My wannabe friends-to-lovers story is an embarrassing disaster.
It all started when I took a chance on love and made a move on the older guy I’ve been obsessed with for years. I experienced something so humiliating, I’m desperate to bleach it from my brain forever.
I’ve spent every day since pretending it didn’t happen. That it didn’t matter. That it didn’t hurt.
Rocco Monroe came to live with my family when he was eighteen. His bedroom was across from mine. We were friends. He became the son my father never had.
When I tried to change our status, he shut me down. He said I was illicit … a forbidden drug formulated just for him.
And that’s saying something since he’s a DEA agent.
So I cut him out … severed all ties.
What I didn’t know was that while I was trying to forget him, he became addicted.
To me.
The moment he found an opening, he pushed his way back into my life.
But my shattered heart might not survive another break.
I have two choices.
Keep my orderly, Rocco-free life.
Or risk everything for the chance to have it all.
That is if our families don’t kill us first.
You know… figuratively.
And literally.
