Double Dog Dare & Giveaway

 

Double Dog Dare
Tracy Solheim
(Milwaukee Growlers, #2)
Publication date: July 25th 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

They say he who dares wins…

Luke Kessler is known for his daring play on the field and his carefully scripted life off it. The Growlers’ wide receiver has a strict rule of dating one carefully chosen woman per season, then letting her down gently. After all, his game is football, not love. That is until his dopey mutt falls for a French bulldog owned by a hot mess of a woman whose sassy mouth and mind-blowing curves have him fumbling his best laid plans.

After a humiliating concert performance played out in front of the world on social media, cellist Summer Pearson has sworn off a career in music. Forever. She’s hiding out with her grandparents in Milwaukee, licking her wounds and preparing for a predictable, if not boring, law career. The last person she needs challenging her life choices is a sexy, dog-rescuing jock who loves his grandma as much as he loves a good dare.

Especially when that same guy is dating her perfect cousin.

This fun, flirty sports romance delivers a happily ever after that will have you laughing, crying, sighing, and cheering in the endzone. One-click it now for doggy hijinks, senior citizens bent on shenanigans, sexy ax-throwing, locker room bromance, steamy private cello performances, and all the feels as two people discover they are worthy of love.

Double Dog Dare is book 2 in the Milwaukee Growlers Football series but can be read as a standalone with no cliffhangers.

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EXCERPT:

The doorbell rang.

“Oh no,” Lizzie cried. “I’m not ready yet.” She snatched the earrings from Summer’s hand. “You have to stall him. I still need to finish my hair.”

Summer looked down at the baggy flannel boxers she’d pulled on earlier when she got home from making the final preparations in her classroom. Had she even remembered to shave her legs today? Yesterday? The T-shirt she wore was tied in a knot at her waist, revealing the Ben and Jerry’s induced swell of her belly. No way was she dressed to greet anyone, much less a hot jock.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’m locking myself in my bedroom until you leave.”

“I just agreed to your big ask,” Lizzie hissed. “This is mine in return.”

She slammed the bathroom door in Summer’s face and locked it. Milli was barking like a fiend in the living room when the doorbell rang again. Crap. There was no time to wrap herself in a Snuggie.

Or refill her wine glass with liquid courage.

With a resigned sigh, Summer made her way to the front door. Milli’s toenails were tapdancing on the oak floors as the dog prepared to launch herself at whoever was on the front porch. Summer positioned her leg awkwardly to prevent Milli from escaping and opened the door, revealing an unexpected familiar sight—none other than Monty’s owner. She bit back a groan at the sight of the mouth she’d been having some serious dreams about last night. The eyes she’d been wondering about yesterday were hazel. And currently very bemused.

“You,” she said, sounding just as priggish as she had the day before.

Monty’s owner shoved his hands into the pockets of his sharply pressed khakis. “Uh, I hope I’ve got the right address. I’m looking for Elizabeth Pearson.”

Of course, he was.

Summer was suddenly appalled she’d been fantasizing about her cousin’s date.

“She’s expecting a football player.” In for a priggish penny, in for a priggish pound.

He rocked back on his heels. “Number eighty-one in your Growler’s program and number one in fans’ hearts. And the league’s leading receiver, two seasons in a row.”

“Wow.” That explained Papa Harry’s “big fan” comment from yesterday.

Milli whimpered as she clawed at Summer’s leg to escape. No doubt the silly dog wanted to roll over and expose her lady parts to her lover’s owner.

“Asseyez-vous et comportez-vous, Milli,” Summer commanded. The dog neither sat nor behaved. Instead, the wee beast continued to struggle to get free.

Number Eighty-One chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the only French that dog understands is French fry.”

Summer bristled with indignation. How dare he fat-shame her grandmother’s adorably pudgy dog. “I’ll have you know that Milli Chanel understands French perfectly. She’s brilliant.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t say.”

Crouching down on his haunches, he stared into Milli’s eyes. Summer swore the dog sighed.

“Voulez-vous manger vieilles chaussures, Milli?”

Mother of God. The man was fluent in the language of love, not to mention bread and chocolate. Summer was shocked her panties hadn’t spontaneously combusted as the perfectly accented words sensuously rolled off his tongue.

Milli seemed to be having the same reaction. The dog’s eyes practically rolled back in her head as though he’d asked if she wanted cheese on her burger rather than if she wanted to eat old shoes.

Satisfied he had proved his point, he stood up with the lithe grace of a natural athlete and smirked at her. “I rest my case.”

Milli whimpered at the loss of Monty’s owner’s undivided attention.

“Oww!” Summer yelped when the dog’s claws broke the skin on her leg.

She hopped on one foot to the kitchen, leaving the guy to fend for himself with the little hussy that was her grandmother’s dog. She snagged a paper towel and held it to her shin while pouring herself another glass of wine with her other hand. Who said she wasn’t talented?

Author Bio:

USA Today bestselling author Tracy Solheim writes books with shirtless men on the cover. Some of them are actually best-sellers. The books, not the men. When she's not writing, she's practicing her curling. . . bottles of wine, that is. She's been known to cook dinner but no more than two nights in a row. Most days, she'd rather be reading, which to her is just necessary research. She lives in the suburbs of Atlanta with her husband and a neurotic Labrador retriever. Her two adult children visit but not often enough. (See the note above about cooking.) Check out her romantic suspense series featuring the Men of the Secret Service--shirtless, of course! See what she’s up to at www.tracysolheim.com

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