"The obnoxious drummer neighbor I reported for noise pollution? Turns out he’s the biggest rock star in the country! Oops."
I write romance because true love doesn’t happen in real life. My parents’ marriage and a string of failed relationships have taught me that.
Then Killian Axelrod moves in next door. He’s a rock star, and hot as hell. Wicked blue eyes. A body made for sin. Cocky attitude. If he was on a romance cover, I’d one-click it without even reading the title.
Too bad he's such a pain.
He tries to steal my favorite specialty ice cream. He drums so loud I can’t hear myself think. Then comes over in nothing but a towel when his water heater dies so he can finish his shower with my hot water.
But then he cooks me breakfast. Rescues me from an evil snake. Kisses me like I’m the girl of his dreams. Sings like I’m the only one in the audience.
It doesn’t seem to matter to him that I’m not a size two, my yoga pants have holes, and I don’t put makeup on every morning.
I know there are no happy endings in real life, but Killian makes my heart flutter and makes me wonder…
Can we have a romance novel ending for real?