Bad Boy Bachelor Summer : A Bad Boy Bachelors Novel - Ali Parker


The lake might be cold, but this thing between us is white hot.

My best friend’s little sister. You know, the one that’s off limits.

And she has been since we were kids. But that ain’t saying I wasn’t looking.

She’s all grown up now and hotter than sin.

The lake house we all grew up at is located on a larger piece of property that I own now. And I’m looking to demolish the whole neighborhood.

To say my first love and my best friend will be upset is a mild understatement.

But business is business, right?

I start out that way, but the closer this beautiful girl gets to me, the more memories she brings with her.

A guy can only resist his teenage fantasy for so long before he takes the plunge.

It’s summertime, and I’m looking for a fling.

Funnily enough, I end up with forever.


Well hey there! Thank you so much for grabbing one of my books. I sure hope you love it.

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Who doesn’t love summertime? To all of our kick-ass readers out there that adore a sunny day on the lake with a cold drink and lots of friends. This one is for you. Enjoy your summer!!

Ali & Weston Parker



The women’s bathroom on the fourteenth floor was the perfect place for a good cry. The cinderblock walls made for good soundproofing, and the door locked, which meant I had total privacy while I clung to the edge of the sink and sobbed my heart out.

The sink was clean-ish—the best a girl could ask for when she worked at a popular lifestyle magazine with two hundred and something other women on payroll—but the mirror was covered in backsplash. An “Out of Order” sign had been taped to the paper-towel dispenser three months ago. A water-soaked roll sat on the soaked counters. I’d been tearing off strips to dab at my nose, which now burned red and raw.

Sucking in a huge, shaky, lip-trembling breath, I lifted my puffy gaze and stared at my own reflection.


Tears left muddy mascara stains down my cheeks. Snot messed up the foundation on my upper lip and the perfectly applied highlighter on my cupid’s bow. My pink lipstick had worn off during lunch and I lacked the energy to apply a fresh layer.

Why had I even bothered putting makeup on this morning? I’d been crying like this for days.


And there was no end in sight.

On Friday night, I’d sat down at a table for two at Carnelli’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in Sterling Heights. They had this delicious little cannoli starter that came jam-packed with ricotta cheese, spinach, onions, and goat cheese. Every bite melted on your tongue and tasted like heaven—if Heaven were an appetizer. My boyfriend, James, had watched me eat one after another with an arched eyebrow while he unfolded his napkin, refolded it, set it beside his plate, and unfolded it all over again.

That was when I noticed something was up. He was nervous. Antsy. Fidgety. Altogether unlike himself.

With a mouthful of cheese, I’d begun to wonder if the man of my dreams was about to propose to me. He had taken me out to my favorite restaurant, and it was the anniversary of our first date. The stars seemed to be aligned. We’d been talking about our next steps and moving in together. He was well on his way to home ownership, and I was well on my way to finally landing a promotion and moving from a desk in the bullpen of the magazine to one with dividers and more privacy closer to the windows. Things were right on track.

But my sweet, handsome, wonderful James had not pulled a ring out of his pocket and gotten down on one knee. He’d waited until after the main course, graciously letting me fill up on a half order of lasagna and a side salad, before reaching across the table, taking