Hating Mr. Write

As a single mom of two, my me-time is sacred. Especially when I volunteer to help my best friend plan her wedding in her small-town. I guess it's a good thing that my guilty pleasures involve staying up late to devour all the love stories I can.

I don't have time for real life romance. And the idea of there being a Mr. Right for me is purely fictional.

Proof of there being no hope for my love life? My neighbor for the summer: playboy Jagger Brooks. He may be on par with the sexiest of my literary lovers, but his cocky attitude makes me want to DNF.

Until I get a glimpse of the real him. He may be all broody playboy on the outside, but the inside is a cinnamon roll to rival any of my favorite book boyfriends. And for once I experience the type of spicy scene I've only ever read about. But no matter how appealing it would be to give love a real chance, I'm only here for the summer, I can't get attached.

Too bad my heart didn't get the memo.

Falling for the hottie next door when he's got secrets of his own? Maybe our HEA wasn't meant to be.