We’re celebrating the release of A Really Bad Idea by Jeannine Colette! One-Click yours on any platform today!
Release Date: May 14, 2019
We’re celebrating the release of A Really Bad Idea by Jeannine Colette! One-Click yours on any platform today!
Release Date: May 14, 2019
Chicago Blaze, #2
I only have one love now—the home furnishings business I’m building into an empire. Maybe money and success can’t love me back, but they keep what’s left of my heart safe. One-night stands are my way of scratching the occasional itch I get for something more. And no one’s better for that than a sexy as sin hockey player I’ll never see again after one very hot night together.
I used to love two things: hockey and women. But now my nieces and nephew are my top priority, because I’m raising them after tragedy stole their parents. Somehow I balance single parenthood and my career as a forward for the Chicago Blaze. There’s no time for women, until I get knocked on my ass by Abby Daniels. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but her devastating past may end us before we even get started.
“Hold still, Uncle Luca.”
My niece Emerson gives me her best glare, but she’s five and cute, so it makes me smile.
“I’m trying,” I tell her, checking out the dark purple polish she’s trying to brush onto my nails.
It’s not my inability to hold still that has more nail polish on my skin than my nails; it’s her technique. My “MANicure”, as my two nieces like to call it, started with my ten-year-old niece Cora and was then passed off to Emerson.
“I found yogurt!” Cora says as she breezes into my bathroom. “It’s got strawberries in the bottom, but that’s okay. This face mask will make you smell good, Uncle Luca.”
I try not to roll my eyes. It’ll be better than the last face mask they whipped up in the kitchen, which had butter in it and was a bitch to scrub off in the shower.
“I have to leave for practice in twenty-five minutes,” I remind the girls. “And I still need a shower. So you have ten more minutes to beautify me.”
“Will you paint my nails, too?” Cora asks me.
I was shit at painting nails when I first became the legal guardian of my two nieces and one nephew a little over a year ago. With practice, though, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at it.
“How long ‘til Gram and Gramps will be here?” Emerson asks, still painting my thumb nail even though she’s looking at me.
“About four hours ‘til their flight lands, then maybe an hour for them to get to the house.”
Her toothless grin of excitement makes me ignore the nail polish I can feel on my knuckle.
“Emerson!” Cora yells. “You ruined it! That looks awful.”
Cora picks up the bottle of purple nail polish and Emerson’s happy expression drops away.
“Give it to me,” Cora huffs, holding out her hand for the handle to the polish. “I never should have let you do it.”
“Hey, now.” I give Cora a sharp look. “She was doing her best.”
Cora’s eyes flood with tears. Emerson edges closer to me, because she knows what happens when Cora gets upset.
“He won’t let us do spa days if you mess it up!” Cora cries, glaring at her younger sister. “You ruined everything!”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I tell Emerson. “And Cora, I never said we wouldn’t do this again. We can do a big spa day after my road trip, okay?”
Cora wipes her eyes and nods, still crying. It kills me to see her like this. As the oldest, she carries more of the weight from the deaths of her parents than her siblings. We’ve been in counseling for more than a year now, transitioning through the death of their mother, my sister-in-law Danielle, to the kids’ new life with me as their guardian. The clinical terms for what Cora struggles with—anxiety and controlling tendencies—are easier for me to handle than her breakdowns.
The tension leaves the room and Emerson starts my massage, which is pretty much just her karate chopping my shoulders, while Cora slathers strawberry yogurt onto my face.
“Is your shoulder better?” Cora asks me.
“Yep, it’s all good.”
“Think my mashage helped?” Emerson asks from behind me.
She can’t pronounce some words, and I kinda hope that’ll last longer, because it gets me every time.
“It definitely helped,” I tell her.
I tweaked my shoulder at practice yesterday, and Cora noticed me wince when I was taking out the trash last night. She worries about every sinus cold and bruise I get. I can’t blame the kid. Her dad, my brother Matt, died serving in Iraq and her mom passed away from cancer a year later.
“Hey, let’s get your nails painted, Cora,” I say after glancing at my watch. “I’ve only got five minutes til I have to hit the shower.” I turn to Emerson. “Can you go get the nail polish remover, peanut?”
“Okay.” She races from the room, brown curls flying behind her.
About THE LAST LETTER (Coming 2/26/2019):
“I’m not going anywhere. You need anything, and it’s yours. You need help? You’ve got it.”
She let loose a mocking laugh as she descended the steps.
“I don’t want or need you here, Mr.…” She opened the door to her SUV and pulled out a paper. “Mr. Gentry.”
“Beckett,” I answered, desperate to hear her say it. My real name.
“Okay, Mr. Gentry. Enjoy your vacation and then head home, because like I said, I’m not in need of a babysitter or anyone’s charity. I’ve been taking care of myself since Ryan ran off and joined the army after our parents died.”
I wanted to grab her, to hold her against my chest and block anything that wanted to harm her. My hands ached to sweep down the line of her back, to take away any of her suffering that she’d let me. I’d known this would be hard, but seeing her wasn’t anything I could have prepared myself for.
“It doesn’t matter if you want me, because I’m not here on your wishes. I’m here on Mac’s. This is all he asked of me, so unless you’re going to kick me off your property, I’m going to keep the promise I made.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay. Anything I need?”
“When Ryan died—”
No. Anything but this.
“—he was on an op, right?”
Could she see the blood drain from my face? Because I sure as hell felt it. I heard the rotors. Saw the blood. Reached for his hand as it limply fell off the stretcher.
“Yes. It’s classified.”
Her hand gripped the open doorframe.
“So I’ve heard. I need…” She sighed, looking everywhere but at me for a second before straightening her shoulders and meeting my eyes. “I need to know what happened to Chaos. Was he there? When Ryan died? You were in the same unit, right?” Her throat moved as she swallowed, and her eyes took on a desperate plea.
Damn it. She deserved to know everything. That I wasn’t the man I wanted to be, that she needed. That I was the piece of shit who made it back with a beating heart while her brother came home draped in a flag. I needed her to know that I’d chosen to stop answering her letters because I knew that the only thing I could bring her in this life would be more pain.
I needed her to know that it was only Ryan’s letter that got me here, and the knowledge that it was the least I could do for my best friend. That I never meant to hurt her, never had the intention of smashing into her life like the wrecking ball I was—not when she lived under such breakable glass.
“Well? Was he?”
But what I needed didn’t matter.
I’ve never been able to give second chances when it comes to hurting the people I love. Letter number six.
If I told her those things, she’d shut me out, and I would fail Mac for a second time. I could tell myself that it was her choice, but really, it would be mine. I was the guy people looked for an excuse to get rid of, and truth was a gift-wrapped reason to kick me to the curb. There were two distinct paths ahead of me: the first, where I told her who I was and what had happened, and she promptly walked out of my life, and the second…where I did everything I could to help her, no matter what the cost.
Path number two it is.
“He was there,” I answered honestly.
Her lower lip trembled, and she bit onto it, like any sign of weakness had to be quashed. “And? What happened?”
“That’s classified.” I was a bastard, but an honest one.
“Classified. You’re all the same, you know that? Loyal as anything to one another and nothing left for anyone else. Just tell me if he’s dead. I deserve to know.”
“Knowing what happened to Mac…to Chaos…none of that would do you any good. It would hurt a hell of a lot more than it already does. Trust me.”
She scoffed, shaking her head as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. When she looked back up, the fake smile was in place, and those blue eyes had gone glacial.
“Welcome to Telluride, Mr. Gentry. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
She climbed into the SUV and slammed the door, throwing the vehicle into reverse to get out of the drive.
I watched until she disappeared into the thick forest of trees.
Havoc brushed against my leg. I looked down at her, and she stared back up at me, no doubt knowing that I was an imbecile for what I’d just let happen.
“Yeah, that didn’t go so well.” I looked up at the cloudless Colorado sky. “We did a number on her, Mac. So if you’ve got any pointers on how to win over your sister, I’m all ears.”
I opened the tailgate of my truck and started to unload my stuff.
It might be temporary, but I was here for as long as Ella would let me stay. Because somewhere between letter number one and letter number twenty-four, I’d fallen in love with her. Fallen for her words, her strength, her insight and kindness, her grace under impossible circumstances, her love for her children, and her determination to stand on her own. I could list a thousand reasons that woman owned whatever heart I had.
But none of them mattered because, even though she was the woman I loved, to her, I was just a stranger. An unwelcome one at that.
Which was more than I deserved.
About Rebecca Yarros:
Rebecca Yarros is a hopeless romantic and lover of all things chocolate, coffee, and Paleo. In addition to being a mom, military wife, and blogger, she can never choose between Young Adult and New Adult fiction, so she writes both. She’s a graduate of Troy University, where she studied European history and English, but still holds out hope for an acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Her blog, The Only Girl Among Boys, has been voted the Top Military Mom Blog the last two years, and celebrates the complex issues surrounding the military life she adores. When she’s not writing, she’s tying on hockey skates for her kids, or sneaking in some guitar time. She is madly in love with her army-aviator husband of eleven years, and they’re currently stationed in Upstate NY with their gaggle of rambunctious kiddos and snoring English Bulldog, but she would always rather be home in Colorado.
Heir to a media empire.
…And my new boss.
I could have impressed him, if not for last month’s unforgettable one-night stand.
I left it with more than orgasms and a pleasant memory—namely, his wallet.
Now he’s staring me down like I’m the dirt under his Italian loafers, and I’m supposed to take it.
But the thing about being Judith “Jude” Humphry is I have nothing to lose.
Heir to a stack of medical bills and a tattered couch.
When he looks at me from across the room, I see the glint in his eyes, and that makes us rivals.
He knows it.
So do I.
Every day in the newsroom is a battle.
Every night in his bed, war.
But it’s my heart at stake, and I fear I’ll be raising the white flag.
Add to GoodReads: https://bit.ly/2GuCKIB
He had an American accent. Not French. American.Smooth. Familiar. Ordinary. He fired out sentences at the speed of light. I heard him, but I couldn’t listen. Shock gripped my body as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. My dirty one-night stand was my boss. My lying, American boss. And now I had to deal with that—hopefully for a very long time, because I desperately needed this job.
Someone snapped their fingers, and my gaze shot from Célian’s face to Grayson.
His forehead had crumpled into a frown. “You look like you’re trying hard not to cry or having a really intense orgasm. I’m hoping for you that it’s the latter and some kind of a weird-slash-awesome condition. You okay?”
I nodded, scraping up a smile. “Sorry. Zero orgasms happening under this dress. I just zoned out for a second.”Lies. I was about to orgasm just remembering how good Célianhad felt parting my thighs with his big, callused hands and dipping his tongue into my slit.
Then words stopped streaming down on everyone’s heads like a scalding shower, and I realized that indeed there was something worse than hearing Célianspeak in his perfect American English. And that was not hearing him speak at all. Because now the icicles were pointed at me like a cocked gun.
I glanced up to meet his gaze. He stared at me for exactly one second before his focus snapped to Grayson. “Am I understood, Gregory?” he asked.
“Crystal clear, sir,” Grayson bowed, his voice trembling at the edges.
Célian jerked his chin toward me. “Your cover girl material is going downhill.”
God. Damn. Bastard.
He recognized me, and I knew it. His eyes had kindled, melting the ice and growing darker the minute our gazes mingled. He remembered, and maybe it killed him that I was here in the same way it buried me.
I want my iPod back, my gaze told him. I had over three thousand songs on that thing, and they were all too good to be wasted on that jerk.
“Jude Humphry. Junior reporter. It’s her first day,” Grayson highlighted, almost pleadingly. He shifted in my direction, as if he might need to physically protect me from the sharp-tongued, suited monster.
I suppressed a smile when I realized I’d told Célianmy last name was Spears. Well, he certainly wasn’t a Timberlake. He was a Laurent. An American monarch through and through. A billionaire, a powerful force, and judging by our one and only encounter—a raging playboy.
This man was inside you, I internally shrieked. And not just once. His cock was buried so deep in you, you screamed. You can still taste the salty, earthy flavor of his cum.You know he has a freckle on his lower back. You know what sound he makes when he empties inside a woman.
I internally thanked my mind for ruining my panties in public, and nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I offered him my hand, my face flushing with embarrassment at my choice of words.
Everyone was looking at us, and there were at least fifty people in the room. Célian—if that was even his name—ignored my outreached hand. Instead, he turned his face to the man beside him. “Mathias, any other words of wisdom?”
Mathias? Wasn’t that his father? Just how cold was the man with the icy blue eyes?
“I think you touched everything,” said the big boss—and he did have a heavy French accent, so at least the lie had a seed. Mathias stared at me placidly, like he could read the secret his son and I shared on my face.
Célian spun toward me, uncuffing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up his veiny forearms. “Accounting can go back to their unfortunate line of work. Couture is excused from this meeting—though not forgiven for their horrid blog. Miss Humphry?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
He was already waltzing down the narrow hallway, knowing I’d chase him like a puppy, and no doubt taking pleasure in that fact.
“I have a bone to pick with you.”
Bone, boner—same difference, right?
I shot Grayson a please-save-my-butt look. His eyes said, I would but I still have a life to live.
I followed Célian down the hall, my Chucks slapping the floor in a hurry. He sliced through the throng of accountants, then stopped at a corner office, opened the door, barked “Out!” to the man inside, and tilted his head for me to go in. I did. He closed the door, and it was just the two of us.
Two feet of empty space between us.
About LJ Shen:
L.J. Shen is an International #1 best-selling author of Contemporary Romance and New Adult novels. She lives in Northern California with her husband, young son and chubby cat.
Before she’d settled down, L.J. (who thinks referring to herself in the third person is really silly, by the way) traveled the world, and collected friends from all across the globe. Friends who’d be happy to report that she is a rubbish companion, always forgets people’s’ birthdays and never sends Christmas cards.
She enjoys the simple things in life, like spending time with her family and friends, reading, HBO, Netflix and internet-stalking Stephen James. She reads between three to five books a week and firmly believes Crocs shoes and mullets should be outlawed.
Connect with L.J. Shen:
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Looks aren’t everything.
It’s true. I’m not what most people would call “pretty” and, well, high school was rough. Fast forward ten years and life is good…
Until a bunch of jerks think it’s hilarious to put the “butterface” (AKA me) on a wedding Kiss Cam with the hottest guy ever—and that old humiliation hits hard.
I recognize him immediately. The hottest cop in Waterbury and totally out of my league.
But then he kisses me.
And we totally forget the room, the crowd, everything.
Then he tells everyone we’ve been dating for months.
Soon everything starts to feel too real, from adorable fights over “necessary” tools to fix my broken porch to surviving a free-for-all dinner with his six siblings to picking up where our last kiss left off.
But there’s something he’s not telling me about why he’s really hanging around, and I’m pretty sure it has to do with my mob-connected brothers.
Because this is not a makeover story, and Cinderella is only a fairy tale…
Pre-order your copy today!
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2ykgQEa
Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/Butterface
Add to GoodReads: https://bit.ly/2sSXjEL
USA Today bestselling romance author Avery Flynn has three slightly-wild children, loves a hockey-addicted husband and is desperately hoping someone invents the coffee IV drip.
She fell in love with romance while reading Johanna Lindsey’s Mallory books. It wasn’t long before Avery had read through all the romance offerings at her local library. Needing a romance fix, she turned to Harlequin’s four books a month home delivery service to ease the withdrawal symptoms. That worked for a short time, but it wasn’t long before the local book stores’ staffs knew her by name.
Avery was a reader before she was a writer and hopes to always be both. She loves to write about smartass alpha heroes who are as good with a quip as they are with their *ahem* other God-given talents. Her heroines are feisty, fierce and fantastic. Brainy and brave, these ladies know how to stand on their own two feet and knock the bad guys off theirs.
Connect with Avery
Mailing List: http://averyflynn.com/newsletter/
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Clean Sweep by Kate Willoughby will be here July 23rd!!!
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT!
When he got home from practice, Cam took a good hard look at his house, trying to see it as a stranger would. Unfortunately, Max was right. His place was hideously messy. It wasn’t that he didn’t like things clean; he did. He appreciated cleanliness. When on one of their twenty-some annual road trips, he liked how spotless everything was in the hotel. He could usually keep it that way for the one or two nights he was in the hotel room. At home it was a different story. It all boiled down to how much dirt and disorganization he could handle, and his tolerance level was pretty high. On the spectrum between Buckingham Palace and the aforementioned crack house, he landed squarely on the crack house end.
As a public figure, he had a responsibility to the team to keep up appearances and he didn’t particularly want to be that guy, the one who everyone thought of as the slob first and a hockey player second.
Even so, on the morning the maid Max ordered for him was due, Cam fought the urge to tidy up. From the moment he got out of bed, he questioned himself. Would he normally have thrown that water bottle away, or would he have left it on the counter? He was toying with the idea of making this a regular gig, but only if he didn’t have to perform the pre-visit tidying ritual that Max and Paul’s wife, Natalie, did. As much as possible, he wanted the state of his house today to be “authentic.”
The doorbell rang and his two dogs erupted in a cacophony of barking. He had an Akita/Shepherd mix, Zeus, and a tan-and-white Chihuahua, Gizmo. Gizmo could be counted on to behave, but Zeus was still a pup at heart.
Cam checked the front door video feed. His security system allowed him to use his phone to view several spots outside of the house. Holy shit. She was a looker. Mid-twenties. Hourglass figure. Long brown hair that tumbled to her shoulders. Oddly, she wore makeup that made her look like she was going to a club rather than cleaning his house. Maybe she had a date afterward. She also wore some kind of electronic device about the size of an Oreo on a cord around her neck.
Holding on to Zeus’s collar, Cam opened the door. Warily eyeing his dogs, she had a gym bag slung over her shoulder and a rolling crate of cleaning supplies. “Hi. I’m Suzette,” she said with a damned pretty smile. “I’m here to clean your house.”
“I’m Cam. This is Zeus and this little fella is Gizmo. Come on in. They’re friendly,” he said. “They just need to get used to you.”
Zeus pulled to get loose, but Cam held on. “I hope you’re prepared for a mess,” he said as his dog attempted to inhale all the olfactory atoms he possibly could.
“I’m used to messes,” Suzette said. “Is there a room where I can change?”
Change? He flicked his gaze over her—skinny jeans that clung to her superbly rounded ass, a gray T-shirt, a pair of red Converse shoes. Maybe she wanted to put on a smock or an apron or something. Zeus was now sniffing her feet, his tail wagging at a slow enough tempo that Cam risked letting him go.
“Ah, sure. There’s a bathroom right over there, on the right.”
“Thanks.” She pulled a piece of paper out of a folder in the crate and handed it to him. “If you could, I need you to sign this waiver thing before we get started.”
She left the cart of cleaning supplies in the foyer, but took her duffle with her.
Shit. Now that she was here, he felt even more embarrassed about the state of his house. Despite his earlier intent to leave his house in its raw state, he hustled to the kitchen and attempted to consolidate the dirty dishes into a pile instead of leaving them on every available square inch of counter. Damn it. Shouldn’t he get a pass just by virtue of being a single guy living alone? People knew that single guys were messy. They expected it. He’d just make sure to give her a really big tip. That should do the trick.
“Okay, let’s get started. Did you sign it?” she asked from the front hallway.
Shit. He’d forgotten. He grabbed a pen and scrawled his name on it. In his haste, he put his jersey number too, like he’d done thousands of times when signing autographs. Dumbass. He scratched out the number just as she came into the kitchen.
Wearing only lingerie.
A black lacy push-up bra, matching panties, a garter belt, thigh high stockings, and some fuck-me pumps.
Kate is in love with the sport of hockey. And the entire Los Angeles Kings team. Having lived most of her life completely uninterested in professional sports, she is surprised at the intensity of her enthusiasm and her growing collection of Kings merchandise.
She has held a variety of jobs—podiatrist’s assistant, telemarketer, typist, gift wrapper, painter, illustrator’s assistant, paste-up artist, calligrapher, teacher, transcriptionist and barista—but her favorite by far is author. She resides in Los Angeles with her husband, their two sons, and a Chihuahua named Mochi.
She is also a member of the Romance Writers of America, Los Angeles Romance Authors, and Santa Clarita Romance Writers, and winner of the 2009 EPPIE Award for Best Fantasy/Paranormal Erotic Romance and the 2016 EPPIE Award for Best Contemporary Romance.
Find Kate Online!
Amazon → https://amzn.to/2sFChKF
BookBub → http://bit.ly/2xQPsgW
Facebook → http://bit.ly/2JsxYJf
Goodreads → http://bit.ly/2Jq4Py0
Twitter → http://bit.ly/2JyMAdc
Website → http://katewilloughbyauthor.com
Single hockey dad meets virgin nanny…can she crack the ice around his heart?
Defending Dani by Kat Mizera is releasing on JUNE 7th!
Keep reading for an excerpt!
Professional hockey player Sergei Petrov has had a rough time after the tragic loss of his wife. Playing hockey and taking care of his son are all he has time for, all he wants. Getting traded was not on the agenda. Neither was a sexy, hockey-playing nanny to further complicate things.
Star college athlete Danielle Cloutier may dominate the rink, but off the ice, she’s an amateur. She has been trying to get rid of her virginity for years, but guys are always intimated by her strength. That’s about to change when she meets her new boss.
Chemistry between them sizzles, hot enough to melt the most frozen of hearts, but Danielle can’t afford to get attached. Not when she’ll be leaving soon.
Sergei doesn’t know what to do with the sexy, stubborn woman, but watching her turn his new house a home makes him wonder if she’s exactly what he needs. Can he come to terms with his feelings before she skates out of his life for good?
“Now that everyone’s distracted, I can kiss you in private.” He found her mouth with purpose this time, hauling her against him and sliding one hand under her dress. Sweet Jesus, she was wearing a thong. He ran his hand along the soft swell of her ass, wondering what made her so special. Every time he reminded himself she was leaving soon, he felt the strangest need to ask her to stay. It was entirely irrational, and he tried to brush it off, but now that he had her in his arms he couldn’t deny how perfect it was. How perfect she was.
His fingers drifted to the silky strip of fabric along her hip and he slid along the edge until he cupped the warm, damp V between her legs. “Damn, baby…are you wet for me?”
“Is there someone else kissing me and touching me and whispering in my ear?”
“There better not be.” He let out a grunt of disapproval. “You’re killin’ me, baby. Tell me what to do next.”
“Keep kissing me?” She cocked her head, her eyes burning with intensity.
He sighed, tracing her full lower lip with his finger. “I’m not afraid of your brother, per se, but I’m going to make damn sure I know what you want before I touch Zakk Cloutier’s little sister.”
“You’re already touching me, but if you want a formal proclamation, fine.” Her eyes twinkled with mirth. “I, Danielle Maryanne—”
“Maryanne?” he interrupted. “Did I know this?”
“I don’t know but shut up and let me finish.”
“Sorry.” He tried to keep a straight face.
“I, Danielle Maryanne Cloutier, do formally proclaim that I want you to make mad passionate love to me. Though maybe not here at your boss’s house.” Her smile was impish. “What about you?”
“Jesus.” He took a breath. “Well, then… I, Sergei Wayne Petrov—”
“Wayne? Your one-hundred-percent-Russian parents named you Sergei Wayne?” She was gaping at him.
He rolled his eyes. “My hockey-obsessed father was one of Gretzky’s biggest fans. May I continue?”
“Sorry.” She bit her lip in an obvious attempt to stop her laughter.
“I, Sergei Wayne Petrov, do formally proclaim that I will make you come at least four times tonight. Against my fingers, all over my face, and at least twice on my cock.”
A flicker of nervousness shadowed her face but then she dipped her head and pressed it against the hollow of his shoulder. “Did we just make sexual vows to each other?”
“Seems like we did.” He wrapped his arms around her. “And I’m going to make good on one of those vows right now.” He nudged her into the adjacent bathroom and locked the door behind them.
About the Author:
Kat Mizera is a South Florida native. Born in Miami Beach with a healthy dose of wanderlust, she’s called Los Angeles, Long Island, upstate New York, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Atlanta home. She’s never been able to pick which locale is her favorite, but if pressed, she’d probably choose the west coast.
Kat’s a typical PTA mom with a wonderful and supportive husband (Kevin) and two amazing boys (Nick and Max). When she’s not writing, she’s either scrapbooking or indulging in her second love (after writing) – traveling. Greece is one of her favorite places in the world. She loves that Athens is a big city with a small-town feel. The food, beaches and culture keep her going back as often as possible. She hopes to retire there one day so she can spend her days writing books on the beach.
Kat has been a working freelance writer for nearly 30 years. She sold her first article–a review of a rock concert–for $10 in 1985. Since then she’s been an entertainment journalist, waitress, bartender, legal assistant, food critic, magazine editor, substitute teacher, and sports writer. She also spent some time working at A & M Records in Los Angeles.
As you can guess from her series, the Las Vegas Sidewinders, Kat loves hockey. She is also a freelance hockey writer, covering her favorite team, the Florida Panthers, and any other teams that have an interesting story. The rest of the time, she writes novels: sexy, romantic fiction that she hopes makes you as happy as it makes her. There’s something enticing about hockey players and romance…
Connect with Kat:
It’s everything but business as usual.
Emmie Elliot hadn’t expected to come back to Metlin, California. She definitely didn’t expect to stay. She returned to her childhood home with a mission: Sell the building that housed her grandmother’s book store and move on with her life.
But life doesn’t always go according to plan.
To reopen her grandmother’s book shop, Emmie will need a hook. She’ll need a strategy. She’ll need an… Ox?
Miles Oxford doesn’t have much interest in quiet bookstore owners. He’s a tattoo artist without a space to work, and the last thing he wants is to get involved with anyone after his last disaster of a relationship. Work and pleasure don’t mix for Ox, but since he doesn’t have any interest in the cute girl with the bold business proposal, he should be safe from any awkward complications, right?
She sells ink. He tattoos it. Unusual? Yes. But a book shop/tattoo studio might be the ticket for both Emmie and Ox to find success on their own terms. As long as they keep their attention focused on business.
Just on business.
Amazon US – http://amzn.to/2D6nufg
Amazon UK – http://amzn.to/2Dzntl6
Amazon CA – http://amzn.to/2r8bpoq
iTunes – https://apple.co/2Dgabgj
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Add to Goodreads – http://bit.ly/2DC5Ktm
The sign Ox was painting in the alley would hang over the 7th Avenue door. It simply read INK.
INK. What else could they call it? Books and tattoos. Tattoos and books. Ink.
They were doing this, and Emmie asked herself every morning if she was making a horrible, awful mistake.
“It’s not too late to call it off,” Daisy said. “Then you can find a nice children’s retailer to work with while I convince Ox that the two of you are meant for each other.” Daisy had hopped on the INK train and immediately hopped off when Emmie had told her about Ox’s condition.
“Don’t be ridiculous and keep your voice down,” Emmie said. The shop was finally clean, the shelves were empty with all salvable stock boxed and organized, and Emmie was standing on a ladder, starting the new coat of vanilla cream paint that would set off the dark oak bookshelves and the counters that Ethan and his dad had ordered.
“You and Ox would be great together,” Daisy hissed, glancing toward the back hallway that led to the alley. “I was thinking about setting you up. I was just waiting for him to break up with Ginger.”
“You are full of it. He may be hot, but I am the opposite of his type.” Emmie started the paint and immediately let out a happy sigh. Everything was better with fresh paint.
“He is a twenty-eight year old man,” Daisy said. “Trust me, he doesn’t know what type is good for him.”
“Good for him? What about me?”
“Trust me. That man would be very good for you. Or parts of you, at least.”
Emmie rolled her eyes. “We are starting a business together. Not getting involved was a smart condition, and I agreed immediately because I am a grown up and business is more important than my hormones.”
“And then you died a little inside,” Daisy said sadly. “Because you will linger alone, a poor village girl, slave to her virtue, never having felt the fire of passion in your too-short life.”
Emmie laughed so hard she snorted and almost smudged the woodwork. “Have you been watching telenovelas in the kitchen again?”
“I swear, Eddie works faster when they’re on in the background,” Daisy said. “I think I’m absorbing them subconsciously.”
ELIZABETH HUNTER is a contemporary fantasy, paranormal romance, and paranormal mystery author. She is a graduate of the University of Houston Honors College and a former English teacher. She once substitute taught a kindergarten class, but decided that middle school was far less frightening. She’s the author of the Elemental Mysteries, the Irin Chronicles, and the Cambio Springs Mysteries.
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Release day: February 23
My mom always said it was just something about the way he moved.
At first, it was the familiar form. He’s a fighter, built like a god from the past, the kind of man the universe doesn’t make anymore. His eyes hide a story, and every time I’m in his presence I want to keep reading him until I get to the end. And then…there’s the way he moves. His boxing is violent but beautiful, and his body is a seductive weapon. When he’s in the ring, he wears the stare of a man committed to the battle until his very last breath.
He could end me; turn me into her. Too much of him will leave me as a shadow, and I’ve lost so much of myself already.
But I have discipline. It came the hard way. Lessons learned, scars left behind, and trust stripped away from life.
I will breathe his air, but I won’t fall for a man like him. The only boxer who’s ever going to break my heart is the one who gave me my name.
“Come here,” he says, calling me with a finger.
I wait a second before giving in, letting my arms fall to my sides as I take the few steps from where I am to where he is. His hands wrap around my biceps as soon as I’m near enough and I breathe in fast, just once. His eyes widen a little.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he smirks.
My gaze is held by his when he speaks. He holds it hostage and when I start to look away, his hands slide down to my wrists and he shakes them lightly until I look at him again. His head tilts, and he waits until I get it.
I’m stronger than I look.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling my lip in tight, so afraid I’m not. I’m stubborn for certain. I’m hardened and jaded. I’m not sure if any of that makes me strong.
My muscles bend to Memphis’s will as he threads his fingers through my right ones and lifts my arm, his other hand holding my elbow into my side. He lets go of my fingers and wraps his palm over my knuckles forming a fist and then moves my entire arm forward slowly, stopping when my body lunges with it.
“Here. You lose everything…right here,” he says, stopping my fist where it is then placing the tips of his fingers on my hips.
Memphis’s eyes are intent on where his hand rests at my waist, and he pauses to take a breath, his tongue pinched by his teeth, his lips twitching up at the corners, his eyes blinking fast—all in a second.
I think about kissing him again right now.
“Your weight is already spent, and you haven’t even made impact with something yet. Think about it,” he says, eyes flitting up to mine.
I shake my head a little from the brief stare and silence we share.
“Okay,” I say, following his lead as he brings my arm back and steps behind me.
“You hit me hard, but that was without everything you have behind it. Imagine,” he begins, adjusting his hold on me, his right hand sliding down my arm and covering my hand, feet straddling one of mine from behind, his chest against my back, his breath at my neck and a thousand beads of nerves dotting my skin.
“You’re here,” he says, his voice low and right at my ear.
My eyes flutter when his left hand runs down the side of my body to my hip, and my breath hitches when he grips it more forcefully.
“Your opponent is standing right there. Do you see him?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible.
“He’s cocking,” he says, and I giggle at the word while his nose moves closer to my skin, tickling against my ear. “You’re such a child.”
I clear my throat and wriggle my hips and roll my shoulders, all under his touch.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” I say, still smiling.
A short breath escapes him in laughter.
“He’s about to swing, okay?” he says, coaxing me to focus.
“Trust me.” His voice falls to a whisper, and my eyes fall closed.
Memphis drives my body, the space between us gone so much that I am lying against him while standing. His hand brings mine up, tucking it close to our bodies. His fingers splay on my thigh, and my leg feels strong. He leans with me, our bodies in sync as we twist to the left, our right shoulders stretching backward, necks rolling until we’re nearly back where we started.
“His balance is off,” he says at my neck. There are no areas of my body that aren’t affected by the vibration of his voice. “You have him. He’s yours. You have balance. His is gone. This is where you win.”
His hand holds my left side still, and his right hand brings me back to swing with a tighter form than I had before. He takes me through the motion once slowly, almost like we’re just part of some intimate ballet performance, then he brings my fist back in and tucks his chin into the side of my neck.
“Again,” he says, this time leading me through the motion faster as his hand slides from its hold on my hip to my diaphragm.
“Breathe out,” he says, and I do slowly at first, but with each swing we repeat, the motion is faster.
My air escapes with my thrust, my body something mechanical now, parts working in unison until I’m able to do it all on my own.
“Keep going,” Memphis says as he steps away. My eyes flit open, and I imagine everything that has ever hurt me. I see their faces—my parents, Enoch, the angry crowds at trials, reporters.
Memphis picks up one of the pads and steps closer as I swing, bending down to hand lift one of my abandoned gloves, eventually holding his palm out for me to pause.
“Put it on, and I want you to hit me now…not like before. Hit me with what you know. Hit me with what you feel, but always there is balance. You can’t give that away. It’s not theirs to have.”
My eyes lock on his as he slides the glove over my knuckles and I form a raw fist with my other hand. He takes two small steps back and readies himself before nodding.
I clear my lungs and consider his words and everything he just led my body through. I was so strong. I’m stronger than I think I am.
My feet shift to find the perfect fit against the mat, and I bring my hands in, fists raised and ready.
“He’s going to swing now,” Memphis says, and I react just as he taught me.
I dodge. The motion so swift and natural I barely remember doing it before my legs steady themselves, my middle twists and my arm swings forward, fist landing in the same spot as it did before only this time my body doesn’t stumble. Memphis does. Inches, but there is reaction to my action.
“Ha,” I breathe out in disbelief. My eyes lift from the fist-shaped dent in the pad to Memphis, and my lips part in awe.
“Yeah,” he says, glancing around to the front of the pad. “You did that by yourself.”
Giddiness takes over my face, my mouth stretching wide with parted lips. Memphis lets the pad fall again, and the physical proof from my force disappears as the padding evens out. It was there, though. I fought back, and left a mark. More than seeing it, I felt it. I still feel it.
“I want to do that again,” I say, blinking as my vision slides from the pad to Memphis’s proud smile.
“Baby steps, Champ. Let me show you a few drills, and then maybe you can punch me one more time before we’re done,” he says, chuckling.
“I wasn’t hitting you,” I say, handing him the glove.
He holds it in both of his hands before bending down to pick up the other glove, pairing them together. His gaze hits mine.
“I know who you were hitting.” Silence settles in for a long second. I don’t have to respond; Memphis doesn’t expect it.
About the Author:
Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice Award-nominated author of several young and new adult romances, including Waiting on the Sidelines, Going Long, Blindness, How We Deal With Gravity, This Is Falling, You and Everything After, The Girl I Was Before, Wild Reckless, Wicked Restless, In Your Dreams, The Hard Count, Hold My Breath, A Boy Like You and A Girl Like Me.
A sucker for a good romance, Ginger’s other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. (She’s also a sucker for a hot quarterback, catcher, pitcher, point guard…the list goes on.) Ginger has been writing and editing for newspapers, magazines and blogs for more than 15 years. She has told the stories of Olympians, politicians, actors, scientists, cowboys, criminals and towns. For more on her and her work, visit her website at http://www.littlemisswrite.com.
When she’s not writing, the odds are high that she’s somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son field pop flies like Bryce Harper or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork ’em, Devils).
Social Media Links:
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/GingerScottAuthor
What if the one person who’s all wrong for you turns out to be exactly who you need?
Mr. All Wrong by R.C. Stephens is coming December 4th!
CHECK OUT THE SIZZLING EXCERPT:
About R.C. Stephens:
R.C. Stephens was born in Toronto, Canada. She graduated from York University with a master’s Degree in Political Science.
R.C. is an avid reader, so when she isn’t cooking for her clan or on her laptop writing, she’s snuggled tight with her Kindle devouring any romance novel she can. Okay, with the exception of Thursday nights. She makes time for Scandal and Vampire Diaries. She’s a fan of drama and suspense but she’s also a sucker for a happy ending.
Her husband was her first teenage love. They live together with their three children in Toronto. Loving Canadian winters she could never think of living anywhere else.
Find R.C. Stephens Online!