Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire (Bro Code #3) by Pippa Grant
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.
If we can’t work together to save the Fireballs, the commissioner’s forcing a sale and moving them across the country.
I’ll do anything to save my home team.
But the one thing I can’t do?
Keep my hands to myself.
Which would be fine, if she hadn’t been telling me lies this whole time too.
Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire is a rocking fun romance between a single dad obsessed with baseball, an heiress with secrets, baseball pants, a rundown team, and rabid ducks. It stands alone and comes with a guaranteed happily-ever-after.
Excerpt Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire by Pippa Grant
Tripp Wilson, aka a single dad who wishes he could blame an airline on his missing luggage
The first thing I’m doing when I get home is finding my brain. Pretty sure I left it somewhere between the kitchen and the garage. Or possibly I lost it in a pile of toys six days ago.
“Dude. Quit picking my pants out of your ass.”
I glare at my brother, whose white jeans I’m wearing into a club that’s too loud and crowded and will probably give me a seizure with all the flashing strobe lights. A passing server calls his name and does a double-take, glancing between us as she lifts her tray with a single tequila shot. I take it for him, then resist the urge to pick the denim out of my butt crack again as we make our way through the crowded dance floor to a private booth. “What are these, European cut?”
“They’re skinny fit.” He trades a handshake with a guy whose name I’m supposed to know, then cheek-kisses a supermodel before turning back to me to call over the loud music. “Dad butt giving you troubles, old man?”
“Muscle is harder to compress than that rock star flab you’ve got.”
Levi grins and takes a beer from another passing server in a short skirt and low top, who slips a note deep into his front pocket.
Jesus. She just grabbed his dick in broad club light. Also, how did she even get her hand in there? Did she lube it up first? We’re not that different in size.
My brother doesn’t bat a lash as he smiles and says, “Thank you, darlin’.”
She smiles back at him in a way that suggests a beer is just the beginning of what she’d like to offer him before disappearing into the dancing crowd.
“Darlin’?” I poke him with my elbow while we continue fighting the crowd. Or in his case, working it. “You going country next? Or is that just what you say to the girls who cop a feel?”
He ignores me while he points me up a half flight of stairs to a private balcony. The stairway is crowded too, and we bump our way past all the people, with more funny glances aimed our way until the stairway opens up. At the top, he shoves me into a black velvet seat and makes me scoot around, which would be hard enough without the tight jeans cutting off circulation to my lower extremities. How the hell does he get into these every day?
“Less glower, more glitter, big bro.” Levi claps me on the shoulder. Did I mention that I’m also wearing his tight paisley button-down with the top three buttons undone? Not my first choice, but when I told him I needed to come here tonight—yes, I have brought this on myself—he insisted on dressing me.
I let him, but only because I forgot to separate my own clothes out of my kids’ luggage when I dropped them with my in-laws this afternoon, and therefore don’t actually have any of my own clothes with me. I didn’t realize until we were on the way out the door to New York’s nightlife that I had a fruit roll-up stuck to my crotch, and don’t ask about the fermenting apple juice in my sweater.
“I haven’t been to a club in five years,” I remind him.
“Know what you need?”
“A fresh bottle of whiskey and three nights of sleep that I won’t be getting so long as James and Emma are with their grandparents?” Dammit, I miss my kids already.
“You need to be more like me.”
“A playboy pop star who goes through women faster than he goes through a bag of peanut butter cups?”
“No, chill. Relaxed. Own the place. Don’t glare at it like you want to burn it down. Make love to it with your eyes.”