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Happy Publication day to She Doesn't Have a Clue by Jenny Elder Moke From the blurb: With a colorful cast of characters and a cellar full of wine, anything can happen--from murder to a second chance at love--in Jenny Elder Moke's half mystery, half romance adult debut set at a lavish destination wedding. A high-end wedding on a private island off the coast of Seattle sounds like something out of a magazine. But for bestselling mystery author Kate Valentine, it’s more like a nightmare. Why Kate agreed to attend her ex-fiancé’s wedding is its own enigma, but she’ll plaster on a fake smile for two nights, with the aid of free champagne, naturally. And because the groom happens to be her editor, she’ll try to finish a draft of her latest Loretta Starling mystery as a wedding gift. But when the bride is poisoned and Kate stumbles across a dead body, she finds herself in a real-life mystery that eerily echoes the plot of her latest novel. And the only person who seems willing to help Kate catch the killer is Jake Hawkins, aka: the Hostralian; aka: Kate’s biggest romantic regret. As the wine flows and the weather threatens to hold every guest hostage, bitter resentments and long-held grudges surface amongst the colorful crowd. Anyone could be capable of murder, it seems. What would Loretta do? Unfortunately, Kate doesn’t have a clue. ISBN 9781250354969, 125035496X  JENNY ELDER MOKE is the author of award-winning children’s and adult literature. She enjoys fast-paced adventures with plenty of mysteries, surprising turns, and laughs along the way. When she’s not writing, you can find her knitting, puzzling, or fighting imaginary crime as a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She Doesn't Have a Clue is her adult debut.
Jenny lives in Denver, CO.
Eternal Ashes
-- EXCERPT: Sofie stared out the window of Chief Edison’s unmarked police car, a cold sense of dread spreading through her chest as she awaited her daughter’s fate. The local hospital wasn’t far, but the ride felt like it was hours. They had left immediately after throwing on some clothes. Sofie wasn’t sure what she had grabbed, or if she should bring anything for April. What had happened? What could’ve possibly happened? Why hadn’t she come home? The night was still and silent. Everything was so quiet and peaceful, in such stark contrast to the turmoil raging through Sofie’s whole body. Please, let my baby girl be okay. The thought repeated itself in her head, right along with the last image she had of April walking hand-in-hand out of the pub with Drew. April’s last words to Sofie had been “I love you.” But Sofie couldn’t remember if she’d said those all-important words back to her. Sofie’s breath clutched in her chest, her gasp disturbing the silence inside the car. Chief Edison glanced back at her through the rearview mirror, concern in his eyes despite his blank expression. Beside her, Parker took Sofie’s hand, interlocking their fingers. Chief Edison hadn’t given them many details beyond the fact April and Drew had been in an accident. He’d shared no insight into their condition. He didn’t need to though. Sofie could read between the lines. If the kids were okay, they would have been driven home. April would have called. If the kids were okay, Chief Edison would have said so instead of staying tight-lipped. His silence was a red flag. A bad omen. Please, let my baby girl be okay… Sofie’s vision blurred and she blinked back tears, refusing to let any fall yet. She was convinced crying prematurely would only bring bad luck. Sofie was fearing the worst, but she needed to hold on to some kind of hope. At least now, before she knew for certain how bad it was. Maybe the kids were banged up and in shock. Maybe there were some broken bones. Maybe some concussions. Scrapes and scratches. Bruises. A bunch of stuff would heal quickly… And maybe one day, a few weeks or months from now, they would remember this incident as a scary close-call they’d overcome. A minor setback. Someday in the future, April and Drew would be married and in their forties, telling their kids about the bad crash they had weeks before graduating high school. Their yearbook would have pictures of all the signatures they’d gotten on their matching casts. There was no need to panic. No need to panic. Sofie let these words replace the chant in her head, wanting so badly to believe them. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to cling to some optimism, the prolonged drive provided ample time for dread to take hold again. 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Loathe Boat
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: First line: Nothing says love like walking through a parking garage in a bright yellow duck suit. ~ Chrissy I open the box to reveal the custom-made engagement ring I’ve been hiding in my drawer for a month. Her mouth gapes open, but no words come out – no “OMG, yes” or even “Of course I will” or a squeal of excitement….. Her breaths come out in rapid pants. “I..I… uh, I…” Her chair falls backward as she runs toward the bathroom. Relinquishing my ticket to her would be the right thing to do, but there is no way on Earth I’m going to let her share my stateroom with her ex-husband. I’d rather be stuck on the Titanic with her than let her have any sexy times with that twenty-first century Eddie Haskell ~ Deacon A sword? Wait! A viking helmet too? Most of the people in line around me seem more like they are on their way to a Ren Faire. All that’s missing is a very large turkey leg. ~ Chrissy -- Rom-Com readers will have a memorable trip on The Loathe Boat ~ Goodreads Great for getting in the ‘vacation mood’ without necessarily hearing Jimmy Buffet. ~ Goodreads For a closed-door romance, they had magnetic chemistry! ~ Goodreads 
GIVEAWAY! --
Some Like It Hott
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: By the time I start my new job a week after my coffee-shop encounter with Lloyd and Susie, I’m starting to feel more optimistic about things. My new boss, Hanna, hooked me up with a swanky room in the Hott Springs Eternal lodge; I’ve deleted all Lloyd’s emails, texts, and photos; and I’ve pawned all the jewelry he gave me. I’m not sleeping great, and I’m still a little weepy…but you can’t have it all. I poke my head into Hanna’s office and say, “Hey!” “Oh, hi, Natalie. Come in.” I can tell right away that something’s off. She doesn’t sound as brimming with enthusiasm as she did when she called to let me know I had the job or when we talked about my lodging. But I tell myself it’s nothing to do with me—probably a bridezilla situation from earlier in the morning—and step inside. “Good to see you.” She waves me into a chair across from her. “I have some paperwork for you to fill out, but first I wanted to have a word with you.” She rearranges a stack of papers, and I realize she’s nervous. Which means the “something off” I observed when I first walked in? Probably does have to do with me. Shit. “Everything okay?” I don’t know what I’ll do if this job falls through. Things are over with Lloyd, and it’s a huge understatement to say my parents aren’t my first choice of roommates. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the idea of asking them for any kind of favor makes me feel like throwing up. Which is why I have to save the money to go back to school. And even if my housing situation weren’t at stake, I want this job. Yeah, it’s not on the long-term Get Serious path, but it’s totally up my alley. I love people and I love, well, fun—and this is a job where I get to make sure people have fun. Nothing else I’ve applied for sounds like something I want to do. “I have so many great ideas for how to make Hott Springs Eternal a true destination!” I blurt out, sounding like a bad cover letter—as if that’s going to keep her from delivering whatever bad news is on the tip of her tongue. She winces, and…I do, too. She looks away, and shit. Shit shit shit. “It’s complicated,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Nothing to panic about, but there’s a—twist.” “A twist,” I repeat. That doesn’t sound good. “I’m really sorry about this bait and switch, but my hands are totally tied. I know I hired you to be the sole person in this position, but, well…God, how do I explain this?” She’s not making any sense, and apparently my face betrays my confusion and worry because she says, “Wait, let me start from the beginning.” But just then, her eyes leave my face and fix on something behind me. “Oh, hey,” she says. I turn to see a man standing in the office door, towing a rolling suitcase behind him. He’s tall and broad-chested, wearing a gorgeous gray linen suit whose expensive tailoring flaunts the strength in his shoulders and biceps. His brown-and-burgundy power tie is cinched up tight against his strong, tanned throat. A half day of dark stubble coats his iron jaw, his cheekbones were carved from stone, and he’s scowling like he just found out his bespoke-suit maker has gone out of business. My mouth goes dry, and my thighs get hot. I may have read a little too much “You liked Fifty Shades? Try this!” romance at a formative age. My eyes go to his hands. No ring. Yes, I checked. The universe has spontaneously served me up a Hot Man in a Suit. I challenge any single, straight woman with a pulse not to try to figure out if this guy’s married. Although it’s pointless. Because things never work out between men like him and women like me. They’re all business, and I’m a party. They take themselves and everything else seriously, and I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. But it doesn’t stop me from having to wipe imaginary drool from both corners of my mouth. It might be the stern look and the crease between his dark eyebrows. The set of his jaw or the harsh twist of his lush mouth. Whatever it is, I have to force my eyes away from him and back to my boss’s face. Which is pained. Whatever the bad news is, it involves this man. And that makes sense because no matter what happens next, I already know he’s bad news for me. “Preston,” Hanna says, “this is Natalie Archer. I’ve, er, hired her to be Hott Springs Eternal’s activities coordinator.” His scowl deepens, making my heart beat faster, out of both fear and lust. “That’s unfortunate,” he says. Yikes. Nice to meet you, too, Preston. 
GIVEAWAY! --
My Heart’s Desire
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: “Don’t move,” a deep, masculine voice commanded. “Hands where I can see them,” the voice continued. Amber thrust her hands straight up into the air. Her stomach burned, fear roiling in its depths. If she didn’t have an ulcer when this over, it would be a miracle. She closed her eyes for a second, hoping the voice belonged to Wyatt. Because if it wasn’t him, or she was in the wrong year, surely, she was dead. Trespassing was against the law even in this backward time. Great, and she didn’t think it was possible for her anxiety level to climb any higher. “Turn around…slowly.” The initial signs of an oncoming panic attack banged at the door to her senses. Her heart pounded, her chest tightened, and her head spun like she’d just come off the tilt-a-whirl at the amusement park. But she did as she was told and inched herself around, one baby step at a time. If anything confirmed her trip back in time one hundred and forty years, this was it. The cowboy standing before her was tall, over six feet, and clad in what she expected to see a man from the 1880s to be dressed in. He wore an unbuttoned vest over a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His pants were super snug, and his dusty cowboy boots covered his legs from the knees down. The empty holster sat low over his right hip, and the silver spurs at his heels clanked as he moved toward her. “W-Wyatt?” She swallowed nervously, lowering her hands. “D-don’t shoot!” Dark blond brows shot up when she said his name, but he waved the gun and took another step toward her. “I didn’t say you could lower your hands.” Oh, shit! She thrust her hands up again. “You…you are Wyatt, aren’t you? Wyatt Kincaid. Please tell me you are. Otherwise, I’m seriously screwed…in more ways than you could possibly imagine.” Mesmerizing green eyes widened, and then his gaze swept over her from head to toe but remained on her feet. “I’d recognize twenty-first century sneakers anywhere.” He tipped his chin toward her footwear, but his gun remained aimed at her. Relief surged through her, and she sagged a little. This must be Emma’s husband. Now she understood what compelled her best friend to return to a previous century. Emma, you got yourself one fine husband. Out of all the details Emma revealed about Wyatt last year, Amber didn’t recall anything about him having such compelling green eyes. It was difficult to look away, not that she wanted to, she had to. This was her best friend’s husband. Chalk it up to her time-travel muddled mind. He took a step toward her and tilted his head to study her. “I’m guessing you’re…Amber?” “Uh-huh. That’s right.” She nodded, still a little stunned. “Where’s Emma? I need to see her.” His scowl quickly turned into a smile, and he holstered his gun. “Wow, the famous Amber Harrison in the flesh.” He recognized her! Inside, she jumped up and down with excitement. “You know me? Wait, I don’t know how that’s possible. We’ve never met.” “I recognize you from a photo Emma brought back with her last year…but you’re mistaken about who I am.” She retreated a step. “If…if you’re not Wyatt Kincaid, then who are you?” His smile widened, and he extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Josh. Wyatt and James’s brother.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Passions
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Her eyes shifted toward her desk on her way to the kitchen, and her heart jumped against her ribcage as she saw more writing on her notepad. Another letter. This one was longer. Chloe was jolted awake once more, just as she had been the day before. The disquieting thought rammed through her sleepy head that the locks hadn’t worked. Without taking the time yet to read the letter, she checked the windows and the doors. Again, there was no sign of forced entry. Chloe’s eyebrows furrowed as she thought it over. With the locks on the two doors, there was no way the intruder could have broken in, written that note, and then returned the locks to their original positions on their way out. The same went for the windows. How were they getting inside? She sighed heavily and ran a set of long nails through her dark wavy hair, snagging on a few tangles at the back of her head. There was nothing she could do about it now. Perhaps there was nothing she could do to prevent this from happening time and time again. Shuffling to her desk, she sat down and read the perfect cursive writing, feeling mixed emotions as her eyes followed the words. I thought you would never go to sleep. I do not appreciate waiting. Next time, do us both a favor and get to sleep at an earlier time. Chloe’s jaw dropped. Had they been watching her the whole night? They knew when she was still up writing? A cold chill ran up her spine at the thought of someone spying on her. Wrapping the robe around her chest a little tighter, she continued. As for your manuscript, I noticed you made the changes I suggested. Excellent work. You have a firm grasp of dialogue composition. Their conversations are believable. But, I do suggest that you avoid writing from the male point of view. This is not meant as an offense to you, but you obviously do not understand the inner workings of the male mind. As a writer, if you narrate strictly from the female’s perspective, you will sound more competent in the genre you have chosen. Nonetheless, your story is coming along just fine. I look forward to reading more. Yours sincerely – G Chloe was stunned. She leaned against the slatted back of the chair and stared dumbly at the wall. She didn’t know what to think. Whoever this was had noticed the changes as well as read through the additions she made the day before. Not only that, but they commended her for it and exonerated her dialogue style. She took no offense to their comment about writing from the male point of view. It was difficult and uncomfortable to put herself inside the male brain and try to figure out how their thought process worked. It had always been something of an impossible task, and she took no joy in it. Deducing from that comment alone, she assumed her mystery correspondent must be a man. Why else would he be so knowledgeable on how the male mind does or does not work? If she adhered to this instruction, there were many changes she’d have to make to the story. There were several scenes with only her male protagonist present and his thoughts on the female. She’d have to change the whole book to an omnipresent perspective if she wanted to keep those scenes. But wasn’t that pretty much the same thing she was already doing? Chloe groaned and held her head in her hands, propping her elbows on her closed laptop. She hated herself for taking these notes so seriously. The thought that a complete stranger was somehow breaking into her home, just to write these silly critiques, was far from her mind. All she could think about was obeying the suggestions as if his opinion was valid and worth her consideration. Then it occurred to her that she wasn’t writing for this stranger. She was writing for herself. Why did she have to change her entire story just to accommodate him, of all people? A stranger she had never met and was forcing his way into her home somehow without any trace or reason. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Daring Destiny
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: “So…” she says quietly. “Can we talk?” “Yeah.” I brace myself for what’s coming next. The end. This is probably the last time I’ll ever see Astrid. My heart is breaking into a million pieces and I’m not sure how to stop her from… Without thinking, I reach out and take her hand, comforted by how natural it feels. She doesn’t pull away, just flicks her eyes up to me and blinks rapidly. As if she’s trying to stop from crying. My heart thunders in my chest. She moves in closer. Thu-thump. Suddenly, her lips are on mine. In the beginning, it’s a soft kiss. Tentative, as if she’s testing the waters. Then, it quickly deepens and I find myself pulling her flush against my chest. Instinctively, my arms wrap around her as I lose myself in the moment. She tastes like peaches and heaven. When our lips finally part, our foreheads remain pressed together as we try to catch our breath. “I didn’t mean to…” She clutches at my waist. “Neither did I,” I mutter, though it’s a lie. If I could kiss Astrid forever, I would. I planned to. We stand there for a moment, holding each other. Neither of us willing to let go. The air between us is charged. Electric. She gazes up at me, her eyes soft but guarded. “Thank you.” “For what?” I’m genuinely confused. “For being here tonight. I truly didn’t think you’d come” She takes in a huge breath and lets it out, like she’s nervous. Considering the situation, I’m unsure how to respond. “Why wouldn’t I be here? It was important to you. To us.” She smiles wistfully and tilts her head. “Brennan.” “I… Uh…” I don’t know how to respond. Astrid shoots me a look as if to say, shut the fuck up. So, I don’t bother finishing the sentence. It’s pointless to bullshit her. I’m not capable of giving her what she needs and we both know it. I’m utter crap at relationships. I don’t know how to nurture them. Prioritize them. Communicate properly. I never have. Probably never will. Astrid should have been different. She’s everything I ever dreamed about. My ultimate fantasy. And I had her. Until I fucked up. Ruined us. Astrid sucks in a breath. “So…turns out I’m pregnant.” Wait, what? Reality crashes down, unforgiving. Like a hundred million buckets of ice water. If I can’t manage a romantic relationship with someone as perfect as Astrid… How in the fuck can I be a good father? Reality crashes down, unforgiving. Like a hundred million buckets of ice water. If I can’t manage a romantic relationship with someone as perfect as Astrid… How in the fuck can I be a good father? 
GIVEAWAY! --
Where the Road Ends
Goodreads / Amazon / Wild Rose Press -- EXCERPT: New guy held up his finger for the fourth time in an hour. She swept his plate and silverware into the dirty dishes bucket and pulled the handle to deliver him another beer. “Are you sure you don’t want a shot of something?” She waved at the collection of liquor bottles behind her. “Your something unpleasant is going to get expensive at some point.” He ran his finger along the grain of the wood, up the condensation of the glass. His hands were large and calloused. Workingman’s hands. Refusing to bite, or speak apparently, he looked up and smiled. Twisting around, she grabbed up one of their generic, bar-grade bottles. “You look like a tequila man.” “A tequila man, huh?” He raised one eyebrow, motioned with his finger for her to pour. “Sure, you want to call that tequila?” She glanced at the bottle, thought again, and grabbed up a bottle of Sagebrush, her mid-grade agave tequila, and held it up for inspection. “Better?” “I’m impressed.” He nodded as she was poised to pour. “So, a man who knows his tequilas. A man not in his element with this weather.” She glanced at his ambiguous touristy ball cap. “You’re from Texas.” He extended a killer smile that swept all the sharpness away in an instant. “And how would you know that?” “Simple.” She looked at his hands, at his chest. “We get a lot of oil guys in here. But oil guys in Wyoming are different.” She nodded at a customer a couple of bar stools down, held her finger up to new guy. He shot down his tequila and winced, looped his finger as she got back to him. “You realize you’d be laughed out of the Lone Star State with your tequila selection.” “Maybe, but that means I’m right about the Texas part though.” He rocked his head from side to side. “Perhaps.” “Ball cap is a dead giveaway.” She floated her head sideways to indicate the packed bar. “Wyoming boys wear them backward, trying to look cool, or what they think is cool. Texas boys are already confident, wear their caps like grown men should.” She was flirting, but he was a safe sort. The kind just passing through on their way somewhere else. Not like he’d be interested in her anyways. Since the courtroom visit—her sweet and salty explosion of junk food continued, ending last night with an entire key lime pie. Instinctively, she glanced down the counter to Angela. But here new guy sat, had sat. She knew better than to read anything into that. After three shots, he slowed down, nursing his beer, staring so intently at the coaster, there had to be something unpleasant and deep going on. There was no way one night on her barstool would touch his problems. No matter how many shots he did. But in an instant, his buzzed ass stared at her with blue eyes, glacier blue, burning straight to her insides. She liked to think she could hold her own looking someone in the eye, but she was the first to look away. She didn’t need anyone trying to analyze her lengthy list of problems. “Do you have family here?” she asked, trying again. She’d never worked so hard for a conversation. Two nights off diminished her let-me-into-your-world vibes. “Huh?” “Mom, brother, sister? What you Texas boys may call kinfolk?” She didn’t miss the flinch when she said brother. She also didn’t miss his eyes lighting up and the bite at his lip when mentioning a sister. Within ten short seconds he pulled out a photo of not only his sister, but two adorable nephews, in full cowboy attire. He put his credit card on the bar and returned the pictures to their sleeves. After he signed the receipt, he hitched his hip and jammed his wallet into the back pocket of well-worn, faded-to-soft jeans. He tipped his cap, looking over the crowd for a minute, and turned his hat around backward, making her laugh. “Does that make me blend better?” 
GIVEAWAY! --
A Guide to Fake Dating Your Enemy
-- A Guide to Fake Dating Your Enemy is a laugh-out-loud small-town romantic comedy full of swoon-worthy moments, sizzling kisses, and a romance that’s anything but fake. It’s a closed door romance with mild swearing/language. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver
-- EXCERPT: A wicker basket of colorful spools rested at my feet. I picked through the bewitched thread my mother had hand-spun long before my birth. No matter how many seasons passed, the spools unwound and unwound, and I no longer fretted about reaching their ends. There was no end to magic, no end to the seasons, no end to my place on the cusp of two worlds. A delicate pink caught my eye, a color crafted from the cherry blossoms bordering my garden. I held it against the tapestry, testing its suitability for flowering plum trees and coral bells I’d stitch into the meadows and along the forest’s edge. “Should you desire my opinion, Erith,” a small voice piped up, “it requires a touch of carnation and a shimmer of sunshine. On the dogwood blossoms as well.” “I wondered about those.” My gaze rose to my knee-high hospet. He sat cross-legged on the hearthstone in front of our shrinking fire, cracking walnuts with his sharp teeth. The creature blinked at me with eyes as clear as spring water, his waistcoat buttoned, cheeks rosy, and cinnamon hair parted in the middle like a magistrate. Nobbin kept my wood and moss cottage tidy, expecting little beyond customary respect and an occasional outfit when his garments aged past mending. He also took it upon himself to offer artistic advice since my mother had chosen to join my father in the underworld. “I might leave them as they are,” I said. “Dogwoods are white.” Nobbin’s eyebrows tilted up in an expression of devilish skepticism. “Spring’s princess will agree with me. Give it a brush of magic. I know you dabble when I’m otherwise occupied.” “You spy on me?” “I’m observant. And I’m charmed.” He flicked his handcloth at the window. “Snow doesn’t glitter like that without your touch, my girl. You added that sparkle to your mother’s tapestry, and it impressed the Winter King.” “Do you think so?” A blush heated my cheeks. “From what I’ve gathered, he’s not one to dole out compliments.” “None of them are.” Nobbin held up a nut as if inspecting a precious gem. “Such is the nature of immortals. Add a layer of royalty on top, and we are lucky they don’t dismember anyone or anything tarnishing their crowns.” “Dismember?” I cringed at the grisly thought and drew my black shawl around my shoulders. “My mother told me the courtiers are kind and cruel in equal measure. Without good reason for either.” Not one to speak with his mouth full, Nobbin raised a finger and swallowed a morsel of walnut. “Indeed, they’re notoriously whimsical. But you are their weaver, and every artist must begin somewhere. You will earn your place, Erith, though it is no simple task to prove your power and demand respect. Spring is the first tapestry you may claim as your own creation, and it is a glorious start. I have untold faith in you.” I smiled gratefully and stifled a shudder at the challenge ahead. Despite Nobbin’s trust in me, my confidence wavered like a weathervane on a gusty day. I’d done my best, and it would have to serve. The seasons’ rulers wouldn’t dismember me on a whim. I hoped. 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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