Pride and Paranormal
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: The temperature dropped even more, and I shivered. Then, to the coven’s astonishment, a faint figure appeared under the apex of the wand lights, shrouded in a kind of gray vapor. The person was tiny, and at first, I thought it was a child, but then the mists cleared, and I saw it was a young woman. She was possibly in her twenties, but it was hard to say because her face… I wanted to cry, not just because the skin on her cheeks bore the marks of fire, but also because I could feel her pain; we all could—we were one in the circle, joined in spirit by a common chi. Timidly she turned, almost as surprised to find herself where she was as we were to see her among us. I wondered, was she a ghost or a demon? I had little experience with either, so it was hard to say, but I could sense no malevolence in her, only a deep yearning. I wished I could read her mind as clearly as her emotions. She mouthed something, but had no voice, and I found myself aching to hear what she had to say to us. She reached out her hands, beseeching, but we dared not break the circle and reach back—there was no way to know who or what she was, and like it or not, some spirits were evil. And even if someone did happen to extend a hand, the ethereal-looking spirit might disappear at the slightest touch. Frustrated, the small woman turned in the circle, her black-eyed, lifeless gaze falling on each and every one of us—until at last, she faced me. I felt a sudden sense of joy as she smiled, and her hands rose again, imploring, asking for Gaia knew what. The collective curiosity of the coven overwhelmed me, and I gasped, taking a step back to the wall and inadvertently breaking the circle. The woman disappeared, and the candles flickered out, leaving us all in utter darkness.
GIVEAWAY! #Blog Tour #Adrift (Haven Island Series 2) by Isabel Jolie #Contemporary Romance @Xpresso Book Tours11/6/2021
Adrift
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My thoughts:
Adrift is the second book in the Haven Island Series, but it can definitely be read as a standalone. My thoughts: Adrift is the second book in Isabel Jolie's Haven Island series. The first book introduced us to Tate and Luna, this one is about Tate's childhood friend Gabe, and Luna's friend Poppy. You can definitely read and enjoy Adrift as a standalone. We meet Gabe in his New York office and see that there is a potential insider trading scandal brewing. Gabe may not be the most likeable protagonist at the beginning of the book. He is arrogant and possibly not the best judge of people. But when his mum asks him to go to Haven Island and talk to his childhood friend Tate whom he hasn't seen for ten years, Gabe is happy to oblige. He is sure that the rift between Tate and his brother must be the fault of Tate and he just needsto talk a bit of sense into him (if you've read the first book in the series, you know what it's all about). When Gabe meets Poppy, he is attracted to her voluptious curvy figure and the fact that she has an internet subscription business where clients get access to photos. Poppy has found herself doing this activity during the pandemic when money was tight, and although she has always set strict limits, naturally, a lot of people see her in a certain light She is dreaming of opening a restaurant or a bar, and, Gabe, despite all his drawbacks sees that she is special, although she is lacking experience and higher self-esteem. Both characters go through a huge amount of development and growth in the book, Poppy learning to really believe in her self. You can see how her past experiences shaped her view of herself, and how much hard work and conscious effort it took her to really accept herself. Gabe also had to realise a lot of things on his way to becoming kinder and more deserving of Poppy's love. Lovely romance with interesting characters- great addition to the series. Looking forward to the next book! Thank you to Xpresso Book Tours and the author for the review copy provided in exchange for an honest opinion. Text in Show
-- EXCERPT: The bell over the door chimes and a young woman walks in with a freshly groomed silver standard poodle, full-on with painted nails and a diamond collar that probably isn’t fake. I look from the dog to her owner, relieved that I don’t know either of them. My gut reaction is to despise her. Anyone who paints their dog’s nails is on my not happening list, even if she is really pretty—which she is. She’s totally got that trophy wife air about her, except there’s no giant rock on her finger, so she must be a wannabe trophy wife. Her dark blonde hair is up in a ponytail. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt for that cute girl-next-door look. She probably paid an extra hundred for that tiny hole near the bottom of her shirt, you know, to make it look like she’s not trying. Aldo points to the door and yells, “NO DOGS!” The chances that a woman like her will take no for an answer are about as good as me painting my own nails. In other words, it’s not happening. She gives him a pathetic look, complete with puppy dog eyes. “I’m just here to pick up my order and I’m worried about leaving her outside.” There it is. She’s clearly not used to hearing no and she’s about to put up a big fuss. I bet she’ll threaten to skewer them on Yelp before she leaves. “No dogs. OUT!” Aldo shouts. “Can you bring me the pizza then? It’s under the name Autumn.” Autumn. That figures. These Upper East Side women always have chichi froufrou names. The man in line turns to glare at her. “Would you mind waiting your turn?” “Sorry, yeah,” she says, looking more flustered than I’m used to seeing in this neighborhood full of privilege. Also, she just apologized and is now leaving without yelling, threatening, or telling him he just made the biggest mistake of his life. She must be very new at being filthy rich, but she’ll learn. Autumn turns around to open the door, only to get caught up in the leash. I watch as she loses her balance, then flails her arms which, unfortunately for her, is the universal sign for “let’s wrestle” in the dog world. The poodle leaps up, wags her tail, and bounces as though agreeing to the terms of play. The owner’s weak words of “Celine, no!” mean nothing. In fact, the volume and panicked tone only excite the poodle more. Before I can get up to help her, the woman tips sideways and lands in a huge potted plant with the dog pinning her to the dirt and licking her face. “Celine Dion Josephine Bonaparte, get down girl,” she says, uselessly. “That’s it, now you’ve upset my plant.” Aldo hollers. “Go!” “I’m trying!” she calls back. Oh, for … I get up and firmly take Celine Dion Josephine Bonaparte (what kind of name is that?) by the collar, lift her off Autumn, and firmly tell the canine, “Stay.” Then I pluck the leash out of the woman’s hands and unravel her legs from it. Wow, she smells amazing. Or is that the poodle? Dear God, I hope it’s not the poodle because if so, I’ve got some very expensive years of therapy ahead of me.
GIVEAWAY! #Book Blitz #A Contemporary Romance Anthology: Cocktails on the Beach #Romance @Xpresso Book Tours10/6/2021
Cocktails on the Beach
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPTS: Escape by Helen Hardt Emily I stop looking over my shoulder on the fourth day. I don’t notice this until the evening, when I sit down by myself at the bar. I’ve been at the Wolfe Island Art Colony less than a week, but until today, I’ve been watching my back. When you’re hiding from the devil himself, you don’t let your guard down. A second after sitting down on the wooden stool at the beachfront bar, I look behind me. That’s when I realize it’s the first time I’ve done it today. Whether that’s good or bad, I can’t say. I shouldn’t be getting too comfortable. “What’ll it be, pretty girl?” I shift my gaze toward the bartender’s deep voice-- And nearly drop my jaw onto the counter. His eyes are such a gorgeous mixture of emerald and cognac. Most would simply call them hazel. I see a swirl of Prussian Green and Olive Green with hints of Renaissance Gold. And believe it or not, those amazing eyes pale in comparison to the rest of him. I smile shyly. I’ve kept to myself since I arrived on the island, spending most of my time painting the scenes outside my hut. This is the first time I’ve ventured to the beach. “You going to answer me?” Hunky bartender raises his dark brown eyebrows. “Yeah. Sorry.” My cheeks burn. “Just some water, I guess.” “You guess? You can do better than that, pretty girl.” Pretty girl. The second time he’s called me that in the span of two minutes. I don’t feel pretty. On the outside, I suppose I’m okay. On the inside, a disaster. “Cat still got your tongue?” He smiles a lazy smile, that makes him even better looking. “Trust me?” I part my lips and lick them. Trust him? I trust no one. No one. He has no idea what kind of can of worms he’s opened. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He reaches under the bar and pulls out a martini glass. I hate martinis, but still I say nothing. “Try my specialty. Virgin?” My jaw drops. “Of course not!” He laughs. “I mean do you want the virgin version of my specialty?” “Oh.” God, my cheeks can’t get any hotter. I can only imagine what they look like in the light of the setting sun. “That’s what I meant. I don’t want the virgin one.” “Got it.” He smiles. Yeah, he doesn’t buy it, but I give him credit for letting me try to weasel out of my embarrassment. He turns toward the back of the bar and pulls three different bottles from the myriad options. Three bottles? Maybe I should have gone with the virgin. He fills a stainless steel shaker with crushed ice and adds a stream of the golden, the yellow, and the hot pink. I eyed the bottle closest to me—the pink one. Crème de Noyeaux. Never heard of it. Next he adds what appears to be orange juice and then pineapple. A Mai Tai maybe? No, he said it was his specialty. Surely he didn’t invent the Mai Tai. Or maybe he invented this particular version. He adjusts the lid and shakes several times. Once he’s done, he slides a slice of lime around the rim of the martini glass, dips it in sugar, and then strains the contents of the shaker into the glass. I notice the color first. It’s a lovely pinkish-orange, the shade of last night’s sunset that I tried to capture on canvas but couldn’t. He pushes the drink toward me and sets a cocktail napkin next to it. “Tell me what you think.” Good enough. I inhale and pick the martini glass up by its stem. I sniff. Nice fragrance. Orangey and almondy. Very tropical. “Well?” he says. “Are you waiting for a little umbrella?” I can’t help myself. I laugh. I laugh like I haven’t in a long time, and it feels good. Really good. “You got one?” I ask. “Your wish is my command.” He reaches under the counter and then pops a tiny pink umbrella into my drink. If I had my phone, I’d shoot a pic and post this on Instagram. I don’t have my phone, though, and I deleted all my social media accounts. In fact, the only person who has a clue where I am is my brother, Buck, and he’s sworn to secrecy. He helped me get the invitation to the colony when I needed to leave town in a hurry. The person I’m running from can’t touch Buck. No one can. -- Exes and Ohs! by Leah Marie Brown “What can I get ye?” “Something strong.” “Are ye wanting a drink or a man?” “A drink.” “Either way, I would recommend something Irish.” His blue eyes sparkle. “Whiskey will be fine.” “Grand choice.” “Leave the bottle.” “Not a bother.” He slides the bottle toward me. He looks like one of the thirst traps I follow on Instagram, all chiseled jaw and dimpled cheeks. His dark blond hair is styled in an undercut, like he just took off his flat cap and stepped off the set of Peaky Blinders. His black button-up is straining to contain his chest and bulging biceps. He winks before walking to the other end of the bar to take an order. Broad shoulders and an ass so sweet it makes me want to sink my teeth into it. Not that I’m into asses…or biting them. Don’t know where that came from. I drain my whiskey in one swallow. I’m reaching for the bottle to pour a finger or two of the emotion- and tongue-numbing liquid into my glass when I notice a tall, slender woman hovering at the entrance. She’s wearing a J. Crew little black dress with an Exes and Ohs nametag slapped to her chest—more in the region of her shoulder than her breast. She’s clutching her purse to her stomach as if she expects to be accosted by a knife-wielding hooligan. Poor thing looks like one of those cartoon fraidy cats—eyes wide, shoulders dropped, back hunched, like she will startle at the slightest noise. She takes a deep breath and hurriedly walks to the bar, practically collapsing onto a stool near me. She notices me watching her, slides her glasses up her nose, and offers me a tremulous smile before pulling her phone out of her purse. Classic self-conscious single woman move. I want to snatch the phone out of her hand and replace it with a bottle of vodka and a straw. Everyone knows drinking alcohol through a straw accelerates its effects, and this girl needs twenty-five ounces of liquid courage, stat. -- Next Rock on the Right by EmKay Connor Luka “How was your trip?” “Long. I’d like to get to the hotel…or wherever I’m staying.” She jutted a hip, planted a hand on it, and cocked her head. “Is it true you don’t have WiFi? That’s going to make it very difficult to do my job if there’s no internet here.” I bristled at her patronizing attitude. “Grab your stuff, and I’ll show you to your thatched hut. We put up a new hammock just for you, and the women checked every inch of your mosquito netting to make sure there are no tears. We wouldn’t want you inconvenienced by something like a bug bite or no internet.” She glared at me, and I glared back. I didn’t want to be the Care For All spokesman, and I didn’t want to deal with a spoiled city girl throwing a temper tantrum because she couldn’t check her social media. The commitment I’d made out of respect for Doc felt like rough rope binding my hands and feet and neck. It chaffed and burned and made it hard to breathe. “Doctor Man not so good at da hospitality.” Martina popped out of the kitchen. She bustled down the hall and wedged herself between us. Britt Connolly’s gaze dropped to read Martina’s T-shirt and then jumped to me, a pink blush tinting her cheeks. Hah. I’d teased Martina about the slogan this morning. Doctors Do It with Skill and Love “You stay with Oz and Nina. They da owners of Sandcastle Bungalows. Nice place. Good food.” Martina shrugged. “Maybe technology.” “Maybe?” Britt looked past Martina to me. She dipped her head. “Our infrastructure is limited.” I regretted my own outburst. “A power plant built in the eighties provides enough electricity for fourteen hours of service each day. There’s no power before seven a.m. and or after nine p.m., although Oz has a generator he uses for paying guests. BrightStar Telecommunications provides satellite internet access to most of the islands in the Caribbean, but the signal isn’t reliable.” “Thank you for explaining.” She lifted her backpack. “If you’ll give me directions to this bungalow place, I’ll check in.” “Doctor Man, he show you da way.” Martina glowered at me, giving me no choice. She could make my life miserable if she wanted to. It was easier to comply. It would also give me a chance to clear the air with Miss Connolly. I resented being thrust into the role of spokesman. I disliked Big Pharma and distrusted Corporate America. Even nonprofits like Care For All made me leery. Too many rules and too many hoops meant people went without timely, affordable medical care. Bureaucrats cared about money. I cared about people. I’d agreed to work with CFA because Doc asked me to and because the islanders would suffer if I let pride get in the way. I could suck it up for two weeks. That fact that Britt Connolly was hot as hell might even make it fun. I swooped down to grab the suitcase before she could add it to her load. The backpack looked like it carried bricks, the straps digging into her shoulders, pulling her blouse tight against her breasts. Tight enough reveal the lacy pattern of her bra. Blood raced to my groin, my cock engorged in seconds. I flashed back to life in the States and the casual availability of sex. Young women at nightclubs in slinky dresses or on beaches with everything hanging out. Singers and performers whose careers exploded, not because of talent, but how well they bounced their tits and ass. The infamous Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Don’t misunderstand. Totally not judging. I love eye candy just as much as the next guy. There aren’t many eligible women my age on this or any of the nearby islands, so my visual sweet tooth has long gone unsatisfied. Catching sight of Britt’s bra was a tease, a tiny bit of deliciousness, like the corner broken off a chocolate bar and laid on your tongue to slowly melt. “Are you hungry, Miss Connolly?” I led her out the front door, down the short walkway, and out to the street. “Because I am suddenly ravenous.” -- Her Perfect Guy by Lyz Kelley He turned—and blinked. Devon was standing in his room, surrounded by luggage. She looked adorable, her hands fidgeting like she didn’t know whether to stand there or leave. “Devon? How did you get into my room?” He stared at her and did his best to appear calm. “Kayla was supposed to call you.” Devon took a step forward, even though she looked like she wanted to turn around and leave. “It turns out your uncle and aunt’s arrival was unanticipated, and the hotel is a room short.” “And?” He crossed the room, wanting to be near her. Her sweet scent of suntan coconut oil hit first, and then the smell of her light perfume. “Kayla thought that, since you have a suite, you wouldn’t mind sharing your room. I told her about the fake fiancée thing, and she decided this would solve her problem…and yours.” “My problem?” He chuckled at his sister’s audacity. “You were the one who announced our engagement.” He stopped far enough away to avoid touching her or pulling her into his arms. Peeling back those layers was getting more and more tempting. He released a breath of pent-up frustration. “This seems like a solution Kayla would come up with to please my parents and avoid my aunt’s complaints. My father’s sister is demanding, and knowing her the way I do, I guarantee she’d complain nonstop if she had the inconvenience of staying at another hotel, even though it’s her fault for not being organized enough to avoid last-minute plans.” “Don’t blame Kayla.” Devon softened her tone. “Appeasing everyone is her way of showing she cares.” Kayla was a pain in his ass, always badgering him to take a break, have some fun, and stop working so much. When she started sounding like a video meme on a constant rewind loop, he stopped taking her calls, but then she’d just discover fresh ways to get him to stop working, like sending him tickets to his favorite sports events and the new release of his favorite role-playing video game. He appreciated that she cared, but he wished she were more supportive of his dreams. Personally, he didn’t blame his sister for her show of concern. They might have their differences, but he adored Kayla. Besides, she just wanted him to be happy and to stop hiding. She’d witnessed two of his very public and messy breakups after neither woman would sign his prenuptial agreement. Both had wanted his wealth and status, not him. Kayla swore there were women in the world who were not like that, but he had yet to find one. Then again, it could be that one of those rare women was standing in front of him right now, but he’d never know, because his heart couldn’t go there. Not again. However, the vulnerable Devon looked even more luscious than she had this morning. His head was saying don’t touch, but his heart was sending different signals. What the hell am I doing? He had a new product to get launched. If past relationships were any indication, women wanted his time—time he didn’t have to give. He needed to stay focused, and focusing on Devon wasn’t where he needed to spend his time right now. “I should go. I told Kayla this wasn’t a good idea. I’ll see myself out.” Devon bent to retrieve her backpack. “And where will you go?” he asked, just to make sure she’d thought her decision through. “You said so yourself. The hotel is fully booked. Staying with me is the only option.” “There must be a couch or a rollaway somewhere. Like you said, I’m the one who created this problem. I’ll solve it.” He liked the way her chin lifted a little. “I’m sure you will.” She crossed her arms and bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Just that. You’re a problem-solver.” And he would have liked nothing better than to have her solve his problems, but his business issues would have to wait. “Don’t make me look like the bad older brother who doesn’t support his kid sister during her wedding preparations. The best solution would be for you to stay here.” “So you want me to stay?” Her brows hitched to their highest level. “Yeah. I do.” He walked to the door and closed it. GIVEAWAY! No Gentle Giant
-- EXCERPT: Look, I’ve had a stressful few months. Years. Life. I’m a little on edge, and a little emotionally raw. But he saves me from having to fumble for words by turning a roguish smile on me, mock-squinting. “You, though. I’ve got my eye on you. I think you could be trouble.” My laugh this time comes out weaker. “I wish that wasn’t true. I’m kind of a bad luck trap, Alaska.” “Like an avalanche of coffee mugs?” “Yep. Just like a mug storm.” Another silence. Another smile that makes my heart wobble. Another long look from him, one that makes me wonder how he went from “coffee girl I vaguely recognize” to a sort of confidante in a matter of minutes. All over some smashed mugs and a cut on his knee. But, hey, at least I’m not going to break down crying in front of a total stranger because he has mercy on me and changes the subject. “So what’s the damage, lady? Give me all of it. Don’t forget the table, too.” “We’ll forget the table. And the floor. Call it pain and injury compensation.” I smile wryly. “We’re at a cool eight hundred for the mugs, though. Manufacturer cost. I’m not charging you full retail.” “You got it. I’d pay up now, but I’m not carrying eight hundred in cash around with me.” He cocks his head. “I’ll bring it by in the morning unless you want a check? Ladies’ choice.” “No rush, but cash is fine.” Too easy. Even if I’m already doubting the wisdom of keeping that much cash around here for more than a day or two, but that’s another problem I don’t want to think about right now. So I stand, bracing my hands to my knees and levering up. Of course, I forget not just how small my office is, but how much space Alaska occupies. As I straighten and lift my head, I find myself practically eye to eye with him, and only because sitting on my desk knocked off like a foot from his titanic height. I lock up, my heart crawling up my throat as I stare, barely an inch away from our noses touching. This jittery little fantasy. It’s not quite insta-love, but it’s bad. If he didn’t still look so calm and unfazed, I’d probably dissolve into a stammering mess. But it’s like his inner chill stabilizes me, and I’m able to skitter back without tripping, clearing my throat and finding another smile in me. Somewhere. “Should we check on Eli?” I tilt my head toward the door. “Either he’s cleaned the whole shop by now or bailed.” Alaska snorts. “He knows better, but yeah. He’s probably getting a little anxious out there.” I sweep a mock-bow, pulling the door open for him. “Polar bears first.” He throws back an evil eye over his shoulder. “I’m gonna regret telling you that,” he grumbles.
GIVEAWAY! In Your Dreams
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GIVEAWAY! It’s Not PMS, It’s You
Only 99¢ for a limited time! -- EXCERPT: RUTH I have orchestrated multi-million dollar business deals and have butted heads with Fortune 500 CEOs and some of the biggest corporate lawyers in the country, but my biggest challenge by far was trying to remove a monster wedgie during my spinning class without the gorgeous guy behind me noticing. Casually turning my head to the right, I checked my periphery, confident I looked like some halfwit who was thinking of changing lanes on a stationary bike. I couldn’t tell if the man had his eyes focused on me or on the instructor in front of the class, but it didn’t matter at this point. I had real-world issues here and needed to solve the dilemma before my butt sucked all my clothes inside my body and turned me inside out. With every revolution of my bike’s spinning wheel, the wedgie seemed determined to go deeper, like a burrowing squirrel who hadn’t found a suitable place for habitation. I got up at five in the morning for this torture? To make matters worse, the instructor—Manson, Mussolini, or whatever his name was—appeared to be on a mission to send us all into cardiac arrest. And don’t even get me started on the chafing from a bike seat that was obviously manufactured with materials excavated from the surface of Mars. I needed a distraction for the extraction. Glancing down at my water bottle in the drink holder, I came up with the perfect plan. I would wait for the instructor to get us up off our seats again for the next sprint, then drop my water bottle on the floor to create a ruckus. If the man behind me was a gentleman—no wagers, please—he would get off his bike and get the water bottle for me, thus taking any attention away from my derrière long enough for me to perform the embarrassing and delicate wedgie-removing procedure without him seeing. Ironically, the song changed to “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band. “Off your butts!” the instructor barked out like a psychotic sea lion with Tourette’s. “Take it up to level five for a sprint. Thirty seconds. Go! Go! Go!” Perfect timing. I slammed my water bottle to the floor behind me for the distraction. It crashed against the back wall with a loud BOOM. Never let it be said I did anything half-assed. No pun intended. I checked my periphery again to see if the guy fell for the trap. Bingo. He slowed his pedaling and glanced behind him at my bottle on the floor. After he made a move to get off his bike, I lifted my butt off the seat, leaned forward on the handlebars, shifted all my body weight over to my left hand, and used my right hand to reach behind me and remove the mother of all wedgies. Oh, no. Completing the task was proving to be difficult since it was almost impossible to pedal while standing up on the bike with only one hand gripping the handlebars. I used one finger, then two, then three, but still couldn’t dig out the wedgie that must have been halfway to China by now. Losing confidence with every second that passed, I wobbled back and forth like the Elvis bobblehead doll on the dashboard of my dad’s 1977 Cadillac Coupe deVille. Things were heading south in a hurry. There was a sharp pain in my left wrist. My elbow buckled. Timber! The fall to the floor was not graceful. I banged my shoulder on the handlebars on the way down, slid off the bike sideways, and hooked my foot on top of the pedal. My other leg flew over my head and got wedged in between the bike seat and the drink holder. Great. Now, I had two wedgies. Before I had a chance to untangle and upright myself, two hands gripped me from under my armpits and lifted me to my feet in one swift motion. I looked up, dazed, confused, blinking a few times. It was the guy who had been on the bike behind me. “Are you okay?” There was genuine concern in his voice, but I was a big girl and could take care of myself. Flustered, I said the first thing I could think of. “I do that all the time.” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Of course.”
GIVEAWAY! How Not To Mess With A Millionaire
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: But none of that was what had her heart pounding and her hand wavering between fanning herself and pulling out her cell phone to dial 9-1-1. Or whatever the Italian equivalent of 9-1-1 was. No, that honor went to the man standing just outside the wide-open sliders, naked as the day he was born, like a living, breathing statue of David, his firm, fine ass on full display as he toweled off his hair. Water sluiced down the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and back, over that bitable, olive-skinned behind, and down trim, toned legs, dripping onto the smooth stones. Logic overtook lust, and she backpedaled toward the main entrance, one hand hauling her suitcase, the other groping in her knapsack for her phone. She’d almost made it to the front door when the real-life sculpture slung the towel around his neck and turned, giving her a full-frontal view as magnificent as his backside. Well-defined pecs, washboard abs—was that an eight pack?—a narrow waist tapering to hips with that perfect, male vee that stunned women stupid, and between his legs… Holy man meat, Batman. Even flaccid, his penis was impressive. Erect, it must be intimidating as hell. Not that she was picturing him rigid and swollen with arousal. Much. She dragged her gaze up his torso and met his eyes, storm cloud gray and brooding, framed by the kind of lashes women paid top dollar for—long and lush, with just the right amount of curl. Dark hair, still damp and sexily mussed, flopped over one brow, and his lips pressed into a thin, harsh line beneath a patrician nose. “I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, willing her eyes not to drift south. Wait, why was she apologizing? He was the one trespassing, not her. If anyone owed anyone an apology, it was him to her, not vice versa. She stood her suitcase on its end and folded her arms across her chest, trying her best to look as menacing as her five feet four inches would allow. “I mean, who are you, and what are you doing here?” His lips curled into a smirk, and he matched her pose, making no attempt whatsoever to cover himself. And why should he? He sure as hell didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Maybe he was some sort of exhibitionist, breaking into homes, stripping down to his birthday suit, and lying in wait to surprise unsuspecting residents. “I’m Dante Sabbatini, the owner of this villa.” His perfect English was laced with a lilting Italian accent that almost—but not quite—softened the blow of his words. “And I could ask the same thing of you.”
GIVEAWAY! Broken Cowboy
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- SNEAK PEEK: Nervously, she licked her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his face softened, and he leaned in a bit. Oh God, is he going to kiss me? Her heart rate went crazy, pounding in her ears so loudly, she was sure he would hear it. The air suddenly seemed too thin—she couldn’t get her breath as she stared up at him, completely mesmerized, wondering if his lips were as firm and warm as they looked.
GIVEAWAY! Endless
-- EXCERPT: I burrowed into my delicious rocker’s side, breathing in his manly scent, a mix of leather and grapefruit body wash. I reached up to carefully brush a long, chocolate-brown wave from Tyson’s full lips while he slept deeply. His long, silky hair cascaded over the pillow; his square jaw was covered with the beginnings of a beard because he hadn’t shaved in a few days. It made my sweet rocker look slightly dangerous. Gazing at the three small scars nearly hidden in his thick, dark eyebrows, I still couldn’t fathom how tough his childhood was and how anyone could hurt such a beautiful soul. My breath hitched. I tried to memorize everything about him, to soak in every detail of my gorgeous man. I knew I was about to hurt him, and it destroyed me. When I traced my finger over a smattering of his rough stubble, he sighed in his sleep and pulled me in even closer. I held him tightly too, resting my head on his lithe but defined chest and gripped his hip, careful not to rouse him. I wished I could gaze into the pools of his deep-blue eyes one more time. If only I didn’t have to leave him. I was moving to Bellingham to embark upon my new normal, living with a roommate in a dorm and working toward my college degree in social services. Ty’s band departed for their first tour in a few hours, traveling cross-country in a small van for six months. Letting him sleep was important. It would be grueling enough spending long hours in such cramped quarters without the added weight of heartbreak. The least I could do was let him get some rest now. So I laid for as long as I could against my love and listened to his heartbeat. My mind was a hamster wheel. Second-guessing. Third-guessing. Then—resolved. I had been asked by possibly the most influential person in his life to do something for Ty. For his future. As much as I didn’t want to, leaving him now was the right thing for me to do. But it didn’t make it any less devastating. When my tears wet his chest, I knew it was time to go or I’d wake him. My heart seized in agony at the thought of never seeing him again. I wasn’t sure how I’d survive. Yet, I knew that I had to set him completely free, without any ties to me, so he could embrace his shot at fame. Maybe someday Ty would understand why I left him. Maybe someday he’d forgive me.
GIVEAWAY! |
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