“Corinne Michaels and Melanie Harlow are a match made in heaven. Five-Sweet-Stars for this unforgettable collaboration!” --A.L. Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

Hold You Close, an all-new second chance standalone romance by New York Times bestselling author Corinne Michaels and USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow, is available now!

“Ian,” my bartender, Toby, calls with his hand out. “What’s up?” “You have a call.” He pushes the phone toward me. No one calls the club for me other than vendors, and it’s eleven-thirty at night, so whoever it is can wait. “I have to deal with something now, send them to my voicemail.” He shakes his head. “She’s called three times.” The annoyance in his voice is clear, even over the music. She? The only woman that would resort to calling the club is my ex-wife. God only knows what bullshit she wants now. For all I know she broke a nail, it’s my fault, and she thinks I should pay for her new manicure, or a hand replacement. She’s like the gift you’ve tried to return but can’t find the receipt for, so you’re stuck with it. I hate unwanted presents, and I hate Jolene. “Send the devil to my voicemail,” I say and walk away. I head out to the sidewalk. Drea wasn’t kidding, the line is nuts. “Hello, Officer,” I say to the pudgy cop standing next to the bouncer. “Mr. Chase, we’re getting complaints,” he says, looking down the sidewalk at the line. “I can’t help that we’re popular.” I shrug. “I’m at capacity, and can’t kick out the paying customers to take care of the line.” “You’re obstructing the entrances of other businesses because of the way your overflow lines are set up.” How the hell would they like me to handle it? We’re not inside the casino, there’s no way to control the line. I’m not about to turn away people when we hit the number ten. This is a business, and part of the free marketing I get is thanks to the line. “All right, I’ll figure something out.” I grip the back of my neck. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. If this is Jolene, I swear to God, I might lose my fucking mind. The name flashes across the screen, London Parish. For fuck’s sake. Like I need to deal with my sister’s uptight, irritating best friend right now. London would be incredibly hot if she wasn’t such a raging bitch. I look at my call log and see this is the third time she’s called. I walk down the strip a little, and after a few deep breaths, I call her back. “Ian, you need to come to my house.” I smirk. “Well, this is a first. Did you have the stick removed from your ass?” “Don’t. Not today, please. Just come here.” I hear her sniff and my protectiveness kicks in. Someone made her cry. We don’t get along at all—partly because we’re polar opposites and partly because of our history—but no one gets to make her cry. “Are you hurt?” I ask. “Not in the way you think.” Her voice hitches. I’ve known London for twenty-five years. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen or heard her cry—I was the reason one of those times. “What’s wrong? Is it an emergency? Because I’m at work and the club—” “Now, Ian. You need to come here now.” She also doesn’t play games. Fuck. I look at my watch and blow a deep breath through my nose. It’ll take me at least thirty minutes to get there. This is seriously a shitty night. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “Just . . . hurry,” London says and hangs up. Dread pulls at my stomach, telling me there’s something going on. I don’t know what, but I know I need to get there. “Get rid of the line, no more get in,” I tell the bouncer, and then head inside. Drea is at the bar, and my anxiety is starting to grow. London needs me there, why? What happened? Did someone break into her house? Mine? Maybe it has to do with an ex, if she even has one, or it could be nothing like that. Regardless, her voice was shaky and I can’t waste time wondering. “I have to go,” I tell Drea. Her eyes widen. “Go? Go where? It’s a packed house.” “I’m aware of that, but something came up. I need you to handle things