by: Kate Meader
Series: Chicago Rebels
Genre: Contemporary Sports Romance
Release Date: May 7, 2018
Publisher: Pocket Star
Amazon | Paperback | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks | Goodreads
The steamy Chicago Rebels series returns with this racy and sassy tale of embittered hearts, second chances, and going for the goal—on and off the ice.
Violet Vasquez never met her biological father, so learning he left his beloved hockey franchise—the Chicago Rebels—to her is, well, unexpected. Flat broke and close to homeless, Violet is determined to make the most of this sudden opportunity. Except dear old dad set conditions that require she takes part in actually running the team with the half-sisters she barely knows. Working with these two strangers and overseeing a band of hockey-playing lugs is not on her agenda…until she lays eyes on the Rebels captain and knows she has to have him.
Bren St. James has been labeled a lot of things: the Puck Prince, Lord of the Ice, Hell’s Highlander...but it’s the latest tag that’s making headlines: washed-up alcoholic has-been. This season, getting his life back on track and winning the Cup are his only goals. With no time for relationships—except the fractured ones he needs to rebuild with his beautiful daughters—he’s finding it increasingly hard to ignore sexy, all-up-in-his-beard Violet Vasquez. And when he finds himself in need of a nanny just as the playoffs are starting, he’s faced with a temptation he could so easily get hooked on.
For two lost souls, there’s more on the line than just making the best of a bad situation… there might also be a shot at the biggest prize of all: love.
Heading toward the kitchen, he heard music: Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain,” the part where its bass progression builds to that famous outro. A flurry, as his Scottish granny would call it, trickled down his spine, a sign of something momentous on the horizon.
Such as Violet Vasquez’s ass in tiny denim shorts.
That grade A rear stuck out of the fridge while she bent over, its perfect curve of butt cheek playing peek-a-boo through frayed hems. His eyes followed the shorts’ seam along the cleft of her ass until it disappeared to that mouthwatering spot between her thighs. Ker-ist. The inviting accessibility of it hardened his cock in his jeans.
Sixteen months without sex. That’s all it was. He was hard up, and his hard-on was making everything so fucking hard.
“Hey, Harpsichord, not sure you bought enough cheddar cheese. And that was sarcasm, by the way.” Violet laughed at her joke, her voice a musical echo inside the fridge.
Backing up, she turned and frowned on seeing him ogling her so blatantly, as if her ass making him wild was his problem.
He couldn’t help his grouchy reaction. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She stuck out her tongue. “Ingrate.”
He curved his gaze around her, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of a full-to-the-freezer fridge.
“I—” He rubbed his mouth, feeling too warm and cock-dumb. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
Reaching up, she tightened the topknot that barely contained her lush waves of dark hair, which was now streaked with ribbons of pink instead of purple like the last time he’d seen her. She usually wore it down, unrestrained, a rebellious mass he longed to plow his fingers through.
His eyes were drawn behind her to one of the open cupboards and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black, whose label he’d recognize from a hundred paces. First order of business: dump all the booze. There was an entire cabinet of liquor in the den, a bar in the living room, bottles stashed anywhere and everywhere because he could never risk going without.
While he was trying to recall where else he might have hidden one of his “friends,” Violet walked over to the kitchen island, hit the screen on her phone to stop the music, and leaned her hip against the side. The stance drew his attention to her thighs, which were covered in a riotous garden of colorful blooms. Beautifully shaped, those thighs tapered to perfect, smooth golden calves and red Converses. Bren knew little about fashion, but he had enough wherewithal to recognize that Violet’s style was definitely unique. Up top she wore a loose-fitting sweater, which couldn’t help slipping off her body, revealing a wafer-thin blue bra strap bisecting one lovely mocha-skinned shoulder.
Christ, sobriety had turned him into a poet—and a horn dog.
“Your girls with you, Scottie?”
“Aye, upstairs.” Where the bedrooms are. With beds. With my bed.
The rapidity of his dirty thoughts seemed to have a direct correlation with how fast Violet’s sweater slipped off her shoulder to reveal more skin, as if what was on display wasn’t enough. He wanted to rip that sweater off with his teeth and lick his way down her lush body.
Instead of that he tried something even more dumb. Speaking. “So, you’re here. Helping Harper out.”
“I’m here to fill your fridge.” She winked. “If ya know what I mean.”
She leaned over on the island, her curves flowing with her. The sweater gaped now, giving him an entirely different vista to lust over. The dark shadow between her breasts made his mouth water.
Stop. Please fucking stop.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re busy.” Annoyance at his reaction to her made him testier than usual.
“Nessie, Harper needed help and I offered my services. Calm down, I’m not here to corrupt you.”
A strangled sound emerged from his throat. Dressed like that, she could corrupt the pope.
Her eyes widened, something like surprise—and desire?—in them. But, as it had been a long time since he’s seen a woman’s eyes flare that way, he dismissed it as impossible. Violet wasn’t attracted to him. Not really. She just liked to tease him, like she did the entire team.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, frustration loosening his tongue. “You live to test me. Nothin’ but trouble.”
Unfortunately, he had a major thing for trouble.
No. He had a major thing for Violet.
Such as Violet Vasquez’s ass in tiny denim shorts.
That grade A rear stuck out of the fridge while she bent over, its perfect curve of butt cheek playing peek-a-boo through frayed hems. His eyes followed the shorts’ seam along the cleft of her ass until it disappeared to that mouthwatering spot between her thighs. Ker-ist. The inviting accessibility of it hardened his cock in his jeans.
Sixteen months without sex. That’s all it was. He was hard up, and his hard-on was making everything so fucking hard.
“Hey, Harpsichord, not sure you bought enough cheddar cheese. And that was sarcasm, by the way.” Violet laughed at her joke, her voice a musical echo inside the fridge.
Backing up, she turned and frowned on seeing him ogling her so blatantly, as if her ass making him wild was his problem.
He couldn’t help his grouchy reaction. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She stuck out her tongue. “Ingrate.”
He curved his gaze around her, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of a full-to-the-freezer fridge.
“I—” He rubbed his mouth, feeling too warm and cock-dumb. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
Reaching up, she tightened the topknot that barely contained her lush waves of dark hair, which was now streaked with ribbons of pink instead of purple like the last time he’d seen her. She usually wore it down, unrestrained, a rebellious mass he longed to plow his fingers through.
His eyes were drawn behind her to one of the open cupboards and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black, whose label he’d recognize from a hundred paces. First order of business: dump all the booze. There was an entire cabinet of liquor in the den, a bar in the living room, bottles stashed anywhere and everywhere because he could never risk going without.
While he was trying to recall where else he might have hidden one of his “friends,” Violet walked over to the kitchen island, hit the screen on her phone to stop the music, and leaned her hip against the side. The stance drew his attention to her thighs, which were covered in a riotous garden of colorful blooms. Beautifully shaped, those thighs tapered to perfect, smooth golden calves and red Converses. Bren knew little about fashion, but he had enough wherewithal to recognize that Violet’s style was definitely unique. Up top she wore a loose-fitting sweater, which couldn’t help slipping off her body, revealing a wafer-thin blue bra strap bisecting one lovely mocha-skinned shoulder.
Christ, sobriety had turned him into a poet—and a horn dog.
“Your girls with you, Scottie?”
“Aye, upstairs.” Where the bedrooms are. With beds. With my bed.
The rapidity of his dirty thoughts seemed to have a direct correlation with how fast Violet’s sweater slipped off her shoulder to reveal more skin, as if what was on display wasn’t enough. He wanted to rip that sweater off with his teeth and lick his way down her lush body.
Instead of that he tried something even more dumb. Speaking. “So, you’re here. Helping Harper out.”
“I’m here to fill your fridge.” She winked. “If ya know what I mean.”
She leaned over on the island, her curves flowing with her. The sweater gaped now, giving him an entirely different vista to lust over. The dark shadow between her breasts made his mouth water.
Stop. Please fucking stop.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re busy.” Annoyance at his reaction to her made him testier than usual.
“Nessie, Harper needed help and I offered my services. Calm down, I’m not here to corrupt you.”
A strangled sound emerged from his throat. Dressed like that, she could corrupt the pope.
Her eyes widened, something like surprise—and desire?—in them. But, as it had been a long time since he’s seen a woman’s eyes flare that way, he dismissed it as impossible. Violet wasn’t attracted to him. Not really. She just liked to tease him, like she did the entire team.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, frustration loosening his tongue. “You live to test me. Nothin’ but trouble.”
Unfortunately, he had a major thing for trouble.
No. He had a major thing for Violet.
Purchase Hooked on You from:
The Chicago Rebels Series:
In Skates Trouble ~ Review
Irresistible You ~ Review
So Over You ~ Review
Undone by You ~ Review
Originally from Ireland, Kate Meader cut her romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron, a fire hose, or a hockey stick, and she's there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha heroes and strong heroines (and heroes) who can match their men quip for quip.
Places to find Kate Meader:
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