Sweet Surrender
TITLE PAGE
SWEET SURRENDER
K. BROMBERG
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE TWO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan
“Always an absolute must-read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG
ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG
Driven Series
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Driven Novels
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
The Player Duet
The Player
The Catch
The Malone Brothers
Worth the Fight
Worth the Risk
Worth the Fall
Control (Novella)
Wicked Ways
Resist
Reveal
Standalone
Faking It
Then You Happened
Flirting with 40
UnRaveled (Novella)
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry (Novella)
The Play Hard Series
Hard to Handle
Hard to Hold
Hard to Score
Hard to Lose
Hard to Love
The S.I.N. Series
Last Resort
On One Condition
Final Proposal
The Redemption Series
Until You
The Full Throttle Series
Off The Grid
On The Edge
Over The Limit
Out of Control
Tangled Hearts Series
Twisted Knight
Threaded Lies
Backstage Pass Series
Sweet Ache
Sweet Regret
Holiday Novellas
The Package
The Detour
Forever More
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2025 by K. Bromberg
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts
Cover Design by Y’all that Graphic
Cover Photographer: Michelle Lancaster
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Hendrix
“Ten. Eleven.” I count the twenty-five pound bags of flour for the second time and come up short. “Barney?” I call over my shoulder to the open door where my wholesaler is busy unloading my order in the back alley.
“One sec.” His voice is muffled and labored.
I move through my kitchen area, past the long kitchen island lined with stacks of empty cookie sheets and past three industrial mixers. Just as I clear the doorway to the back alley of my shop, he lifts his head. He’s short but burly with tufts of salt and pepper hair peeking out from beneath his company cap.
“Sorry. What was that?” he asks.
“My order is short unless you have eight more sacks of flour and ten more of sugar in the back of that van that I’m not seeing.”
His grimace should be enough of a warning—one I should expect if the past month is any indication—but I hold tight to my optimism. Fleetingly. “You probably need to take that up with the accounting department.”
Optimism? Gone.
Accounting department? His wife, Annie.
“Meaning?” I ask, but I already know.
“You’re behind on the balance due.” He shifts uncomfortably and his Adam’s apple bobs. “As it is, Annie had my ass for delivering this much, but it’s you. We both know you’re good for it, but we have bills to pay too.”
I attempt a sweet smile but my stomach sinks. “I know. I am good for it. I’m slowly figuring everything out.”
Fuck you, Paul.
It’s a refrain I’ve said too many times over the past few weeks. One that makes me feel good even though it also feels like a Band-Aid placed on a bullet hole at the same time. “Tell Annie I’ll be catching up on it.” How? I have no fucking clue. “This . . . all of this caught me way off guard.”
Barney falters and then continues to pull off his work gloves. He sets them on the handle of the pallet jack before looking over to me. There’s compassion in the depths of his eyes. “I’m sorry this happened to you. Truly, I am.” He hangs his head.
“Thank you. It . . . is what it is.”
“Yeah, but . . . I saw him here. With her. I could have assumed a lot of things, but you’d be amazed at the shit I see so I never said anything. I just figured she was a friend or you guys had an open”—he waves his hands back and forth as he searches for a word and his cheeks color—“thingamajigger. I didn’t know and it isn’t my place to interfere. Annie’s taught me that over the years.”
Leave it to Paul to make my supplier feel guilty over his cheating ass.
“It’s not your fault. At all.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep. “There were signs I should have seen but didn’t until it was too late.”
Too late, as in opening my front door, walking into my bedroom and seeing Paul’s bare ass as he screwed his side piece in our bed, signs.
The sight will forever be burned in my retinas, and the pitching of my stomach still hasn’t subsided.
“It’s not your fault either,” he says, shifting his feet in discomfort. “Paul’s a dick. He was before and is even more so now. My Annie always asked what a nice girl like you was doing with a guy like him. Maybe this is a good thing. It might not feel like it now, but it could be.”
I smile and nod simply to ease him out of a conversation I’m sure he wanted no part in. “I’ll make it a good thing,” I say with way more optimism than I feel.
“Good.” He nods. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, I’ll work on Annie to see if I can’t accidentally extend some more credit for you. I know you have that big event coming up.”
I bite back the sob and release the pent-up hurt and frustration as a sigh instead. It’s nowhere near as cathartic though. “I’d be appreciative of whatever you can do. Once I get paid the balance on the event, it’ll go straight to you.”
And it’s true. It will. But then that means I’ll be late on my rent and utilities, which puts me in yet another tailspin.
Who am I kidding? I’ve been living in that endless eddy for the past three weeks.
Barney closes up his truck and heads out while I go back into the bakery. Cookie Cutter. It’s my labor of love. My dream come true. And while it was one hundred percent my baby—the concept, the implementation, the hard work—Paul had contributed half the start-up capital.
But he took his cheating dick and his helpful money with him when I kicked him out. Now, I’m left with a struggling business that’s short on capital, personal bills I can’t pay, and a broken, angry heart.
“Fuck you, Paul.”
It doesn’t feel as good as it once did. The words. The gusto behind them. The anger they barely alleviate. At first saying them was my way to get out the overwhelming emotions—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartache. And it worked.
But the hurt has been replaced by anger. The anger colored in big, bold strokes with despair.
I look around my cookie bakery. Everywhere is bright pastels and happiness. In the signs and awning outside, in the decor inside, and in the obnoxiously happy sentiments and designs on the cookies in the case.
This was all mine—but unofficially half his.
I trusted him. I believed him. Who wouldn’t after two years together? And now with the shit he packed up and took with him—his clothes, his electronics, his self-help books that clearly worked for shit—one would say taking his money back was warranted and it was. What wasn’t, however, was the money he took from our joint account. Stole. The one we started and pooled our savings to qualify for the loan.
And now I’m left in dire straits.
Like the kind of straits that have me wondering how I’m going to deliver one thousand cookies in two weeks’ time. I need money for the supplies, and yet I can’t make the money unless I provide the cookies. Even more, I can’t pay for workers to help me make the cookies because all the money goes to the supplies so it’s probably going to be me, myself, and I baking and decorating until my fingers want to fall off. Oh, and I need a bakery to actually make those cookies in, but paying rent when credit is already maxed out is enough to sap anyone’s creativity.
Yeah.
Fuck you, Paul.
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Gizmo
“Disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conduct, again. Criminal damage to property. Misdemeanor assault.” Nathaniel looks up from his laptop screen and eyes me over his glasses. “Should I keep reading your rap sheet? Because I can. The list is long and not so distinguished.”
My sigh is as heavy as my stare is bored. It’s not like he can see it though because my shades are dark and my head is fucking pounding—but hell if last night wasn’t worth it. “Your point?”
“My point is it’s one thing to be a rock star. It’s another thing to be the stereotypical nuisance that goes along with it.”
“Just like it’s one thing to be a lawyer, Nathaniel, and another thing to be the stereotypical uptight asshole that goes along with it,” I say in the same mocking tone that he did.
My brother stares at me with a disdain he’s undoubtably felt for longer than either of us can remember. The differences between us have always been night and day. Rebel and saint. Out of control versus fall in line.
“Sure. Fine. Say what you will.”
“I did,” I say. I’m being an ass, and I know it.
“I like my life,” he asserts.
No, he doesn’t.
“Ditto.” I shrug and earn the same scowl he’s been giving me for years. “Is there a reason for this ‘meeting’ you demanded, or is it just another way to let me know you’re perfect and I’m the fuck-up?”
Same shit. Different day.
My combat boots make the only noise in the posh office as I lift them up and cross them on the coffee table.
“My point was your record shows a history of habits, of acting out, and—”
“And I paid the fines asked. I did the community service required.” Jesus Christ. How many times do we have to rehash this? “I don’t get what the big deal is this time around. The courts or whoever allowed me to travel last time. Do your job and they’ll approve it again this time.”
“Huh.” It’s the only sound he makes and for some reason, it unsettles me when it shouldn’t.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your legal indiscretions are one thing. The nonstop TMZ mentions and photos are another.”
“Dude.” I chuckle and roll my eyes. “I can’t help that paparazzi get paid to take pictures and make shit up.”
“What is a judge to think when you say ‘I’m on my best behavior. I won’t do the same shit I’ve been doing again’?”
“Who said I was going to say that?”
His chuckle is condescending and so much like our father’s that I roll my shoulders and fight the urge to walk out. “Me. Your lawyer. I’m the one who said you were going to say and do that or else I won’t represent you.”
“Come on.” I sigh. “The dramatics are so not like you.”
“Dramatics?” he scoffs. “Really?”
Bitterness coats my tongue but I swallow it down like cheap vodka. “Really.”
“So that latest story isn’t true?”
“Which one would that be?” I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head in disgust.
“Exactly. Which one would that be? There are so many posted you don’t even know what the latest is.”
“There are opportunists everywhere willing to lie for a payday. Willing to say an innocent picture is something bad. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“And yet the one journalist in particular who keeps the stories about you alive by constantly stirring the pot is causing you the most trouble.”
“Lori is . . . Lori is just that—an opportunist,” I state about the journalist who has the biggest hard-on for me. “I didn’t do shit.”
“And there’s always an excuse for your behavior.”
I bite back my smart-ass remark, my cutdown to blame him when I’m well aware of my own actions. I own them. It’s so much easier to blame him.
Hasn’t it always been?
“I put in the request to your probation officer like I always do when you need to go overseas. He said he’d bring it to the judge.”
“Like he always does,” I finish for him, wanting to hurry up this fucking urgent conversation we needed.
“Correct. And he did. But the judge who normally approves your travel, your . . . exceptions, without pause, is no longer there.”
The first finger of dread slithers up my spine. “So a different judge will approve it. This is Los Angeles. I know I’m not the only musician on probation in this town who needs to travel for work.”
“The judge assigned to review your request is an unforgiving prick.”
“Seems like everyone in the legal profession is.” He takes the barb and my condescending chuckle without so much as a flinch.
“The good thing is I know him.”
“Of course you do.” I lace my fingers behind my neck like I’m not sitting here talking about my future. “Gotta throw your weight around somehow, huh?”
He groans in frustration, but I know that groan is the last step before he clenches a fist, cocks it back, and plows it in my face.
Good to see he still has some fight left and that the corporate world hasn’t completely sucked the life out of him.
“You know, I don’t have to represent you, right? I have plenty of business and run a lucrative practice with clients who actually care about their reputations and the outcome.”
I grunt. My mood is shit and the dress down I got from the guys last night weighs heavily on me. The assurance I gave them that everything is chill is ringing hollow right now.
“You’re not the only successful Gizmodo family member,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you sit here with your shitty, I don’t give a fuck attitude like I owe you. Let’s get something straight, I don’t owe you shit. You want to help yourself? Fine. You don’t want to help yourself? No skin off my fucking back, but I suggest you knock the damn attitude off or you’re going to find yourself up shit creek without a paddle, and I sure as shit won’t jump into that mess to save your ass at that point.”
I hold my hands up and grin. Looks like I’m not the only one having a bad day. I may hate the message but it’s not the messenger’s fault. It’s mine. I’ll own it but that doesn’t mean I have to care one bit about it. “Okay. Fine.”
“It’s not fine. Far from it, Jase,” he says, using my first name. One that few get away with calling me.
“You’re right. It’s not. Give me the rigmarole. Tell me what a piece of shit I am. That I’m shaming our family name that clearly neither of us cares about. That I’m—”
“How about you admit you’re fucking up and don’t give a shit that you are? How about you act like you care? Like you’re contrite and might have taken the three-year probation you were handed—the one that was a fucking gift—as an impetus to grow up some and be a better man?”
“The last thing I need from anyone, let alone you, is to act like you’re my father.”
“Then take it from your lawyer,” he grits out. “You’re going to be hard-pressed to find a judge, let alone this judge, to allow you to leave the country. How’s that for starters?”
Mic drop.
His voice is so calm, so nonchalant, but he knew damn well that those words would stop me dead in my tracks.
The only thing I love is my band—my chosen family. And my brother, a person I’m bound to by blood and history, sure as shit just got my attention.
“You’re lying,” I say. Because yes, while I love Nathaniel, I also tend to hate him for things beyond his control. And right now, I loathe him for hitting me where he knows it hurts the most.
“Not lying, no. He’s that kind of judge.”
“Then be a better lawyer,” I throw at him.
The look he levels me with says a dozen different things. I am a better lawyer. Stop hating me because of our father’s choices.
“Insulting me isn’t going to make your situation better. You keep fucking up and aren’t learning your lesson. You’re on probation and yet another round of pictures were posted three days ago of you in a club with a bottle in one hand and a dozen empties in front of you.”
“I was drinking. So fucking what?”
“It’s also a violation of your probation.”
I scrub a hand over my face in frustration. Three-fucking-year probation for one hotel room. One really bad night where I trashed it after a rough day dealing with my mom and a fucking awful night taking it out on the guys. A night that I’ve since paid the repairs for, paid the fines for, and done what the courts asked of me. And yet that one fucking night is like a pair of handcuffs growing tighter each and every day.
I roll my shoulders. “It’s bullshit. You’re telling me that no one else on probation is drinking? Fuck that, Nate. Just—”
“Discretion is a real thing.” I go to speak and he holds up a hand to stop me. “Your selfishness, your constant fuck you to authority, is going to affect the select few that you care about.”
“Yep. Got it.” This conversation is just about over.
“That world tour you’re planning isn’t looking so worldly right now, is it?”
“Fuck this.” I stand up and toss the magazine beside me onto his perfectly polished table. “We’re done here. I don’t want to hear your insults or your—”
“Truth hurts. But you go. Run to the closest bar, down your drinks, run away like you always do when shit gets tough rather than ask me how to fix it.”
“I will.” I waltz out of his office and past his front office staff. What I’d give to have a door to slam, but all that’s in this fucking place is the spring hinges.
Run away like you always do when shit gets tough.
I will, Nathaniel. Just taking an old page out of the Gizmodo family playbook.
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
Hendrix
“You’ll figure it out. I have faith that you will.” Paul’s voice is in my ear causing goosebumps—not the good kind—to chase over my skin. My hands fist on my design folder as I shift on my feet and look around the line ahead of me in the coffee shop.
“Easy for you to say. I’m not supposed to be figuring anything out. I’m supposed to be baking my ass off.”
“Then go do it. Why are you on the phone talking to me?”
Paul’s lucky he’s not standing in front of me or else it might be a tough task for anyone to remove my fingers from where they’d be wrapped around his throat.
“Because being an adult means you sometimes have to do things you don’t want to. For me? That’s talking to you and your—”
“The point of this call is . . . what? That you miss me? That you want to reconcile?” His chuckle is pure condescension. “I’m sorry, babe—”
“No. It’s that you drained the accounts. That you—”
“Guess you should be a little wiser with who you trust, huh? Your money issues aren’t my problem anymore, Hendrix. Really.”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so busy sticking your dick in your mistress and fucking me over, then I wouldn’t be having any problems now, would I?”
With my blood boiling, I end the call with fervor and look up. The man in front of me is coughing into his hand. The woman in front of him is peering back at me with huge eyes. And the man sitting a few tables over, a hoodie up and sunglasses on despite being inside, is grinning without shame.
Shit. I just said that out loud, didn’t I?
I put my head down and grimace, but then I figure I didn’t do shit wrong—have no shame other than telling the truth.
The line moves forward and as I do, I have the unmistakable feeling of someone staring at me. I glance up and meet the palest blue eyes. Hoodie guy took his sunglasses off and whoa, those eyes pack quite a punch. Not just the light color and how they’re framed with an abundance of dark lashes, but the curiosity with which they regard me.
I avert my eyes quickly, grateful when the line moves and I place my order. “Is Josie here?” I ask about the owner to the newly hired clerk behind the counter after I pay.
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