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.
Rum and Covid with a side order of romance
Romance writer and a bar tender make for perfect love.
Two blasts from the past and assumptions from the past.