Resultados Editorial "Dreamscape Media, LLC" en Comedia romántica

As the last woman standing, I, Piper Carter, am officially a loner. Apparently, that means it’s time for me to get out there and find myself a man. My protestations that I have no time for it falls on deaf ears, and the next thing I know, I’m on a blind date with someone my best friends assure me will be perfect for me. Maverick Donovan, a guy I, uh, know very, very well.

Lucy Marshall has hit rock bottom. After failing to succeed as a single mom in Atlanta, she’s back home and moving in with her older brother, Drew. Reconnecting with her support system is the right thing to do, but Lucy can’t help but feel like a failure. Her four-year-old son deserves the world, and all she can give him is a spare bedroom. But Drew is the sweetest uncle, and some quality time might be exactly what they both need to start fresh. That is until she meets Cooper, her brother’s incredibly hot best friend.

As the owner of Licked, an eclectic ice creamery and bar, Ryleigh Phillips doesn't have time for that love stuff. Serving up Nibble My Nuts sundaes and Drunken Sailor boozy shakes are as close to an orgasmic affair as she's had in months thanks to her expanding empire - until the night of her 10-year high-school reunion. When Ryleigh's crush, gorgeous ex-football god Cameron Mathis, comes streaking into her life (literally - streaking), she begins to wonder if she really can have it all. Enter Hunter Morgan, the contractor in charge of Licked's renovations....

The wedding was going to be a fake. The only catch was nobody could know. Not even my wedding planner. Now the wedding planner thinks I’m the world’s biggest bastard. She thinks I’m in love with the woman I’m supposed to marry. She thinks a lot of things, but she doesn’t know the truth. She’s got no idea she’s going to fall for me by the time this thing is over.

My name is Evangeline Astley, and the only thing you need to know about me is that I never imagined this was how my life would go. I was supposed to devote all my time to painting gorgeous things to eventually open my own art gallery. Instead, I spent it all trying to sell my art to save my parents’ hotel.

Bad idea number 241: sending a dirty text to your number neighbor. In my defense, my friends did it, too, and their neighbors took it as the joke it was. Mine didn't. He responded with a dirty text of his own. Next thing I know, I have a standing texting date every night at 10:30. Until I have to miss it because the stray kitten who adopted me one week ago is sick. The only person I know who can help me at this time of night is my British next-door neighbor and local vet, Isaac Cooper.

One night and my life completely jumped the tracks. Actually, a pack of expired condoms did that - the rest of the night was pretty amazing. Open bar at a friend's wedding. Bad dancing all around. Stupid trivia bets with my fellow Ice Knights hockey teammates. And Tess Gardner. The factoid-blurting, fandom-T-shirt-wearing, no-I-don’t-want-a-relationship-with-you woman makes me forget for one night that I’m a man with a routine and my future all mapped out. Still, it sucked she left our room without giving me her number.

Don’t sleep with your best friend. Take it from me. I did it. And it was awful - I-wish-the-tequila-made-me-forget kind of bad. The problem is, Luke has forgotten. He swears that he can’t remember a thing about that night beyond the trays of tequila shots being set on the tables. But I can't forget. I can’t forget how good his hands felt until I fell over and hit my hip on the dresser, and I sure as hell can’t forget the entire two minutes.

There’s nothing like starting your Monday morning with a positive pregnancy test. Trust me, I know - because I’m looking at one right now. All I can think is this: Oh, hell. My grandmother is going to kill me. Since this might just send her to an early grave, there’s only one option - pretending the father is my new husband. If only he’ll agree to fake it. Kai Connors was supposed to be nothing more than a one-night stand - a long, dirty one-night stand fueled by one too many tequila shots, where the only promise was to never speak of it again.

There are some things you just have to deal with - like your hot-as-hell college booty call moving in next door with his adorable daughter. The only time we've ever gotten along is under the sheets. Old habits die hard because two minutes on my front porch is how long it takes us to bicker. Not that a little fact like that bothers my healthy 80-year-old grandmother and roommate who's determined to see me married before she bites the dust.

I have no idea why I said yes. Maybe I'd had one too many wines. Maybe I'd done it accidentally. Maybe I'd been sleep-texting. One thing I know for sure is this: I absolutely do not want Ethan Hawkins in my apartment, up in my business, taking over my space. Yet he's here, moving his stuff into my spare bedroom, sending a wave of panty-melting, musky man-scent my way every time he walks past me. Here's the thing. We don't get along - at all. We never have, and I don't think we're going to start now that we're under one roof.

Let your homeless best friend stay with you, he said. Being roommates will be fun, he said. It's only temporary, he said. He never said I'd fall for him. You know what isn't temporary? The endless stream of dirty socks in my bathroom and empty food packets under the sofa - and don't even get me started on the hot guys who take over my living room every Sunday to watch sports. I can't take anymore. So I propose a roommate agreement. One that will bring peace and order back to my life, complete with rules that might just stop my newfound crush on my best friend in its tracks.

My name is Adelaide Astley, and if there was anything remotely exciting about me to tell you, I would. Sure, my uncle is the Duke of Leicester, and my mother bucked family tradition to marry “below” her and open a hotel, but I’m nothing but an aspiring author with a Tudor era obsession. Oh, and I’m spending the summer tutoring the daughter of the current Duke of Worcester. Alexander Winthrop-Bentley is so not my type, but hours of chess games and arguments over Tudor dynasties mean we’re thrown together more often than we should be.

At 35, Gina Bourque is still playing the field. If he’s single, in his early 20s with dark hair and brooding eyes, there’s a damn good chance you’ll find him in her little black book. Jeffrey Ryan never imagined that at nearly 40 he’d find himself widowed and a single dad. But here he is - stumbling through this thing called life with two impressionable daughters watching his every move.

It’s not you. It’s me. No, seriously. It is me. Not only does my name literally mean “unfortunate”, but that’s the story of my life. Everything I touch turns to crap. An apartment fire - that I swear I was not responsible for - means I’m living back at home with my sex-mad parents. Yay, me! Which is why I need my new job as personal assistant to Cameron Reid to get back on my feet. Three months in this job and I can move back out and, hopefully, remember to turn off my flat iron once in a while.

Sarah Madison loved working at Baldwin & Blake. While she looked and, for the most part, acted conservatively, she was a gladiator in the boardroom. She was finally offered the promotion she’d been vying for. But she had to share it with a new guy they brought in especially for the role. Kyle Drake was probably just as good, if not better, in negotiations. Add in good-looking and an incredibly sexy smooth talker. Which Sarah could have totally ignored if he hadn’t been the stranger she’d married in Vegas during a fake ceremony six months earlier.

I, Elle Evans, am on the run. Not from the fuzz - although that would be more exciting. No, I’m on the run from the four-year-old private tape that, thanks to my vengeful ex, has probably already ruined my vlogging career. There’s nothing like the entire world knowing what you look like mid-O. Creek Keys, Florida, is a million miles away from NYC, and it’s the perfect place for me to hide for the rest of summer until I can figure out what I’m going to do.

When your flatmate is the hottest new party planner in the country, three things are bound to happen: 1. You’ll have to take a work call for her while you’re in your underwear. 2. You’ll have to fill in for her after an emergency...and pretend to be her. 3. You will royally mess it up...until a hot future duke steps in to save your bum. Yes, yes, that all sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Until you consider the party being planned is for the Dowager Duchess of Devon’s 80th birthday, and the current duchess is the ultimate type A personality.

This team hates me. Something about my chronic case of resting prick face and that thing with the captain when the season started. My fist, his jaw. Coach says no more “confrontational BS” or I don’t play at all. And that’s a hit my career in the NHL can’t take. So I'll keep my head down and finish out my contract. There’s just one problem. Allie. The girl from Vancouver eight months ago with the sexy, shy, and sinfully bold smile. The girl who blew my mind and then blew out of my life without giving me her number. Turns out she’s the captain’s little sister.

Strike One: My mother named me Theodore after her favorite chipmunk. Not cool, Mom. I‘ve spent most of my life answering to Teddy because I couldn’t make Theo work. Except for here. College. The place where all bets are off, and I’ve managed to redeem myself. There’s only one problem, my new roommate, Troy, is football royalty and looks like he stepped off the set of an Abercrombie shoot. Doesn’t matter, I cook a mean breakfast for his panty parade, and we get along well. And anyway, this year I got the girl. And she’s perfect. Everything's perfect...until Troy sees her.