Showing results by author "Pippa Grant" in All Categories

You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood, clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love? I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not. I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral. And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger. Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.

Remember that time you accidentally sexted your in-laws? Yeah. I just did that. Except worse. Now my million social media followers are reading and sharing the rude, smartass message I meant to send privately to my little sister...and I'm officially public enemy number one. I'm Beck Ryder. Former boy bander. Underwear model. Fashion mogul. And I just buried my entire leg in my mouth - not just my foot - modern internet style, and publicly insulted my sister's neighbor.

There are two kinds of women in the world - those I can bang, and those I can’t. My teammate’s sister? She’s a can’t. I moved in with her to protect her from a nasty ex, not to be the next guy in line. She’s the brains. I’m the brawn. She’s the fruit. I’m the sausage. She talks too much. I don’t talk at all, if I don’t have to. Should be easy to resist her.

Mission: Survive my best friend's wedding, where I must play nice with my ex and his perfect new girlfriend. Strategy: Bring the hottest fake boyfriend on the planet. Target: Grady Rock. Master baker. Dimples. Muscles. The unicorn of fake boyfriends. Complication: Wyatt Morgan. My brother's best friend. My sworn enemy. Military man. Sexy as hell single dad. The man I let into my panties for one night of hot hate sex after my ex dumped me. 

I’m your neighborhood hot-mess single mom, doing my best to keep my head above water while running my little slice of heaven and keeping my youngest from shoving marbles up his nose - which is exactly what he’s doing the first time Levi Wilson, pop star god, world’s sexiest man, and my all-time number-one celebrity obsession, walks into my bookstore. And we had a moment. Like, a moment-moment. So when he proposes a no-strings fling? Count. Me. In. Thrill of a lifetime, right? Surely, nothing will go wrong.

Never borrow pants from your brother. Especially if he’s a size smaller than you are, because all that pressure in the junk will short-circuit your brain. And you’ll lie to a woman in a club about your real name. Leave her unsatisfied after making out in a bathroom. Then find out that she’s the one thing standing in the way of your dreams. And she very much doesn’t like being lied to. Now I have to convince Lila Valentine - the woman I can’t stop thinking about, my biggest regret, and my new boss - that I’m what’s best for the baseball team she’s inherited.

There are three things I hate: Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett. Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It's been 10 years since he took my virginity - I'd make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth is that it would have to be a brat-best joke, and yes, it kills me to admit that - and now he's not only a billionaire, he's also my new boss.

She’s the last woman on earth I’d marry...again. Yet here I am. Saying my vows. Again. To save an alpaca. At least, that’s my story. But the truth might be a little more complicated. I didn’t want to let her go the first time. But now I have a second chance to win over my wife. We’re older. Wiser. And hornier. This time, I won’t fail. Hitched is a red-hot enemies-to-lovers laugh-a-palooza featuring a girl in need of a marriage of convenience and a man in need of a cold shower to keep from falling for his fake wife.

Call it superstition, but when a guy bats as hot as Brooks Elliott, you don’t mess with what’s working. And what’s working is him keeping his pants zipped and doing all of his scoring on the field. So when I hear he’s planning to ditch his V-card now that he’s been traded to baseball’s lovable losers - a.k.a. my home team and my reason for living every March through October - I do what any rational, dedicated, obsessed fan would do. I make a plan to stop him. But the thing about stopping him is that it requires spending time with him. Lots. And lots. And lots of time.

Nick Murphy. Hockey god. My best friend’s big brother. My friend with mind-blowing benefits. The best thing to happen to my nether regions since my subscription to the toy of the month club. The man I’ve been secretly in love with for years. And a total ass. I am so done with him. Except there’s one small problem. Now that I’ve cut him off, his hockey game is in the toilet. He’s convinced I’m his good luck charm, and he wants me back. But only for his game.

If people have polar opposites, Luca Rossi is mine. His butt is in the baseball hall of fame. Mine's comfortably seated in the hall of lame. When he's not snagging fly balls out in center field, he's modeling in shampoo commercials. I once jammed my own finger while stirring cookie dough, and sometimes I forget shampoo is a thing. He's a total cynic when it comes to love. I make a living writing love stories. But after my latest broken engagement (no, I don't want to talk about how many times that's happened), it's clear he's exactly the man I need.

Large and in charge? Honey, I'm the biggest, baddest, mother pucking-est machine to ever own the ice. I shoot. I score. In and out of the rink. I don't come early, but I come often, if you know what I mean. And I always leave the ladies wanting more. Until that chick last night. I'm no one-thrust wonder, and you're damn right I'm going to prove to her I can do better. But every time I think I'm finally on my way back into her pants, she one-ups and out-balls me. I should cut my losses, lick my wounds, and walk away. But Zeus Berger doesn't walk away from anything.

When you work hard and have the bank account to prove it, you're entitled to play hard. I've seen some crazy things. I've caused some crazy scenes. And there's no shame in my game. But I'm still knocked off my stilettos when an insane chain of events leads to me inheriting a baby. The craziest part? The baby comes with a by-the-books, no-nonsense retired Marine who's so regimented that I wouldn't be surprised if he irons his boxer shorts. 

He’s the world’s most alpha Marine and the last man I should be letting jingle my bells this holiday season. But when Clint steps in to rescue me - from a murderous goose, a rogue reindeer, and the ghost of Christmas Right Now causing trouble in my bakery - I can’t help but wonder if we’re meant to be more than friends.

Anything your tongue desires, I can bake it. Scones? Child's play. Cupcakes? I'll frost them so good you won't know what hit you. Donuts? Please! You're talking to a master baker. But there's one egg I've never been able to crack. My best friend. Correction: my former best friend. She's the apple in my pie. The whip in my cream. The lemon in my meringue. The wish in my bone. She's the one who got away.

When you’re an heir so spare that getting attacked by a shark is more likely than you ever wearing the crown, you’re only allowed certain liberties. Yet still, those liberties can bite you in the ass. Good thing I’m such a charming devil. Even then, I’ve been banished to America for a year under the pretense of playing professional hockey while my father cleans up my latest mess. But trouble follows me wherever I go. Generally trouble of the beautiful female variety, and Gracie Diamonte is no exception. Or possibly, she’s the best exception.

When it comes to women, I know what they want. And all day long, I give it to them. Dark, broody, and sexy? You got it. Need to laugh? I'm your guy. Desperate for something to put you in the mood? You've come to the right place, kitten. Every morning when my library opens, there's a line around the block, the ladies flocking to me in need of their next book boyfriend. I'm that dude. The one who knows his way around the romance section. And if you think that hasn't gotten me plenty of action over the years, you'd be wrong.

The world’s sexiest firefighter is about to get a second chance with the virgin next door.... He’s bossy, arrogant, and so ridiculously hot that he should come with a warning label and a pair of flame-retardant coveralls. He’s also the boy who broke my heart when we were in high school. I want to move in next door to Ryan O’Dell the way I want to be the virgin gamer geek suddenly in charge of running my sister’s sex-toy factory. Too bad both are written in my stars.

If I had to pick a bride of convenience, my first choice would not be Peach Maloney. My 50th choice would not be Peach. Top spot on my list of occupational hazards? Yes. Royal pain in the crumpets? Yes. A bride of convenience? No. But I've unexpectedly gone from royal bodyguard to monarch, having inherited a crown that was stolen from my family long before my birth. The kicker? In order to take the throne, I must find a wife. Have I mentioned Peach would not have been my 100th choice? But I've no other options, and she needs a favor that my new position can fulfill quite nicely.

He has the muscles of Adonis, an ego bigger than the sun, and a very clear desire to get back in my pants. Which would be fantastic if he weren't a SEAL and I wasn't a criminal. Although, I prefer the term avenger. I'm a hacktivist, cleaning up the cesspool of cyberspace one scam artist and troll at a time, and I sometimes bend a few rules to get justice done. He's a military man with abs of glory, sworn to uphold the letter of the law no matter its shortcomings. And if he'd known who - or what - I was, I doubt he would've banged me at my best friend's wedding reception.