When phone-sex operator Azrael gets into Travis's Uber, the driver profile claims Travis is deaf. Thank goodness, right? Otherwise, the guy would hear Az's dirty talk which would be all kinds of humiliating considering Az is actually a virgin who doesn't even know if he's doing phone job properly. But Travis isn't deaf. He's standing in for someone else and hears every single word of Az's raunchy call. So when they're randomly set up on a blind date together, the sparks fly from the very first moment they meet.

It is utter madness for a valet to fall in love with one’s boss. But when that boss is Ignatius Corbridge–my handsome, secretly lonely, utterly wonderful Iggy–one really can’t help it. For decades, I’ve stood by his side, fulfilling my role as his right-hand man, his mentor, his friend. I’ve pressed his suits, arranged his travel, and witnessed a thousand walks of shame as he scratched itch after itch with elite playboys around the globe. Each day, it killed me just a little bit more. So I did what needed to be done for both of us: I quit.

When art therapist Cam gets set up on a blind date with a man named Josh, he doesn't realize it's Joshua Lede, the famous television reporter, or that Josh is a lower-leg amputee. As they spend the day on the National Mall, Cam learns that Josh is more than the hard-hitting political analyst he is on television, and Josh learns that he may have finally found a funny, sweet man to share his life with.

The job at Sunday Orchard was supposed to be temporary. A chance to gain some work experience, to have some fun. I had not expected to be welcomed into a family of gorgeous and weirdly efficient lumberjack-types, or to find purpose in the tiny Vermont town whose claim to fame seemed to be apple-based products and copious amounts of charm. And I most definitely hadn’t expected to fall for Knox Sunday, my grumpy, burly, fifteen-years-older, reluctant roommate, with his infuriating lectures, his hot-as-fire body, his superior attitude - I’ve never been one to put down roots.

There’s nothing wrong with admiring a work of art, or so I tell myself…even when the admiring is more like peeping out my bedroom window, and the work of art is the shirtless, sweaty, body of the man who’s been mowing my lawn once a week every summer for years.