Britta Lark Mayfield is an ambitious 26-year-old waitress at Sluggers—a favorite hangout for the local hockey team, the Bridgeport Bandits. Sumner Wade Mayfield is a 27-year-old defenseman who is on the edge of NHL success, but faces deportation unless he finds a way to stay in the U.S. Britta, who has got a no-dating rule when it comes to hockey players, is still irresistibly drawn to Sumner, even though her commitment fears keep her from acting on it.

While Sumner has always crushed on Britta big time, Britta has never given into it, no matter how ever much she might be tempted. However, when push comes to shove and Sumner’s teammates urge Britta to be the person who saves Sumner’s career as a hockey player, she finds herself moved enough to take the plunge. Thus begins a “marriage of convenience” in a very modern set-up, while Britta fights the losing battle of staying away from her delectable husband.

While there were elements to the story that worked, Same Time Next Year turned out to be too sweet and saccharine for my tastes. While Sumner’s patience with Britta was endearing, his devotion felt a bit too much at times—if there could be anything as such. This is a slow burn in comparison to some of Ms. Bailey’s novels I have enjoyed—she is the queen of dirty talk for a valid reason; but I found myself not feeling all that moved through the scenes of passion in this little number.

Recommended for readers who love a hero willing to wait as long as it takes and enjoys a romance that is overly sweet.

Final Verdict: Same Time Next Year is a romance that is easy to enjoy if you are in the mood for an overly sweet, slow-burn love story.

Favorite Quotes

“You’re gorgeous,” she blurts, sitting up slightly, curling a fist in my waistband and tugging me down on top of her, which takes very little encouragement. “You’re so, so gorgeous, Sumner,” she murmurs, those words ending on a moan when I settle my weight fully on top of her, and we start to kiss, my hips rolling forward between her thighs, her fingers tracing the slopes of my shoulders, the hockey-sore muscles of my back.

“Sumner, you’re going to do these things with me . . .” She wets her lips, her words releasing in a harsh exhale. “Because if you do them to someone else, I will have to murder them with my bare hands.”
At first, I’m not sure I heard her correctly. But . . . did I?
I did.
My wife is possessive.
Part of me wants to laugh out loud because the very idea that I could even consider another woman is so far outside the realm of possibility, she has no idea. What women? Where? I’m blind to every last one of them. There’s only Britta.

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