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Hate 2 Lovers
Author: J.D. Hollyfield

Dear Reader,


We hope you enjoy Andie and Roman’s story! Writing together is an absolute joy for us and we hope that shows! As with Text 2 Lovers, one of us took the hero’s POV and the other took the heroine’s POV. If you read the first book, you’ll remember! We’ll also tell you at the end.


It is best if you’ve read Text 2 Lovers first though because you’ll understand the dynamic of Andie and Roman better…plus, you don’t want to miss out on all the laughs from book one!


Enjoy and we’ll see you on the other side!

K Webster and J.D. Hollyfield



“I love you.” – Princess Leia

“I know.” – Han Solo

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back



Did the Whorehouse Lose a Whore?


WHEN SWEET LITTLE GIRLS GROW up, they’re taught manners. How to be polite. The whole sit-properly-with-your-back-straight and smile pleasantly thing. Yes, please. No, thank you. Fucking curtsey and all that shit.

Not me.

Unlike Dani, my best friend, I missed those lessons. I missed them all. When one parent decides he’s not capable of being a parent, and the other one, who was supposed to teach you how to grow up into a lady, slowly dies in front of you, you have no one else to pick up where they left off. Those lessons are shelved for a later date called never because nobody else cared to teach them.

Having an absent dad from the time I was a child and losing my mom as a teenager set the mold for the person I became. I’m not a crier or a whiner. I don’t need to be coddled, hugged, or fed fuzzy, bullshit lines to make myself feel better or wanted.

Because that’s not who I, Andrea Grace Miller, am.

I am a driven, tough-as-nails, ball-busting woman.


A chick with a guy’s nickname and the mouth of a sailor.

And a thirst for physical violence when I’m pissed.

I’m unbreakable.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself while I snap and spit out the one thing I swore I wasn’t going to tell him.

I’m pregnant.

The shock in his gaze was immediate. Any smart girl would equate that to an Oh-I-am-so-fucked look. I just told the successful Roman Holloway he’s going to be a dad. And that asshole has the gall to look like he’s the one who’s fucked?


I want to turn back around and take him out one shin at a time. It’s his weak spot—I know this because he wears a permanent bruise on both. Because of me.

But sadly, this new side of me, which I’m battling with figuring out where it came from, overtakes my anger. This new side that causes me to cry at the drop of a hat is calling the shots. I snap at a simple glance and become insanely sad over normally lame Hallmark commercials that I once made fun of.

I am not only pregnant. I am possessed.

He possessed me.

Fucking Roman.

And he is more worried about himself.

I’m out of his office in a flash as I rush to the exit. But the problem is, my lower lip is out of control as it quivers with the threat of a good ol’ freak show cry, and I’m seconds away from yacking up my breakfast. I make a beeline to the bathroom and slip into one of the stalls. The moment the door swings shut, I slide down the wall inside and burst into tears.

How did this happen?

Well, fuck. I know how it happened, but why me?

Surely, I could have handled breaking the news to him a little better.

I just stormed into his office demanding…well nothing at first. I’d wanted to punish him for knocking me up. To throttle him for giving me something I’m not sure I’m capable of handling. Then, the prick had the audacity to be gentle and kind. Friggin’ offered me a job for Christ’s sake! Still, I had to get all crazy and demand a bunch of dumb ass shit. And he said yes to every single silly request. I’d actually softened to him in that moment. Allowed a tiny prickle of hope to shine inside me.

But that look when I spilled the beans…

He doesn’t want this.

An ache forms in my chest.

Oh my God, who would!?

I’m like a fucking hurricane. He probably only saw destruction in his future.

I begin to cry harder. Then even harder, if that’s possible, because now I’m even more upset about crying in the first place.

Because I do. Not. Cry.

The door to the bathroom swings open with a loud creak and bangs against the wall.

“Someone’s in here!” I yell.

I expect them to leave, but the door to the stall I’m in—which I apparently forgot to lock—is pushed open. When I lift my head, I see Roman standing above me.

Sexy god of a man. Motherfucker.

“Get out.” I sniffle though my tears, trying to wipe the wetness from my cheeks.

He’s giant and solid and too fucking big for this bathroom. “Not a chance,” he tells me in that no-nonsense, low voice of his. “You just threw a bomb back there and you’re going to explain.” His eyes are narrowed as if they have the power to yank information from my head. “Now, Andie.”


Wrong move.

No one, and I mean no fucking one, tells me what to do.

I scramble to my feet and attempt to push him out of the way, but he’s like a steel wall.

He growls, and I hate how it makes my body respond. Sometimes I provoke him on purpose just to hear that sexy, gravelly grumble. But today I’m upset, and I will not let my body call the shots.

His hand grips my elbow as he says, “I’ve allowed you to throw all your mood swings at me, and I take them. Every goddamned time. Hell only knows why. I allow you to have everything your way every time we’re together. You storm in and out on me. But this time…” His gaze hardens. “Instead of just reacting, you’re going to explain.”

Fire builds up within me. My brain only knows one way to react. So that’s why I do what I do…I react angrily.

And punch him.


“No,” I spit out at him, trying to free myself from his iron grip. “Jesus has nothing to do with this. Damn you! I regret ever coming to this stupid place!” Despite my wriggling, he isn’t giving in and grabs for my shoulders. With firm but gentle movements, he guides me so my back is now touching the wall.

“Baby…” he starts. I flinch at the endearment and he quickly continues, “I’m not playing games with you right now. Are you…are you really pregnant?”

God, even hearing him say it guts me. I start to cry again, my emotions out of control. He wraps his massive arms around me as if to console me, and my tears soak his fancy dress shirt. For a moment, I relax in his comforting grip. His scent calms me. His strength consumes me.

But it only takes a few more seconds for my brain to catch up and push my heart out of the fucking way. My mood flips on a dime and anger is again running the show.

“Yeah,” I snap as I push away from him. This time, he allows me to break from his grasp, and I storm toward the door. Before opening it, I whip around and finish my thought. “But don’t worry. I’m not keeping it.”

Horror washes over his features.

His normally calm, smug face is pinched up in…pain?

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