The average song is three and a half minutes long; those three and a half minutes could lead to a slow blink, a glimpse of the past, or catapult the soul into heart-shattering nostalgia. At the height of my career, I had the life I wanted, the life I’d always envisioned. I’d found my tempo, my rhythm. Then I received a phone call that left me off key. You see, my favorite songs had a way of playing simultaneously. I was in love with one man’s beats and another’s lyrics. But when it came to the soundtrack of a life, how could anyone choose a favorite song?

Once upon a time… there lived a man with a vengeance-filled heart that held too many secrets and a woman, pure of soul, intent on uncovering them. What they failed to realize is that through the storm their love would create, a legacy would be born.

Macon Davis. My best friend’s brother. My tormentor. My least favorite person. Pothead. Delinquent. A careless, directionless loser. That’s what I used to believe, but I didn’t really know him. And when I finally saw him, it was the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. We burned hot and fast. Passion. Anger. Love. Pain. We were reckless. Naive. We were doomed from the start. When I finally saw Macon Davis for who he was, we both went down in the flames.

This isn’t a story about a love triangle. There is no triangle involved. This isn’t a story about an accidental pregnancy. Although having a baby with her...I would. This isn’t a story about lies and deception, even though at times I’ve lied to myself. No, this is my story. A story about sacrifice. A story about a man who fell in love with the wrong girl. A story I wish I never had to tell. I learned a long damn time ago, the only way to achieve my dreams was to avoid distractions - at any cost.

Clark Griswold was onto something...at least with his annual holiday meltdown. And since the last three weeks of my life have been riddled with humbug—another breakup, a broken toe, an office promotion I deserved and didn’t get—I’m not at all in the mood to celebrate nor have the happ, happ, happiest Christmas EVER.

Growing up, Wilder Ashburn was the hero I worshipped. I was the pigtailed pest who never left him alone. Everything changed the day I gave him a poem. For the first time, he saw me...And then he reached for his guitar. From that moment on, we were entangled. Bound by music and a shared dream. Along the way, we made vows: To always stay the same, To never let anything come between us, And above all, to never, ever fall in love.

In the beginning, there was Savannah Shaw. Teasing me with a mischievous, merciless grin by day. Crawling through my window with tear-stained cheeks by night. I was ordered to avoid her. Lectured on her misdeeds. Forbidden from seeing her. But my need to protect her was innate. So natural I never questioned it. So visceral I couldn’t fight it.

I should have known everything was going to change when she walked into my tattoo shop... Timid as hell and gorgeous to the extreme. I knew better than even thinking about touching a woman like that. My life is dangerous. My calling wicked. Willing to cross any line to protect the innocent. I thought I’d never see her again until my little boy tumbled and busted his lip, and I found her working at the doctor’s office. The woman who’d taken possession of my thoughts. When it becomes clear she’s in trouble, I offer up a deal.

The last thing Dorian Vanderbilt expected was to find me painting in my crop top when he returned to the mansion he hadn’t inhabited in years. He was understandably surprised I’d turned his living room into an art space. Life is certainly full of surprises, though, but not always in a good way. I learned that lesson when my aunt and the billionaire she married died unexpectedly while traveling. I’d been living with them, and just like that, my life was turned on its axis.

Triple Falls wasn’t at all what it seemed, nor were the men that swept me under their wing. But in order to keep them, I had to be in on their secrets.⁣ Secrets that cost us everything to keep.⁣ That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story, because by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me and the men I trusted my foolish heart to.⁣ Looking back, I’m convinced I willed my story into existence, due to my illness, and all were punished.

When my husband died, he left my broken heart behind. He left another heart behind, too - his.
I know it's wrong. I shouldn't be contacting the recipient of my husband's heart. I don't even expect him to reply.... But there's a desperate, twisted part of me that hopes he will. No names. No personal details. Just a conversation. The only thing I have left of my husband is inside him.

I’ve spent my life putting others first. So when my father runs for New York City mayor—on a promise to take down the city’s most notorious crime family—I do what I always do: push my own dreams aside to help him win. Until I wind up at the wrong party. Trapped in a bedroom with Romolo Ferraro—the dangerous, merciless youngest son of the man my father has sworn to destroy. He terrifies me. He fascinates me. Six foot four and covered in tattoos, he’s everything I should avoid.

I’m head over heels in love with my best friend. Although, I can’t pinpoint exactly when Reeve Lancaster became my entire world. Was it when we were little kids, practically brought up together, after Reeve’s mom died during childbirth and his dad subsequently fell apart? Or when I doodled his name in my school journal at age 10? Maybe it was when we became boyfriend and girlfriend at 14 or when we shed our virginity at 16, pledging our forever?

He’s a criminal—an abomination. We’re wrong in every way. If only I could’ve convinced my heart. His lips whispered promises of all the stars in the sky. I dreamt of a love that would last forever. We were gorgeously young and desperate for one another. But we're star-crossed. Fate had decided our course. Leaving us to cling to each other as we crumbled to ash. His need became possession. My innocence turned jaded. Our families declared war. All that remained was hate. But Calder was raised by wolves. The rules didn’t apply. I was his until he said otherwise—for better or for worse.

I fell in love with Beckett when I was 7. He broke my heart when I was 15. When I was 18, I promised myself I’d forget about him. And I did. For a dozen years. But now he’s back home. Here. In Darling Lake. And I don’t know if I should give in to the temptation swirling between us or run the other way.