#Book Blitz #The Rebound Play by Kate O'Keefe #Sports #Contemporary Romance @Xpresso Book Tours30/8/2024
The Rebound Play
-- EXCERPT: “I get it. Hockey’s your world right now,” Troy replies. “Which is why coming back to your hometown to play is so perfect for you. I can work things out with your team management to get you the time off, and we’ve got an excellent PT. She’ll get that wrist back into shape before you know it.” “I’ve got to admit—it’s tempting.” And besides, there’s another reason for going back home, and it’s kind of a big one. Keira Johnson. My Kiki. Only she hasn’t been my Kiki for ten years now. Just the thought of my high school girl—the girl I left behind—has my pulse kicking up a notch or ten. Keira is the girl I’ve never been able to forget. Sure, there’ve been other girls. It’s been a long time and I’m no saint. Women tend to throw themselves at you when you’re an NHL player, particularly when you’re known as the pretty boy of the team. Those puck bunnies, as they’re sometimes called, simply come with the territory—and it’s fun territory, believe me. Of course, the fact that my kid brother is the current heartthrob on the hit Netflix fantasy show, It Came One Winter, doesn’t exactly hurt, either. But here’s the thing: Most of the women I meet are only interested in me because I’m Dan Roberts, center for the Chicago Blizzard, brother to the guy they love to watch on TV. Relationships for me tend to last a few weeks, a month, tops. My lifestyle means it’s hard to hold down a relationship. And besides, those women aren’t interested in plain Dan Roberts, the hockey-obsessed kid from Maple Falls, who worked his butt off to make it to the NHL. So, my heart has been safe, never forgetting my first love. Keira. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Designs on Love
-- EXCERPT: We spend about an hour and a half wandering around the small space until we’re back to where we started. From the landing overlooking the main entrance, I take a few extra moments to soak in all that we’ve seen. I feel like I’m inside a Barbie Dream House. “Do you think you have enough inspiration to finish putting your portfolio together?” Liz asks, leaning against the stairwell railing. “Actually, I have a small confession to make.” Heat sears through my cheeks. Liz turns and studies me for a moment, her lips thin. “Min, don’t tell me . . . Have you scrapped everything you had and started again?” I look away, bobbing my head up and down. “Gah, you’re such a perfectionist.” She sighs. “I suppose that’s why we get on so well.” “I think from what I’ve seen here today, I have enough ideas floating around my head to get started on a new collection.” “And to finish it?” “I’ll go to my usual place.” “The National Portrait Gallery?” she asks. “Uh-huh.” We begin descending the stairs, staying to the right. “Are you going to be able to finish before the deadline for the Clarissa Lee internship? It’s only two weeks away.” I wave her off. “I have plenty of time. I can get it done.” Liz mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “I hope so.” “I will, I promise.” Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves her phone. “I’ll set another reminder to myself to check in on you next week and the week after.” “You’re the best. Have I ever told you that?” She grins. “Yes, but not often enough.” “Come on, let’s stop by the cafe and grab a tea before we head out. My treat.” “How can I say no to that?” We exit the exhibit to the main museum and walk toward the gift shop. A banner advertises a few exhibits coming to the museum later this spring. Liz grabs my sleeve and stops me in my tracks. “Oy, Min, look, there’s an exhibit for the fiftieth anniversary of the Westminster Ballet in February. That looks like it’s right up your alley. Do you want to stop and book tickets for it while we’re here?” I swallow hard as my stomach muscles clench. It’s been four years since I was fired from the LABT. I should be able to look at a dumb ol’ tutu and not become so emotional about it. But I can’t. Artum managed to ruin the one thing I loved. I may have moved to London, started a new career, and a new life, but I still can’t seem to let go of the past. “No, I . . . I can’t,” I sputter. Liz has never pushed me to talk about the past, but she knows that I used to dance professionally. As she reads my body language, her face softens. “Tea, then.” Like a mother hen tucking me under her wing, she steers me toward the cafe and changes the subject. “Did I tell you that I have a few ideas for decorating my new flat? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.” “OK,” I croak. Liz starts on about her bedroom, but my mind is still stuck on Artum. Will I ever be free from him? 
GIVEAWAY! --
Black Love Matters: Real Talk on Romance, Being Seen, and Happily Ever Afters
-- EXCERPT: A Short History of African American Romance Beverly Jenkins Slave narratives were the first instrument used by African Americans to tell their own stories, so, in order to examine the history of African American romance, we must begin there. One of the earliest narratives my research turned up was one by Briton Hammon, published in 1760. It’s memorable for the title’s content and its length: A Narrative of the Uncommon Sufferings, and Surprizing Deliverance of Briton Hammon, a Negro Man,-Servant to General Winslow, of Marshfield, in New-England; Who Returned to Boston, after Having Been Absent Almost Thirteen Years. Containing an Account of the Many Hardships He Underwent from the Time He Left His Master’s House, in the Year 1747, to the Time of His Return to Boston.-How He Was Cast Away in the Capes of Florida;-The Horrid Cruelty and Inhuman Barbarity of the Indians in Murdering the Whole Ship’s Crew;-The Manner of His Being Carry’d by Them into Captivity. Also, an Account of His Being Confined Four Years and Seven Months in a Close Dungeon,-and the Remarkable Manner in Which He Met with His Good Old Master in London; Who Returned to New-England, a Passenger in the Same Ship. Try putting that title on a book today. Narratives by women don’t show up until more than half a century later, in 1831, with Mary Prince, a West Indies-born woman whose dictated story became Great Britain’s first published account of an enslaved Black woman’s life: The History of Mary Prince, a West Indian Slave. Related by Herself. With a Supplement by the Editor. To Which Is Added, the Narrative of Asa-Asa, a Captured African. Her story was published as calls for the abolition of slavery were on the rise. I was immediately sent to work in the salt water with the rest of the slaves. This work was perfectly new to me. I was given a half barrel and a shovel and had to stand up to my knees in the water, from four o’clock in the morning till nine, when we were given some Indian corn boiled in water, which we were obliged to swallow as fast as we could for fear the rain should come on and melt the salt. We were then called again to our tasks and worked through the heat of the day; the sun flaming upon our heads like fire and raising salt blisters in those parts which were not completely covered. Our feet and legs, from standing in the salt water for so many hours, soon became full of dreadful boils, which eat down in some cases to the very bone, afflicting the sufferers with great torment. We came home at twelve; ate our corn soup, called blawly, as fast as we could, and went back to our employment till dark at night. We then shovelled up the salt in large heaps, and went down to the sea, where we washed the pickle from our limbs, and cleaned the barrows and shovels from the salt. When we returned to the house, our master gave us each our allowance of raw Indian corn, which we pounded in a mortar and boiled in water for our suppers. We slept in a long shed, divided into narrow slips, like the stalls used for cattle. Boards fixed upon stakes driven into the ground, without mat or covering, were our only beds. On Sundays, after we had washed the salt bags, and done other work required of us, we went into the bush and cut the long soft grass, of which we made trusses for our legs and feet to rest upon, for they were so full of the salt boils that we could get no rest lying upon the bare boards. Although the United States had banned importation of slavery in 1800, and the UK in 1807, the institution remained firmly entrenched. Mary Prince’s account moved so many people, the book sold out three printings in its first year. Little is known about her after the printings other than three lawsuits that were filed as a result of the book. Prince testified at all three. One was brought by the master of the salt ponds, who said he had been defamed. He eventually won. Prince’s narrative was followed by those of such notable women as: Truth, Sojourner, 1797-1883. Narrative of Sojourner Truth, a Northern Slave, Emancipated from Bodily Servitude by the State of New York, in 1828. Edited by Olive Gilbert. Boston: The Author, 1850. Jacobs, Harriet Ann, 1813-1897. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Written by Herself. Edited by Lydia Maria Child. Boston: The Author, 1861. Elizabeth, 1766-1866. Memoir of Old Elizabeth, a Coloured Woman. Philadelphia: Collins, 1863. Elizabeth, 1766-1866. Elizabeth, a Colored Minister of the Gospel, Born in Slavery. Philadelphia: Tract Association of Friends, 1889. Dubois, Silvia, 1768-1889. Silvia Dubois, (now 116 years old): a Biografy of the Slav Who Whipt Her Mistres and Gand Her Fredom. Edited by Cornelius Wilson Larison. Ringoes, NJ: Larison, 1883. So we as a race began telling our stories first of bondage, and then of escape. Brown, Henry Box, 1815-1897. Narrative of Henry Box Brown, Who Escaped from Slavery Enclosed in a Box 3 Feet Long and 2 Wide. Written from a Statement of Facts Made by Himself. With, Remarks upon the Remedy for Slavery. Edited by Charles Stearns. Boston: Brown and Stearns, 1849. Henson, Josiah, 1789-1883. The Life of Josiah Henson, Formerly a Slave, Now an Inhabitant of Canada, as Narrated by Himself. Edited by Samuel A. Eliot. Boston: A. D. Phelps, 1849. After escape came narratives of freedom: Keckley, Elizabeth Hobbs, 1818-1907. Behind the Scenes, Love, Nat, 1854-1921. The Life and Adventures of Nat Love, Better Known in the Cattle Country as “Deadwood Dick.” By Himself. A True History of Slavery Days, Life on the Great Cattle Ranges and on the Plains of the “Wild and Woolly” West, Based on Facts, and Personal Experiences of the Author. Los Angeles: The Author, 1907. So how and where does romance fit into these narratives of telling our own stories? They begin with the optimism that the race embraced after the Civil War. The abolition of slavery brought not only sweeping change to the three million people who’d been held captive against their will under threat of violence in the South, but changes for a nation that saw a Black governor and lieutenant governor in Louisiana. Integrated legislatures in places like Florida, Mississippi, Georgia, and South Carolina. Two United States senators from Mississippi and twenty-one Black congressmen from all over the South from 1870 to 1901. We as Black people were optimistic about everything from education to owning our own businesses, and the HEA was pursued by formerly enslaved men who spent months and even years walking across the South from plantation to plantation, looking for their wives sold away by slavery. (Even as we still fight the stereotype that our men don’t love.) These days also brought hope that the country would live up to the promises stated in the Constitution and that we as a race would get our HEA. But it didn’t happen. When Reconstruction died in 1876, ushering in the hateful, bloody years of Redemption, hope began to falter, but ironically, Black women like Frances Ellen Watkins Harper and Pauline Hopkins held on to that hope and became two of the race’s first romance writers. Their stories were based on what scholars called the Victorian love and marriage plots-complete with happy endings. I was surprised to learn that Harper had written one of the earliest romance novels, Iola Leroy, or Shadows Uplifted, because she is more remembered for being a poet, lecturer, and fiery speaker for abolition and for suffrage, especially for Black women battling both sexism and racism. Born free in Maryland in 1825, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper became an orphan at the age of three when both her parents died. She was raised by an aunt and an uncle who was a staunch abolitionist and the founder of the Watkins Academy for Negro Youth, which Frances attended. She published her first book of poetry, Forest Leaves, at the age of twenty and, at the age of twenty-six, became the first woman instructor at Union Seminary, a school for free African Americans in Wilberforce, Ohio. When the state of Maryland passed the law forbidding free Blacks’ entry into the state, she was unable to return home, and so moved in with Philadelphia’s William Still, the famous underground railroad conductor, and his wife, Letitia. Encouraged by the Stills, Frances began writing poetry for anti-slavery newspapers. Her poem “Eliza Harris” was published in William Lloyd Garrison’s The Liberator and the newspaper Frederick Douglass’ Paper. An 1859 letter penned by her to the condemned John Brown, offering her support of him and his wife, was smuggled into his cell. It somehow wound up in the newspapers and was reportedly read by tens of thousands of Americans; it thrust Frances onto the national stage. Also that year, her story “The Two Offers” was published in The Anglo-African Magazine, earning her the distinction of being the first Black woman to publish a short story. For the next decade she traveled across the United States and Canada, speaking out against enslavement on behalf of anti-slavery organizations that had hired her as a traveling lecturer. She also spoke on suffrage. In May 1866, she spoke at the eleventh National Woman’s Rights Convention in New York, sharing the stage with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. Her speech, “We Are All Bound Up Together,” touches upon the state of the nation and her desperate attempts to provide for her children after her husband’s untimely death. She took white suffragettes to task for their efforts to exclude Black women from the conversations and activism tied to women’s rights. The speech is as relevant today as it was then. Reading it gives a good sense of who she was and where she stood. As does this quote from the speech: “I do not believe that white women are dew-drops just exhaled from the skies. I think that like men they may be divided into three classes, the good, the bad, and the indifferent.” In the years after, she would break with Stanton and Anthony over their denunciation of the Fifteenth Amendment, and go on to help found the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs in 1896. She died on February 22, 1911. Harper is known for many firsts, but her 1858 poem “Bury Me in a Free Land” was as iconic to the pre-Civil War abolition era as “We Shall Overcome” would be for US civil rights. It was read to open and close anti-slavery meetings, was recited at churches and funerals, was tacked on walls of African American homes, and was memorized by African American schoolchildren all over the quasi-free North. Bury Me in a Free Land Make me a grave where’er you will, In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; Make it among earth’s humblest graves, But not in a land where men are slaves. I could not rest if around my grave I heard the steps of a trembling slave; His shadow above my silent tomb Would make it a place of fearful gloom. I could not rest if I heard the tread Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, And the mother’s shriek of wild despair Rise like a curse on the trembling air. I could not sleep if I saw the lash Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, And I saw her babes torn from her breast, Like trembling doves from their parent nest. I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey, And I heard the captive plead in vain As they bound afresh his galling chain. If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms Bartered and sold for their youthful charms, My eye would flash with a mournful flame, My death-paled cheek grow red with shame. I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might Can rob no man of his dearest right; My rest shall be calm in any grave Where none can call his brother a slave. I ask no monument, proud and high, To arrest the gaze of the passers-by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves. Harper’s 1892 romance, Iola Leroy, has an interesting plot, for the times. Our heroine, Iola, is a light-skinned, blue-eyed woman who doesn’t realize she’s Black until after the death of her wealthy planter father, when she and her mother are sold into slavery by an unscrupulous relative. Lots of drama ensues. Refusing to pass, she embraces her racial roots and becomes a nurse during the Civil War. She eventually falls in love with a Black doctor. They find their HEA, and both continue to devote their lives to uplifting the race. Dr. Bill Gleason, who teaches English at Princeton and is a romance scholar, says this: “The last paragraph is something like: Now, the shadows were lifted off the hero and heroine, and they’re blessed, and can be blessings to each other.” Gleason continues, “Harper has a note at the end that basically says: By the way, the mission of this book is to give people faith that this can really happen.” Hope, and an HEA! The story speaks to race, class, citizenship, gender, and community. According to some reports, the literary critics of the time awarded Harper’s 282-page novel more “blame than praise,” but it was still continuously reprinted until 1895. After that, it wouldn’t see the light of day for over seventy-five years, when it was brought back into print in 1971. But why would a woman known for her social militancy pen a romance novel at the age of sixty-seven? Was it due to the love she’d found with her husband, who died during their marriage? Had she read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which is embraced as the foundation of modern romance? Toni Morrison famously said if the book you wanted to read isn’t in the marketplace, then write it yourself. Was that the reason? Or was Harper simply a romantic at heart, like most romance writers and readers? We’ll never know, but the fact that she wrote Iola Leroy makes her Black Romance’s foundation. Now, this is 1892. The situation for the race has become more and more dire. Jim Crow is everywhere, Black people are being lynched, disenfranchised, and denied the right to vote. In 1896, the Supreme Court hands down its ruling on Plessy v. Ferguson, and by a 7-1 decision makes the Separate but Equal doctrine the law of the land. Yet, in 1900, Pauline Hopkins continues to hold on to the hope and optimism that fueled Harper’s Iola, and writes a romance called Contending Forces. She goes on to write other books in 1901, ’02, ’03, but each has a tragic ending. Why? Scholar Claudia Tate says in her book Domestic Allegories of Political Desire: “Hopkins gave up on romance because the optimism was gone.” The race’s last hope of an HEA from America was dashed on the rocks of the Plessy v. Ferguson ruling, and what little bit of optimism we had dried up like rain in a desert. 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Kingdom of Shadows and Wolves
-- EXCERPT: Your name does not fit you, my soon-to-be King,” I state. “Your father surely didn’t expect his son who is named of the heavens, where our beloved Gods reside, to take his crown by force. Did you go rabid like the Conroicht? Perhaps he should have named you—” His grip tightens around my fingers and I’m forced to stop speaking and walking when he does. I dare not look at him, knowing I have spoken out of turn. There isn’t a sound other than his controlled breath in and out of his nostrils. “I have heard the rumors, King Caelum.” My stare pierces the floor. “I know a wolf in a sheep’s hide even if that wolf is a kingdom away.” “One would almost say the same of your beloved Uncle,” he jabs. I snicker. “Beloved is a word that has never been used to describe him.” A hand wraps around my throat and I’m pushed against the stone wall. “You know little of me, Princess Aurora. Mind your words or I will seek pleasure in punishing you.” My chin raises. “You know little of me.” King Caelum’s attention lowers from my face. My dagger, which was hidden against my thigh, is pressed against the bottom of his leather chest guard. A low chuckle reverberates from him. “With the tip of my hand like so,” I state, lowering my wrist an inch. “I merely need to press up and I will wound you greatly.” “Princess Aurora,” Kion chides, stepping closer. King Caelum growls at the guard who backs down a second later. “I know more about you, my soon-to-be Queen of Cysgod than you realize.” “Not enough to know that I was armed and—” He snarls like the wolf he is which cuts me off. “Three punishments so far, Princess Aurora. The odds gain in my favor.” “Three?” I scoff. The fire in his eyes intensifies. “First, for calling me a coward. Second, for calling me a wolf. And now, the attempt on my life.” “Your life?” I balk. “You and your guards outnumber me. If you wanted, I would be dead and my blade wouldn’t be where it is.” “Precisely.” His grip tightens around my neck, his thumb pressing into the bottom of my chin. “You pose no threat to me.” “That is what Uncle would wish you to believe,” I inform. “Who was kneeling to whom earlier today? Not one Krigare guard rose when either of us stood, not that they have ever risen for me other than to escort me somewhere.” A yelp rushes out of me when my weapon-wielding hand is pinned against the wall. My gaze darts to its proximity and I swallow the lump in my throat when I realize its tip is a mere inch from my eye. A devious smirk tugs at his lips as King Caelum chuckles deeply. “I’ll very much enjoy the punishments you will receive from me when we are afforded the time.” Indignantly, I reply, “I’m certain it won’t be worse than what Uncle has done to me.” King Caelum releases me, returning my dagger to the inside of my left thigh. I’m speechless as his fingers graze my skin and linger longer than needed. Should he lift his fingers barely an inch, he will touch a place no Fae male has ever touched. “We shall see, Princess Aurora.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Carved From Wood
-- EXCERPT: Next up. Stacie did not give anyone else the chance to go ahead of her and within seconds her back was against the wall next to Deck. Another sign from Deck signaled it was James’s turn to go. Why the hell did I have to follow Stacie, he thought tensing his stomach muscles, crouching as low as his body would allow, and sprinting to the edge of the camp. His heartbeat remained taut while he walked the tightrope of slim shadows under the glare of the floodlights until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Stacie. Deck signed to them: You two get the intel. I’ll handle the rest of the team. Stacie and James nodded in unison and walked to the edge of the tent. Stacie held up her hand to stop and in one swift motion brought it down. Time to move. James followed her, sticking close to the shadows. They reached the front of the tent. No sentry, thank God, James thought, and Stacie guided them farther into camp. They discovered a natural hiding place behind racks of ion shield emitters where they could regroup to locate intel. James scanned the tents. Deck wasn’t kidding about erring on the more side. Four barracks stood side by side on one half of the camp while the outer ring housed functional buildings indicated by their standard Federation insignias etched into the front flaps. Vehicles were lined up in an orderly fashion, their headlights gleaming in the dimmed lighting. Beyond the barracks lay a long flat strip of asphalt accompanied by a tower with a beacon alternating white and green flashes. Do they have a runway? James thought, wondering how temporary this camp actually was. He felt a tap on his arm and Stacie pointed at one of the tents. It looked like nothing at first, but when James looked closer, he saw the telltale generators stacked outside its doors likely there to fuel HOLO emitters. The front flap bore a compass rose with swords as the directional points indicating intelligence in Federation icons. That’s where we need to start, James thought, scanning the area around the tent and evaluating their options to move closer. Stacie placed her hand on top of one of the shield emitters and James knelt next to her ready to sprint when he was blinded by light accompanied by a loud CRACK. James reacted, dropping flat behind the emitters. He reached out, finding Stacie’s shoulder, rolling her behind the shield with him. He regained his vision while purple and blue dots popped up in his sight line. He shifted another one of the emitters in front of him while Stacie grabbed the other, penning them inside the bunch. Overhead sirens blared and the shouts of a military camp coming to life roared around them. Someone must have tripped an alarm. They woke up the entire camp. His hands curled into fists and his leg muscles tensed ready to spring. Stacie leaned over and whispered in his ear above the cacophony and chaos surrounding them, “We’re fucked.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Breaking the Ice
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: Zach I’ve learned a lot of things from being a billionaire in my thirties, but so far, the most essential is that you can’t have thin skin. Everyone wants a piece of you and when you’re not giving them the time or attention they think they deserve, they set out to tear you down. Case in point, Yolanda Simms, the entertainment reporter for KBIZ and the most annoyingly fame-seeking woman it has ever been my displeasure to know. Yolanda and I went out three times, which is a record for me as I barely have a minute for myself. Given my busy schedule, you might be wondering why I would spend my precious free time with such a person. When I first asked her out, I didn’t see her for who she truly was. I may have also had a hidden agenda. I’d recently been called out by a national tabloid for not putting my money where my mouth was. As in, they didn’t think I donated enough to charity. And while supposedly no press is bad press, I really don’t like people thinking of me the way I was being portrayed. I figured if I wined and dined Yolanda—who had previously flirted with me outrageously every time she saw me—she might spread the word that I was a decent guy. Self-serving? Yes. But I’m not the villain the press would have you think I am, and I wanted a chance to prove it. Unfortunately, Yolanda got ahead of herself regarding our friendship and decided to announce on air that she and I were in an exclusive and committed relationship. As we had never so much as kissed, I took exception to her declaration. “Zachary!” my assistant Anabelle yells out. Before I can ask her what she wants, she says, “Your brother is on line three.” I have five brothers, so I ask, “Which one?” Instead of answering, I overhear her tell someone else, “Mr. Hart has no comment on Ms. Simms’ allegations.” Great, another day fending off the aftermath of Yolanda’s interview on The View. She told Whoopi Goldberg I was an egomaniacal alpha-male. I hesitantly reach over to the landline on my desk. “This is Zach.” “Hey, big bro,” my younger twin says. In my mind’s eye, I see his lopsided grin, which, even though we’re fraternal twins, is remarkably like my own. MacElroy, aka Mac, is four minutes younger than me and has four times the personality. “It’s starting to look like you’re wading through a herd of cows in a rainy field.” “What does that even mean, Mac?” My brother recently bought a sustainable farm in Oregon and his metaphors have taken on a rural sort of charm. “Where there are cows there are cow pies. Need I explain that a rainy field full of heifers is full of wet …” “Manure. Got it.” Gross. “Why don’t you set the world straight and tell them the majority of your charitable donations are given anonymously?” he wants to know. The man definitely cuts to the chase. “You do know the definition of anonymous, don’t you?” I condescendingly inquire. “Yes, Zach. What I don’t know is why you don’t just come clean about what a good guy you are.” “Because if I bragged about doing good deeds, they wouldn’t feel like good deeds,” I tell him for the hundredth time. Shifting in my chair, I stare out of my home office window onto Wilshire Boulevard below. You’d think all the short skirts and tanned legs would be one of the benefits of living in Southern California. Yet no matter how good the view is, wealthy Beverly Hills women are not my type. They’re simply too high maintenance, not to mention too self-involved. “I’m just saying…” “Let it go, Mac.” Removing my feet from the edge of my giant mahogany desk, I ask, “Did you call for any other reason than to bust my butt about Yolanda? Because if not, I have work to do.” “What are you buying today?” he wants to know. “Another office building? A high-rise? Malibu?” While I like to have a diversified financial portfolio, as a real estate developer, I am obviously partial to buying property. “I’m giving a speech at Pepperdine,” I tell him. Tongue in cheek, I add, “I call it ‘One House, New House, Big House, You House.’” “Ah yes, a nod to your childhood love of Dr. Seuss.” Releasing an exaggerated yawn, he asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re becoming kind of boring?” “You tell me that at least twice a week,” I remind him. “Now, why are you calling?” Instead of putting me out of my misery, he wants to know, “When was the last time you strapped on a pair of skates and played a game?” 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Roots Beneath Us
-- EXCERPT: It surprised Piper when Boone’s skin touched hers. She wondered if he meant to be so close. Part of her liked it. Lying here with him felt comfortable even though she hadn’t been romantically attracted. Something about Boone seemed different than any other man she met. She felt safe in his presence. For a moment, Boone froze. He knew he should probably move his arm before it became awkward, but all he could do was stare through the trees at the stars even though he wanted to turn and look at Piper. Piper considered scooting over an inch to create space, but then as the moonlight filtered and the stars twinkled through the silhouette of hundreds of tree branches, she decided she was okay with Boone’s arm being pressed against hers. A couple of his fingers settled on hers delicately like a fallen leaf on the summer grass. “Boone, this is lovely,” she admitted. Boone began to breathe again although he didn’t know what to say. “It is,” he finally uttered. “You were right about this view. I think I could lie here all night.” Neither of them spoke a word for the longest time. They simply basked in the ambiance surrounding their lives at the present moment. Eventually Piper broke the silence. “Sometimes I try to count the stars.” Boone smiled in the dark. “That sounds fun.” “You’re fun, Boone,” Piper stated, wrapping her pinky around one of his fingers. She turned and looked at him. “You deserve this freedom.” Boone didn’t know precisely what freedom she meant, but he felt as free as the owls in the trees. The way her pinky wrapped around his finger made him more alive than he ever remembered. “Thanks,” he responded, slowly turning his head to meet Piper’s gaze. The clarity of her charming brown eyes surprised him, and once again he experienced that previous connection. Piper studied Boone’s green eyes. “No matter what happens, you never ever have to go back to her.” “I know,” Boone replied, trying his hardest to believe it. Suddenly he wanted to kiss Piper’s lips but couldn’t. He could write that on his journey list a thousand times but doubted he ever would, and right now he couldn’t muster up the courage. Baby steps, he heard someone on his shoulder say. Piper considered rolling onto Boone and kissing him gently. She doubted he would make the first move. Almost any other guy would have already jumped on top of her but not Boone Winters. He was scared and scarred but also a gentleman. This man had been taken advantage of so many times he understood the danger in crossing boundaries. She understood his delicacy and wanted to treat him with the respect he deserved, realizing most of the women he encountered probably jumped on top of him. Piper and Boone didn’t say much more the rest of the waking night. They just let things be. Mostly they stared at the stars. Their bodies didn’t move, not even their fingers, slightly intertwined like many of the branches above. It shocked Piper when Boone dozed off to sleep, but it made her glad to know he felt comfortable. She knew she needed to leave but hated to wake him, so she kept gazing at the stars and listening to the ocean, imagining he would wake up soon. As Piper listened to the steady rhythm of the rise and fall of Boone’s breath, the owls hooted, the sky glowed, and before she realized it, her eyelids collapsed, and sleep captured her body. The moon moved across the North Carolina sky. The branches slowly danced to the breeze blowing off the Atlantic Ocean. The critters went on about their night. Everything seemed completely peaceful, and then something unexpected happened. 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #Son of the Siren by Kristina Elyse Butke #Fantasy #Young Adult @Xpresso Book Tours16/8/2024
Son of the Siren
-- EXCERPT: On the night of his twentieth birthday, Lirien was dreaming he was a golden bird with long, lustrous plumage, when a wordless song invaded his sleep. A woman’s voice, rich and beautiful, floated upon the warm summer breeze through the open balconette window, but it wasn’t until he felt the gentle brush of her breath against his ear that Lirien opened his eyes. He was alone in the darkness of his room, but the song caressed him with silky fingers. A tingling warmth traveled his skin before it settled down as a hot knot in his stomach. He felt something like a tug at his waist, pulling him forward. He didn’t remember standing or walking. He was in his bed, and then he was on the beach with the hulking silhouette of the castle and cliffs rising behind him. He thought he was dreaming again, until the cold water washed over his bare feet and, at last, the dreamlike haze within him dissolved. The singing continued. The light from the large, snow-white moon cast a strong glow upon the sand, which sparkled as though the stars had fallen and taken root there. Beside him, a mound of red velvet bedclothing had been tossed carelessly aside at the water’s edge. Lirien recognized the clothes and the figure in the sea before him, a man slowly stumbling forward against the crashing waves. The knot in his stomach tightened. “Father! What are you doing?” The man was already waist deep and Lirien ran in after him, sloshing through with difficulty as his father journeyed farther and farther out. “Stop! Come back!” Somehow, over the waves and the breeze, his words reached his father. Now treading water, he turned to Lirien, but too late. The singing stopped. Long, lithe arms, silvery blue and covered in a smattering of scales, shot up from the water and encircled his father, dragging him below. In desperation, Lirien dove under, blindly swimming ahead as frantic thoughts pummeled him and the sea floor disappeared underneath him. You knew someday she would come; you’ve known all along. It’s her, and she’s here for you both. Without ever seeing her before in his entire twenty years, he knew instinctively who she was. A woman’s voice echoing inside his head brought a flash of pain. Get away! Her eyes, two luminous orbs— large, bright, and orange like sunset, orange like Lirien’s own —flooded his vision. She was less than an inch from his face. He was so startled he opened his mouth and took in water, and choking, he rose to the surface. And then she was on him, seizing him tightly underneath his shoulders and staring at him intently. Her hair, of darkest sapphire, another trait Lirien had inherited, was matted against her gleaming skin. Everything about her was longer, larger. She towered over him easily, and her fiery gaze was so intense he could hardly return it. And her face… he would never be able to describe how lovely and terrible it was, or the feeling that came over him when he saw the parts of her that were also his own. “Let me go.” His voice, a gentle baritone, came out flimsy and trembling. Do not follow. She turned to swim away from him. You will not see me again. Lirien didn’t know what else to do. He called her by the only name he knew. “Mother.” She stopped. “Don’t take him. Please.” A wistful look spread across her face as she gazed into the water. I loved him. I did. But I cannot help what I am. She met his eyes. And because I love you, you cannot follow. She dove, a flash of her leg skimming the surface of the water, only to change to feathery finned, kaleidoscopic tail as she disappeared below. Unable to make sense of his mother’s words or what he was seeing, Lirien ignored her command and dove deep. The water was too dark for him to see, but he imagined the hulking form of his father sinking into the bitter abyss. He pushed on despite the pain in his lungs and the pressure of the cold, dark ocean. He wasn’t sure what happened or when he lost consciousness, but when he opened his eyes, it was daylight on the beach. He was sprawled out on his back, his wet nightshirt offering no protection from the sand that scratched his skin. He struggled upright as his stepmother rushed to his side, clutching his father’s abandoned robe to her chest. Several of her guardsmen were scattered along the shoreline, searching the water. “Lirien!” He flinched. Queen Aurinda rarely said his name, and the sharpness of it startled him. She sounded all at once livid and frightened. “What did you see? What happened?” He couldn’t answer her without his own angry tears falling. “King Neven is gone.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Mr. Absolutely Not!
-- EXCERPT: After a cold shower, I wrap a towel around my waist as I step out then lather up to shave. I’m just rinsing off the straight razor when something slimy and rough runs against my leg. I strangle a curse as the pudgy corgi stumbles back, tripping over the bath mat. “Mandy!” I bellow, wrenching open the slightly open door. “Mandy!” “Scram,” I tell the animal. “Out.” It runs under the vanity and stares at me. Dammit. “Mandy!” Her footsteps are soft over the carpet as she hurries to the bathroom. “Salinger? Salinger, what the—” The door opens a crack. “Eep!” She jumps back out of view behind the door. “Your dog, that’s what.” The animal lets out a whine. “Oh, Pepper, come. Come!” The dog ignores her. “Get in here now and get that animal.” Mandy makes that squeaking nose again. The corgi sneezes. “I can’t. You’re not wearing any clothes.” She’s still hiding behind the door. “Mandy…” Warning laces my voice. The door creaks open. Mandy, hand over her eyes, takes a hesitant step inside. “It’s under the vanity.” I point. Mandy walks into a wall. “Oof.” Groping around with her free hand, she begs, “Pepper, come on. You know you can’t be in here. We talked about this, remember?” Her hip bangs into the side of the vanity. “Ow!” “A few feet to the left.” I run some product through my hair. I’m not one of those men who rolls out of bed, washes their hair once a week with dish soap, and calls it a day. It takes time to look like someone you would trust with billions of dollars. “Pepper!” Mandy’s voice is pleading. “Pepper, please just get out of there.” “Christ.” Grabbing the robe that hangs on the back of the door, I shrug it on, sidestepping her as she walks straight into the glass door of the shower. “Uncover your eyes.” I tie the belt. “Nuh-uh.” “Mandy.” Her fingers spread slightly, and her brown eyes peer at me. “I’m wearing a robe. Get your animal. This is absurd.” Mandy’s still peering through her fingers, and she gropes under the vanity, trying to grab the dog. It. Does. Not. Want. To. Leave. It makes a wheezing sound as she finally drags it by its back feet out from under the vanity. “I’m so sorry about that, Salinger.” Mandy’s corgi side-eyes me as Mandy tries to scoop it up with one arm. “You see me every day,” I remind the dog. Its lip curls up. “Mandy.” I point to her dog. “She went out before I brought her up.” Mandy sounds out of breath. “No. It looks crazy.” The whites of the dog’s eyes are showing, and her ears are laid back against her head. “That’s just how she is,” Mandy says. “She’s not going to freak out at the charity function. Is she? Do you have medication for her or anything?” Kneeling down in front of the dog, Mandy whispers, “Let’s try and keep it together. I’ll take you to Olive Garden for a personal plate of pasta, no garlic. But not ’til after the event because I know you’ll get an upset tummy.” “This is going to be a fucking disaster,” I say to the ceiling. “And where is my date?” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Elements & the Fae
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: “What is the matter?” he asked. “There’s so much here, but nothing I am looking for!” “Let’s take a break. Go for a walk, clear your head. We can talk about what you’ve read or talk about nothing. You decide.” She nodded and rose from her chair, heading for the door. Suleima didn’t venture far, content to sit on the porch, looking out into the woods beyond her house. Gage sat next to her, their legs touching, his arm behind her, sitting silently. After yawning, she laid her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head down to touch hers and held her hand. They hadn’t had time to define what was happening between the two of them. She knew she enjoyed his company and wanted to spend more time with him. But things had been so chaotic since the two of them met. Gage’s friendship and strength were things she was beginning to rely on, and it was scary and wonderful at the same time. She thought he felt the same. It was usually Gage who initiated the first touch, and it had never gone beyond holding hands or sitting close. She certainly didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship, and danger was never far in all of their time together, it seemed. Suleima drifted off to sleep like that. She was sitting in her house again, going over and over the journals lying on the table. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing! What good was all of this journaling and documenting of EVERYTHING, if it wasn’t going to be helpful to her situation? Damnit, Erist! Suddenly, she felt weightless and woke with a start. She was in Gage’s arms as he jumped the railing of the porch and took off in a full sprint into the yard beyond. “What happened?” she cried out. The growl in his voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “I don’t know!” He set her on her feet and put himself between her and her home. “Don’t move. I’m going to shift. Stay right here!” “Gage, my wards….” “Shtay heree!” Gage’s words were a guttural growl and his elongating jaw distorted his words. She shifted her weight, and his growl sounded again. “Okay, I’ll wait for you.” She raised her arms in surrender. “My wards are in place and intact. Whatever you heard is not a danger.” He growled once more, and she sensed him pulling from the pack to speed his shift. Her next move was to sit and patiently wait him out. A few minutes later, Gage shook out his fur and turned to her. “Can I go now?” she asked. Gage showed her his large, white fangs. “I’m telling you, nothing got past my wards.” He grumbled next to her and kept his own body between her and her home, but he allowed her to follow. Walking up to the porch, Suleima saw nothing out of the ordinary. She approached the door, but Gage put himself in the doorway and wouldn’t move. Despite his grumblings, she leaned into the doorway above him to survey her home. Tea dripped from her ceiling onto the table and floor below. Her tea kettle seemed to have…exploded. “What the…?” She again tried to push past Gage, but he was immovable. “I need to go in and clean up this mess. I don’t sense anyone else in the area. But I do need to look and find out what happened.” He planted himself in the center of the doorway and refused to budge, sitting in the way as if he were bored. “Fine!” She stomped her foot and sat on the railing of the house. “Go satisfy this neanderthal need to clear the house, while the little weakling woman sits on the porch and waits alone for the boogeyman to come while you are inside. And watch where you step. I don’t want to clean blood off my floor as well.” She waved her hand dismissively at him. 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
Archives
December 2024
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
