It takes two to make a marriage, and it’ll take two to crash it into the ground.
Hate The One You’re With, an all-new forced proximity, best friend’s brother, second chance romance from bestselling author Kendall Hale is now available!
A fiery second-chance, sizzling romance in which two former spouses are forced back into each other's lives—whether they like it or not.
My grandmother always had a flair for drama.
At eighteen, I was forced to marry so I could pay my college tuition.
Enter Caleb Cunningham: my best friend’s brother and Navy SEAL.
I needed my inheritance, he needed money to cover his dad’s hospital bills.
It seemed like a win-win.
The marriage didn’t last, but that’s okay. It was a marriage of convenience.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Over a decade later, Grandma’s still pulling the strings from beyond the grave.
Her last wish? For me to live with my estranged husband for six months, or I lose everything—my company and my employees’ livelihoods included.
Now, I’m stuck with Caleb, the rugged, infuriating, and the man who once broke my heart. The deal is simple: he’ll stay with me for the next six months as long as I give him... well, everything.
He wants control.
He wants my grandmother’s penthouse.
And, of course, he wants the Bentley.
Caleb seems determined to make my life hell, and he’s enjoying every minute of it.
But if he thinks I’m going down without a fight, he’s got another thing coming. It takes two to make a marriage, and it’ll take two to crash it into the ground.
Start reading today!
FREE in Kindle Unlimited
Amazon: https://geni.us/HTOYW
Add Hate The One You’re With to Goodreads: https://tinyurl.com/htoywgr
Keep Reading for a look inside Hate The One You’re With!
My grandmother was . . . enchanting. One of a kind, and probably a bit of a shrew. No, scratch that—she was more like a master schemer. Actually, if we’re being honest, master “scammer” might be the most accurate way to describe her.
And before you think I’m being too harsh on the old lady, let me clarify—she had a knack for bending the truth and loved to manipulate me at every turn. Don’t believe me? Well, here’s a little story: when my grandfather passed away thirteen years ago, I was suddenly left without a way to pay for college.
Grandma claimed she didn’t have enough money to help me the way he had promised. I still remember her words, delivered with a sympathetic pat on my hand: my options were to defer and work, or get married so I could access the trust fund Mom had left me.
In the beginning I didn’t want to take that. I was willing to work, even take two jobs—one at Langley Media and another wherever I could get hired. But she was insistent that marriage would help me in the long run. And, stupidly, I believed her. Gertrude Langley convinced me that door number two was the easiest—simplest—choice.
It wasn’t until last year that I found out my grandfather had left me enough money to cover my tuition, but Grandma kept that little detail to herself. She had a plan that, shocker, didn’t work out. Not only did it not work out but it screwed me in many ways. Why? Well, dear Gertrude wanted me to get married young . . . and like always, I fell for her scam.
In my defense, I was eighteen, impressionable and had lost my beloved grandfather. All I had left in the world was Grandma, and I was so afraid to lose her that I followed her wishes, suggestions, and schemes all the time. My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the memory of my naivety.
I got married, but as I said, her plan didn’t work out for so many reasons, including that this isn’t the 1950s. That’s the thing with her generation—they think they know best. She must’ve figured I could be persuaded that being a wife would somehow keep me from reaching my full potential. I wanted to take over Langley Media but she wanted me to stay home and push out a few children.
There was never a great-grandchild—or a dozen like she silently hoped. I reached my goals despite her best efforts to keep me home. And now that she’s gone, I’m sad but also slightly terrified of whatever she might’ve cooked up from beyond the grave.
I’m currently sitting behind my desk, twirling a pen between my fingers, staring at a cream-colored envelope that’s been sitting on top of my neatly stacked files. The elegant stationery feels out of place among the usual pile of contracts and media reports. It’s from her.
Her dear friend—the lawyer who was definitely more than just a friend—dropped it off earlier today. And here I am, staring at it like it’s a radioactive mouse. It could be anything—a thank-you note for taking care of her during her last days, a recipe for her famous (and slightly disastrous) fruitcake, or even a list of her top ten favorite soap opera plot twists. But it’s not. I can feel it, like a strange, ticklish sensation creeping up my spine.
With a deep breath, I carefully tear open the envelope, half-expecting confetti or maybe even a booby trap. What if it’s some wild admission or an apology for something she made me do that was another one of her schemes? Or worse—what if she’s revealing she was part of the mafia and I’m now the head of her . . . what, empire? Kingdom?
Stop, Em. Just read the damn thing.
I unfold the letter, and my eyes skim over the words, searching for anything that makes sense. Inheritance? The company . . . My stomach flips like I’ve just gone over the first drop of a roller coaster. I blink, read it again, hoping I’ve somehow misunderstood. I haven’t.
“Seriously, Gertrude Langley. What in the ever-loving . . . Ugh, what did you do, you shrew?”
I’ve read the letter five times but the words don’t change. I even say the scariest sentence out loud, like hearing it might make it less real: “In order to retain control of the company, you must reside with your legal spouse for a period of no less than six months.” The pen slips from my grasp, clattering onto the desk as reality sinks in. My legal spouse?
My legal spouse.
My.
Legal.
Spouse.
I repeat those three words until they sound like gibberish. Wait—do I even still have a legal spouse? I sent over the divorce papers right after she died. Okay, fine—I handled her funeral first, just the way she wanted, and then I had those papers served, confident she couldn’t meddle with my life anymore.
But of course, she did. And now . . . well, maybe this can be fixed. What’s six months of pretending to live in the same house with him? It’s been a month, and he hasn’t sent the papers back. What if, by some miracle, my fairy godmother waved her wand and he lost them? Oh crap, what if he signed them?
A nervous laugh bubbles up, quickly spiraling into uncontrollable giggles. Am I about to lose everything?
That can’t be right. And if by some miracle Caleb hasn’t signed anything . . . Well, how on earth am I supposed to approach him?
For more information about Kendall Hale and her books, visit her website: https://authorkendall.com
Happy readings!
 |
| See it on Amazon |
Comments
Post a Comment