Tell Me You Love Me

By: Julie Prestsater

Fire Me Up, Volume 1






“The perfect blend of romance, tension, and "funny" burn up the pages.”

Raine Miller, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Blackstone Affair –––––––– “Sweet and sassy, Tell Me You Love Me will have you grinning ear to ear one second and swooning the next. With a cast chock full of witty women and the hottest firefighters you'll ever read, you're bound to fall in love with this must read romance”

A.L. Jackson, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Regret Series.

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“Tell Me You Love Me is the perfect cocktail of hot firemen and sassy women. The story sucks you in and keeps you reading until the very last word. Julie Prestsater knows how to get my heart pounding with just the sound of boots striking the pavement.”

Gretchen de la O, Author of Prototype and The Wilson Mooney Series –––––––– “Tell Me You Love Me is a sexy, sweet fun ride with characters that feel like your closest friends.”

Renee Carlino, USA Today Bestselling Author of Sweet Thing

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“Julie Prestsater has a way of writing characters that you can relate to with humor and compassion. Her books are page turners that make you not want to put down. Tell Me You Love Me is no exception. Fantastic!”

M.R. Joseph, Amazon Best Selling Author of The Shore Series

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“I have no doubt the firefighters of Valley Creek Drive will be heating up book clubs around the world and producing some smokin' hot book boyfriend fantasies as this series plays out!”

Slick Reads, Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews





DEDICATION


For my CVD ladies

If only we were as bold as the women in this book





CHAPTER ONE


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Lizzy

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“Hurry up. We don’t have all day.” He stands about thirty steps ahead of me with his fists digging into his hips.

My nostrils flare, my heart beats faster, and it takes everything I have not to tell him to just fuck off. Instead, I think of that one comedy about turning forty when the husband and wife are lying in bed talking about the ways they’ve contemplated murdering each other. Well, I’m far from forty and the thought has crossed my mind. More than once.

“I’m coming,” I tell him, completely out of breath. Walking the Hill of Death wasn’t really what I had in mind when I woke up this morning. But this man, my husband, had other ideas. He coaxed me awake with a lingering kiss to my lips whispering sweet nothings about getting in a good workout this morning. I had no idea he was talking about hiking. I thought I was going to get a round of hot love making out of him. Or, at the very least, a morning quickie. I guess I wouldn’t classify our sex life as hot or even making love anymore. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had sex, hot or otherwise, from this man—it’s been that long.

When I finally reach him, I get pissed off all over again. He sprinted up this damn mountain, but doesn’t even appear affected. No hitch in his breath. No red in his face. He’s barely broken a sweat, while I’m dripping like I’ve just played four periods in the NBA playoffs.

“Elizabeth.”

I hate it when he calls me by my full name. I feel like I’m being scolded.

“Are we going to do this or what? If you want to lose the weight, you’re going to have to do more than just crawl up this fucking hill. God, I’m out here sweating my ass off trying to support you and you’re not even trying.”

Sweating his ass off, my ass. If he wants to know what it’s like to sweat his ass off, he should come and stick his hand down my crack.

Even while he pisses me off, my throat still tightens at his accusations. Taking a deep breath, I try my hardest to fight back the tears surging to my eyelids. I refuse to let him see me cry. I can’t let him know he’s getting to me. It will only make it worse and he’ll think I’m weaker than he already does.