My amazing formatter, the lovely Stacey Blake from Champagne Formats has done it again! This book is even more beautiful than the last, you are a creative genius and I am so thankful to be working with you on yet another project.
Thank you to Diego Durden and Carmen Delgado for collaborating on the stunning image for the cover of this book. I’m so lucky to have found you both. I am so excited for more of our upcoming covers together.
Big kisses on the cheek and a thank you to Sara Eirew for the fabulous design of this cover. I am completely in love with your work and look forward to more projects together.
Thank you to Lydia Quintana, my Book B from HEA Bookshelf and Nazarea Andrews at Ink Slinger PR for making sure this book was promoted everywhere! You are both amazing women and I am beyond grateful to have you in my corner.
For my angels, the best street team a girl could ask for, thank you for everything: the man candy posts, the pimping, the teasers, and all the love you’ve shown me.
For all the readers, these books are for you, so thank you for reading. I love you all more than you could possibly know.
To my friends and family, my life is richer and more beautiful because you’re in it. Thank you for everything.
MAD LOVE. x
Hey y’all,
I was born and raised in Ladner, a small farm town just outside Vancouver, Canada. I grew up riding horses, shooting guns, and driving in trucks.
I never expected to be an author. A massage therapist? Yes. Take over the family construction company? Yes. But an author? No. Writing was something that snuck up on me and rooted itself into my life. It was beautiful to discover that love, and I’m truly grateful to say I’ve found my passion.
Since I’ve always been a creative person, it feels amazing to harness all of that energy and use it to tell a story I love. I enjoy incorporating bits of my real life into the stories I write. What parts are true? Hah. I’ll never tell—what would be the fun in that?
If I could leave y’all with one thing, it’s that life’s far too short to not live it out loud. Drown in your passions, hold on tight to the things that inspire you, and chase your dreams relentlessly. I can promise you without a doubt that you won’t regret it. I know I don’t.
Mad love,
Anne Jolin
Y’all can follow me on,
Website – www.annejolin.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/authorannejolin
Twitter - @authorannejolin
Instagram - @annejolin
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8388273.Anne_Jolin
“SHIT.” SHIT. SHIT. Shit. “He’s having another stupid party,” I murmur under my breath as I pull into the driveway. I momentarily consider parking Clifford, my ’99 red Chevy truck, on the street so that he doesn’t end up with a bed full of beer cans, but it’s three thirty in the morning, and out of sheer laziness, I opt to leave him in the driveway. Sorry, buddy.
I try to keep my tight, little hostess dress from riding up while I hop down from the truck. I teeter in my nude pumps on the cobblestone but manage to catch myself on the doorframe before I can execute an embarrassing bum drop in the driveway. Crap. I really should have changed at the restaurant. Maybe I can sneak into Jackson’s room to change before anyone sees me. I look a little too hoochy in my work uniform for my liking. I say the term ‘work uniform’ loosely because it’s less clothing than I’d ever normally be caught dead in. It’s a tight, black, too-short, tube top dress that hugs all my curves and makes my legs look longer than they are when paired with my ‘must wear’ high heels. Instead of chancing another round of ‘kiss the cobblestone,’ I slip off my pumps, grab my overnight bag from the backseat, and make my way towards the front door, sidestepping cigarette butts on my way. Gross.
Every light in the two-story box house is on and the music booming. My boyfriend, Jackson, and his roommates, Jayden and Jamison, have been renting the top floor of this house for the last eight months. You’d think I was making this shit up, right? Three guys, all with first names starting with a J, all tattooed, and all sharing a house... It’s a little much but true nonetheless. We all get a kick out of teasing them and have dubbed them the J’s. They hate it, which makes it all the more fun for the rest of us. I’m as surprised as anyone that they haven’t been kicked out yet. Lucky for them, their landlord is a sweet old lady who likes to smoke more than her fair share of Mary Jane and doesn’t seem to mind the endless partying.
I pull the handle of the front door, and in typical J’s fashion, it’s unlocked. Martha, Jamison’s black pit bull, is waiting for me on the other side wagging her tail like I'm her favorite person in the world.
"Hi, pretty girl," I say and give her a scratch behind the ear.
Martha is named after Martha Stewart. Jamison’s first love is making acoustic guitars, but his second love is cooking. The day he rescued her, she ate an entire slow-cooked pork roast. We all tried to tell him it was just a dog thing to do, but he was adamant it was because she had exquisite taste in food and thus named her Martha.
I finish saying goodbye to Martha and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Jackson’s room is the closest to the top of the stairs, and if I’m fast, I can get in there before any of the drunken party goers saw me. I hit the top step, make a sharp left turn, and scurry into Jackson’s room, slamming the door behind me. Success!
I drop my bag on the floor and reach for the hem of my dress. I can’t wait to get out of this thing and into a pair of jeans. I’ve begun to inch my dress up when I hear his voice. I freeze as the smooth, deep baritone rolls over me and my knees involuntarily clench together. Who the hell is behind me?
I spin slowly and nearly hit a fever pitch when I see him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, but even then I can tell he would tower over me. Beautiful tattoos start at both wrists and disappear underneath the sleeves of his black White Chapel T-shirt. It is impossible not to notice that his shirt does little to hide the muscular chest underneath it. I lick my lips. His dirty-blond hair is buzzed shorter than his five-o’clock shadow, and his eyes are the palest color of blue I’ve ever seen in my life. Holy fucking shit! He looks just like Charlie Hunnam! I blink just to make sure that I’m not hallucinating, but he is still here, smirking smugly at me from the bed.
“Hi,” he says for the second time, shooting me a panty-dropping grin.
Oh God. I could do without the grinning Mr. Hunnam. It feels like my skin is on fire. If he grins again, I’m going to spontaneously combust. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You’re not allowed to be in here,” I stutter, tripping over my own words. Smooth. Really smooth. Wait, who cares if I am being smooth? I have a boyfriend.
“Jackson said I could borrow his computer.”
I look around the room, and to the left of him I see Jackson’s laptop lying on the bed, closed. “Well, it would seem as though you’re finished with it. So, do you think maybe you could get out now so I can change?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. Instead, I feel his eyes move up my bare legs and stop at the hem of my dress. I instantly curse myself for not pulling it back down before I turned around. I feel completely exposed. His eyes continue their lazy stroll up my body. My long auburn hair is falling in waves down my back, and he seems to appreciate the way my full chest is rapidly rising and falling. When his blue stare meets my green one, I feel like my entire body is buzzing with an electrical charge. This is what it must feel like to be on drugs, I thought.