Last Call by TL Watson

Newly-single attorney Gwen Cooper’s list of things that make her happy is pretty simple:
1. her teenage sons
2. her stilettos
3. finally taking control of her own life

While texting the first on the list to warn them she’s missed her flight home, she plows into a hot-shot movie star, has a lukewarm latte dumped down her blouse, and snaps a heel off item number two. When the actor shows up at the hotel bearing an apology of replacement Louboutins, she should be wondering how he got her room number. Instead, she’s simmering over his well-tailored suit and conjuring more sinful ways for him to make things up to her. And why not? The notorious bachelor is the perfect guy to kick off her post-divorce fantasies of no strings attached. Ever again.

Blake Donovan claimed Hollywood’s top spot by playing the self-centered bad boy his manager and publicist created. Lonely as it is, he’s long since accepted the image he portrays to the world. Until the gorgeous lawyer pegs the man behind the façade in minutes flat. After the hottest one night stand in history, he tracks her down in hopes of a repeat performance. And the encore has him craving far more than being tied up in her strings.

Blake will have to step into the role of a lifetime—himself—in order to convince Gwen that taking a chance on him won’t mean giving up on number three.

SKU: B07B6G55SV Category: Contemporary Tags: contemporary, romance

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About the author:

TL Watson is a South Floridian transplanted to North Carolina, a wife, a lucky mom of twins, and a lover of Happily Ever After. She writes romances that range from sticky sweet to spicy, and beyond. She can usually be found scribbling hieroglyphics on the wall of her Word cave, and doesn't like chocolate, so in case of emergency lure her out with pumpkin lattes.

Here is a short sample from the book:

Both of my heels slid over the slick airport tile, my left not stopping, the right twisting. Falling backward, I flailed out to grab hold of some anchor and clutched onto something soft and warm.
“Crap.” The word huffed out as my back hit the ground and I lost half my breath. A weight fell across my chest and claimed the rest of the air from my lungs. My head hit the rubber floor mat and bounced. Smack into a very hard part of the thing that had landed on top of me.
I flung a hand across my stinging nose and squeezed down the tears that leapt into my eyes.
“I'm so sorry,” said a deep male voice from above. “Shit.”
I blinked a few more times, letting my fingers drop lower to feel for blood. It was dry. But there were flashes all around my head. Every time I tried to open my eyes, more popped through my vision. A concussion was the last thing I needed with the workload I'd have waiting back at the office.
Someone dragged me to my feet, steadying me with strong hands on both my shoulders. Light burst through my head from every angle, all around us garbled voices fought to be the loudest.
“Are you okay?” The same male voice, sounding more concerned, rumbled in my ear.
“Security,” a squeakier male voice shouted above all. “And not another word, Donovan. God damn it. Security!”
Something landed over my head and more hands pushed me sideways. I yelled about missing a shoe, but they just kept shoving. With no other choice, I limped along, one foot four inches lower than the other. Flashes kept glinting through the material over my head, indecipherable words shouted over one another. And something warm and wet soaked through my shirt.
Just about the time the panic attack set in, a door clicked behind me and all hands but the original set—still holding tight around one of my arms—let go. The cloth was snatched from my head, pulling half the hair from my barrette along with it.
“What the hell is going on and why am I soaking—”
The rest of the words stuck in my throat and I blinked harder than after I'd hit my head. I'd died. I was dead. Dead, dead. And my version of heaven was filled with a set of the prettiest green eyes I'd ever seen. Eyes I had seen before. On my television, in the movie theater, and during a few of my steamier dreams. They happened to belong to Blake Donovan, one of the most popular actors of the last two generations. Maybe three. I couldn't remember if he'd been a child actor or not. And, oh my God, I'd just plowed into him.
Way to knock a guy off his feet.
“Are you okay?” He squinted, bending to look me in the eyes and pointed behind me. “Sit.”
The room was small, with four plastic chairs, a cheap faux-wood desk, and scuffed white walls. A security office was my best guess. The place they took would-be criminals to interrogate and terrify. If I were arrested for assaulting a movie star the firm would have a field day. Gossip ruled the place, from the mailroom all the way into the boardroom. And none of them would let me hear the end of it.
Aside from me and the hottest actor on the planet there were two guards in full uniform, along with three others—all men. I was good at holding my own usually, but my head was pretty foggy from the collision. And piercing celadon eyes wouldn't let go of mine. So crystal clear, with tiny rings of pale blue around the pupils, they drew to mind pictures of foreign island waters that couldn't possibly exist without Photoshop. His almost black hair only made them brighter.
“Seriously. Could you say something?” Blake Donovan asked. “Please.”
“I'm wet.”
A smirk popped out on one side of his mouth before his chest heaved and he coughed.
“My shirt. It's wet and …” White. Life roared back through my veins. I lifted my hands to cover what was probably my very see-through blouse.