Rosie Belmont has been driving me wild for years. The good kind of wild. The bad kind of wild. But mostly the kind of wild that comes with wanting your best friend’s little sister and knowing you can’t have her. After living in the city, she comes blasting back into Rose Hill like a storm. Beautiful, messy, and chaotic. And one wide-eyed desperate plea for a job is all it takes for me to hire her.

I want a girl I can't have. She's my tutor. My best friend's girlfriend. And my kryptonite. She also looks really good in my T-shirt. But she wants the golden boy, and I'm more of the villain type. Or at least I was.... Until I saw her smile for the first time. But the good guy she wants wouldn't lust after his friend's girlfriend. And the good guy she's with sure as hell shouldn't be sneaking around behind her back. So where the hell does that leave me?

When you reach rock bottom, the only place to go is up.... Or, for me, apparently it’s straight into the arms of the one person who’s off-limits. My brother’s good friend and my new roommate.

With green eyes and an easy smile, Frank McCabe stole me away from the nightmares that awaited me at home. But the son of the Irish Mob would never be mine. I belonged to the Italians. And the moment my mother sold me to the head of the Italian Mafia, I became the one the people of Boston were warned about. The only person more feared than me in our city is the Irish Ghost. When I finally flee my marital prison with my sons and my sister in tow, I unwittingly run straight into the ghost of the Irishman who died in a fiery explosion years ago.

Carter Beckett is the NHL’s resident bad boy, top player both on the ice and in the bedroom, and quite possibly the sexiest man to ever grace my field of vision. But worst of all? He knows it. He’s arrogant, self-centered, and the man doesn’t seem to know what a filter is, let alone how to use one. He’s had everything served to him on a silver platter, including endless strings of women, and apparently, I’m up next. I have the solution to all my sexual frustrations in a drawer at home, and it’s far less complicated than Carter Beckett.