By: Anne Marsh

A sexy standalone romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Anne Marsh

He’s big.

He’s sexy.

And he’s hung.

The first time I meet Pick Revere I tried to bash his head in with a baseball bat. The second time, I kissed the ever-loving daylights out of him on a dare. For a girl who’s on the lam and hiding from her cop ex, I’m failing miserably at laying low. Instead, I’m going up in delicious flames—because Pick’s the hottest, roughest, toughest bad boy firefighter I’ve ever laid eyes (or lips) on. He promises he has a big hose—and knows how to use it. I’d investigate, but I need my job as a cook at the fire camp. I’m supposed to serve my hotshot breakfast—not me. I’m supposed to keep my secrets. And I’m definitely supposed to stay single.

But I’m not prepared for what happens after our kiss. Pick’s magnetic and dangerous. He’s short-term fun—not Mr. Commitment. But then he volunteers to be my muscle when my douche ex tracks me down. And I shouldn’t want more than that.

But I do.

I should run as fast as I could from Pick.

But I won’t.

Because he sets me on fire and you know what they say about firefighters—the hotter you get, the faster they come. How’s a gal to say no?

This is a sexy standalone romantic comedy for fans of Lauren Blakely, Helena Hunting, and dirty, raunchy, hot firefighters. It is the first in a new series.



You know those how I met your mother stories? Where he looks at her and she looks at him, the birds start warbling Ode to Joy, and Mother Nature lights the whole scene up with a gorgeous fucking sunset?

Ask me how I met Sarah Jo.

Go on. You know you want to.

I’ll give you three guesses.

She was the porn star fielding my 1-900 call, you suggest? Not a chance. I don’t have to pay for sex. Not gonna lie—it’s tempting because then there are no misunderstandings or hurt feelings. I’m just renting hot, wet space and treating my dick to the manly version of a spa day.

Don’t be offended. I’ve never pretended to be a gentleman—or to have a filter. If the thought enters my head, it comes out my mouth. You take the good with the bad, and my super-sized, XXXL dick package and my filter-less mouth have an until-death-do-us-part relationship.

So take your second guess and cut me some slack. Blind date? Please. I’m too busy fighting fires to have time to date, plus there’s a singular lack of attractive, unattached women in Big Bear Lake. In fact, we’re dick central and we could use way more women in this particular part of Northern California. Some enterprising soul could make a fortune delivering mail-order girlfriends to my very horny teammates. Single women get plenty of dating action here. It’s a small town, not a wide selection. No one fixed me up with Sarah Jo. I didn’t take her out for a steak the size of her head or a bottle of not-inexpensive red wine. We didn’t dance, didn’t dine, didn’t exchange an awkward first kiss outside her door when I brought her home.

She tried to bash my head in with a baseball bat.

I’ll let you think about that for a minute.

I meet the girl of my dreams and she takes her best shot at killing me.

Buckle up, sit tight, and hang on for the ride because Sarah Jo and I are about to go lights and sirens. I’m on my way to Baby Bear Lodge to rescue one of my hotshot team members. He’s been sucked into the orbit of this crazy group of chicks who run something called the Break Up Club. For all you guys out there, that means they get together and roast us. Talk over all our shortcomings, compare dick stories, and set shit on fire. Being wiser (if not older) than Hunter, I’ve opted for the local titty bar over the local cabal, but I need another wingman and I’ve nominated Hunter in absentia. He’s relatively new both to town and to the hotshot team, so he may have overlooked the merits of taking the look-but-don’t-touch approach to life. Dragging him with me to watch half-naked girls gyrating on a stage is a kindness.

Not that the bar looks all that exciting from the outside. It’s one more dumpy, run-down building by the highway. The road slows to a meander where it passes through Big Bear Lake, with speeds dropping to a miserly thirty miles per hour. Still, if you blink, you’ll miss Tits Up. Some decorating genius painted it the perfect shade of brown to blend into the landscape, and nothing announces that you’ve just found a man haven. In fact, the only thing Tits Up had going for it is the obvious pair (or pairs) of things. Lots of boobs, lots of shaking and shimmying, and no need to talk.

My team singlehandedly keeps the place in business, officially because it’s the only bar with a full liquor license. The alternative is Drink Up (Big Bear Lake’s founding fathers showed a lamentable lack of creativity in their naming). The bar is only allowed to serve beer, although they bend the rules for those weird beer-margarita hybrids that come in a can. Let’s just say that a pop-top cannot replace the salty goodness of icy cold tequila and leave it at that.

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