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  “Tart but sweet. Just like you,” he says before he kisses me. I love kissing Nick, but kissing Nick with chocolate is a special kind of pleasure.

  “So,” he finally says when he comes up for air. “What do you think? A good present?”

  “Well . . .” I shrug. “Fake fiancé Nick gave me a vineyard in Tuscany. But chocolate’s good, too. I guess you’ll do.”

  I squeak as he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to my bed. He lays me down and hovers over me. “I’ll do?”

  I shrug, grinning up at him. “I guess.”

  “Would a vineyard in Greece do?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, I can’t give you my family’s winery in Greece, but I can take you there.” Nick starts kissing down my neck.

  “Wait, you have family vineyards?”

  He smirks. “Didn’t I mention them? Must have slipped my mind. So, how about it?”

  “I wish we could go . . .” I tell him, stifling a moan as his hands slip lower. “I just started my business. I can’t take a holiday yet.”

  “That’s okay,” he says. “Maybe we can go next year.”

  He places something else on my stomach. It’s the ring box again.

  “More chocolate!” I open it eagerly. But it’s not another CandyShack treat. It’s a ring.

  It’s the ring.

  His grandmother’s diamonds. The one he used to fake propose. And now . . . ?

  I look up at him, speechless. “How about a honeymoon in Greece?” he asks with a bashful smile.

  “I . . . what . . . humnauh?”

  I can't even find words. Emotion rushes through me. Is this seriously happening?

  Yes.

  Nick takes the ring box and gets down on one knee beside the bed.

  “I love you, Alice. More than anything in the world. I want to spend the rest of my life taking you on crazy adventures and showing you the love you deserve. Will you marry me?”

  My eyes fill up with tears.

  “Yes,” I finally manage. “Oh my God, yes!”

  He kisses me again, and then we’re rolling around in a tangled, breathless heap of passion. Nick looks down and I can read the love in his eyes.

  Which quickly turns to mischief.

  “What?” I ask, even though that look usually signals something very, very good.

  “Just go with it,” Nick grins. He slips my bunny slippers back onto my feet and then covers me with his body again. “Call it one of your adventures.”

  I laugh like crazy. Because seriously, this guy. “I’m up for any adventure,” I say. “As long as it includes you. And chocolate. And my bunnies, I guess.”

  “Well then,” he says with a groan, as he plunges inside me. “Buckle up, honeybunny. We’ve only just begun.”

  Epilogue

  Luke (aka Dr Casanova)

  A thousand miles away…

  I thought there might be something cathartic about watching my own death, but as I watch the last ten years of my career go up in literal smoke, the only thing I feel is . . . nothing?

  I pour another whiskey and raise my glass.

  Rest in peace, Doctor Casanova.

  I can’t say the role wasn’t good to me. Three Emmy nominations, one win, the Teen Choice Award for Most Swoonworthy Hair, and a GAY USA magazine spot as “Doctor we’d most like to do our colon check” (don’t ask). Plus, the job came with a few benefits: my palatial Hollywood Hills pad, a garage of sports cars, and more free designer shit than I know what to do with. I could choose not to work another day in my life, if I wanted to.

  And by the way things are turning out, it might not even be a choice.

  My door buzzes open, and I hear high heels tapping on the floors. I brace myself. “Quinn,” I sigh, as my publicist stalks in. “You know, I can’t remember ever giving you a key.”

  “You wouldn’t answer my calls.”

  “And yet here you are.” I finish my drink in a single swallow, and go get another, watching the lights of the city glitter in the dark. “Come to pour one out for the late, great departed Dr. Casanova?”

  ‘No, I’m here trying to save your career!”

  “A little late for that.” I nod to the scene paused on screen, helicopter smoke billowing. Quinn rolls her eyes and grabs the remote to the massive flat-screen. “Put that down, we’re going out.”

  “I’m really not in the mood.”

  “And I don’t give a fuck.” Quinn doesn’t beat around the bush, that’s why I hired her to represent me. In a town full of fakers and schmoozers, she tells it like it is. “Every tabloid in the country is going to be talking about your untimely death.”

  “My character’s,” I correct her.

  “No difference. So do you want them illustrating their stories with your last mug shot, or pictures of you out on the town, having a great time in a clean shirt? Hot, respectable, ready to be cast in the next TV sensation?” She puts her hands on her hips, waiting expectantly.

  I groan. “You know, the one good thing about getting fired off the show was I thought it meant the end of the paparazzi dog and pony show.”

  “Nice try,” Quinn snorts. “But unless you want Dr. Casanova to be the last role you ever act, we need to get out there and start changing the narrative.”

  “Quinn . . .” I give her my best plaintive look—and I’m only half acting. “I’m really not in the mood tonight.”

  She softens—as much as Quinn ever does. “I know. But you need to buck up, buttercup. Didn’t you say you loved the noodles at Pine and Crane? I’m buying.”

  In Hollywood, there’s no such thing as a free meal. The noodles are great, and take the edge of my whiskey buzz, but they also come with a side of Quinn’s motivational speaking.

  Tony Robbins, she ain’t.

  “You’re divorced, broke, and unemployed.” She ticks off the list of my sins with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

  “I’m hardly broke,” I grin. “Unless I was hallucinating a few of those zeros on my last residual check.”

  “Fine. You’re public enemy number one,” she corrects herself. “At least according to every tabloid headline for the last six months.”

  “None of that shit’s true,” I complain.

  She quirks an eyebrow.

  “OK, 75 percent isn’t true.” God knows my ex drove me crazy, but I would never lift a hand to her. Or a stethoscope. “She only tried for that restraining order to screw me in the divorce. And the judge laughed her out of court.”

  “They don’t care.” Quinn nods around the restaurant.

  I look up. Three tables nearby are whispering furiously, two are sneaking cellphone pics, and one is filled with middle-aged women, shooting me death glares so toxic, they could strip paint.

  “Well, I don’t care either,” I lie. I try not to follow what the gossip columns say about me; a decade in the industry has taught me that. But I have to admit, I’m not used to the icy reception I’ve been getting ever since my delightful wife decided she wanted out. Out of our marriage—and out of the on-screen partnership that had been blazing up the Heartbreak Hospital screens for years.

  Since this was right around the time I figured out she was fucking the executive producer, I didn’t stand in her way. I just didn’t realize she would turn her mediocre acting abilities to convincing the world I was an abusive rage-o-holic, a cartoon villain who left her sobbing about our “troubled marriage” on all the morning shows.

  In the end, I gave Heartbreak Hospital an ultimatum: only one of us could stay. It was her or me.

  Remember that part about her fucking the executive producer?

  Yeah. Big mistake.

  The women at the next table get up to leave. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” one of them hisses at me as she passes.

  “So I take it you don’t want an autograph?” I quip.

  “Luke!” Quinn kicks me under the table.

  “Ouch.” I rub my shin. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of phot
ographers lurking outside, ready to snap photos of the infamous bad boy in all his disheveled glory. Never mind that I’m the least dramatic guy in town; Avery did such a good number on my public persona, I’m not surprised there isn’t a parade to celebrate Dr Casanova’s demise.

  “I need to get out of town,” I sigh. “Do something different. Go fishing. Build a house.”

  Quinn snorts.

  “OK, oversee the building of a house,” I grin. “But seriously, I need a break.”

  “You know, that’s a good idea. Hit reset, get you out of the public eye for a while . . . A friend of mine has a place in the Hamptons,” Quinn offers. “It’s nearly the end of the season, so it should be quiet.”

  I think of empty beaches and cool, shady woods. No VIP lines, traffic, or fans trying to scale my security fence to go through my bathroom trash.

  It sounds like heaven to me.

  “What’s the catch?” I ask, knowing Quinn too well.

  “No catch. Anyone could see you need a break. And if you just happen to unwind by doing some wholesome, down-to-earth activities . . .” Quinn gets a sly look. “Strolling the farmer’s market. Take a bicycle ride. Pet a puppy at an adoption event.”

  “Quinn! I want a vacation, not a photo op.”

  “Who says we can’t multi-task?” She looks at my scowl and laughs. “Fine. I’ll make the calls. But please, at least think about it. I’m trying to help.”

  “I know,” I admit. God knows what state my career would be in without her fighting in my corner.

  “What we really need, is for you to fall in love,” she says, still with that strategic glint in her eyes.”

  I snort with laughter. “Yeah, that’s not happening any time soon.” If ever.

  “Oh, I don’t mean like that.” Quinn waves dismissively. “Not for real. You don’t exactly show the best judgment as far as women are concerned.”

  “Hey!”

  “Case in point?”

  “Oh. Right.” I take another drink of beer.

  “But as far are public image rehabilitation goes, there’s nothing better,” she remarks. “ ‘Healed by love!’ ‘Reformed bad boy Rafferty opens up about his rocky road to happiness.’ They’d be eating it up.”

  I focus on my food. God knows she doesn’t need any encouragement.

  “I know someone, she runs an agency . . .” Quinn continues. “Fake relationships by contract, for a price. Everything laid out in black and white. It could be exactly what you need.”

  “No.”

  “But if you think about it—”

  “Nope.” I give her a steady look. She backs down.

  “Just think about it. We don’t need to decide right now. Take your vacation, regroup, and then we’ll see . . .”

  I don’t need to see anything. The bullshit toxic mess of the last couple of years is finally behind me. There’s a hammock somewhere with my name on it. And I finally have a chance to figure out what I want to do with my career next.

  Fake girlfriend? Hell no. The next time I’m dumb enough to give my heart to someone, it’s going to be for real.

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  Luke is about to find more than he bargained for in the Hamptons… including love! The next book in the Billionaire Bachelors series, MR CASANOVA is available to order now!

  And if you want EVEN more… I’m launching a brand new spin-off series starring Alice’s sister Gemma and her friends!

  Keep scrolling to read Chapter One of The CHICK FLICK CLUB series right here….

  HOW TO CHOOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS

  The Chick Flick Club #1

  The only thing more hilarious than the movies is… real life?! Fall in love with the hot new romantic comedy series from USA Today bestselling author, Lila Monroe!

  Stylist Gemma Jones is competing for a once-in-a-lifetime promotion. All she has to do is take some fashion-backward guy from geek to GQ-worthy. The only problem? The man in question is her hairy manwhore of a next-door neighbor. AKA Bigfoot.

  Zach Morrison has zero interest in being Gemma’s makeover mannequin. Sure, it’s fun getting his smart-mouthed neighbor all riled up, but after cashing out of his tech start-up and going through an ugly break-up, he’s taking a permanent vacation. If he wants to wear sweatpants and sleep on a mattress in the corner of an empty apartment—

  OK. Maybe he needs a little push in the right direction. But as Gemma races the clock to win her bet, she finds that Bigfoot’s been hiding a few things under his baggy flannel shirts. Like abs of steel, and a surprisingly big...

  Heart. He has a big heart.

  Soon, sparks are flying between this unlikely couple, but can Zach embrace a fresh start - however manscaped it might be? And will Gemma beat out her Instabitch rival for the top spot - and keep the truth about their bet from Zach?

  Find out in the hot and hilarious new romance from “the reigning queen of rom-com”, USA Today bestselling author Lila Monroe.

  The Chick Flick Club Series:

  1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days (Sep 2018)

  2. You’ve Got Male (Dec 2018)

  3. Frisky Business (March 2019)

  1

  Gemma

  Do you ever wish life was more like your favorite romantic comedy—full of hot, charming guys with great hair, upbeat music montages, and a guaranteed happily-ever-after?

  No crappy, mediocre dates. No painful periods (or, you know, messy bodily functions of any kind). No stress over making rent on your tiny shoebox of an apartment.

  And definitely no men who seem like they’re totally into you but then ghost harder than Casper, with zero warning at all.

  “Hey!” I protest, as my phone gets swiped out of my hand.

  My best friend, Zoey, rolls her eyes so hard, they practically disappear into her head. “This is Chick Flick Club, not ‘Watch Gemma check her phone every ten seconds’ club.”

  I glance at the TV, where our movie is already paused. Right on Jude Law’s pretty-boy face. No coincidence that the movie’s stopped right there—our other friend Eve’s lust for Jude Law is stuff of legend.

  Tonight, the legend is The Holiday, because even though the holidays are months away, rom-coms and happily-ever-afters are never out of season for us. We’ll happily watch Valentine’s Day in August, or Love Actually in May. We once watched Groundhog Day on the Fourth of July.

  What can I say? We know how to party hard.

  I reach for the remote but Eve holds it back. Her blonde hair is up in a ponytail, and she’s dressed in a cute sundress covered with tiny poodles—a nod to her #2 passion in life, her furry friends down at the animal shelter. “Who are you waiting to call?” she asks, then brightens. “Is it a guy?”

  “It was,” I sigh. “He suggested hanging out last night, but never followed up, and now he’s not replying to any of my texts.”

  “Which guy?” she asks, frowning. “Austin?”

  Zoe smirks. “I think you mean Orlando.”

  “Boise!” They laugh.

  “Dakota,” I grin, despite myself. “His name is Dakota.”

  Zoey grabs a handful of her patented popcorn blend. Or if it isn’t patented, it should be. That thing is so addictive, I don’t let her leave leftovers in the house. But that’s a hazard of being BFFs with an amazing chef. “So what happened?” she asks.

  “I don’t know!” I shrug helplessly. “The app matched us up, we got drinks, we went on three dates and had a really fun time, and now . . . nothing.”

  “I’m sorry, Gems.” Eve squeezes me sympathetically.

  I try not to feel rejected. “I thought he liked me. We got along well enough. I thought maybe . . . it could really be something.”

  “Awww.”

  “Hmmm.” Zoey doesn’t sound so sympathetic.

  I turn. “What?”

  “Nothing, just . . . three dates? And you didn’t fuck him?”

  “Our third date was mini golf!” I protest. “I wasn’t exactly going to bang him in the middle of the
windmill challenge.”

  “But after?” Zoey prods. “No, ‘want to come up for coffee?’ No, ‘Wow, I have this bookshelf that needs moving.’ No, ‘wanna fuck?’ ”

  “I don’t move that fast!” I protest, giggling. “We’re not all voracious sex queens.”

  “Why, thank you.” Zoey mimics a royal wave. I laugh.

  “Seriously, what’s with this arbitrary third date thing, anyway?” I argue. “Maybe I need more time to warm up to a guy.”

  “So there were no sparks?” Eve frowns.

  “There was . . . spark potential?” I decide.

  But even an old-fashioned romantic like Eve has zero time for that. “Then she’s right. If you weren’t feeling it enough, you must have known something was up. So, why do you care if he ghosted you?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I pause. “Just because I wasn’t sold on him, it doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to fall madly in love with me!”

  They both look at me and burst out laughing.

  “OK, that sounds pretty weird,” I laugh along. “But seriously, I’m never going to get laid again! I’m done with the apps and online things. I’m tired of meeting the great-on-paper guys who end up being mediocre.”

  “Or married,” Zoey agrees.

  “Or have a secret fetish for girls dressed up in bear costumes,” Eve adds.

  “That’s right!” Zoey snorts. “I’d forgotten about Phil the Furry!”

  “I wish I could!” Eve shudders. “You know, he keeps texting me, asking for pictures of all the shelter dogs. I feel like he’s asking me to send him porn!”

  “Eww!”

  My laughter fades. “So what are we supposed to do?” I ask, lying back on the couch. “How are we supposed to find someone we actually have chemistry with, in person?”

  “Go old school?” Zoey suggests.

  “How?” Eve wonders. “Everyone in this town walks around staring at their phone all day. There was a cute guy in line by me at the coffee shop the other day. I kept trying to catch his eye, but he was just swiping on Tinder the whole time!”