A sexy, swoony new Standalone rom-com from USA Today Bestseller Lili Valente…
Some men are troublemakers or dealmakers. The men in my family" We’re baby makers.
For six generations, the women of wine country have had a saying: don"t bang a Hunter man unless you want a bun in your oven.
Yeah, well. I"ve got a saying too: no thanks. The last thing I need is baby makes three. My business is expanding and the only thing I"m interested in getting knocked up is my bottom line.
But then one night Emma Haverford makes me an offer I can"t refuse"she backs away from the land I have my eye on in exchange for a favor"
A big, fat, baby making favor"
When I hear women have gotten pregnant shaking hands with Hunter men, I know I need Dylan Hunter"s"ahem, special skills"way more than I need to expand my vineyard.
I"m ready to give my heart to a child and I"m tired of waiting for my late-to-the-party Prince Charming to make my dreams come true. So I promise Dylan"three months of hot, heavy, baby-making s-e-x and then I"m out of his hair forever.
But what if when it comes time to say good-bye, all I want to do is keep bottling up more memories with this big-hearted man"
This sexy Standalone romance will make you laugh, swoon, and blush baby-makin’ red. Heat level: A risk of getting knocked up during download.Books by Author:Lili Valente Books
Here"s the thing about days that change your life"
When you wake up, you have no idea you"re on the cusp of a life changer.
Your alarm goes off at five a.m. like any other day. You yawn, curse the cold floor waiting to bite your foot as soon as you swing a leg out from under the covers, and start the usual routine.
You chug a glass of water, trudge through the sleeping house to the back door, and run down the list: feed the dogs, water the chickens, move the mobile coops across the still damp grass, milk the cow your younger brother adopted before he moved just far enough away to make it impossible for him to milk Moo-Donna"a rescue cow with a bad attitude and unusually sharp teeth"and slam a fist on the guest house door to get your nephews out of bed because your older brother wants them doing chores while they"re staying with you, even though it would be easier to gather the eggs yourself.
Getting teenagers out of bed is usually akin to hauling large boulders up a mountain against a gale force wind while birds peck out your eyeballs, and this morning is no different.
"Jacob! Blake!" I shout, pounding on the door again. "The eggs need to be sorted for the restaurant orders and the extras on the stand before seven."
Mumbles and groans seep through the thin door, followed by a plaintive, "Five more minutes. It"s Saturday, Uncle Dylan."
"Which means people will be out walking the trail behind the house, looking for eggs to take home for breakfast," I counter. "Up. Now. Go."
I thump the door three more times for good measure and head back to the house, thinking grumbly thoughts about the list of chores I had as a seventeen-year-old and the way things were done back in my day.
I"m thirty-one, way too young for old-fart belly-aching, but that doesn"t stop me from growling at Rafe as I duck into the kitchen, "I should make the boys milk the cow. Let them get chewed a few times and they"ll be grateful for egg duty."
Rafe, who"s tying on his work boots for the first time in longer than I can remember, laughs. "You sound like Dad."
"I don"t sound like Dad." I scowl harder as I grab the truck keys off the hook. "You going to be around today""
"Where else would I be" If I"m staying here, I"m working here." Rafe arches a dark brow as he stands. My half-brother has his Italian mother"s dark hair and olive skin, but people still mistook us for twins when we were kids.
But then, we are only two months apart in age. That kind of thing happens when your father has a habit of spreading the love around.
Before a prostate cancer fight finally slowed him down, Dad managed to have four sons by three different women. My mom was the one he didn"t marry, the hippie he met at a music festival in Mendocino, knocked up, and saw a few times a year until she got tired of the single-mother gig, dropped me off at Dad"s, and never came back.
I"ve been here ever since. This land has its claws in me deep, and most days I"m okay with that. Grouchy thoughts aside, I love what I do, especially this time of year, when the hops harvest is in and all I"ve got on my plate is managing the organic egg arm of our operation. Though, I am looking forward to the day when I get to keep the hops for myself, start my own brewery, and make a name for the Hunters with beer the way my great-granddad did with wine.
I"m so close to having our debts paid, my well-oiled growing machine in prime working order, and the reins ready to hand over to Dad.
Or, better yet, a manager I will pay to make sure Dad"s stress levels stay low and my well-oiled machine doesn"t break down. The farm was struggling when I took over three years ago, and I don"t want any backsliding.
"Thanks for taking my ass in," Rafe continues, crossing the faded brown tile. "I appreciate it."
I shake my head and scoff at his crazy. "Get out. Your house burned down, man. Like we"re going to let you stay in a hotel for months while you wrestle with the insurance company. Besides, this is your home. You"re always welcome."
"I know. But I also know you"ve got a lot on your plate," he says, gaze lifting pointedly toward the ceiling. "He still giving you shit""
"Daily," I say dryly. "A fresh load every afternoon, like clockwork."
Rafe rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, fuck that. You"re killing it, Dylan. This ship was headed for the rocks, and you turned it around. Just let Dad"s bitching go in one ear and out the other."