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"I need a ride," I said to a sexy stranger on a Harley. Three hours later? A six-foot-tall Marilyn Monroe was officiating our Vegas wedding at the Happy Chapel. But it's not love—it's business—a marriage pact made out of desperation so my career doesn't go up in flames. Sure, Flynn Winslow is a hot, broody, mysterious man that women all over the globe would sell their souls to land for real, but I have my eyes on the prize and our marriage arrangement will end in three months with no strings attached. Right?

When Mia shows up for the interview at a well-known architecture firm, she only has 27p, a squashed loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter to her name. She needs this job, even if she is scared to death of the owner of the company. To Mia, huge, grumpy men aren't sexy; they're simply terrifying. She knows from experience that even men of average size can be dangerous. If she weren't so desperate, she'd run.

The Brodie Brothers Collection contains three full-length standalone single parent steamy romantic comedies. Not recommended for readers who dislike banter, text convos or sarcasm.

When Jessica Cavanaugh bids on her brother’s business partner in a bachelor auction, it’s supposed to be payback for old time’s sake. Not the weekend of sexy fun she can’t forget. What is Derek Bettencourt supposed to do when he can’t get the self-assured, full-figured, forbidden woman out of his head?

Lori Martin is a positive and upbeat DJ, known for playing love songs and dedications. Ben Baxter dishes out no-nonsense, in-your-face relationship advice. Total opposites. Fired for losing her cool after her boyfriend breaks up with her on the air, Lori surprisingly receives a job offer for the coveted morning show at the radio station across town where Ben works. She thinks she's replacing him but finds out they want to team up Lori with her archenemy to set the air waves on fire and boost ratings. Financially strapped, she can't turn down the job.

When Chelsea Wayne drags Santa into a supply closet for a little office-party nookie, she assumes the man in the suit is her on-again/off-again coworker boyfriend. Instead, it's Rafe St. Sebastian, a man known for his hard-driving ways in business as well as the bedroom - and, kill her now, the brand spanking new owner of Las Ventanas - who grants her naughtiest Christmas wishes. So much for her reputation, not to mention her career.

Dear Internet: I (33F) work at a local paper, and two months ago, my editor assigned me a huge project - run the upcoming, highly anticipated Bachelor Anonymous contest. Men from all over Southern California, vying for the coveted bachelor role, submitted their personal ads to my paper. The readers voted, and Single Dad Seeks Juliet won by a landslide. Enter Mr. Bachelor Anonymous (40M), the single-dad Romeo seeking his Juliet. Blah, blah, blah, right? Wrong. This guy is the ultimate man in a six-foot-three, chiseled-muscle, freaking Adonis package with aquamarine eyes.

When I found an eviction notice taped on my apartment door, I had two options: find a comfortable cardboard box to call home, or move in with Tucker Jameson. Seeing that cardboard makes me feel itchy, I chose the latter. Which shouldn't be that big of a deal since Tucker is one of my good friends. And because he's still pining after his ex-girlfriend and I'm trying to finish my nursing degree, there is nothing to worry about in the romance department, making my last semester an easy one to conquer. Boy, was I wrong.

If I had to pick a bride of convenience, my first choice would not be Peach Maloney. My 50th choice would not be Peach. Top spot on my list of occupational hazards? Yes. Royal pain in the crumpets? Yes. A bride of convenience? No. But I've unexpectedly gone from royal bodyguard to monarch, having inherited a crown that was stolen from my family long before my birth. The kicker? In order to take the throne, I must find a wife. Have I mentioned Peach would not have been my 100th choice? But I've no other options, and she needs a favor that my new position can fulfill quite nicely.

My mother's New Year's resolution for me was simple: make a serious effort at putting myself out there and dating again and do it for one full year. Or, until I fell in love. Whichever came first. How hard could one year of swipes and matches and awkward first dates be? In a word: bad. In nine words: bad and also hilarious, demoralizing, exhausting, and ridiculously amusing.