That Steamy Hockey Romance

What's a girl to do when her longtime hockey crush offers her a marriage of convenience? Say YES. Obviously. I've spent three years lusting after Grammercy Graves on my (supposedly anonymous) hockey romance podcast-breaking down his stats, his plays, that panty–melting Cajun accent. . . The entire internet knows he's my dream guy. What they don't know? I'm a broke single mom who just lost her job-and the health insurance my daughter needs. When Grammercy finds me crying in a supply closet at a team party, he offers the wildest solution: Fake marriage. Real benefits. One year. No strings. No S–E–X. Just shared coverage and a room with my name on it. But he's so good with my daughter. So generous, so funny, so kind. And when it's just the two of us? He treats me like I'm someone special. Like I'm his. Soon, every kiss for the cameras turns into a kiss we can't stop, and it's getting harder and harder to remember this is all pretend. There's just one secret that could ruin it all-my podcast, the one that proves I wasn't telling the whole story when we first "met." When he finds out, will he walk away. . . Or make my wildest fangirl fantasies come true?

What to do when the sexy hockey player you've been avoiding suddenly becomes your roommate? Make "no touch" rules. Obviously. I've spent months dodging Leo Parker's attempts to score a second date. Yes, he's gorgeous. Yes, he plays for the Louisiana Voodoo. Yes, he kisses like it's an Olympic sport. But he's also six years younger than I am and-plot twist-I used to babysit him when he was twelve. But when a hurricane destroys my restaurant (and the storage closet I've been sleeping in), Parker swoops in with the perfect solution. Move in with him. Temporarily. With RULES: • No sex • Clothes stay ON in common areas • Hugging, but only before 5pm But living with Parker means watching him do everything without a shirt on. Hearing him moan over my cooking like it's foreplay. And discovering he's not just a pretty face-he's funny, generous, and seems to like me . . . just the way I am. Soon we're road tripping to food festivals, winning crawfish mating–call contests (don't ask), and breaking every rule. Repeatedly. I'm starting to think this sweet, sexy, man might be My One. There's just one problem: When it comes to men, I'm cursed. And a blast from the past is about to remind us why falling for each other might be the worst rule we've broken yet.