The Change Up by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

THE CHANGE UP by Meghan Quinn 

Release Date: June 11th

Genre: Romantic Comedy

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3dCrXbU

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2Mz8kpk

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2zVyT5p

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2A2SbWg

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2AH5dJ4


Blurb:

BLURB:

BREAKING NEWS: The Bad Boy of Baseball, Maddox Paige, is totally and utterly whipped.

Okay, that might not be the headlines in the newspaper this morning, but it’s the reality of my current situation.

It all started a month ago when I received a call from my best friend, Kinsley. She got a new job in Chicago and needed a place to stay. I’ve known the girl since I was five, what harm would it be to have her stay at my place for a while?

Ha! Total disaster.

Now instead of going out every night with my teammates, I’m couch surfing and sketching endless photos of my best friend . . . but that’s the least of my concerns.

The disaster, you ask? I’m rapidly falling head over cleats in love with my best friend, my roommate, and my number one fan.

And she has no idea . .


PROLOGUE:

**MADDOX**

Have you ever said something you regret?

Something you haven’t forgotten about an hour later? 

Something that sits with you, stews deep in your belly, and then seeps into your bones, burying itself so far into your marrow that all you can think about is the one thing you said . . . and how you wished you could take it back the minute it slipped past your lips?

That’s where I am. 

Full of regret.

People always say, “Don’t regret anything. It’s what makes you who you are.” That was said in a whiney, nasally voice. Did you hear it?

Well, those people, the ones trying to spew rainbows and sunshine up your ass about blatant mistakes . . . yeah, they’re only saying that because they fuck up on a daily basis. 

Think about it, what REAL person is okay with all their regrets? No one. There is always that one thing you did, that one time, that you will always, always, always think . . . “What if I’d done that differently?”

It keeps you up at night. 

You wonder, what transformed, what took over my brain, to utter such words. To alter your life completely and send it down an entirely different course. 

Yeah, my life has been fucking altered all right. 

Everything was fine. 

I was pitching one hell of a fucking season for the Rebels, my ride or die team. I was getting along with my teammates, even the infamous Cory Potter, who made a splash after last season. I’ll hand it to the man, he really is the boss. I was getting laid whenever I wanted, which is always a plus for a guy who has massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through him daily, especially on a pitching day. And there were no strings attached. 

None.

Yeah, I might have a rotation of women I call, but any single player in the major leagues does. You need the outlet. Even the prestigious Cory Potter had some booty call numbers before he found Natalie. 

I was living a great life, and then it all changed. And it changed fucking fast. 

Before I knew it, I was staring into my fridge at dairy products not made from a cow, but rather from oat. What the fuck is that? Oat milk? Explain to me where an oat has a goddamn nipple.

My toothbrush is made from bamboo, which gives off a very woody, splintery taste, and I’ve been using toothpaste tablets instead of paste from a tube . . . because apparently, tubes suck up life in the landfill. 

The eco-friendly toilet paper in my apartment disintegrates in my hand and is worthless, making bathroom breaks a fucking nightmare.

And there’s a goddamn three-legged dog in a suit and tie sitting on my couch that goes by the name Herman, or Hermy for short. 

I don’t have any privacy, I don’t even remember what meat tastes like anymore, and “Hermy” has a goddamn staring problem. And the three-legged motherfucker, yeah, he’s stealthy. I find him waiting for me outside the shower . . . staring. 

When I wake up . . . staring. 

When I’m trying to make a goddamn tempeh sandwich . . . staring. 

Every time I tell him to “get a life” or to “fuck off” or for the love of Christ “get a new hobby”, he doesn’t even bat an eyelash. 

He just stares!

I can’t fucking take it anymore. 

I’m losing my goddamn mind and I don’t know . . . maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in what feels like forever, or because my burgers are now made of imposter “meat”, or maybe because I’m forced to do things I don’t want to do. Either way, something needs to give, because I’m pretty sure from all the vegan shit I’ve been eating, my armpits are just about ready to spring their own mung beans. 

Christ. 

One phone call. 

That’s all it took. 

One fucking phone call from a person I cannot say no to, a person who will forever and always be . . . my insanely beautiful and free-spirited best friend.  


About the Author: 

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinnAmazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

The Modern Gentleman by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3bo1axR

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2SXvsBq

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2WsvYcS

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2SZwNaS

TMG_collage-5

Blurb: 

Have you ever hit rock bottom? 

I embarrassingly have.

It’s why I’m wearing my girl’s decorative scarf over my head, clutching her lady drink to my chest, and singing ever so softly to Joni Mitchell while swaying back and forth. 

This is what therapists refer to as LOSING IT. 

Oldest story in the book: boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, boy screws up MASSIVELY, girl tells boy to suffocate in the fruits of his very own unborn children. 

Heard it before? I’m sure you have.

So what’s so different about this story? Well, it’s about me, The Modern Gentleman, New York City’s top advice columnist, and my rather ungraceful downfall from my pristinely polished pedestal.

It’s about a girl I met who threw all my proven theories to the wind and left me awkward, needy, and absolutely head-over-wingtipped shoes in love.

This is a story about June Lacy and how she single-handedly dismantled The Modern Gentleman.

TMG_teaser-9

PROLOGUE

Dear Gents, 

See that remote in your hand? Yeah, the one that’s covered in pizza sauce and last night’s Buffalo wings? I want you to take a good look at it. Do you have it memorized? Good, now bend at the waist, set it on the coffee table, and stand up. Don’t you dare look at that remote again, don’t even glance at it. And the Xbox that’s calling your name, go ahead and forget about that as well, because guess what? You’re starting a new journey and it doesn’t include television, video games, or high-fiving over a bubbly belch from the bowels of your intestinal tract. Forget everything you’ve ever known about being a man, forget the hall passes you have for being a man, and forget every natural instinct you carry inside your bones. Because I’m here to refine you, replenish your knowledge on the male species, and turn you into a modern gentleman: a well-respected, polished, and confident individual with an epic sex appeal and killer style that will woo any female with a simple flash of your honest charm. 

Stick with me, gents. I’m starting a revolution and it begins with you. 

Sincerely, 

The Modern Gentleman  

TMG_tia-3

About the Author: 

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photo

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinnAmazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

The Trade by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

The Trade is now available! Meghan Quinn returns us to the world of sports in this brand new, standalone book.

Blurb:

Can you pinpoint a time in your life where you realized you are completely and utterly screwed?

I can. I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes.

I was traded. Yeah, that phone call.

Traded from my long time team of over ten years. And not just to any team, but my childhood rivals; the Chicago Rebels.

Completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns.

I met a girl. Natalie. Man, she’s perfect.

I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. Too complicated. But can you believe I have zero restraint when it comes to this girl? I couldn’t get her out of my head and the more I talked to her, the more I realized I needed her in my life.

So what’s the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can’t stop crushing on, yeah . . . she’s married.

At least, that’s what I was told . . .

TheTrade_teaser-2

CORY

I’m fucked.

I’m sure you hear that all the time, so the term has lost its impact.

I ran out of sugar for my cookie batter . . . I’m fucked.

Forgot my phone in my car . . . I’m fucked.

Saw my neighbor’s old-man balls . . . I’m fucked for life.

I can guarantee you right now, this is nothing compared to old-man balls and cookies.

This is way worse.

This defines the term, I’m fucked.

What is it you ask?

It happened after one of the worst baseball seasons of my life. Traded halfway through the season to the team I’d hated my entire life, I was drowning in the constant media attention, persecuting me for the pass off for my multi-million-dollar contract.

“We want to win,” the Rebels said. “We can do that with Cory Potter wearing black and red.” And just like that, the team I’ve been playing for my entire professional career up and traded me to unload my hefty salary to develop new up-and-comers from the farm system.

The Rebels. 

I’m a fucking Chicago Rebel. Words I never thought I’d say, especially growing up as a Chicago Bobcats fan, the rival team to the Rebels. Not just rival, but enemies. The teams themselves don’t get along, the fans hate each other, and Chicago is divided for a good portion of the year when the stadium lights are on.

But here I am, my name attached to the biggest trade in sports history.

A ballsy move.

An upset to Baltimore.

A baseball anomaly: All-American turned Rebel.

I’ve heard it all, I’ve seen it all, and no matter what’s splashed across the headlines, it doesn’t deviate from the fact that my long-time team decided to part ways with me midseason.

Mid-fucking-season.

After fourteen years, I packed up everything and moved back to Chicago.

But even that’s not why I’m fucked; it’s just the start of it.

The beginning of the end.

Dramatic? Maybe.

But if you were in my shoes, you’d be thinking the same thing.

After not even coming close to getting into the playoffs, the season ended, I was booed off the field because that’s how Rebels fans are—you don’t perform, they hate you—and I sequestered myself to my practically empty and cold apartment.

After a week of binge-eating deep-dish pizza and watching every prison documentary on Netflix, my sister finally dragged me out of my apartment, forcing me to attend a Bobbies playoff game with her so we could cheer on my brother-in-law. Her husband.

Seeing a Rebels player cheering on a Bobbies player plastered all over the news went over just as well as a grandma telling her grandson her favorite pastime is cock-tickling.

Not well.

But still . . . not the reason I’m fucked.

This is beyond worse than that.

During that game, I got the talk. Not the birds and bees, but the talk from a concerned sister about my lack of social life.

You really should get out more. 

I know some single moms who are really nice. 

Maybe a dating app might be fun. Girls would be ecstatic to match with the one and only Cory Potter. 

I don’t want you dying alone. 

That last one was a real kicker.

Dying alone. I’m fucking thirty-five and she has me with one toe in my grave.

The way I see it is, if you don’t meet your girl in college or high school, you’re sure as shit not going to meet her while playing professional baseball. Not when the schedule is obscenely busy and long, and not when you’re known for one thing in your city: making a shitload of money for playing a sport.

It’s almost impossible to find genuine relationships when you have this level of fame.

So I’ve resolved to waiting until after I retire to fall in love.

That doesn’t mean I’ve been celibate, I’m a man after all—a man with a shitload of adrenaline pumping through him on a daily basis. I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands with women, and a few on a solid repeat with zero expectations. Every woman I’ve bedded I’ve treated with respect, and I’ve been honest with them, because if anything, I’m a genuinely nice guy who doesn’t ever want to make someone feel bad.

Ask anyone who knows me, I’m the nice guy, the dependable guy, the leader with a heart.

I don’t screw women over, ever.

Are you thinking one of those one-night stands turned into an “accident”? Is that the reason I’m fucked? Got a girl I don’t know pregnant?

Nope, not that either.

But the conversation I had with Milly pushed me to a new way of thinking.

I don’t want you dying alone. 

She made me fucking paranoid.

Was I really going to die alone?

Were my good years behind me and now I’m old meat on the market?

Should I be trying to find love in the midst of the craziness of my life?

Milly made me think, which then made me open up to the idea of finding someone, of looking at women differently, of allowing the relationship part of my brain to turn on.

So instead of ignoring every woman that has relationship potential I’d possibly look for, I turned off my blinders and started looking for them.

But I didn’t come close to meeting anyone that remotely fit the box of someone I’d consider going out on a date with. That was until I attended a certain charity event.

I saw her from across the room. Her smile was what caught my eye, then it was the way she laughed and held on to her brother’s hand, her brother who had cerebral palsy.

It was the way she’d lean into him, hold him, as if he was the most wonderful human she’d ever met.

The fact that she was absolutely breathtaking with piercing blue eyes had nothing to do with it.

It was her infectious laughter.

Her kind heart.

Her dedication to her family.

In a matter of seconds, I wanted to know her, wanted to find out her name, wanted to be in her orbit. Wanted to be a recipient of her warmth and affection.

I watched her from across the room, how she interacted with every person who came up to her, and when I was finally granted the opportunity to introduce myself, my breath caught in my throat when our hands connected. I felt my heart slam against the cage in my chest. And I knew, in that moment, with our hands mid shake, my life would never be the same.

Her name is Natalie.

Sister to my new teammate Jason Orson and his twin brother Joseph.

Director of Jason’s foundation, The Lineup.

And the reason why I’m utterly fucked.

Because while I started to grow attached to this magnetic and beautiful woman, when I told my sister about her, she informed me there was a ring on Natalie’s finger.

A ring that didn’t belong to me.

Hope plummeted in the matter of seconds as I felt the color from my besotted face drain into a puddle of remorse.

She was married.

She is fucking married.

See? Totally fucked.

I’ve been crushing so hard, because even a month later, I still think about her. I can still hear her laugh, see her smile, feel her hand in mine.

I want her. 

Fucking bad.

They say time will heal all wounds, well for me, the more time passes, the more my wound is exposed and tormented.

Cory Potter is crushing on a married woman . . .

That is why I am completely and utterly . . . fucked.

TheTrade_tia-8

About the Author: 

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photo

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

The Trade by Meghan Quinn- Cover Reveal!

Can you pinpoint a time in your life where you realized you are completely and utterly screwed?

I can. I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes.

I was traded. Yeah, that phone call.
Traded from my long time team of over ten years. And not just to any team, but my childhood rivals; the Chicago Rebels.

Completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns.

I met a girl. Natalie. Man, she’s perfect.

I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. Too complicated. But can you believe I have zero restraint when it comes to this girl? I couldn’t get her out of my head and the more I talked to her, the more I realized I needed her in my life.

So what’s the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can’t stop crushing on,

yeah . . . she’s married.
At least, that’s what I was told . . .

THE TRADE RELEASES MARCH 12TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2Pn6QjR
Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/THETRADE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of
romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect
combination of heart, humor, and heat

That Secret Crush by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

ThatSecretCrush_FBprofile-availnowbanner

AVAILABLE NOW!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Universal Link: mybook.to/ThatSecretCrush

ThatSecretCrush_FBprofile-buynowbanner

BLURB:

USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn brings more humor and heart with the third novel of her Getting Lucky series: a story about breaking curses and laying your heart on the line.

What happens when your secret crush isn’t so secret anymore?

I’ve had feelings for Eve Roberts for as long as I can remember, but because she also happens to be the twin sister of my best friend, Eric, I’ve never acted on my feelings and long ago resigned myself to keeping my crush under wraps.

But after a terrible falling-out with Eric involving a failed restaurant venture and plenty of blame on both sides, I’m back in Port Snow without my best friend and without any direction. But can you guess who’s here? Eve. And my attraction to her is as strong as ever.

As old feelings rush back, Eve and I find ourselves pulled together, whether we like it or not. Lines are crossed, secrets are kept, and we soon discover that the difference between love and friendship may not be so black and white, after all.

Everyone wants that secret crush to love them back…but will I be ready when she does?

ThatSecretCrush_teaser-1

EXCERPT: 

Prologue

**REID**

What the fuck was that?

Did I just experience real-life witchcraft? Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure Neptune and Uranus collided in space, because that shit was crazy.

Stunned and nervously laughing at each other, my brothers and I hurry to a more populated part of the city. We’re soon threading our way through crowded cobblestone Bourbon Street toward a partially broken neon sign advertising huge pretzels.

“She was scary as shit,” Brig whispers into my ear, reaching for my hand. I swat the idiot away.

Out of all my brothers, Brig is by far the most sensitive, but holding hands—come on, dude, self-respect.

Although I can’t blame him for quivering in his jeans.

It might be all the alcohol I consumed, but damn . . . I’m feeling a little uneasy and a whole lot terrified.

Why, you ask?

Because I’m pretty sure an old crone who surfaced from Satan’s lair just cast some weird-as-shit curse on us. She pointed a crooked finger and laid it all out: we’ll have nothing but broken love for life.

And before you scoff at such a blasphemous occurrence, you have to know this: There was fucking wind whipping us in the nuts as she spoke. And on this still, muggy New Orleans night, where the fuck did that wind come from? There were no fans in sight, and there was zero traffic down the narrow cobblestone side road.

Confused? Okay, here are the Cliff Notes.

Baby Brig turned twenty-one, and the four of us Knightly brothers very intelligently chose New Orleans as the place to celebrate because we didn’t want to be cliché and go to Vegas—although I’m kind of wishing we had right about now. We were in the middle of having a great alcohol-fueled night on the town. But, not paying any attention to where our wobbly legs were taking us, we ran into some old palm reader’s table, and Brig’s fat ass broke it. To make up for the destruction, Brig paid her to read his fortune.

Well, she did a shit job.

Oooh . . . you have brothers. They’re going to get you into trouble one day—thanks, lady, tell us something we don’t know.

Her prediction was a load of crock, and because of that, we might have, you know, vocalized our intoxicated opinion on her subpar storytelling. That’s when the crazy shit went down.

Not taking a liking to our constructive criticism, the old bat started flinging her cloak-draped arms around while her evil eyes turned a shade of petrifying yellow, and a huge mole grew on her nose out of nowhere. Pop! Just like that, the mole . . . with accompanying thick black hair.

Okay, maybe the mole isn’t true, and her eyes didn’t change color, but she did wave her arms around, and she said some pretty traumatizing shit. Things like Your dicks are going to fall off and You’ll forever have sensitive nipples.

Hmm . . . that doesn’t seem right.

Did she say that?

Confused, I break the silence hanging over all of us. “Did she say our dicks were going to fall off?”

Panic rises in Brig’s voice. “Shit, did she? Did I miss that part?” He grabs his crotch with both hands as he continues to walk. “I can’t afford to have my dick drop dead.”

“As if we can?” Rogan, the group pessimist, says, ducking around a rowdy bachelorette party. “Pretty sure we all need our dicks, dude.”

Griffin, the oldest and most sensible despite his alcohol intake tonight, speaks up. “There was no mention of dicks falling off. She just said we’ll be cursed with broken love.”

“Okay, so broken dicks,” I clarify.

“Like, I’ll never be able to get it up again?” Brig steps in front of all of us. “Quick, take me to a strip club. I need to make sure that’s not what she meant.”

“She didn’t mean that, you idiot.” Rogan wraps his arm around Brig’s neck and continues down the street, giant pretzels in sight.

“That lady was a fucking whack job. Clearly she has some kind of mental health issue. It’s best if we just forget about everything and move on,” Griffin says.

Sage advice from the brightest out of all of us.

And even though I’m not as freaked out as Brig—I mean, I’m not clutching my dick and praying to the good Lord right now—I have to admit whatever happened back in that alley didn’t seem entirely kosher.

What did she say again? Something about having broken love, and it won’t be until our minds have matured that the curse will be cured? What the hell does that even mean? Not that I’m looking for love, not when my restaurant is my life right now, but it would be nice to know that I still have the option.

When my best friend, Eric, and I were getting through culinary school, pretty much every instructor told us that we weren’t going to have any time for relationships. The only love of our lives would be our knives.

That’s turned out to be true. Betty, Beverly, and Barbie are my girls. Every night we have a foursome, and weirdly, they’re the best I’ve ever had. They enjoy my hands, and I enjoy their cutting edge—fuck, I’m hilarious.

So even though that lady was weird, I don’t think I have anything to worry about.

Broken love.

Curses.

Yeah, okay, you old crone. Go tickle someone else with your mole hair—we’re not interested.

Together, we step inside the crowded, noisy pretzel bar and take a seat before putting in our order. Brig sits next to me, bouncing his knee and scanning the restaurant, its garage doors tucked up into the ceiling, used for closing time only. Everything about this place—selling giant pretzels in the heart of the French Quarter for all the drunk tourists—is genius. Despite the sticky bar top, peeling walls, and dirt-encrusted floors that probably haven’t seen a mop in a few years, there’s no doubt in my mind that it makes a killing . . . on just pretzels. Brig leans in and whispers, “I think she followed us; I can feel her here, staring at me.”

“Dude, you’re fucking paranoid right now. Chill, man.”

“Did you not hear her?” Brig seethes with worry. “She said we would never have dicks again.”

Christ.

I drag my hand over my face. We are way too drunk to be dealing with something like this. “She said we would have broken love. Your dick is fine.”

“That’s what you think? Have you looked at yours yet? What if she turned them green or something? And broken love . . . that’s even worse. You know my goal in life is to be a husband. How can that happen if I’m cursed with broken love?”

Luckily, at that moment, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I reach for it and see Eric’s name flash across the screen. He knows I’m in New Orleans celebrating Brig’s birthday, so this must be important.

I hold up the phone to my sweating, hysterical brother. “Have to take this. Talk to Griff—he’ll hold your hand.”

“Really? You think so?”

I don’t bother to reply and take off toward the hallway that leads to the employee entrance at the back of the bar, trying to gain a little bit of privacy and to get away from the loud, pounding music.

Straight from culinary school—and after working multiple jobs and saving every last penny we ever earned—Eric and I were able to scrape enough money together to start our own restaurant in Boston, which we named Bar 79 after Harbor 79, our favorite place to fish in our hometown, Port Snow.

After six months of tireless menu prep, designing the space, and marketing the hell out of our New England–inspired cuisine with a twist, we opened our doors. And we’re only three months in, but we’re killing it so far. The food blogs love us, and three major articles have been written about our impeccable flavoring and our incredibly close bond.

I accept the call and bring the phone up to my ear. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

“Hey, I know you’re out with your brothers, but I, uh . . . I have a problem.”

“What’s going on? Is it the restaurant, or is it something with Janelle?” Eric has been dating our business manager for the past three months, ever since we opened. I told him it was risky and maybe not the smartest idea he’s ever had, but he was gung ho on making a move, and there was nothing I could say or do to stop him.

“Uh . . . yeah.”

Still drunk, but not so much that I can’t help out with any restaurant issue, I lean against the wall. “Walk me through it.”

Eric has always been the big picture guy, the dreamer, the extravagant one, while I’m more grounded and work out the fine details. So when he calls with a problem, I’m usually pretty confident in my ability to help him work through whatever it is.

“Uh . . .” His voice shakes, a crack in his usually even-keeled persona. Cue the worry. This can’t be good. “Did you recently ask Janelle to make a transfer?”

Janelle has been handling our business for the past five months, ever since Eric confronted me about not being able to juggle everything as we were gearing up for the opening. I was dropping the ball on multiple responsibilities, like managing our funds, paying vendors, and getting all our orders in on time while still trying to cook and develop the menu, so he found Janelle and brought her into the mix to help manage everything. With her MBA and businesslike confidence, she was doing a good job, I thought—well, until this very moment.

“A transfer of funds?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Why? Did she?”

“She did.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“She, uh . . . she kind of transferred all the funds.”

I press my hand to my forehead, wishing I wasn’t drunk right now. “Dude, spell it out for me, okay? I’ve been drinking all damn day, I just got my dick turned green, and I’m hungry for a pretzel. What the hell is going on?”

“She took it all, Reid. She fucking took it all.”

“Took what? Our money?” That can’t be right.

“Yeah. Took every last penny and just disappeared.”

“Wait. What?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to comprehend what Eric is telling me. “She took all of our money? Where did she go?”

“No fucking idea.”

“So . . . we don’t have any money in the joint account?” I think back to how much was in there. After all our expenses and the cost of the opening, we were at about twenty grand, I think. Okay, don’t panic.

“No, man. She took it all, out of all of the accounts.”

My heart seizes in my chest as my breath comes out in gasps. Confusion and understanding collide in my brain, sending my stomach into a nauseous roll.

“What the fuck are you telling me right now?”

“The restaurant . . . fuck, man, it’s broke.”

My head falls back against the wall, my body going limp as I slide to the sticky ground that hasn’t seen a mop in a decade.

Broke.

As in, no funds?

There has to be a solution. The police, lawyers . . . this shit isn’t legal.

“Did you report her?”

“Yeah, but because she’s a partner, there isn’t much we can do. She had access to everything. She fucked us over.”

I rub my hand across my forehead, eyes shut, preparing for the worst. “So what the fuck are you trying to tell me?”

“We were already behind on bills. Janelle apparently wasn’t paying them but was still paying herself. Rent is two months overdue, vendors want their money, contractors still need to be paid. We’re fucked, Reid. Utterly fucked.” He lets out a long breath and says the last thing I ever expected to hear. “We have to close.”

No fucking way.

***

I pace the sealed concrete floor of Bar 79’s kitchen, still trying to comprehend what the hell happened while I was gone.

I told Eric to meet me here in the morning after I got back, but he has yet to show up. I’m seriously starting to worry that he’s stood me up when the back door bangs open. I glance up to see Eric stumble inside, a bottle in his hand, a hitch in his gait. What the ever-living fuck?

“Are you drunk?”

“I can’t believe you’re sober.” He makes his way to a prep table and hoists himself on top of it before taking another swig of what I can only imagine is a bottle of scotch.

“How the hell am I supposed to have a conversation about our restaurant when you’re drunk off your ass?”

“Just a wee bit twisted,” he says, holding his fingers up. “And there’s nothing to talk about. We’re fucked, Reid. She took it all. We put every ounce of our savings into this place, and my parents’ money . . .” His face twists in grief before he takes another swig.

“We have to be able to find some investors, some partners. We have great reviews; we’re up and coming on the restaurant scene. We have options.”

He shakes his head. “News is already spreading. No one is going to want to work with two idiots who don’t know how to manage a business.”

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at it. “This can’t be it. There has to be something we can do.”

“We owe vendors a shit ton of money, Reid. We are so far in debt that even if an investor likes our talent, they’re not about to scoop up all the debt we owe. Face it, this is over.” He leans back on one hand and takes a sip of his drink.

“Fuck!” I shout and kick a garbage can across the kitchen. “Fuck! I told you not to date her. I told you it was a bad idea.”

Gaining a little clarity, Eric sits tall and jabs at his chest with the hand that’s holding his bottle. “Are you blaming this on me?”

“She worked you, man. She used you and took what she wanted—that was her plan all along. I never should have let you hire her.”

“I never would have had to hire her if you didn’t drop the fucking ball on all the business shit. Don’t blame me, Reid. When we went into this partnership, you said you could handle the business end while I took over the big picture planning. I did my part. You were the one who fucking failed on his end. I stepped in and tried to find the solution.”

“With a pair of tits,” I shoot back. “You hired her because of her tits, not her qualifications.”

“Fuck you.” He slides off the prep table, the slap of his sneakered feet reverberating through the kitchen. “We never would have been in this situation if you didn’t fuck us over to begin with. Don’t blame this shit on me, not when you’re just as much at fault. Face it, Reid, we might be good in the kitchen, but when it comes to running a business . . . we both just destroyed our careers.”

I don’t want to admit that he’s right, and I don’t want to take blame for this, even though a heavy weight is pressing down on my chest, reminding me over and over that this very well might be my fault.

I should have asked for help.

I should have interviewed Janelle.

I shouldn’t have been so lazy when it came to decisions.

But . . .

“I trusted you,” I say, hands on my hips, staring at Eric. “I trusted you to make the right decision for the business, and you thought with your dick instead of your head.”

He tosses the bottle to the side, the glass shattering as it hits the floor. “Yeah, well, I trusted you to hold up your end of the bargain, and you didn’t, so looks like we’re both shitheads.” He shakes his head and starts to walk toward the back door. “Good luck with your life, Reid. Just don’t ever try to run a business again. Anything you do is guaranteed to crash and burn, just like Bar 79.”

ThatSecretCrush_teaser-4

AUTHOR BIO:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photo

AUTHOR LINKS:
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/?hl=en

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn
Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com/

THAT SECRET CRUSH and THAT SWOONY FEELING- Double Cover Reveal!

USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn brings more humor and heart with the third novel of her Getting Lucky series: a story about breaking curses and laying your heart on the line.

What happens when your secret crush isn’t so secret anymore?

I’ve had feelings for Eve Roberts for as long as I can remember, but because she also happens to be the twin sister of my best friend, Eric, I’ve never acted on my feelings and long ago resigned myself to keeping my crush under wraps.

But after a terrible falling-out with Eric involving a failed restaurant venture and plenty of blame on both sides, I’m back in Port Snow without my best friend and without any direction. But can you guess who’s here? Eve. And my attraction to her is as strong as ever.

As old feelings rush back, Eve and I find ourselves pulled together, whether we like it or not. Lines are crossed, secrets are kept, and we soon discover that the difference between love and friendship may not be so black and white, after all.

Everyone wants that secret crush to love them back…but will I be ready when she does?

THAT SECRET CRUSH RELEASES FEBRUARY 11TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2O2QLis

Preorder your copy: mybook.to/ThatSecretCrush

Brig is looking for that swoony feeling . . . more to come!!!

THAT SWOONY FEELING RELEASES AUGUST 6TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/3aOFhc6

Preorder your copy: mybook.to/THATSWOONYFEELING

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photoFacebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website | Amazon Author Page | Instagram | Follow on BookBub

Boss Man Bridegroom by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

BMBG_FBProfile-availnowbanner

BOSS MAN BRIDEGROOM by Meghan Quinn is now live and free in KU! Read below for the full blurb and a fun excerpt!

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2QvTsea

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/38vsGZx

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2ugE0Ke

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2RB6zKm

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2GbaXKB

Blurb:

“Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?” she asks, hope in her eyes . . .

How did I get here? My assistant, bent on one knee, holding my hand, her expectant face waiting for an answer.

Just . . . how?

How did I go from being insulted by Charlee Cox to hiring her to be my assistant? How is it that she’s chaos in color – making me crazy and my life better at the same time?

I never thought I would be staring down at her bright blue eyes begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested.

Yes, I suggested. Like the idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her?

Confused? Don’t worry, so am I.

But try to follow along, because this is how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

BMBG_teaser-3

EXCERPT: 

**RATH**

“Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—”

“I don’t wear Gucci.”

“Go with it.” She winks and clears her throat. “Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—”

“Jesus . . . Christ.” I rub my hand down my face.

“Will you do me the great honor . . .” She wobbles on her bent knee and clutches my hand to steady herself. “Will you . . .” She tears up, her voice becoming shaky. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either.” On a deep breath, she finishes, “Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?”

Christ, nothing is ever simple with her.

“Why did you say it like that?”

“Did I not do it right?” she mumbles to herself. “See, I knew I was doing something wrong.”

“No, why did you say bridegroom?”

“Oh, well, that’s what you would be. You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I would give you the dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title of bridegroom.”

“Don’t call me bridegroom.”

“Boss man bridegroom?” she asks with a cheeky grin.

How the fuck did I allow myself to get in this position? With my quirky and sometimes annoying but mostly efficient assistant, kneeling in front of me . . . proposing.

Proposing to me.

In a pair of belly-covering slacks and suspenders, hair pulled back into a tight bun like she often wears it, looking up at me through her red-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes shining past the lenses, begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested.

Yes, me.

Like the goddamn idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her?

Confused?

Don’t worry, so am I.

Where do I even start? Maybe from the beginning?

Here is a quick rundown: my ex, who used to work with me, left me for bigger and better things. We don’t talk about her, ever, because she took my heart with her. Instead, I buried myself in my work. I became a hermit in my office, firing one assistant after another because they weren’t good enough or their voice annoyed me, or they thought salt was sugar and gave me one bad cup of coffee that ended their career at Westin Enterprises—that mistake was on them.

In my spare time—not that there’s much—but when I do have spare time, I follow my two idiot friends around the city, helping them avoid fucking up their lives. But now that they’re both in loving and committed relationships, one planning a wedding with my sister as the bride, I have much more time on my hands.

Maybe they’re to blame for my demise, for this ridiculous charade I’m now a part of.

What does this have to do with my assistant proposing to me?

Well, you see, I was in the market for yet another new assistant, and that’s when one of my best friends, Bram, suggested I lean on his assistant, Linus, to help me find someone. Side note: Linus is a gift from God, and I’ve offered him huge pay raises many times to jump ship and join my company, but his loyalty lies with Bram . . . unfortunately.

So Linus helped me find an assistant, and that’s where it started to go downhill.

The minute I saw her, I knew it wasn’t going to be a good fit.

Why?

Because she’s too goddamn beautiful.

Because she’s far too bubbly.

Because with every smile and checklist she devises, she makes me want to bend her over my desk and make her mine.

But, since I clearly don’t know how to make any decisions worth a shit, I hired her, right there on the spot.

And that was the beginning of the end.

Need to know more? Well in case you are on pins and needles about my answer to her proposal, I said yes.

Here’s the story of how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

BMBG_teaser-4

About the Author: 

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photo

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

Boss Man Bridegroom- Cover Reveal!

Whoa baby check out this hot cover for Boss Man Bridegroom by Meghan Quinn! Fun, intriguing blurb below:

Blurb:

“Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?” she asks, hope in her eyes . . .   

How did I get here? My assistant, bent on one knee, holding my hand, her expectant face waiting for an answer.

Just . . . how?

How did I go from being insulted by Charlee Cox to hiring her to be my assistant? How is it that she’s chaos in color – making me crazy and my life better at the same time?

I never thought I would be staring down at her bright blue eyes begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested.

Yes, I suggested. Like the idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her?

Confused? Don’t worry, so am I.

But try to follow along, because this is how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

BOSS MAN BRIDEGROOM RELEASES JANUARY 23RD!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2QvTsea

Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/BOSSMANBRIDEGROOM

The Lineup by Meghan Quinn- Now Live!

The Lineup by Meghan Quinn is now live!

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Y9Oupy


Get it here:

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/37ZUQw9

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2OL5cZe

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2RgzLHK

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/34JOTkR


Blurb: Want to know a secret?

It’s about that girl over there.
Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . .

Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me.

I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common.
Was I oblivious? Probably.
Was I blind to it? Definitely.

But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers.


EXCERPT: 

**JASON**

It isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four hours is two shades away from charred dust.

I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads.

But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire.

Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided.

Are you seeing it?

Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher.

That was me . . . a minute ago.

Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left.

It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong.

If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside.

Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it.

The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows.

Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do.

But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game.

And I’m not even sorry about it.

People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd.

Why am I in this hopeless predicament?

Because of one person.

One single person who flipped my life upside down.

A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . .

Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly.

Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive.

My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it.

So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night.

But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself.

And all for what?

For one girl?

No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would.

Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment?

There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson.

The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.


About the Author: 

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

M_Quinn_photo

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

The Lineup by Meghan Quinn- Cover Reveal!

Blurb: Want to know a secret?

It’s about that girl over there.
Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . .

Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me. 

I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common. 
Was I oblivious? Probably.
Was I blind to it? Definitely.

But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers. 

Here’s another secret . . . she has no idea I know. 

THE LINEUP RELEASES DECEMBER 5TH!!!!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2ZxlFGJ

Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/THELINEUP