There are two kinds of women in the world " those I can bang, and those I can"t.
My teammate"s sister"
She"s a can"t.
I moved in with her to protect her from a nasty ex, not to be the next guy in line.
She"s the brains.
I"m the brawn.
She"s the fruit.
I"m the sausage.
She talks too much.
I don"t talk at all, if I don"t have to.
Should be easy to resist her.
But every minute I spend with Felicity is another minute she gets under my skin. She makes me feel like something more than a dumb puckhead with a big Zamboni pony. And it"s getting harder to remember why I need to keep my hands to myself.
Beauty and the Beefcake is a vegan-friendly standalone romantic comedy featuring a hockey player whose vocabulary is the only thing smaller than a hockey puck, a book smart but aimless ventriloquist with too many voices in her head, a dilapidated old house that may or may not be haunted, and no cheating or cliffhangers.Books by Author:Pippa Grant Books
Felicity (aka Ms. Bad Taste In Men)
It is a falsehood universally spread across the globe that a single woman in possession of a house, a job"sort of"and boobs must be in want of a dickhead to fuck with her brain.
Or possibly I just have terrible taste in men. And horrible luck in the genetic pool, because my brother is also currently ranking pretty high up there among the biggest assholes on the planet.
And that"s my official explanation for why there are currently several hundred"possibly thousand"pornographic sugar cookies piled all the fuck over my grandmother"s teeny strip of a front yard.
An entire mountain range of sugar cookies printed with dicks erupted on Gammy"s patch of dried-up lawn and are spilling over onto the cracked sidewalk and her beloved gardenia bushes.
And did I mention it"s raining"
In waves. With some gusts of wind that are spreading the wet sugar scent all up and down the street of attached 1960"s townhomes.
I"m going to be shoveling soggy-ass dick cookies from now until Christmas. And I don"t even want to contemplate what the sugar and dye in the frosting will do to Gammy"s grass. Never mind the gardenias.
"At least the rain"s washing the dicks off," reasons Kami, ever the optimist in my group of friends.
"This is one of those times you should be offering to slip one of us a couple syringes of horse tranquilizer," replies Alina, ever the pragmatic voice of reason.
Maren, ever the environmentalist who"s probably calculating the diabetic coma the worms in the ground will soon be suffering from, shakes her head. "You only need one to take out Doug."
"And one more for Nick," Alina adds.
"Nick"" Kami says. "This isn"t Nick"s fault."
As far as Kami"s concerned, nothing is ever my brother Nick"s fault.
In this case, she"s wrong. Which I know without a doubt because Doug Dobey, the last in my string of bad exes, texted me. You and your dickhead brother better watch your fucking backs.
And a picture of the dick cookies"pre-natural washing on Gammy"s patch of grass"accompanied the threat.
Not that I"ve shared that with my friends. They"d freak out. Honestly, a girl gets herself a harmless stalker once, and suddenly every ex-boyfriend and disgruntled coworker is something her friends flip over.
Alina waves her full wine glass toward the soggy disaster. "This has Nick"s name all over it. Remember when Felicity broke up with The Churd and Nick all but took out a billboard eviscerating him""
Okay, so maybe they have a point when you put my brother into the equation. He does have a way of rubbing people wrong.
Specifically, my ex-boyfriends.
"But if you take Nick out, the Thrusters suffer," Maren says. "I"m all in favor of teaching him a lesson. After our boys bring home the cup. They"re already down Ares. We can"t risk losing Nick too."
While my best friends argue over whether my brother"hometown hero goalie for Copper Valley"s pro hockey team"deserves punishment for his assumed role in the mountains of soggy dick cookies polluting Gammy"s lawn, I take another swig of cheap red wine from the bottle that didn"t explode all over the kitchen ten minutes ago when I was carrying it in from the carport. Fucking loose strap on my reusable grocery sack. Fucking weak bottle.
Fucking cork that shot a hole through the window over Gammy"s sink.
Which is oddly the lesser of my problems, since my three friends arrived minutes ago for our weekly Sunday afternoon wine and whine and asking about the new decorations on the front lawn.
Where all the neighbors"and their children"can see.
"Gammy"s going to kill me," I mutter.
Kami slips an arm through mine. "Oh, honey," she whispers in that voice people use in funeral homes and psych wards.
"Ghosts can"t kill people," Maren says in that voice people use when they"re talking to stupid people.
Alina grips her own wine glass tighter and lifts her eyes toward the ceiling. "If any ghost can, Gammy"s ghost could."
I told you she was the pragmatic one.
A red, souped-up Jeep Cherokee squeals to a stop at the curb behind Maren"s Bolt, which means Nick himself has arrived.
I"d lock the door, but it wouldn"t matter. Since Gammy left the house to both of us, he has his own key, and even if he didn"t, he could break the door down. And even if he couldn"t by himself, the overgrown ogre of a hockey player with him could.
Ares Berger. The Force. A tank on skates. Silent as a mime. Intimidating as hell. I"ve heard he can lift an entire car with just his pinky, and I honestly believe it.
The guy gives new meaning to big scary hockey players.
And I like hockey players. I"ve been around them my entire life. I"m related to two.
Hockey players don"t scare me.
He turns my insides to jelly.
"Fuck on a fuck sandwich," I mutter.
"Fuck" No fuck," Alina says, very clearly enunciating each word. "It"s his fault. Let him clean up the dick cookie soup."