AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s a new thing. But you’ll meet her soon,” Walker said happily.
“So you got a one night stand pregnant?” I asked, still very confused.
“Naw. She’s the love of my life.”
Lincoln and I glanced at each other, twin grins on our faces. Because we were big fans of true love nowadays.
“What’s her name? Is she excited about the baby?” Lincoln asked as he reached for one of my chips. I smacked his hand away. I did not share queso and chips. Not even with my bestie.
I forgot all about my monopoly of the chip tray though, with Walker’s next words.
“She will be excited,” he mused as he snagged one of my chips and started happily munching on it.
His chewing took fucking forever as Lincoln and I just stared at him incredulously. Finally, he was done.
He grinned at us both and said… “When she finds out…”
Read Walker’s story in The Pucking Wrong Date here.
.
THE PUCKING WRONG GUY BONUS SCENE
Want more Ari and Blake? Come hang out in my Fated Realm for an exclusive BONUS scene! Get it HERE.
THE PUCKING WRONG DATE
Want to read Walker’s standalone story? Preorder The Pucking Wrong Date here.
THE PUCKING WRONG NUMBER EXCERPT
Curious about Lincoln Daniel’s red flags…keep reading for his story in The Pucking Wrong Number…
The Pucking Wrong Number by C. R. Jane
Copyright © 2023 by C. R. Jane
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For permissions contact:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Cassie Chapman/Opulent Designs
Photographer: Cadwallader Photography
Editing: Jasmine J.
PROLOGUE
MONROE
“Monroe. My pretty little girl,” Mama slurs from the couch. She’s staring up at the ceiling, and even though she’s saying my name, I know she’s not talking to me. Or at least the me that’s standing right here, scrubbing at the vomit stain she left on the floor. She’s talking to the me from the past, or wherever it is her brain takes her when she’s high as a kite.
