One band. Five love stories. Too many secrets.
We’ve been waiting a long time to find out how the band Tattoo Thief will deal with drummer Dave’s toxic ex—and the secrets she’s been collecting on everyone. It was worth the wait.
You don’t have to be a fan of the series to love a book that starts fast with a huge wow moment and then unpacks the band’s secrets. In fact, you don’t have to read the earlier books because each book is a different love story about a different member of the band.
I had a choice—dump my toxic girlfriend, or break up my band.
It should have been easy. But she’s been collecting dirt on all of us for years.
Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, a pink-haired street artist rocks my world. They call Willa “the Parking Lot Picasso.” I call her my refuge, my center, my last reason to hope.
When Willa’s life on the streets collides with a sudden spotlight on her art, I’ll stop at nothing to protect her. But when the spotlight turns on my secret shame, she might be my only salvation.
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Quiet noises in Willa’s apartment wake me hours later. Soft footfalls. The rustling of fabric and clink of metal. I open my eyes to the dim city light that filters through Willa’s curtainless windows.
She’s a shadow across the room.
I stir and her head snaps up, eyes glinting. Her shoulders stiffen, as if I’ve caught her doing something wrong.
I sit up. She’s swapped her jeans for black leggings and her T-shirt for a long-sleeved dark shirt. Her black messenger bag bulges on her hip.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” She moves to a shelf and stuffs something in the messenger bag.
“You look like you’re going to break in somewhere.”
She tilts up her chin, a challenge. “Maybe I am.”
I’m on my feet in an instant, moving between her and the door. “What? You can’t just go out and wander the streets and break in places.”
She huffs, her eyes hardening when I block her exit. “I can do anything I want. You wanted a place to stay. So stay. But don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.”
Willa moves to get around me but I shift to the side, and suddenly we’re chest to chest. Another staredown.
This time, our faces are inches apart. Our staring contest crackles with the electricity of our physical touch.
“Move,” she whispers.
My lips curl into a faint smile. “No.”
Willa scowls and shoves her body closer to the door, closer to me. I rest my hand lightly on her hip, so as she moves, I move. Like we’re dancing.
Her fist clenches the material of my dark gray shirt. “I said, move.”
Her demand is a hiss and I smell her breath, sweet and hot, cinnamon and clove. My eyes drop to her lips, and I want my mouth there. I need to taste her.
Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as I tip my chin slightly, moving closer. But before I can connect with that ripe mouth, she shoves my chest—hard.
“Wrong move, Dave.” She spins and grabs the door handle and she’s down a flight of stairs before I can pick my jaw up off the floor, shove my feet in my shoes, and follow her.
I don’t know why I follow, I just do. Acting on instinct, rather than from the million calculations that usually drive me.
Normally, I think with my head. I weigh the logic in any situation. But Willa defies logic. She’s like a force of nature, thunder and lightning, impossible to control.
I race after her, down four flights, hustling to catch up as she pushes out of her building and onto the sidewalk.
“Willa. Would you wait up for me?”
She flings a glance over her shoulder. “This can’t wait.” She doesn’t slow down, but she doesn’t speed up, either.
“What are you doing—really?” I hustle after her and pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. 1:18 a.m. Unless she’s going bar-hopping, there aren’t a lot of legal activities available right now.
Willa snatches the phone from my hand, and that jolt of electricity is back. She powers off my phone without asking. “First rule: keep up. Second rule: put this away. If it lights up or rings at the wrong time, we’re screwed.”
She hands the phone back and I pocket it. “What’s the third rule?”
“Do what I tell you, ask questions later.”
About Heidi Joy Tretheway:
Heidi Joy Tretheway is a sucker for campfires, craft cocktails, and steamy romance in books and real life. She sings along with musicals (badly), craves French carbs, and buys plane tickets the way some women buy shoes.
Her first career as a journalist took Heidi behind the scenes with politicians, rock stars, and chefs, all of whom inspire her stories. Heidi Joy is currently working on her tenth book from her home in southwestern Washington.
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