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Title ➜ Betting On Love
Genre ➜ Romantic comedy
Author ➜ Author Danielle Dickson
Cover designer ➜ Eleanor Lloyd-Jones / Schmidt’s Author Services
#LIVE now ➜ myBook.to/bettingonlove
Having a different woman every single night is the way I’ve always done things.
It works and it’s fun, so why change it?
The thought of having a monogamous relationship hadn’t even crossed my mind... until her... the infuriatingly seductive, witty, Goddess from across the pond who now lives down the hall from me.
She teases me with her perfectly shaped peach for an ass and her British accent. She makes me want more, all the while making me feel like I’ll never get it.
The only way I can get her off my mind and out of my system is to get her into my bed.
The bet I have planned may not be one of my brightest ideas, but I’m going to chuck my doubts in the fuck it bucket and win this thing!
She’s not going to know what hit her.
*Betting On Love is a spinoff, STANDALONE novel from the Little Hollow Series by the same author*
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I slide into the driver's seat of my new BMW not replying to him as I lock all the doors, signaling to him that I can’t hear him. I rev the engine and he backs away letting me peel out of there, not looking back. I sigh dramatically, that was close!
How was I supposed to know she was married? I feel sorry for the guy, but maybe it’s best he found out now rather than later. I cringe at the situation and then find myself laughing at how my day has already started off, always eventful in the life of Mac.
It’s only seven in the morning so I have time to grab a quick shower before I have to head out to make it in time for work. My best friend, Connor, owns a construction company and I work with him as a contractor and his accountant. I know, right? Beauty, brawn, and brains. I’m a triple threat.
I make the drive back to my apartment building and park outside, looking down at myself still wearing nothing but my boxers and socks. I laugh out loud and open the car door, taking a quick look around. Apart from the odd car driving past, it looks quiet enough, so I jog to the building and open the door with my key. Just as I think I’ve gotten away without getting charged for indecent exposure, a soft, British voice calls out, “Wait! Hold the door, please!”
I sigh trying to decide if being an asshole trumps the embarrassment of being caught in my underwear, but I’m a confident guy, I don’t care. Making my decision, my hand catches the door just before it’s about to shut and my eyes widen as I nearly get trampled on by someone carrying a hell of a lot of books as I open it back up.
“Thanks,” she says hurriedly.
I can’t quite see her face and I don’t think she can see me either, so I think I’ve lucked out on her seeing that I’m not wearing any clothes. I shrug my shoulders, her loss. “You’re welcome,” my low voice rumbles out.
I don’t need to see her face to tell that she’s beautiful. She has her long blond hair scooped up into a messy bun that all the girls seem to do nowadays and she’s wearing short running shorts that encase her toned legs that go on for days with a black tank top that shows off her shapely waist. And damn that accent, why haven’t I noticed her here before?
I press the button to call the elevator and stand back, twisting my head to the side to admire her peachy ass.
“Stop checking me out, Neanderthal,” she quips, giving me a sarcastic smile over her shoulder, letting me see her side profile for the first time. Beautiful.
“Hey, you should be flattered I was checking out your ass. It looks like you work hard for that peach.”
She scoffs. “Do any of those lines actually work on women? Or do you just keep pulling out the same one-liners in the hopes that one day someone will be stupid enough to fall for your bullshit?”
She’s floored me and I don’t know what to say, so I stand here gawping at her.
“Yeah, thought so.” She snorts, turning back around when the elevator pings open.
She walks inside, but I don’t follow her.
“Nice boxers, by the way,” she says with a satisfied smirk on her face, a sparkle in her caramel-colored eyes. Then the doors close.
Shit. I think I’ve just met my match.
Danielle has always dreamt about writing a book. With many stories to tell, she finally pulled her finger out one morning when one story screamed at her louder than the rest. When Danielle’s not writing, she can be found painting people’s faces with makeup or watching twenty minute cat videos late at night, procrastination
is strong in this one. If you’re ever short for shoes to match your outfit, she’s the person to go to. With an extensive shoe collection that cost more than your mortgage (although she would insist she doesn’t have a problem), you can take your pick. An avid reader all her life, she gets lost in the magic a book immerses you in and hopes to capture that for her readers.
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