“Hearts will be full. Completely one of those books I will read and re-read again and again. (Nicki ~ The Overflowing Bookcase ~Goodreads Reviewer)
“This is a magical read. It’s fun, it’s entertaining, it’s emotional and it’s full of the Christmas spirit mixed with some heartbreaking moments. I loved everything about this book. I laughed, I swooned and I sighed and I cried. Full Hart really tied this series together and I’m certain I will be re reading all of the books time and time again.” (Jackie Wright ~ Goodreads Reviewer)
“I can’t express how much I loved this book! Grant was perfect for Joy! I love all the characters from this series and their interactions. They can be so funny! It made for a very enjoyable and entertaining book! (Cynthia Hughes ~Amazon Reviewer)
Brock watched the knob turn and the door open.
His heart was in his throat.
Making gimme fingers to his wife, he asked for the gun.
“I’m a better shot than you are,” she muttered, elbowing him out of the way.
Holding his breath and not blinking, he kept his gaze focused on where his mother’s bedroom door was and the whispers filtering out of it. It was two people. He knew that now.
“Mum?” he barked, making his wife in front of him jump, glance at him over her shoulder, and glare.
A head poked out from the doorway, and his mother’s brows furrowed.
Sighs echoed through all of them.
“What the hell are you doing with that, Krista? Put that away right now,” his mother ordered, stepping into the hallway, all four feet eleven inches of her.
“Sorry,” Krista murmured, stowing the gun in the holster clipped to her belt.
Their mother approached. “What is going on?”
“I’d like to ask you the same question,” Brock said, realizing he was still holding the damn tree on his shoulder. He leaned it up against the wall. “Why didn’t you answer us? Why is the house cold, dark, and quiet? Why are the curtains pulled? Whose truck is that?”
Color burned in his mother’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Krista said in what sounded like a hiss. Her smile grew mischievously wide.
Brock took in his mother’s appearance for a moment.
She was wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a long-sleeved button-up blouse of some light shade of pink. But the buttons were askew, not fastened properly. The shirt was also wrinkled. Her hair was disheveled, too.
Which was so unlike Joy Hart.
The woman was always put together.
For as long as Brock could remember, his mother had tucked her hair up into a no-nonsense bun on the back of her head and rarely was a hair ever out of place. But the bun on the top of her head now looked like it’d been tossed up in haste.
Her lips were also puffy.
And there was a red rash or something on her cheeks.
A throat cleared down the hallway, and Brock lifted his head.
He could hear his mother swallow as he watched a man about the same height and build as himself walk down the hall, buttoning his shirt.
“What the fuc—”
“Watch it,” his mother said.
“Holy crap,” Rayma murmured behind Brock. “Have him stripped, bathed, and brought directly to my tent.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“He’s old enough to be your dad,” Heath scolded her.
“And I’m sure he could help me work through any daddy issues I may have,” Rayma retorted. “And for the record, all y’all burly Harty Boys are old enough to be my father. Hasn’t stopped the fantasies during the dry spells.”
“Rayma!” Pasha admonished, nearly dropping her son as she gaped at her twenty-something sister. “That’s my husband.”
Brock noticed Rayma’s indifferent shrug. “I know, and I’m respectful. It’s not like in my fantasies we’re cheating. You’ve been dead a respectable amount of time, and I’m there for Heath to help him raise the children on his own.”
“You kill me?” Pasha practically screamed.
“This just keeps getting better,” Lydia, Rex’s wife, said with a chuckle.
The man from the hallway with the dark, close-cropped hair, facial scruff, and light gray eyes came up suspiciously close behind Brock’s mother and rested his hand on her shoulder.
Brock’s body turned molten hot.
He heard his brothers grunt and suck in breaths beside and behind him.
Their mother glanced at the man behind her, smiled, and turned back to the rest of them. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Grant.”
A Canadian West Coast baby born and raised, Whitley is married to her high school sweetheart, and together they have two beautiful daughters and a fluffy dog. She spends her days making food that gets thrown on the floor, vacuuming Cheerios out from under the couch and making sure that the dog food doesn’t end up in the air conditioner. But when nap time comes, and it’s not quite wine o’clock, Whitley sits down, avoids the pile of laundry on the couch, and writes.
A lover of all things decadent; wine, cheese, chocolate and spicy erotic romance, Whitley brings the humorous side of sex, the ridiculous side of relationships and the suspense of everyday life into her stories. With single dads, firefighters, Navy SEALs, mommy wars, body issues, threesomes, bondage and role-playing, Whitley’s books have all the funny and fabulously filthy words you could hope for.