a standalone sports romance for diehard fans...or those who just like a dirty talking hero who gives our heroine a weekend she’ll never forget.
About the book:
I’m big into fantasy football, but spending Big Game weekend snowed in with a stranger who’s way out of my league isn’t how I thought my bowl watching would go.
But sometimes Fate has a way of making the fantasies you didn’t know you had come true.
I left his hotel room after a long night of running up the score. But two weeks later, I’m still not sure who won.
It kind of feels like I lost.
We never agreed on anything more than a fling. And even though we flung ourselves at each other *a lot* over the course of the night, that’s all it was. All it could ever be.
But when we come face-to-face again in the most unexpected place, I’m convinced Fate has a sense of humor…and a secret romantic side.
Fantasy Football is a standalone sports romance especially for those who say game on to some full contact, bump and run style football on any given game day.
Please Note: Linger went into Kindle Unlimited June 2019 and will be available at Amazon only for 90 days.
Release Date: February 2, 2019
Snowed in with a stranger
Dirty talking hero
I smiled for maybe the first time today. This was supposed to be the world’s most perfect weekend doing two of the things I loved the most: a quick getaway to see my favorite singer live and celebrating The Big Game. At least the first part worked out. But… and it was a really big but. No amount of room service breakfast could magically make better the fact that I had nothing better to do than chill out in a virtually-empty casino, waiting for my steakhouse reservation in the clothes I wore last night, missing out on my favorite day of the year.
Another text came in. My brother sent a ridiculous GIF and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and swivel a little in my chair.
I bobbled my phone and my breath hitched when I found myself making eye contact with the hottest guy in the hotel.
Dark jeans, button down unbuttoned down to a respectable but delectable amount of man chest, and a head of hair so wavy and floppy that I bet no matter how many times I ran my fingers through it, it would refuse to be tamed. I gripped my phone harder. Breathing is out of the question.
No, it’s not just that he was the hottest guy in the hotel. That’s not all that hard to believe. Together, we brought the median age of people in the casino down to seventy-three. And though I liked a silver fox as much as the next gal, these guys passed the threshold of foxhood decades ago.
This sustained eye contact situation we were having right now was having an effect on my ability to regulate my blood pressure. Something I probably had in common with the other hundred people in this room, but for a much, much different reason, I suspected. And when one side of this man’s unbelievably perfect mouth lifted in a hint of a smile, I almost checked to see if Grandma with the red hoodie would let me borrow her smelling salts because I’m going down for the count.
The subtle vibration of the phone in my hand broke the spell. I glanced down at the text but didn’t see the letters on the screen. Impossible to make sense of lines and curves when you’d just been assassinated by a panty-melting half-smile.
Imagine what would happen to them if I saw some teeth!
I was a lunatic. Teeth were not sexy. Usually. There’s absolutely zero reason to believe this man’s teeth would be anything but sexy. Bared in a smile. Scraping over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
Ohhh-kay. Trying to compose myself into the form of a totally sane person—because there’s no way I can manage seductress when I was wearing the vaguely-stale smelling clothes I wore last night—I looked up but he was gone. Like I’d imagined him.
But I knew he was real. And I knew he was not only the hottest guy at this hotel, but also quite possibly the hottest guy in North America. And I’d had plenty of time to think about him after I first saw him in line to get a drink at the concert last night. I wondered why someone who looked like that would be at a Molly Kerrigan concert. He wasn’t exactly the target demographic of a slightly-witchy folk rock goddess from the seventies. (No offense to thee, Glorious Molly.)
Mystery Man had gripped two longnecks in one giant hand and carried two bottles of water in the crook of his elbow while palming a vodka soda in the other hand. An impressive display, but I’d despaired, watching him walk away, imagining him there with a boyfriend. (I mean, come on, you know you’d have thought the same thing.) But as I made my way through the crowd to my seat, I saw him proffering the bottles to two older women before he sat, legs in a careless sprawl, sipping his cocktail.
I’d invented two scenarios before losing myself to the melodies of my childhood idol. One, he was a very well paid and very kinky boy toy of two rich older women. Not all that hard to believe with the sheer volume of jewels blondie had on. The other woman was decked out more like Molly Kerrigan, incredible earth-toned tunic top and chunky gemstone jewelry that I’d give anything to just hold in my hand. The other was far more pedestrian scenario, and therefore more likely.
Either way, he of the charming half-smile was gone and I’d just lost the bonus round and my last five bucks.