The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(114)

I made a U-turn and walked toward him. We met inside his office. He closed the door (the new one, which didn’t take a fucking century to close), because now, we met all the time to talk about everything, without Cillian as a buffer.

“What’s up?” I leaned my shoulder against a glass wall, tucking my hands into my suit pockets. He rounded his desk and sat behind it, smoothing his tie.

“What did she say?” He scrunched his eyebrows.

His firstborn was as far from marriage as The Joker was from sanity, and Aisling was still young. I was his best bet for grandchildren.

“Who?” I feigned confusion.

“I’m too old for these charades. What did Sailor say?” His eyes narrowed.

“She needs more time.”

I scanned him coolly for his reaction. His face fell before he schooled it, offering me a what-can-you-do huff. He tried so hard to keep a poker face, but the fact he reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead gave away his despair.

“Buy her a bigger ring. That’ll do the trick.”

“Not with Sailor.” I shook my head, still eyeing him.

He groaned, rubbing his temple. “Probably. She’s a toughie.”

“I’m tougher.” I grinned, pulling out my hand and showing him my ring finger. “I won’t keep you and Mom waiting for long. I want to put this shit on lock as fast as I can, before she realizes she can do much better.”

Da looked up from his seat, shaking his head, and whispered, “No, she can’t.”

I believed him—not that it was true about Sailor and me, but that he meant it.

“I love you, ceann beag. More than this kingdom.” Da smirked, slow and deliberate, trying not to burst with pride.

I grinned back, fingering the Dala horse on my neck. Sailor had given it back to me the day she’d moved back in. It was no longer colorless, though. She’d painted it orange—like her hair.

“I love you, old sport. More than pu—”

“No.”

“Puppies! Chill.”

I turned around and made my way to my office, laughing.

I totally meant pussy.





The End





This has been such a special book for me to write. Hunter Fitzpatrick was supposed to be nothing but a side character in All Saints High. I never planned for him to have his own book, let alone to write an entire series about his family. But he just possessed me with his charm, and I found myself unable to resist his story.

I have so many people to be thankful for, people who helped make this book what it is today.

First of all, to Tijuana Turner, my momager, favorite person, and the first pair of eyes on any of my books. Thank you so much for all the love you’ve given Hunter and Sailor. To my beta readers, Sarah Grim Sentz, Lana Kart, Vanessa Villegas, Amy Halter, and Ava Harrison. Thank you so much.

To Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, and Parker S. Huntington for being the best humans in the world. Literally. The best. Your friendship means so much to me!

To my editors, Jessica Royer Ocken and Paige Maroney Smith. I am so very grateful to be working with you!

To my amazing (and patient) designer, Letitia Hasser, for not giving up on life whilst working with me on covers.

To my street team—my SUPERHEROES!—I couldn’t do this without you. That much I know. Lin, Ratula, Vane, Marta, Yamina, Rebecca, Jacquie, Avivit, Sarah (Kellogg and Grim!), Amy, Nadine, Ariadna, Nina, Isa, Chele’, Betty, Sher, Lisa, Leeann, Brittany, Sophie, Stacey, Amanda, Summer, Sheena, Samantha, Tanaka, Vickie, Keri, Zafi, and Jodie. You ladies are the best!

To Candi Kane for being the queen of everything PR and to Kimberly Brower, my awesome agent.

To the Sassy Sparrows, my reader group, that I love so much. And to you, for taking a chance on this book. I am honored that you chose to spend time reading my work, and I would be very grateful if you could take a few moments to leave an honest review.

Thankful,

L.J. Shen





Before you leave, here is the first chapter of Pretty Reckless, book one in the All Saints High series. Find all about Vaughn, Knight, Daria and their stories!





It started with a lemonade

And ended with my heart

This, my pretty reckless rival, is how our screwed-up story starts



Age Fourteen.





The tiles under my feet shake as a herd of ballerinas blazes past me, their feet pounding like artillery in the distance.

Brown hair. Black hair. Straight hair. Red hair. Curly hair. They blur into a rainbow of trims and scrunchies. My eyes are searching for the blond head I’d like to bash against the well-worn floor.

Feel free not to be here today, Queen Bitch.

I stand frozen on the threshold of my mother’s ballet studio, my pale pink leotard sticking to my ribs. My white duffel bag dangles from my shoulder. My tight bun makes my scalp burn. Whenever I let my hair down, my golden locks fall off in chunks on the bathroom floor. I tell Mom it’s from messing with my hair too much, but that’s BS. And if she gave a damn—really gave one, not just pretended to—she’d know this, too.

I wiggle my banged-up toes in my pointe shoes, swallowing the ball of anxiety in my throat. Via isn’t here. Thank you, Marx.

Girls torpedo past me, bumping into my shoulders. I feel their giggles in my empty stomach. My duffel bag falls with a thud. My classmates are leaner, longer, and more flexible with rod-straight backs like an exclamation mark. Me? I’m small and muscular like a question mark. Always unsure and on the verge of snapping. My face is not stoic and regal; it’s traitorous and unpredictable. Some wear their hearts on their sleeves—I wear mine on my mouth. I smile with my teeth when I’m happy, and when my mom looks at me, I’m always happy.