**Now Available**

1556046701495_Boss-next-door-(Cover)

 

 

The Billionaire Boss Next Door, an all-new hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

 

 

 Synopsis

 

My new boss has it all. In spades.

Gorgeous green eyes? Check.

Hard-and-sexy body? Check.

Intelligence? Check.

Success? A big fat billionaire… Check.

 Too bad I haven’t started out on the best foot.

My big mouth has already turned him against me, and tempting good looks and success aside, Trent Turner is no peach either. He’s stubborn and thick-headed, and son of a fruitcake, he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the hotel business.

With him running the development of the new Vanderturn New Orleans Hotel and me doing the design, our work relationship is far too intimate for two people who absolutely despise one another.

But that’s not all.

See, he isn’t just my billionaire boss from hell. He’s my new neighbor, too.

Same city.

Same building.

Same floor.

Trent Turner is my billionaire boss next door.

Holy moly, let’s hope my career—and hormones—can survive.

 

 

TBBND - Teaser 3 AN

 

Disclaimer: If you generally love to suffer, hate fun of any kind, and are allergic to laughter, this book is not for you.

 

 

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

TBBND - AN

 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Vy4KOk

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TBBND

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2uEva5S

 

Excerpt:

It only takes five minutes inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in bed.

      I do not got this.

      I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working out, and I’ll never be good at working out.

      I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know what to do with me.

      Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.

      I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.

      The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license.

      I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But, it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do.

      Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”

      Huh?

      I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have.

      He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest.

      It’s a seat. For asses.

      A seat for sweaty, workout asses.

      Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.

      “You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.

      Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.

      Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.

      With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there by Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.

      Hip. Abduction.

      Do I need aliens to use this thing?

      Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.

      No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!

      The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.

      I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.

      After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.

      Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.

      Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.

      I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.

      Busted.

      Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.

      Shit.

      His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.

      I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.

      Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.

      I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.

      “Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”

      He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”

      Oh no, he did not just say that….

      “I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

      He nods knowingly.

      “And setting up my music,” I continue.

      He hums.

      “I’m just about to catch my stride.”

      “Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green as fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”

      What. The. Fuck.

      Who does this guy think he is?

      “Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.

      “All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.

      Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?

      “Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”

      Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?

      Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”

      He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”

      “Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”

      “Ugly décor? Really?”

      How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.

      “Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”

      “I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”

      Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.

      Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.

       “Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”

      His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.

      “What did you say your name was again?”

      Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.

      Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with…

      Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.

      “I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”

      “Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot.

      “Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was just pretending to work out.”

      Because you know what dicks can do?

      They can go fuck themselves and wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned.

      Suck on that, workout Romeo.

 

About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favourite writing partners and longtime friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favourite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe:

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

 

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter

*Cover Reveal*

*Cover Reveal*

1556046701495_Boss-next-door-(Cover)

 

The Billionaire Boss Next Door, an all-new hilarious romantic standalone from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is coming May 16th and we have the sexy cover!

 

 
Synopsis

 

My new boss has it all. In spades.

Gorgeous green eyes? Check.

Hard-and-sexy body? Check.

Intelligence? Check.

Success? A big fat billionaire… Check.

Too bad I haven’t started out on the best foot.

My big mouth has already turned him against me, and tempting good looks and success aside, Trent Turner is no peach either. He’s stubborn and thick-headed, and son of a fruitcake, he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the hotel business.

With him running the development of the new Vanderturn New Orleans Hotel and me doing the design, our work relationship is far too intimate for two people who absolutely despise one another.

But that’s not all.

See, he isn’t just my billionaire boss from hell. He’s my new neighbour, too.

Same city.

Same building.

Same floor.

Trent Turner is my billionaire boss next door.

Holy moly, let’s hope my career—and hormones—can survive.

 

Disclaimer: If you generally love to suffer, hate fun of any kind, and are allergic to laughter, this book is not for you.

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2uEva5S

About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favourite writing partners and longtime friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favourite adventure thus far. ​

Connect with Max Monroe:

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

 

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter

*BLOG TOUR*

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Love is blind, but fate sees everything

the girl in the painting_FINALCOVER

 

 

The Girl in the Painting, an all-new standalone romance from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!
 
TGITP- AN IG
Synopsis

 

Ansel Bray, an artist known around the world for his tragic hiatus from the canvas.

Ansel Bray, a broody, handsome man not known by me, at all.

Long dark hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. I’ve never met her, but her image is imprinted in my mind. An angel muse who inspires me to paint again.

 

There is something about him. Something that spurs a need to be as close to him as possible. A need to find out why.

There is something about her. Something that draws me in. Something that urges me to find out what her presence means.

 

Why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?

Who is this girl, and why can I see her so vividly?

 

I shouldn’t fall in love with him.

I shouldn’t fall in love at all.

 

But fate plays her hand.

But fate has other plans.

 

The lines of my life will blur.

The needs of my heart will change.

 

What a beautiful mess we’ve made.

TGITP- AN

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2H5p2uQ

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TheGirlinthePainting

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/2UbdiL1

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2HSvZS8

 

Excerpt:

Ansel

 

Three knocks rap against the closed door of my studio, and I sigh.

Apparently, my assistant doesn’t understand what no distractions means. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Lucy’s priorities have nothing to do with her role as my assistant. Half the time, people who come to my studio don’t even realize she works here. They probably just assume she’s some sort of social media influencer wasting time in my lobby by taking cleavage shots.

Another two knocks ring out, and I ignore whoever is on the other side and focus my gaze back on the half-painted canvas in front of me.

As if my hand is on autopilot, I watch as it gently creates the soft lines of her hair. Stroke after stroke, dark brown and honey-beige and gold combine to make the flowing locks that cascade down her back.

Eventually, though, the knocks grow so persistent that I can hardly follow the rhythm of the soft background music serving as a medium for my artistic exploration.

Fucking Lucy.

            “Go away!” I call over my shoulder, but the answering chuckle is not an annoyed feminine laugh. No. It’s husky and deep and rough around the edges.

“Ans, it’s Nigel,” the disturbance answers back.

Nigel Marx. We grew up together on the outskirts of the Bronx and found our way into the art world during our college years. Where I’ve always had an innate ability to create, Nigel has a natural talent for seeking out beauty.

If anyone can find art worth seeing, it’s Nigel. Or Nye, as I’ve grown to call him over the years.

Even though he’s one of my oldest friends, I groan and contemplate at least ten different ways to tell him to fuck off. I may not be as grumpy as I was before the surgery, but being interrupted during the creative process brings me as close to that level of aggravation as I come these days.

But even the bad-tempered side of my personality knows a verbal middle finger is unwarranted.

Technically speaking, it’s probably not even his fault. My assistant is undoubtedly too busy posting pictures of her new nose job on Instagram to follow my instructions and man the reception desk in the front.

So, eventually, I set my brush down beside my paints, move the canvas into the small, hidden nook near the windows, and tell him to come inside.

Dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, Nigel strides in as I head over to the sink to wash the dried paint off my hands.

“Did I interrupt?” he asks, and I glance at him over my shoulder.

“Yep.”

A big, hearty laugh escapes his throat. “You don’t even want to pretend I’m not being a huge inconvenience to you right now?”

“Pretty sure you know me better than that,” I say with a grin and swipe the extra moisture off my hands onto my jeans. “I’m not a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy, Nigel.”

He grins at that.

“What brought about this gloriously annoying visit of yours today?”

“Just want to make sure you’re ready for the big opening,” he says and slides his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. I don’t miss the way he takes it upon himself to peruse my studio, his eyes taking in all of the empty canvases stacked in the corner and the finished works scattered along the floor and the walls.

“By all means, please feel free to browse. You know how much I love that.”

He ignores my jab completely. “So, can I count on you to be there?”

“Be where?”

“You know where, you bastard.” He glares. “Does January 31st ring a bell? The big exhibition some of us have been working so hard on.”

“If I weren’t such a big person, I wouldn’t be able to ignore the fact that you’re insinuating I, the artist, haven’t done any work for the show.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop trying to distract me.”

Now it’s my turn to make a show of my new eyes’ ability to move. “We’ve already been through this, man. There’s no reason for me to be there.”

Unconvinced, Nye presses on. “It’s your opening, Ans. You need to be there.”

“I don’t need to be anywhere.”

“Tell me this…why wouldn’t you want to be there? This is your first exhibition in five years. Since before the accident. This is huge. If anything, you should be there to celebrate that you’re painting again. That you’re alive.”

And just like that, he’s answered his own question. He just doesn’t know it.

Circuslike fanfare and a giant spotlight on my tragic past are the last things I want. I just want to paint without all of the fucking hoopla.

“How about this? I’ll drink a glass of whiskey tonight to celebrate. I’ll even give myself a special toast.”

“If you drink that glass of whiskey inside my gallery, on the night of your opening, then we have a deal.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Not happening.”

“The press will be there. Your fans will be there. People want to see you. They want to talk to you. Interview you. Why don’t you want to be there?”

“For those exact fucking reasons, Nye,” I answer honestly. “While I’m thankful people still want to see my art, I don’t need the ego trip that comes with gallery openings and interviews. I don’t need fans kissing my ass, and I sure as fuck don’t need rich investors schmoozing me up because it makes them think they’ll have a better shot at getting their greedy hands on one of my paintings.”

Silence stretches between us, and I hope that means Nigel has finally come to terms with the reality of my absence at the opening.

Before the accident, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. I would’ve been the guy with the big fucking ego and some random, superficially beautiful model attached to my arm. The douchebag looking at everyone inside that gallery and mentally giving myself a pat on the back.

But I’m not that guy anymore. I haven’t been that guy since the day I went blind.

Do I claim to be the world’s happiest, most-together guy? Fuck no. Like I said, on my best day, I’m still an asshole. But after living in the dark for what felt like an eternity, I’ve at least realized a few things.

For one, money, success—material shit—doesn’t mean a fucking thing.

You can’t buy happiness.

And, two? Friends are better to have than fans. Friends stick with you no matter what.

“Okay.” Nigel’s voice breaks our silence. “Fine. I won’t ask you again.”

I grin. “That sounds like a truly brilliant idea.”

“Why haven’t I seen this one?”

I follow his gaze to the far corner of my studio, and instantly, I know which painting he’s talking about. My chest tightens with unease. I can’t believe I left that one out in the open like this…

I run a hand through my hair and try to make myself sound at least somewhat disinterested. “Because it wasn’t a painting I wanted to put in the exhibition.”

My voice sounds slightly higher pitched, even to my own ears. Dammit.

About a year after my transplant, Dr. Smith cleared me to go back to my normal life—back to painting. I found myself inside this studio with a brush in my hand and a beautiful girl in my mind.

Crystal-blue eyes, dark, dimensional hair, and dimpled cheeks, every detail of her face and features vivid to the point of precision.

I couldn’t stop picturing her. The way her full lips appear when they’re curled into a smile. The way she looks mid-laugh. The way her eyes light up beneath the sun.

She was all I could see, this girl I’ve never met before, this girl I’ve never actually seen.

She was the first thing I painted after the transplant, and she’s been locked inside my mind ever since—for nearly three years, to be exact.

But who’s counting, right?

I nearly snort out loud. The truth is, my obsession is nearly pathetic and almost certainly unhealthy. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

“This is…stunning,” he says quietly as his eyes rake over the canvas. “She’s stunning.”

His words, while holding no harm or ill will, make me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

Like I need to shield her from his eyes. I feel too vulnerable. Too raw.

Nigel turns to meet my eyes. “Why didn’t you want to put this one in the exhibition?”

“I don’t know.” Because it’s too special to me.

            He looks at the painting for a long moment before moving his eyes back to mine. “Should I know who she is?”

“No.”

A figment of my imagination?

Some kind of angel muse?

I don’t know, but I can’t stop painting her.

“Is this the only one of her?”

“Yes,” I flat out lie. Besides the one he’s looking at, there are another four finished canvases hidden away and at least seven in progress. But I’m already pissed enough at myself for leaving this one out for him to see.

Strange and most likely fucking insane, I know, but it’s the reality.

“You need to add this one to the exhibition.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Your other works are amazing, but this,it’s something else, Ans,” he says and glances back at the painting. “It belongs in the exhibition.”

Silence stretches between us, and I’m torn about what to say.

Fuck no seems inappropriately callous, but I’m having a hell of a time coming up with any other words.

The artist inside of me agrees with his assessment. That painting—and the other paintings of her—is special.

She draws the viewer in just as she’s done with me, like a mermaid luring sailors to their deaths.

But everything else inside me wants to keep her to myself.

“Ans, people need to see this painting,” Nye urges.

I let out a deep exhale. “I don’t know…”

“Ans, this one has to be in the show.” His gaze is steady, unwavering. “You and I both know it would be a fucking travesty if it weren’t in there.”

My back tenses, but for some reason, the word “Okay” slips from my lips.

My stomach churns and my mind races and I don’t know why I’m agreeing, but I am. I don’t know why I feel sick over the prospect of other people seeing this painting, but I do.

The way I’m feeling, the way my emotions intertwine with her paintings is a complete mystery to me.

Just like her.

 

 

About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

 

Connect with Max Monroe:

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Release Blitz*

TGITP- RB banner

 

Love is blind, but fate sees everything

the girl in the painting_FINALCOVER

 

The Girl in the Painting, an all-new standalone romance from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

TGITP- AN 

 

Synopsis

 

Ansel Bray, an artist known around the world for his tragic hiatus from the canvas.

Ansel Bray, a broody, handsome man not known by me, at all.

Long dark hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. I’ve never met her, but her image is imprinted in my mind. An angel muse who inspires me to paint again.

 There is something about him. Something that spurs a need to be as close to him as possible. A need to find out why.

There is something about her. Something that draws me in. Something that urges me to find out what her presence means.

 Why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?

Who is this girl, and why can I see her so vividly?

 I shouldn’t fall in love with him.

I shouldn’t fall in love at all.

 But fate plays her hand.

But fate has other plans.

 The lines of my life will blur.

The needs of my heart will change.

 What a beautiful mess we’ve made.

 

TGITP- AN IG

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2H5p2uQ

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TheGirlinthePainting

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/2UbdiL1

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2HSvZS8

 

 About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favourite writing partners and longtime friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favourite adventure thus far. ​

 

Connect with Max Monroe:

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**RELEASE BLITZ** The Day the Jerk Started Falling by Max Monroe

TDTJSF RB Banner

 

Rule number one: don’t fall for your best friend’s brother.

Rule number two: don’t fall for jerks.

 But rules go out the window the day the jerk starts falling…

 

The Jerk Duet is complete!

The Day the Jerk Started Falling, the fun and flirty conclusion of The Jerk Duet, from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is LIVE!

 

BOOK TWO_JERK DUET_TheDayTheJerkStartedFalling_Cover

Synopsis

My name is Oliver Arsen, but my mates call me Ollie.

I live hard and love harder, and it’s love that usually gets me in the most trouble.

According to the greater population, I’m the ultimate jerk.

My affection tends to be short-lived—a quality I’ve been assured multiple times by the fairer sex isn’t becoming—and the leaving part of loving and leaving has always come natural.

At least, it used to.

Until her.

Luciana Wright.

She’s an American bombshell and my sister’s best friend—a woman so wrong for

me, it’s written in the waves.

And she’s the reason we’re all here.

The reason I have to go back to explain how it all went wrong.

To the day the jerk started falling.

TDTJSF AN FB

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Cpsiiu

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TDTJSF

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2IjtvbH

 

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Start the Duet with The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2CRZHmC

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TDISFFJMM

Add  to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2Qcxk5z

 

 About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

 

Connect with Max Monroe:

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormaxmonroe/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/