I absolutely adore the books in this series.  It has made me laugh so hard I have tears and cringe at just how in need of a filter Violet is.  But I knew, just knew, Lance’s book was not going to be the romantic comedy the other books were.

Despite Lance’s antics in the previous books, Lance is a very complicated guy.  I didn’t realize just how complicated or just how broken the poor man was.  Once his backstory started to unfold I found myself wishing he was real and I could hug him.  Prove to him that he was worth it and lovable.  Despite how much I wanted to be the one to prove that to him, Helena Hunting gave him the perfect leading lady in Poppy.

Lance carried a lot of baggage, which often had me wondering how in the hell he was able to play hockey with the amount of anger he carried around.  His taste in women didn’t help any of that either.  But I loved how he quickly realized what he had in Poppy and was desperate to make sure he didn’t do something to completely screw it up.  And when he does, how he was willing to do whatever he needed to in order to prove to Poppy what he wanted with her.  If I hadn’t already loved him, I would have in this book.

Poppy was the perfect balm to the voices that haunt Lance.  She shows him, in many ways, that he’s lovable and worthy of his friends (including her).  She helps him curb his excesses and realize why he was doing what he was doing.  And all she had to do was love him.

I loved the angst of this book (and it’s really angsty).  Sure there are a few funny moments, but Lance and Poppy are much different from the other series characters.  Their story needed more of those serious moments and that made this a series standout for me.

Pucked Off, an all-new emotional and sexy STANDALONE from Helena Hunting is LIVE!!

Pucked Off by Helena Hunting

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Excerpt:

Armed with my clipboard, I walk down the hall to the waiting room. Lance is impossible to miss. Despite the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is covering half of his face, he’s more than six feet of broad, hockey-playing man.

He’s so wide his shoulders encroach on the chairs on either side, which would explain why no one is sitting next to him. He’s slouched down so his head rests on the back of the chair, and his hands are clasped in his lap, a baseball cap hanging off one knee. His lips, plush and soft—I know since I’ve had them on mine; it might have been a decade ago, but I remember it clearly—are parted. He looks like he’s asleep.

I clear my throat. “Lance Romero?”

He doesn’t move.

Bernadette, the receptionist, gives me a meaningful look.

I clear my throat again and call his name a second time. He jolts awake and the hood falls back, exposing his face. It’s not in good shape. He has a black eye and bruises on his left cheek. There’s a fly bandage across one eyebrow.

Sadly, he’s still hot.

He blinks a few times, yawns, and smacks his lips, his tongue touching the split in the bottom one. His gaze sweeps the room and finally lands on me. Heat explodes in my cheeks and courses through my limbs, warming me from the inside out as he starts at my sneaker-clad feet and roams up over my yoga pants to my company-issued T-shirt before stopping at my face. I can’t look directly at him for more than a couple of seconds. I sincerely hope he doesn’t remember me. I cannot go there and also be professional.

I’m sure the smile he gives me has melted many a panty off a slutty bunny. Mine stay right where they’re supposed to, wedged up my ass.

I force a polite, professional veneer. “I’m ready for you now.”

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