Peaches

It doesn't have to be a bestseller.
It doesn't have to be something new no one has ever read before.
So why am I making this so damn difficult?

I need to focus and push past the writer's block, the fear, the taunting rejections I worry will bury my new manuscript in a publishing graveyard before it ever gets the chance to live in reader land.

What's more, I don't need distractions.

Especially mouth-watering, panty-dropping, dirty-talking, self-gratifying male distractions. Distractions that cause my breath to catch, my thighs to clench, my center to quickly dampen, and my brain to scream two self-gratifying words.

Yes fucking please!

OK, that was three.

Never mind the fact that he's my new boss. Forget that he corners me into a fake engagement the first day we meet. Ignore the obvious enemies-to-lovers vibe we dance around for weeks when we're forced to move in together and share one bed.

Gifting me with the nickname Peaches, he immediately makes it known he's dead set on claiming my peach the first chance he gets, and the sooner the better.

I know life is short.

But can Brettly Beckett really make it sweet?