COMING FRIDAY 7 PM PST. WELCOME MAGGIE WELLS AUTHOR OF: LOVE GAME (SEE EXCERPTS)

COMING
FRIDAY
7 PM PST.
WELCOME MAGGIE WELLS


AUTHOR OF:





Kate Snyder scored her first national championship in her undergrad days at Wolcott University, and now she’s a coaching legend. The last thing she wants is to work beside a washed-up coach escaping scandal, but the university hands her Danny McMillan.
Danny was hoping his transition at Wolcott University would go smoothly, but clashing with snarky Kate has made things difficult. Even as she finally lightens up towards him, a local reporter can’t get enough of their verbal fireworks on camera. What the cameras don’t know is that the sparks are even hotter behind the scenes…


Danny let his gaze roam down her body and slowly back up again. “Love the new uniform. Of course, see-through or not, everyone in the place will be hoping that skirt flies up when there’s a jump ball.”
She blinked, a frown transforming the clean, classic lines of her face as she glanced at her skirt. “It’s not see-through.”
He widened his eyes, trying for an innocent look. “No? Must just be my overactive imagination.”
She turned her back on him and started toward the sideline. There, he spotted the open shoe box and fought back a smile. A profusion of discarded tissue nearly masked a pair of shoes comprised of two thin straps of black leather and spindly heels.
Four-inch heels. They stood eye-to-eye as it was. The addition of those shoes would make her tower over him. A prospect he found oddly arousing. There was no doubt in his mind Kate Snyder could take him down. Hard. Physically, psychologically, and professionally.
And damn if that didn’t make him want her more.
She dropped into the chair beside the box and toed off her colorful sneakers. “Was there something I could help you with?”
The slight quaver in her voice sparked his curiosity. “Would you?”
Her sleek brown hair cascaded over one shoulder when she cocked her head. He stared transfixed as she reached for one of the discarded sandals.
Shoe dangling from the crook of her finger, she raised an eyebrow. “Would I what?”
He gave a stilted shrug. “Help me.” Her look of shocked innocence made him laugh. “Yeah, well, call me crazy, but I get the distinct feeling you don’t want me here.”
“Crazy.” Kate tipped her head back and stared straight into his eyes. “Why on earth would you think I wouldn’t want you?”
He froze, but fell headfirst into that steady golden gaze. “Do you?”
She wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue and, for the first time in his life, he wished he had access to slow-motion replay. He tossed whatever half-assed game plan he had, stepped out of the pocket, and threw a Hail Mary.
He bent at the waist, his hands closing around the biceps he’d just been admiring as he pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were sweet and damp. Impossibly soft, despite the fact that her body stiffened in surprise. Then she relaxed into the kiss with a soft gasp of surrender, and he lost all semblance of reason.
He dropped to his knees. A jolt of pain sailed through his body, but then her arms were around him too, and he couldn’t care less. One hand slid up his neck. Her fingers were in his hair. Fingernails scored his shirt and bit into his shoulder as she arched into the kiss.
“Jesus,” he panted when they came up for air. Pressing his forehead to hers, he ran his hand over her hair and then tucked it behind her ear just as he’d seen her do countless times. Mustering superhuman strength, he pulled back far enough to whisper, “This is insane.”












A straight-laced single dad just may discover he has a sweet tooth . . .

Mike Simmons had it all—until his perfect wife turned his perfectly ordered life upside down by leaving him and their two children. Now Mike’s struggling with the chaos of juggling his career as a security consultant with being a divorced single dad. It’s no surprise he’s not entirely comfortable with the anatomically correct treats their new client, Getta Piece Bakery, offers. And he doesn’t mind letting the client know it.

Free-spirited and spunky, baker extraordinaire Georgie Walters is about as far from a soccer mom type as you can get. She owes a lot of her success to the bachelorettes who have a special appreciation for her creations. But as Mike stands in her tiny shop nervous, but clearly intrigued, Georgie has to admit the guy is beautiful when he’s wound up tight. In fact, she finds she can’t resist getting a rise out of him. When she hires him to take care of her security needs—she gets so much more in the bargain. Now, her challenge is to teach him to look beyond the candy coating to all the warmth she has inside . . .


“Be right with you,” a voice called from the back.
“No worries,” Mike answered.
Pulling the portfolio from under his arm, he flipped the folder open to look at the proposal he spent the morning checking. Everything was in order, but if he kept looking at the neatly typed sheets, he wouldn’t have to look at the Va-Va-Velma prominently displayed in the center case. She was damn hard to ignore. The display version was bombshell blonde, peachy-pink, and ripe as any pinup girl painted on the fuselage of a warplane. Except this vixen-ish Velma didn’t bother wearing a teeny-weeny bikini. She was completely nude.
He was trying not to stare at the cake’s ample bosom when a slight young woman wearing a T-shirt hacked into a tank top and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the back.
“Sorry for the delay.” She wiped her hands on a towel, then tossed the colorfully stained ball of white cotton onto the counter behind her. A welcoming smile crinkled her eyes into crescents. “May I help you?”
Mike did his best not to goggle. Colm had mentioned the girl was unique, but the word didn’t seem to be an apt descriptor. She was…captivating.
In the most disturbing way possible.
She wore her hair cut short over her ears. Nearly shaved, in fact. But the rest was long enough to brush her jawline. It was also purple. Bright purple. A violently violet shade of purple that reminded him of one of his daughter’s teddy bears. Judging from roots peeking through, she was a natural brunette. And her hair was wavy. Not the kind of carefully cultivated waves coaxed out by the judicious use of a blow-dryer, either. They fell over one eye when she tipped her head to the side. She was waiting for him to answer.
He opened his mouth, but she moved a fraction of an inch, and her entire face sparkled. Snapping his jaw shut, he stared at her, wondering if he’d somehow managed to drop into one of those ridiculous half-animated shows his kids watched on KidToons.
A tiny silver hoop bisected her left eyebrow, and an even tinier diamond winked at him from the right side of her nose. Not magic, or even fairy dust. Piercings. The girl had piercings. She pushed her hair back, and he thought he saw a smudge of something dark on the inside of her wrist. A tattoo. Right. Of course. Piercings. Tats. Purple hair. One by one he added the attributes in his head. The girl behind the counter wasn’t some kind of mystical creature. She was a woman. Nothing less, and likely a whole lot more than a guy like him could handle.
“Quite the selection, don’t you think?”
He realized he’d been staring too long when her smile widened and she gestured to the array of semi-pornographic pastries in the case. Like she was some kind of game show hostess showing off the fabulous and exciting prizes she had to offer.
She slid her hands along the case, drew back, and did a pirouette to encompass the array of goods on display. “Anything catch your eye?”
He caught a flash of leg as her apron flew in a circle around her. Despite the approaching winter, she wore nothing but some skimpy shorts under her apron. Well, a tank top and shorts, as well as some knee-high socks striped like the Wicked Witch of the West’s, but his brain shorted out when he got an eyeful of toned thigh, so the rest hardly counted.
She also wore boots. Thick-soled combat-style boots like the soldiers wore to march for miles over rugged terrain. Boots that made a man want to test exactly how kickass the wearer might be.
Mike shook himself out of his daze. “Oh, uh, no. I mean, yes.” He shook his head harder. “I mean, everything looks, um, great.”
“People come from miles around to get their hands on my Boston Cream Bosoms.”
Mike expelled a short laugh. She didn’t need to convince him; he was a believer. “I bet they do.”
She tipped her head to the side. “This is one of those moments when, as a feminist, I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered, but I bring the confusion on myself, so…” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. The tiny diamond winked at him.
“This is one of those moments when, as both a feminist and a card-carrying member of the man club, I don’t know whether to…” He trailed off, letting the thought dangle.
“Make a break for it?”
“Exactly.”


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