If people have polar opposites, Luca Rossi is mine. His butt is in the baseball hall of fame. Mine's comfortably seated in the hall of lame. When he's not snagging fly balls out in center field, he's modeling in shampoo commercials. I once jammed my own finger while stirring cookie dough, and sometimes I forget shampoo is a thing. He's a total cynic when it comes to love. I make a living writing love stories. But after my latest broken engagement (no, I don't want to talk about how many times that's happened), it's clear he's exactly the man I need.

Bad idea number 241: sending a dirty text to your number neighbor. In my defense, my friends did it, too, and their neighbors took it as the joke it was. Mine didn't. He responded with a dirty text of his own. Next thing I know, I have a standing texting date every night at 10:30. Until I have to miss it because the stray kitten who adopted me one week ago is sick. The only person I know who can help me at this time of night is my British next-door neighbor and local vet, Isaac Cooper.

I'm the wrong guy for her. She's sunshine and cherry pie. I'm whiskey and fast cars. I'm also keeping one hell of a secret from the woman I've wanted for years. But when I find a list my sister left behind for Ruby, I've got no choice but to offer the sexy, big-hearted girl next door both a road trip and a chance. A chance to discover how big she can dream.

Imagine this. You're ready to leave after a one-night stand, and you're figuring out how to - shock horror - leave your number and ask him to be your fake boyfriend for your sister's wedding this weekend. When he wakes up. Well, that happened to me. And over coffee and omelets, I found myself a date. Which was how I ended up arriving at the wedding with a guy I knew nothing about.

Let me make this clear right here, right now: I, Halley Dawson, do not care that Preston Wright is kissing other women. Not a lick. Not at all. Nuh-uh-freakin'-uh. I do care that he's doing it six feet away from me behind a gaudy velvet curtain - making him my competition in this year's kissing contest. Why do I care, you ask? Because I've had an unfortunate crush on the insufferable idiot since I was 16 years old, but I also know it's never going to happen. 

The world’s sexiest firefighter is about to get a second chance with the virgin next door.... He’s bossy, arrogant, and so ridiculously hot that he should come with a warning label and a pair of flame-retardant coveralls. He’s also the boy who broke my heart when we were in high school. I want to move in next door to Ryan O’Dell the way I want to be the virgin gamer geek suddenly in charge of running my sister’s sex-toy factory. Too bad both are written in my stars.

There are some things you just have to deal with - like your hot-as-hell college booty call moving in next door with his adorable daughter. The only time we've ever gotten along is under the sheets. Old habits die hard because two minutes on my front porch is how long it takes us to bicker. Not that a little fact like that bothers my healthy 80-year-old grandmother and roommate who's determined to see me married before she bites the dust.

I’m not boyfriend material. If a trail of broken hearts and a piss-poor record of failed relationships have taught me anything, it’s this. My buddies are happy to give me shit about my latest breakup from here to next Sunday. Thanks, but I’d rather have a root canal. And a vasectomy. At the same time. Relief comes in an unlikely package - the gorgeous and feisty Maren. She just so happens to be my best friend’s sister, so that’s not awkward at all.

If anyone asks, I knew better than to flash my boobs for Mardi Gras beads. I still don't know why I did it. Maybe it was the dare from my two best friends. Maybe it was the guys on the balcony saying they'd throw Fireball shots with the beads. Or maybe it was the quiet guy in the corner of that same balcony with piercing gray eyes, wavy dark hair, and a smile so tempting I wanted to climb up there and lick it off his face. Maybe it was because I never thought I'd see them again. Not that it matters. Not today. Because the hotel I manage was finally bought.

I’ve always wanted the fairy tale wedding. Not for the princess perfect dress or big party, but for papa. My grandfather. The only father figure I’ve ever known. It’s his dying wish to walk me down the aisle. Gee, no pressure. But I can grant that wish. I just have to fake being head over heels in love with Ross Andrews, my best friend's big brother whom I embarrassingly crushed on all through high school. Handsome. Knockout sexy. Arrogant jerk extraordinaire. Our childish pranks and tit-for-tat battles were legendary.

We start off with a lie on Valentine’s Day. My blind date isn’t the studious guy I expected: He’s a drop-dead gorgeous player with sinful amber eyes. Somehow we end up at his penthouse. I blame the gin and tonic. The next day I learn he’s Jack Hawke - bad-boy professional quarterback with a murky past.

Luke Garrison is a hometown hero, a member of the National Guard ready to deploy again. Strong, sweet, and sexy, he doesn't have a girlfriend and doesn't want one. When the wildly beautiful Harper stumbles into his life, though, he realizes that she's the perfect decoy. A fake girlfriend to keep his family off his back until he's out on another mission.

Have you ever had one of those really bad days at work? You know, one where your sexy AF boss catches you photocopying your backside in his office? No? Just me, then? I blame my bestie and partner-in-chaos. She challenged me with a not-so-innocent dare that I should’ve flat out declined. But I’m an adrenaline junkie, and now, here I am. I know it sounds crazy, and daredevil tendencies aside, I definitely went too far to get his attention. But you haven’t seen him. Colton Wolfe. My boss. Tall, dark, handsome, and with the sexiest British accent I’ve ever heard.

Dear Mr. Brisken: How do I hate you? Let me count the ways. I hate your smug, sexy millionaire face. I hate your cocky, skirt-chasing, playboy ways. I hate working as your secretary - but, I love the pay. It almost makes dealing with you worth it. I hate how my friends call you a BILF, when really BILK (Boss I'd Like to Kill) is more appropriate. I hate that I need you to be my date for my best friend's wedding because my ex-boyfriend, the King of Heartbreakers, and his new busty blonde girlfriend will be in attendance.  

There are three things I hate: Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett. Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It's been 10 years since he took my virginity - I'd make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth is that it would have to be a brat-best joke, and yes, it kills me to admit that - and now he's not only a billionaire, he's also my new boss.