I’ve spent the better part of the last few years successfully avoiding my brother’s best friend, Weston Aldrich. As CEO of Andes Inc, the infuriatingly handsome and incessantly grumpy Weston also happens to be my new boss. It shouldn’t have been hard to continue avoiding him. After all, he’s on the executive floor, and I’m one of many copywriters. Weston has his own ideas about how things should go between us. He’s in my emails, leaving notes on my desk, and as if that’s not enough, he arranges for me to accompany him on a business trip.

Beckett Langfield is grumpy, rich and hates kids. I’m an overworked, overstressed, and overweight single mom. The only reason we’re getting married is because he needs to fix a PR disaster and I am available. As in sitting next to him, in a bar, when he has this brilliant idea. Considering I just got divorced, I’m not looking to do that again. But Beckett makes me an offer that I literally can’t refuse, so I don’t.

Running away from home at 17 wasn't easy. Let's face it, though, nothing before or in the ten years since has ever been easy for me. And I'm doing okay—sorta. I just need to keep scraping by, living under the radar. Staying out of people's way, off people's minds. When a man walks through my open patio door, stepping boldly into my home and my life, I should be scared, frightened, terrified. I must be more broken than I realized because I'm none of those things. I'm intrigued—and I'm wondering if the way to take control of my life is by giving in to him.

I fell in love with Beckett when I was 7. He broke my heart when I was 15. When I was 18, I promised myself I’d forget about him. And I did. For a dozen years. But now he’s back home. Here. In Darling Lake. And I don’t know if I should give in to the temptation swirling between us or run the other way.

It was supposed to go like this: meet-cute at the dog park, have a hot and sexy hookup, and never see each other again. Things didn’t go quite like I was hoping. I met the fine Irishman in the park, but the rest of my plan was upended by an extremely inconvenient break-in. My record label isn’t thrilled that the lead singer of their biggest new band might have a crazed fan or angry ex out for revenge, so they hire a bodyguard to protect me. That sexy Irishman from the dog park? His name is Ronan Walsh, and he’s now my big, bossy bodyguard.