NY Girlfriends Series by Erin McCarthy

Ordinarily, I'm a fan of pink-lovely colour, does smashing things for the complexion. But not when it's the bright, glaring stripe staring back at me on the pregnancy test. Then, pink is the colour of major oops, of morning sickness, of boyfriends who seemed decent but now are part of some Jerk Witness Protection Program... moreOrdinarily, I'm a fan of pink-lovely colour, does smashing things for the complexion. But not when it's the bright, glaring stripe staring back at me on the pregnancy test. Then, pink is the colour of major oops, of morning sickness, of boyfriends who seemed decent but now are part of some Jerk Witness Protection Program. Still, I've got a few things going for me-bitter humour, a divine right to eat till I'm the size of Marlon Brando, and good friends who've managed to get me a job interview with one Damien Sharpton: in need of a personal assistant, and some say, a good, swift kick in the arse. If you want to make a lasting impression, by all means, toss your cookies in your future boss's wastebasket, which is located directly between his excruciatingly sexy legs. Apparently, Mr. Gorgeous-But-Unbearably-Anti-Social must like personal assistants who violate his trash can, because I got the job. And if I can avoid him via text messaging for the next seven months of health insurance, everything will be just fine. Except that he's just asked-no, insisted-that I go with him on a business trip to the Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for celebration. Ordinarily, I'd shave my legs, pack my bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But there's nothing ordinary about this situation...which means it could be absolutely extraordinary... less

When it comes to sizzling hot romance coupled with outrageous hilarity, nobody delivers like Erin McCarthy. Now she's back with a delicious story where nothing's on the level, everybody's got something to hide, and the only thing honest is the slow, hard pull of irresistible attraction... Love. Sex. Destiny. And A Six-Foot-Four Psychic In A Bridesmaid’s Dress? Honey, You Don’t Know Jack... Jamie Peters no longer believes in true love... moreWhen it comes to sizzling hot romance coupled with outrageous hilarity, nobody delivers like Erin McCarthy. Now she's back with a delicious story where nothing's on the level, everybody's got something to hide, and the only thing honest is the slow, hard pull of irresistible attraction... Love. Sex. Destiny. And A Six-Foot-Four Psychic In A Bridesmaid’s Dress? Honey, You Don’t Know Jack... Jamie Peters no longer believes in true love. True idiots, true scumbags, true moochers - these she believes in wholeheartedly, and she’s got the checkered dating history to prove it. So she’s more than a little skeptical when her cross-dressing psychic tells her she’s about to meet her soul mate - during an accident. Yeah, sounds about right. And then it happens. A knight in shining armor steps between her and a mugger on a subway platform. Just a regular, honest, upright Jack. The kind they don’t make anymore... Jonathon Davidson doesn't believe in destiny - or lying to beautiful women as a rule. But now that Jamie thinks he’s just an ordinary guy, how can he possibly tell her that he’s really, (A) her roommate’s brother, (B) a millionaire to boot, and (C) the jerk who’s investigating her application to his grandfather’s charitable trust because she may be involved in something illegal? Yeah, rhetorical question. He can’t. Not until he knows what’s going on. Besides, it would require being able to resist Jamie’s luscious curves long enough to say, “Hi, my name is Big Liar. Let’s get naked.” Sometimes, destiny sucks... Somewhere between truth and flat-out-let’s-talk-about-this-waaay-later fiction, between fate and delicious accidental insanity, lies a whole lot of mind-blowing sex, delirious passion, unfortunate sundresses, fighting, deception, big mistakes and small hopes, and two people are about to discover that everything happens for a reason... less