Caleb Like most men, I go for a particular type of woman. Normally tall, blonde, sophisticated, well-spoken, educated, and ambitious. They’re usually called Sophie or Annabel or Lydia, and they wear pantsuits and style their silky hair in neat bobs and have French manicures. And then I meet Roxie. Her jet-black hair sticks out all over the place. She has black eyeliner, black eyelashes, and purple lips. She’s wearing a tight sweater the same color as her lipstick, a black mini skirt, black tights—one leg of which bears a ladder running up her thigh—and long black boots. And she has a shedload of attitude that’s obvious from the moment she walks in. We’re not suited at all. But she sends me one flash of those kohl-rimmed eyes, and boy, am I in trouble. Book 1: Taking Charge Book 2: Taking Over Book 3: Taking Liberties Book 4: Taking Time