I swear, every new book in this series just keeps getting better and better. This story touched my heart so hard and brought me to tears more than once. It’s not really a sad story but it deals with some difficult things for both MCs and it made me feel so much!

If you follow RJ Scott at all then you probably know that she has an autistic son. I think that made Cooper’s character so real for me and I just wanted to hug him – but I know he wouldn’t like that, which is a bit sad.

There is an excellent blurb for this book so I’m not going to retell it here. Instead, I want to say how much I loved this book and how I stayed up all night reading it because I started it kind of late in the evening and I just couldn’t put it down until I was done.

Reviews for RJ Scott

Reviews for V.L. Locey

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“Moral. Moral!” Strong hands gripped my shoulders and shook gently, snapping the hold the memory had on me. My eyes, which are now seeing my brother’s worried face, instead of the Canadian wilderness hurtling up to meet me, skitter around the room. Sweat runs down the back of my neck as my lungs stop seizing. Yes, yes, we are in Boston. At the tall tower that holds what my brother, my physical therapist, and my mental health counselor all believe to be my return to being able-bodied. “Moral, are you here with me now?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry. I just…” I chanced a look at the skyline. The jet, now long gone, probably landed safely at Logan as hundreds of thousands of planes do every year. Millions perhaps. My shoulder aches. Wincing at the pressure on the reconstructed shoulder joint, I let out a shaky breath. “I saw a plane in the sky. Stupid I know.”

He leaned in to kiss my damp brow. We’ve always been affectionate like that. Mama and Papa were that way. Always hugging and kissing—me and my younger brother, each other, the dogs, the cats, friends, strangers. They were incredibly demonstrative. I missed them both so much.

“It is not stupid. It’s PTSD, which is very normal after a traumatic experience. Your counselor told you so many times.” I shrugged my good arm, moving around in my seat to ensure I can’t see the damn window anymore. “It will pass as time goes by. Once you’re back on your feet.” His eyes flared. “I mean when you’re recovered. I’m sorry. That was—”

“It was fine. A saying. Someday, yes, I will be back on my foot.” My sight touched on my lower half, the left leg so strong and thick, powerful from skating. Then the right, gone below the knee, my trouser leg pinned up neatly by my brother just this morning. Philippe wasn’t amused. “It was a joke. I’m a joker, right?”

“You don’t have to pretend, Moral,” he said before patting my cheek and returning to his seat. “And you will return to your life fully within a year or two, with lots of therapy and this new prosthetic alloy that Dr. Harvey is creating. When you’re sad, be sad. When you’re happy, be happy. I’m not the little boy who lost his parents and had to rely on you and Aunt Celeste to care for him. I’m twenty-six now.”

“Yes, and now you’re taking care of me. Isn’t life funny?” I asked, but there was no humor in the question. “We should just go home. I don’t think this experimental bullshit is for me, Philippe. I have too much therapy to get through…”

He was about to argue, as he did, the stubborn ass, when the door opened and the older woman returned with the reluctant looking man who had bolted what seemed like hours ago. A glance at my watch showed it had only been five minutes since the brilliant inventor with the wide brown eyes had left in such a hurry. I nudged Philippe and jerked my scruffy chin at my crutches. He hurried to comply, passing the crutches over, then reaching to help me out of the chair. I shot him a scowl. My brother lowered his hands to let me struggle upward. It didn’t go well with a healing shoulder and only one leg. Embarrassed at my weakness, I grunted at my brother in French, a quick request for aid. He whispered something back in our native tongue that was not complimentary as he levered me up to my feet. The doctor looked up at me as I wobbled around on my crutches, his dark eyes growing even wider behind his glasses as I got to my full height. Balanced now, I offered him my hand.
He seemed reluctant to take it, but after a slight poke from Miss Brianna, he clasped my fingers, gave them a quick pump, and then dropped them.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Harvey. Thank you for seeing us,” Philippe said jovially, the greeting obviously forced. There was nothing cheerful about this meeting. “My brother, Moral, and I are thrilled to have this time with you. Your personal assistant assured us that you would love to hear my brother’s story. That it would help in your creation of this new metal for athletic prosthetics. Were we not understanding the reply to our email?”

“Your email,” I muttered in French. Philippe shot me a glare.

Boston Rebels Series

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