Bad Idea #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 ten-thirty.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'll keep him overnight, he says. Here's my number to call me in the morning, he says.The problem?I know that number.Because I've been texting it every night for the last four days.

Revenge is a dish best served cold. Which is a real problem when the attraction runs red-hot.Trust me. I know. The only reason I decided to renovate my family's ice-cream store was to serve up a sundae full of revenge for my a-hole ex who opened an ice-cream store right next to mine.It was supposed to be simple.Renovate. Reopen. Put his peachy butt out of business.Until he decided to get under my skin—and broke my toe.Now, I'm stuck with Chase in my store every day, helping me renovate. But he's also in my head, and I'm spending a little too much time up against his abs.Not that it's the worst place to be.But it doesn't change anything. I still hate him, and I'm still going to get my revenge.Right?

Speed dating: the act in which you have two minutes to figure out how much of a jerk someone is. And pretend like you don't have the hots for your son's soccer coach.After four years living the single life, it's decided that I, London Stuart, am back on the market.I'm not even mad when my cousins and best friends put my name down for the speed dating sessions. In fact, I'm actually a little excited about it.Until one of my dates turns out to be my six-year-old son's irresistibly sexy soccer coach. His irresistibly sexy British soccer coach.Oliver Hayes is too good to be true—he's tall, dark, handsome, hilarious, and he genuinely loves kids. Especially mine. But he's not sure if he's even staying in the country, and I'm not sure I can handle giving him my heart if he's only going to leave.So why is he over for dinner almost every night? Why is he giving Leo private goalie sessions in the backyard? Why is he sending flowers to my desk at the...

What do you do when you're the reigning kissing booth champion but the only person you want to kiss is your best friend's brother?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 sixteen years old, but I also know it's never going to happen.He's the Creek Falls bachelor to die for, and I'm the Creek Falls racoon lady who puts peanut butter sandwiches out for them every night.I'm not going to let him break my four-year-long reign—no matter how many times he breaks the rules and slides the curtain across to do the one thing he's not allowed to:Kiss me.

One hot mess. One hot boss. One too many hot encounters...It's not you. It's me.No, seriously. It is me. Not only does my name literally mean "unfortunate," but that's the story of my life.Everything I touch turns to crap. An apartment fire—that I swear I was not responsible for—means I'm living back at home with my sex-mad parents. Yay, me!Which is why I need my new job as personal assistant to Cameron Reid to get back on my feet. Three months in this job and I can move back out and, hopefully, remember to turn off my flat iron once in a while.Ahem.On paper, my job is easy. Make coffee. Book appointments. Keep everything in order.Until I walk in on my boss, half-naked, wearing nothing but the kind of tiny white towel that dreams are made of.Now, nothing is easy—except our mutual attraction. But he's my boss, and you know what they say about mixing work and pleasure: unless you do porn, it's just not worth...