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The Icing on the Cake
-- EXCERPT: “You need practice dating. I could help.” He shrugs. “No pressure. No commitment. Just proving it’s possible to have a good time with a friend.” A friend—someone safe and harmless to my heart. I stare at him. “You’re joking, right?” “I wouldn’t joke about this. We could even go to a public place together if that makes you feel safer.” Most guys would be focused on convincing me they’re fun or interesting, but Lucian’s defense is that he’s trustworthy. And that’s my issue. “Think about it,” he begins, not pressuring me at all. “You already know where I live. And with me, what you see is what you get—even when I’m sweaty and covered in sawdust—so there’s nowhere to go but up.” I can’t tell him that seeing him sweaty and covered in sawdust was actually incredibly attractive. I blink, stunned that he’s actually serious about this proposal. “Does this mean you’re my dating coach?” “If you want me to be,” he says, studying my face. “Though I have to ask what exactly you think you need to practice—because from where I’m standing, you seem to have the basics covered.” I let out a nervous laugh. “Are you kidding? I can barely string two coherent sentences together. Case in point: ‘Hi-ho’ was my greeting to you. No one wants to date the Seven Dwarfs.” He tilts his head, considering this. “I don’t know. Snow White seemed pretty happy with them. And for the record, your ‘Hi-ho’ was actually kind of cute.” “Well, I feel like I’ve forgotten how to make conversation that doesn’t revolve around cupcake orders,” I admit. “Besides, you probably have women lining up to go out with you.” “Not really,” he says quietly, before looking back at me. “You want to know what dating a good man looks like? I could show you.” My pulse skips a beat. “Show me how?” “Well, we’re alone. We’ve got time now.” He pauses. “What if I gave you a quick demonstration, just so you know what to expect?” Something flutters in my stomach. “A demonstration?” “Just the basics. How a guy should treat you, what good conversation feels like, how to read the signals. Think of it as a preview of coming attractions.” This is definitely not what my friends had in mind when they said to flirt with Lucian. Or maybe it is. “Okay,” I say before I think better of it. “Show me.” He catches my gaze while my heart dives off a cliff. “If this were a date,” he says, “the first thing I’d do is make sure you felt comfortable. That starts with eye contact.” His gaze remains on mine, never wavering. “Most people are afraid to really look at someone, but eye contact is everything. It shows you’re present, that you’re interested in the person, not just waiting for your turn to talk.” I find myself caught in his impossibly blue eyes, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “Then, if the moment feels right…” He reaches toward me, his fingers brushing mine. “Small touches. Like this.” I almost can’t breathe as he gently takes one of my hands. “Most people rush through moments like these,” he says, his voice low. “But the small touches matter. They tell you everything.” “Like what?” “Like whether someone’s patient or impulsive.” His thumb starts stroking slowly over my skin. “Or whether they’re paying attention to how you respond.” I swallow hard, failing to hide that I’m totally entranced by this. “What else?” I ask, not even caring if this is real or not. I’m here to practice—to master the art of whatever this is between us. He moves closer still. “Proximity,” he murmurs. “Letting someone into your space. Reading their response. And not moving away.” He’s closer than ever now, and for one wild moment, I see him differently—not like someone I’m practicing with, but someone I’d actually want this to be real with. “And then?” I ask, my voice barely audible. His eyes graze down my face for just a second. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “And then…you always leave them wanting more.” 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #The Vanishing Castle by Marlena Cannon #Cozy Mystery #Fantasy @Xpresso Book Tours27/9/2025
Marlena Cannon
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: So, you want to be a magical safety inspector? Checking my pocket watch, I scuffed the moisture off my hooves as I entered the brick building. Inside, a framed newspaper article announced the founding of the Magic and Alchemy Safety and Health Administration just ten years ago. But the smell of dust, lamp oil, and crumbling paper told a different story, one far older. I caught a dim reflection of myself in the glass—enough to see that my auburn mane looked presentable—but I smoothed it down anyway while I waited. My gaze restlessly traveled the shelves containing old books and magical oddities, including a globe of the world adorned with dynamic swirls of clouds that flowed over the model. The morning light streamed in from a pair of narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows, brightening the dark wood and heavy silence of the interior. I glanced at my pocket watch again—one minute until my appointment. Inconveniently, the desk positioned outside the director’s office was unoccupied. Not a secretary in sight. Oh, no—they didn’t expect me to interview for a secretary position, did they? An indistinct figure moved beyond the glass-paneled door. I shifted from hoof to hoof. What was I to do in this situation, knock or wait one more minute? By the time I worked up the nerve to announce my presence, two more minutes ticked by. Dread slid its icy fingers into my chest, warning me that I was now late, and gave me the final push to act. I reached forward to knock, pausing when I heard footsteps shuffle to a halt on the other side. I backed up awkwardly, my hooves clattering on the wood floor as the door swung outward. “Hello, you must be Simarron! I’m Ken Moosekind, Executive Director of MASHA,” said a squinty man with a bushy mustache whose robes smelled faintly of tobacco. “Come in, lad, and mind your head.” He retreated behind his cluttered desk. I ducked my head slightly, entering the office: a place of organized chaos. Books and files sat piled atop cabinets and shelves—even on the floor. Wood scraped on wood as I moved aside a chair and settled down on my haunches opposite the director. Director Moosekind shifted a stack of papers aside. “So, Simarron, you want to join MASHA as a magical safety inspector, do you?”
GIVEAWAY! --
The Itch of Greed
-- CHAPTER 1: An alert sounded on my phone as I entered Cenare, the Italian restaurant I owned with my sister Chloe. While Chloe was a foodie, I took care of the business side of things. Before our parents died, I freelanced as a journalist following homicides in New York City. I was committed to the restaurant and Chloe, but my passion was murder, so I kept the homicide alerts coming. Occasionally, if one sparked my interest, I took some time to search out my next story. Homicides provided a rush the restaurant business didn’t give me. I put my things down on the small table in the kitchen area and pulled up the message. “Breaking news! The Rosedale Thorny Bats will be hurting this season. Their best pitcher, Randy Kampton, died under suspicious circumstances. His body was discovered by the custodians in the Thorny Bats locker room early this morning. Stay tuned for details.” The announcement prompted me to check my other sources for unsolved homicides, although I’d never heard of the Thorny Bats or Kampton. I assumed if the man was a pitcher, the sport was baseball. It was spring and our guests or employees occasionally mentioned baseball. Growing up, Chloe and I spent most of our time in the restaurant. We lived and breathed Cenare. My escape was writing. I knew from experience that the death of those close to you changed your life. My stories focused on the impact of a sudden death – usually a homicide – on those left behind. I found less resistance from law enforcement when I focused on cold cases or those that were stalled. Most often, my casual interviews with those who knew the victim provided clues to the killer. Unfortunately, sometimes the killer targeted me. Having lived in New York City for five years, I was prepared for that, even in small town Pinewood, Maryland, where murders rarely happened. With the first ever murder in our small town a few years back, I clashed with the local police detective when the immediate conclusion was a burglary, and I disagreed. For the record, I was right. With the murder of an athlete, Kampton’s death would likely be quickly solved if the alert was any indication. Not finding anything else of note in the alerts, I went through my morning routine of checking income, paying bills, placing orders, and taking inventory. At least I used my degree in business management. I preferred taking care of those tedious tasks before anyone else arrived. As usual, Chloe arrived with a breakfast treat as I finished the accounting and started the inventory. “Good morning, Chloe. Those look and smell delicious.” “Thanks, Izzie. Help yourself. I got this idea in my head and combined ingredients from an apple brownie recipe and a cinnamon streusel cupcake. Ryan assured me they were more than edible.” With money from the estate and the restaurant, Chloe had completed her training at the culinary institute nearby. In and out of the restaurant, she often created dishes. Breakfast for me and whomever else wanted a taste tended not to be traditional Italian. For the restaurant, she kept with the family tradition and stuck to Italian dishes. I chuckled. “I don’t know how you can cook here all day and then try out new things when you get home.” “Well, Ryan brought some work home that he needed to get done like yesterday. Only he didn’t get the assignment until that morning.” She shrugged. “I got creative in the kitchen while he worked.” Since she and Ryan married a few months ago, she hadn’t been as creative with her morning treats, though I could always count on her to provide my breakfast. When she took a week off for her honeymoon, I had to fend for myself, usually stopping at the local bakery on my way to work. “It’s delicious! Not quite brownie and not quite muffin. Still very moist and I’m a sucker for cinnamon and apples. I’ll have to freeze some of these for the next time I see Henry. Now that he’s taken the detective exam and he may be working part time in Franklin, I hope to see him more often.” Henry and I had started off as friends and our relationship moved forward from there. He was always a willing assistant and backup when I pursued a story. Helping me out prompted him to pursue his private investigator credentials. “Speak of the devil.” I showed Chloe the phone, took the container of treats, and sat down at the table. “Hi, Henry. How are you?” “Good. I may have a case for you and wanted to give you a heads up. Do you have a few minutes?” I grabbed a piece of paper off the nearby printer. “Sure. What’s going on?” “You know the guy who always gives me a hard time about driving an automatic or having a family car? Phil Rigley?” “Dark hair, hazel eyes, not quite as tall as you, and maybe a year or two younger. A southern twang.” “That’s him. He called this morning, wanting my opinion. His brother, Cole, plays ball with the Thorny Bats. Cole contacted Phil this morning. Something about a player dying and the police interviewing everyone. Phil didn’t have many details, but he wanted me to look into it.” My phone pinged with an alert. “I caught one announcement earlier and then another just came in. A custodian found Randy Kampton, a pitcher for that team, dead this morning. It was a sports broadcaster the first time, the usual police blotter the second time. Nothing else. Where did the Thorny Bats come from? Is there a new major league team in Maryland?” “No. The Baltimore Orioles is the only major league team. The Thorny Bats is a triple-A minor league team out in Rosedale. The players are good and some eventually get picked up by a major league team. I played in college and a few of my teammates went on to the minor leagues. We lost touch but I may see if I can locate them.” “The news I caught indicated a suspicious death. Thorny Bats is a weird name for a team though.” “Minor league teams often have interesting names, usually related somehow to their location and often suggested by fans. Rosedale, thorns, and baseball bats – Thorny Bats. Makes perfect sense to me.” He chuckled. “Keep me posted. If it’s a homicide, Phil thinks his brother will be a person of interest. Both Cole and Kampton are pitchers, and Kampton stole his girlfriend.” “Both would give Cole two motives. I’ll call you after lunch with any updates. Katie just walked in. Right now I best finish the inventory and start the lunch prep.” Katie was a chef-intern from the culinary institute. We’d hired two to help Chloe and relieve her of 12-hour days. A brunette in her mid-twenties, Katie stood a good six inches shorter than my five foot ten, with the figure of someone who competed in gymnastics through high school and still used her gym membership. She added to Chloe’s energy in the kitchen. Chloe hummed and listened to her favorite tunes when not directing Katie. They worked well together and became fast friends. Jerry, another intern, comes in mid-afternoon, when Katie leaves. Jerry towers over Katie at six foot. Husky, he looks more like a bodyguard than a chef. Before switching careers after twenty years, Jerry worked for stuffed-shirt lawyers as a paralegal. He burned out about the time his mother became ill. He started as a server and moved into the second intern position. Jerry’s personality and age lent itself to being a calming influence in the kitchen. “Katie, be sure to try Chloe’s latest breakfast treat, but save some for Henry, please.” She laughed. “Will do.” Inventory done, I moved to the restaurant side. As I dressed tables, Jennifer, the manager, joined me. She became the manager when the original manager left. A long-term employee since before Chloe and I took over, Jennifer was in her mid-thirties, older than both Chloe and me. She continued in the role of server most often, but also helped with training new servers, and took on hostess responsibilities when I took time off to chase down a story. As the waitstaff filtered in, I raced upstairs and put on a dress, a throwback to when our parents were alive. Our mother thought it added an element of class and set Cenare apart from fast-food places. As I reentered the kitchen area, I took a deep breath. I might not be a foodie, but the smell of the spices made me smile. Lunch went smoothly and I fidgeted at the hostess stand. I wanted to check my computer and phone for any updates on the Kampton death. It had been months since a case grabbed my attention. This time, it sounded like Henry and his buddy wanted me involved. I wasn’t too sure how the league, minor or otherwise, would appreciate me asking questions. Sometimes questions uncovered secrets best left untold, at least from their perspective. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Sweet Nightmares
-- EXCERPT: Jane stood up and put her body between them just in time to be slammed between the Vampire Prince and the ancient god. At the impact, Nightmare’s hands wrapped around her waist, steadying her. Nightmare let out a low, wicked growl. The whites of his eyes bleeding red, fury painted on every curve of his body, his fangs and metal nails bared. Ready to kill every mortal in the room if Jane didn’t do something quickly. “Everyone get out now,” Jane said, her hand on Nightmare’s chest and her voice wavering. Her eyes never left Nightmare. “Thorne, my monster. Keep your eyes on me.” She dug her hand into his shirt while he tightened his hold around her waist. At the same time, she heard movement from all around them. Everyone else, leaving them alone in the room. When he still hadn’t calmed down, and his eyes hadn’t lost any of the red, Jane asked, “How can I help you settle down?” Jane flattened her palm once more over where his heart should beat—but it never did. “What do you need?” “I need to feed.” Nightmare’s eyes flashed, and he darted around, presumably searching for an unsuspecting human he could eat. “Are you going to kill your food?” she breathed. “Yes.” “Do you have to?” Nightmare blinked, his black, well-manicured eyebrows creasing together. “Are you able to control yourself?” she asked. “Yes,” he said slowly, cocking his head, his eyes fixating on her neck. “Then feed on me.” She cocked her head to the side, giving him permission to take her blood. “You may hate it.” “It’s fine. I am not afraid of you.” An unreadable sound vibrated in his chest, and then, without warning, he pushed her fiercely up against the wall, pinning her in and biting down on her neck. At first, it hurt, his fangs piercing her skin and claiming her. It was a sharp pain, but then the wound began to tingle and turn… the feeling becoming something hot and pleasurable. Every nerve ending in her body lit up with an intense feeling that she’d never felt before. A moan escaped her lips, and she suddenly needed to be closer to him, to be touching him, one with him. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Soulmates and Slapshots
-- EXCERPT: “Hi. Are you lost?” I ask. Wow. That sounded like the worst pickup line ever, and I immediately regret saying it. Before I can excuse myself, she turns around and gives me a curious look. “No. At least I don’t think so,” she says. “Is Maple Falls even big enough to get lost in?” I laugh. “That’s a good question.” Why did I even say that? I’ve only been in town a short time, so I wouldn’t be able to help if she needed it. “Honestly, I’m trying to decide what to do next,” she says. “I’m not used to having so much free time on my hands.” “I wouldn’t know,” I admit. “What’s free time?” She gives me a casual smile. “So what recommendations can you give a Maple Falls visitor?” I knew it. She didn’t seem like a local. I raise my eyebrows. “Well, I probably won’t be much help since I just arrived in town myself.” She smiles. “Ah, another new person. That’s a relief because I’m assuming everyone else in this town already knows each other.” “Most likely,” I agree. “But you’re not the only newbie, so don’t worry.” “What brought you to Maple Falls, Washington?” she asks. “Work,” I reply. This is the truth. I just leave out the hockey part, and I’m not sure why. She flashes a slight smile. “That’s a good reason.” I’m trying not to stare, but this woman is stunning. So flawless it can’t be ignored. And it’s obvious she has a confidence and openness that instantly draws people in. “And while we’re on the subject, what made you come to this booming metropolis?” I ask, before she catches me staring. A flash of amusement spreads across her face. “I’m visiting my aunt, and I actually left a booming metropolis to come here.” “Really? Where?” “New York.” Now it all makes sense—she has a city girl vibe. She’s confident, polished, and a little bit mysterious. “Ah, the city that never sleeps. It’s a great place,” I say. “One of my favorites for sure.” She nods slowly. “It is. But there’s something special about this little town too.” “I agree,” I say. “I moved here from Tennessee. Not quite as fast-paced as New York, but more thrilling than Maple Falls.” She lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t know…I’ve heard Maple Falls isn’t as sleepy as people think.” “Really?” I ask, leaning in a little. She lowers her voice dramatically, even though the only other people nearby are across the street. “I heard there might be a town scandal happening right now.” “Ooh, now that’s interesting.” “Yes, it is,” she says with a playful smirk. “And they even have their own professional hockey team.” I laugh. “Yes, I’m familiar with the Ice Breakers.” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at me with curiosity. “Hockey fan?” I shrug, unable to hide the grin pulling at my lips. “More than a fan. I play on the team.” Her eyes widen. “Wait—seriously?” “Weston Smith, defense,” I say, offering my hand. I’m not sure why I added my player position, but it doesn’t matter now. Maybe she likes hockey? She takes my hand and grins. “Fiona Hale. And wait until I tell my aunt. She’s going to lose her mind when she hears this—she’s a die-hard fangirl of your team.” I chuckle. “We love our fans. I’m sure I’ll meet her sooner or later.” She studies me for a moment, clearly still processing. “So, you’re a hockey player.” 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #The Magic of Painted Creek by Robyn Kilgore #Magic Realism @Xpresso Book Tours19/9/2025
The Magic of Painted Creek
-- EXCERPT: The alarm clock crashed to the floor as I smacked at it for the last time. “I’m leaving that damn thing here,” I grumbled to myself. I felt crazy for having such strong feelings about an inanimate object, but I hated that alarm clock. Sitting upright and running my hands down my face, I felt more like a zombie than a human girl. Woman. Whatever. Unfortunately, I’d missed the off button for the alarm and the clock’s fall from the table hadn’t broken it or ripped the plug from the wall, so it was still happily wailing away from under the bed. And it didn’t sound muted. Oh no, now it somehow seemed to reverberate through the entire room as if the under bed acoustics were the perfect amplifier for my morning agony. Flipping myself over the edge of the bed and hanging upside down, I yanked the cord from the wall and huffed in relief at the sudden silence. Calling on core strength I absolutely did not have, I wriggled upright and collapsed back into the pillows. In the sudden stillness, I took a moment to really look around my bedroom in the apartment I’d had for the last five years, the first place I could call my own when I moved out of my mother’s house. Looking at it now though, I wondered if I really could call it mine. I paid the rent and other bills, sure, and maintained my responsibilities, and theoretically made all the decisions. But I felt no sense of “me” in this space. The walls were a dull builder grade beige, as was the carpet. Hell, even my comforter was a slightly darker shade of beige. The only pop of personality in the room was my dark purple sheets, and even they were hidden away when the bed was made. My mother had helped me choose the apartment, and all the things in it, when she finally conceded to my desire to move out at twenty years old. I had been financially self sufficient for a couple years, I was lucky in that way. My painting business had really taken off right after high school, and in a mere year I had acquired a nice little nest egg that continued to grow while I still lived at home. I shook my head, not wanting to mentally relive the fights we’d had when I told her I wanted a place of my own. But I couldn’t help but wonder as I looked around my bedroom if this is what I would have chosen for myself. Even the artwork, now carefully wrapped up and ready to move, was bland and muted in color. Neutral. Safe. I glanced back over at the offending alarm clock. My mother had even gifted me that alarm clock, saying that productive people got their day started early. “You started this.” I narrowed my eyes, pointed at it, and huffed. I realized the clock probably sounded louder because the room was now almost completely empty, and therefore echoey, not because the electronic device was actually yelling at me. After one more second of reflection, and one more glare at the clock, I squared my shoulders and got out of bed. “No time like a new beginning to change your interior design choices. And I’m more productive at night anyway.” With that, I headed to the shower, vowing to leave the alarm clock and all things beige behind in the move. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Goalie and the Girl Next Door
-- EXCERPT: I’m about to lay into my workplace nemesis who has insulted my attention to detail when a voice fills the meeting room. The voice is loud, joyful, and deeply French. “Bonjour, bureaucratic friends!” Phillip nearly jumps out of his loafers and my hand jerks reflexively, and the documents I’m holding scatter like leaves in a windstorm. A tall man with sun-kissed skin, messy curls, and a hockey duffel slung over one shoulder strides in. He’s grinning like the world’s been personally generous to him this morning, and I’m too stunned to do anything but stare. “I’m looking for Mayor Thompkins,” he says. “It’s about a building permit.” He moves smooth, confident, annoyingly magnetic. His jeans cling in a way that is definitely not accidental, and the forest green Henley shirt he’s wearing looks like it was made for slow, appreciative glances. Not that I’m giving him one. There’s an ease to him, that particular breed of European polish that turns heads even when it shouldn’t. My better judgment crosses its arms, but my pulse, traitorous thing, doesn’t listen. When I get over my momentary freeze-up, I drop to my knees, scrambling to recover the paperwork. The Frenchman crouches to help me, entirely unbothered. “Wow,” he says, flashing a smile as he picks up a page. “Do all town meetings start with this much paper throwing? Because I’m in.” I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but he’s holding the town’s most sensitive finances in one very large, very tanned hand. I snatch the paper from him and say the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He winks, and I’d like to smack that smug grin right off his perfectly chiseled face. “I get that a lot.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Never Marry the Best Man
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Tom cleared his throat. “I know you’re on the clock, and this is a mess, but Jack’s with Chunk and we have no idea what’s happening next. Emergency rooms take hours, so we have some time. What would you like to do? Are you hungry? Shall we get some dinner? I’ve never seen Las Vegas before. Shall we take a look around?” “From what I’ve seen of your work, I don’t think you’re going to like the aesthetic here very much.” Ranney had only been there once before, with Carmine, for some sort of packaging expo. She’d spent most of her time by the hotel pool and therefore avoided the stereotypical Vegas experience. The desert weather had been lovely, the hotel food was exceptional, and she never set foot in a casino or even pulled a slot machine handle. “But it’s iconic! Come on, I can’t be here on the ground and not see it, I may never be back!” “Tom, what about the wedding party? You’re supposed to be hanging out with them!” “I already explained that. They’re my relatives and a bunch of future in laws of Charlie’s. I can be with them anytime. I can’t be with you anytime. And certainly not in Las Vegas, Nevada.” And that was the moment when she realized just how much she wanted to go with him. She wanted to see Las Vegas–with him. She wanted to sit next to him in the back of an Uber and listen to him talk. Lean against him, close enough to breathe the scent of his skin. Hear everything that had ever happened to him before they met, even if he told her in that annoying British accent–which was becoming less annoying and more charming by the minute. Dear God, was this some unanticipated perimenopausal side effect? In all the articles that she’d read on the subject, had this ever been mentioned? Intense and inappropriate lust for a virtual stranger? Speaking of inappropriate, what exactly was his age, anyway? She needed another look at his profile and she needed it now. Because if he was anywhere near her daughter’s age–if he was young enough, say, to have attended one of Nessa’s childhood birthday parties–she was going to fake stomach flu and get on the next plane home. Claire could have this entire field all to herself, whether she was capable or not. “Are you all right?” Tom asked. “You’re looking a bit… shaken up. I thought emergencies were your specialty?” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Rekindled Flame
-- EXCERPT: “There’s something else you should know before you leave.” Something in the chief’s tone made Shawn sink back into his chair. “Sir?” “The new captain is a woman,” Washington said carefully, clearly bracing for resistance. “Rebecca Schwartz from the Charlotte Fire Department. Goes by Becks, according to her application. She’ll be arriving Thursday next week for an informal meet-and-greet at Mr. Jones & Husband, then coming by on Saturday to meet the volunteers during training before officially starting on Monday.” Shawn nodded, unfazed by the gender revelation. “A female captain? That’s fine by—“ But the words died in his throat as the full name registered. The folder slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, papers spilling across the floor. Rebecca Schwartz. The name echoed in his head like the aftershock of an explosion. “Rebecca Schwartz?” he repeated, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Washington’s eyebrows rose slightly at Shawn’s reaction. “You know her?” Know her? Shawn almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. He’d known her as Becca back then—sweet-faced but determined Becca with her infectious laugh and fierce ambition. He’d known the curve of her smile and the scent of her skin. Known her dreams and fears. Known the sound of her voice first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. Until he hadn’t. “We trained together,” he said finally, the understatement of the decade. “At the North Carolina Fire Academy. When I knew her, she went by Becca, not Becks.” Washington frowned, clearly surprised by this information. “I didn’t connect the dots when reviewing your files.” He leaned forward, suddenly concerned. “Is this going to be a problem?” Shawn bent to gather the scattered papers, grateful for the chance to hide his expression. Memories he’d buried years ago resurfaced in vivid detail—Becca’s fierce determination during training exercises, her infectious laugh during rare moments of downtime, the devastating fury in her eyes the last time they’d spoken. “I never want to see your face again, Miller. Keep six feet away from me for the rest of our lives.” He straightened, clutching the reassembled folder, his knuckles white against the manila paper. “No, sir. No problem at all.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Skating and Fake Dating
-- EXCERPT: “In one simple move—” Waving his hand across the links of the cuffs, my pulse skips and then plummets. Nothing happens. A consummate professional, he declares, “That was to show that no ordinary person has the ability to free these people from their bonds. No, it takes a special flick of the—” He motions again, and I expect the handcuffs to drop from our wrists, but they remain fixed, locked. His smile wavers. My expression morphs into a scowl. Bailey grins as if this is all part of the act and she’s expecting the handcuffs to vanish like the coin from the box. I know better … or at least, my stomach thinks it does. The magician tries one more time, but we remain locked together. “Ah, yes. I must’ve, um, we’ll just take a moment in my stall to—” Turning his back on the crowd, he ushers us inside and then closes the black curtain at our backs. “Get these off, now,” I say, forgoing my manners and the word sir. Bailey adds, “Please.” Sweat dots his forehead. “I don’t know what went wrong. Yes, of course. Let me just find the key. It’s here—” He rifles through a little drawer in a wooden chest. I glance at Bailey and her shoulders droop slightly. She mouths, I’m sorry. No, it’s this clown show of a magician who should be sorry. “Ah ha!” He says, pinching a small key between his fingers. “Hurry up. We have a wedding to go to.” I belatedly realize I included myself when in reality I’m dropping Bailey off and then going, well, I’m not sure where. She must, though, having arranged my moving plans. The magician slides the key into the lock, but again, nothing happens. Wrenching it from his fingers, I say, “Let me try.” 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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