Jul 062021
 

The Grumpy Player Next Door (Copper Valley Fireballs #3) by Pippa Grant

I, Tillie Jean Rock, am not in love with my brother’s teammate. Sure, he might have those biceps and that “I am the grouchiest of grouchy bears” smolder, and he might shovel snow off his driveway next door wearing nothing but boxer shorts and rubber boots, and he might be running a side business feeding all the stray goats in town, but studliness is only skin-deep.

And I might flirt with him every chance I get, but I swear it’s only to annoy my brother.

And him.

Because Max Cole?

Under all of those glorious muscles and chiseled cheekbones and searing glares beats the heart of a heartless devil.
I could no sooner fall in love with a guy who treats me like a kid, and judges me at every opportunity, and sets an army of garden gnomes loose on my yard, than I could fall in love with my grandfather’s pet parrot.

But I can definitely annoy him. I can one hundred percent get on board with annoying him.

That’s what you do when you don’t like your neighbor, right?

But you know what they say about love and hate…

It’s a very thin line.

Especially when the real reason I’m not in love with Max Cole—that he’s incapable of love—might not be true at all.

The Grumpy Player Next door is a fun-filled enemies-to-lovers romcom featuring a ray of sunshine on a mission, an athlete who’s only grouchy around her, and an epic prank gone wrong. It stands alone and comes complete with small-town shenanigans, a goat who’s not nearly as wise as his name suggests, and proof that sometimes, love is the best kind of vengeance.

Excerpt The Grumpy Player Next Door by Pippa Grant

There’s a fine art to revenge, and today, I am arting the hell out of it. I’m talking cackles of glee, evil cartoon overlord-style, rubbing my hands together while bouncing on my toes. Reminding myself to shut up because my brother will be home from his morning workout any minute now, and I don’t want to tip my hand when he doesn’t know I’m waiting for him here in his house up on the mountainside.
You would think he would’ve learned to engage his security system more often by now.
But he hasn’t, which means I’m here, armed and dangerous and ready, and I’m cackling with glee all over again.
I know, I know. Is this really how you want to pay him back for having a box labeled “dildos” delivered to you at your parents’ house in the midst of all the pre-wedding activities for your other brother last week?
Yes, actually.
Yes, it is.
It’s payback time.
Also?
I have zero doubt Cooper will have mad respect that I’m doing this.
Sort of like while I was pissed when he replaced my coffee beans with roasted goat poop before he left for spring training nine months ago, I very much respected that he pulled it off, even if I wasn’t pleased at having to admit that that was the prank that took him over the top to win in our annual off-season prank war.
But this winter?
This winter, my brother Cooper “Stinky Booty” Rock is going down.
The universe told me so. Why else would it have hand-delivered that video into my social media stream to inspire me right after I finished figuring out where to donate an unopened box of dildos?
I cackle again.
And then I slap my hand over my mouth.
He’s home.
There’s his dark head, bent toward the knob, beyond the tempered glass panel beside his front door. He’s dressed in Fireballs red, which is more orange than it is red, and he’s probably worn out from lifting at the gym.
Yesterday was cardio day.
I know, because he ran past Crusty Nut, our dad’s restaurant where I’m the manager five days a week, at least two dozen times without stopping in once to say hi.
I haven’t seen him since the wedding several days ago, which either means he’s avoiding me and the revenge he knows I owe him, or he has a stick up his butt and has forgotten the little people.
Or, possibly, he’s distracted, in which case, he needs this.
I squat into position at the top of the stairs, as hidden as I can be while still seeing my target, Nerf blaster locked and loaded, waiting while he fumbles with his keys.
For the record?
It’s not easy to hide at the top of a curved staircase. I’m on my belly now, half-angled behind the wall of the hallway to his guest bedrooms, peering between the slats of the banister, hoping all my target practice pays off.
Steady, TJ. This is what you trained for.
The lock clicks.
I flatten myself lower and take aim.
The door swings open.
Dark hair in the foyer. Go go go.
I squeeze the trigger, sending a rapid blast of modified foam darts at the six balloons floating in the space above the door.
The needle sticking out barely an eighth of an inch in the tip of the first dart connects. One helium balloon pops. Then two more, followed by the fourth and fifth. The sixth shifts after getting hit, like it’s a tough guy balloon. It’s the ninja of balloons, and it doesn’t want to participate in my dastardly plans today, but that’s okay. The other balloons are bursting in a sparkly, shiny, beautiful pink glitter spray that’s splattering on the walls, exploding from its nylon shell and raining down like a spring shower, coating the walls, making the air sparkle, and dusting all that dark hair as Cooper’s lifting his head. “What the—”
And in the span of a heartbeat, before he can finish that sentence, I realize my mistake.
My terrible, horrible, very bad miscalculation.
If I were a superhero, I’d be sucking all that glitter into my lungs and redirecting it into my brother’s bedroom, which is likely what I should’ve done in the first place—hindsight, right?—but I didn’t. This was so much more dramatic and didn’t risk me having to find out which local he’s screwing around with in his spare time, as she’d be coated in glitter too after rolling around in his sheets, except my prank has failed.
It has failed spectacularly.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
That’s not Cooper.
That is so not Cooper.

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Jun 062021
 

Hot Heir (The Royals #3) by Pippa Grant
If I’d known he had dimples, I never would’ve agreed to marry him.

Some people are born for parenthood.

Not me.

But I’m about to get it anyway, since there’s no one else who can take care of my wild child baby sister. I’m supposed to be spending my days running a flight adventure company with my best friend, but instead, I’m inadvertently getting myself into trouble, just trying to do the right thing and keep her out of trouble, to the point that it’s clear I cannot do this on my own.

But who else would want to help us?

Turns out, my biggest enemy.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Cranky just inherited a country, but in order for Amoria to crown him as King—you know, that job they give to people with no more demanding qualifications than flared nostrils, proper manners, and a taste for crumpets—he needs a wife. Now. Obviously the only person he would ask is as irresistible (and desperate) as me.

And I see no better way to prove I’m ready to take care of my sister than to wear the crown of a queen. No one’s ever found fault with royalty, and hey, the job comes with round-the-clock security.

Except in return for helping save my sister, Mr. I’m-Not-Sure-You’re-Even-A-Real-Prince Viktor tells me he needs the teeniest, tiniest favor. You see, he doesn’t just need help saving his crown. He needs help saving his country.

Remember when I said no one ever found fault with royalty? Try asking that question after you see your frazzled face under the front-page headline of a small country’s leading gossip mag…

Hot Heir is a romping fun marriage of convenience romance between a surprise heir and a southern hot mess, complete with the bedroom to end all bedrooms, a run-down alpaca, and that thing with the hot air balloon. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends with a royally awesome happily ever after.

Excerpt Hot Heir by Pippa Grant

Taking a bullet or a knife, I can do.
But soothing a terrified, sobbing, otherwise competent woman is not something I’ve often—ever—accomplished successfully, nor have I ever found myself in many situations in which it was necessary.
I stroke her back, and gradually, they both cry themselves out.
Which is good, because seeing a chink in Peach’s armor is bloody terrifying.
“Papaya,” she says, her voice thick and wobbly, “you’re on kitchen duty for the next four weeks.”
What?”
“And if you get fired by the chef, you’ll be on maid duty. And if you get fired by the maids, you’ll be shoveling shit in the stables. And you don’t get to see Fred until your chores are done.”
I suck in a surprised breath.
Papaya gasps. “You can’t do that.”
“And if you don’t show up for kitchen duty, you won’t be going to Joey’s wedding next weekend.” She swipes at her eyes, which silences any objections I might have to keeping track of Papaya whilst Peach is away for a week. “You scared the ever-loving patootles out of me. I thought you were kidnapped. And instead, you’re here, spooking the daylights out of these poor guards who were trained on an invalid king who couldn’t even get out of his own bed to pee.”
Ah. I’m beginning to see from whom Papaya gets her creativity.
And it hasn’t escaped my notice that Peach is still leaning on me.
My knees are going quite numb from squatting, but I could crouch here for hours if that was what was required to make her feel better.
“You have two choices.” Her voice is growing steadier, more Peach-like. “You do your punishment, and we’ll find you a better outlet for all your creative energy, or we’re going to have one hell of a rough year.”
Papaya scowls. Her tears have also left her. “I don’t like those choices.”
“They’re what you’ve got.”
“I want to go home and live with my daddy.”
Peach’s entire body goes so rigid, I have to stop myself from grabbing Papaya and dangling her by the ankle for being such an ungrateful arse.
“He lost the privilege to keep you.” Peach’s voice wobbles again. “Meemaw and me and Viktor and Alexander and Samuel are what you’ve got.”
An emotion I cannot name blooms in my chest, swells into my throat, and renders me momentarily tongue-tied.
She’s just claimed us all as family.
“Get up. I want that armor shined and sparkling before it goes back where it belongs in the tower study, and don’t you dare give me any lip, or you’ll be shining and sparkling every single suit of armor in this whole entire castle if you so much as think at me wrong.”
I swallow hard, wishing my own voice were not so much more husky than I intend it to be. It seems emotions are going around. “I believe there are fifty more stored in the dungeons, my lady.”
My shirt is damp and cold where the tears from Peach’s cheek have soaked through, I’ve nearly watched a teenage girl outwit and terrify an entire team of guards who were quite ready to maim, if not outright kill her, and I’m playing parent for the first time in my life.
Being a team.
With Peach.
It’s disconcerting at best.
Irresistibly attractive at worst.
I’ve a kingdom to run. There’s no time to fall for my wife.
But I fear it might be too late.

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Apr 062021
 

I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) by Pippa Grant

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.

Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.

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.

Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.

I know a mismatch when I see one.

Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.

After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?

I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.

Excerpt I Pucking Love You by Pippa Grant

Tyler

We all have to be at practice tomorrow morning—check that, this morning, as it’s shortly after midnight—but I don’t want to go home.

I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to screw.

I want—

Dammit.

I want a bucket of greasy fried fish and chips, because it’s what my big brother used to take me to get every time he came home on leave from the Marines and got annoyed at being hen-pecked by the four sisters between us.

My car’s cold, thanks to the early November weather, and no, I’m not telling you what kind of car I drive, because yes, it very much feels like compensation tonight.

It gets me where I want to go.

That’s all that matters.

That, and getting my ass to Cod Pieces before they close for the night.

Could I stay at the bunny bar and get fried fish and chips?

Yes.

Will I?

No fucking way.

I’m still stewing in my own misery when the bright neon sign with the armored cod and the storefront that looks like a medieval castle comes into view at the edge of a strip mall four miles the wrong direction from my downtown condo. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of chilly air and the scent of fries.

Just in time.

I holler my order over the sound of my engine, then pull around to the window to get my fish.

Debate calling my brother in Miami.

It’s one AM. He and his wife recently celebrated their kid’s first birthday, and I think they’re working on baby number two.

If I call him in the middle of the night to bitch about how I can’t get it up, he’ll probably hang up on me, then tell our sisters.

And Mom.

She’s a professional comedienne with her own popular Netflix special. There’s no damn way I’m bothering West in the middle of the night for this.

I’ll talk to the fried fish and call it even.

Has as much personality as West had before he married Daisy.

The window swings open. “That’ll be fourteen seventy-three, please.”

My car lurches forward before I remember to put it in park, and I gape up at the woman staring down at me. “Muffy?”

My brain is playing tricks on me.

It has to be.

Because there’s no way the curvy, clumsy, smart-mouthed goddess who’s haunting my dick is standing there wearing a Cod Pieces polo and hat.

But she is.

And I swear to god, her long brown braids are recoiling in horror as her whole face twists, her lip curling, her left eye squeezing shut, before she snaps herself together. “For the hundredth time today, I have no idea who this Muffy person is. My name is Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen.”

Fuck me.

There are two of them? She looks exactly like Muffy. I’m not seeing things, and I’m not projecting just because I want my dick to work again and the bunnies made me think about screwing Muffy in the walk-in fridge at the bunny bar.

“Fourteen seventy-three, please.” She turns away as she holds out a hand, twitching her fingers like she’s waiting for cash or a card.

And that’s when I see the tattoo.

Rufus.
Her cat’s name. It’s on her wrist.

Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen, my ass. This is Muffy.

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Jan 042021
 

The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob (Bro Code #4) by Pippa Grant

Levi and I lock eyes, and I swear we’re thinking the same thing. That’s not how a blow job usually ends.

You don’t know me, but you do know 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.

Related: I’m writing this from beyond the grave, because I’ve died of mortification and am now residing in an alternate universe.

I have to be.

Because Levi Wilson came back.

And we had a moment.

Like, a moment moment. The kind that makes me remember that adult pleasure isn’t all about hoping the lock holds in the bathroom so your kids don’t interrupt on the rare occasion you feel like taking an extra-long mommy-time shower.

So when he proposes a no-strings fling?

Count. Me. In.

Thrill of a lifetime, right?

Surely, nothing will go wrong…

The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob is a rockin’ fun, sexy romantic comedy featuring a celebrity panty-melter who doesn’t know what he’s been missing, a sassy single mom hanging on by a string, three adorable children who would never burst in on a woman when she’s on a toilet (ha!), and shameless ovary-busting moments between a guy who never thought he’d be a dad and a family who thought they got along just fine without him. It stands alone and comes complete with a happily-ever-after.
Publication date : January 7, 2021

Excerpt The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob by Pippa Grant

One day. I would like to go one single day without someone in my orbit making a poor life decision.
“Stop squirming,” I order my four-year-old son, who should be at preschool, but who’s been banished for the week because of lice.
Yep.
Lice.
Heaven forbid we have one issue at a time.
Adding to my list of issues? Being that mom who can’t get her shit together while Levi Flipping Wilson is watching. And not only watching, but actively engaging in trying to help. “Hey, bud, I bet I can hold still longer than you can. Wanna see?”
I know my agenda on any given day will include interruption for something my children do that I never would’ve expected in a million years, but that’s a lot easier to deal with when I don’t have an audience.
Especially an audience made up of one famous man whose songs get me through the day—and night—when I don’t have enough free focus to read or listen to an audiobook, and who keeps stealing glances at me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of rabid creature I am. Normally, customers aren’t allowed back in the stockroom with me, which is where I dragged Hudson when I realized what he’d done to his nose, but leaving Levi out there with the customers who’d figured out who he was seemed like a bad idea.
Especially when his date skewered me with a look that clearly said get him out of here or I’ll burn this place down.
It’s a bookstore.
Highly flammable.
Not taking chances.
Especially if there was a reason they were looking at maternity and early childhood development books. His date doesn’t look pregnant, but god knows that’s when pregnancy is hardest.
Hudson finally stills, and I manage to smear a little more Vaseline gently around his nostril. “How did you get a marble in your nose?”
“I pushed hard.” He beams. “I gots stars in there too.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to two, because I know if I get as high as three, he’ll find a way to suck the marbles deeper into his sinus cavities, and I don’t know how a doctor will get that out without having to cut his nose open, and oh my god, he’s four and he’s about to be disfigured for life because I thought he’d actually sit still and listen to Yasmin reading books for neighborhood storytime while I re-stocked a few shelves.
“How many stars?” I inquire through clenched teeth.
“Four. Or maybe seven. Or maybe one. I forgets.”
“You are so lucky you’re cute.”
“Do you have a vacuum?” Levi asks.
I twist my head to gape at him.
He shoots a help? look at his date, then shrugs at me. “If he won’t blow it out, maybe you can suck it out. Like with one of those sucky tools the dentist uses.”
“That’s…possibly not a terrible idea.”
“Happens on occasion.” He grins, which makes my heart basically stop because he’s stupidly gorgeous.
I could stare at him all day, but I have a preschooler with marbles up his nose to attend to.
“Mama,” Hudson says, “look.”
He scrunches his nose, which makes his nostrils swell, closes his mouth, and blows, and one shoots out and lands on Levi’s shoe.
My son has just snotted my favorite musician’s Italian leather loafers.
“I win! I holded still!” He breaks into his preschool dance routine, but the poor kid got his moves from me, which means to a casual observer, he probably looks like he’s having a seizure while choking on a piece of gum and tripping over barbed wire.
Levi Wilson, however, is not fazed. He squats down to Hudson’s level. “Rematch.”

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Sep 102020
 

Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2) by Pippa Grant

He smiles. Mr. Grumpypants actually smiles at me, a full, real, heart-stopping smile with mirth dancing in his eyes, teeth flashing, and his cheeks dimpling up behind that layer of dark scruff.
Be still my panties. I think I’m in trouble.

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.

If anyone can teach me to be the opposite of me, it’s him.

The first thing I want him to teach me?

How to not fall in love.

And as luck would have it, he’s in desperate need of a fake girlfriend to get a meddling grandmother off his back.

We couldn’t be more perfect together, because the last thing Luca Rossi will ever be is the next man to leave me at the altar.

Or will he?

Real Fake Love is a line drive straight to the heart featuring a grumpy athlete, a jilted bride, a fake relationship, and the world’s laziest cat. It stands alone and comes complete with sibling rivalry, the world’s most awkward shower scene, and a sweetly satisfying happily ever after.

Excerpt Real Fake Love by Pippa Grant

Henri, in the middle of Chapter Four…

It’s probably weird to be sitting on the doorstep of the man I cyberstalked after his whole love sucks speech after my failed wedding. But I won’t apologize for waiting for Luca here at what I think is his house, because you don’t get what you need in life if you don’t go for it.

Still, maybe Dogzilla and I should be waiting in my car instead? At least that way, I could turn on the radio while we wait. And the air conditioning.

I’m about to move to the car when a clunker chugs around the corner, one headlight out, and turns into the driveway.

This is definitely the wrong house.

I’m sitting on the porch of a stranger’s house, hoping that’s a woman driving, because if it’s a woman, at least I know I won’t be in danger.
Of falling in love with her at first sight, I mean.

The engine shuts off, and while I don’t often trespass at midnight, I have this feeling that jumping up with Dogzilla and making a run for it right now is exactly the wrong move. A well-timed, “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else,” will give us all a laugh, I’ll take my cat and leave, and then two complete strangers will have a weird story to tell their friends over margaritas—or an iced tea, in my case—and huh.

This would make an excellent meet-cute for my friend Dorothea’s next steamy romance novel. I’ll have to drop her a note too.

The occupant of the car is still sitting in it, and the figure illuminated by the street light looks too big to be a woman.

Dang it.

He also seems to be—

Is he hitting his head against the steering wheel?

Uh-oh.

If I picked the house of a nutjob, all bets are off.

“Be ready to run, Dogzilla,” I whisper.

My lazy cat doesn’t move, and instead snores in my lap.

Easier this way anyway, since it’s not like I can count on her to follow alone when I take off running at full-steam.

Which doesn’t happen all that often, if we’re being honest here. I’m a writer, not a runner.

But—wait.

The way his hair is moving—

That is Luca Rossi.

I rise, cradling Dogzilla, and when Luca looks my way, I give him a finger wave and a smile.

The light isn’t bright enough for me to see what he’s saying, but his lips are definitely moving, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s wearing the same long-suffering expression my father usually has when I tell him I’m engaged.

Again.

It might also be remarkably similar to the expression Luca was wearing when he recognized me at Duggan Field earlier today too.

Not my intention to ambush him at work, I swear. I was curious about the ballpark—I’m curious about a lot of things—so when I caught wind on social media of a writer organization that was touring the park, it was easy enough to get here in time today to join the group.

And it was fascinating to see where the players work out, to smell the chairs the announcers sit in, what it feels like to stand in the dugout, and hear how many light bulbs have to be replaced every day.

There’s a pop and a creak as the car door swings open, and I suddenly desperately need to know why Luca Rossi, millionaire sports star, lives on a grocery store clerk’s salary.

For research.

I swear.

I like to do research.

It’s one of the things my ex-fiancé Kyle liked about me.

“Henri,” Luca says.

My brain hears what the hell are you doing here, and why are you between me and my bed, and I’m not asking out loud because I don’t honestly want to know.

I either have a lot of experience understanding people because I write good characters, or I have a lot of experience with frustrating men after five failed engagements.

Plus my lifelong relationship with my father.

“Hi, Luca! Great game tonight. That catch you made in center field was like—”

“The one where I didn’t move, the one where I stepped three feet to my left, or the one where I had to take two steps back?”

Okay, yeah, he had an easy game. “How did you know where the ball was going to be? That’s like—it’s like you’re psychic.”

“It’s called being a professional.” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, opens them, eyeballs Dogzilla in my arms, and then sighs again. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”

Wow. He’s cranky.

Not gonna lie.

I know it’s probably me.

But that’s no excuse for not forging ahead. I didn’t come all this way to chicken out. “You remember the last time we saw each other?”

“This afternoon in the clubhouse?”

“I liked your hat, but I meant the time…before that.”

He closes the distance between us with three casual steps. “Nope.”

And I go momentarily speechless as a waft of something delicious teases my nose.

But only momentarily. A quick recovery is a gift. Or possibly a defense mechanism. “The time we were together…in that town…with that big monument…and the event thing…”

No answer.

“The event thing that didn’t—”

“I’m trying to block it from my memory.”

“Oh. Oh! Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“That I wouldn’t want to remember your ruined wedding, that you like to redecorate people with dessert, and that your ex-fiancé is the first man that my mother’s dated in three years and I might have to start calling him Stepdad?”

I wince.

My heart also weeps because yeah, still not over seeing Jerry lock lips with a woman who could’ve been my mother, and hearing that it might actually be going somewhere is salt in the wound.

“So, no, Henri, I don’t remember the last time we were together. At least, I won’t, once I get inside and pour myself a large enough vodka tonic. Care for one?”

Once again, I’m momentarily speechless. “Um, I’m kinda allergic—”

I cut myself off when one of his brows rises infinitesimally, and then I gasp. Of course he knows I’m allergic. We had an entire conversation about it. “Are you trying to send me to the hospital?”

“No, but I am trying to get into my house. Alone. Preferably without the sad panda thoughts I’d finally managed to shake before you showed up today.”

“Oh. That was a hint.”

“It was.”

“I’m bad with the subtle.”

He swipes a hand over his mouth and looks up at the sky, and I’m certain he’s not stifling a smile.

Probably the exact opposite.

Time to forge ahead. “I’m here because I need your help.”

“And now I pay the price for my sins,” he mutters.

I’d ask what his sins are, but my google searches were very thorough.
Normally, he really would be the last person on earth I’d turn to for help.

“I don’t want money or anything like that. And I’d rather no one know I’m here, so I’m not after your fame either, though I wouldn’t mind some tips on how to get my hair as good as yours always is. I’ve tried Kangapoo before, and—wait. Sorry. Off-topic. I need you to teach me how to not fall in love.”

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May 202020
 

Jock Blocked (Copper Valley Fireballs) by Pippa Grant

She can’t let him score…

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—aka 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.

And the more time I spend with him, the more I like him. Not as the guy who’s going to help save my favorite team and finally bring home a championship ring, but as the guy who’s helping me in my quest to bring back the team’s old mascot. Who also loves making pancake and bacon sandwiches. And who would do almost anything for his love of the game.

But after all this time of jock-blocking him…do I even have a chance?

And if I do, are we both destined to a life of celibacy in the name of winning?

Jock Blocked is a home run of a feel-good romantic comedy featuring the world’s most superstitious sports fan, baseball’s oldest virgin hero, a rogue meatball, an adorable puppy with a cussing problem, and the best lovable losers. It stands alone and comes with a happily ever after more satisfying than a game-winning grand slam.

Excerpt Jock Blocked by Pippa Grant

Mackenzie Montana, aka a woman on a mission

I never meant to become a criminal. But in the grand scheme of life, I don’t think I’m technically engaging in criminal behavior.
At least, if it is, you could call it a crime of passion.
And I am very passionate in my belief that while the Fireballs need to make changes to halt their record-breaking streak of being the worst losing team ever to play professional baseball, they don’t need to do it with a new mascot. Which is why I decided to take two weeks off work and fly to Florida for spring training, where I’m not saying that I’ve snuck into my home team’s ballpark after hours to steal the worst proposed mascot costume, but I’m not saying I haven’t either.
Meatballs?
They actually let a meatball make the final cut.
I needed at least another full season to get over the fact that the new Fireballs ownership killed the last mascot, and here they are, letting fans vote on replacing Fiery the Dragon with flaming meatballs.
I snort to myself while I creep through the darkened concrete hallways with a flaming meatball swallowing half of my body.
If you’re going to steal a giant meatball costume, it’s best to act like you know what you’re doing. And striding out of here with zero shame means two things—one, no one’s going to stop me, and two, even if they do, I’m incognito.
It’s the perfect crime to counter the crime of killing Fiery.
I’m one turn away from the door that I left propped open for myself after hiding out in the family bathroom after today’s game when voices drift toward me.
One male.
One female.
Neither is familiar, but as I get closer to my final turn, I realize the voices are between me and my exit.
No biggie.
I got this.
I can stroll on by, flash a thumbs-up, pretend like I’m heading out to prank the Fireballs at the team compound they’re all staying at, or to make a fast-food run for publicity.
Acting like I know what I’m doing inside this mascot costume is as easy as breathing. When you’ve seen thousands of baseball games in your lifetime, it’s not hard.
So I turn the corner.
And then I suck in a surprised breath, because that’s Brooks Elliott.
Oh. My. God.
Brooks Elliott.
The Fireballs’ newest acquisition. Like, so new he arrived yesterday. A mid-spring training acquisition, which is practically unheard of.
He plays third base, and he hits the ball like it’s evil incarnate and he’s an avenging angel and it’s his job to send that evil into another dimension.
He could be the reason we legitimately have a shot at making it to the post-season.
And I am not going to hyperventilate like I did the last time I was face-to-face with a baseball player.
Pretending to be a mascot?
I got this.
Talking to the players?
It’s like talking to the gods.

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 20 May 2020  Posted by  Tagged with: , ,  No Responses »
Mar 032020
 

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

Chapter 1

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.”

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 3 March 2020  Posted by  Tagged with: , , , , , ,  No Responses »
Dec 202019
 

Stud in the Stacks by Pippa Grant

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.

But I’ve made a few miscalculations, and now my reputation has my job in danger. If I can’t prove to my boss that I’m more than a playboy who recommends romance in the hopes of getting some hanky panky in the stacks, I can kiss my job goodbye.

Stud in the Stacks is a sexy, hilarious, sometimes embarrassing romantic comedy told in both points of view, complete with tacos, romance novel love, and unicorn parties with no cheating or cliffhangers.

Excerpt Stud in the Stacks by Pippa Grant

Even though it’s been six years since I stripped for a roomful of women, I’m pleased to report my loincloth still fits in all the right places. Tad more snug in front than I remember, but if I had to grow, might as well be in the junk.
I give the elastic one last test as the producer signals that I’m up. Spider-Man gives me a fist bump. Thor smacks my ass. They’re the last two bachelors going up on the block after me in tonight’s superhero-themed auction.
There are some who might say Tarzan isn’t a superhero, but Jane would beg to differ.
And I fucking own this costume.
Plus, if no one else bids on me, my Nana’s right up front, ready to throw down the hundred bucks I slipped her before the show.
I’m hoping for a little higher than that though. Batman just went for a cool five grand.
Batman was a dick, which I assume my Nana didn’t know when she started the bidding on him. A grade-A, condescending asshat who thought just because he had a few million bucks in the bank, he could call people gay like that’s an insult and take a metaphorical shit on my favorite books.
I fucking want to beat Batman.

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Dec 202019
 

Mister McHottie by Pippa Grant

Chase
I’ve just bought the woman of my nightmares.
Technically, I bought the company she works for. Point is, she cost me my two best friends ten years ago. It’s payback time, and I’m going to make her life hell.
When I’m not banging her silly and myself stupid.
I need to get my head back in business, because getting off is great, but He was a man who had sex, and lots of it, and in the worst locations, with the woman of his nightmares isn’t the inscription I want on my tombstone.
Even if it’s true.

Ambrosia
There are three things I hate:
Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking loudly like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett.
Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It’s been ten years since he took my virginity—I’d make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth is that it would have to be a bratbest joke, which also pisses me off—and now he’s not only a billionaire, he’s also my new boss.
Turns out our hate is mutual. And this kind of hate is horrifically twisted, filthy, and banging hot.
I just might have to hate him forever.

Mister McHottie is 45,000 gloriously hilarious, hot, sexy words that your mother warned you about, complete with an organic happy-ever-after (or seven), a Bratwurst Wagon, ill-advised office pranks, and no cheating or cliffhangers.

Excerpt Mister McHottie by Pippa Grant

Ambrosia May Berger is standing in the elevator bank, peering up at the numbers. She hiccups again. I stop beside her and watch her eyes go wide, then narrow, then cross. Mirrored elevator doors are possibly the second greatest invention known to man.
First, of course, is the internet.
I stare at Bro in the door mirror.
She stares back.
For all the shit she gave me growing up, I always respected her spine. As much as one can respect something that infuriating. She got away with everything. Even when she was reckless.
I can honestly say no woman I’ve been with since her has ever tried to make a break for it in the Bratwurst Wagon.
As long as I block out the month that followed, I can think of the Bratwurst Wagon with a smile.
“Working late or coming in early?” I ask.
“The hogs are mating again,” she replies.
The world believes this woman to be a sane, competent adult. Mind-boggling.
“Do you always wait in elevator banks for women you want to harass?” she asks.
“Only when I’ve gotten bored staking out the bathrooms.” I reach over and hit the up button, because she hasn’t. “Do you always assume the elevators can read your mind?”
“They were doing better than you. I didn’t want to go up.”
“And you’re standing here because…?”
“It’s my thinking spot.”
“It’s 3 AM on a Wednesday morning.”
“Do you see me judging you on wanting to use an elevator at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning? No, you don’t. So why do you have to judge me for wanting to think in an elevator bank at 3 AM? Hmmmmmm?” The hum trills up on the end, right in time with her swiveling to face me. She squints one eye, then the other, before scrunching her face, pointing her index finger at my nose, and making pew, pew noises.
If this is what the security guards were worried I’d find, I’m rather disappointed.
“Drinking on the job again?” I ask.
“Again implies I’ve done it before. Which I have not, unless you count that time the guava kale juice fermented, which I don’t, because it only counts as drinking if I enjoy the alcohol. Also, all whiskey was consumed off-premise.”
“So you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m barely buzzed enough to be able to tolerate you.”
I eye her, and decide she’s telling the truth. Her eyes are too focused and her tongue’s too sharp for her to be drunk. I can’t even smell anything on her. Tired, maybe, but not drunk.
“Was it organic?” I ask dryly.
“It’s whiskey, dickhead.”
Christ, that mouth. I want to lick it and tape it shut all at the same time. “You shouldn’t call your superiors names.”
She blows a raspberry. The sight of her ripe pink tongue makes my cock leap to attention.
“Looking for disciplinary action?” I murmur.
“Oh, don’t you wish.” The elevator dings, and she lists inside. I’d try to catch her, but frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing her crash to the ground.
She comes to a solid stop at the railing along the back paneled wall. “And you’re not my superior,” she says.
“I write your paycheck.”
“Not yet you haven’t.” Spittle shouldn’t be sexy, but her second raspberry gives me a longer look at her tongue. I remember that tongue. Long as a lizard’s, hot as a volcano, talented as a porn star.
That’s as complimentary as I get where Bro Berger is concerned.
“So Mr. Liver-bellied Bratwurst-runner-away-er,” she says, “wouldn’t you be happier owning a grocery store that I don’t work for? Because I’m sure we can find another zagillionaire to take your place.”
I punch the button to the eighteenth floor—where the fresh greens for tomorrow are being picked and packed right now, if all’s on schedule—and give her my worst smile. “Aw, Bro, your inflated opinion of my bank account is touching.”
“You could be a mega-ka-billion-trillionaire, and you still wouldn’t have enough money to buy a soul.”
I’m relatively new to the ranks of the ten-figure club, but it’s still been years since anyone has insulted me to my face.
Her blatant hatred is oddly erotic. “Who needs a soul when I have the power to sack tempestuous employees?”
“Go ahead. I dare you.” She bangs the button for the fourth floor. Then the third, fifth, seventh, ninth, and every odd number to the top. With a frown, she draws her hand down the row of even numbers until every single floor is lit, and if I’d still thought this was alcohol motivating her, the sharp, devious intention in her cold eyes removes any doubt.
She’s fully in control and she’s intentionally trying to bait me.
Heat creeps over my scalp. It’s working.
She’s making this elevator stop on Every. Single. Fucking. Floor.
I whip out my cell phone—security can override her little prank—but as the doors close, my signal dies.
She does the MC Hammer dance, and her breasts jiggle under her swishy spring dress in a way even a celibate Tibetan monk couldn’t resist. There’s no fucking way she’s wearing a bra.
My cock twitches harder.
How did a woman so insanely evil land the world’s most perfect tits?
“Go on, rich boy.” She switches to the Lawnmower, and now her hips are rocking it too. “Buy your way out of that.”
Good Chase, the businessman, the gaming tech genius, the face I show the world, the smarter part of my brain, hops off when the doors open on the second floor, because he appreciates stairs and getting the hell away from this deranged woman.
Bad Chase, though, has possessed my body, and keeps me in the elevator.
I wave goodbye to rational thought and better judgment—who needs those bitches anyway?—and turn to Bro with a growl.
She’s wiggling her sweet curvy ass at me now, arms circling, stirring the batter. “It’s my birthday, happy birthday, it’s my birth—oomph!”
Huh. Emergency stop button works, but it’s a little choppy on the execution. Better have maintenance look at that tomorrow.
I take one large, purposeful step toward Bro.
She fists her hands on her hips and calls me an asshole with her dark, heavy-lidded, fuck-me bedroom eyes.
Yeah.
She’s feeling it too.
That pull. That hate. That inexplicable force of rage that can only be satiated with a hard, hot fuck.

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 20 December 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: , , , ,  No Responses »
Nov 072019
 

Humbugged (Happy Cat #4) by Pippa Grant & Lili Valente

He’s the world’s most alpha Marine and the last man I should be letting jingle my bells this holiday season.

So why does Clint O’Dell keep running through my thoughts wearing nothing but a Santa hat? And why do I stupidly agree that we should be Christmas friends with benefits?

Someone must have spiked my eggnog.

I don’t do Marines.

Or Santas.

I learned my lesson about both the hard way.

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.

If maybe Clint is the holiday miracle I’ve been praying for…or if all the magic will disappear with the season.

Humbugged is a laugh out loud holiday romp featuring a Marine with a heart of gold and a baker in need of a hero. Complete with the world’s most awkward Christmas caroling, a photoshoot with furry friends, and more naughty baked goods than is good or decent.

Hosed

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Hammered

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Hitched

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Humbugged

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 7 November 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: , ,  No Responses »
Sep 172019
 

Crazy for Loving You (Bluewater Billionaires) by Pippa Grant

Is there anything hotter than a growly, overprotective Marine cradling a baby? My melted ovaries don’t think so.

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.

Parenting? Bring it on. I don’t need sleep—I once started my day with business meetings in Cairo and ended it three days later at a club in Melbourne. Changing diapers? Please. It can’t be any more challenging than changing out of Spanx on the back of a moving motorcycle. Training the little guy to run the family’s real estate empire? He’ll be all our bosses by the time he’s four.

But living with my new co-guardian? The gruff, muscled, tattooed former military man who manages to check all my boxes while trying to sneak under my skin?

He needs to go.

Because the longer he stays, the more layers he’s peeling off my heart.

But love isn’t something that’s ever diluted my gene pool, and I like my life just fine without it. I have awesome friends, this adorable baby and an obscene amount of money. Who needs love?

Turns out…maybe me.

Crazy for Loving You is a larger-than life ride through accidental parenthood featuring a fun-loving billionaire playgirl, a crusty Marine with a gooey center, a horny dolphin, the world’s most obscene pool, and all the fun you’d expect from a world built by Lucy Score, Claire Kingsley, Kathryn Nolan, and Pippa Grant.

RELEASE DATE: NOVEMBER 8, 2019

The Price of Scandal

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The Mogul and the Muscle

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Wild Open Hearts

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Crazy for Loving You

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 17 September 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: , , , ,  No Responses »
Jun 272019
 

Master Baker by Pippa Grant

Blurb
They call me the sugar whisperer.
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.
After ten years in the military, she’s back. She’s bruised and battered by life, but she’s back.
Except she’s not my second chance. She’s gone to the dark side.
Running a rival bakery in a town not big enough for two.
So now I have to decide—which do I want more?
My bakery?
Or the woman I never should’ve let go in the first place?

Master Baker is a deliciously fun friends-to-enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy featuring a smooth-talking baker, the one who got away, and a goat with more matchmaking tendencies than a nosy old grandpa. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.
Release Date: June 27, 2019

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 27 June 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: ,  No Responses »
May 282019
 

Title Hammered
Authors: Pippa Grant & Lili Valente
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: May 28, 2019

Blurb

I didn’t mean to kidnap the groom.It was an accident.

Mostly…

At least I didn’t take much time to plan it. It was more of a spur of the moment kidnapping. Does that count?

One minute, the town’s bad boy is standing at the altar about to marry the world’s most evil kindergarten teacher. The next, he’s passed out in my Vespa sidecar with his bride hot on our tail.

But I didn’t have a choice! I couldn’t stand by and watch Jace O’Dell be blackmailed into a loveless marriage. And besides, what’s a little kidnapping
between friends?

Okay, so maybe we’re not just friends…And maybe I can’t quit thinking about that night at his bar when he closed up early and had me on the rocks.

And maybe this crazy stunt is going to blow up in both of our faces. If it does, I’m blaming the moonshine.

Even though the only thing I’m hammered on when it comes to Jace is love—straight up, no chaser.

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Cover Reveal Hammered by Pippa Grant & Lili Valente

Hosed

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Hammered

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Hitched

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Humbugged

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 28 May 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: , ,  No Responses »
May 122019
 

Stud in the Stacks by Pippa Grant

He’s the president of the Bad Boy Librarians Club

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.

But I made a slight miscalculation at work, and now my reputation has my job in danger. If I can’t prove to my boss that I’m more than a playboy who recommends romance in the hopes of getting some hanky

Title: Stud in the stacks
Author: Pippa Grant
Publication Date: January 5th, 2018
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance; Standalone;
Format: Kindle (274 pages)
Rating: 8/10

When you see the cover, the title and the dorky guy, well, I bought it immediately.

Now this is something new for me, reading about a hot male librarian, who knows his way into every romance novel out there. Knox Moretti has a very popular blog where he writes his stuff about romance novels. Can I have this guy as my BFF right now? He’s known as Mr. Romance, go figure!

This funny standalone book has our hot librarian attending a fund raiser as Tarzan. In comes Parker Elliot, our heroine. We’ve met her in Mister McHottie, as Ambrosia’s friend. She is in a bit of a problem with her work, since her high school reunion is coming in and she must go there to talk to a potential client. The only problem? She must have a hot date. She is such a workaholic that she is not interested in being married or having children, especially since she was bullied when an awkward kid.

Funny part is she comes to this auction to bid on her chosen man! This is how she catches the attention of Knox.

“Kids, marriage, my job, her workaholic tendencies – it all flies out the window. I am not letting this woman go. Not anytime soon anyway.”

The characters are funny, hilarious situations and a very fun read! Pippa Grant has a way with books that you cannot help but swoon on her characters.

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Apr 122019
 

Title: America’s Geekheart
Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: April 5, 2019

Blurb
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.
Sarah
Dempsey.
Also known
as the woman of my dreams, who loves geeky TV shows, baseball, and giraffes,
who’s just as turned on by food as I am, and who has a huge secret that I
didn’t see coming.
Now it’s
time to grovel and apologize publicly on social media and hope that those same
followers who helped start the raging shitstorm will help calm the waters.
Because
Sarah doesn’t want the spotlight. For very good reasons that I can’t tell you
right now and trying to convince her to be my fake girlfriend to fix this mess
and make me look like less of a jackass is worse than taking a kick to the nuts
by Jackie Chan.
And I
thought modeling underwear made me feel naked.
Trying to
start a relationship in the era of the twitterazzi isn’t all that it’s cracked
up to be.
America’s
Geekheart is a rockin’ fun romantic comedy featuring a billionaire fashion
mogul who got his start modeling underwear, the geeky girl next door with a
secret the size of California, and more superstitions and secrets than you can
shake a baseball bat at. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.

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 12 April 2019  Posted by  Tagged with: ,  No Responses »
Mar 052019
 

Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1) by Pippa Grant

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 before my life fell apart.

And the man who just scared off that perfect fake boyfriend.

By pretending to be my real boyfriend.

I can roll with this though. What’s the harm in Flirting with the Frenemy if it helps me get the job done?

Complete my mission and move on.

Or so I thought.

Until Wyatt kisses me again and I start feeling things I shouldn’t.

The thing about weddings…nothing ever goes as planned.

Flirting with the Frenemy is a rollicking fun romantic comedy featuring a single dad military man, an irritatingly attractive blast from his past, pirates, cursing parrots, and a wedding gone wild. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.

Title: Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code, #1) by Pippa Grant
Author: Pippa Grant
Publication Date: March 1st, 2019
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance; Enemies to lovers;
Format: Kindle (pages)
Rating: 8/10

Ladies, this book has a bit of everything: enemies to lovers, the brother’s best friend aaaaand hot single dad! Oh, and adorable little kid and a strong heroine. Furthermore, this is the best part of a brand-new series by Pippa Grant.

Flirting with the Frenemy was one hell of a fantastic ride and often I found myself laughing my cheeks off with such hilarious situations.

Ellie Ryder is a strong woman who has always been trying to keep up with her brother’s band. Everything they did, she had to do better, otherwise Wyatt would be there to give her crap. So, she pushed and pushed to be better. Wyatt is Beck Ryder’s best friend and has always been in Ellie’s life, but their relationship always went on between annoying each other or pushing until they break.

“Ellie Ryder and me?

We mix as well as water and lava.”

This Christmas however, Ellie gets dumped and Wyatt has troubles with work and his ex-wife’s divorce, with a kid he wants to spend more time with. They end up together, but soon Wyatt realizes what happened and feels sorry for what has done? But Ellie runs away and gets hip by a drunk driver.
Que 6 months after and they both find themselves in Beck’s summer house, with Tucker joining them. I love it how Beck orchestrated them being together, because he knew Ellie was shutting down and he wanted Wyatt to push her buttons.

Ellie’s best friend is getting married to her ex’s brother, thus she has to ask a friend to be her date, but Wyatt ruins her plans, so he’s the new boyfriend.

“I haven’t laughed this much in ages. And all it took was learning not to hate Wyatt. Who knew?”

Little by little they star to give in to the attraction between them, but every time they do, somebody gets hurt. These are some funny situations that will make you lose your tummy. Nevertheless, they realize they have feeling for each other, and probably had since they were little, masked by “boy pulls girl’s hair” things, but Ellie gets spooked when the house almost burnt down, and she needs Wyatt less than Tucker, so she backs away.
The next book in the series is Beck’s and I cannot wait to read it! I predict a very funny story there! America’s Geekheart is coming soon in 2019!



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Feb 022019
 

Title: The Pilot & The Puck-Up
Author: Pippa Grant
Publication Date: February 16th, 2018
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance; Standalone; Sports;
Format: Kindle (287 pages)
Rating: 6/10

I am sad because this book had so much potential in my eyes, that I am a bit mad about how I feel. I loved how Pippa Grant made Joey, a female bad-ass pilot, who got more lady balls then guys. And generally speaking I think this is the most bad-ass female character I have ever read of. And here comes the sad part: she was so freaking strong and ballsy, but when she used “Dog” instead of “God” I could barely focused on anything else. You know that one thing that annoys you and you cannot stop seeing? I am a master at avoiding grammar mistakes, or other books mistakes that can happen without fault, but this was too much. I feel that it went against of what Joey was supposed to be. I really hope this is not an issue for you, so fingers crossed.

Here as some examples to see if i’m exaggerating:

“Ohmydog, yes, there” ; “Dog, more!!” … really? and it keeps going.

But on other part, the entire book was like a battle of wills, which was a plus for me. Matching performances on who can do it better. That is why I say it had so much potential. I love my characters smart, arrogant, witty, but I wanted a bit more on this book. Joey, maybe a bit more feminine, but Zeus was a good match for her. I loved that he had so much masculinity, that it did not bother him. I am aware that are a lot of girls there, like Zoey, tomboys, who maybe they face the same issues as her. SO kuddos to you, Pippa Grant, that you approached such a female lead.

The book is a standalone, but there are other books about the side characters in their group.



Here are the other books and which characters they take on.

The Pilot & The Puck-up (Joey “Fireball” and Zeus)

Hot Heir (Peach and Viktor)

review soon

Royally Pucked (Gracie & Manning)

review soon

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