Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Their wedding is in seven weeks and I refuse to be the pathetic, heartbroken ex everyone pities. I need a date. Not just any date—I need someone who'll make my ex's jaw hit the floor and prove I've moved on to something better.
My perfect solution is Lucien pro hockey's biggest flirt, my ex's fiercest rival, and the last man I should be anywhere near. He's arrogant, infuriating, and has a smile that should be illegal. He's also got his own reasons for wanting revenge on my ex.
The plan is fake a whirlwind romance. Make it look so real, no one questions it.
The problem? The heat between us isn't fake. Every touch that's supposed to be for show sets me on fire. Every whispered promise in front of the cameras makes me forget we're pretending. And when he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the room, I almost believe it myself.
But Lucien's off-limits for one very big my father is his coach. One wrong move, and we both lose everything.
The closer we get to the wedding, the harder it is to remember where the act ends and the truth begins.
_____________
Pro Hockey Romance
Forced Proximity
Opposites Attract
Fake Dating
Found Family
Reverse Grumpy Sunshine
Forbidden Romance
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A Deal With the Defender is the fourth book in the Love on the Line all books are interconnected standalones about a team of professional hockey players and the women they fall hard for. The books don’t need to be read in order, but future characters appear in each book
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Talia
* * *
“Want another one?”
The bartender looks at me expectantly, his gaze moving from my empty glass to my face.
I’d love another whiskey sour, followed by three more. Drinking until I flop face-first on the bar sounds fantastic. But I can’t, because not spiraling into alcoholism is the one and only thing I’ve managed to succeed at in the past five months.
“Just some water, please.”
He nods and walks away, leaving me to play Tetris on my phone in peace. Today has been hard, and the last thing I need is some stranger trying to strike up a conversation before my dad gets here.
Moving in with my dad at age twenty-five. I definitely didn’t have that on my bingo card six months ago. It felt better than I thought it would to sell every piece of furniture I had at my San Francisco apartment, pack up my clothes, and drive to Cleveland.
I never have to look at the leather recliner Kyle used to sit in. Or my bed, where he’d sleep over after we watched Survivor and had perfunctory sex.
And best of all, I’ll never again step foot in the kitchen where he proposed while I was making his favorite dinner—meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Fuck meat loaf. But not mashed potatoes, because they’re delicious.
It was an underwhelming proposal, but did I care? I actually convinced myself it was romantic that my douchebag ex got down on one knee while I was knuckle-deep in two pounds of raw meat, eggs and breadcrumbs. In the video I deleted five months ago, he asked me to turn around, and when I did, both messy hands in the air, he asked me to marry him.
And stupidly, I said yes. If I could go back in time, I’d punch him in the face instead.
“Holy shit, they’re here!” the woman sitting on the barstool next to mine gushes. “I told you they hang out here. How do my boobs look?”
“Amazing. But why are they all wearing suits?” one of her friends asks.
The woman beside me responds. “That’s what they always wear after games. Oh my god, oh my god, I have no chill.”
Games? I narrow my eyes in a glare at my phone screen. It’s just my luck that a bunch of pro hockey players would come into the place my dad wanted to meet up with me.
Maybe they play another sport. Any other sport.
“Who’s the one with the red tie?” someone asks. “Because he can tie my hands up with that any day of the week.”
“That’s Carter Stanton,” the woman next to me says. “He’s married.”
“Ugh. Of course.”
I glance up, irritation coursing through my veins. It’s definitely a group of hockey players. Carter is the captain of the Cleveland Crush, and they had a home game tonight.
If I was feeling nice, I’d warn the woman next to me about the perils of being a puck bunny. Hockey players are users. They change women more often than they change underwear. And screwing them isn’t the status symbol puck bunnies think it is.
I’m not feeling nice, though. My vibe has been the same since September—bitter, pissed off and stabby. I haven’t talked to anyone but my therapist, my parents, and Sergio, the delivery driver who brought groceries to my apartment. The Chinese and pizza places I ordered from had the decency to leave my food outside the door so I didn’t have to talk to them. But Sergio insisted on coming inside to help me unload the groceries. He was the only witness to my steady weight gain, watching the progression from pants with waistbands to stretchy sweatpants.
I’d been living on junk food, only moving from my couch when I absolutely had to. That is, until I ran out of money a few weeks ago.
Dad to the rescue. I would have moved into a homeless shelter before living with my mom. And while my father can be brash and impatient at his job, he’s always had a soft spot for his three daughters.
I promise you this will all make sense one day, Talia. You’ll look back and know Kyle did you a favor.
I crumbled when he said those words to me after the breakup. Then I went for a rage run to a park, where I screamed as loudly as I could until my throat hurt.
Twenty-pounds-lighter Talia was a runner. I ran to manage my moods and my weight, because a love of junk food isn’t a new thing for me.
I don’t care anymore, though. My weight? Fuck it. Mood? Fuck that, too. When my therapist told me I’m depressed, I just shook my head, because yeah, obviously.
“Which one is that?” the woman next to me whisper-hisses to her friends. “He’s looking at his phone so I can’t see his—” She inhales sharply. “It’s Lucien Beaumont. Hot, massive bulge and single. Jackpot.”