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Marrying My Best Friend’s Sister

A Billionaire Enemies to Lovers MC Romance

Nikki Bloom

© Copyright 2021 by Nikki Bloom. All rights reserved.

No portion of this document may be reproduced, duplicated, or transmitted in either electronic means or in printed format. This includes, but is not limited to photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by copyright law. For permissions please contact info@nikkibloom.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are fictitious products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.



1. Domenic

2. Nicolette

3. Domenic

4. Nicolette

5. Domenic

6. Nicolette

7. Domenic

8. Nicolette

9. Domenic

10. Nicolette

11. Domenic

12. Nicolette

13. Domenic

14. Nicolette

15. Domenic

16. Nicolette

17. Domenic

18. Nicolette

19. Domenic

20. Nicolette

21. Domenic

22. Nicolette

23. Domenic


Mechanic’s Home Run SNEAK PEEK


1. Thorin

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About the Author




You know that feeling you get when you can sense that something bad is coming? Something awful?

But you’re stuck and unable to move – frozen as ice. You can’t open your mouth and speak – can’t feel your face, or twitch your toes?

That’s me right now.

In my mind’s eye, a baseball bat swooped down toward me with unrelenting determination. My head was about to be bashed in, my brains spattered on the wall and the floor, my eyes wide open and staring eternally at nothing; and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Déjà vu washed through me even though I knew that what was happening wasn’t real – and if I could just wake up, everything would be fine.

Between one moment to the next, I went from struggling to breathe to sitting bolt upright in my bed. My body was covered in sweat, my chestnut bob hanging over my face in wet, stringy tendrils. I probably looked like the girl from The Ring. Flipping my hair back, I rubbed my goosebump-covered arms and told myself that everything was fine.

That I was safe.

In an effort to ground myself, I let my eyes travel over the contents of my room. My grey shiny laptop sat on the floor by my bed. I’d been watching The Originals before bed, mostly for the eye candy. In a bout of unprecedented stupidity, the last episode I saw before falling asleep was one about the Michaelsons’ abusive father.

I guess it triggered my nightmares.

Just knowing that, remembering that none of it was real, or at least not anymore, had calmed me down. I looked towards my bedside table where my teddy bear, Gunther, sat regarding me with his usual blank stare as if to say “Silly girl. What were you thinking?”

I picked him up, the last gift my mother ever gave me before she died, and put him in my lap.

“You can’t help your dreams, Gunther, so stop glaring at me.”

The words were out before I could stop them and my face flamed with embarrassment, looking around as if expecting people to jump out of the wallpaper and laugh at me.

Great, now I’m reduced to talking to my teddy bear. Morgan’s going to have me committed for sure.

My brother Morgan is great, but he worries about me. He thinks I’m maladjusted because of our childhood or some shit. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t think that he has any issues, despite the fact that he’s the one who had to run off when he was thirteen and leave me alone with the monster. The baseball bat in my dream was indeed a memory of something that had happened.

Not to me, but to my brother.

Not that I blame him one bit, don’t get me wrong. I’d have run too if I wasn’t a six-year-old at the time with no job prospects. At least Morgan was tall for his age. He could’ve probably passed for sixteen in the right clothes. At least I hope he did. I don’t like to think about what he might have been forced to do, to get by. He doesn’t tell me much even when I press him. All the fussing is reserved for me.

“You should go to therapy, Nico.” He liked to nag me. “Mama would want you to.”

His emotional blackmail game wasn’t very strong. I just rolled my eyes and ignored him.

I grabbed my warm fluffy robe as I got up from bed on my way to the kitchen, and I wrapped it around my lean frame. It was a pink confection that I had pilfered from the Hilton in LA a few months ago. As a quality controller for the FDA, I was invited to represent them at a scientific conference on organic farming. When not in attendance at panels, I was in my room, encased in the robe’s warm, loving embrace watching Netflix on my laptop. As the conference came to a close, I just couldn’t leave it behind.

“You have a sickness, my love,” my friend and work partner Jacinda Patel had said to me, shaking her head as she’d watched me stuff the robe in my luggage.

“Mind your business.” I had waved her away, as I’d debated over whether or not I should leave the little shampoo bottles. I’m not a kleptomaniac, but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break.

When you’re a neglected child, you learn to grab what you can from wherever you can because you just never know when you might need it.

Speaking of needing things, as I came back to the present, I realized my fridge was in grave need of some groceries. I stared into the abyss that was empty shelves and they stared right back. Thanks to my government job, I worked pretty regular hours, but I had been putting in a lot of overtime on a personal project. I hoped to use it to obtain a

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