**COVER REVEAL** The Trade by Meghan Quinn

THE TRADE COVER REVEAL!!

 

 Can you pinpoint a time in your life where you realized you are completely and utterly screwed? I can. I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes. I was traded. Yeah, that phone call. Traded from my long time team of over ten years. And not just to any team, but my childhood rivals; the Chicago Rebels. Completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns. I met a girl. Natalie. Man, she's perfect. I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. Too complicated. But can you believe I have zero restraint when it comes to this girl? I couldn't get her out of my head and the more I talked to her, the more I realized I needed her in my life. So what's the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can't stop crushing on, yeah . . . she's married. At least, that's what I was told . . .

THE TRADE RELEASES MARCH 12TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2Pn6QjR 

 Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/THETRADE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

   

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**RELEASE BLITZ** That Secret Crush by Meghan Quinn

That Secret Crush by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: February 11, 2020

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2t6lC6o

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Universal Link: mybook.to/ThatSecretCrush

BLURB:

USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn brings more humor and heart with the third novel of her Getting Lucky series: a story about breaking curses and laying your heart on the line. What happens when your secret crush isn’t so secret anymore? I’ve had feelings for Eve Roberts for as long as I can remember, but because she also happens to be the twin sister of my best friend, Eric, I’ve never acted on my feelings and long ago resigned myself to keeping my crush under wraps. But after a terrible falling-out with Eric involving a failed restaurant venture and plenty of blame on both sides, I’m back in Port Snow without my best friend and without any direction. But can you guess who’s here? Eve. And my attraction to her is as strong as ever. As old feelings rush back, Eve and I find ourselves pulled together, whether we like it or not. Lines are crossed, secrets are kept, and we soon discover that the difference between love and friendship may not be so black and white, after all. Everyone wants that secret crush to love them back…but will I be ready when she does?

EXCERPT:

Prologue

**REID**

What the fuck was that? Did I just experience real-life witchcraft? Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure Neptune and Uranus collided in space, because that shit was crazy. Stunned and nervously laughing at each other, my brothers and I hurry to a more populated part of the city. We’re soon threading our way through crowded cobblestone Bourbon Street toward a partially broken neon sign advertising huge pretzels. “She was scary as shit,” Brig whispers into my ear, reaching for my hand. I swat the idiot away. Out of all my brothers, Brig is by far the most sensitive, but holding hands—come on, dude, self-respect. Although I can’t blame him for quivering in his jeans. It might be all the alcohol I consumed, but damn . . . I’m feeling a little uneasy and a whole lot terrified. Why, you ask? Because I’m pretty sure an old crone who surfaced from Satan’s lair just cast some weird-as-shit curse on us. She pointed a crooked finger and laid it all out: we’ll have nothing but broken love for life. And before you scoff at such a blasphemous occurrence, you have to know this: There was fucking wind whipping us in the nuts as she spoke. And on this still, muggy New Orleans night, where the fuck did that wind come from? There were no fans in sight, and there was zero traffic down the narrow cobblestone side road. Confused? Okay, here are the Cliff Notes. Baby Brig turned twenty-one, and the four of us Knightly brothers very intelligently chose New Orleans as the place to celebrate because we didn’t want to be cliché and go to Vegas—although I’m kind of wishing we had right about now. We were in the middle of having a great alcohol-fueled night on the town. But, not paying any attention to where our wobbly legs were taking us, we ran into some old palm reader’s table, and Brig’s fat ass broke it. To make up for the destruction, Brig paid her to read his fortune. Well, she did a shit job. Oooh . . . you have brothers. They’re going to get you into trouble one day—thanks, lady, tell us something we don’t know. Her prediction was a load of crock, and because of that, we might have, you know, vocalized our intoxicated opinion on her subpar storytelling. That’s when the crazy shit went down. Not taking a liking to our constructive criticism, the old bat started flinging her cloak-draped arms around while her evil eyes turned a shade of petrifying yellow, and a huge mole grew on her nose out of nowhere. Pop! Just like that, the mole . . . with accompanying thick black hair. Okay, maybe the mole isn’t true, and her eyes didn’t change color, but she did wave her arms around, and she said some pretty traumatizing shit. Things like Your dicks are going to fall off and You’ll forever have sensitive nipples. Hmm . . . that doesn’t seem right. Did she say that? Confused, I break the silence hanging over all of us. “Did she say our dicks were going to fall off?” Panic rises in Brig’s voice. “Shit, did she? Did I miss that part?” He grabs his crotch with both hands as he continues to walk. “I can’t afford to have my dick drop dead.” “As if we can?” Rogan, the group pessimist, says, ducking around a rowdy bachelorette party. “Pretty sure we all need our dicks, dude.” Griffin, the oldest and most sensible despite his alcohol intake tonight, speaks up. “There was no mention of dicks falling off. She just said we’ll be cursed with broken love.” “Okay, so broken dicks,” I clarify. “Like, I’ll never be able to get it up again?” Brig steps in front of all of us. “Quick, take me to a strip club. I need to make sure that’s not what she meant.” “She didn’t mean that, you idiot.” Rogan wraps his arm around Brig’s neck and continues down the street, giant pretzels in sight. “That lady was a fucking whack job. Clearly she has some kind of mental health issue. It’s best if we just forget about everything and move on,” Griffin says. Sage advice from the brightest out of all of us. And even though I’m not as freaked out as Brig—I mean, I’m not clutching my dick and praying to the good Lord right now—I have to admit whatever happened back in that alley didn’t seem entirely kosher. What did she say again? Something about having broken love, and it won’t be until our minds have matured that the curse will be cured? What the hell does that even mean? Not that I’m looking for love, not when my restaurant is my life right now, but it would be nice to know that I still have the option. When my best friend, Eric, and I were getting through culinary school, pretty much every instructor told us that we weren’t going to have any time for relationships. The only love of our lives would be our knives. That’s turned out to be true. Betty, Beverly, and Barbie are my girls. Every night we have a foursome, and weirdly, they’re the best I’ve ever had. They enjoy my hands, and I enjoy their cutting edge—fuck, I’m hilarious. So even though that lady was weird, I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Broken love. Curses. Yeah, okay, you old crone. Go tickle someone else with your mole hair—we’re not interested. Together, we step inside the crowded, noisy pretzel bar and take a seat before putting in our order. Brig sits next to me, bouncing his knee and scanning the restaurant, its garage doors tucked up into the ceiling, used for closing time only. Everything about this place—selling giant pretzels in the heart of the French Quarter for all the drunk tourists—is genius. Despite the sticky bar top, peeling walls, and dirt-encrusted floors that probably haven’t seen a mop in a few years, there’s no doubt in my mind that it makes a killing . . . on just pretzels. Brig leans in and whispers, “I think she followed us; I can feel her here, staring at me.” “Dude, you’re fucking paranoid right now. Chill, man.” “Did you not hear her?” Brig seethes with worry. “She said we would never have dicks again.” Christ. I drag my hand over my face. We are way too drunk to be dealing with something like this. “She said we would have broken love. Your dick is fine.” “That’s what you think? Have you looked at yours yet? What if she turned them green or something? And broken love . . . that’s even worse. You know my goal in life is to be a husband. How can that happen if I’m cursed with broken love?” Luckily, at that moment, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I reach for it and see Eric’s name flash across the screen. He knows I’m in New Orleans celebrating Brig’s birthday, so this must be important. I hold up the phone to my sweating, hysterical brother. “Have to take this. Talk to Griff—he’ll hold your hand.” “Really? You think so?” I don’t bother to reply and take off toward the hallway that leads to the employee entrance at the back of the bar, trying to gain a little bit of privacy and to get away from the loud, pounding music. Straight from culinary school—and after working multiple jobs and saving every last penny we ever earned—Eric and I were able to scrape enough money together to start our own restaurant in Boston, which we named Bar 79 after Harbor 79, our favorite place to fish in our hometown, Port Snow. After six months of tireless menu prep, designing the space, and marketing the hell out of our New England–inspired cuisine with a twist, we opened our doors. And we’re only three months in, but we’re killing it so far. The food blogs love us, and three major articles have been written about our impeccable flavoring and our incredibly close bond. I accept the call and bring the phone up to my ear. “Hey, man, what’s up?” “Hey, I know you’re out with your brothers, but I, uh . . . I have a problem.” “What’s going on? Is it the restaurant, or is it something with Janelle?” Eric has been dating our business manager for the past three months, ever since we opened. I told him it was risky and maybe not the smartest idea he’s ever had, but he was gung ho on making a move, and there was nothing I could say or do to stop him. “Uh . . . yeah.” Still drunk, but not so much that I can’t help out with any restaurant issue, I lean against the wall. “Walk me through it.” Eric has always been the big picture guy, the dreamer, the extravagant one, while I’m more grounded and work out the fine details. So when he calls with a problem, I’m usually pretty confident in my ability to help him work through whatever it is. “Uh . . .” His voice shakes, a crack in his usually even-keeled persona. Cue the worry. This can’t be good. “Did you recently ask Janelle to make a transfer?” Janelle has been handling our business for the past five months, ever since Eric confronted me about not being able to juggle everything as we were gearing up for the opening. I was dropping the ball on multiple responsibilities, like managing our funds, paying vendors, and getting all our orders in on time while still trying to cook and develop the menu, so he found Janelle and brought her into the mix to help manage everything. With her MBA and businesslike confidence, she was doing a good job, I thought—well, until this very moment. “A transfer of funds?” “Yeah.” “No. Why? Did she?” “She did.” “Okay, so what’s the problem?” “She, uh . . . she kind of transferred all the funds.” I press my hand to my forehead, wishing I wasn’t drunk right now. “Dude, spell it out for me, okay? I’ve been drinking all damn day, I just got my dick turned green, and I’m hungry for a pretzel. What the hell is going on?” “She took it all, Reid. She fucking took it all.” “Took what? Our money?” That can’t be right. “Yeah. Took every last penny and just disappeared.” “Wait. What?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to comprehend what Eric is telling me. “She took all of our money? Where did she go?” “No fucking idea.” “So . . . we don’t have any money in the joint account?” I think back to how much was in there. After all our expenses and the cost of the opening, we were at about twenty grand, I think. Okay, don’t panic. “No, man. She took it all, out of all of the accounts.” My heart seizes in my chest as my breath comes out in gasps. Confusion and understanding collide in my brain, sending my stomach into a nauseous roll. “What the fuck are you telling me right now?” “The restaurant . . . fuck, man, it’s broke.” My head falls back against the wall, my body going limp as I slide to the sticky ground that hasn’t seen a mop in a decade. Broke. As in, no funds? There has to be a solution. The police, lawyers . . . this shit isn’t legal. “Did you report her?” “Yeah, but because she’s a partner, there isn’t much we can do. She had access to everything. She fucked us over.” I rub my hand across my forehead, eyes shut, preparing for the worst. “So what the fuck are you trying to tell me?” “We were already behind on bills. Janelle apparently wasn’t paying them but was still paying herself. Rent is two months overdue, vendors want their money, contractors still need to be paid. We’re fucked, Reid. Utterly fucked.” He lets out a long breath and says the last thing I ever expected to hear. “We have to close.” No fucking way. *** I pace the sealed concrete floor of Bar 79’s kitchen, still trying to comprehend what the hell happened while I was gone. I told Eric to meet me here in the morning after I got back, but he has yet to show up. I’m seriously starting to worry that he’s stood me up when the back door bangs open. I glance up to see Eric stumble inside, a bottle in his hand, a hitch in his gait. What the ever-living fuck? “Are you drunk?” “I can’t believe you’re sober.” He makes his way to a prep table and hoists himself on top of it before taking another swig of what I can only imagine is a bottle of scotch. “How the hell am I supposed to have a conversation about our restaurant when you’re drunk off your ass?” “Just a wee bit twisted,” he says, holding his fingers up. “And there’s nothing to talk about. We’re fucked, Reid. She took it all. We put every ounce of our savings into this place, and my parents’ money . . .” His face twists in grief before he takes another swig. “We have to be able to find some investors, some partners. We have great reviews; we’re up and coming on the restaurant scene. We have options.” He shakes his head. “News is already spreading. No one is going to want to work with two idiots who don’t know how to manage a business.” I run my hands through my hair, tugging at it. “This can’t be it. There has to be something we can do.” “We owe vendors a shit ton of money, Reid. We are so far in debt that even if an investor likes our talent, they’re not about to scoop up all the debt we owe. Face it, this is over.” He leans back on one hand and takes a sip of his drink. “Fuck!” I shout and kick a garbage can across the kitchen. “Fuck! I told you not to date her. I told you it was a bad idea.” Gaining a little clarity, Eric sits tall and jabs at his chest with the hand that’s holding his bottle. “Are you blaming this on me?” “She worked you, man. She used you and took what she wanted—that was her plan all along. I never should have let you hire her.” “I never would have had to hire her if you didn’t drop the fucking ball on all the business shit. Don’t blame me, Reid. When we went into this partnership, you said you could handle the business end while I took over the big picture planning. I did my part. You were the one who fucking failed on his end. I stepped in and tried to find the solution.” “With a pair of tits,” I shoot back. “You hired her because of her tits, not her qualifications.” “Fuck you.” He slides off the prep table, the slap of his sneakered feet reverberating through the kitchen. “We never would have been in this situation if you didn’t fuck us over to begin with. Don’t blame this shit on me, not when you’re just as much at fault. Face it, Reid, we might be good in the kitchen, but when it comes to running a business . . . we both just destroyed our careers.” I don’t want to admit that he’s right, and I don’t want to take blame for this, even though a heavy weight is pressing down on my chest, reminding me over and over that this very well might be my fault. I should have asked for help. I should have interviewed Janelle. I shouldn’t have been so lazy when it came to decisions. But . . . “I trusted you,” I say, hands on my hips, staring at Eric. “I trusted you to make the right decision for the business, and you thought with your dick instead of your head.” He tosses the bottle to the side, the glass shattering as it hits the floor. “Yeah, well, I trusted you to hold up your end of the bargain, and you didn’t, so looks like we’re both shitheads.” He shakes his head and starts to walk toward the back door. “Good luck with your life, Reid. Just don’t ever try to run a business again. Anything you do is guaranteed to crash and burn, just like Bar 79.” AUTHOR BIO: USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

   

  AUTHOR LINKS: 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor 

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**DOUBLE COVER REVEAL** That Secret Crush & That Swoony Feeling by Meghan Quinn

DOUBLE COVER REVEAL!

THAT SECRET CRUSH and THAT SWOONY FEELING

USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn brings more humor and heart with the third novel of her Getting Lucky series: a story about breaking curses and laying your heart on the line. What happens when your secret crush isn’t so secret anymore? I’ve had feelings for Eve Roberts for as long as I can remember, but because she also happens to be the twin sister of my best friend, Eric, I’ve never acted on my feelings and long ago resigned myself to keeping my crush under wraps. But after a terrible falling-out with Eric involving a failed restaurant venture and plenty of blame on both sides, I’m back in Port Snow without my best friend and without any direction. But can you guess who’s here? Eve. And my attraction to her is as strong as ever. As old feelings rush back, Eve and I find ourselves pulled together, whether we like it or not. Lines are crossed, secrets are kept, and we soon discover that the difference between love and friendship may not be so black and white, after all. Everyone wants that secret crush to love them back…but will I be ready when she does?

THAT SECRET CRUSH RELEASES FEBRUARY 11TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2O2QLis 

 Preorder your copy: mybook.to/ThatSecretCrush  

 Brig is looking for that swoony feeling . . . more to come!!!

THAT SWOONY FEELING RELEASES AUGUST 6TH!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/3aOFhc6 

 Preorder your copy: mybook.to/THATSWOONYFEELING 

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR: USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.
 
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**RELEASE BLITZ** Boss Man Bridegroom by Meghan Quinn

BOSS MAN BRIDEGROOM by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: January 23rd

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2QvTsea

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/38vsGZx

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2ugE0Ke

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2RB6zKm

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2GbaXKB

Blurb:

"Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?” she asks, hope in her eyes . . . How did I get here? My assistant, bent on one knee, holding my hand, her expectant face waiting for an answer. Just . . . how? How did I go from being insulted by Charlee Cox to hiring her to be my assistant? How is it that she’s chaos in color - making me crazy and my life better at the same time? I never thought I would be staring down at her bright blue eyes begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested. Yes, I suggested. Like the idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her? Confused? Don’t worry, so am I. But try to follow along, because this is how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

EXCERPT:

**RATH**

"Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—"

"I don’t wear Gucci."

"Go with it." She winks and clears her throat. "Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—"

"Jesus . . . Christ." I rub my hand down my face.

"Will you do me the great honor . . ." She wobbles on her bent knee and clutches my hand to steady herself. "Will you . . ." She tears up, her voice becoming shaky. "I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before."

"I sure as hell hope not," I say through gritted teeth.

"And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either." On a deep breath, she finishes, "Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?"

Christ, nothing is ever simple with her.

"Why did you say it like that?"

"Did I not do it right?" she mumbles to herself. "See, I knew I was doing something wrong."

"No, why did you say bridegroom?"

"Oh, well, that’s what you would be. You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I would give you the dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title of bridegroom."

"Don’t call me bridegroom."

"Boss man bridegroom?" she asks with a cheeky grin.

How the fuck did I allow myself to get in this position? With my quirky and sometimes annoying but mostly efficient assistant, kneeling in front of me . . . proposing.

Proposing to me.

In a pair of belly-covering slacks and suspenders, hair pulled back into a tight bun like she often wears it, looking up at me through her red-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes shining past the lenses, begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested.

Yes, me.

Like the goddamn idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her?

Confused?

Don’t worry, so am I.

Where do I even start? Maybe from the beginning?

Here is a quick rundown: my ex, who used to work with me, left me for bigger and better things. We don’t talk about her, ever, because she took my heart with her. Instead, I buried myself in my work. I became a hermit in my office, firing one assistant after another because they weren’t good enough or their voice annoyed me, or they thought salt was sugar and gave me one bad cup of coffee that ended their career at Westin Enterprises—that mistake was on them.

In my spare time—not that there’s much—but when I do have spare time, I follow my two idiot friends around the city, helping them avoid fucking up their lives. But now that they’re both in loving and committed relationships, one planning a wedding with my sister as the bride, I have much more time on my hands.

Maybe they’re to blame for my demise, for this ridiculous charade I’m now a part of.

What does this have to do with my assistant proposing to me?

Well, you see, I was in the market for yet another new assistant, and that’s when one of my best friends, Bram, suggested I lean on his assistant, Linus, to help me find someone. Side note: Linus is a gift from God, and I’ve offered him huge pay raises many times to jump ship and join my company, but his loyalty lies with Bram . . . unfortunately.

So Linus helped me find an assistant, and that’s where it started to go downhill.

The minute I saw her, I knew it wasn’t going to be a good fit.

Why?

Because she’s too goddamn beautiful.

Because she’s far too bubbly.

Because with every smile and checklist she devises, she makes me want to bend her over my desk and make her mine.

But, since I clearly don’t know how to make any decisions worth a shit, I hired her, right there on the spot.

And that was the beginning of the end.

Need to know more? Well in case you are on pins and needles about my answer to her proposal, I said yes.

Here’s the story of how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

About the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

**COVER REVEAL** Boss Man Bridegroom by Meghan Quinn

BOSS MAN BRIDEGROOM COVER REVEAL!!

"Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?” she asks, hope in her eyes . . . How did I get here? My assistant, bent on one knee, holding my hand, her expectant face waiting for an answer. Just . . . how? How did I go from being insulted by Charlee Cox to hiring her to be my assistant? How is it that she’s chaos in color - making me crazy and my life better at the same time? I never thought I would be staring down at her bright blue eyes begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested. Yes, I suggested. Like the idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her? Confused? Don’t worry, so am I. But try to follow along, because this is how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

BOSS MAN BRIDEGROOM RELEASES JANUARY 23RD!!!!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2QvTsea

Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/BOSSMANBRIDEGROOM ABOUT THE AUTHOR: USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

   

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**TOUR WITH REVIEW** The Lineup by Meghan Quinn

THE LINEUP by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: December 5th

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Y9Oupy

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/37ZUQw9

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2OL5cZe

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2RgzLHK

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/34JOTkR

Blurb:

Want to know a secret? It's about that girl over there. Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . . Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me. I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common. Was I oblivious? Probably. Was I blind to it? Definitely. But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers. Here's another secret . . . she has no idea I know.

Tonya's Review
5 Stars

This book is a stand alone, but it is along the lines of The Locker Room.  But the guys aren't in college anymore.  They're in the big league now.

This is Jason's book.  Jason just got traded to Chicago Rebels.  He's back home, but not with the team he wanted and has loved since he was a kid, or the team his friends play for.  

The things that come out of his mouth had me laughing so damn hard.  I absolutely love this big, giant, softy.

Now, Dottie took a little for me to warm up to.  She does tend to have a stick up her butt.

But Jason brings her fun side out!

This is a fun baseball read.  And I love the charity that Jason started.

Can't wait for more.

I'm wondering if it will be Natalie and Walker...hmmm.


EXCERPT:

**JASON**

It isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four hours is two shades away from charred dust. I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads. But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire. Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided. Are you seeing it? Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher. That was me . . . a minute ago. Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left. It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong. If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside. Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it. The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows. Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do. But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game. And I’m not even sorry about it. People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd. Why am I in this hopeless predicament? Because of one person. One single person who flipped my life upside down. A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . . Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly. Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive. My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it. So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night. But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself. And all for what? For one girl? No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would. Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment? There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson. The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.

About the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

**RELEASE BLITZ** The LineUp by Meghan Quinn

THE LINEUP by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: December 5th

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Y9Oupy

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/37ZUQw9

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2OL5cZe

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2RgzLHK

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/34JOTkR

Blurb:

Want to know a secret? It's about that girl over there. Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . . Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me. I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common. Was I oblivious? Probably. Was I blind to it? Definitely. But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers. Here's another secret . . . she has no idea I know.

EXCERPT:

**JASON**

It isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four hours is two shades away from charred dust. I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads. But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire. Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided. Are you seeing it? Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher. That was me . . . a minute ago. Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left. It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong. If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside. Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it. The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows. Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do. But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game. And I’m not even sorry about it. People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd. Why am I in this hopeless predicament? Because of one person. One single person who flipped my life upside down. A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . . Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly. Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive. My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it. So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night. But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself. And all for what? For one girl? No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would. Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment? There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson. The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.

About the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

**COVER REVEAL** The Lineup by Meghan Quinn

THE LINEUP COVER REVEAL!!

Want to know a secret? It's about that girl over there. Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . . Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me. I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common. Was I oblivious? Probably. Was I blind to it? Definitely. But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers. Here's another secret . . . she has no idea I know.

THE LINEUP RELEASES DECEMBER 5TH!!!!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2ZxlFGJ Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/THELINEUP ABOUT THE AUTHOR: USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

   

  Facebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website | Amazon Author Page | Instagram | Follow on BookBub

**REVIEW TOUR** The Dugout by Meghan Quinn

The Dugout by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: September 19th

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2lRZDMK

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2mdDl86

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2mkqCkb

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2kQg8bI

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2kE5gOp

Blurb:

Let me ask you a question: If someone is vying for your spot on a team and just so happens to injure you during practice, would you believe it was on purpose? Word around campus is . . . it was no accident. That injury has cost me everything; my starting position, my junior year—and the draft. Now, I’m a senior fresh off recovery, struggling to find my groove, until the day I run into a nervous, fidgety, girl with freckles, in the dining hall. They call Milly Potter The Baseball Whisperer, The Diamond Wizard, and The Epitome of All Knowledge. She believes in baseball. She breathes it. She’s the queen of an infamous dynasty, but no one actually knows who she really is, and she plans to keep it that way. One mishap in the panini line, one miscommunication in the weight room, and many failed attempts at an apology equal up to one solid truth -- Milly Potter never wants to speak to me again -- no matter how good my forearms look. Little do we both know, she’s about to become more than just my fairy ballmother.
Tonya's Review
5 Stars


This is such a great read.  I wouldn't have put it down, but sadly work got in the way.

Carson is the second base man at Brentwood.  But he was injured, so he missed getting drafted his junior year.  It's now his senior year, but he is struggling.

I love how he and Milly first met in the Panini line.

I found her awkwardness cute.  She isn't perfect.  I love her because of that.

The cookie scene had me busting up and laughing out loud.

Now I was hurting because of what Carson went through.  But I also just wanted to slap him in the back of the head a few times.

My heart broke for both of them.

I may have teared up a few times while reading this.

Excerpt:

**CARSON**

Everyone knows me as the easygoing, fun-loving guy without a care in the world. You know who I’m talking about, right?

The guy who cheers when a couple kisses, who says stupid shit like YIPPEE when he’s excited, the guy who has no shame in shimmying his bare, bright white ass to his friends just to make them laugh.

I’m also the guy who is magically smart, can lead an entire bar to harmoniously sing any Taylor Swift song, lucks out in everything he does, and has impeccable taste in clothing—despite wearing a baseball hoodie every Monday. A dude must make himself feel better when the Monday blues hit and a hoodie does just that.

But have you guessed it? Do you see where this is going?

I’m not that guy anymore.

Nope.

Easygoing and fun-loving? Not anymore.

I spit venom at whoever dares to be in my presence. You know the old man who throws endless piles of shoes at the street youths as they walk by? That’s me, minus the incontinence problem and mothball smell. My days of singing Taylor Swift with a crowd are over.

Instead—if I even make it to a bar—I bury myself in a corner and sneer. Oh boy, do I fucking sneer. I sneer at anything and anyone that even attempts to look at my face.

That impeccable fashion sense I was boasting about? Gone. I think I’ve been wearing the same pair of athletic shorts for a month—not really—but maybe it’s a little true.
And the guy who lucks out in everything he does? Ha, my luck was cut short at the beginning of the season thanks to the square ass, dirty dick named Kirk Babcock, also known as Kirk BADcock by my team.

What did this Badcock do, you ask?

If you’re thinking he poked me with said bad cock, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.

What he did was even worse than winging his willy around on the baseball field.

So bad that you might need to brace yourself . . .
**FLAILS ARMS**

He committed a sin against all baseball etiquette.

The cardinal sin.

The biggest sin of all sins.

Are you sitting? I don’t want you to faint from the blasphemy I’m about to share.
Deeps breaths, everyone . . .

He . . . damn it, he slid late . . . at practice.

Gasp, I know.

I told you it was bad . . . my balls are shriveling up into my taint just thinking about it.
The dumbass freshman, who had too much juice in his junk, decided to book it to second during a practice game while Holt and I were fleshing out a double play. The dingleberry slid into second base two seconds too late.

Why is this a problem?

For those of you who might not be in the know—don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you—back in 2016, the gods of baseball developed a new rule; all players sliding into second must hit the ground first before touching the bag to avoid injuring the opposing players.

Layman’s terms: don’t be a dickhead and hurt people.

Apparently, Badcock didn’t get that memo, because the little turd nugget charged second base like an out-of-control steam train . . . just as I slid my foot across the base for the out. His dirty slide took my leg out, twisting me in the process, and tossed me to the ground.

As I fell, I heard a resounding snap that would make any grown-ass man throw up into his lap, followed by an immense amount of pain shooting up the back of my leg.
The motherfucker—stenchy bad cock—ruptured my Achilles tendon.

Like Achilles himself, I buckled to the ground and wallowed in pain while holding my leg, as if I let go, it would detach from my body and float right on up to heaven where it belongs for the many good years it gave me.

Badcock proceeded to fling his helmet off his head, get in my face, and apologize profusely, making up some excuse about tripping over his own damn feet. Yeah, okay, fart breath.

I’d like to see the tape for a full review, because I’m questioning the shit out of that statement. Tripped, my left nut.

If I was a freshman and got hurt, I wouldn’t want to rip the skin off Badcock’s scrotum, maybe just give him a swift lodge of my foot up his ass. But ripping scrotum skin, nah.
But guess what? I’m not a goddamn freshman.

I’m a fucking junior, and if you know anything about baseball, you know being a junior in college is one of the most important times in a guy’s life.

Because that’s the year you’re eligible to be drafted.

DRAFTED.

Brentwood University is known as a breeding ground for exceptional baseball players; it’s where the scouts come to find their next top prospects. If you want to play professional baseball, you either choose to go into the draft right after high school or be recruited by Brentwood. I chose an education so I had a possible career to fall back on in case something happened to me . . . like rupturing my Achilles tendon.

Can you guess where this is going?

Strike up the violins, because a sob story is coming your way.

I was ushered off the field and straight to the state-of-the-art training room where, after an excruciating physical exam, I had an ultrasound. It was then confirmed I’d be out of commission for the season. I underwent surgery, had the stupid thing stitched back together—let’s take a moment to be physically ill over the thought of that—and then put through an extensive rehab, missing my chance to be drafted.

You read that right, I was not drafted. My best friends were . . . I was not.

Because no one wants an injured player, even if he has tons of promise.

Even if he was the best second baseman in the country.

Even if he was supposed to be drafted in the first round.

Not one single team wanted to take the gamble to see if I could make a full recovery.
Isn’t that just peachy?

So needless to say, Kirk BADcock stays as far away from me as possible. As for me, I’d like to say I’m not a bitter man with a chip on his shoulder, but that would be a massive lie.

I have the biggest damn chip on my shoulder, so big that I named him Aloysius and I high-five him every morning, agreeing that we’re going to try to make at least one person’s life miserable that day.

My suggestion, if you see me around campus? Steer clear, run away, duck and hide, because I’m a polluted motherfucker with an equally rotten Aloysius on my shoulder ready to raise hell in your life.

Carson Stone is out for vengeance thanks to one moronic badcock.

About the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

**RELEASE BLITZ** The Dugout by Meghan Quinn

The Dugout by Meghan Quinn

Release Date: September 19th

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2lRZDMK

AVAILABLE NOW!!!

FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2mdDl86

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2mkqCkb

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2kQg8bI

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2kE5gOp

Blurb:

Let me ask you a question: If someone is vying for your spot on a team and just so happens to injure you during practice, would you believe it was on purpose? Word around campus is . . . it was no accident. That injury has cost me everything; my starting position, my junior year—and the draft. Now, I’m a senior fresh off recovery, struggling to find my groove, until the day I run into a nervous, fidgety, girl with freckles, in the dining hall. They call Milly Potter The Baseball Whisperer, The Diamond Wizard, and The Epitome of All Knowledge. She believes in baseball. She breathes it. She’s the queen of an infamous dynasty, but no one actually knows who she really is, and she plans to keep it that way. One mishap in the panini line, one miscommunication in the weight room, and many failed attempts at an apology equal up to one solid truth -- Milly Potter never wants to speak to me again -- no matter how good my forearms look. Little do we both know, she’s about to become more than just my fairy ballmother.

Excerpt:

**CARSON**

Everyone knows me as the easygoing, fun-loving guy without a care in the world. You know who I’m talking about, right?

The guy who cheers when a couple kisses, who says stupid shit like YIPPEE when he’s excited, the guy who has no shame in shimmying his bare, bright white ass to his friends just to make them laugh.

I’m also the guy who is magically smart, can lead an entire bar to harmoniously sing any Taylor Swift song, lucks out in everything he does, and has impeccable taste in clothing—despite wearing a baseball hoodie every Monday. A dude must make himself feel better when the Monday blues hit and a hoodie does just that.

But have you guessed it? Do you see where this is going?

I’m not that guy anymore.

Nope.

Easygoing and fun-loving? Not anymore.

I spit venom at whoever dares to be in my presence. You know the old man who throws endless piles of shoes at the street youths as they walk by? That’s me, minus the incontinence problem and mothball smell. My days of singing Taylor Swift with a crowd are over.

Instead—if I even make it to a bar—I bury myself in a corner and sneer. Oh boy, do I fucking sneer. I sneer at anything and anyone that even attempts to look at my face.

That impeccable fashion sense I was boasting about? Gone. I think I’ve been wearing the same pair of athletic shorts for a month—not really—but maybe it’s a little true.
And the guy who lucks out in everything he does? Ha, my luck was cut short at the beginning of the season thanks to the square ass, dirty dick named Kirk Babcock, also known as Kirk BADcock by my team.

What did this Badcock do, you ask?

If you’re thinking he poked me with said bad cock, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.

What he did was even worse than winging his willy around on the baseball field.

So bad that you might need to brace yourself . . .
**FLAILS ARMS**

He committed a sin against all baseball etiquette.

The cardinal sin.

The biggest sin of all sins.

Are you sitting? I don’t want you to faint from the blasphemy I’m about to share.
Deeps breaths, everyone . . .

He . . . damn it, he slid late . . . at practice.

Gasp, I know.

I told you it was bad . . . my balls are shriveling up into my taint just thinking about it.
The dumbass freshman, who had too much juice in his junk, decided to book it to second during a practice game while Holt and I were fleshing out a double play. The dingleberry slid into second base two seconds too late.

Why is this a problem?

For those of you who might not be in the know—don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you—back in 2016, the gods of baseball developed a new rule; all players sliding into second must hit the ground first before touching the bag to avoid injuring the opposing players.

Layman’s terms: don’t be a dickhead and hurt people.

Apparently, Badcock didn’t get that memo, because the little turd nugget charged second base like an out-of-control steam train . . . just as I slid my foot across the base for the out. His dirty slide took my leg out, twisting me in the process, and tossed me to the ground.

As I fell, I heard a resounding snap that would make any grown-ass man throw up into his lap, followed by an immense amount of pain shooting up the back of my leg.
The motherfucker—stenchy bad cock—ruptured my Achilles tendon.

Like Achilles himself, I buckled to the ground and wallowed in pain while holding my leg, as if I let go, it would detach from my body and float right on up to heaven where it belongs for the many good years it gave me.

Badcock proceeded to fling his helmet off his head, get in my face, and apologize profusely, making up some excuse about tripping over his own damn feet. Yeah, okay, fart breath.

I’d like to see the tape for a full review, because I’m questioning the shit out of that statement. Tripped, my left nut.

If I was a freshman and got hurt, I wouldn’t want to rip the skin off Badcock’s scrotum, maybe just give him a swift lodge of my foot up his ass. But ripping scrotum skin, nah.
But guess what? I’m not a goddamn freshman.

I’m a fucking junior, and if you know anything about baseball, you know being a junior in college is one of the most important times in a guy’s life.

Because that’s the year you’re eligible to be drafted.

DRAFTED.

Brentwood University is known as a breeding ground for exceptional baseball players; it’s where the scouts come to find their next top prospects. If you want to play professional baseball, you either choose to go into the draft right after high school or be recruited by Brentwood. I chose an education so I had a possible career to fall back on in case something happened to me . . . like rupturing my Achilles tendon.

Can you guess where this is going?

Strike up the violins, because a sob story is coming your way.

I was ushered off the field and straight to the state-of-the-art training room where, after an excruciating physical exam, I had an ultrasound. It was then confirmed I’d be out of commission for the season. I underwent surgery, had the stupid thing stitched back together—let’s take a moment to be physically ill over the thought of that—and then put through an extensive rehab, missing my chance to be drafted.

You read that right, I was not drafted. My best friends were . . . I was not.

Because no one wants an injured player, even if he has tons of promise.

Even if he was the best second baseman in the country.

Even if he was supposed to be drafted in the first round.

Not one single team wanted to take the gamble to see if I could make a full recovery.
Isn’t that just peachy?

So needless to say, Kirk BADcock stays as far away from me as possible. As for me, I’d like to say I’m not a bitter man with a chip on his shoulder, but that would be a massive lie.

I have the biggest damn chip on my shoulder, so big that I named him Aloysius and I high-five him every morning, agreeing that we’re going to try to make at least one person’s life miserable that day.

My suggestion, if you see me around campus? Steer clear, run away, duck and hide, because I’m a polluted motherfucker with an equally rotten Aloysius on my shoulder ready to raise hell in your life.

Carson Stone is out for vengeance thanks to one moronic badcock.

About the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

Connect with Meghan:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7360513.Meghan_Quinn

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormeghanquinn/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorMegQuinn

Website: http://authormeghanquinn.com

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meghan-quinn

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2LitE4x

**COVER REVEAL** The Dugout by Meghan Quinn

THE DUGOUT COVER REVEAL!!

 

 Let me ask you a question: If someone is vying for your spot on a team and just so happens to injure you during practice, would you believe it was on purpose? Word around campus is . . . it was no accident. That injury has cost me everything; my starting position, my junior year—and the draft. Now, I’m a senior fresh off recovery, struggling to find my groove, until the day I run into a nervous, fidgety, girl with freckles, in the dining hall. They call Milly Potter The Baseball Whisperer, The Diamond Wizard, and The Epitome of All Knowledge. She believes in baseball. She breathes it. She’s the queen of an infamous dynasty, but no one actually knows who she really is, and she plans to keep it that way. One mishap in the panini line, one miscommunication in the weight room, and many failed attempts at an apology equal up to one solid truth -- Milly Potter never wants to speak to me again -- no matter how good my forearms look. Little do we both know, she’s about to become more than just my fairy ballmother.

THE DUGOUT RELEASES SEPTEMBER 19TH!!!!

Add to your Goodreads TBR: https://bit.ly/2ZxlFGJ 

 Pre order your copy here: mybook.to/TheDugout ABOUT THE AUTHOR: USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.

   

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