Alix Morgan just got her big break as the ghostwriter of a memoir by Sebastian Green, a former member of the boy band True North. And when he offers her a penthouse at a luxurious resort in Vermont, she jumps at the chance to work far away from her noisy, cramped apartment. Her career as an entertainment journalist has been building toward this dream job—after all, she used to cover True North and was one of the last people to interview former front man Jett Beckett before he disappeared.

Cat McCarthy has spent years extricating herself from the family business—an increasingly run-down theater camp—and all the drama contained within it. At thirty-seven, she’s putting the final touches on a new life as she renovates her dream cottage and awaits her first child. Does it worry her that the McCarthy legacy is in the hands of her disastrously irresponsible sister, Ginger? Sure. But the camp’s not Cat’s problem anymore.

I’m Caleb “C-Bomb” Baumgarten, the bad boy drummer of Red Card Riot. After tragedy strikes, I get the bright idea to hire my daughter’s remaining lifeline, her “Auntie Aubbey,” as my live-in nanny in her small town. I’m determined not to give in to my white-hot attraction to Aubrey, since I need her to certify my sobriety and testify on my behalf at an upcoming custody hearing. But you know what they say about best laid plans, right? Yeah. My bad.

Men suck. They break you. Leave you. Take everything until there's nothing left. And frankly, I'm done allowing them to make me feel insignificant. So, forget men. I'll just throw myself into my job, because at least that never fails me. Jackson has other plans, though. I refuse to be impressed by his perfect body, the cute dimple on his cheek, or the rugged stubble on his face. Jackson Cole can be resisted. But, I'm only fooling myself. He's going to wear me down. I can feel it. In the end he'll prove that once again, I'm no one's beloved.

Death had been chasing me my entire life. I survived the horrors of war, but it was the aftermath that truly destroyed me. People called me a recluse, but the only time I didn’t feel like I was suffocating was inside that house. For my daughter, I kept some semblance of normalcy by implementing a rigid routine. Once a week, I forced myself to walk to the diner at the end of the block—a ritual I despised but relied on as my last anchor to the real world.