Tied

Swoons for the Tangled series

Tied

“Do you see how he’s looking at her on that cover? Look closer if you have to. That look on his face tells every Drew Girl what she needs to know:
Tied
is sublimely irreverent, massively sexy, and so frigging perfect readers will be bursting with giddy smiles. This, praise Emma, is the ending we all wanted.”

—
New York Times
and
USA Today
author Christina Lauren

Tamed

“Witty, endearing, laugh-out-loud funny. Emma Chase doesn’t disappoint.”

—K. Bromberg, bestselling author of
Driven

Twisted

“Hot, hilarious, and passionate. A great escape.”

—Katy Evans,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Real
and
Mine

“A delicious treat . . . funny, witty, and very sexy.”

—
The Book Bella

“I laughed. I cried. I yelled. I wanted to stop reading, but I couldn’t. . . . Emma Chase really knows how to evoke emotion from her readers!”

—
Harlequin Junkie

“Emma Chase grabbed me from page one and put me through the wringer.”

—
Caffeinated Book Reviewer

“A book that I couldn’t wait to read and as I did, my emotions ran the gamut of hopeful, sad, with a dash of devastation and ultimately a great big pot of glee.”

—
The Sub Club Books

“Ms. Chase’s writing style . . . is quick and smartass-y and yet there is depth to her characters.”

—
Straight Shootin’ Book Reviews

“A yummy read for me . . . interesting, intense, sexy, and challenging.”

—
Literary Cravings

“In my wildest dreams, I never would have thought this story would reach the depths it did; the emotions and reactions it achieved. . . . I was obliterated, gutted, and slowly but surely put back together again.”

—
Books to Breathe

“Is emotional whiplash considered a sickness? I am more in love with this series than I was before, my heart just took a severe beating along the way.”

—
The Geekery Book Review

Tangled

“Well-written, clever, and charming.”

—
Maryse’s Book Blog

“Total stop, drop, and roll reading. It goes fast so take a little time today to gobble this one up. You won’t be sorry you did. Oh, and the sex . . . completely and utterly scandalicious.”

—
Scandalicious Book Reviews

“If you haven’t discovered
Tangled
yet you have no idea the fun you’re missing. . . . Drew is . . . witty, sarcastic, and hilarious. . . . I honestly can’t recall the last time I read such a colorful, chattily inclusive look at love from the male perspective. It’s addictively entertaining. If you’re looking for a witty, laugh out loud insight into the male psyche look no further: it’s
Tangled.
”

—
Miss Ivy’s Book Nook

“I giggled and smiled through the entire book.”

—
KT Book Reviews

“Hilarious, romantic, all-out FUN!!”

—
Aestas Book Blog

“If you’re looking for a laugh-out-loud, can’t-put-it-down, quick read, you won’t be disappointed.”

—
Hardcover Therapy

“I give
Tangled
 . . . Five Spectacular, Swoony, Fun, Laugh-Out-Loud Stars!”

—
A Bookish Escape

“I seriously enjoyed this book; any erotic romance that you can laugh out loud while reading and then be turned on in the next paragraph is an exhilarating book to read.”

—
Schmexy Girl Book Blog

“A perfect romantic comedy told through the eyes of a very cocky and sexy man.”

—
Literati Book Reviews

“So, not only is it funny, it’s deliciously hot too! The sex scenes are great. Laced with humor and Drew’s honest, frank way of thinking, they’re just another stroke of genius that make this book such a must-read.”

—
Smitten’s Book Blog

For Joe, G & J

You will always be my happily ever after

As I wrote the final lines of
Tied
, I admit it—there were tears in my eyes. Lots of them. Because my sweet, sexy, infuriating boy, Drew Evans, has at last grown into a man.

Mostly.

Tied
is the final major installment of his and Kate’s love story. That’s not to say there won’t be more books or novellas, extra scenes or prequels involving the Tangled Series characters in the future—these characters whisper loudly and often. But
Tied
is definitely Drew and Kate’s very happily-ever-after.

And I have loved writing every word—every moment—in their heartfelt and hilarious journey.

It takes more than one person to make a good manuscript into a great book. In fact, it takes a village. A team who believes in the author and adores the story. I am so fortunate to be able to work with the best, most amazing team, who are fantastic at their jobs and wonderful people as well.

I’d like to thank Amy Tannenbaum of the Jane Rotrosen
Agency for her constant support and superb guidance, and for telling me I’m being ridiculous when I am. I’m so grateful for my editor, Micki Nuding, for her fabulous insight, humor, and for truly understanding and enjoying these characters as much as I do. Thanks to my publicist, Nina Bocci, for being on top of so many things—I’d lose my mind without you. Huge thanks to Juliana Horbachevsky and Kristin Dwyer, my Gallery Books publicists, for your contagious energy, hard work, and beautiful support (clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose). To my publisher, Jen Bergstrom, and president, Louise Burke, and my entire Gallery Books family—it’s a pleasure and an honor to work with you.

I am grateful to all my author friends—thank you for showing me that craziness comes with the writing territory. Hugs to all my online friends and bloggers who have loved these characters from the beginning, and have paved the way for so many readers to love them, too.

I’m beyond grateful for my family—thank you for your excitement, patience, understanding, and love.

Finally, to my readers—thank you for being a part of the laughter, heartache, and joy of the Tangled series characters. And thank you for allowing me to share my stories with you.

T
here are moments in life that you dream about—plan for. You imagine every detail in crisp, vivid color and high-definition sound. And when that one perfect moment finally arrives, you pray the reality will come close to the fantasy you’ve built up in your mind.

And then there are those precious few times—when the reality blows your fantasy out of the fucking water.

That’s what this is like for me.

Because that devilishly handsome man, in the perfectly fitted Armani tuxedo, standing at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral—that’s me. Drew Evans.

And Katherine Brooks just stepped into the church. Waiting in the back, a stunning vision in white, ready to take her first step down the aisle.

To me.

Most guys don’t dream about their wedding—you don’t need me to tell you that. But this isn’t just
any
wedding. This is a landmark
event. Revolutionary. Because for most of my life, I didn’t entertain the slightest possibility that I’d end up here.

Sand to the beach, books to the library—it wasn’t what I wanted, remember?

But Kate did the impossible. She changed all that—she changed me. I think we can all agree I was pretty frigging awesome before . . . but now I’m even better.

The road to this day wasn’t all rainbows and boners. There were some potholes—mistakes—and misunderstandings worthy of a Greek fucking tragedy. But we made it through those times with our inexhaustible lust, boundless admiration, and everlasting love for one another intact.

That being said, some unexpected developments last weekend could have been a problem. It was . . . kind of . . . my final test.

I know what you’re thinking:
What the hell did you do this time?

Relax. Let’s hold off on the judgments—and the calls for my castration—until you hear the whole story. Just remember: even though the noblest intentions can go awry, and they do, this story has a happy ending.

T
he apartment is silent. Still. The kind of quiet that can only be found in the predawn hours when the sky is dark and gray. The place has changed since you saw it last. Take a look around. Sterilized sippy cups lie in wait on a countertop; a green-cushioned, wooden high chair sits in the corner of the kitchen. Framed photographs clutter the walls and shelves.

Some are of Kate and me, but most of the captured images are of a dark-haired two-year-old, with brown, soulful eyes and a devilish smile.

Cut to the bedroom. Two bodies writhe on the bed, partially covered by rumpled silk sheets; my hips rotate in long, slow circles. I think the missionary position has gotten a bad rap. It’s not boring. It allows the guy to take control—set the pace. To reach all those secret spots that make women moan and dig their fingernails into our shoulder blades.

Kind of like Kate is doing right now.

My head dips and I grasp one perky nipple with my lips, suctioning hard and flicking with my tongue. Kate arches her back. Her chin rises and her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her thighs squeeze harder, her pussy clenches tighter.

Even with the birth of a child on its résumé, Kate’s cooch is just as snug and feels just as amazing as it did that first time.
God bless you, Dr. Kegel
.

My hips speed up and change their trajectory, thrusting to and fro in hard, quick strokes. When I know she can’t take it anymore, I cover her mouth with mine, muffling her blissful cry. As much as I crave the sound of Kate’s voice, these days it’s all about staying quiet. Covert.

Why?
you ask.

Let’s pause here a minute and I’ll explain.

It’s our golden rule. Our first commandment: Don’t wake the fucking baby.

I’ll repeat that in case you missed it:

DON’T WAKE THE FUCKING BABY.

Like . . .
ever
.

Still don’t get it? Must not have kids then. See, children are beautiful. Precious. Angelic. Particularly when they’re asleep. If they’re disturbed mid-sleep-cycle, however? They’re monsters. Irritable, angry little beasts who bear a striking resemblance to gremlins fed after midnight.

And the cold truth is, even when they’re well rested, babies are pretty frigging selfish. Self-centered and demanding. They don’t care what you were doing before they needed you, or—more important—
whom
you were trying to do. They only care about themselves.
They’re
hungry.
They’re
wet.
They
want you to pick them up because the view from the crib has gotten old.

For all you happy couples out there awaiting the arrival of your own darling little cockblocker? I’m gonna tell you how it really is—not the utopian bullshit they feed you in those
What to Expect
books.

Here it goes: In the days after they’re born, when you’re still in the hospital, all infants do is sleep. I think the numbers are like twenty-three out of a twenty-four-hour day. I think they’re slipping something into those bottles in the nursery.

Anyway, after a day or two, if all goes well, the hospital sends you home. And that’s when the baby decides that it’s slept enough. And finds something else to do to pass the time.

Did you know an infant’s cry is twenty decibels higher than a train whistle? I shit you not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

By day three, I was convinced something was wrong with James. Maybe he had a gastrointestinal disorder. Maybe he was allergic to the wallpaper.

Maybe he just didn’t fucking like us.

Whatever the reason, he was not a happy camper. And he was all too eager to let us know it. In the morning. In the afternoon. And—his favorite—all through the night.

Once in a while, just to screw with us, he’d mix it up and pass out for a while. But if he was awake? Yep—he was bawling. And I’m not talking about lip-quivering whimpers, either. Hell no. I’m talking lung-expanding, arm-and-leg-kicking, bansheelike screeching.

Shaken baby syndrome? I totally get that now.

Not that we were gonna go nuclear on his ass, but honestly? It wasn’t fun.

My mother came over a lot, and at first I was relieved. I figured she’d done this twice before, she’d know how to fix him. Moms always make everything better.

Only . . . she didn’t.

All she did was smile in that infuriatingly calm way while she bounced our squawking newborn on her shoulder. Then she’d tell us it was
normal.
That
all
babies cried. That Kate and I just had to figure out our
own
way of doing things.

I’d never before had the urge to strangle my mother. I’d never understood psychos like the Menendez brothers or Jim Gordon. But in those dark days when sleep—and blow jobs—were a distant memory, I’m sorry to say matricide was looking pretty damn attractive.