From Hate to Date: A Reverse Harem Romance

When three gorgeous chefs decide they want to expand their restaurant right into my boutique next door, things start to heat up.
In more ways than one.

With big dreams and bigger egos, three sinfully handsome restaurant owners are out to grow their culinary empire.
Problem is, my little pet store is right in their way.
But I’m not going down without a fight.
I don't care how hot they are.
Or how they look at me with hungry eyes.

As I prepare to tell them where to shove their snail caviar, I realize have two options.
Kiss my pet paradise goodbye…
Or jump into the boiling water with these insufferable heartthrobs.

I find that love and war simmer at the same steamy temperatures.
The question is, can this girl stand the heat without getting singed?


This slow-burn, enemies to lovers, why choose romance features a plucky main character with multiple love interests. If you like to indulge your secret bad-girl side, this is the book for you.

A 3-book Why Choose standalone collection:
From No to O
From Hate to Date
From Jerk to Perk

“You shouldn’t be so picky, Olive.”
My sister still talks to me like I’m the little brat she’s been pushing around since we were kids.
Why did I take her call? It’s never the best way to start my day. 
Actually, her calls are to be avoided any time of the day. I know this.
And yet.
Worse still are the warning bells jabbing at my already-irritated nerves. I spot Mrs. Perkins one block away. Headed right towards me.
I dart across the street, dodging a cab and a confused tourist on a rental bike, causing both to hit their brakes hard. It’s worth risking my life though, because Mrs. Perkins thinks nothing of asking me to expel her dog’s anal glands every time she sees me. 
Because of this, her dog hates me and growls his displeasure whenever I’m around. If it wasn’t weird, I’d growl right back at him because I hate him and his anal glands too. I can’t blame him, though. I’d hate the person who poked at my backside on a regular basis.
Thank god I don’t have anal glands is all I can think every time I work on some dog’s.
“Olive? Are you listening?”
Is my sister actually calling me Olive? Like she forgot the nickname I’ve used exclusively since I was in middle school? “Really? Really, Krista? We are having this conversation again? And please stop calling me Olive. You’re not Mom.”
She sighs at full volume, just like my mother does when she’s frustrated. Two peas in a pod they are, even wearing matching outfits from time to time. I’ve tried explaining that twinning with your mom is something most grow out of when they are… I don’t know? Twelve years old?
But she’s not deterred. I’m surprised she doesn’t let Mom crawl right into her marriage bed.
“Okay. Livvy,” she draws out, like my nickname feels dirty in her mouth, “it’s just that Carter and I were talking and well, you know, you don’t have a lot of options. We both agree you should give Deck another chance.”
Oh for god’s sake. First, what kind of horrible parents name their kid ‘Deck,’ and second, is she still trying to match me with him?
I draw a slow, steady breath. I will not fight with her. I will not. “So you guys think I don’t have a lot of options? That’s nice, Krista. Nice of Carter too. Didn’t know you guys thought I was such a bottom-dweller. Thanks for clueing me in.”
I want to be angry, to rage, to tell her that she and her douchebag ‘hubby’, who make an insufferable couple I call Kritter—Krista plus Carter—can go to hell. But the lump in my throat would give away my hurt and anger, and if there’s one thing I don’t want to do right now, it’s give my perfect sister more power over me. 
I lean against an anemic tree, one of several the city of New York planted on my street a couple years ago at the insistence of my local neighborhood group. I’m careful not to put much weight on it because the poor thing hasn’t done very well for itself—a light touch causes a cascade of leaves to flutter to the ground. They land on me, getting stuck in my struggle bun topknot, a style my sister never hesitates to tell me is lazy and sloppy.
I will away my tears so I can defend myself, and while I do, I watch Mrs. Perkins, thankfully on the opposite side of the street, meander with her anally-challenged pooch. With her terrible eyesight, she’ll never see me, so I really don’t need to hide, but I do because that makes me feel like less of a total asshole.
While Krista is extolling—again—the virtues of my brother-in-law’s nose-picking buddy, I spot a man hoofing it down the sidewalk at full speed.
This person, I don’t need to hide from. He will not ask me about anal glands. But I don’t want to meet his gaze, either. So, I hold the phone up to my ear and knit my brow like I’m on a very important call and cannot possibly acknowledge anyone else in the world. Not even if they are bleeding out in front of me, about to meet their maker.
Nope, sorry. Much too busy doing Very Important Things.
I always avoid this man, even though he makes my knees weak with his dark-wash denim jeans, white-soled dress shoes (all the rage among New York’s snappy dressers), and fitted vest over a white oxford shirt. I’ll never say hello, even though his rolled-up sleeves show off a crazy kaleidoscope of tattoos on some nicely muscular forearms, and his bushy hipster beard is trimmed to perfection.
I won’t interact with him, even though I know his name is Owen Whitlocke and he is one of the owners of the trendy and massively successful restaurant EastSide, right next door to my own shop, Pawsh Pets. I call him and his partners the bistro boys. They don’t know this, of course.
I also happen to know he’s twenty-nine years old, his parents went through a divorce when he was a kid, and he has twinkling hazel eyes, even though I’ve never actually seen them up close. Arthur, my neighbor and gay BFF shared these gems after dinner at EastSide one night where his sole intention was to determine which team Owen played for.
Newsflash—not Arthur’s team, much to his disappointment.
But that means he does play for my team, Arthur informed me, as if he were giving me Owen as some sort of gift. 
Problem is, guys like Owen don’t date girls like me.
They don’t even know we exist, evidenced by his blowing right past me, arguing on his phone about how many reservations they can fit in tonight. 
No, I get to date the guy my sister and brother-in-law think I’m barely worthy of, even if his name is Deck and he picks his nose in public.
I trot after Owen, of course from a distance, once there’s no chance of his seeing me. There are just a few city blocks until we reach our respective businesses, so I wrap up my miserable call with Krista. I call it miserable because, thanks to her relentless pressure, I agree to go out with the nose picker one last time.
One last time, because, as we know, I can’t afford to be so picky. That’s how much of a bottom-dweller I am.
That’s how my day is starting.