Ophelia Bishop was a lovestruck teenage girl when she and Kyle Kimpton chased their dreams to Hollywood. Kyle’s dreams came true. Ophelia’s did not. When Kyle chose his career over their relationship, Ophelia returned home to rural New York to run the family’s B & B—wiser, and more guarded against foolish fantasies. Now Kyle has come crashing back into her life, and all her defenses are down.
Kyle can’t think of a better place to write his latest screenplay than his hometown. After all, that was where he met the heart of his inspiration—his first love. He knows the damage he’s caused Ophelia, and he wants a chance to mend their relationship. If anyone can prove to Ophelia that happy ever afters aren’t only for the movies, it should be him.
As much as Ophelia’s changed, she still has feelings for Kyle. But her heart has been broken before, and she knows that Kyle could run back to Hollywood at any time. She gave up her dreams once, but maybe she can dare to change her own love story…one last time.
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Excerpt
She makes her home in Upstate New York with the whole crew. Her sons keep her active, stressed, joyous, and sad her house will never be truly clean.
She is the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of sexy and erotic contemporary romance. She was thrilled her book, The Marriage Bargain, was ranked #6 on Amazon's Best Books for 2012. She loves hearing from readers. Visit her website for updates on new releases and her street team at www.jenniferprobst.com.
“You don’t
have to clean up,” she said. “I
got it.”
“No, you’ve
done enough this morning. Let me.”
With his tight ass
cupped in jeans and a soapy sponge in his hand doing dishes, the scene was
total porn. Her knees grew a bit weak. “Thanks. Who are you having dinner with
tonight?” she asked.
“No one. Just not her.”
Pleasure shot
through her. “Not interested, huh?”
He gave her a
stunned look. “Are you kidding me? Definitely not my
type.”
“Oh yeah? What is your type?”
He gave a low
laugh, moving the sponge in perfect circles. “Not
someone with perfectly manicured fingernails. I like a woman who knows how to
get dirty and messy.”
Laughter bubbled
inside. She glanced at her own hands, which hadn’t
seen polish in years. “Hmm, interesting. What else?”
“Let’s
see . . . a woman who doesn’t
agree with everything I say. That gets old. I prefer a challenge.”
“Does a woman who calls you a
controlling asshole count as a challenge?”
“Definitely. That just turns me on.”
She cocked her hip
and pursed her lips. “You are definitely an odd man.
Anything else?”
“I do have a fetish not many can
satisfy.”
“Hmm. Fetish, huh? I hope it’s
not feet. That’s just wrong.”
“Nope. Freckles. I love freckles
scattered across pale skin. They’re like a Picasso painting I can’t
stop staring at.”
Pleasure flushed
her cheeks. “More like paint-by-number, but I won’t
judge.”
“Then there’s
sex.”
She stilled. Her
heart beat madly in her chest. “Sex?”
“I have certain needs that many would
find difficult to satisfy.”
An image floated
past her vision. His body pressed over hers, his tongue diving deep into her
mouth with a tender fierceness that shook her to the core. He’d
always had an insatiable appetite in the bedroom. Their sex life had never been
an issue—it had, in fact, kept the fragments of
their relationship together longer than she imagined possible.
“Kinky stuff?” she asked.
“More like particular. I need a woman
who’s able to handle me.”
Her gaze dropped. “Cocky
much?”
“I need the scent of lavender and honey
in my nostrils, and the sweet taste of her essence sticky on my lips. I need to
look into blistering blue eyes and know I belong to her.”
Her vision misted
over. She swayed on her feet. He turned off the sink, dried his hands with
slow, deliberate motions, and faced her. “I need to slide into her sweet body
and be welcomed home. Touch her body and make her moan. I need a woman strong
enough to let me fall apart in her arms, then put me back together. Do you
understand, Ophelia?”
She tried to speak,
but nothing came out. Her entire body was on fire, nerves on edge, ready to
explode. His raw words stroked her ears—and between her legs.
“Ophelia? Do you understand?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“Good. Then you know why I’m
not interested in Devon.”
He gave her a naughty wink and spun on
his heel. “Gotta get to work on that saggy middle
of the book. Catch you later.”
He left her
flushed, off-kilter, and practically throbbing with need.
Bastard.
Damn, she was crazy
about him.
About the Author
Jennifer Probst wrote her first book at twelve years old. She bound it in a folder, read it to her classmates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. She took a short hiatus to get married, get pregnant, buy a house, get pregnant again, pursue a master’s in English Literature, and rescue two shelter dogs. Now she is writing again.
She makes her home in Upstate New York with the whole crew. Her sons keep her active, stressed, joyous, and sad her house will never be truly clean.
She is the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of sexy and erotic contemporary romance. She was thrilled her book, The Marriage Bargain, was ranked #6 on Amazon's Best Books for 2012. She loves hearing from readers. Visit her website for updates on new releases and her street team at www.jenniferprobst.com.
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