Title: I Pucking Love You (Copper Valley Thrusters #5)
Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Contemporary Sports Romance
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book had a terribly slow start, and so many times, I want to throw it down and quit. But I’m glad I didn’t because right around the time someone ahem passes out at the funeral, it all picks up.

Pippa Grant has a style that is simply all hers wonderful and blessed chaos. In typical Pippa fashion, her heroine, Muffy Periwinkle, is a hot mess. It’s not just that she is a med school drop-out or runs a flagging matchmaking business. You can’t point at her figure or her insecurities and say that those are what has her at wit’s end. It’s not that she has a death-seeking feline; it’s all of it together. She needs some tender loving care.

Tyler Jaeger to the rescue.

Oh, be still my fluttering heart. I think Tyler is perfect in so many ways, but the best is he truly understands what a girl needs to be healthy. He’s a soul guru. He can feed it, tend it, heal it and pair it with his own. Sa-Wooon!

Now we can’t end this review without mentioning Rufus. Some cats have no self-preservation. This one thinks he has ninety-nine lives.

I adored this love story–after I suffered through the first 30%. Stick with it. If you can make it through the first 30%, the back-half is more than worth it.

Highly recommend.

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I Pucking Love You Excerpt:

Tyler
 
We all have to be at practice tomorrow morning—check that, this morning, as it’s shortly after midnight—but I don’t want to go home.
 
I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to screw.
 
I want—
 
Dammit.
 
I want a bucket of greasy fried fish and chips, because it’s what my big brother used to take me to get every time he came home on leave from the Marines and got annoyed at being hen-pecked by the four sisters between us.
 
My car’s cold, thanks to the early November weather, and no, I’m not telling you what kind of car I drive, because yes, it very much feels like compensation tonight.
 
It gets me where I want to go.
 
That’s all that matters.
 
That, and getting my ass to Cod Pieces before they close for the night.
 
Could I stay at the bunny bar and get fried fish and chips?
 
Yes.
 
Will I?
 
No fucking way.
 
I’m still stewing in my own misery when the bright neon sign with the armored cod and the storefront that looks like a medieval castle comes into view at the edge of a strip mall four miles the wrong direction from my downtown condo. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of chilly air and the scent of fries.
 
Just in time.
 
I holler my order over the sound of my engine, then pull around to the window to get my fish.
 
Debate calling my brother in Miami.
 
It’s one AM. He and his wife recently celebrated their kid’s first birthday, and I think they’re working on baby number two.
 
If I call him in the middle of the night to bitch about how I can’t get it up, he’ll probably hang up on me, then tell our sisters.
 
And Mom.
 
She’s a professional comedienne with her own popular Netflix special. There’s no damn way I’m bothering West in the middle of the night for this.
 
I’ll talk to the fried fish and call it even.
 
Has as much personality as West had before he married Daisy.
 
The window swings open. “That’ll be fourteen seventy-three, please.”
 
My car lurches forward before I remember to put it in park, and I gape up at the woman staring down at me. “Muffy?”
 
My brain is playing tricks on me.
 
It has to be.
 
Because there’s no way the curvy, clumsy, smart-mouthed goddess who’s haunting my dick is standing there wearing a Cod Pieces polo and hat.
 
But she is.
 
And I swear to god, her long brown braids are recoiling in horror as her whole face twists, her lip curling, her left eye squeezing shut, before she snaps herself together. “For the hundredth time today, I have no idea who this Muffy person is. My name is Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen.”
 
Fuck me.
 
There are two of them? She looks exactly like Muffy. I’m not seeing things, and I’m not projecting just because I want my dick to work again and the bunnies made me think about screwing Muffy in the walk-in fridge at the bunny bar.
 
“Fourteen seventy-three, please.” She turns away as she holds out a hand, twitching her fingers like she’s waiting for cash or a card.
 
And that’s when I see the tattoo.
 
Rufus.
Her cat’s name. It’s on her wrist.
 
Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen, my ass. This is Muffy.

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