Showing results by author "Emma Hart" in All Categories

As the owner of Pick-A-D*ck, New Orleans' premier hook-up website, my job is simple. Connect two people for a no-strings, no-expectations hook-up. The plus for my clients is that I'm the one who gets to sift through the d*ck pics - except this time, they're required. My problem? My brother, co-owner of Pick-A-D*ck's sister dating site, doesn't believe it's possible to hook up with someone three times and not fall in love. I disagree. I know it's possible. And my disagreement is exactly how I end up reconnected with my high school nemesis, Elliott Sloane.

My name is Lady Gabriella Hastings, and there are three things you need to know about me. One, my idiot brother will inherit the estate I’ve adored my entire life. Two, my father wants me to marry an idiot who has an estate like this. Three, my aunt’s goats keep escaping and terrorizing the public. Oh, and I have a huge crush on the gardener. But I have absolutely no time to sort out my own love life - because I’m too busy moonlighting as an online agony aunt to fix everyone else’s problems.

Literally colliding with the hottest guy in the world and agreeing to be his date to his sister’s wedding? Done…for some reason. Finding out he’s actually an aristocrat and will one day inherit an ancient Scottish dukedom and castle? Yep, that’s a surprise. Sharing a bed with him at said castle because his family thinks I’m his girlfriend? Okay, I’m sure I’ll survive. Even if he does make my heart pitter-patter and my lady bits—uh, never mind.

Imagine this. You're ready to leave after a one-night stand, and you're figuring out how to - shock horror - leave your number and ask him to be your fake boyfriend for your sister's wedding this weekend. When he wakes up. Well, that happened to me. And over coffee and omelets, I found myself a date. Which was how I ended up arriving at the wedding with a guy I knew nothing about.

Top tip: Don't put out an online ad offering your services as a fake date. Someone will take you up on it - and it won't just be for one night. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up being Mason Jackson's fake girlfriend. He didn't even want me to be. No - his sister was solely responsible for me being his date for his 10-year high school reunion. And now, she's responsible for telling his parents our relationship is real. We have no choice. We have to act like this isn't all a mistake.

Let it be known that I, Holley Stuart, do not give a single rat's behind about pro baseball's star pitcher Sebastian Stone. I definitely don't care that he's standing in my bookstore. Nor do I care that he seems to have forgotten about the last time we saw each other: senior prom, when he both humiliated me and broke my heart, albeit unknowingly. Now, he needs a date to his sister's wedding. Don't ask me how I ended up being it - I have no idea. But that's the least of my problems. His grandfather is adamant we're dating, and Seb isn't in a hurry to convince him otherwise.

What I wanted for my birthday: Books. What I got for my birthday: my brother’s best friend playing matchmaker. Let it be known that I am 100 percent against being set up with somebody. And I’m 1,000 percent sure that Josh Carter's not the man to find me a boyfriend. I mean, if I’m so great, why isn’t he the one dating me? (For the record, I don’t know the answer. That’s just what the guy on the internet asked.) I’ll humor him. If I go on his little dates, he’ll teach my bookish, introverted self how not to be totally, completely, utterly, unforgivably awkward.

When bestselling romance author Ellie Aarons finds herself with chronic writer’s block, she’s pretty sure all she needs is a change of scenery. A beautiful lakeside cottage with her cat seems like a good idea. But she’s wrong. She needs more than a change of scenery—she needs a muse.

My name is Adelaide Astley, and if there was anything remotely exciting about me to tell you, I would. Sure, my uncle is the Duke of Leicester, and my mother bucked family tradition to marry “below” her and open a hotel, but I’m nothing but an aspiring author with a Tudor era obsession. Oh, and I’m spending the summer tutoring the daughter of the current Duke of Worcester. Alexander Winthrop-Bentley is so not my type, but hours of chess games and arguments over Tudor dynasties mean we’re thrown together more often than we should be.

Setting up a dating website with the guy I've been in love with since I was five wasn't my smartest idea. Especially since he's my best friend's brother - thankfully, she's okay with the fact I'm pulling a Sandy, and I'm hopelessly devoted to him. Which is why it's time to get over him. So I do something crazy and ask Dominic Austin to find me a date. He does - if I find him one, too. Since we own Stupid Cupid, it should be easy, right? And it is. My date is perfect. His date is perfect. Everything is perfect. Until he kisses me.

There are some things you just have to deal with - like your hot-as-hell college booty call moving in next door with his adorable daughter. The only time we've ever gotten along is under the sheets. Old habits die hard because two minutes on my front porch is how long it takes us to bicker. Not that a little fact like that bothers my healthy 80-year-old grandmother and roommate who's determined to see me married before she bites the dust.

After four years living the single life, it’s decided that I, London Stuart, am back on the market. I’m not even mad when my cousins and best friends put my name down for the speed-dating sessions. In fact, I’m actually a little excited about it. But then one of my dates turns out to be my six-year-old son’s irresistibly sexy soccer coach - his irresistibly sexy British soccer coach.

With all my best friends off the market, it’s time that I, Tori Sussex, join them. So where better to find my future husband than the internet? It’s great. I get to get all the awkward stuff out of the way and already know if I’m going to like the guy before we meet in person. It’s a shame nothing's ever that simple. My relationship with Colton Lane, my best friend’s brother, is the very definition of complicated - dirty little no-strings-attached hookups we’ve somehow managed to keep secret from all our friends for the past six months.

My name is Evangeline Astley, and the only thing you need to know about me is that I never imagined this was how my life would go. I was supposed to devote all my time to painting gorgeous things to eventually open my own art gallery. Instead, I spent it all trying to sell my art to save my parents’ hotel.

If anyone asks, I knew better than to flash my boobs for Mardi Gras beads. I still don't know why I did it. Maybe it was the dare from my two best friends. Maybe it was the guys on the balcony saying they'd throw Fireball shots with the beads. Or maybe it was the quiet guy in the corner of that same balcony with piercing gray eyes, wavy dark hair, and a smile so tempting I wanted to climb up there and lick it off his face. Maybe it was because I never thought I'd see them again. Not that it matters. Not today. Because the hotel I manage was finally bought.

What do a wrong number text, a burning building, and a quirky florist have in common? A hunky firefighter with an extra-large...hosepipe. In hindsight, I never should have opened that text message. The last thing I needed first thing on a Monday was a picture of some stranger's, um, eggplant, in my inbox. I also should have replaced the batteries in my fire alarm, because my Friday night did not need to end with my apartment building going up in flames. But it's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.

Let it be known that I, Saylor Green, am wholeheartedly against blind dating. I think it’s superficial, unnecessary, and designed wholly to force people into relationships they aren’t ready for. So when Dylan Parker takes the seat across from me, I’m ready to dismiss him at one glance. The problem? He’s hot and funny and sweet and the exact kind of guy I read about in the romance novels I sell like hotcakes in my bookstore.

I have no idea why I said yes. Maybe I'd had one too many wines. Maybe I'd done it accidentally. Maybe I'd been sleep-texting. One thing I know for sure is this: I absolutely do not want Ethan Hawkins in my apartment, up in my business, taking over my space. Yet he's here, moving his stuff into my spare bedroom, sending a wave of panty-melting, musky man-scent my way every time he walks past me. Here's the thing. We don't get along - at all. We never have, and I don't think we're going to start now that we're under one roof.

Let me make this clear right here, right now: I, Halley Dawson, do not care that Preston Wright is kissing other women. Not a lick. Not at all. Nuh-uh-freakin'-uh. I do care that he's doing it six feet away from me behind a gaudy velvet curtain - making him my competition in this year's kissing contest. Why do I care, you ask? Because I've had an unfortunate crush on the insufferable idiot since I was 16 years old, but I also know it's never going to happen.

I, Elle Evans, am on the run. Not from the fuzz - although that would be more exciting. No, I’m on the run from the four-year-old private tape that, thanks to my vengeful ex, has probably already ruined my vlogging career. There’s nothing like the entire world knowing what you look like mid-O. Creek Keys, Florida, is a million miles away from NYC, and it’s the perfect place for me to hide for the rest of summer until I can figure out what I’m going to do.