Verona Montero

F*ck It isn't just the name of her favorite smoothie-it's also Verona Montero's approach to murder investigations. Verona Montero loves calling herself a private dick because it makes her sound like she's in a 1940s detective movie. And it means she gets to say "dick" a lot. So when Miami-a walking Barbie doll with an emoji addiction and bikinis smaller than Verona's patience-needs proof her billionaire husband Javier is cheating, Verona's all over it. Especially when it means working with divorce lawyer Quentin, whose cologne gives her what she professionally diagnoses as "crotch headaches." Then bam-Javier turns up dead in Greece, and suddenly Miami's vacant blue eyes are staring down a murder charge. Her manicured fingers might end up smudging prison bars unless Verona can prove the bombshell doesn't have the brainpower to pull off premeditated murder. With her client's billions at stake and a hefty retainer padding her bank account, Verona's jetting to Mykonos faster than you can say "Dark and Stormy." Between conning hotel staff, interrogating sexy bartenders, and recruiting a drag queen to go undercover in a secret sex club, mounting evidence suggests that the wrong person might be taking the fall. Now Verona's facing her toughest moral dilemma yet: pursue justice for a dead predator, or let a killer with excellent taste in victims walk free. If you love your mysteries with enough F-bombs to make a sailor blush, this wickedly funny whodunit delivers the goods. Perfect for fans of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series and Elle Cosimano's Finlay Donovan series.

The cocktails: strong. The hookups: messy. The corpse: a real buzzkill. Private investigator Verona Montero hikes fifteen kilometers to a cliff-top lodge in the Canadian Badlands to dodge cheating dirtbags and a crush with better abs than boundaries. She expects R&R. Instead, a sex-bomb named Harper turns up planted in the front garden-daisies and all-and a storm turns the only road out into a mud smoothie. With the cops days away, Verona gets promoted to PI-in-residence with a complimentary bar tab and a house full of alibis that smell like last night's tequila. The lodge is an adult summer camp for bad decisions: late-night room changes, motives with teeth, and alibis flimsier than a motel towel. When the body count starts flirting with plural, Verona's strategy is simple-ruin evenings, crack egos, and make the killer sweat through their resort wear. Otherwise her weekend getaway could turn into a permanent check-out.