Blog Tour

Blog Tour

Taming Hollywood_s Baddest Boy(final cover)

 

 

 

 

Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?

Asking for a friend.

 

 

 

Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, an all-new laugh-out-loud standalone romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

 

Okay, fine. I’m not asking for a friend.

I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common.

Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked.

This probably happens all the time…right?

Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk.

Please. Please. Please. Tell me I’m not alone in this.

For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it.

Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames.

Gah. Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?

 

 

THBB - Teaser 3 AN

 

 

 

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2U1vlUW

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

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/2w8TUYg

 

 

Add TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2U46YI7

 

 

 

THBB - AN

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

 

 

  Billie

            Naked lumberjacks are all the rage. Or is it that they’re full of rage?

            I’m not entirely sure, but I think maybe, just maybe, it’s a little bit of both.

            Standing beside a hot tub outside of a rustic Alaskan cabin is a bare-chested, handsome-as-hell lumberjack of a man, and he is as naked as the day he was born.

            “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” the big, burly man with a scruffy beard and piercing blue eyes asks me brusquely.

            And holy hell, what a question that is.

            I started this journey in a meeting in LA, promising my boss the world, continued it with a plane, a car, a hike and kayaking adventure in a cold, rainy Alaskan setting, and in a highly unanticipated twist, I’m ending it in what must be an issue of Playgirl magazine come to life.

            And boy oh boy is the centerfold pissed…

            “Hello?” he questions harshly. “I said, who the hell are you?”

            As hard as it is, given his clothes-less state, I force myself to take a good, scrutinizing look at the rest of his face. I’m here for a reason, and with nothing more than a ramshackle convenience store owner named Earl’s vague instructions to go on, I can only hope that the here I’m at is the here I’ve spent days in a plane, car, and kayak looking for. In addition to a remarkably carved line on the inside of each hipbone, the angry man standing boldly above me has a strong jaw covered by a beard, a little scar above his right eye, miles of muscular, tanned skin, and messy, light-brown hair. I have to look a little closer to confirm my conclusion through the rolling waves of distrust and hatred coming off him, but when I focus hard enough, the star-quality glimmer in his eyes is undeniable.

            For the love of pancakes at a Sunday morning breakfast, it’s really him.

            Luca Weaver, Hollywood’s former baddest boy—the man I’ve nearly killed myself to find—is right in front of me, and he is naked.

            At my non-answer, his jaw turns to stone. “I asked you a question. Either answer it or get fucking moving.” I jolt at the rumble of his voice, but my feet do nothing to take me in any direction. I am rooted to the spot, utterly awed over the fact that I’ve actually managed something as impossible as finding Luca Weaver and all of my normal functions are rendered useless. He scowls, unimpressed with all the hard work I’ve put in—work that he obviously doesn’t know about. “You have five seconds before I come back out here with my shotgun.”

            “Uh…” I fumble, trying like hell to grasp the English language once again. I may be distracted, but on some level, I understand the importance of getting my shit together enough to at least prevent a shotgun from joining our little meet-and-greet.

            But my brain is bus-y. And slow.

            Because Luca Weaver looks damn good without any clothes.

            Eight years older since the last time he graced the covers of Hollywood gossip magazines, Luca is a man to whom time has been seriously kind. Either his genetics are just that good, or there’s some kind of sexy voodoo in the Alaskan water.

            I mean…his penis is right in front of me, and I can’t find a single thing wrong with it. It’s straight and veiny and perfectly pink.

            “What’s the matter with you? You have a death wish or something?” he spits at the statue formerly known as my body. “This is private property.”

            His words are serious and firm, and it seems that maybe I do have a dream that’s reminiscent of the movie Fargofingers crossed there are no wood chippers nearby. Because for as much as I try, I can’t stop looking at my new phallic friend, even to form a few simple words.

            But, come on. Luca Weaver’s freaking dick is right there!

            It’s not hard, but still, it’s…big—so big it’s not even a dick.

            It’s a Richard. Sir Richard.

            King Richard, really.

            Shit, I’m in the presence of penis royalty, and I suddenly have the urge to curtsy.

            He is a lumberjack fantasy come to life. Instantly, my brain starts thinking about pine-scented flannel and chopping wood and giving a blow job… Wait…what?

            Stop being a moron and speak words!

            “Uh…so…you’re…naked.” Oh god, those aren’t the right words!

            He glances down, mutters something to himself, snags a towel from a few feet away, and wraps it around his waist. “I didn’t invite you here,” he says, his voice gritty with irritation—and maybe, a little with disuse. Which would make sense. It’s taken me an entire season of Running Wild with Bear Grylls to get here. I can’t imagine he’s having book clubs and dinner parties and gabbing with his pals on the regular.

            Towel adjusted and glorious goods hidden from view, he studies me with frigid blue eyes and a glare worthy of a scorned woman. I shiver.

            “I’m only going to ask you one more time. What in the hell are you doing here?”

            I fiddle with the edges of my shirt as I finally find my vocal cords. “I’m Billie…Billie Harris.”

            And I am in way over my head.

 

 

 

 

About Max Monroe

 

A 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

 

BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh

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

Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS

Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW

 

 

 

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Blog Tour*

*Blog Tour*

WeekendWife FOR WEB

 

“The perfect, irresistible romantic comedy!”

 —Erin Nicholas, New York Times bestselling author

 

Weekend Wife, an all-new sassy and quirky stand-alone rom com from New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy, is available now!

 

 

Synopsis

 

Billionaire businessman in need of a fake fiancée…

It should be the easiest job ever for an out-of-work actress, right?

All I have to do is pose as Grant Caldwell (the Third)’s fiancé for a fancy-pants weekend in the Hamptons. Easy. Wear designer clothing and sip champagne? Don’t mind if I do. Flirting with Grant? It’s so delicious I should be paying him.

Nothing can go wrong as long as I can just keep my hands off of him.

But that’s the hard part. And I do mean hard.

Because Grant is sexy.

And bossy.

And surprisingly sweet, a real rarity in his pretentious family.

Oops. I’m not as good at faking it as I thought. Or maybe they call this method acting. Because it’s getting harder to figure out where my character ends and I begin…

It just might be the role of a lifetime.

 

 

WW - AN

 

 

Download your copy today or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

 

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2vCLc3P

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3b9dbZs

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2u3DcbV

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/397Id21

 

Add WEEKEND WIFE to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/35JEWEF

 

 

Excerpt

 

I looked at Leah. “Sorry about that. I am not filthy rich.” I actually was, but I felt compelled to be modest. “I’m just rich.”

“Oh, yeah? Well… I think everyone’s definition of filthy is different.”

And just like that, Leah took an awkward moment and made it flirtatious. Her voice was low, breathy.

Green light. That’s what that was. And I was hitting the gas and plowing into the intersection.

I eyed her. “What do you know about filthy?”

I had leaned closer to her, turned slightly, my thigh brushing against the fabric of her skirt. Her lips were a ripe raspberry color and she had a divot in the base of her chin that made me want to kiss it. Her chest rose and fell beneath her tight sweater with a quick rhythm, like she was turned on. Intrigued. Contemplating her move. She opened her mouth, gaze sweeping over my lips, and for a second I thought she was going to move close enough that I could kiss her.

Instead, she held my gaze, all seduction and skill, while her hand shot out and tucked the cash into the breast pocket of my suit. She grinned and turned back to the front, smug.

Damn.

“Nice acting skills,” I told her dryly. Leah, starring in the role of femme fatale, and I’d fallen for it.

“Thanks. I’m working on eye contact.”

I was working on blue balls.

She was cute and clever. Fuck.

I knew a couple of women who wanted exactly what I did—no-strings-attached sex. No one got offended if months went by without contact and it was just as likely they would text me as I would text them. I didn’t get… ensnared. Leah could ensnare me. It might be time to send out a sexual SOS. I needed zero contact with Leah after today. She wasn’t good for my concentration. But I did admire both her boldness and her talent.

“That was savage,” I told her. “I love it.”

“I need a distraction from the fact that my ankle seems to have a heartbeat and half the ice has melted so now my sock is damp.”

Right. Her busted ankle. That was the relevant issue at hand, not my dick.

“You really should elevate your ankle. Turn a little.”

Surprisingly, she obeyed me. I dug my way through all that fabric and hauled her calf and ankle up onto my lap. I also tucked the hundred bucks back into her skirt pocket. She didn’t seem to notice and just cleared her throat.

Leah bit her bottom lip. “This is weird,” she said. “I don’t think you want my damp sock on your pants.”

There were so many things I wanted to say. All of them inappropriate as fuck.

What I settled for was, “Don’t assume what I want.”

 

 

About Erin

 

Erin McCarthy

 

USA Today and New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy sold her first book in 2002 and has since written over seventy-five novels and novellas in the romance and mystery genres. Erin has a special weakness for high-heeled boots, martinis, and Frank Sinatra. She lives with her renovation-addicted husband (he built her a bar, so it’s all good!) and their blended family of kids and rescue dogs.

 

Connect with Erin

 

Facebook: http://bit.ly/39K0yDk

Instagram: http://bit.ly/37EuvCQ

Twitter: http://bit.ly/2ZWtdQT

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

BookBub: http://bit.ly/2uqW6Jx

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2FrgL2d

Stay up to date with Erin by joining her mailing list: http://bit.ly/2tYmOsP

Website: https://erinmccarthy.net