Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Conceited, unattainable, and downright delicious, renowned Michelin-starred chef Ambrose Casablancas has one passion in life—food.
Women are a distraction, and he doesn’t do those. Especially Cal Litvin, his baby sister’s best friend. Her entire existence is a complication; she’s awkward, eccentric, infuriating…
And, much to his chagrin, hotter than his kitchen.
Ambrose has a lot on his a new restaurant to open, a multimillion-dollar property deal to execute, and a violent stalker to tame.
Then Cal shows up at his doorstep, looking for both a job and salvation after their messy goodbye. His resolve, like his patience, is ebbing each day she works at his restaurant.
Because Cal is no longer a doe-eyed girl.
Now? She’s the woman he’ll do anything to conquer.
***
Quirky, compassionate ball of sunshine Calla Litvin can’t catch a break, and not just because she swore off running.
Back in her hometown to nurse her mother’s broken heart after losing her father, she finds herself jobless, hopeless, and penniless. She hopes to rekindle her friendship with her former BFF, but Dylan is attached at the hip to her cruel brother—the one Cal’s been secretly crushing on since middle school.
Falling for the bad boy the second time around would be a mistake of gargantuan proportions.
Too bad she’s always been clumsy.
Truly, Madly, Deeply, is a grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers romance. It is the first in the Forbidden Love series, but can be read as a standalone.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“Everyone wants to shine bright like a diamond, but no one wants to get cut.”
—Eric Thomas
“Truly Madly Deeply”—Savage Garden
“The Final Countdown”—Europe
“Creep”—Radiohead
“End of the Road”—Boyz II Men
“I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)”—Meat Loaf
“Torn”—Natalie Imbruglia
“Basket Case”—Green Day
“Why Can’t We Be Friends?”—Smash Mouth
“Crush”—Jennifer Paige
“There She Goes”—Sixpence None the Richer
“Alive”—Pearl Jam
“Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)”—C+C Music Factory
“Baby Can I Hold You”—Tracy Chapman
“I Will Always Love You”—Whitney Houston
“Human Nature”—Madonna
“All I Want for Christmas Is You”—Mariah Carey
“Lovefool”—The Cardigans
“Doll Parts”—Hole
“Friday I’m in Love”—The Cure
“Never Ever”—All Saints
“I Try”—Macy Gray
“Everybody Hurts”—R.E.M.
“You Get What You Give”—New Radicals
“Back for Good”—Take That
“Gold Soundz”—Pavement
“Whatever”—En Vogue
“What’s Up?”—4 Non Blondes
“Desert Rose”—Sting
“All That She Wants”—Ace of Base
“Ordinary World”—Duran Duran
“The River of Dreams”—Billy Joel
“Closing Time”—Semisonic
“Doo Wop”—Lauryn Hill
“Emotions”—Mariah Carey
CAL
“Creep”—Radiohead
Age Eighteen
If someone told me an hour ago that I would be pinned beneath Row Casablancas, partially naked and writhing against the hood of his black Mustang, I would have guessed he’d gotten himself into some kind of trouble and had resorted to drugging me and harvesting my organs to make a quick buck.
Row didn’t hate me. He didn’t love me either. I would guesstimate his feelings toward me were somewhere on the spectrum between look at this adorable little moron and shit, I forgot she existed.
I was his baby sister’s best friend. The awkward klutz who suffered from bouts of verbal diarrhea and extremely questionable fashion sense.
Fine. I didn’t suffer from the questionable fashion sense. I owned it. Sue me for celebrating my individuality.
I always figured he liked me in the same way people liked puppies—because they were cute, dumb, and adored the ground you walked on, even if you were a terrible human who peeled clementines in public places. But I digress.
Harboring a small, totally manageable crush on your best friend’s brother was a cliché. However, I was obsessed with the nineties, an era that celebrated true and tested formulas. Ergo, pining after him fit me like a tattoo choker.
In my defense, Row made it impossible for my adolescent self not to lust after him on account of him: 1) being six foot four inches of lithe, corded muscles, having floppy onyx hair, and a jawline stronger than my lifetime of New Year’s resolutions combined, and 2) having the entire bad-boy vibe down to a T—including a sports car, athletic genes, witty one-liners, a dimpled smirk, and unlaced combat boots with tight-fitting jeans stacked upon them.
To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme. So, yes. Of course I, too, wanted to be ruined by Dylan Casablancas’s older brother. Who didn’t? Our entire high school worshipped at his altar. Fenna McGee once even made a sticker that said, I’m not saying that Row Casablancas and God are the same person—but have you ever seen them in the same room?
Point was, Row’s tongue was currently shoved so far down my throat, we were playing tonsil hockey. His ballistic missile–sized erection pressed against the buttons of my yellow plaid skirt, threatening to snap them and send them past the Milky Way. And all I could think about was how I was doing Dylan dirty.
Bile coated the back of my throat. Dylan hated it when her friends fell at her brother’s feet. She’d make gagging sounds every time someone we knew flirted with him, which made what was happening right now completely inexcusable. But I was semi-drunk, exceptionally raw, and uncharacteristically reckless. Plus…Dylan was so used to seeing Row ruining her friends like it was an Olympic sport, what was adding one more into the mix?