Book Review

Blog Tour: Knot so Lucky by Trilina Pucci

You get Knot so Lucky even when you think you hit the jackpot.

Knot So Lucky, forced proximity, high spice, romantic comedy standalone in the A Holidate “ish” Series from #1 Amazon and USA Today bestselling author Trilina Pucci is available now!

Me: Ask me what happens in Vegas…

Samantha: What happens in Vegas?

Me: Let me tell you.

What happens is that you get “make out with strangers and pee in a parking lot” drunk.


Then *allegedly* participate in depraved group activities with him and his friends in the honeymoon suite of a five-star hotel.

But that’s not even the worst part.

Because after an epic walk of shame, you find out he’s some insanely famous bad-boy quarterback who’s in the midst of cleaning up his act.

So now, you have to pretend to like him… sober…until you can skip town with an annulment and a shirt that reads, “I’d hit that.”

Except for bam—tiny hiccup, his personality cancels out his hot AF face.

And let’s not mention how you definitely took a trip to pound town with his friends.

So, yeah. That’s what happens in Vegas.

You get Knot so Lucky even when you think you hit the jackpot.

Start reading today!
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She’s yelling. My older sister, Samantha, is actually yelling at me.

I don’t think she’s done that since we were kids.

Admittedly, I just texted her that I got piss drunk in Las Vegas and married a total stranger. So, yeah, this sudden call and her head-splitting tone aren’t exactly a shocker. But still, I didn’t anticipate how mad she’d be.

Because it’s loud, mad. Her voice is slicing my brain open. She’s too loud for the delicate balance I’m barely holding on to. That balance between wanting to puke my guts up or just giving up and finding a bench to sleep this hangover off, hobo-style.

I pull my cell away from my ear as I navigate through people with fanny packs and cheap tropical shirts. All of them milling about in the middle of the busy casino floor like forgotten Sims players.

“Excuse me,” I breathe to some random dude holding a three-foot-tall drink before—Oh. My. God.

My eyes blink quickly, my mouth falling open as I try to ignore the glance I just got of myself in the reflective side of the slot machine.

“Excuse what?” my sister rants, thinking I’m talking to her. “Excuse you for making the single stupidest decision of your life?”

“Give me a break. Marrying some rando you just fucked is like a rite of passage in Vegas. There are movies made about it. I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. But holy shit…Sami. If you could see what I see right now—”

I can’t even finish my sentence because I’m chuckling. Jesus Christ. I look like a clown who’s been fucked three ways from Sunday. My shoulder meets my ear, sandwiching my phone and also freeing my hand so I can lick the pad of my finger and attempt to rub the black spread of mascara from underneath my eyes.

“Listen to me. I’m a mess—I’ve been walking through this whole-ass casino in a white bodycon button-front dress short enough to show off my liver. And most of the buttons in the middle are missing. Don’t ask. I’m having to hold it closed, otherwise, my entire stomach will show—I’m a poster child for that Katy Perry song ‘Waking Up in Vegas.’”

She doesn’t let me finish, cutting me off.

“Be serious, Eleanor. For the love of god, why are you making jokes?”

I roll my eyes as last night’s faux red bottom heels click a bit faster on the shiny floors.

“Sami, stop overreacting. It’s not that serious because—”

She still doesn’t shut the fuck up.

“How did this happen? Please tell me this wasn’t your idea.” Her voice switches to panic. “Wait, were you drugged? Oh my god.”

“Are you crazy?” I laugh.

“Are you?” she huffs. “You married some guy you just met in Las Vegas. What do you expect me to think?”

“Not that I’m involved in some secret scheme to drug girls into marriage. Because we all know guys are just desperate to get to the altar. Stop watching those crime shows, weirdo.”

I can’t help but laugh because she’s about to go from lecture to holy shit, from big sister to a co-conspirator, in about two seconds when I say what’s sitting on the tip of my tongue.

“Whatever,” she breathes.

So I hit her with the real tea.

“Plus, it’ll be fine because he’s not just some guy, Sami…He’s Crew Matthews—the quarterback for the fucking Las Vegas Raiders.”

This bomb is particularly hilarious for two reasons: one, our father is a die-hard 49ers fan, so my pussy committed treason last night, and two, my sister is in a poly relationship, and one of her boyfriends is a Hall of Fame quarterback.

“I mean, what are the chances? This is wild, right?” I add, grinning ear to ear over the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to explode. I can already picture her face. Shock and awe plastered all over it.

The silence feels like forever.

But then her voice thunders over the line, louder than all the slot machines I’m surrounded by.

“Shut the fuck up. Lies. Holy fuck. Dad’s going to kill you. You’ll need to change your name to Julia Roberts because your ass is sleeping with the enemy.”

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