Cuff Me


By Lauren Layne

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Meet New York’s Finest-three hot brothers sworn to protect and serve the city they love . . . and the women who’ve stolen their hearts.

Vincent Moretti is one of the NYPD’s top homicide detectives-and one of the most eligible bachelors in town. His family, however, thinks he should date his longtime partner, Jill-a sassy, sexy, smart-mouthed blonde who drives him absolutely crazy.

Behind the quiet authority, tough-guy demeanor, and dark aviator glasses lies a man with a big soul-and a hard body that can soften any girl’s heart. After years as his coworker, Jill Henley has given up hope that anything could happen between her and Vin. Besides, loving him would break all the rules. But seeing Jill with someone else triggers feelings in Vincent he never knew he had. Now he’ll have to stop playing good cop/bad cop-and find a way to convince her to be his partner for life. . .


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There's something wrong with a man that grins like that at a crime scene."

Detective Vincent Moretti glanced up from where he'd been studying the gunshot wound of the vic and glared at the officer who'd been shadowing him for the past three months.

"I wasn't grinning."

Detective Tyler Dansen never paused in scribbling in the black notebook he carried everywhere. "You were definitely grinning."


Dansen glanced up. "Fine. Maybe not grinning. But I'm one hundred percent sure I saw you smile."

"How about you be one hundred percent sure about who shot this guy instead?" Vincent said irritably.

Dansen returned his attention to his damn notebook, but he didn't look particularly chagrined by Vin's reprimand.

Oh, what Vin wouldn't give to go back to those early days when all he'd had to do was look at Dansen, and the kid practically dropped into a deferential bow.

Three months of spending every workday in each other's company had the newly minted detective acting nearly as impudent as Vincent's actual partner.

Nearly being an important distinction, because Vincent didn't think they made 'em sassier, more stubborn, or more annoying than Detective Jill Henley.

And he would know. They'd been partners for six long years, and their pairing up as partners was proof of God's sense of humor.

Jill Henley was Vincent's opposite in every way.

Jill was chipper, charming, and smiley.

Vincent was… none of those things.

Especially not the last one. Although, if he was being really honest with himself, Dansen may have been right about Vincent cracking a smile earlier.

It's not that Vin was immune to death. There was absolutely nothing humorous about a man lying cold in his own blood and guts, dead from a gunshot wound to the stomach.

But after six years as a homicide DT for the NYPD, one learned to compartmentalize. To let the brain occasionally go somewhere else other than death even as you were staring straight at it.

It was the only way to survive. Otherwise it was nothing but puking and nightmares.

And speaking of puking…

Vincent stood and gave Detective Dansen a once-over. "If you're gonna barf, do it outside," he said, just to needle the younger man.

Dansen threw his arms up in exasperation. "That was one time. One time! And I hear it happens to everyone on their first day."

"Didn't happen to me."

"That's because you're a machine," Dansen muttered under his breath.

Vincent didn't respond to this. It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Robot. Machine. Automaton.

He just didn't know what people expected him to do about it.

In the movies, there was always some reason for the semi-mechanical, unfeeling action hero.

Either a dead wife, an abusive past, or some other sort of jacked-up emotional history. But Vincent had always sort of figured he'd been born this way. Quiet. Reserved. Broody.

It's not that he didn't feel. Of course he did. He just didn't feel out loud.

He wasn't sure that he really knew how to, and wasn't sure he wanted to learn.

But in Dansen's defense on the puking thing, the kid's first crime scene as a homicide DT had been a rough one. A sixteen-year-old girl sliced to pieces and then tossed in the Dumpster behind a one-dollar-a-slice pizza joint in Queens.

Vincent's fists clenched at the memory.

It had taken them three days to find the guy who'd done that to her—a real sicko who'd claimed he'd done it because he was "bored."

That was one son of a bitch he hoped prison was really rough for.

"Let's move out," Vin growled at Dansen.

He headed toward the door of the hotel room where the body was found, and Dansen fell into step beside him, flipping through his notebook. "Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. The wife is the one who found the body and called it in, but—"

"She also shot him," Vincent said, impatiently punching at the Down button for the elevator.

Dansen huffed in exasperation. "I was getting to that."

"Get there faster," Vincent said as they stepped into the elevator.

"So can I—"

"Bring her in for questioning?" Vincent finished for him as he pulled out his cell phone. "Do it. And don't go easy on her. She'll slip up within minutes, all tangled up in her own guilt."

The younger man snapped his notebook shut. "It's really annoying when you do that. Finishing other people's sentences."

"K," Vincent said distractedly, already striding off the elevator.

The lobby was crawling with reporters, and Vincent glared at Dansen, who held up his hands in surrender. "Don't look at me. I didn't call them."

Vincent gritted his teeth. He hated hotel cases. There was always some bellhop or housekeeper who couldn't keep his or her damn mouth shut, and the result was a media circus that made the police work a thousand times more complicated than it needed to be.

Not that it really mattered in this particular case. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the wife had pulled the trigger. Vin would bet his pension on it. He'd been doing this too long not to see the signs immediately. The too-fast way of speaking. The awkwardly forced eye contact in an unconscious effort to minimize nervous blinking. Fidgeting hands.

The vic's wife had all of the above. This murder was practically the definition of open-and-shut case.

"You care if I leave you to finish this one up on your own?" he asked Dansen as they headed toward Vincent's unmarked patrol car.

Dansen skidded to a halt. "Seriously? You even have to ask? I've been begging you for three months to let me take point, and—"

"All right, calm down," Vincent said, jerking open the door of the driver's seat. He hesitated before getting in, realizing that there were things to be said.

He rested an arm on the roof of the car and glanced at Dansen, who was…


"Wipe that shit smile off your face," Vincent said without any real heat.

"You're gonna miss me," Dansen taunted.

Vin narrowed his eyes. "Don't push it, kid."

"Kid? I'm thirty-one."


Dansen gave an incredulous laugh. "You're thirty-three. Two years' difference hardly makes you my senior."

Not in years maybe. But in experience…

It wasn't about who was youngest or oldest. It was about who was best.

And Vin was confident that was him.

Vincent was damn good at his job. It was why he'd been assigned a trainee during Jill's leave of absence despite the fact that his lack of people skills was as legendary as his ability to sniff out even the most clever of murderers.

In truth, Vincent had been dreading his three months with the near-rookie, but it had been less painful than expected. Dansen was a good cop. A little green, but when Dansen was assigned his new partner tomorrow, Vin had no doubts that the guy would be able to handle whatever came his way.

And then Vincent's life would finally get back to normal.

Not that these three months without Jill had been abnormal, precisely.

He still worked the same backbreaking schedule. Still saw death more days than not.

Still went to breakfast with his family after Mass every Sunday, and argued with his brothers and occasionally with his sister during said breakfast.

He still watched sports most evenings, still worked out most mornings.

So really, his life wasn't different without Jill at all.

Except that it was. Wildly, horribly different.

He glanced at his watch. Two hours until her plane landed. Three hours, maybe four until he'd see her again.

Not that he was counting.

"So you're good from here?" Vincent asked. "If you need anything, I'll be…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll call ya. You never did tell me where you were going."

"Probably because it's none of your Goddamn business."

Dansen put a hand to his chest. "I've come to love these heart-to-hearts of ours. The way we count on each other. Confide in each other—"

"My cue to leave," Vincent grumbled.

He started to get in the car, when Dansen called his name again.

Vin shot him an impatient look and was surprised when the usually confident Dansen looked away briefly before meeting his eyes.

"Hey, I just wanted to say…" Dansen cleared his throat from across the hood of the car, and Vin tensed, knowing what was coming.

God, he hated shit like this.

"You can drop the detective," Vincent said roughly. "Just call me Moretti. Or Vin. Whatever."

Dansen's smile flashed white across his dark face. "Do you know how many cops dream of the day when they're given permission to call one of the members of the royal family by their first name?"

"Oh Jesus. Don't start that again."

For the most part, Dansen had done a remarkable job of not irritating Vincent to the extreme over the past three months. But Dansen's ridiculous hero worship of Vincent's last name grated on his nerves. Yet another reason he couldn't wait for Jill to get back.

Jill, who'd never cared that Vincent's father was the recently retired police commissioner. Or that his older brother was a captain. Or that his younger brother was the NYPD's most famous officer.

Or that his grandfather had been a cop and his mother had been a police dispatcher…

Okay, so maybe Vincent could sort of understand where Dansen was coming from. The Morettis were kind of NYPD royalty.

And Vincent was proud to be a part of it. Proud to carry on the legacy.

He just got damn tired of the ass kissing.

"Seriously though, thanks," Dansen said. "Couldn't have asked for a better detective to show me the ropes. A nicer one, sure. A better-looking one, definitely. And you can be a real—"

"Asshole, I know," Vincent said.

Dansen held up a finger. "Not what I was going to say. I think that's the first time you've tried to finish my sentence and gotten it wrong."

"I'm never wrong," Vin said out of habit.

"Fine." Dansen rolled his eyes. "You're an asshole. Happy?"

Vin didn't bother responding, just lifted his hand in a final farewell to Dansen before the younger man could say whatever it was he'd wanted to say, and lowered himself into the car.

Vincent slid on his aviator sunglasses as he fastened his seat belt.

Vin kept his face perfectly blank until he'd pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic.

Only then, only out of sight of prying eyes, did he let a smile overtake his face. A smile that quickly became a grin as he headed toward his longtime barber for a very overdue haircut.

He told himself that his decision to get his hair cut after weeks of putting it off had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he'd be seeing Jill in a few short hours.

Vincent had never really given two thoughts to what Jill Henley thought of his looks.

But then, he and Jill had never spent three months apart. He'd never had a chance to realize just how much he'd… missed her.

Not that he'd be telling her that.


One never really realized how much New York City got under your skin until you left it for a while.

It was like one minute New York was your adopted home—a little bit intense, a lot scary.

And the next, you were holding your breath as your plane landed, your entire body on edge with the anticipation of being home again.

Jill Henley smiled as the plane touched down, her eyes closing just for a moment at the realization that she'd be sleeping in her own bed tonight. Going back to her job tomorrow. Eating at her favorite gyros place tomorrow.

But none of that—not the city, nor her pillow-top bed, nor the really freaking amazing gyros—were as important as who awaited her.

The Morettis.

Jill loved her mother desperately—it was the reason she'd spent the past three months in Florida taking care of her.

But the Moretti family had become every bit as much family to Jill as her own mom.

She couldn't wait to see them again.

All of them.

Okay, so maybe there was one Moretti in particular whom she was especially excited to see.

Not that the excitement was mutual.

As she walked through JFK toward baggage claim, she couldn't figure out for the life of her why she was even the tiniest bit disappointed about the fact that Vincent Moretti wouldn't be the one picking her up from the airport.

She hadn't even asked him. He might have said yes. Maybe. But it would have been done with a grunt and a grumble, and probably a lecture about how his workload was double because his partner had "up and ditched him."

Besides, it made more sense for Elena to pick her up anyway.

Not only was Elena her best friend, but Elena was an attorney at a fancy-pants law firm, with access to a company car that was a hell of a lot nicer than Vin's car and didn't smell like old coffee.

Plus, Jill had news.

Big news.

The biggest.

The kind of news that female friends squealed over in the appropriate, gushing manner.

So why was she so nervous?

Jill bit her lip as she waited at baggage claim for the carousel to start dropping her flight's bags.

She pulled out her cell and texted Elena. At baggage claim.

Cool. Stuck in traffic on airport drive. Can't WAIT to see you. xoxo.

Jill smiled. She and Elena had texted frequently while Jill had been in Florida, but texts and phone calls weren't the same as a good, in-person gab session.

They needed wine and cookies and ice cream. Oh, and pasta. God, she'd missed pasta. The from-a-jar spaghetti sauce she'd made for her mom once a week couldn't compare with Maria Moretti's made-from-her-own-tomatoes sauce.

Ten minutes later, Jill had heaved her two enormous suitcases off the carousel just as Elena called her phone.

"Ugh, I'm so sorry. Just now pulling up. Where you at? I'll run in."

"Run, huh?" Jill asked as she wheeled her bags toward the door. "Tell me, how high are your heels today, four inches or five?"

"Okay, so I'll stride purposefully," Elena said. "Just tell me what carousel thingy you're at. I can have Cory circle around."

"Who the heck is Cory?"

"New driver. He's totally cute. Great butt."

Jill rolled her eyes. "He can totally hear you, huh?"

"Totally. Okay, now where are you for real? I'm coming in, but if I break a nail—"

"Door eight," Jill said, and she stepped outside. "While you were flirting with your driver, I already got my bags. Also, how freaking cold is it right now? It was not this cold last winter."

"It totally was; you've just been spending too much time on the beach. Okay, we're approaching. What are you wearing?"

Jill glanced down at her white long-sleeve tee and jeans with her puffy-coat vest.

"Minidress, obviously. It's lacy, super short. Maybe a little see-through, I can't be sure. My hair's styled in big ringlets, sort of beauty queen style—"

"I see you, you little liar. Also, didn't we agree that the Uggs were going buh-bye after last winter?"

A black car pulled up in front of Jill, the back window rolling down to reveal the stunning, if slightly haughty, features of Elena Moretti.

"Hello, darling," her best friend said.

Then the back door was open and they were doing the squealing, hoppy thing that seemed entirely necessary after a three-month separation.

Well, mostly it was Jill doing the jumping and squealing, while the far more sophisticated Elena let Jill all but maul her with hugs.

"Down, girl," Elena said with one last pet of Jill's ponytail.

Jill pulled back so she could study her best friend, grinning in relief when she saw Elena looked exactly as she had when Jill left. Her best friend was stunning. Tall, hourglass figure, long chestnut hair, blue eyes… total hottie.

Add in the girl-power suits and killer heels, and you had a bona fide man-eater on your hands.

Speaking of men, a guy, whom Jill assumed must be Cory, gave them an indulgent smile as he easily hoisted Jill's suitcases into the trunk, before coming around and holding the door for them expectantly.

"He does have a cute butt," Jill whispered as she climbed into the backseat after Elena.

"Right? Oh, and if it comes up, you're a potential client," Elena said before turning her vibrating phone to silent and dropping it into her Chanel bag. "Hence why I'm using company resources."

"Cool, got it. I can totally play this," Jill said, clicking her seat belt into place. She cleared her throat. "You can't handle the truth!"

The driver faltered slightly as he lowered himself into the driver's seat, and Elena rolled her eyes. "What was that?"

"Jack Nicholson, from… actually, I have no idea what that's from."

"It's from A Few Good Men, and that's not what I'm asking. I'm wondering why the heck you're shouting it out all crazy-like right now?"

"Well, Jack's character says that while he's on the witness stand. And you said I was supposed to be a client, so…"

Elena stared at her. "Babe, what is it you think I do all day?"

"Lawyer stuff?" Jill grinned widely.

"Right. And I'm sure all you do all day is drink coffee and eat doughnuts, right? Cop stuff?"

Jill gave a happy sigh. "God, I miss doughnuts. Florida doesn't know how to do them right, and Mom decided that going without sugar was going to be her 'thing' during her sixties."

Elena looked horrified. "No wine? That has sugar."

"Yeah, I think she conveniently ignores that."

"How is she?"

"Better now," Jill said. "Getting her mobility back and all that."

A broken collarbone and hip were a nasty combination for anyone, but it had been especially hard on Kerry Henley, who prided herself in being an active "young" sixty-year-old. One day she'd been running a 5K, and then next she'd missed a step carrying her laundry basket down the stairs and been almost completely laid up for months.

It had taken up all of Jill's personal time plus a couple months of unpaid leave to care for her, but Jill hadn't hesitated to make the temporary move to Florida.

Her boss had assured her that her job would be waiting for her when she got back, and three months of your life is the least you could do for a parent who'd given eighteen years to caring for you.

Jill's in particular deserved her devotion; Jill's dad had dropped dead of a heart attack at forty-one, leaving Kerry to raise a headstrong (read: bratty) daughter all by herself.

"I'm glad she's better. I love your mom. I wish she'd come up to New York more often."

"You wouldn't say that if you had to listen to her complain about the pigeons and the subway and the weather."

"Could be worse. Last Sunday, my mother actually started a sentence with, "You're not getting any younger, Elena."

"I can beat that. Mine suggested freezing my eggs."

"You're right. You win. And speaking of your nether regions, I'm so overdue for an update on this Tom guy you've been seeing. Did you guys decide to do long distance? Or are you going to wait until you find out if he's any good at sexting before you cut him loose?"

Jill bit her lip, gathering courage for what she was about to say. For some reason, she'd always pictured this moment as feeling… different. She expected feeling giddy and breathless as she made The Big Announcement.

Instead she felt hesitant.

So Jill did what Jill Henley did whenever she felt anything less than sparkles and rainbows.

She faked it.

Jill pasted a smile on her face, took a deep breath, and shot her left hand out in front of Elena's face.

"What, are you—" Elena broke off, her cool fingers wrapping around Jill's wrist as her mouth dropped open. "No. Freaking. Way."


Elena let out an uncharacteristic squeal. "You're getting married?!"

The words hit Jill with a little slap.

She was getting married.

It felt… funny.

Probably because she wasn't used to it yet.

Elena threw herself across the backseat, arms wrapped around Jill's neck as she kissed the side of Jill's head repeatedly.

"Congratulations, darling! When? Do I get to be maid of honor? I won't wear green, but you know that. How did it happen? How did it happen? Oh yeah, and why did you not tell me?"

Jill managed to extricate herself from Elena's grip, only to have her left hand held hostage as Elena studied the square-cut diamond with a scary level of scrutiny.

"He asked last night," Jill said, gazing fondly at the ring. "I thought it was our farewell dinner, and, well, he had other ideas."

"Hell yeah, he did," Elena said, ceasing studying the diamond so that she could instead study Jill.

"I wanted to call you last night," Jill said apologetically. "I so did. But I thought if I could hold off just a few hours, and tell you in person…"

"Forgiven. Of course. I mean, the news is so much better with the ring, you know?"

Let's hope everyone feels that way. Jill sat in thought as Elena lifted her hand, studying the ring.

Because if she'd been nervous to tell Elena, it was nothing compared to her nerves over telling Vincent. Which made no sense. She and Vin weren't romantically involved. Had never even come close.

And he might be the most surly grouch on the planet, but he cared about her. Cared about her happiness.

He would be happy for her.

Wouldn't he?

"I'm thrilled, you know that, right?" Elena asked.

Jill smiled because she knew that tone. "But…"

Her friend bit her lip for a moment, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself before taking a deep breath. "Okay, I'm just going to come right out and say it. This happened fast. You've known the guy three months. You're all the way sure?"

Jill twisted the ring. "I'm sure. I'm totally sure. You'll understand when you meet him, El. He's just… he's just… he's perfect."

"Perfect, huh? You just got engaged, so I'm going to allow for the hyperbole. But tell me why I should let this guy marry my best friend."

Jill blew out a breath, wondering how to explain. "You know you meet another person and just get them? It was like that."



How did one explain Tom Edward Porter and how when you met someone as perfectly right for you as Tom was for her, you couldn't afford to waste thought on things like soul mates or passion.

You just had to go for it.

"Okay, it's like this," Jill said, twisting so she could better face Elena. "When you were little, did you ever make your brothers play wedding with you? You know, make one of them pretend to be the groom?"

"Um, of course."

"Luc?" Jill asked curiously.

"Obviously. He's the nicest of the bunch, and the youngest, which made him easiest to coerce."

Jill nodded. Elena had four brothers, and with the exception of mostly easygoing Luc, she couldn't imagine any of them patiently letting their sister dress them up as groom to her bride.

Luc Moretti—the bambino as he was lovingly known—might have managed to stand still just long enough to say his pretend vows.

Anthony, the oldest, was far too serious. Marco was more laid-back, although from what Jill had heard, he'd also been the most rowdy of the kids. Then there was Vincent, and the thought of him humoring anyone, least of all his sister… no. Just no.

Jill felt a tightening in her chest at the thought of the Morettis. God, she'd missed them.

Elena snapped her fingers in Jill's face. "Your mind is wandering. Focus, Jilly."

"Right, okay… so back when we were little girls and imagining our perfect future husband… we were totally picturing Tom."

"So… you're marrying an eight-year-old's fantasy? That's not creepy at all."

Jill laughed, missing her friend's no bullshit candor. "No, okay, it's like… Tom is just nice. He's the sort of guy you dream about on Valentine's Day when you're depressed about being single, so you buy bridal magazines, and then spend the evening looking at goofy white dresses, drinking too much merlot, and wondering when exactly he would arrive on a white horse."

Or maybe that was just Jill's Valentine's Day, more often than not.

It didn't matter. Tom Porter was like something out of a dream. The only box he didn't tick off in the Prince Charming checklist was the white horse, but that was okay because his Audi convertible was even better.

In fact, he was so perfect, so charming, that the first time she saw him, it had taken Jill several seconds to register that he was real.

And then several more seconds to register that he was talking to her.

It's not that Jill thought of herself as unappealing. She knew she was cute, because people told her so. Note, never beautiful, or even pretty. Never gorgeous. Certainly never sexy. But cute. Sometimes adorable. Because that's just what every thirty-three-year-old woman wanted to hear.

And she got it; she was average height, flat as a board, with a too-pointy chin and jaw, eyes too big for her face, and blond hair that she wore in a pony more often than not in an attempt to disguise how flat it could be.

But Tom?

Tom made her feel beautiful. He made her feel like a woman rather than a girl who seemed to inspire pats on the head from those around her.

Tom had picked her up at a bar. Cliché, yes, but made less skeevy by the fact that neither of them had walked into that swanky hotel bar with the intention of going home with a member of the opposite sex. And they hadn't.

Gone home with each other, that is. Not that first night at least.

It had been the end of Jill's first week in Florida. Her mom had just started coming to grips with the immobile reality of her near future and understandably had turned ornery, even toward Jill.

Not that Jill could blame her.

The prospect of months of not being able to walk or use an arm would have made Jill a bit stabby too. Still, by the end of that first week, both mother and daughter had needed a break.

Jill had waited until her mom's friend came over for a marathon viewing of some show Jill had never heard of, and Jill had gone straight for her favorite therapy of choice: wine.


  • "4 1/2 stars! TOP PICK! Layne can always be counted on to create an engaging, steamy and thoroughly rewarding reading experience, and she brings all her considerable talents to bear on this third installment of her New York's Finest series. This story dwells in tiny details and unforgettable moments that combine to make this cantankerous partners-to-lovers story into something remarkable. Layne forces both her highly reserved hero, as well as his outgoing, clever heroine, to undergo some intense soul-searching, but their longing only makes their happiness that much more intense and adds considerably to an already-winning series."—RT Book Reviews
  • "4 1/2 stars! HOT! Smart dialogue, creative plotting and an insightful, unexpected romance ensure that Layne's latest New York's Finest novel is a sure-fire success...a pitch-perfect addition to a lovely series."—RT Book Reviews on Steal Me
  • "Layne launches the New York's Finest contemporary romance series with this stellar example of the genre. Ava and Luc's sparks are immediate, and the evolution of their relationship-which starts with little common ground except a dedication to singlehood-is stimulating and realistic. They negotiate their professional and romantic interactions with banter that's clever but not self-satisfied, and their moment of truth feels warm and real. Fans of slightly gritty contemporaries will adore this"—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Frisk Me
  • "4 1/2 stars! The first in Layne's New York's Finest series is funny, delightfully steamy and deeply touching, setting the bar quite high. Layne creates protagonists who are fully realized and likable, ensuring that their individual journeys are as clever and moving as their romance, and her novels are always the better for it. A bustling, detailed setting and a stellar cast of supporting characters, particularly the hero's large and outspoken family, provide the perfect backdrop for her characters and keep expectations high for the rest of this soon-to-be-a-hit series."—RT Book Reviews on Frisk Me
  • "Layne is hands down the queen of witty dialogue and sexy scenes. Frisk Me was a sensual combo of both that left me dying for more."—#1 New York Times bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken
  • "Frisk Me is a terrific love story--equal parts sweet and hot. Layne is a master of both sexual tension and the soul-satisfying HEA."—Serena Bell, USA Today bestselling author
  • "Funny, intelligent and touching."—Ruthie Knox, USA Today bestselling author on After the Kiss

On Sale
Mar 29, 2016
Page Count
384 pages

Lauren Layne

About the Author

Lauren Layne is the New York Times bestselling author of romantic comedies. She lives in New York City with her husband. A former e-commerce and web marketing manager from Seattle, Lauren relocated to Manhattan in 2011 to pursue a full-time writing career. Her first book was published in summer of 2013. Since then, she’s written over two dozen books. When not writing, Lauren can be found at happy hour with her high school sweetheart, or shopping for a great pair of stilettos.

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