"Leather Pants" (Mimi Jean Pamfiloff) RELEASE BLAST with GIVEAWAY!!

It Only Takes One Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…

LEATHER PANTS

Happy Pants #2

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Releasing March 3rd, 2017

From New York Times Bestseller, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes Book #2 of The Happy Pants Cafe Series...

It Only Takes One Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…

The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.

So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.

But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most notorious rock star rebel.

Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a walk on the wild side?

EXCERPT

No. Fuck no. Not this guy again. The Honorable Sarah Rae Alma of San Francisco County Superior Court blinked at her trial schedule, hoping and praying with every fiber of her being that her overworked eyes were playing tricks.

With hesitation, she glanced at her paperwork again.

Dammit! Someone must’ve switched her schedule at the last minute. She quickly went into panic mode, resisting the urge to pinch her cheeks or reach into her robe for a boob-perk, all to feel marginally hotter—the best a woman could hope for when wearing a black muumuu—for the man, the god, the legend about to enter her courtroom.

At least I’m appropriately dressed for my own personal nightmare, she thought, vowing not to think about what happened last time.

Career-cluster to the F-th degree.

Sarah straightened the pale-blue scarf around her neck and smoothed back the loose strands of her frizzy ponytail, preparing for his entrance. An entrance that melted panties, made women ovulate in triplicate, and sent any alpha males in the vicinity scurrying for the closest rock.

Why didn’t I put on makeup? Or touch up my roots? She was naturally a brunette, but had decided on a whim last month to go redder, hoping it might bring out her blue eyes and amp up her sex appeal.

Useless.

Men still treated her like a bucket of crusty scabs. All because she had the power to put them in jail for life. Losers. Like she’d ever do that unless they showed up in her court, guilty of felony charges. But something about dating a woman with that kind of power freaked men the hell out.

Speaking of freaking out, why didn’t I shave this morning? She could never be at her maximum confidence with hairy legs.

All right, Sarah, enough. You don’t really care about looking hot. You can’t stand bad boys. You crush them into tiny pieces and feed them to the legal system. You make them cry for their mothe—

“Your Honor?” snapped Maria Gomez, the bailiff, who was a five-foot-five, middle-aged mother of two and one tough nut. Nobody messed with Maria. The beige uniform made her look especially intimidating.

Sarah whipped her head up to find the entire courtroom staring, including the jury, while the closed-circuit camera rolled in the back.

With her long black sleeve, Sarah mopped the sweat from her brow and then inched her index finger at Maria.

“Me?” Maria glanced side to side and pointed to herself.

“Yes, you,” Sarah whispered.

Maria hitched up her heavy belt that included mace and a revolver and approached the bench.

“Why the hell wasn’t I told that he’d be coming to my court again?” Sarah grinned through clenched teeth.

Maria shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Honor.”

“Don’t you ‘Your Honor’ me,” she hissed. “We had mojitos last night. And an entire jarra.” Maria held the unique honor of being one of Sarah’s closest friends and her landlord. About a year ago, Sarah had moved into the three-story Victorian, renting the one-bedroom apartment on the top floor. It was a steal of a price, close to the cable car line, and had a gorgeous view of the Marina District. Don’t forget the home-cooked meals. Another plus. Just last night, Maria and her hubby, Franco, had made Sarah an early b-day dinner because they couldn’t find a sitter for tonight’s official birthday outing. “We all know you’ll only stay out for forty minutes, anyway,” Maria had said last night, poking fun at Sarah’s stick-in-the-mudness. Sarah preferred the word responsible or focused. And staying out all night drinking to celebrate one more year on the planet? Waste of time. She had work to do, cases to review, bad guys to sentence.

Maria leaned into the bench a little closer toward Sarah. “I heard that he pulled some strings to get you.”

“Me?” Sarah whispered. “I don’t believe that.” Defendants didn’t get to pick and choose their judges. In any case, having him in her court again spelled danger for her career. The last time he had been here for auto theft—where a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes took a swim in a lake—resulted in three weeks of tabloid torture. “Judge Alma-drool.” “Judge All-buttered-up.” “Judge All-but-spread-her-legs.” The rag-mags had taken their teeth to her and masticated hard.

Hold it together, girl. You went to Harvard. You’re a judge. You. Are. Unshakable.

“I don’t know why he’d push for you,” Maria replied. “Maybe he thinks you’re hot. But Judge Wright will make sure you’re suspended if you lose it again, so stay calm.”

“I did not lose it!” she whispered. “The last time he was here I…” Sarah’s words faded as the doors to the back of her courtroom flew open and everyone fell into a deathlike hush.

“Wow,” Maria gasped.

Forget “wow.” Can I get a holy fuck?

Colton Young’s epic man-bod stood smack in the center of the doorway, his long waves of chestnut hair falling to his broad shoulders, his black leather pants slung low around his hips, and his espresso-colored T-shirt just tight enough to show off the lean hard body underneath. Colton’s arms didn’t have the requisite shoulder-to-wrist musician tattoos, but the man had muscle. Lots and lots of lean, hard muscle.

“He looks like a god,” Sarah muttered under her breath, unable to contain the pinball action in her stomach—pings and pops, little rubber flippers going crazy, and a steel ball ricocheting all over.

Colton whipped off his mirrored sunglasses, and his intense hazel eyes shot straight to Sarah’s face like a wolf homing in on an object it had yet to decide what to do with. Kill. Fuck. Ignore. Piss on.

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.

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"The Ten Club" (Mimi Jean Pamfiloff) RELEASE BLAST with GIVEAWAY!

Can she find a way to bring back the man he once was, 

or will she have to send him back to hell?

THE TEN CLUB

King Series #5

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Released Jan 31st, 2017

From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
Book #5 and the FINALE of the King Series

HE WANTS TO OWN HER. King doesn’t recall dying and he definitely doesn’t recall this feisty woman Mia who claims to be his wife. But he’s happy to make her his if she’ll be obedient and loyal. After all, a king needs a queen, and now that he’s back from the dead, this evil billionaire has big plans.

SHE WANTS HIM DEAD. Mia Turner made painful sacrifices to save the love of her life from his cursed hell. So when he promised to love and protect her always, she believed him. But after he trades his life to save his brother, she’s left all alone with a baby and a broken heart. Until he returns. Evil, more powerful, and with absolutely no memory of her.

Can she find a way to bring back the man he once was, or will she have to send him back to hell?

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

MIA

I rolled out of bed, feeling unrested and sore and out of my mind with grief. It had been another rough night for me, one of many to come, I assumed. But what else could I do?

You’ll find coffee. Then you’ll try to find a way to keep breathing. Because that was what widows did.

As I stumbled toward my bedroom doorway to go check on the baby, the phone rang on my nightstand. The caller ID said Mack.

“Hello?”

“Mia, I don’t know how to say this, but he didn’t stay dead. He’s back, but he’s not him anymore.”

“What?” I blinked. “Could you repeat that?”

“King is back, Mia. And he made it clear he’s not letting me end 10 Club.”

“I’ll call you,” I started hyperventilating, “back,” and passed out.

CHAPTER ONE

KING

Tonight calls for a celebration. No, it is not a birthday nor an anniversary. Men like me do not give a dark fuck about life’s shitty little milestones. We care only for power or money—same fucking thing. And after tonight, I will have enough of both to break the fucking world.

“Hey, baby,” says the topless bleach blonde rubbing her ass on my cock over my black slacks to the beat of the music, “I’m free after work.”

“Shut up and keep dancing.” Women like her don’t come close to doing it for me, but she is the hottest, most expensive stripper in this private bar. A thousand dollars a minute. It’s pocket change to me; however, everyone here tonight now wonders why I’m treating myself.

Just as I hoped.

My eyes sweep the smoky, dimly lit bar filled with 10 Club members sitting at little tables, whispering in the shadows, making their deals and bartering for whatever sadistic crap will get them off tonight—sex slaves, drugs, torture, murder, whatever. Anything goes. Of course, they’re all talking about me, as well.

I smile and take a long victory drag off my cigar, ceremoniously blowing the smoke into the air above. I want them all to see me gloating. I want them talking to the other degenerate 10 Club fucks and speculating what I am up to. Because regardless of what it is, they’ll all want to steal it from me. They’ll all want a piece.

I’m counting on it.

“That’s enough.” I push the blonde’s ass forward, rise from my seat, and straighten my blood red tie. I’ve done what I came for and can already hear the phones vibrating with speculation around the world at the hundred other 10 Club establishments like this one. “King is here.” “Something’s going down.” “What do you know and what’s the price?” they’re all saying.

They’ll never guess. Not in a million years.

I toss a thick roll of hundreds at the stripper, who goes on her hands and knees to fetch it from the floor. I can feel her lust-filled eyes on me as I step over her like the dog she is. After all, she’s 10 Club property, not even human in my eyes. But she made her choice. We all have. No one is part of this debauchery by accident. That’s not to say some aren’t backed into impossible corners, forced to choose between things such as death or becoming part of our secret society comprised of two levels—the powerful and the powerless.

Make that three levels. Because there’s me. At the top.

I stroll toward the set of heavy iron doors and make my exit into the dark alley. It’s raining and windy. Typical for a January in San Francisco. Personally, I like the somber feel of this weather—fits my mood. Dark as fuck.

I am ten steps from my sleek black Mercedes when I hear footsteps splashing through puddles behind me. From the sound of the short strides, I know it’s a woman.

Fucking idiot. Doesn’t she know I despise desperation? And I definitely don’t pay to fuck strippers who are owned by 10 Club. God only knows where that pussy’s been.

I shake my head, pulling my keys from my pocket, and hit the unlock button on the remote. “Sorry, sweetheart. Not interested.”

“You’re King, right?”

The soft voice is unfamiliar, so I turn my head. She’s petite, blonde, and mildly interesting to look at; however, it’s hard to tell just how interesting since she’s wearing a garish yellow raincoat.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“Yes or no,” she replies with a hint of a growl in her sweet voice.

My, my. Aren’t we a demanding little thing? I decide to play along. Of course, she has no clue I can snap her neck with the twitch of my fingers.

“Let us pretend for a moment that I have replied with a yes. What’s in it for me?” I ask.

She steps closer, which definitely draws my attention. Most people fear me. They don’t know why, they often don’t even realize it, but they definitely fear me. This one doesn’t seem afraid.

Either that or she’s too desperate to notice she’s in the presence of something black hearted.

“They say you are the man who can find anything or anyone for a price,” she says.

I like the way this conversation is moving. It means she wants something, and now that the streetlamp above has given me a better look at her luscious little lips, I’m fairly sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.

I cock a brow, silently urging her to continue.

“I-I need help finding someone.”

Someone very important, I hope. Because I think I might like to add you to my collection. I collect many things, including people, although usually not for sex. I can get that without having to take on the responsibility of ownership. But for her, I might make an exception. Her wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and wide blue eyes are at the top of my list when it comes to turn-ons, but what really gets me off are naivety and fearlessness. She has plenty of both.

“Go on,” I say.

“I want you to help me find my husband.”

Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting. Because I love taking things that don’t belong to me, and I sure as hell love breaking a person’s soul.

I dip my head to give her a good look. She should see the face of the man who will be fucking her for the next few years until I grow tired of her and trade her away to another club member, likely one of those sick fuckers who enjoys making lampshades from women’s legs and breasts. Like I said, anything goes in 10 Club, just as long as you’ve got ten billion in the bank and money to pay your dues—one billion a year—which buys you complete immunity from any government anywhere in the world. Of course, we own all the governments. How do you think so many sadistic pricks make it into office? Power and money are everything.

I lean down and let her drink in my dark features. Yes, look into my eyes, sweetheart. See the promise of suffering in their cold gray depths. But as I stare back at her, there’s nothing. No fear in her eyes. No sadness or desperation. She’s void of all emotion.

Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot less interesting. It’s no fun for me if they’re already broken.

“Sorry. I’m busy.” I turn away and pop open the driver-side door.

“Wait. Aren’t you going to help me?”

“I could,” I say blandly, sliding into the cool leather of the driver’s seat, “however, as you’ve pointed out, I am the man who can find anyone or anything for a price. You don’t have anything I want.”

She wedges herself between me and the car door I’m about to close. “Name it. Name your price, King.” She grabs my shoulder and my groin floods with heated lust. Is it because she’s not the least bit afraid and should be? Probably. Like I said, fearlessness and naivety make my dick hard.

I look up at her, deciding to make an offer though I would probably be better off going home to enjoy a bottle of expensive scotch and prepare for my dinner party. No. I won’t be cooking or cleaning. I have slaves for such mundane bullcrap. This preparation is something else entirely.

“My price is you,” I say, thinking she might make an interesting toy.

She doesn’t bat an eyelash, which is surprising. They usually look a little offended or shocked when I tell them I’d like to own them.

“No deal,” she says.

I shrug and start the engine. “Then I’m afraid we must part ways. Good luck finding him.”

“I have money. A lot of money.”

“Not interested.” I’m already obscenely wealthy and will soon have the kinds of funds that make or break GDPs of first world countries. Whatever cash she’s got is a pittance.

I give her a push and send her stumbling back so I can close the door.

“Wait!” She gets her footing straightened out and comes at me again. I almost admire her persistence. Almost.

“I have a ring,” she announces. “I’m told it can keep a person from dying.”

I push back on the heavy door to prevent it from slamming into her. She’s got my attention. A man like me is always interested in items that bring back the dead or prevent people from dying once I do. Especially now.

I turn off the engine, slowly step from the car, and look down at her as she shrinks back a few feet. That’s when I notice something’s different about her. The light doesn’t quite touch her, but instead reflects off a nearly undetectable sheen of energy surrounding her.

And we’re back to a very interesting evening, indeed. People like her are rare. In fact, they are nearly extinct. I might have had something to do with that, but what can I say? In my younger years, I wasn’t a fan of her people.

“How did you come about such an object?” I ask.

She lifts her delicate chin defiantly. I fucking love it. She’s dancing with the devil and showing such bravery.

“None of your business.”

Such bravado. I chuckle. “All right then, how do you know it works?”

“I just know. Do we have a deal? Yes or no, King.”

That sounds like something I might say, so I appreciate it. “I confess I am intrigued; therefore I will say yes. However, I should warn you that welshers are shown no mercy. If you do not deliver, for any reason, you will belong to me, and I won’t be kind.”

The woman freezes.

Ah, there it is. Fear. My black heart tingles with delight. Now we are getting somewhere.

“I won’t back out,” she says. “And the ring will work.”

“Very good.” I slide a card from the inside pocket of my coat and hand it over. “Be here tomorrow night at eight. I’m throwing a dinner party.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m a busy man. You want me to find your missing husband, then we work when and where I say. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” Of course, that’s a complete lie. I have no intention of helping her, but she will most certainly be useful to me. In fact, she’s exactly what I’ve been needing. Saves me the trouble of having to kill my brother’s woman. For now.

She nods in compliance.

“Very good. And don’t be late. Ever.” I return to my car, close the door, and restart the engine, realizing that she’s simply standing there staring at me and that I’ve forgotten something.

I lower the window. “What’s your name?”

She suddenly looks like someone has punched her in the stomach—a pained stillness in her face, and shoulders hunched forward like she wants to be sick. I’m guessing it’s all sinking in. Yes, sweetheart, you’ve just made a deal with the devil. Actually, I’m worse. A thousand times over. There is no divine creation in my past. No possibility of regaining my wings. I am the sort of man who makes this world a horrible place to live in.

Not even death dares to fuck with me.

I look at the little woman, wondering what the hell she’s waiting for. “Well?”

“Mia. My name is Mia Turner.”

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.

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"God of Wine" (Mimi Jean Pamfiloff) RELEASE BLAST with GIVEAWAY!

The God of Wine is lookin’ for love. 

And he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing. 

GOD OF WINE

Immortal Matchmakers, Inc #3

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Released Nov 25th, 2016

From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
Book #3 of the Immortal Matchmakers Inc. Series. (Standalone)

CAN ROCK-HARD ABS SAVE THE WORLD? HE SURE THINKS SO

Acan, the God of Wine and Intoxication, has been partying for over ten thousand years. And New Year’s Eve, when humans around the world succumb to his naturally occurring spike in powers, is his big night. Only this year, things are bit different.

A plague is sweeping the immortal community, and he’s turning downright evil. All those New Year’s bashes will turn into bloodbaths if he doesn’t stop it. Sadly, the only known cure is finding a mate, and he is a giant, rude, beer-bellied mess. Definitely not husband material.

But can a little gym-time and help from the pros at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. turn him into a divine sex-machine? Absolutely!

So watch out, ladies! The God of Wine is lookin’ for love. And he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing. 

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EXCERPT

Forgetty picked up her cell and began dialing.

“Who are you calling now?” he asked.

“Jill, how the heck are you?” Forgetty said with a bland tone, speaking to his assistant. “We’ve got a situation.” Forgetty listened for a moment. “Nope, Belch did not superglue himself to the Empire State Building again.” She listened and then laughed. “Ouch. Yeah. I forgot about that rope burn accident. But his junk appears to be intact and enjoying its usual fresh air.”

Belch grumbled at Forgetty, knowing that she and Jill were discussing the time Cimil dared him to walk a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. Blindfolded. A very bad choice because when he slipped, he hadn’t been wearing any clothes and…well, his balls took the first hit. He then fell to his death. Luckily, however, when a deity’s body was destroyed, they were sent back into the cosmos, where they could return to the realm of the gods—if they weren’t currently banned—or return to the human realm with a new body. The whole process usually took a few days since the gods depended on sacred portals (aka cenotes, aka underground springs) in the Mexican jungle to rebuild them one molecule at a time—very low-tech, but tried and true. Still, ruining one’s human shell hurt like a sonofabitch.

Forgetty continued her conversation with Jill over the phone. “Sadly, this is a serious matter. Belch has got to find his forever someone or he’ll turn evil and be locked up. I’m putting you in charge of keeping him sober.” A moment passed. “Hello? Hello?” Forgetty pulled her cell from her ear. “I think she hung up on me.” Forgetty dialed again. “Voicemail! Can you believe her?”

“Was going to fire her anyway. I think I’ve gone weeks without pants.” Oh well. Belch shrugged, feeling his throat dry out and hearing that frosty cold beer calling his name. “How about a beer to celebrate going on the wagon?”

“No!” His sister shook her finger. “And so help me, Belch, if you touch one drop of alcohol, I’m going to—”

Forgetty’s cell beeped, and she took a peek. “Cimil is calling an emergency midnight meeting at her office.”

“Wow. We’ve never had one of those before. Must be important.”

His sister gave him a look.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“You turning into a threat to humanity is important. And we just had an emergency meeting last week.”

We did? “You must’ve made me forget.”

“I’ve never used my powers on you, brother.”

Really? Because he could barely remember the last ten thousand years.

She added, “It’s also against our laws to do so without permission.”

“Then why’s it all a void?”

“Uhhh…because you’ve been wasted for more millennia than I can count. But not like you’ve missed much. A few near misses with the apocalypse. Cimil got married to Roberto, the king of vampires, and had evil half-vampire, half-divine quadruplets, and…a bunch of the other gods got married. Even Votan has a son.”

The God of Death and War is a father? I definitely need to drink a keg. ASAP. “When did this happen?”

“Over the last couple of years.”

Gods. He’d only been sober for two minutes and already realized how much he’d missed.

He looked at his sister and blinked hard. Whoa. That’s what she looks like?

Mistaking his expression for despair, Forgetty reached across the bar and squeezed his hand. “Do not worry, brother, we’ll figure this out.”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“I always thought you had four eyes and two heads.”

“Ha. Funny.”

“Who said I was joking?” He really wasn’t.

“All right. I need to finish getting everything ready for tonight’s party.”

“Oh, is it ladies’ night? I love ladies’ night.” Just last week, he’d gone home with five women, who pleasured him all night long. That was the nice thing about being a deity—women found them irresistible. Their scent, their hypnotically sexy turquoise eyes, the divine energy wafting from their bodies. In his case, his very large cock was also a nice chick magnet. There was never a shortage of admirers. The only downside was that a god’s energy could kill a person—fry their brain—if the god didn’t make them wear a very special black jade to help absorb their potent powers. He personally had a lovely collection of black jade bracelets back home.

You mean the taco truck?

Oh yeah. Burned down my house. He’d have to go shopping tomorrow for a new house. Maybe I’ll go big this time and buy a bouncy castle.

“Well, I’m ready to help welcome the women.” He rubbed his hands together.

“You’re getting locked in the closet until I leave for the meeting,” said Forgetty.

It was only eleven in the morning. “No. I’m not.” He defiantly took a seat on the stool again.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Acan, listen to me. The party is over. And you need to grow up. Your reckless teen years are over.”

Grow up. Grow up? I’m the party god and this party ain’t ever gonna end!

“Are you going to serve me or not?” he growled.

“Not.”

“Fine.” He rose from the barstool, his bare ass making a qwiiip! sound as it peeled off the vinyl cushion. “I’ll see you at Cimil’s office.”

“Hey! Where are you going?” his sister yelled as he headed for the door.

“To do what I do best!”

“Belch! Dammit! No more partying!”

Screw that. If he had to find a mate, he wanted one who knew how to throw down and worshiped at the altar of wine like he did, not some teetotaler. Going to find myself a real woman. Fit for a god.

IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC. 

(Book One) is FREE!

MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.

WEBSITE | FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS

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"It's A Fugly LIfe" (Mimi Jean Pamfiloff) ★★★★.5 RELEASE BLAST with GIVEAWAY!!

HE’S PERFECT FOR HER IN EVERY WAY, 

EXCEPT FOR ONE SMALL ISSUE. 

HE’S TOO LATE.

IT'S A FUGLY LIFE

Fugly #2

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Releasing Oct 11th, 2016

From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes a New Standalone Contemporary Romance.

HE’S PERFECT FOR HER IN EVERY WAY, EXCEPT FOR ONE SMALL ISSUE. HE’S TOO LATE.

My name is Lily Snow. And I was once the kind of ugly that turned heads and made people stare. The worst part was how I let it ruin my life and destroy my relationship with the love of my life—Maxwell Cole, one of the sexiest, wealthiest, enigmatic men on the planet. All because I felt ugly and certainly not good enough for a man’s love.

But not anymore.

One car wreck, three reconstructive surgeries, and some unexpected money have changed my life.

I’ve started my own company, I’ve finally learned to like myself—not love, but like (hey, it’s a journey)—and I’ve met a wonderful new man who’s helped me put Max in the past where he belongs.

There’s only one problem: After six long months, Maxwell Cole is back, asking for the one thing I can’t give him. And he’s not taking no for an answer.

NOTE: This is a continuation of the story FUGLY, but is a standalone.

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EXCERPT

Every part of my body and soul swelled with emotion and disbelief. “You really want to marry me?” I said, trying to get it all straight in my head.

He slid a small black box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a gorgeous diamond ring.

I was too excited and overwhelmed to actually look at it or make my lips move or get my feet to walk around the counter. I wanted to kiss him and cry and tell him how damned sorry I was for fucking up our relationship.

“Well?” Those hazel eyes drilled into me.

I held up my index finger. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I turned and ran for the back of my little store. I flipped on the bathroom lights and leaned my body over the toilet, feeling the wave of nerves hit me hard.

“Lily?”

I panted, but nothing came out. Breathe, breathe, breathe. The wave passed, and I stood upright. Slowly, I turned my gaze toward the tall, muscularly framed, beautiful man standing in the doorway, with one eyebrow cocked and his thick arms crossed over his broad chest.

“This is not going how I imagined.” He flashed a cocky little smile.

Oh shit. Reply. Reply, stupid! “Yes! Yes. Wait. No!”

“No?” His head jerked back.

Fuck! “I can’t accept your proposal.”

He blinked at me. “This is definitely not how I expected it to go.”

I stepped back an inch, needing to put distance between us in any way possible. He had no idea what I’d been through these last six months. He had no idea how hard it had been to get up every day and not cry or hate myself for what I’d done to him, to us. But I’d finally pulled my life together a few crumbs at a time. I’d…moved on. At least, I was trying.

I tugged down on the hem of my pink sweater and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry,” I said with a firm tone, “but I can’t marry you.”

He stared with a scowl I knew so, so well, reminding me of when he was Mr. Cole, my boss. My hot dickhead of a boss with a very strange secret.

I inhaled deeply. What I had to say next would not please him. Not in the least. But he and I had always been honest with each other. It was the foundation of our relationship and what I loved most about us. Okay, that and the sex.

I swallowed and looked down at my pink flats—yes, they went with my sweater and my pink jeans. Why hadn’t I worn something more serious today? Because saying what I had to say next, dressed like a piece of Pepto, made me feel ridiculous. I needed a black leather jacket or a flame-retardant suit for this.

“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “I’m engaged already. Well…mostly.” I hadn’t officially said yes to my boyfriend, but I’d intended to.

“What! Who? Who, Lily!” Max yelled.

I cringed, knowing full well he would not understand. With one eye closed and the other squinting, I turned my head to the side, preparing for a giant explosion. Boom! Male ego everywhere.

“Patricio Ferrari?” I eked out.

Max’s face seemed to inflate like a giant angry red balloon. “The fucking actor?” he roared.

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Maxwell Cole knew exactly who Patricio Ferrari was. Nope. They weren’t friends.

“Yes,” I whispered with my eyes closed, “the actor. Who else?”

Max opened his mouth to speak, pointed his finger in my face, and then snapped his mouth shut and looked away. I watched while he repeated the action—open mouth, point, close mouth, look away, open mouth, point, close mouth…

“Max.” I stepped forward and gently grabbed his arm. “Please try to understand. You didn’t want me. You said goodbye.” Or at least that was how it seemed at the time when I’d said something like, “I am so sorry. Please give me another chance.” And he’d said something like, “Thanks for coming by, but I have to meet with my lawyers.”

“But you…” he snarled. “You…Patricio. Really?” He shook his head in disgust.

“Max, I’m sorry, but yes, really. He loves me, and he makes me happy.” Patricio and I cooked dinners together and watched silly movies. We wore stupid hats and rollerbladed at Venice beach. We took off to the mountains and went skiing. I couldn’t remember having so much fun and that was because I never knew how. Not before Patricio. He’d introduced me to a part of myself I needed. And he taught me how to breathe again. His looks weren’t so bad either.

Max ran his hands through his messy dark hair. “Do you fucking love him, Lily?”

I didn’t even need to think about the answer. Yes! Maybe? No, definitely yes. But did I love him like I loved Max, with pure chaotic passion? No. Patricio and I were more like friends, and after having my heart decimated by Max, that made me feel safe. Yes, Patricio was definitely the type of guy I should marry and could grow to love more over time.

“Yes. I love him,” I replied without specifying the type of love. It wasn’t any of Max’s business.

Max’s rapid pulse ticked away on his neck. “How…but…me…but…”

To see such an articulate, opinionated, stubborn-as-hell man like Max fail to find his words tore out my heart.

“Six months,” he growled like a horrible accusation. “Six fucking months!”

“Stop yelling at me,” I snapped. “Not when I could say the same to you, Max. Six months. Where were you?” I hadn’t heard a word since that day I asked him to forgive me, about a month after the accident.

“I was taking care of some very important things.”

“Can you be any vaguer?” I asked.

“What does it matter what I was doing? Because clearly you were keeping yourself occupied.”

Jerkface. Why did he expect me to sit around for half a year like a helpless, lovesick woman? That was not me. I was the type of person who picked herself up after she fell down.

As for Patricio, he was a very intense man who pursued his desires with passion. No different than Max. Ironically, Patricio and I had met at a party in Milan right before Max and I started our relationship. Anyway, Patricio and I had danced at that party and had fun. He didn’t care about my presurgery looks or my fameless status. And a month after my Maxwell-meltdown slash very public breakup, Patricio somehow tracked down my number and asked me out for a drink. I said no at first. And the second and third and fourth times, too. Finally, a few months ago, I felt ready to take a step forward and move on. I accepted. Patricio made it clear on the very first date that he knew Max had broken my heart. “I don’t care if you still love that asshole. I am here, claiming my stake. I want you, Lily. And I know what you’ve been through. I know what you must feel. But I also know what I feel. You,” he’d kissed the top of my hand, “light up my life like no odder.” He’d meant “other” but his Italian accent became exaggerated when he was excited or emotional. “Jess” instead of “yes.” “Chew” instead of “you.” “Hot” instead of “heart.” Jess, Leely. My hot belongs to chew.

I loved it. He had a wild, crazy side, and when he had his breaks from filming, usually in L.A. where he now lived, I enjoyed spending time with him. No, Patricio and I didn’t know each other extremely well, which was why his proposal seemed sudden, but like I said, we were good friends, we had fun, and what woman wouldn’t want a famous, hot, Italian actor as a husband? We were a good match. Max, in comparison, made me feel lost to emotion, vulnerable, and…well, extremely aroused. Stop that.

I lifted my chin. “I’m sorry, Max. But you’re six months too late. I’m marrying him.”



CAT'S REVIEW

"It's a Fugly Life" by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff.  Wow!  Ms. Pamfiloff certainly can spin a tale that keeps the reader entertained, amused and invested.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to strangle the characters or wrap them up in big hugs!  The author had me chuckling at times, and wiping a tear away at others.  And, to top it off, some uber sexy scenes too.  If you enjoy a story that is hot and passionate yet sweet and tender, you do not want to miss out on this one!  Just a note, this is book two and I have not read book one yet.  I found that despite not knowing the full background, the author does a superb job of catching the reader up and I never felt lost.  I have already downloaded book one and intend to start that right away so I can experience the entire story.   (received ARC for honest review)

★★★★.5

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MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream.

Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men

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