of night is my British next-door neighbor and local vet, Isaac Cooper. I'll keep him overnight, he says. Here's my number to call me in the morning, he says. The problem? I know that number. Because I've been texting it every night for the last four days...

Number Neighbors

When your flatmate is the hottest new party planner in the country, three things are bound to happen: 1. You’ll have to take a work call for her while you’re in your underwear. 2. You’ll have to fill in for her after an emergency...and pretend to be her. 3. You will royally mess it up...until a hot future duke steps in to save your bum. Yes, yes, that all sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Until you consider the party being planned is for the Dowager Duchess of Devon’s 80th birthday, and the current duchess is the ultimate type A personality, determined to micromanage the entire thing. I’m a type...XYZ...LMNOP...with zero organizational qualities. When all my planning goes to hell in a handbasket, the only hope I have to pull this thing off is duke-in-waiting Hugo Edwards. He’s the only person who knows who I really am. The success of his grandmother’s party relies on us getting along long enough to make it happen—and keeping our hands off one another. Neither of which are easy to achieve. And when my best friend shows up to take over from me, the fact that I might just be falling for Hugo is the least of my worries...

Right Number, Wrong Girl

There are some things you just have to deal with—like your hot-as-hell college booty call moving in next door with his adorable daughter. The only time we've ever gotten along is under the sheets. Old habits die hard because two minutes on my front porch is how long it takes us to bicker. Not that a little fact like that bothers my healthy eighty-year-old grandmother and roommate who's determined to see me married before she bites the dust. Unfortunately for me, she's got her eye set on Mason Black. She's barking up the wrong tree. He's not The One, no matter how much I swoon when I see him with his daughter. I have no intentions of rekindling anything with him—until a rubber spider in my mailbox starts off the mother-of-all neighborhood prank wars, just like the ones we had in college, and throws me right into his path. One that leads right to his bedroom...

Frenemies

My name is Evangeline Astley, and the only thing you need to know about me is that I never imagined this was how my life would go. I was supposed to devote all my time to painting gorgeous things to eventually open my own art gallery. Instead, I spent it all trying to sell my art to save my parents’ hotel. Cue the Earl of Anglesey and his not-so-stunning idea. Matthew Bennett needs an heir to the earldom, but for an heir, he needs a wife. And I’m the one the extremely eligible bachelor has chosen. Except I’m just as marriage-phobic as he is, so naturally, I refused—until he gives me an offer that I couldn’t resist. If I agreed to marry him, provide an heir, and divorce him amicably in due course, he would save The Fox and Hound hotel that I love so much. That, ladies and gents, is how I became the Countess of Anglesey. The one thing I didn’t count on? Falling in love with my husband.

The Aristocrat Diaries

The Accidental Countess

My name is Adelaide Astley, and if there was anything remotely exciting about me to tell you, I would. Sure, my uncle is the Duke of Leicester, and my mother bucked family tradition to marry “below” her and open a hotel, but I’m nothing but an aspiring author with a Tudor era obsession. Oh, and I’m spending the summer tutoring the daughter of the current Duke of Worcester—who happens to be a regular in my highly inappropriate midnight dreams. Thirty-year-old Alexander Winthrop-Bentley is so not my type, but hours of chess games and arguments over Tudor dynasties mean we’re thrown together more often than we should be. And when he shares with me that he needs a date for a charitable event, my mouth betrays me by offering myself up for the evening. How I find myself naked in the library is another matter entirely. Ahem. When the society papers declare us an item, neither of us have the heart to tell our families the truth. Only my twin sister and best friend know the truth, but they both agree we need to keep up the charade, even if only for the summer. But when the end of August comes and my return home beckons, I have to ask myself a question: Is it only his daughter who’s stolen my heart, or has Alexander done the very same thing?

Dating the Duke

What do a wrong number text, a burning building, and a quirky florist have in common? A hunky firefighter with an extra-large...hosepipe. In hindsight, I never should have opened that text message. The last thing I needed first thing on a Monday was a picture of some stranger's, um, eggplant, in my inbox. I also should have replaced the batteries in my fire alarm, because my Friday night did not need to end with my apartment building going up in flames. But it's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine. I'm only lying in a hospital bed with more split ends than I've ever had, almost all my Earthly possessions have turned to ash, and apparently, they don't serve wine to patients in this place. But like I said, it's fine. Until he walks in. The guy who saved my life. My hero. Noah Jacobs. And the universe is amusing itself at my expense: Because the dirty photo I woke up to on Monday? It's his.

Kiss Me Tonight

Let me make this clear right here, right now: I, Halley Dawson, do not care that Preston Wright is kissing other women. Not a lick. Not at all. Nuh-uh-freakin'-uh. I do care that he's doing it six feet away from me behind a gaudy velvet curtain—making him my competition in this year's kissing contest. Why do I care, you ask? Because I've had an unfortunate crush on the insufferable idiot since I was sixteen years old, but I also know it's never going to happen. He's the Creek Falls bachelor to die for, and I'm the Creek Falls raccoon lady who puts peanut-butter sandwiches out for them every night. I'm not going to let him break my four-year-long reign—no matter how many times he breaks the rules and slides the curtain across to do the one thing he's not allowed to: kiss me.

Kiss Me Not

My name is Lady Gabriella Hastings, and there are three things you need to know about me. One, my idiot brother will inherit the estate I’ve adored my entire life. Two, my father wants me to marry an idiot who has an estate like this. Three, my aunt’s goats keep escaping and terrorizing the public. Oh, and I have a huge crush on the gardener. But I have absolutely no time to sort out my own love life—because I’m too busy moonlighting as an online agony aunt to fix everyone else’s problems. If only I could stop having inappropriate feelings about Miles Kingsley, the grumpy, bearded gardener of Arrowwood Hall. He hates me, and I’m not quite sure why. My own horticultural dreams are about to slip through my fingers, and he’s the one person who can help me. If only he wasn’t such a classist bas—ahem. But when a storm leaves us stranded at the estate with no power, and one of my assignments means I need his help, and a fancy party forces truths to come to light, there might just be a chance for us after all…

Lady Love

Literally colliding with the hottest guy in the world and agreeing to be his date to his sister’s wedding? Done…for some reason. Finding out he’s actually an aristocrat and will one day inherit an ancient Scottish dukedom and castle? Yep, that’s a surprise. Sharing a bed with him at said castle because his family thinks I’m his girlfriend? Okay, I’m sure I’ll survive. Even if he does make my heart pitter-patter and my lady bits—uh, never mind. Dealing with his family feud, his bridezilla sister, and his grandma’s gobby cockatiel who fancies himself the castle alarm system? It’s…well, it’s…something. Oh, and a snowstorm, keeping my real identity a secret, trying to figure out where the heck I know the Glenroch family from, and why his mum keeps looking at me weirdly? Yeah, that I’ll need some help with…

The Problem with Pretending

TOP TIP: Don't put out an online ad offering your services as a fake date. Someone will take you up on it—and it won't just be for one night. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up being Mason Jackson's fake girlfriend. He didn't even want me to be. No—his sister was solely responsible for me being his date for his ten-year high-school reunion. And now, she's responsible for telling his parents our relationship is real. We have no choice. We have to act like this isn't all a mistake, like it's not all fake, like we're totally, completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with each other. Simple, right? Wrong.

The Accidental Girlfriend

Don’t sleep with your best friend. Take it from me. I did it. And it was awful—I-wish-the-tequila-made-me-forget kind of bad. The problem is, Luke has forgotten. He swears that he can’t remember a thing about that night beyond the trays of tequila shots being set on the tables. But I can't forget. I can’t forget how good his hands felt until I fell over and hit my hip on the dresser, and I sure as hell can’t forget the entire two minutes. It’s awkward, embarrassing, and the new subject of a couple of dirty lucid dreams. But I have no intention of telling him what we did. Nothing good comes from telling your best friend he’s the worst guy you’ve ever slept with. And that makes having tequila on my birthday a very, very bad idea...

Tequila, Tequila

There’s nothing like starting your Monday morning with a positive pregnancy test. Trust me, I know—because I’m looking at one right now. All I can think is this: Oh, hell. My grandmother is going to kill me. Since this might just send her to an early grave, there’s only one option—pretending the father is my new husband. If only he’ll agree to fake it. Kai Connors was supposed to be nothing more than a one-night stand—a long, dirty one-night stand fueled by one too many tequila shots, where the only promise was to never speak of it again. But if my unfairly sexy next-door neighbor gets his way, this fake marriage could turn out to be very, very real...

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 crap. An apartment fire—that I swear I was not responsible for—means I’m living back at home with my sex-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 for 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?

Catastrophe Queen

Let it be known that I, Holley Stuart, do not give a single rat's behind about pro baseball's star pitcher Sebastian Stone. I definitely don't care that he's standing in my bookstore. Nor do I care that he seems to have forgotten about the last time we saw each other: senior prom, when he both humiliated me and broke my heart, albeit unknowingly. Now, he needs a date to his sister's wedding. Don't ask me how I ended up being it—I have no idea. But that's the least of my problems. His grandfather is adamant we're dating, and Seb isn't in a hurry to convince him otherwise, so I have no choice but to go along with it. The problem? The only thing I've ever faked is... well, you know. I've definitely never faked my feelings for someone. And judging by the way I feel whenever Seb looks at me, it doesn't look like I'm starting now...

The Bookworm's Guide to Faking It

When bestselling romance author Ellie Aarons finds herself with chronic writer’s block, she’s pretty sure all she needs is a change of scenery. A beautiful lakeside cottage with her cat seems like a good idea. But she’s wrong. She needs more than a change of scenery—she needs a muse. And that's why it’s so irritating that she’s drawn to the enigmatic but grumpy Duke of Windermere who owns the estate she’s staying on. They don’t get along—not in the slightest. They could not be more different, which is why it’s so irritating that Max seems to be the muse she’s been looking for. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t help but picture him as the hero in her next book. Oh well. There’s really not a lot she can do about it—the muse wants what the muse wants—except Sir Winston Purrchill keeps exploring the goat barn, and Max’s delivery of him for the fiftieth time means he sees her manuscript open on her laptop. He knows instantly that she’s writing about him. The story she’s written reflects their entire relationship until now...but that spicy scene? That hasn’t happened—yet. Max is ready to compromise: he’ll give her the inspiration she needs for her novel, but she has to stop asking why he’s so against the relationship his grandmother desperately wants him to have. With her deadline looming, Ellie has no other option but to agree. She just hopes that she won’t do what her heroine is doing—and fall in love with the duke.

Big Duke Energy

I, Elle Evans, am on the run. Not from the fuzz—although that would be more exciting. No, I’m on the run from the four-year-old private tape that, thanks to my vengeful ex, has probably already ruined my vlogging career. There’s nothing like the entire world knowing what you look like mid-O. Creek Keys, Florida, is a million miles away from NYC, and it’s the perfect place for me to hide for the rest of summer until I can figure out what I’m going to do. Which is something that’s easier said than done since my new landlord’s daughter thinks I’m God’s greatest gift. Even better? Their beach house is right next to the one I’m renting, so there’s no getting away from her—or her hot British dad. Who most definitely does not think I’m role model material. And he might be right. The problem is that neither of us can say no to her. Or to each other.

Hot Mess

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