Love After Midnight Series

My life was boring until I met him. Painfully tedious, pathetically lonely, and I absolutely hated it. But I was too scared to do anything about it. Too scared to change . . . at least until I met Kace. I should have been terrified of him—scared of his size (he towered over my short, curvy self), freaked out by the fierce tats covering his arms and torso (they even crawled up his neck), and definitely frightened by the angry scowl he unleashed on anyone who dared to disrupt him (though this happened rarely, it still did happen). Except, Kace seemed to like me—shy, boring, socially inept me. He couldn't change the tats or the towering, but he rarely unleashed his trademark scowl on me. Okay, so maybe it was more like he tolerated me, but regardless, Kace didn't seem to care that I hung around the bar he worked at, putting my night owl tendencies to work as I wrote. See, my work was the only place I explored. My safe place to write as dirty and steamy and kinky of books as I wanted. My readers loved them—loved the hot sex, the tough alphas, the guaranteed happy endings. As thus, I made good money, only somewhat because I was a decent writer, but mostly because my imagination was very active, beyond active . . . some might even say too active. As for me personally? I'd never experienced anything close to the types of things I wrote. But I'd decided it was time to change that. With scowly, sexy, terrifying Kace.

I'd spent my life watching everything happen around me. But never actually living it. Sheltered. Naïve. Shy. The top three adjectives to describe me. Well, that and awkward. Until Brent. From the first moment, I'd met him, my filter had disappeared. The things that passed through my lips when I was with him were the thoughts that passed through my mind, but also the things I'd never dreamed of saying aloud. But he seemed to like them, and I couldn't stop. Not when he was also gentle, kind, and protective. As well as the most beautiful man I'd ever laid eyes on. A total winning package, and one who was into me. But I was me. More comfortable on the edges, better at observing rather than living. I'd pushed my boundaries just once, had really gone for what life was offering me, and that had ended about as well as an elephant trying to parachute with a tissue. Horribly. It had ended horribly. So I wasn't going to be ready to try again. Not ever. Even if Brent made a very convincing argument to just suck it up and go for it.

I was a failure. I'd grown up with two well-meaning, but also two overbearing parents, and, as the youngest of three siblings, I was the only one who wasn't "successful." I worked in a bar. In. A. Bar. Yup, that was me hearing my mother's disappointed voice. Because everyone around me was climbing the corporate ladder or performing brain surgery. Hell, my own brother was succeeding as an actual rocket scientist. Meanwhile, I was slinging drinks and refining the art of mixing the perfect Cosmopolitan. I didn't know what I wanted to do—other than not being a rocket scientist—or who I wanted to be when I grew up. And if I was being honest with myself, growing up had come and gone a while ago. I just . . . wanted to feel something. Excitement or pleasure or even to know what it was like get my heart broken. But nothing ever happened to me. I existed in this boring bubble of life, pouring drinks most nights, reading the others away, and . . . not feeling anything. Until I saw him. Then I felt everything.

I didn't know what I was doing in a bar at midnight. On a weeknight. Certainly not sleeping, even though I had to work the next day. Definitely not open to talking with anyone, or trying to pick up a date. Surely . . . not paying the least bit of attention to the beautiful bartender with gorgeous hazel eyes and a body built for sin. He'd flash a smile and the women around him melted. He'd chuckle and even I wasn't immune to the silken way it slid down my spine. And I was singular. I didn't pay attention to men (and yes, I said that as a filthy, four-letter word). I existed by myself. For myself. It was safer that way. Then . . . he talked to me. Then . . . he flashed that smile my way. Then he made me want a stranger more than I wanted my careful distance. Oh. Hell.