Oblivion, on his band Warning Sign’s first tour. Until an overzealous fan goes
too far and his hard-partying ways catch up to him in the form of an ultimatum
from his manager, Lila Crandall.
Clean up your image—or else.
Single mom Chloe Adams is in Vegas for a rare girls’ night out. She wasn’t ever
supposed to be attracted to another rockstar. In fact, she’s in rockstar rehab,
and the cure for her addiction definitely isn’t a sexy, smart-assed guitarist
with wicked fingers.
She never expects to accidentally end up his wife. Or to have her new husband
suddenly decide that she’s the solution to all his problems. And surprise…he’s
happy to show his appreciation in a number of interesting, inventive ways.
Pretending their marriage is real might just be the hottest proposition she’s
ever been given.
But what happens when a lie becomes the truth?
world of our Lost in Oblivion series! You never know who you’ll see show up in
Chloe moaned. Why couldn’t she move?
Had she ended up with another Johnson sleeping with her again? Jinx wasn’t usually the cuddling type, but Ivy liked to spoon sometimes. She grunted and tried to wiggle free.
Was Ivy groping her boob? Okay, that might require a conversation about personal space. And seriously when had Ivy become close to two tons? She opened her eyes and immediately slammed them shut. Too bright.
So not good.
Just how much had she guzzled last night? And her mouth tasted like death. Thank God it was Sunday. Obviously, she didn’t know how to handle Vegas.
A groan dented her personal flogging. Not a girl groan.
No. No. No.
She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that sparklers started going off behind her eyelids. She didn’t. She wouldn’t.
Flashes of bodies grinding in a dark room tightened her throat.
You can do it. Open your eyes. Big girl panties, goddammit.
Was she wearing panties? She wiggled her legs.
Sweet peaches, she so wasn’t.
Chloe forced herself to open her eyes and look down. Definitely not the shirt she’d been wearing last night. Was that Dave Grohl? Why had her boobs had grown at least two sizes?
Because a male hand was cupping each of them like she was his own personal rock wall.
She suppressed another moan when the man’s hands tightened. His thumb flicked over her nipple and it responded instantly.
He groaned and pushed up her shirt. “Round two?” he asked in a fuzzy mumble.
“Round none!” She kicked out and connected with something before she scrambled up against the headboard.
“Fuck me.” The man curled into a fetal position.
Dark hair and naked shoulders. Was that a tattoo? Was he naked under the sheet?
She didn’t wait to find out. She leaped off the bed. Not her hotel room. This one was bigger with only one bed. A lake-sized mattress with tangled white sheets.
She was going to be sick. She lunged for the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it before she skidded in front of the toilet. Her stomach revolted until there was nothing but dry heaves shuddering through her.
“Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. She’d awakened in a strange hotel room with a strange man. She gripped the edge of the bowl, frowning as something clicked against the porcelain.
She pulled shaking fingers away and flushed, then stumbled to the sink.
Her eyes were bloodshot, her pupils absolutely huge. Blindly, she fumbled with the faucet, causing another clink of metal against metal. She stuck her head under the spray to rinse away the sick.
She needed eight toothbrushes and a magic eraser for her brain.
Actually, not so much on the erasing because she couldn’t remember a damn thing.
How had she ended up here?
Why couldn’t she remember?
Where the hell was her phone?
Auto-pilot kicked in as she pumped soap on her hands. Metal clicked against metal. She still had on Snake’s ring. She couldn’t seem to take it off, but she’d moved it to her right hand.
That was only one hand.
Something flashed on her left hand.
On her ring finger.
music and men, so she figured why not write about both? When she’s not writing,
she’s screaming at men’s college basketball games on TV, playing her music too
loud or causing trouble. Sometimes simultaneously.
USA Today bestselling author Taryn Elliott is
obsessed with rock stars, men, and her unending playlists–maximizing these
things seemed like a very good idea. When she’s not writing, she’s losing hours
to hot men on TV, and/or a graphic design project. Multitasking is her middle
They decided to combine forces and found that hey…this writing deal is even
more awesome when you collaborate with your best friend.