Love rom-coms packed with banter, warm fuzzies, and spice?
This complete series box set has you covered.
7 full-length romances. One Paris café. Pure binge reading.
1. Falling for Emma — a redemption romance
Rising star of French soft rock Cyril is blind, talented, and broken. Graphic artist Emma lives in her sister’s shadow, hiding her love for Cyril… until the day she decides to give fate a helping hand.
2. What If It’s Love — a second-chance romance, Dante Rossetti First Place Winner
When the hottest man in Paris, Rob Dumont, shows interest in geeky, introverted heiress Lena, she suspects something fishy. And she’s right to.
3. Winter’s Gift — a modern Cinderella romance
When tech mogul Anton and elite call girl Anna cross paths over the holidays, neither can deny that what they share is special. But it threatens the principles they’ve lived by for years: love is poison, and don’t trust anyone.
4. Under My Skin — a love triangle romance
After three years of no contact, up-and-coming politician Mat Gerard believes he’s over his crush on sassy barmaid Jeanne Bonnet… Or is he?
5. Amanda’s Guide to Love — an opposites-attract romance, Kindle Scout Winner
One uptight career woman down on her luck. One free-spirited blackjack player. One wild, no-strings night that changes everything…
6. An Autumn in Paris — a single-parent romance
For single mom Dana, passion is a thing of the past. When she meets handsome vet Thomas, will she dare to love again?
7. The Devil’s Own Chloe — a friends-to-lovers romance
Patient and strong, contractor Hugo prides himself on fixing anything. But can he save his high school crush Chloe from herself?
“Ooh-la-la! Fun and entertaining.” (USA Today Bestselling Author Ann Omasta)
“The twists and turns will keep you hanging off the edge of your seat, and the magical setting will reel you in.” (Romantic Times)
Follow a close-knit group of friends as they fall in love—one swoony Parisian romance at a time.
Excerpt from “Winter’s Gift”, a modern Cinderella romance included in the Bistro La Bohème Complete Series Box Set by Alix Nichols
Anton
Coming to this vernissage was a mistake. I let the title of the exhibit—Rhapsody in Blue—and the reviews lure me here, forgetting that Moscow’s art critics would praise anyone who pays them. They’d even call these god-awful daubs “masterpieces of modern art,” and their author “Russia’s next Kandinsky.”
Kandinsky, my foot.
I begin to make my way toward the exit. As I pass the centerpiece titled Night on the River Volga, I can’t help wincing.
That’s when a clear, exceedingly pleasant female voice says, “The artist should’ve called this painting Black Stripe I Drew with My Ruler. Then, at least, I could give him a point for honesty.” I stop in my tracks, turn in the direction of the voice, and stare. I can’t stop staring. My kindred spirit is in her early to mid-thirties, slim, dressed in elegant black pants and a point for honesty.”
I stop in my tracks, turn in the direction of the voice, and stare. I can’t stop staring. My kindred spirit is in her early to mid-thirties, slim, dressed in elegant black pants and a cream cashmere turtleneck. Her brown hair is gathered at her nape into a soft, loose bun. Her makeup is subdued except for the crimson-red lipstick that brings out her flawless skin. The way she’s dressed, the way she holds herself and smiles at her giggling friend—everything about her speaks easy elegance and confident wit.
I backtrack to her. “My idea was Dark and Darker, but your version is much better.”
She nods, and the tiniest smile wrinkles the corners of her gray eyes.
My breath catches. I need to find something to say quickly, before she turns to her friend. “I wonder how you would dub the entire exhibit.”
“Bullshit in Blue,” she says without batting an eye.
I burst out laughing.
She laughs too, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long, long time.
“It’s the title that brought me here in the first place,” I say. “I love—”
“Gershwin. Me too. Especially Rhapsody in Blue.”
I grin like an idiot. Not only is she funny and classy, but she also has great taste in music. Anyone who loves jazz does.
“I expected something jazzy from this artist, but what I see here is just…” I pause as I search for a good qualifier.
“Pride, pomp, and circumstance.” She winks, and I nearly jump for joy at her apt quote.
My eyes dart to her graceful hands. No wedding band or engagement ring in sight. Excellent. I’ll get her one soon.
Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ll be doing no such thing. I don’t even know the woman’s name, for heaven’s sake. Yet, the image of me slipping a huge rock on her delicate finger refuses to leave my mind.
I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone before. Not even Stacia. When I fell in love with her over twenty years ago, I knew she wasn’t like me. Our interests were worlds apart, and we could never agree on anything, big or small. I wish I’d known at the time we didn’t share the same values, either. But I was naive and overly optimistic, and I convinced myself we’d work it out.
God knows I tried—for a whole decade.
And now as I look at this woman, I don’t doubt for a second, we’ll get along famously. She looks right, sounds right, even smells right. And from what I’ve heard so far, I’m sure I’ll enjoy her mind as much as I’ll enjoy her body.
I hold out my hand. “Anton Malakhov. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Anna.” She grants me a brief, but intense, joy of her touch. “The pleasure is mine.”
I go on to shake hands with her friend without taking my eyes off Anna for a second. There’s no point in hiding how much she’s impressed me.
Anna. It’s a beautiful name… even if a touch too formal.
“Does anyone call you Annushka?” I find myself asking.
“Only my mom.”
She smiles, and I debate whether I should invite her for a drink right now or ask for her number. One thing is certain. I must see her again. In fact, I need to see her as soon as possible, and as often as possible. Preferably, every day.
And every night.
She resolves my quagmire by ripping a page out of her notebook and scribbling something on it. Why am I not surprised she carries a notebook and a pen in her purse? I bet she also has a book or an e-reader somewhere in there. Although I just met her, I feel like I know her. I can see her inner core, her fundamental essence. It shines through.
She hands me the sheet, and I glance at what she’s written. There’s a phone number, her name, and a meaningless figure under it. I look up at her, about to ask if it’s an extension.
“This,” she says, pointing her slender index finger at the top line, “is my agent’s number. And below is my hourly rate.”
My jaw slacks.
The woman of my dreams is a hooker.
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