Best Friends Don’t Kiss by Max Monroe

Best Friends Don’t Kiss, an all new friend zoned bestfriend rom com from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe available now!

My Take:

(ARC Review) This is a fun friends-to-lovers holiday themed book with typical Max Monroe humor and tons of Billionaire cameos from previous books.

It is pretty slow burn and the pacing was a little odd to me. The first half of the book was her dating other men, we were very far into the book before either realized they had feelings for the other. If there were more longing or unrequited love, maybe a spark from a brush of the hand, the slow burn wouldn’t have been a problem but it felt off as is because the feelings came very quickly and late into the story.

The second half had all the action, steam and holiday events and I loved it once the pace picked up! Overall I did like it since it’s funny throughout and the second half was lovely.


Goal: Find a boyfriend, get married, buy a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, and pop out 2.5 kids.

Deadline: Sixty days.

That’s possible, right?

HAHAHA. *Faints*

I’m kidding. Well, kind of. I mean, I’m not going to attempt a shotgun wedding or try to get knocked up by some guy I met on the internet, but there is no doubt that, this year, home for the holidaystakes on a whole new, terrifying meaning. 

I have to travel from New York City—my home and safe haven for the last fifteen years—to my tiny hometown in Vermont for Christmas, my baby sister’s wedding, and my high school reunion.

Talk about a trifecta of single-doom

Throw in Callie Camden—aka my high school class’s version of Regina George—and it’s a recipe for certified disaster.

Especially since my mouth ran away from me when she asked me if I’d be bringing someone to our reunion, and I told her to put me down for two. 

Gah. Now I can’t go alone.

But the online dating world is a cesspool of bad manners, speedy hookups, and outright weirdos.

Handsome, single, successful—that’s what I’m looking for.

And it just so happens that my best friend Luke London fits all of the criteria.

The only problem is best friends don’t kiss

But maybe it doesn’t count if it’s pretend?

Pre-order your copy today!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2UOT9fw

Amazon Worldwide: mybook.to/BestFriendsDontKiss            

Add Best Friends Don’t Kiss to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/35UrwYX

Excerpt

Ava

I only get two steps toward my door when my phone starts ringing from inside my purse. I dig it back out again to find an unknown number with a Vermont area code flashing on the screen.

   I know I should let it roll to voice mail, but Aunt Poppy called me from jail one time, and I never heard the end of how I wasted her one phone call by not answering.

   Reluctantly, I hit the green button and put it to my ear.

   “Ava! It’s Callie!”

   Damn Aunt Poppy and her fascination with streaking!

   “Oh, uh…hi, Callie…”

   “Sorry to bother you, but I had one more question to ask, and since I now have your number, I figured I’d just call you really quick!”

   Greattt. “Sure thing,” I say with saccharine sweetness.

   “Since I have to finalize the head count for the venue by tomorrow, I need to know if I should just put you down as a single,” she begins. “Pretty sure your mom told me you weren’t married or engaged or dating anyone, but I just want to double-check that you’re still single. Honestly, I think you’re one of only ten people from our high school that isn’t married yet!” she exclaims through an amused giggle.

   I put my phone on speaker, drop it down on my entry table, and give it the double finger with as much gusto as I can manage.

   Obviously unaware of my display, she continues. “So crazy that most of us have reached the age where we’re married, and some with kids now. Which, by the way, I can’t believe your baby sister Kate is getting married before you. Soon, you’re going to be the only single Lucie left!”

   My tongue is tied by an imaginary angry fist, but it doesn’t matter. One of the only positive qualities Callie possesses is the ability to carry on an entire conversation herself.

   “By the way, you’re the best for helping me plan the reunion!”

   “That’s me.” The best people-pleasing lunatic in NYC who really should look into finding a good therapist to help me work through all of this before I have to head home to Vermont to watch my baby sister get married in the same week I get to attend a fifteen-year high school reunion I somehow got roped into helping plan. With the Regina George of my high school class. In less than two short months from now.

   Okay. So, I don’t need to find a therapist; I need to find Jesus. I just hope he lives in Manhattan.

   “So…one or two?” Callie asks, pulling me from the deep recesses of my thoughts.

   “One or two?”

   She giggles again. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. “How many people should I put you down for, silly?”

   This is a remake of Nightmare on Elm Street; it has to be. A new Halloween movie or something. Michael Myers himself must be right outside my freaking door. That’s the only way the universe would be cruel enough to add Callie’s interest into the swirling, boiling pot my family already has roasting over the Ava’s Relationship Status fire.

   Just like that, it hits me. I cannot go to this reunion and attend my baby sister’s wedding alone in the same damn week. I just…can’t.

   I completely break under the fucking pressure of it all, and the words blurt from my lips before I can stop them. “Two.”

   “Two?”

   “Uh…yeah… I’ll be bringing my…boyfriend.”

   You’ll be…what? You don’t have a boyfriend, Looney Tunes!

   “Your boyfriend? Oh, how exciting! Your mom didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!”

   “It’s…uh…fairly new.”

   Yeah, it sure is. It hasn’t even fucking started yet…

   Thinking better of my answer, I add to it quickly before Callie can undercut it. “But serious. Really serious, actually. We’ve just been keeping it private so we can enjoy the perfectness by ourselves for a while.”

   Dear God, Ava.

   “That’s so awesome! What’s his name?”

   Yeah, Ava! Tell your old archnemesis all about your imaginary boyfriend!

   Panic sets in when I realize there is absolutely no way I can talk myself out of this conversation. So, I do what anyone in my situation would do—avoid it.

   Three bangs of my fist to my own freaking door, I end the call in a rush, “Oh shoot, Callie! I have to go. My boyfriend just got here, and we’re already late for a big, fancy Halloween party in SoHo. Talk soon! Bye!” Click.

   It’s official. I’m pathetic.

   I might as well be Debra Messing’s character in The Wedding Date.

   Sure, my sister didn’t have an affair with my ex while I was still dating him, but she is my baby sister whose impending nuptials will make me the oldest and last single Lucie sister. And now, because I let Callie fucking Camden get the best of me with her backhanded bullshit, I told the snooty biotch that I have a boyfriend and I’d help plan the reunion.

   Oy vey.

   Call me crazy, but I highly doubt I can find a hot, Dermot-Mulroney-looking escort in under sixty days.

   You know, you could just be an adult about this and tell Callie how you really feel—that you don’t have a boyfriend and you don’t want to help plan that stupid reunion with someone who was a total bitch to you in high school…

   That would certainly be the easy way out, wouldn’t it?

   Too bad my damn pride is making that feel like an impossible option.

   On a heavy sigh, I drop my phone back in my purse, sling my bag over my shoulder, snag the stupid invitation off the counter, head straight out of my apartment, and stride right across the hall, barging through my best friend’s unlocked front door.

   I swear, one of the best things Luke and I ever did was rent apartments in the same building—and on the same floor—from his rich uncle Gary. It makes freak-out moments like this a heck of a lot easier to handle.

   My go-go boots pound across the hardwood floors as I make a beeline past Luke—who is standing in his living room—dump my purse, and head straight for the kitchen.

   “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where’s the fire?” he says on a laugh. “Please tell me you haven’t gone old-school and brought a hot plate into your apartment.”

   “Funny ha-ha, Luke,” I retort but keep it moving to the fridge. “The fire is my life. Everything is shit, I need a drink, and I’m pretty sure we’re already late to the party!”

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Hate The Player by Max Monroe- Blog Tour!

I hate him. 
I want him.
He’s a jerk.
A player.
Addicting.
Trouble. 

Hate the Player, a slow burn and hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!


My Take:

(ARC Review) This was a very sweet, very funny enemies to lovers romance that was super fun to read. I was craving something lighthearted and this baby fit the bill! Sometimes it’s comforting to read romance that you know won’t break your heart but will still make you swoon.

The banter between Birdie and Andrew is top notch. I loved how they couldn’t stop riling each other up, but I loved even more when they realized they no longer wanted to play that game.

I thoroughly enjoyed Andrew’s journey from renowned Hollywood player to lovesick, sweet, caring boyfriend. Highly recommended if you want something funny and romantic that won’t make you cry!


“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”

That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!

And that’s not even the worst of it.

My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.

Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.

It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.

As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.

Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.

I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.

I’m sure of it.

Download your copy today or read for Free on Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2C7tklj

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HateThePlayer

Add Hate the Player to Goodreads:  https://bit.ly/2ZLb2y4


Excerpt

  Birdie 

  True to my name, I’m about to take fucking flight. At least, I would if I could. 

  In this moment, it really would have been helpful if my trainer hadn’t successfully eliminated all the extra flappy meat on my upper arms. Surely, if I got them going fast enough, the wind beneath those bat wings could have carried me up and through the ceiling of this place. 

  C’mon, you big baby, I coach myself. You can do this. 

  One cavernous breath into my lungs and then another and another, and eventually, just before my vision turns tunneled, I will my feet to move away from the door. 

  Gleaming marble floors, golden statues, and a freaking fountain in the center, the lobby of Capo Brothers Studios is everything I should have expected and more. 

  If everything is bigger in Texas, then everything is most certainly richer in LA. 

  I check in with security quickly, my voice only a little croaky thanks to the frog in my throat, and head for the elevator bank at the far side of the lobby. 

  I’m to head to the fifteenth floor, I’m told, and then go straight down the hall to the glass doors on the left at the end. There, I’ll find William Capo’s office—the head honcho and only surviving brother of Capo Brothers. 

  My cowgirl boots are noisy on the marble floors when I do as instructed. The sound you make when you walk is such a small detail—one I don’t normally think about—but the echo of their clack today makes my heart feel like it’s knocking into my rib cage and each step across the ornate floor is merely a sound effect. 

  Fifteen floors eclipse quickly—clearly, they’ve spared no expense on their elevator—and the hallway that leads to William’s office seems strangely one-directional. Like once I go down it—once I take this step—there will be no going back. Which is probably why, after forcing myself to go the distance to the end, I pause at the open door, the points of my booted toes just shy of crossing the line. 

   “Good morning.” A pretty assistant dressed in a white power suit greets me before I’ve even cleared the threshold of the door, and all thoughts of escape are dashed. Like it or not, I’ve just been shoved over the line. I will my feet to do the same as she continues to speak. “Can I help you?” 

  “I’m Birdie Harris,” I answer and have to swallow hard against the dryness threatening to close my throat. “I have an audition.” 

  My nerves are so obvious, the assistant offers a sympathetic smile. 

  If she were from my childhood hometown in West Virginia, she’d most likely be thinking Bless her heart

  She taps something across the keyboard of her iMac and places her hand to the Bluetooth at her ear. “Mr. Capo, I have Birdie Harris here.” Immediately, she looks away from the computer and meets my eyes. “They’ll be ready for you shortly. You can take a seat over there.” She points behind me, back through the door and across the hall to what I’m assuming is a fancy-schmancy waiting room of some sort. I haven’t encountered a place in the building that doesn’t have some sort of gilded or marble inlay, so I highly doubt I’m going to step through that door and into a room styled by the set designer for Saw. Though, I can’t say some sort of torture device wouldn’t be completely misplaced right now. I’m already doing a pretty good job of mentally waterboarding myself with worry. 

  I offer a little nod, keeping my twisted, sicko thoughts to myself. I doubt they’re interested in hiring a woman on the brink of a hysterical episode. 

  The secretary quirks a brow, and I realize, though I’ve nodded my affirmation of understanding, I’ve yet to move. 

  Good God, Birdie! Go sit down. 

   Annoyed with myself, I turn on my boots and march across the hall so violently, it’s like there’s an invisible person helping me along with a heavy hand at the nape of my neck. 

  When I cross into the room, a man is sitting on a swanky leather sofa with his booted feet up on the coffee table. He glances up briefly before returning his eyes to the phone in his lap. Embarrassed, I smooth my clomps instantly. 

  You’re a gazelle, Birdie, not a herd of buffalo, I coach. Move like it. 

  With his attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw. 

  I’d love to get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might draw his attention again. 

  When he smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t have to wonder anymore. 

  Oh no. I know exactly who this man is. 

   Andrew Watson

  The very man Rocky warned me about and I subsequently Instagram stalked. A laundry list of different women dotted through his timeline, it confirmed everything Rocky told me and then some. 

  All relaxed and cool, he sits on the white leather sofa with one arm outstretched across the back. Confidence and charm ooze from every freaking cell in his body. No doubt, Andrew Watson is more than capable of commanding the attention of everyone in the room, no matter the situation. 

  No wonder he’s one of Hollywood’s most famous actors. 

  The only time I have that kind of quiet confidence is when I’m onstage, singing my songs, lost in the music I created. 

  Just play it cool, Birdie. 

  On a deep breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch. 

  My eyes are immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain. After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic. 

  Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson, complicating things even more! 

  I must make a noise I don’t realize—the sound of my saliva gurgling in my throat while I choke on it, perhaps—because Andrew looks at me with curious eyes. I try like hell to keep my calm and act like I haven’t just gone to mental war with the soldier in his pants, but there’s only so much hysteria containment my mind is capable of. 

  “Uh…hi,” I say, trying so dang hard not to glance back down at his crotch that I start spewing diarrhea of the mouth about goddamn military-themed movies. “I never saw A Few Good Men, but I hear Tom Cruise was good in it.” When I realize what I’ve just said makes absolutely no sense to him—punctuated perfectly by his eyebrows drawing together noticeably—the gurgling saliva turns into a full-blown choke, and suddenly, the only way to breathe is through a hacking cough. 

  Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis. 

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I hold up my hand in some kind of gesture. I’m not sure of its technical name, but its meaning is clear—please forget I exist right now. 

  He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile. 

  “Sorry,” I apologize. I didn’t mean to drag him into an impromptu SNL sketch where I choke on spit and say ridiculously inappropriate, off-the-wall things. “I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.” 

  His responding smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands and knees and thank the Lord above. 

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating his words with a wink. 

  If my mind were a screenplay, the nerves would be exiting stage left. 

  Did he seriously just wink at me after assuming that I’m nervous to be in his presence? 

  Surely, I’m hearing this wrong. No one is that obsessed with themselves…right? 

  “Excuse me?” I ask, and his megawatt smile is still ever-present. 

  “If you’d like me to sign an autograph or take a selfie with you,” he enunciates slowly, as if my being able to understand him clearly was the problem. “I can probably sneak that in before I have to head in there.” 

  His autograph? You have got to be kidding me. He sure is a cocky bastard—and for the first time today, I’m not even talking about his dick. 

  Like the tip of a match being swiped across the edge of a matchbook, aggravation bursts into my veins. 

  “I’m here for an audition,” I assert. 

   Unfazed, he quirks a brow as if to say, my invitation for an autograph still stands. 

  Attractive or not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around. 

  “I’m Birdie Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.” 

  And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick. 

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Hate The Player by Max Monroe- Live Early!

SURPRISE!

Hate the Player, a slow burn and hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is LIVE EARLY!

“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”

That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!

And that’s not even the worst of it.

My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.

Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.

It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.

As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.

Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.

I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.

I’m sure of it.

Download your copy today or read for Free on Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2C7tklj

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HateThePlayer

Add Hate the Player to Goodreads:  https://bit.ly/2ZLb2y4

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl- Blog Tour!

A baby on the way first.

Then love and marriage?

It’s complicated on its best day.

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new not-to-be-missed, surprise baby romantic comedy standalone by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!


My Take:

(ARC Review) Hollywood’s virgin good girl superstar accidentally knocked up during her one and only one night stand? Sounds like the set up to a perfectly juicy romcom to me.

First of all, Harrison is perfection. Steady, reliable, eager to step up and support his baby and baby mama. Raquel drove me absolutely insane. She just lets everyone walk all over her and won’t stand up to obvious abuses of power. Grow the f up, girl. You are the boss here. Her naive little-girl role was just so weak.

The book was absolutely saved by Harrison, and of course his merry band of billionaire brothers. Anytime Cap and Thatch are involved you know you’re in for a good time. Despite Raquel’s personality, the book was still very sweet, very funny, very reliably Max Monroe and I enjoyed reading it. 4 stars


Blurb:

Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.

That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong.

One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse.

A baby on the way first.

Then love and marriage?

It’s complicated on its best day.

But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk.

Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.

As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head.

Good thing I’m all in.

Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.

Download your copy today exclusively on Amazon or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl

Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j 

Excerpt 

Harrison

   Never cry over spilled milk.

   That’s what my mom always said, but I have to admit, until today, I never paid it much attention. As a kid, I spilled shit all the time. Milk. Juice. Water. If it was liquid, I was splattering it all over fucking creation.

   Our mop got a lot of action, sure, but every time, my mom would simply laugh. Not a little, demure giggle, but big, uproarious belly laughing. Ellie Hughes thought life was made for living, and she’d be damned if she let me dwell in the valleys. Hell, maybe that’s why I was always wreaking havoc on all of our flooring—my accidents were a precursor to something upbeat.

   Anyway, I haven’t thought much about all those puddles of laughter in a long time.

   But today is proof positive: my mom—well, she was a teacher way ahead of her time.

   Cereal poured and the financial section of the New York Times in hand, I make my way to my circular, glass kitchen table and take a seat that faces the TV.

   Hello, Today!, the syndicated fluff show during the eight o’clock hour on TBC, prattles on about the perfect Christmas breakfast for a family of four while an obnoxious elf bounces around in the background. I roll my eyes as some celebrity—fuck if I know who it is—pretends to know how to make frittatas and turn my eyes back to the paper.

   Growing up, television was forbidden fruit in my childhood home. My hard-ass of a dad thought it was more important to read the Wall Street Journal and understand the stock market than watch what he called drivel. He was one of those top 1% people, and his power-wealthy position in life included uber-rich hedge funds, strategic million-dollar stock market swing trades, and a money-hungry mind-set.

   The only time the one television—I’m serious, one fucking TV—in our home was actually used, it revolved around big news conglomerates and State of the Union addresses by current presidents.

   But despite the old man’s eccentric views on television and movies and normal people’s forms of entertainment, I can’t deny that learning about the stock market at an early age and being forced to understand things like the global economy and trade deals has served beneficial in adulthood.

   My morning routine normally synchronizes beautifully for an all-out news download before heading to the office. But today, because of a late dinner meeting last night and too many Christmas-themed cocktails that have nothing to do with the holly-sprig adorned ones on TV, I’m running behind schedule.

   The great news is, as CFO of one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, I’m actually allowed to do that on occasion without getting docked on my time card. In fact, I haven’t seen an actual time card in ages. The only punching I do is at Tommy John’s Kickboxing on Wednesdays in a basement studio all the way over on 75th and Broadway.

   In the interest of full punching disclosure: I suck at it. Mohammad Ali in training, I am not. But flab is real, friends, even for the studly men in your life, and punching a bag with little to no precision keeps the excess weight off me. In layman’s terms, it keeps the ladies from grabbing on to anything other than muscle in bed.

   Ha.

   Scratch that last line. They grab my dick; I didn’t mean to make it sound like they don’t. There’s actually more penile touching than any other kind of touching in the cottony comfort of my sheets, and I’m very good at touching the ladies, in turn, with my mouth and penis. In fact, when my dick hears the words dick pic, it asks for photo credit because it was most certainly the one taking the picture.

   Okay, maybe I’ve gotten a little carried away, but my point is the same.

   What I meant to imply was that they don’t grab on to a beer gut—and trust me, if I didn’t work out, they would. I love beer and chicken wings, and I indulge in them both on way too many occasions to maintain some kind of quota weight “naturally.” If it weren’t for all the strenuous, practically nightly kickboxing workouts, if I were a woman in the public eye, I would be a constant ludicrous headline for my “fluctuating waistline.”

   Thankfully, I am trim, toned, and able to binge on buffalo wings whenever the fuck I want.

   My cell vibrates across the table, and I snag it off the glass surface to see Incoming Call Cap flashing on the screen.

   I sigh at the idea of listening to Caplin Hawkins’s bullshit before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee, but I answer it despite my better judgment.

   “Harrison, you sly motherfucker, those stock tips you gave me last quarter have my portfolio growing green like I’m a damn cannabis farmer.” He forgoes a greeting and dives straight into what is most likely his selfish needs. “Should I be concerned you’re getting insider info?”

   “Wow, it’s so great to hear from you too, bud.” I smirk and lick my finger to get traction on the thin paper and flip through the pages until I get to yesterday’s closing data for the Dow Jones and S&P 500. Quickly, I scan through the numbers. It’s only one week away from Christmas and a few weeks away from New Years’, and this month’s upward trend appears fairly optimistic for avoiding a choppy close to the year.

   “Yesterday, HawCom was up five-fucking-percent. Seriously, dude, are you dragging me and my father’s company into some illegal bullshit?” he asks, and I look away from my newspaper to roll my eyes.

   HawCom is the company I’ve been with for the past decade, and it just so happens to be owned by Cap’s father, Jared Hawkins. Financial management for a company of its scale has been tricky these days with the ongoing uncertainty of the market, but all in all, HawCom’s performance numbers have been stable and steadily growing for the last nine quarters. As a major media company with “silent” ownership in some of the world’s most relevant technology companies, it’s not completely unexpected, but it’s certainly not guaranteed.

   “Is it difficult being the most ridiculous bastard on the planet?” I retort. “Because, fuck, I can imagine it gets hard coming up with new ways to be this insane.”

   Despite this idiot’s stupid question, everything I do is by the book. No insider trading. No fraud. It all comes from a mind that’s been trained since childhood to be strategic and understand economic patterns.

   And even if I shouldn’t, for the state of my motivation to maintain a certain work ethic, I do allow myself to take a little credit for HawCom’s success. I’ve been charged with a large job due to my leadership role in the company, but I cherish the opportunity. It’d be hard not to with an uncharacteristically kind and charismatic boss like Jared at the helm.

   And for the last four months, I’ve made it a point to cherish everything.

   See, I choose to be happy every day.

   I choose gratitude and intention in my every action.

   I choose the way my life plays out—all of us do.

   It took me more than three busy, painful decades and the loss of both parents to figure that out, but now that I have, the freedom in it is impressive.

   The truth is, until we die, all of us get to choose our own destiny—

   “I swear to God,” Cap grumbles. “I will end you if I wind up in some kind of high-security prison for stock fraud.”

   I laugh at the absurdity. “I help you grow your portfolio—without commission, mind you—and you’re threatening murder?”

   “Are you deflecting, son?” he questions, always the fucking lawyer. “Because I swear on every-damn-thing, I will—”

   “Relax.” I snort. “The only thing illegal about the stock tips I gave you was the fact that I handed them to you on a silver-fucking-platter without asking for anything in return.”

   “Speaking of handing shit to me on a silver platter, let’s do that again,” he says, a cunning smile apparent in his voice. “Who is looking profitable for the first quarter of next year?”

   “And why should I give you anything, you prick?”

   “Because you love me. Because you don’t want to see me become a vagabond, living on the streets.”

   “You’re one of the most successful corporate lawyers in North America who already has some of the world’s best advisers handling his money. I’m pretty sure a lack of financial investment advice from me isn’t going to break your bank.”

   “Minor details.” He chuckles. “C’mon, dude. Help your best friend and his sweet, lovely, beautiful wife out.”

   “Now you’re bringing Ruby into this?” I tsk. “For shame.”

   “You and I both know, shameless or not, I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want,” he retorts, and I laugh outright.

   “Are you wanting stock tips or to get me into bed? Because, truthfully, it feels like it could go either way at this point.”

   Of course, he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “I’ll even toss in a candlelit dinner and champagne if that’s what it’s going to take.”

   Just for the sake of ending this insanity, I start to open my mouth with a few companies that are worthy of investments in the upcoming quarter, but a shrill voice on the screen of the TV steals my attention. I wouldn’t normally refer to any woman’s voice as shrill because I find it incredibly sexist and demeaning, but I’m telling you, for the sake of painting an accurate description, this particular voice, regardless of its bearer’s gender, is like the distress call of a wounded rabbit. I couldn’t miss it if I were in an underground bunker with six feet of sound-dampening dirt between us. And somehow, somehow, she still made it on TV.

   “Thanks, Chris,” she continues, her voice still painful to my ears. “Today is anything but business as usual in sunny Southern California. It seems, folks, that the impossible has happened. Hollywood is abuzz this morning with the most infamous immaculate conception since the Virgin Mary herself.”

   My eyebrows pinch together at the ridiculous drivel as I lift the spoon to my mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph must be rolling over in their graves.

   “Twenty-nine-year-old famed virgin sexpot, Raquel Weaver, was photographed leaving Beverly Hills Obstetrics today with a noticeable bump front and center on her normally trim figure.”

   Brakes squeal to a stop inside my head.

   What the fuck? Did she just say Raquel Weaver?

   I gape at the television, trying to make sense of why that name of all names just came out of Screechy’s mouth, but the instant a photograph pops up on the screen and all-too-familiar violet eyes stare back at me, I have my fucking answer.

   Holy shit. It’s her.

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl by Max Monroe- Now Live!

Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new laugh-out-loud surprise baby rom com by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now! 


BLURB: Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.

That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong.

One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse.

A baby on the way first.

Then love and marriage?

It’s complicated on its best day.

But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk.

Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.

As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head.

Good thing I’m all in.

Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.

Download your copy today exclusively on Amazon or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl

Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j 

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl by Max Monroe -Cover Reveal!

A baby on the way first.

Then love and marriage?

It’s complicated on its best day.

Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new fun and flirty romantic comedy by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is releasing June 11th, and we have the irresistible cover! 


Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.

That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong.

One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse.

A baby on the way first.

Then love and marriage?

It’s complicated on its best day.

But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk.

Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.

As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head.

Good thing I’m all in.

Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.

Pre-order your copy today exclusively on Amazon!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl

Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j 

Cover Photo by Wander Aguiar

Cover Model: Jacob Cooley 

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy by Max Monroe- Blog Tour

Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?

Asking for a friend.

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, an all-new laugh-out-loud standalone romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now! 

Okay, fine. I’m not asking for a friend.

I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common.

Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked.

This probably happens all the time…right?

Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk.

Please. Please. Please. Tell me I’m not alone in this.

For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it.

Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames.

Gah. Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited! 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2U1vlUW

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TamingHBB

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/2w8TUYg

Add TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2U46YI7

Excerpt

  Billie

   Naked lumberjacks are all the rage. Or is it that they’re full of rage?

   I’m not entirely sure, but I think maybe, just maybe, it’s a little bit of both.

   Standing beside a hot tub outside of a rustic Alaskan cabin is a bare-chested, handsome-as-hell lumberjack of a man, and he is as naked as the day he was born.

   “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” the big, burly man with a scruffy beard and piercing blue eyes asks me brusquely.

   And holy hell, what a question that is.

   I started this journey in a meeting in LA, promising my boss the world, continued it with a plane, a car, a hike and kayaking adventure in a cold, rainy Alaskan setting, and in a highly unanticipated twist, I’m ending it in what must be an issue of Playgirl magazine come to life.

   And boy oh boy is the centerfold pissed…

   “Hello?” he questions harshly. “I said, who the hell are you?”

   As hard as it is, given his clothes-less state, I force myself to take a good, scrutinizing look at the rest of his face. I’m here for a reason, and with nothing more than a ramshackle convenience store owner named Earl’s vague instructions to go on, I can only hope that the here I’m at is the here I’ve spent days in a plane, car, and kayak looking for. In addition to a remarkably carved line on the inside of each hipbone, the angry man standing boldly above me has a strong jaw covered by a beard, a little scar above his right eye, miles of muscular, tanned skin, and messy, light-brown hair. I have to look a little closer to confirm my conclusion through the rolling waves of distrust and hatred coming off him, but when I focus hard enough, the star-quality glimmer in his eyes is undeniable.

   For the love of pancakes at a Sunday morning breakfast, it’s really him.

   Luca Weaver, Hollywood’s former baddest boy—the man I’ve nearly killed myself to find—is right in front of me, and he is naked.

   At my non-answer, his jaw turns to stone. “I asked you a question. Either answer it or get fucking moving.” I jolt at the rumble of his voice, but my feet do nothing to take me in any direction. I am rooted to the spot, utterly awed over the fact that I’ve actually managed something as impossible as finding Luca Weaver and all of my normal functions are rendered useless. He scowls, unimpressed with all the hard work I’ve put in—work that he obviously doesn’t know about. “You have five seconds before I come back out here with my shotgun.”

   “Uh…” I fumble, trying like hell to grasp the English language once again. I may be distracted, but on some level, I understand the importance of getting my shit together enough to at least prevent a shotgun from joining our little meet-and-greet. 

   But my brain is bus-y. And slow.

   Because Luca Weaver looks damn good without any clothes.

   Eight years older since the last time he graced the covers of Hollywood gossip magazines, Luca is a man to whom time has been seriously kind. Either his genetics are just that good, or there’s some kind of sexy voodoo in the Alaskan water.

   I mean…his penis is right in front of me, and I can’t find a single thing wrong with it. It’s straight and veiny and perfectly pink.

   “What’s the matter with you? You have a death wish or something?” he spits at the statue formerly known as my body. “This is private property.”

   His words are serious and firm, and it seems that maybe I do have a dream that’s reminiscent of the movie Fargofingers crossed there are no wood chippers nearby. Because for as much as I try, I can’t stop looking at my new phallic friend, even to form a few simple words.

   But, come on. Luca Weaver’s freaking dick is right there!

   It’s not hard, but still, it’s…big—so big it’s not even a dick.

   It’s a Richard. Sir Richard.

   King Richard, really.

   Shit, I’m in the presence of penis royalty, and I suddenly have the urge to curtsy.

   He is a lumberjack fantasy come to life. Instantly, my brain starts thinking about pine-scented flannel and chopping wood and giving a blow job… Wait…what?

   Stop being a moron and speak words!

   “Uh…so…you’re…naked.” Oh god, those aren’t the right words!

   He glances down, mutters something to himself, snags a towel from a few feet away, and wraps it around his waist. “I didn’t invite you here,” he says, his voice gritty with irritation—and maybe, a little with disuse. Which would make sense. It’s taken me an entire season of Running Wild with Bear Grylls to get here. I can’t imagine he’s having book clubs and dinner parties and gabbing with his pals on the regular.

   Towel adjusted and glorious goods hidden from view, he studies me with frigid blue eyes and a glare worthy of a scorned woman. I shiver.

   “I’m only going to ask you one more time. What in the hell are you doing here?”

   I fiddle with the edges of my shirt as I finally find my vocal cords. “I’m Billie…Billie Harris.”

   And I am in way over my head.

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy by Max Monroe- Blog Tour

Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?

Asking for a friend.

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, an all-new hilarious enemies to lovers standalone from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now! 

Okay, fine. I’m not asking for a friend.

I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common.

Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked.

This probably happens all the time…right?

Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk.

Please. Please. Please. Tell me I’m not alone in this.

For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it.

Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames.

Gah. Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?

Download your copy today for only 99¢ or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited! 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2U1vlUW

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TamingHBB

Add TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2U46YI7

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

Cover Reveal: Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy by Max Monroe

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, an all-new steamy laugh-out-loud romantic comedy standalone from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is coming March 12th and we have the dreamy cover!

Blurb:

Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?

Asking for a friend.

Okay, fine. I’m not asking for a friend.

I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common.

Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked.

This probably happens all the time…right?

Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk.

Please. Please. Please. Tell me I’m not alone in this.

For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it.

Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames.

Gah. Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?

Add TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2U46YI7

Be notified FIRST When Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boys is live: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

About Max Monroe

A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister by Max Monroe: Blog Tour!

The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister, an all-new hot and hilarious brother’s best friend rom-com from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!


My Take: If you want to read about a fun, funny, globetrotting romp, this is the book for you. I thought it was great- very sexy, very funny, plenty of Cap. Lena makes some bad decisions along the way but I forgive her, since perfect Theo does


Blurb:

Theo Cruz, a New York man known for his family’s billion-dollar empire, Cruz Enterprises, has been indicted this afternoon in the Court of Public Opinion on charges of Bro-Code Conspiracy.

Chief counsel for the prosecution, Caplin Hawkins, spoke candidly about the accusation.

“Once thought of as a best friend to many—including myself—Theo Cruz has officially turned his back on human decency. He’s conniving and dishonest, and a habitual offender of Bro-Code Law 676. He’ll rue the day he forgot that you never—under any circumstances—get involved with your best friend’s little sister.”

Fact: I haven’t actually been arrested or indicted.

More important fact: I inadvertently messed up—big-time.

Two strangers in a foreign country, we said hello.

Hello turned into a kiss.

A kiss turned into a rendezvous.

And a rendezvous turned into more than I’d ever imagined.

But her unruly golden curls and beautiful body hid an important detail—She’s my mouthiest billionaire best friend’s forbidden little sister.

Fact: I knew not of my crimes.

More important fact: I know now, but even though I know I’m playing with fire, there’s no way I’m stopping. I can’t leave her alone.

Question: What do you do when you fall for your best friend’s little sister?

More important question: How long can you keep it a secret before it all goes up in flames?

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/33uk2sc

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/BillionaireForbidden

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2Bu5KeA 


Excerpt

Lena

   Two hours and another two shots for Pippa later and she’s in full-on dance mode. Shaking her hips and tits like she owns the joint. It only took one intense shimmy during “Gonna Make You Sweat” to understand what she meant—her boobs, left braless, would absolutely be a lethal weapon. I’m pretty sure the sweat between them even vaporized into a misty Mel Gibson mirage, they shook so hard.

   And not once has she wanted to stop for a break.

   She’s in the running to be the next Energizer bunny, but my bladder is full, and I’m dehydrated. For the love of God, I need something to drink other than Mel-flavored sweat mist and gasoline.

   Thankfully, when Pip spots Sophie and Frederick on the other side of the dance floor, she does some weird version of the robot, spins in their direction, and makes like the wind through the crowd while letting her arms trail behind her.

   It’s so fucking strange, it’s hilarious, and I can’t help but laugh.

   Sophie feels the same, covering her mouth comically as she spots Pippa. I wave my hand, hoping to get her attention, and by some miracle, she spots me through the strobing lights and writhing bodies.

   I jerk my chin and swipe a hand across my chest before tapping the skin next to my eye and doing the walking symbol with my fingers. Sophie nods, interpreting my baseball-esque code, regardless of its lackluster delivery. If I were on the other end of things, I’d be waffling between second and third base right now, trying to figure out what to do.

   “I’ve got her!” she whisper-yells toward me, and the weight of drunken-friend-motherhood lifts off me in a flash. I’m sure my friends with kids would tell me this is how they always feel when they actually make it to the bathroom.

   I didn’t think it was a possibility for a female living on planet Earth, but when I make it to the toilets—as the Italians call them—the line is short and speedy. I’m standing at the bar again, waiting on a bartender to take my order in under five minutes.

   Of course, the bar takes so long, I have to sit down on one of the stools to bide my time. And just like that, the timetable of the universe has been righted.

   While I wait, I glance back toward the dance floor to check on Pip, the dancing queen—who is now showing off her twerking skills to a cute twentysomething guy. If I had to guess based on his appearance, I’d peg him as one of the locals. But for all I really know, he hails from the Jersey Shore.

   Thankfully, Sophie and Frederick are sticking close to Pip’s side, and her dance partner of unknown origin isn’t getting too handsy.

      All is well. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn back toward the bar to resume my quest for a drink and, like magic, lock eyes directly with a bartender.

       Thank God!

   He jerks his chin up to head my way, and I climb to stand on the rung of my barstool with glee.

   But when he’s five steps away, his attention swings back to a point down the bar, and immediately, he diverts.

       What the hell?

   I glance down at my perky, tight-nippled breasts and frown. How in the hell did he see these fuckers and not come in for the landing?

   Annoyed, I follow him with my gaze to what I’m sure must be a woman with three tits and an exposed pussy.

   I pause. Stop. Go completely still.

       Wow. That is definitely not a woman with freakish anatomy. In fact, that’s no woman at all.

   Midnight-blue eyes, a little scruff on his strong jaw, and the kind of lips that I instinctually know will be good at kissing, the man who stole my bartender warrants more than a double take.

       Hot damn.

   He’s clad in a smart suit but no tie, and his collared shirt is loose at the neck but perfectly fitted around the tight, firm muscles of his chest. The suit is obviously tailored and screams of money, but I have a feeling not even gold-plating would be able to disguise the spectacular body he’s got underneath.

   His face is serious—but God, even serious, he is handsome as fuck.

   The urge to find out what he looks like when he smiles is both overwhelming and terrifying. I mean, how would I even quantify anything beyond perfection?

   A shiver runs up my spine. I really want to see what this guy is all about.

   I imagine if I could remember Pippa existed at this point, I’d try to thank her for insisting I celebrate our accomplishments by lifting the man ban for the night.

   As it is, I’m not sure anyone but me and the hottie with the sparkling eyes are left on the planet.

   When he finishes talking to what I can only assume is the bartender who abandoned me, he turns back toward the dance floor and rests his hip against the bar.

   His still-serious eyes scan the joint, moving from the dance floor to the VIP section to the intimate booths scattered along the walls and then back to the line of the bar, all the way back to me.

   My breath catches in my throat when he meets my curious gaze and pauses.

       Yes, please.

   Drink forgotten, I mouth the word “Hi” toward him, and the slight hint of a smile threatens to quirk up just one corner of his lips.

       God, I want to see him smile.

   He mouths “Hi” back before pulling the center of his bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it back out. One perfect dimple pokes out from his cheek.

       Hell’s bells, that’s one dangerously sexy look…

   Unconsciously, I lick my bottom lip, and without hesitation, he shoves away from his spot at the bar and closes the distance between us.

   “Hi,” I repeat when he stops within hearing distance—and in this club, with this crowd and noise, that’s pretty fucking close.

   With full lips, white teeth, and two dimples, he smiles the sexiest smile I’ve seen in my life at the single-syllable word. And as a bonus, I can see now that his sparkling eyes are midnight blue, like the deepest part of the ocean.

   “Hi,” he responds, rounding out our freak cycle of hellos, and it’s instantly evident he’s an American like me.

   “You should do that more.”

   He raises a questioning brow, leaning just one hand into the lighted marble bar top behind me. It makes his size feel impressive, makes me feel enveloped. My whole body spasms, and I take a deep breath to control it. “Do what more?”

   “Smile,” I clarify.

   A soft but deep and raspy chuckle leaves his perfect, kissable mouth. “Who says I don’t?”

   I reach up toward the skin between his brows and his gaze follows my hand skeptically, but he doesn’t back away. “This little, almost nonexistent line right here,” I say softly, running a finger across it.

   His eyes search mine in the kind of hot and sexy way that makes me wonder if my panties are still there, but I do my best to keep my voice even as I explain further. “I bet you furrow your brow all the time.”

   He leans closer to me, and my fingers slide into the lush, dark locks of his hair on accident. “Is that right?”

   “Uh-huh,” I answer simply, unable to form words until my hand finds its way back to the safe space of my lap. It’s purely circumstantial that my fingers graze his cheek and then his neck along the way. I clear my throat and look up to meet his eyes again. “I mean, here you are, in a club, at a bar with beautiful women all around you, and until you came over here, I couldn’t tell if you were having a good time at all.”

   He laughs a little and then asks, “You know what’s funny?”

   Completely oblivious to the answer but equally eager to find out, I shake my head.

   “Neither could I.”

   “And now?” I challenge with one inquisitive eyebrow.

   “Now, I definitely am.”

   I smile then, allowing a cascade of goose bumps to cover my arms from my shoulders to my fingertips.

       Goddamn. He’s trouble, and I like it. In fact, I like it way too much.

   “Well, in that case…” I pause and bite down on my bottom lip. “Since you stole my bartender, I think it’s only fair that you buy me a drink.”

   He searches my eyes, a small smile once again lighting his own. “Stole your bartender?”

   “Yep. Plucked him right from my braless grasp.”

   He laughs again, shaking his head and fighting like hell not to look down. I’m immediately impressed by his level of self-control. Nine out of ten of the men I’ve been with in the past would have focused in on my buzzword and failed to look away from it for the rest of the night.

   But not this guy. He’s interested—I can tell by the way his pupils have dilated—but for now, he’s content to focus on my eyes.

   Irony at its finest, as that simple behavior actually increases his chances of seeing my nipples later.

   “Okay, then. I guess I owe you one. What’s your poison?” That handsome grin of his grows wider, and I swear to God, I can feel it all the way to my damn toes.

      Tell him gin and tonic because it will taste good when you get him to kiss you later, my horny, sex-deprived subconscious instructs.

   The other side of my brain—the rational side—suggests something low in alcohol content—something that promotes good decisions.

   I think it over for a brief moment, scanning the features of his too-handsome face and landing on his luscious smirking lips once again.

   The answer pours out of me like a benediction. “Gin and tonic, please.”

About Max Monroe

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads. 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

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