Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I thought getting arrested would be the biggest mistake of my life.
I was wrong.
Now my father has decided I can't be trusted alone, so he's left me with two babysitters.
Hunter Roberts is six-foot-three of expensive suits, black tattoos, piercing blue eyes, and pure intimidation. Billionaire. Control freak. My father's stepbrother. Every time he looks at me, I feel like he's daring me to misbehave just so he has an excuse to put me back in my place.
Then there's Lachlan.
The town's gorgeous new pastor. Broad shoulders hidden beneath crisp dress shirts. Warm smile. Kind eyes. The sort of man everyone trusts without question.
I should probably mention that I don't.
Not when I catch him looking at me for one heartbeat too long.
Not when his calm voice makes my pulse race.
Not when I start wondering what secrets a man like him keeps buried beneath all that restraint.
Hunter says I need discipline.
Lachlan says I need guidance.
Neither one seems to realize they're the reason I can't think straight anymore.
Every argument turns into dangerous chemistry. Every accidental touch lingers too long. Every day under the same roof makes it harder to ignore the hunger simmering between us.
I've spent my whole life pretending I don't need anyone.
Now I'm trapped between a possessive billionaire who wants complete control... and a forbidden man of God who's trying desperately not to want me at all.
The worst part?
I'm not sure I want to be rescued anymore.
This is a scorching MFM menage romance featuring forced proximity, forbidden family tension, an obsessive billionaire alpha, a protective pastor with a dark side, explosive chemistry, and a heroine who discovers that sometimes one perfect man simply isn't enough. Stella Moreland wants two … and two she’ll get, which is why we adore our sassy heroine! As always, bring a tall glass of iced tea because the pages of this book are scorching hot! 75k words. This book is a follow-up to The Accident, but all of my books are standalones and can be read in any order. HEA guaranteed
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DO I REALLY NEED A CHAPERONE?
Stella
The honey-wood floor gleams under the boutique's track lighting as I run a hand over a soft cashmere cardigan, its deep emerald color like a secret garden at dusk. "Honestly, who tries on a sweater and then folds it like they're packing a cannonball?" I mutter, more to myself than to Chloe, who is zoning out by the register, probably mentally redecorating her entire apartment again.
"Just say you're folding it like you're trying to suffocate it," Chloe calls back, not looking up from her phone. "More dramatic."
I snort, arranging the collar just so. The familiar scent of rose and cedar hangs in the air, a perfume so persistent it's practically part of the Nicolette uniform. It clings to my own skin, mingling with the vanilla body lotion I smooth on every morning before my shift.
A vibration starts against my hip, a familiar, frantic buzz that means the group chat is blowing up. I tug my phone from the pocket of my black work slacks, the screen lighting up my face. Three new notifications.
Kayleigh: Trevor’s still asleep. But he has the cutest little snore. Like a sleepy puppy.
I smile, my thumbs flying across the screen.
Stella: Awww, a puppy! Make sure you take a picture for blackmail purposes. xo
Another buzz, immediate.
Mary Kate: [image attached]
I tap it open. It's a close-up of a hand—Mary Kate's hand, with her perfectly manicured nails, a delicate silver ring on her middle finger, and on her ring finger, a new, sparkly addition. It's a classic solitaire, elegant and understated, catching the light in a way that makes my breath catch for a second. She's been dropping hints about Kent for weeks.
Stella: MK!!! Holy shit. He didn't.
Mary Kate: He did. Over dinner last night. At that Italian place we love. I was a mess. Crying everywhere.
Stella: Of course you were, you beautiful disaster. Congratulations. I am screaming internally for you. Let's celebrate ASAP.
And then, another message, a string of them, all from Andie.
Andie:
Andie: [photo of her hand holding a steaming coffee cup] Thomas brought me coffee this morning. In bed. At 7 AM.
Andie: I said thank you and then we had sexy timez
This one makes me pause because actually, Andie’s talking about sexy times with my dad. It’s a long story. Basically, we had a bet, back when we were fancy-free co-eds, to see who could lose their virginity first, and Andie lost hers to my dad. They were sneaky about it, but they ended up falling in love, and now, she’s engaged and set to become my new stepmom. Ugh, doesn’t the word “stepmom” sound weird? But I’m excited because I adore Andie and I think she’s exactly what Thomas needs. But still, my friend has sex with my dad on a regular basis and I do not need to know the details about their relationship.
Nonetheless, I type back a quick, enthusiastic reply, a string of exclamation points and smiley faces, my thumbs a blur of practiced cheerfulness. My smile feels genuine enough as I hit send, but as I slide the phone back into my pocket, the expression on my face feels heavy, like a mask I can't quite take off. I glance around the boutique. The racks are neatly organized, the glass shelves are dusted, the silk blouses are fanned just so. The floor is empty. The whole place is quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and Chloe's occasional tapping on her phone.
I find myself drifting toward the window, the large plate-glass one that looks out onto the cobblestone street. I adjust the neckline on a mannequin wearing a cream-colored silk camisole, even though it's already perfect. I linger there, watching people walk by, couples mostly, their hands clasped, their heads bent toward each other in conversation. A pang of something sharp and lonely twists in my stomach.
It's stupid, I know. In movies, on TV, in the articles I scroll past online, having a boyfriend is “embarrassing” these days, a burden, something to roll your eyes at. That's the persona I've cultivated, the one my friends know and love. I'm the independent one, the free spirit, the one who flirts with multiple dudes, but doesn't need a man to complete her. I'm the one who cracks jokes about big dicks, who rolls her eyes at the sappy love stories, who says things like, "Who has time for all that drama?" with a casual toss of my blonde hair.
But the truth, the one I keep buried so deep I almost forget it's there, is that I want it. I want all of it. I want the late-night texts, the surprise coffees, the inside jokes, the stupid arguments over what to watch on TV. I want a boyfriend. A huge, handsome one, with broad shoulders and a kind smile, who would wrap me in his arms and hold me until the world went away. Who would kiss me until I forgot my own name, who would stroke my hair and tell me everything was going to be okay. I want to lose my senses in someone, to be so completely and utterly consumed by another person that there's no room for anything else.