Two days after my boyfriend dumps me, my business goes belly up, and the sperm bank declines my credit card, a gorgeous rock star offers to whisk me away for two weeks of hot, steamy, all-expenses paid...therapy. I should say no. I’m not looking for a fling. I want a man who’ll be a father to the baby I’m desperate to conceive. Or, at the very least, a guy willing to knock me up before we go our separate ways. 

Advice from my future self: Don’t ask your best guy friend to give you nookie lessons. Oops. Too late. I already begged my rock star BFF to give me lessons in seduction. And sweet, strong, always-has-my-back Shep already let me down easy, proving I have zero game, even with people who profess to care about me. Now, I’ll never live down my embarrassment or figure out why I’m a failure with the opposite sex. Or so I assume…until Shep changes his mind, agreeing to three weeks of red-hot study buddy time before he goes on tour and we part ways as friends.

Note to self - do not bang your best guy friend in the limo on the way to the swanky Vegas hotel. I give myself very good advice. Too bad I suck at taking it. If only Colin and I hadn't drunk so much whiskey, if only I'd kept that red bikini in my suitcase, if only his evil ex-girlfriend hadn't come sniffing around making me feel territorial and protective. Not that my bad boy rock star best friend is any help. Walking around looking ridiculously sexy, telling me I'm perfect in that panty-melting voice of his when we both swore we’d never do anything to put our friendship at risk.

She claims to hate me more than karaoke and liverwurst combined, and that's before she finds out I'm her new boss...Yes, Princess Alexandra and I have both been keeping big secrets. The spoiled royal bit is just our cover, a smokescreen we hide behind to keep our counterintelligence work from the people we love. Being spies, we can't let anyone too close. But close is exactly what we'll be pretending to be on our first mission posing as lovers. I honestly can't decide which will be harder - taking down a notorious drug lord or keeping my growing attraction to Alexandra under wraps.

Would I like to know what all the sexy times fuss is about? Heck yes. Do I want to lose my virginity to a prince out to ruin my plans? Or risk breaking the heart of a man I'll have to leave behind? Hell. No. I'm already living on borrowed time. If the firstborn curse on my family is real, I only have six months to ensure my twin sister lives happily ever after. But Jeffrey wants to slam the brakes on my sister's romance with his brother and force me to stay in bed until I recover from a touch of pneumonia.

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.

The things I want to do to my sweet, kindergarten-teaching, mitten-crocheting best friend Libby Collins are 10 different kinds of wrong. Maybe 20. But I'm a firm believer in teaching by example, and by the end of our first sex lesson, we've graduated to a hands-on approach to her education: my hands all over her, her hands all over me, and her hot mouth melting beneath mine as I prove to her there isn't a damned thing wrong with the way she kisses. 

Show of hands, ladies - who has time for the one who got away? Not me. I’m a busy woman. It’s wedding season in Bliss River and my catering business is slammed. The last thing I need is a blast from the past, sweeping into my perfectly ordered life, talking sweet and acting even sweeter, making me think about kissing so often I start to wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Spoiler alert: There is. 

Name's Sebastian. And I make good business out of bad exes, specializing in giving broken-hearted women the sweet, hot revenge they deserve. Those whispered rumors about me and my methods? All true. I'm the chief executive mastermind of the only consulting firm that can guarantee your ex will beg you for another chance.

Thou shalt not bang your best friend. That commandment would be a lot easier if Maddie wasn’t the sexiest siren ever to wade into a tide pool. Or if I was good at resisting temptation. I’m the troublemaker, the firefighter who enjoys getting a little too close to the flames. And the trouble is double, since Maddie’s sister is about to marry my brother.

A rock star kidnaps a runaway bride...Kidnapping the bride seemed like a good idea at the time. Her fiancé stole my fortune, so I stole his woman. Tit for tat. Or tat for tit. However you want to look at it. The one thing I didn’t expect? Willow Honeycutt, preschool teacher, boy band super fan, is completely crazy. And somehow she’s turned the tables on 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.

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.

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.

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.