Being a hit man has its perks, but I never thought getting an accidental mooning by an attractive PI while he’s caught on a fence would be one of them. While it’s not exactly love at first sight, he’s captured my interest and won’t let go. Suddenly, I find myself caught in a game of cat and mouse, determined to attract the attention of Jackson, the PI who should be my enemy. He pretends like he’s not flattered by my flowers and the mentions of my totally-not-fictitious blow-up doll, Randy (or was it Dandy?), but I know better.

Harrison Phillip Fletcher III isn't supposed to be here. Not in Burlington, Vermont, not running Vino & Veritas, a quaint inclusive bookstore and wine bar, and definitely not still alive, at 42. Also not supposed to be here? An unexpected delivery of chickens. Finn Barnes knows chickens. The burly organic farmer knows all about rare breed poultry, but dealing with a hot older bookseller is an entirely different matter. City-slicker types like Harrison never end up staying in Vermont for the long-term. They should steer clear of each other. But the flare of attraction is mutual.

Getting into the vampire-only detective unit was the easy part. What’s going to be more difficult is dealing with my new partner - an ancient vampire who keeps threatening to eat me. The unit has never had a human in it. Marcus - or, as I like to call him: Fangy McFangface - would really prefer to keep it that way. He’s grumpy, short-tempered, and broody, but I have a way with words, and I know he’s starting to like me, even if he swears he’s not.

When I’m tossed into the trunk of a car, I realize that what little luck I have has finally run out—especially when I find that Tony, the man who’d abducted me, is planning on using me to get back at my father. My chances for escape look pretty bleak when I’m handcuffed to Tony’s bodyguard, an intimidating man named Shepherd who apparently loves tight shirts and seems to be amused by making my life miserable. Soon, though, I learn that Shepherd has a heart and a brain.

I left my family and tiny Texas hometown 15 years ago to escape small-town gossips and to give my mom and sister the chance at a better life. But when a phone call from an attorney back home informs me that my sister passed away, leaving me custody of her newborn baby, I'm shocked out of the steady life I've built for myself running a tattoo shop in San Francisco. The thing is: I don't do babies. And I don't do small towns. Or commitment. And I especially don't do family.