Cook For Your Gut Health

“Tell me, baby. Are you wet for me?” He asked as he licked the shell of my ear, his tongue lashing out deliciously. I stifled a whimper and shook my head. “You dirty liar,” he growled. “The next time you lie to me I’m going to bend you over the nearest surface and spank the truth out of you.” *** When Manhattan’s most successful billionaire, Alessio Castelli, hires me to be his personal cook, I’m determined not to fall for him. Too bad he’s simply too hot to resist. He says I’m not his type, but he watches me like I’m his next obsession… and when his control finally snaps, he claims me as his, unable to stay away from me. What starts as temptation quickly turns into something far more dangerous; because men like Alessio don’t love. They possess. Just when I begin to believe I might mean more to him than a secret in his bed, a previous lover from his past returns… pregnant and claiming the child is his. Now I’m trapped between the man who refuses to let me go and the kind of heartbreak that will ruin me for good, because I’m already hopelessly in love with him. And the worst part? Walking away from him might be harder than staying.

Nicholas’s first love was diagnosed with HIV at our hospital. I broke doctor-patient confidentiality and told him. Unfortunately, he thought I was lying. He not only accused me of killing a patient and got me convicted, and he even spiked my milk with abortion pills. At eight weeks pregnant, I bled heavily. I begged him for help, but he just walked away and sneered, "Finally, no one can stop me from being with Shereen." When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day his first love was diagnosed with HIV. This time, I didn’t tell him. Instead, I broke up with him. Since he loves his first love so much, I’ll gladly step aside.

EZREN: Kiss or kill. Those were always the two options left.. until the past walks back into my life in the form of blue eyes, ginger curls, and a tattoo he swears I should remember. Knox Graye. A diagnosed psychopath. Says he was my brother’s boyfriend. That I left him to die and that I hold the only truth to his death. He is everywhere. Digging up my lies. Ruining what’s left of my life. Call me ‘Cherry’ like it means something. I swear I hate it. I hate him. I don’t know if he wants closure, revenge, or just someone to break. Either way, I’m his target and his third option. KNOX: Everyone thinks I’ve got a loose screw in the head but they're wrong. I lost the whole damn toolbox, buried six feet under with the only person I ever loved. I've spent six years grieving. Dying in pieces while he rots away in a grave but now? Now someone else walk around in his bones, smiling with his lips like he fuckin’ owns it. Like I wouldn’t recognize my own goddamn Cherry. Except now he calls himself Ezren. Cute. He thinks he has been hiding behind top grades and golden-boy charm, but I built his whole damn maze. And now that he's close? I’m done with subtlety. I want chaos in his veins, his secrets peeled off like skin. I want to crawl into the part of his head where he still hears his brother’s laugh and whisper: “You were always mine." He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to dismantle him. Brick by fucking brick. And when he finally breaks, I’ll be there to offer him a choice. “Kiss or kill, Cherry?”

Isabelle Dempsey, an up-and-coming chef, decides to leave Miami to spend a season with friends Zachary and Gwendolyn Monaghan in Alaska. What she didn't expect was to end up stranded at the North Pole in a race to prepare the perfect Christmas alongside Gustaf Bergqvist, the charming cook at her friends' inn. Follow this romantic story in a place where days last only four hours, the northern lights dance in the night sky, the Christmas spirit lives on all year round and broken hearts can be healed

"Don't move!" Coming home late from work, I was sneaking a shower in the shared bathroom of my rental when a warm body suddenly pressed up against me. His rough palm clamped over my mouth, pinning me against the cold tile. He held me there against the damp wall, his skin burning hot against my back as he let out a low, gravelly threat. "My guys are right outside. Just try and scream." Instead of panicking, I leaned back into him, shifting slightly. I tilted my head back and breathed softly into his ear. “So… you want everyone hear? I don't mind… we can give it a try.”

Jack Cooke—my husband, who'd never so much as scrambled an egg—suddenly went full kitchen freak. He bought a ton of pots and spatulas, then spent all day just... polishing them. When I called him out, he shrugged. "I like things clean. That a crime now?" Behind him? A mountain of dirty socks. Then it got weirder. He dragged all the kitchen stuff into our bedroom. At night, he'd get weird with a dishcloth. Like, disturbingly weird. I was done. I asked for a divorce. Jack stormed into a private dining room and shredded the papers right in front of our investors. "You're seriously ending our marriage over this? Kinda dramatic, don't you think?" I didn’t blink. “I gave up my spot for your pots and pans. A little thanks wouldn’t kill you.”