You met Romeo Prince in the Amazon & USA Today bestselling novel, Sweet Home. Now hear the story from his lips: unbarred, uncensored and raw to the bone.
It makes me laugh when I hear that folk think Mol and I rushed into it too fast, spouting that we couldn’t possibly have felt what we did for each other in such a short space of time. I say, how the hell would they know? We made it, didn’t we? She became my whole life, didn’t she? And as for my folks not being real, being true? Tell that to me aged ten, eleven, twelve — damn, all my bastard life — when I was never enough, when I was beaten until I bled for being too good at football and not being everything they’d dreamed: the perfectly dutiful son. Tell that to thousands of kids around the world getting wailed on by asshole parents for whatever stupid reason; tell them that evil don’t exist in their eyes.
Fuck Romeo and Juliet: this is the story of me and my girl, from my lips. No mushy sentiment, no cheese, just the plain, hard truth, and, because I’m feeling generous, I’m going to let you in on
more of our story too.
Sweet Rome is a New Adult Companion Novel to Sweet Home — contains adult content, sexual situations and mature topics. Suited for ages 18 and up
Since I’m in my thirties, I refuse to be pigeon-holed into the role of cougar. No, no…I’m a puma. And if here’s any character that has of late made me feel like a puma, it has got to be Rome Prince.
I read and reviewed “Sweet Home” a while back, and “Sweet Rome” is that same story, but told from Rome’s point of view. I do have to give some props here though and say that while it’s the same story, it doesn’t feel like it’s just rehashing the same story. Rome’s POV is different, and it adds an element to the overall story that I thought enriched it, instead of just making me angry that the author was trying to capitalize on the popularity of the first book (come on, you know what I’m sayin’…you’ve thought it too!).
Rome has had a less than perfect upbringing. His father is an overbearing jerk who wants to control Rome and all he does. Rome uses football to channel that rage, and he’s good at it. He’s the star
Quarterback for the Crimson Tide (Roooooollll Tide!) and it’s been speculated that he’ll be a first round draft pick for the NFL. Rome wants to play football, but his father wants him to take over the family business, and he’s attempting to control Rome through forcing him into an arranged marriage. It’s awful, and Rome feels lost. Enter Molly. Sweet, shy, studious Molly is Rome’s salvation. She doesn’t want to be a notch on his bedpost, and gives him a run for his money. Can Rome give up his self-destructive behavior and go after something that he really wants, against his family’s
wishes? Will he take a stand and be his own man?
Rome’s story is so heartbreaking and sweet. I think I may have liked it more than “Sweet Home”, and I really liked that book! Be able to see inside Rome’s mind and understand his struggles on a deeper level was heart wrenching, but watching him blossom into the man you know he can be was quite rewarding, and it left me with a smile on my face. Plus Rome is an alpha-in-training. I think if given more time, he’d definitely go down in the annals of alpha badassness. And yes, I decree “badassness” to be a word.
At the end of the day, what really made this story shine for me was the writing. For a book that I have read before, the writing of this version kept me interested and invested. I think the two books worked together really well and that’s not something that all authors can do. The characters are done well and are endearing. Plus, there’s an element of realism to the story that didn’t make it feel forced or generic. Overall, I really enjoyed this book and I think you will too! 4.5 Stars!
I flattened my back against the cold white wall, praying no one would see me hiding like a pussy, when a flash of movement to my right caught my eye. Some chick holding a mass of papers came flying around the corner, muttering to herself, checking her watch, brown curls piled on her head, thick black glasses, and the brightest fucking shoes I’d ever seen.
Neon orange. Christ.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile at her whole package, and I almost felt along my lips just to check it was actually there.
When was the last time I fucking smiled? That is, when was the last time I was smiling because of something other than looking at some asshole I’d knocked clean out on the floor?
Shaking my head in disbelief, I risked a peek around the corner and saw Shelly lock her eyes onto the chick and turn to say something to her friends, a spiteful smile on her lips. I tensed, suddenly feeling protective of the flustered brunette; the poor girl was completely unaware of what was about to go down.
I couldn’t help but stare at her. She looked so fucking tragic as she blew her crazy hair from her thick glasses, scurrying down the long hall, her plastic shoes squeaking against the tiled floor with each hurried step.
I was too preoccupied, hooked on the scene, and realized too late that Shelly was up to something. I could only watch as Shel shouldered into the girl as she passed, causing all her papers to fall to the floor.
Fury possessed me.
She’d always been a bitch, but seeing her do that to that innocent girl just made me pissed beyond measure. Hell, it wouldn’t have taken much, the mood I was in.
Shelly said something to the girl on the floor—I couldn’t hear what—but the brunette never looked up, kept her head down, ignoring what I imagined to be a shitty slight.
Why I ever dipped my stick in that was beyond me. I blamed it on too many head knocks in football. That and being too horny to function. I didn’t understand why Shelly had to treat people so bad. She had everything in the world and still, on occasion, showed moments of being a good person deep down. But those moments weren’t nearly enough to salvage any friendship we’d ever had. I just couldn’t work the girl out.
Stepping out of my hiding spot, I headed to tell Shelly to get the fuck on, but I was too late. She’d already sauntered into class, looking like the cat that got the cream.
As I approached the brunette, she leaned forward to reach for the papers that had landed way out in front, and I almost groaned out loud, my cock springing to life.
That perfect, curvy ass.
I quickly tucked my boner into my waistband and tried to think of something to cool down. Jimmy-Don in a two-piece. Jimmy-Don in a thong. Actually… I smiled derisively. Shelly sucking on my dick… Yeah, deflated like a defective balloon.
Running my hands through my hair, I stopped behind the new chick, avoiding staring at her ass in those short dungarees and those long, tanned legs that were just tempting me to reach out and wrap them around my waist.
Shit. My cock hardened again.
I opened my mouth to ask if she needed help just as she spat, “Fucking arseholes!” to herself and got to her feet. Her glasses crashed to the floor in the process, the shitty frames landing right next to my feet.
What the hell was that accent? English, maybe? Whatever it was, it was the hottest thing I’d ever heard in my entire sorry life.
Before I could stop it, a loud laugh jumped out of my throat at the sweet, proper voice cussing. She paused, frozen, as she heard me behind her.
Her head bowed, her shoulders bunched, and the sigh she let out said it all—pure defeat. Hell, I knew how she felt.
I reached down and scooped up her glasses, then, holding her arm, spun her to face me.
Jesus. H. Christ.
Tillie Cole is a Northern girl through and through. She originates from a place called Teesside on that little but awesomely sunny (okay I exaggerate) Isle called Great Britain. She was brought up surrounded by her English rose mother — a farmer’s daughter, her crazy Scottish father, a savagely sarcastic sister and a multitude of rescue animals and horses. Being a scary blend of Scottish and English, Tillie embraces both cultures; her English heritage through her love of HP sauce and freshly made Yorkshire Puddings, and her Scottish which is mostly demonstrated by her frighteningly foul-mouthed episodes of pure rage and her much loved dirty jokes.