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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Dear Lieutenant Hot Stuff: the Valentine's Day song was a joke. The rest wasn't. Signed, the girl you're not allowed to have.
Singing a Valentine's telegram at the fire station was supposed to be easy money. Then the lobster head on my costume slipped — and the man who's been off-limits my whole life saw exactly who'd been serenading him.
Now his terms are on the table: all of it or none of it. His house. His baby — and he wants to start tonight.
I've wanted him since I was eighteen. There's only ever been one answer.
Because he's twenty-four years older, he's been at every cookout on my street since before I could drive, and he calls me babygirl like a promise he's been saving — and when a man like Graham Hale finally decides you're his, he doesn't do halfway. The house. The ring. The baby he wants to start on tonight.
