Morgan
Eight years of marriage and a beautiful son didn’t stop my husband from walking out on us.
He got the house, all the money, and a girlfriend.
I got the SUV, a few boxes of things, and our son.
I’m starting over and it’s terrifying.
A new town. A new job. A new home.
My goal is to care for my son and give him a semblance of normality while I pick up my broken pieces and mend my shattered self-esteem.
The last thing I expected was for my tattoo-covered landlord to nestle his way into my heart.
He’s broody and quiet, all grunts and head nods.
Letting him close means opening myself back up to the potential of getting hurt.
I’ve got my son to think about.
So why do I lie in bed at night thinking of him?
Callen
My demons haunt me. They run through my veins.
I accepted long ago that my life will never have a happy ending.
My gray world will never have any color.
Until her.
The strong, single mother with eyes the color of sapphire gems.
All the colors in her world shine a light into my damaged and broken soul.
But I’m incapable of giving her love and affection—all the things she deserves.
My secrets will have her running away.
However, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to stain her world with my darkness.
Taint it with gray.
Little do I know, she’s the very air I didn’t know I needed.
TC Matson is an international best-selling contemporary romance author with a passion for all things romance. Love is never perfect and easy, so her stories share all the ups and downs of finding that spark and falling hard while bringing heat, heart, laughs, and swoony moments to every couple.
She lives in the peaceful Piedmont area of North Carolina with her husband, kids (#boymom), and her spazzy Doberman.
When TC isn’t writing or forced into adulting, you can find her feeding her coffee addiction with her Kindle in hand. She often wins employee of the month for her stay-at-home mom and housewife duties and has won the award for “Mom’s dinner is awesome!” countless evenings.
Fallen Raven Diana A. Hicks
(Raven Duet, #1)
Publication date: June 21st 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Dark Romance
”This book completely destroyed me in all the best ways! I can’t wait for more” – Amazon Reviewer
I wanted her since the moment I saw her.
I didn’t even care she’d been promised to someone else.
Then we kissed, and I realized I was her first.
I became…Obsessed
A Note from Diana: The Duet is now Complete. Binge Read Today! Fallen Raven is book one in the Raven Duet, which is a standalone romance in the Crime Society World featuring Don Enzo Alfera and Aurora Vitali. This star-crossed lovers romance is about never letting go. Check TW
Technically, I’d never been touched before. I’d never had anyone look at me like this before, let alone kiss me.
“What’s it to you?”
He furrowed his brows and dropped his hands to his sides. He watched me with curiosity as I brought my arms around my belly. Tears stung my eyes because I knew he’d say something cruel again. I knew I was going to have to deal with the fallout come Monday morning. I made to leave, but he blocked me, caging me in again.
“Let me show you how.”
What? As in, teach me? “Why?”
“Because I want to.”
He wanted to kiss me? Or teach me? “Why?”
“Tell me to go to hell.” He unraveled my arms from around my body and brought my palm to his face. “Say the words. Enzo. Go. To. Hell.” He enunciated every word.
The raspy quality of his voice was so sexy and hypnotizing; I wasn’t going anywhere.
“What happens if I do?” I moved my fingers ever so slightly. I was afraid if I did more, he’d shut me out again like before.
“Then you’re free to go.”
Author Bio:
Diana A. Hicks is an award-winning author of steamy romantic suspense and science-fiction romance.
When Diana is not writing, she enjoys hot yoga, kickboxing, traveling, and indulging in the simple joys of life like wine and chocolate. She lives in Atlanta and loves spending time with her two children and husband. Connect with Diana on social media to stay up to date on her latest releases.
Nina’s neighbor sets her up on a blind date with a handsome insurance salesman. After a candlelit dinner, Nina hooks up with him in a posh New York hotel room, but she writes off the date as a one-night stand. Returning home, she discovers her neighbor’s death, her dog’s abduction and the salesman’s possible involvement.
Traipsing across the city with her date in tow, she realizes he’s a quarrelsome billionaire and that her dog may never return. Grieving her losses, she accompanies her date to a ‘billionaire summer camp’ in Sun Valley, Idaho, but the idyllic setting revolves around his whims—and the person who took her dog follows them.
Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and murder.
Excerpt
Standing on the marble front step of her family’s Miami mansion, Gisella tapped her designer footwear, adjusted her sunglasses and blocked out the bright spring day. She breathed deeply and shuffled the bags hanging from her toned arms.
At the end of the driveway, her brother Antonio revved his red convertible’s souped-up engine and pounded the dashboard in time to blaring rock music. Miami traffic streamed past the estate. People stared.
Why can’t he just leave? She marveled at his arrogance, but she kept her expression neutral and her phone in her pocket. He was the youngest of her two siblings, and he had the stocky, tan physique her male family members prized. He also had a propensity to wear outlandish suits, a revolving door of girlfriends and a sophomoric sense of humor. If he caught her taking a selfie in front of the house, he would turn it into a meme, but her account depended on dance stills and teasing hints of glamour. The minute he left the estate, she would take the picture while her hair looked good.
Flexing her toes, she rifled through the bags on her arms. One duffle held her ballet kit, another tote functioned as a purse and the bags from her morning shopping spree hiked her credit card bill. Instead of feeling guilty for the extravagance, she admired her long, lean legs.
Her form allowed her to excel as a professional ballerina, but she worried she had the coltish naivety to match her legs. When would she work up the nerve to demand a driver’s license and stop relying on Antonio for transportation? Every time she talked about her license, her father pouted and asked what more he could do to ensure her comfort.
If her mother had lived, Gisella’s life might be so different.
A car horn honked. A woman blew kisses. “Antonio!!”
He ignored the entreaty, let the engine rumble and scanned the beachside traffic. His muscled forearm hung over the door, and he tapped his fingers against the expensive paint job. Milky fingerprints marred the convertible’s finish.
A second Miami driver slowed to gawk at the handsome, moneyed mobster. A trailing car smashed the vehicle’s lights. Horns blared and doors flew open.
Releasing the engine’s pent-up energy, Antonio took advantage of the distraction and roared across two lanes of traffic.
Gisella rolled her eyes and snapped the picture she needed, but she doubted her high-gloss smile was worth the price of the photograph.
Riding home with her brother from dance rehearsals and a shopping spree, she had stared out of the window and listened to him complain about women and their fickle ways. His problems never changed, but the consistency soothed her. If he spent more time listening to the women, he would have fewer problems with them.
For instance, she had wanted to close her eyes and rest, but Antonio couldn’t take a hint. As soon as she made Principal Dancer, she could move out of her father’s house and make rent, but she would have to stop shopping like a mafia princess.
Squaring her shoulders, she faced her father’s front door. Most Miami residents painted their doors to ward off humidity’s warping effects. Papà imported Cocobolo heartwood and exposed the precious wood to the elements. His house could grace the cover of Architectural Digest, but his acceptance in local society depended on discretion. Biscayne Bay would freeze over before he opened the mansion’s doors to gawking strangers.
Every piece of furniture came with a decorator’s commission, authenticity papers and a cataloged serial number. The insurance company knew the exact cost of her father’s investment, and if the house burned, they’d be wise to pay up.
She appreciated the wealth, but its origins bothered her. Her sweet Papà, Gregorio Vitella, ran drugs from South America up the Eastern shoreline. She feared that enjoying the proceeds made her complicit in his crimes.
Pressed by a tipsy ballet friend, she’d admitted the concession that let her sleep at night. Her father’s legitimate insurance company probably covered her bills, but how could a person separate good money from bad people—and where did that distinction place her?
Pushing open the door, she scanned the marble foyer and dropped her bags, but a green potted palm, a black concert piano and an excruciatingly expensive console table provided little company. The console table rested on acrobatic loops of brass. Beneath a glass top, python skin gleamed with a subtle sheen, and she wondered if the piece’s black crystal pulls would make an interesting jewelry set. Opening a drawer, she checked for mail and flipped through the family correspondence. “Come stai, Papà?”
Her question echoed.
Raising her head, she set down the mail and waited.
A hidden white paneled door opened. Martin, the butler, emerged, wearing the formal black suit and crisp white shirt required for his service. He’d perfected the practiced, subservient gaze on his own. She’d grown to like him, but she wondered how long he would last in the household.
“Signorina Gisella, your father is in his study.”
Keeping a bright smile on her face, she handed Martin her shopping bags and kept her purse on her shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll freshen up and join him.”
“Yes, Signorina.”
The man couldn’t speak ten words of Italian. As soon as staff members picked up a basic understanding of the language, her father fired them. Smart members played dumb. Gisella found her allies among them, but she’d learned to mind her comments, too.
Ducking into the gilt-papered bathroom off the foyer, she pinched her cheeks, added lipstick and prepared to act like a dutiful daughter. Her life revolved around the Miami Ballet Company, beachside runs and formal dinners, but in her father’s house, she would forever be ‘Gigi’.
Bracing her hands on the sink, she tilted her head. Her loving father owned Florida’s biggest commercial real estate company, Cosmica Insurance Holdings, but he also ran the Florida branch of the Italian mob.
He wore a suit to school functions, but when business soured at home, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and the gentlemanly look faded. When she had been ten, she’d witnessed the reality of his business dealings through a crack in the study door. She’d never seen his victim again, and she’d kept her observations to herself—but she listened.
When classmates at her parochial school asked what her father did for work, she parroted the company line. “CIH offers property insurance, casualty insurance and value-added insurance services across twenty southeastern states.”
They looked impressed.
Why shouldn’t they? Every new homeowner in Florida received a direct mailing touting CIH’s low rates and friendly staff. The mailings glossed over the company’s potential money laundering credentials, but who read the fine print?
Leaving the bathroom, she made her way to the back of the house and to her father’s study. The caviar-black masculine room had views of the pool and heavy leather furniture. Despite a sparking oasis waiting beyond the windows, the room looked like a cave.
Last fall, her father’s interior designer Lisette had joined the family before Sunday dinner. Wearing a pantsuit, she’d sipped a dirty martini and made vague references to former clients. “I prefer to create a visual impact by mixing wood species and texture. That movie star I mentioned”—she sipped her drink—“had a thing for ebony.”
Gisella had wanted to like the woman, but her influence on the house’s décor leaned toward gilt and Hollywood glamour. Having a thing for ebony shocked her as much as Lisette’s cosmetic surgery bill. Once a woman immersed herself in wealth, keeping life entertaining required novelty and a steady flow of cash. “How do you plan to tackle the study?”
Lisette had wrinkled her surgically enhanced nose. “The hospitality industry uses black to create glamour, drama and intimacy. Everyone’s doing it.”
Gisella had sipped her wine and assumed Lisette was doing her father.
Walking across the room, Gisella admitted the study’s black walls created drama, but if her father wanted to scare his minions into compliance, he could pull out the handgun he kept in the desk’s top drawer. To keep her in line, he deployed guilt. ‘What would your mother think?’
She wrinkled her nose.
Walking around the polished walnut desk, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He smelled of black tea, Damascus rose, tobacco and leather. At sixty-five years old, he looked ten years younger. Faint silver streaks threaded his black hair. He could wear chinos and he would still smell like old manners and aged wine caves. “Come è andato il lavoro, Papà?”
“It is what it is.” Continuing in Italian, he set aside his papers. “How was your shopping trip?”
She sat opposite him and crossed her legs. “Fruitful.”
He laughed.
Pulling a stack of receipts from her purse, she slid them across the desk. “The rest will come by email.”
Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair and left the crumpled slips on the table. “Gigi, you’re old enough to drink and old enough to marry.”
She picked at her nails. “Is that so?”
“More than old enough. In the home country…”
Looking up, she tilted her head. “We’re not in the home country.”
He held up a hand. “But if we were, you’d be a bride, and I’d be a grandpa.”
“Ursula is older.”
“Your sister wants to be a nun.”
“So she says.” Looking past his full head of hair, she regretted her outburst and second-guessed her decision to come home after rehearsal. If she’d stayed out and shared a drink with Antonio, she’d have to listen to his stories and give up her evening run. She couldn’t hide from her father. He financed her life and provided patronage for her art. Looking at him, she softened her expression and recalled the sunlit days he’d spent with her and Ursula. “You’re too young to be a grandpa.”
“Hear me out,” he said.
She exhaled. Drinks with Antonio sounded better. At least he planned to fuck up his own life instead of hers.
When her mother had drowned off the Amalfi Coast, Papà had whisked his three children to Miami and begun a new life on the Atlantic’s eastern coast. Given how he’d lost his wife, one would think he would have chosen Oklahoma, but he knew how to make money along a coastline. Aunts and nannies had sopped up spilled milk, but when he’d come home at night, he’d kissed her cheek and left his old-world scent against her shoulder.
Some nights, remembering the smell of roses and leather, she recalled how much consistency mattered to children and old men. “Yes, Papà.”
“I have a series of eligible young men lined up. You will give them each an evening and tell me which man suits you.”
“What if I prefer women?”
“Gisella Santa Maria Vitella!” He slammed his palm against the desk.
A vase rattled but resisted gravity’s lure.
She rolled her eyes and stood. The dates her father arranged would be insurance agents or mob hit men. She couldn’t decide which option she found more appalling. “I can find my own dates, Daddy.”
He gripped the leather armrests. “Sit down.”
Lowering her frame, she kept her back straight and maintained eye contact. The company’s Artistic Director scared her more than her father did, but his familiar expectations could surprise her. Cosseted and pampered, she enjoyed an easy life until she slammed into a glass wall keeping her from enjoying life’s stunning vistas. Eventually, she found an exit, and her father acquiesced to her wishes.
He cleared his throat. “You’re too old to prance around the stage in a tutu.”
She wet her lips. “Too old to dance, and too young to procreate. What’s a girl to do? Marriage is a contract, isn’t it? Do I get a lawyer?”
He raised an eyebrow.
Outside the mansion’s walls, ballet defined her life and gave her predictability. At fifteen, she’d enrolled in the company school and trained for three years. After graduation, she’d joined the ballet as a School Apprentice and spent two years in the trenches before joining the corps de ballet. Three years later, she’d made Soloist, then Principal Soloist. The lure of becoming Principal Dancer kept her focused.
The goal also kept her father off her back. It was like he’d made a deal with his six-year-old daughter, and he refused to back out of his agreement. For the last twenty years, he’d sponsored the company’s performances, but rarely attended them.
Last month, she’d celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. Most dancers stopped dancing professionally between thirty-five and forty years of age. She’d known her father wouldn’t give her that much time and would propose an arranged marriage. She might have to accept it, but an IUD would buy her time to achieve her dreams. Crossing her arms, she settled back into the chair.
Sometimes, she lay awake at night and imagined defying her father, but he killed the men who disobeyed him, and she lacked a mother to intercede on her behalf. Caught between ideals and reality, she walked a narrow line and kept her gaze focused on the future. Sometimes, she dreamed of her mother, but she wondered how much time had reshaped the memories.
She remembered holding her breath under water to watch fish, but now she hated to swim. Her inability to trust her memories undermined her faith in herself, and her father’s coddling approach undermined her achievements. She could dance across the stage playing a role, but striking out on her own meant vulnerability. Until she knew she could succeed, she would humor his demands. “I hear you, Papà. Who’s the first victim?”
“You will love Marco.”
Tilting her head to the side, she rubbed her scalp. “Doubtful, but tell me where to report.”
“You’re a good girl, and you’ll make me proud. I’ve tried to raise you the old way, but your aunts can’t replace your mother. I’m getting old. You’ve had leeway to pursue your dancing, but tomorrow evening at eight, you and Marco will dine.”
She shook her head. “Not tomorrow, Papà. I organized a beach cleanup.”
“You hate the water. Find someone else to pick up trash…”
Holding up her hand, she interrupted his mandate. “CIH is sponsoring the event.”
His forehead wrinkled.
Maybe he was getting old. “Perhaps Tuesday?” she offered.
His nostrils flared. “Tuesday.”
Standing, she rounded the desk, pressed a kiss against his smooth cheek and let his scent calm her frustration. How many times had he threatened her dancing? How many times had he shipped her back to Italy to take in the old country? Here she remained. Marco and the remaining suitors would fizzle out, and she’d continue dancing. “Ti amo, Papino.”
He pulled back. “You will go on this date.”
“Sure.” Picking up the receipts, she dropped them in the trashcan. “I have plenty of new dresses to wear.”
“Gigi…”
She winked. Walking out of the office, she let her clicking heels say everything she held back. The marble-backed rhythm sounded so final, like the sound of a bullet fired at close range. Violence hung over her family like a constant threat. If her father understood anything, he understood endings. Keeping him focused on new beginnings remained her job.
Opening the door to her room, she shucked the heels for soft slippers, settled into a stretch and let the music guide her.
Ursula opened the door connecting their rooms and pushed a shoe out of the way. “I thought dancers didn’t wear high heels.”
“They do when they want salespeople to take them seriously.”
Dropping to the floor, Ursula lolled her head. “You’d think a black credit card and a bodyguard would be enough to get their attention.”
“You’d think.” Gisella deepened her stretch and puzzled through Ursula’s recent transformation. Her sister’s dark brown hair, olive skin and generous curves could rock a bikini, but lately she’d insisted on dressing like a martyr. If Ursula deviated from her prayers and walked into a boutique, the salespeople might press the panic button. Gisella suppressed a smile.
Her sister had always been serious, but her devotion had deepened in the last six months. After Sunday mass, Gisella had known why. No longer content to hide behind her hymnal, Ursula had stared at Father Pietro, the hot new priest. The man of the cloth must have given Ursula a bit of pious encouragement.
Gisella shrugged and laid her torso along her leg. If Ursula wanted to plan her life around vespers, God love her. “How was your day?”
“Good. Lots of praying, solemnity, hymns and stuff.”
Gisella raised her head. “And stuff?”
Ursula swallowed. “Church stuff.”
“Maybe you could put the stuff on hold and help me cleanup the beach tomorrow. Every set of hands helps.”
“Sure.” Ursula stood. “I have a few hours to spare.”
Watching her sister slip into the next room, Gisella judged her sister’s choices. Dancing made her feel alive. Why would any woman dedicate her life to an organization that spent so much time imagining what came after death?
Amy Craig lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana USA with her family and a small menagerie of pets. She writes women’s fiction and contemporary romances with intelligent and empathetic heroines. She can’t always vouch for the men. She has worked as an engineer, project manager, and incompetent waitress. In her spare time, she plays tennis and expands her husband’s honey-do list.
Anthony Henson doesn’t do people. He prefers to be left alone with his paint, brushes and canvas. A world that allows his mind to be at ease, without the struggle to do what is right by societal dictates. His quiet universe is sent spinning, however, when a string of recent thefts brings a tall Irish detective into his circle.
Detective Liam Rourke has a hard, firm policy on not intermingling work and pleasure. Until now, it’s not been an issue to uphold it. Enter one painter and all he wants to do is spend more time around him. The lines between professional and personal are blurred.
When everything settles, what will happen to the straight-laced detective and the man whose own messy life doesn’t matter to him?
Reader advisory: This book contains instances of bullying, as well as mention of homophobia, adultery, and family/domestic verbal/emotional abuse.
Excerpt
“There’s a Detective Rourke here to see you, Anthony.”
Anthony Henson sighed, instantly agitated, and spun on the stool, away from the current painting he worked on. With a flick of his wrist as he got to his feet, he covered it. No one would see it until the time was right.
“Thanks, Marshall.”
The words were the correct ones, even if the last thing he felt like he should be doing was entertaining another prick of a badge. Pressing the heel of his palm into his upper thigh, he sighed as he tried to work out the stiffness. When he finished on that side, he worked out the stiffness in his other leg. A sure sign he’d been immobile far too long without taking a break.
Supposedly this can be a good thing. I am getting up and moving around. This will serve as my break.
Truth was, he didn’t give a fuck if it was a good thing or not. He didn’t care. He had painting to do. The other things were naught but irritating intrusions of his time.
Marshall vanished without another word and in mere seconds, with his suit impeccable. While Anthony himself, on the other hand, looked like a day laborer. Paint staining his fingers, shirt, pants. Even his shoes.
Oops.
Damnit. I forgot my shoes. Where did I leave them? In the back room? Beneath my stool?
There were two options. Go back and get them, assuming he could remember where he’d discarded them, or continue on like he was to this meeting.
It’s not like I called the cops to come out here. He’s interrupting my day. Why do I care if I’m wearing shoes? Why should I care? He may not even be a he. I suppose women can be detectives.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should care. That would be the proper thing to do. Quite honestly, he didn’t give a fuck about social niceties. That’s what Marshall was for.
Pushing his hands into his pockets, he walked through the back of the studio to the front. Marshall pointed one finger off to his left and Anthony followed.
The man, and it was a man, stood before one of his favorite pieces. A scene in Italy, a seashore.
“Why are you here?”
Beside him, Marshall cleared his throat, softly. Anthony knew what it was, a reminder to be better behaved. Be polite. Sociable.
The man didn’t start, just slowly turned toward him, expression composed. Sharp green eyes lasered out from angular features. Deep red hair with a smattering of gray at the temples. The clothing was typical detective wear—a suit.
“Anthony Henson?”
His voice rolled from him like a slow-moving wave, not anything to knock you over but you sure as hell knew it had been there.
“That’s who you asked to see. Why else would I be standing here?”
Marshall stepped between them. “I’m sorry, Detective. Yes, this is Anthony Henson. Anthony, this is Detective Liam Rourke.”
There was a look in Marshall’s gaze. It took him a moment before it clicked. Marshall was reminding him not to be so short.
“How can I help you?”
It grated he had to ask that, but Marshall smiled at him and that made it worth it. Being able to make Marshall smile and relax was something Anthony enjoyed doing. He didn’t have a lot of friends. There were people, acquaintances who pretended to like him because of who he was and his wealth and of course his connections, or at least those they thought would help them. But he wasn’t stupid, no matter what those same people said behind his back. He knew they were trying to use him.
The bottom line was, he didn’t give a fuck about them. But Marshall…he was different. The man had been his friend since they’d first met. He’d taken beatings standing up for Anthony and never got offended when Andrew’s bluntness had things falling from his mouth that should have been withheld.
So, no matter how he didn’t want to do something, if Marshall asked him, he would do it. He hid a smirk and tried to give the visitor his attention. It wasn’t easy. This detective was handsome.
“I’m here with a couple of questions about burglaries that have been going on at some of the local galleries.”
Anthony watched and waited, bare toes curling on the cool floor. The eyes held him. That shade of green wasn’t something he’d seen before.
He wanted to paint it.
I want to paint him.
Detective Rourke gave a small nod and pulled out a flip steno pad. “Has there been any trouble here? Any people in here that may be casing the joint under the pretense of looking at the art?”
With any movement, Anthony waited. As did the detective. The man didn’t speak, just held his gaze.
He figured it was a tactic to get suspects to talk, but personally, he didn’t give a fuck. This man didn’t intimidate him.
Arouse him? Yes, for sure.
“Well?”
A hint of impatience laced the man’s tone, even though it was very faint.
“Are those your only questions?” Anthony blinked, once. “Or do you have others?”
The man flattened his lips and gave a slow nod.
“I couldn’t tell you. You would be better served speaking to Marshall.” He looked away from the detective with the intoxicating green eyes. “Marshall, come answer the detective’s questions. I have better things to do.”
Without another word, he turned and walked back toward his studio.
“Wait a minute.”
He paused outside the room and looked over his shoulder. The man strode toward him, brow furrowed.
“We’re not finished.”
Anthony narrowed his gaze. “You told me you had no more questions. I am not the best equipped to answer this, Marshall is.” He cocked his head to the side as a thought struck him. “Are you good at your job? Because you seem to be having a difficult time digesting what I told you.”
Marshall cleared his throat again.
Anthony shrugged. “What? It is a legitimate question.” He waved his hand in the direction of the sexy detective.
I do not need to think of him as sexy.
“He is having a difficult time grasping my statement.” He faced Liam. “Or did something change and you do have different questions for me?”
Liam Rourke wasn’t sure what to make of the man standing before him. He didn’t shy away from eye contact and seemed absolutely shocked Liam wanted to speak to him again. But the blue eyes holding his called to a deeper part of him. One he’d thought he’d closed down, after—
There was scruff on his face, making his jaw shadowed. Messy dark hair fell haphazardly around his features. He’d noticed a limp while Anthony had moved away from him.
Two blinks and the man he’d come to speak with walked away, leaving him there. Dumbfounded.
“I’m sorry, Detective Rourke. Anthony doesn’t mean to be rude. He just—”
“No need to explain.” He had a feeling he already knew. “Why did he tell me to speak to you?”
“Mr. Henson prefers to keep to the back, doing what he loves. Painting. He isn’t one who comes out to mingle with the patrons.” Marshall stepped back and smoothed a hand down his suit. “I handle all of that for him.”
“Okay, let me ask you.”
Liam talked to Marshall for another couple of minutes before closing up his notepad.
“I’ll be by if I have any more questions. If you do see anything, please let us know. We’re trying to stop this group before someone gets seriously hurt.”
“Will do, Detective.”
He gave him a nod and pivoted to the door. All he wanted to do was go in the back and engage with Anthony once more. He shook his head. It had been a while since he’d had a man affect him like Anthony had, despite the brief time they were together.
At the door to Arm’s Hall Gallery, he slowed, at war with himself about whether to go back and see Anthony once more. Exhaling sharply, he pushed through and stepped out into the hot summer afternoon.
Liam slid on his sunglasses and tipped his head up to the glaring sun. His mind drifted back to the paint-splattered man who hadn’t been the slightest bit impressed with having a detective there, trying to help.
He snorted. No, impressed was definitely not the word to use. Annoyed, irritated, bored. So many other ones he could choose.
There had been something sexy about seeing him there, barefoot and a bit messy, which had kicked his senses, reminding him how long it’d been since he’d had a lover. Eyes on his car, he walked toward it, mind focusing ahead to the next stop on his list for the day.
So far the four places that had been burglarized hadn’t had any injuries. In his gut, he figured it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out with regards to that. What he’d not been able to piece together yet was a connection in the art. Other than the obvious—it was art. Something told him it was deeper than how it appeared on the surface.
Not even old art, at least not all. It was like the thief or thieves weren’t after Rembrandts, probably because they were afraid they couldn’t unload them. And he didn’t get the allure of some of what he’d seen. Some of the pieces that had been stolen he personally wouldn’t wipe his ass with, but he’d never claimed to be an art critic.
Now this most recent studio, he didn’t mind what was up on those walls. Not images he would consider all abstract, for there was a definite eclectic taste to what adorned the walls.
Landscapes. People. Animals. Buildings. Flowers. You name it, Arm’s Hall probably had it, and most of what Liam had seen made sense to his mind.
“Rourke!”
Snapping his gaze up when his name was hollered, he lifted his chin in greeting to another detective, Larson, who had been at a different gallery.
Larson jogged across the street and put his hands on his hips. “Anything?”
He shook his head and pulled his notebook back out, flipping it open. “Nothing that was worth the time it took me to put it down.”
Arms crossed, Larson grunted. “Same. Although, if I wanted a painted picture of a bikini bottom, it could be mine for a measly ten grand.”
Liam choked. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was like at the last place I was at. I either make far too little or I went into the wrong business. I mean, I could paint some ladies’ drawers and would be happy to sell it for half their asking price. Christ, what the hell is the draw for something like that? I couldn’t ever put it up on my wall, not if I wanted my wife to refrain from slitting my throat at night.”
Liam laughed, knowing full well Regina, Larson’s wife, would do exactly that, and find a way to blame him for it. Woman was scary and a freaking amazing attorney. He held up his hands and shook his head.
“That’s all you, man. I’m not buying any portion of women’s clothing on a canvas. Much less for that kind of money. We have the same job. I know I don’t make that kind of money.”
“Let’s get back, see if we can’t find a lead somewhere.”
They fell into step and walked in companionable silence to the waiting sedan.
Cambry is everything an omega shouldn’t be. He’s tall, muscular and attacks every alpha who approaches him, shifting into his wolf form before making sure they know their place—away from him.
Cambry’s father sends him to Feral Woods in the hopes that Cambry will return home too shattered to put up a fight against his next potential mate. If one alpha can’t tame him, then why not try two?
With two hundred supervised acres, Feral Woods is a couple’s therapy center run by Bryce and Jake—two massive alphas who could tear Cambry apart. It’s not long before Cambry finds himself drawn to them, his inner beast submissive for the first time in his life. But he is met with dismissive refusal instead of interest.
With his heart on the line and time running out, there is a chance he could remain broken forever.
Reader advisory: This book contains a scene of a shifter orgy.
Excerpt
Cambry grasped the curtain, pulling it away from the polished glass of his bedroom window. The fabric was soft and heavy in his hand—something from the latest designer his mother had fallen in love with. Instead of the previous indigo, it was now a deep blue that blended in with the softer tones of his room.
A fountain spurted beyond the window, its waters guarded by a black gate that matched the fence that surrounded the property. There were grass and trees, too, beyond those gates, not that he ever got the chance to enjoy them.
An alpha retreated along the concrete walkway, his back rippling under his thin T-shirt. Each movement was like a feral dance of instinct and desire. There was a streak of red across his shirt that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived. The alpha had been big, strong, attractive and sweet—everything a proper mate should be.
But Cambry’s plan had been disastrous, like a spectacular firework that had failed to launch and exploded in his face instead. The second the alpha had shown any intent that wasn’t exactly platonic, Cambry’s instinctive side had reared up and taken him out.
Sighing, Cambry let the curtain fall shut, the filtered light dimming to a sparse glow. Luckily, the alpha was only leaving with a scratch and a black eye instead of a broken arm like the last one—or the broken collar bone from the one before him. Maybe it was because Cambry had warned him?
Most alphas sneered at the warning—hence the broken arm and collar bone—but this one had seemed different.
“When you try to touch me, I’m going to react…badly.” Cambry couldn’t remember how many times he had said those same words. He guessed that the first few alphas had assumed that Cambry would react like any other omega was supposed to—with slick and a burst of pheromones.
They hadn’t been expecting violence.
Walking to his dresser, Cambry pulled the top drawer wide, fumbling with a pair of boxers and tugging them up his thick legs. The fabric was smooth and silken and clutched his soft package like a fitted glove. They were worth spending his tiny allowance on, that was for sure. Thank goodness for the little things in life.
The little things being both his package and the expensive underwear.
His old friend Aubrie had asked him why he always splurged on the things if he had no one to show them off to. He had his own mirror, thank you very much, which added ten pounds, even on the best of days. But it was always honest about the boxers, which looked a hell of a lot better than they did on most omegas.
“Why don’t you give up, Cambry? It kills me to see you like this. If an alpha hasn’t induced a heat in you by now, it’s not going to happen.”
Aubrie had probably had the best intentions when she’d said that, but it had pierced Cambry’s soul like a dull pencil crayon. Or maybe that was why Cambry’s father had chosen her as his friend…to wear him down a bit more.
There was only so much loneliness he could take before he tried to be with someone again, hoping that everything would finally work the way it was supposed to. It wasn’t the sex as much as it was everything else. He couldn’t hug someone or even hold their hand without his feral side acting out.
His skin prickled as his door slid back, light footsteps moving across the floor behind him. And there was that.
“Your father is upset,” said his mother, her meek voice slapping him harder than any blow. He couldn’t look at her and see the same disappointment that was in his soul.
He could hear her shaking, her teeth chattering softly as she stayed as far away from him as she could. He was surprised that she had even managed to step into the same room as he was in.
“I tried, Mom,” he said, pulling a second drawer wide and tugging a shirt over his frame. He had to get alpha sizes, seeing as nothing for omegas fit his frame. His father was upset about that, too.
The alpha sizes were shaped differently than he was, though—the shoulders a touch too wide and the waist not quite narrow enough. Nothing had fit him well since he’d hit puberty.
The steady thumps of his father’s steps approached, and he hurriedly pulled a pair of jeans over his legs. They at least fit a bit better, his thighs stretching the fabric to its brink as it cupped his ass. The only place with too much room was the crotch, but he was almost glad that nothing ever touched him there.
He looked at the mirror above his dresser, scowling at his reflection. Fellow omegas were terrified of him, and alphas treated him like he was a strange cousin to the human race who needed to be broken or beaten until he fit into a different shape than what he had been born into.
He sniffed, slamming the drawer shut before his father could step into his room. There was no use crying, no matter how frustrated he was.
“We’ve tried it your way, Cambry. These alphas can’t stand to get close to you, let alone allow you to bond with them,” said his father as he hovered at the edge of the door frame. He was a few inches shy of Cambry’s height and had lost his alpha muscling to his age long before Cambry had been born. Like most alphas, he never got too close to Cambry—just close enough to hurt with words.
Cambry wondered if he would ever forget his father’s way. The restraints had dug into his wrists as a strange alpha had approached him from behind. Guided by an overdressed and undereducated doctor, Cambry’s father had hoped to kick-start Cambry’s omega nature with some good ole fashioned alpha cock. They hadn’t counted on Cambry breaking his own arm as he shifted, turning on the alpha and ripping a chunk of flesh from his throat.
The alpha hadn’t died—thank goodness—but they had never tried to restrain Cambry after that. And they had finally listened to him and had let him try on his own terms by picking up an alpha from a bar. It was about as romantic as a one-night stand could have been.
But it had resulted the same way—minus the shifting and massive blood loss, at least.
“It almost happened, Dad. I was so close,” said Cambry, touching his belly. He’d been naked, which had been a first. And the alpha had managed to touch him once before Cambry’s beast had risen to the surface and socked him in the face. Biting the alpha’s gland to bond with them had been the last thing on his mind.
“Close isn’t enough,” said his father, the snarl in his voice enough to prickle the hair on the back of Cambry’s neck. He’d never attacked a family member, but he had come close enough times that his father rarely approached him without backup. It was probably why his mother was strategically between them, shivering with her eyes downcast.
“Your heat could kill you. You’re already so much older than you should be for your first one, and there’s no way you can manage it alone,” said his mother, the edge of a sob in her voice. Cambry turned, his heart falling as he watched the tears stream down his mother’s face. She, at least, cared for him. His father was more interested in seeing him out of the door in a different alpha’s house—with some financial benefits for himself, of course.
“I’d have to have a heat first.” Cambry turned away as his father’s dark eyes glared into him. Most omegas had their first heat when they were still in high school, the late bloomers sprouting by eighteen at the latest. Cambry had turned twenty-two three weeks before, and he still hadn’t experienced a heat. He was hardly an omega at all by some standards.
But his mom was right. Those that had monthly heats had the mildest cycle, still able to continue their day-to-day lives with only a mild fever and a bit of slickness. Some of Cambry’s classmates had been that way, and he’d scarcely been able to tell.
Those who had heats once a year had to isolate themselves for nearly a week, their scent and instincts so uncontrollable that they could kill any stranger who attempted to approach. They needed a mate to ease them through it, more with their presence than their knot, from what his mother had explained.
For Cambry not to have had a heat at his age meant that his first would reduce him to nothing more than a feral beast that would kill and fuck without conscious thought. The idea was terrifying, especially since he was already so close to feral that an alpha couldn’t touch him.
“I’ve tolerated this abnormality of yours for long enough,” said his father, his mother’s spine stiffening.
“Dear, you promised,” she said, her voice pleading.
“No, he’ll be going to them, and that’s final. That doctor wasn’t worth his degree, but a colleague of mine gave me the name of a facility that he swears by. If one alpha can’t handle him, then maybe two can snap him out of this phase.” He tossed a business card into the room and it fluttered end over end before settling upside down on the floor. Turning, he stormed from the entry.
Cambry finally took a breath as his father disappeared, skirting by his mother to grab the business card. It was deep forest green with the name Feral Woods inscribed along the middle with deep gold lettering.
He flipped it over, his eyes going wide as he read the services listed on the card. “Instinctive therapy? What is that?” It sounded terrifying and alluring at the same time.
His instincts were everything that was wrong with him, though. As much as he wanted to listen to the little whispers in the back of his mind, he knew if he did, he would be alone for the rest of his life. Therapy brought to mind cages and bindings, the hair on his arms and chest thickening at the thought.
If it had been his father’s idea, the latter was probably exactly what was involved. His colleagues weren’t much better in Cambry’s experience, either.
“I hear they are very good,” she said softly, her voice trembling as she took a step back. His heart broke under the weight of her fear.
His parents were terrified of him. Maybe he should be locked in a cage for the rest of his days until they found someone who could make him submit. Or two someones. He quivered.
“When do I leave?” He took a shuddering breath as he looked around his room. What would he be allowed to bring? His collection of rocks from his younger years? Probably not. His romance novels? He should probably give them a proper burial before he left, because his father would burn them and disown him if he found them hidden under the floorboard.
Just another layer of his abnormalities. His father would have a heart attack if he ever read one of them or even caught sight of the cover. They were the only things that Cambry had ever intentionally rebelled with, and they could cost him everything.
“Your father pulled some strings.” Because of course he did. She cleared her throat. “You’re leaving in an hour.”
So his father had expected his plan to fail.
“There are single omegas, Mom. Why can’t he just let me be?” Cambry sighed, drawing a hand down his arm as his fur retreated, prickling as it pulled back under his skin. Others described shifting as painful, and even his mother could hardly bear to do it. But to him, it was a release he only ever found when he was in that form—wild and without the presumptions of a society that hated him.
“You know why,” she said, not even looking at him. He hadn’t noticed the exact moment that she had given up on him, but it had been a long time ago—perhaps when he had matured into an omega, only he hadn’t stopped growing like he was supposed to or maybe when the first alpha had offered him a mating contract and Cambry had bitten clear through his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The reasons were too long for her to list, and he knew them almost by heart. “Your father has so much pressure at work. People are wondering why you haven’t mated yet. People will talk, son, and your reputation will be ruined. We can’t let them know that you’re…unnatural. Your heat will kill you, and if it doesn’t, your father…”
They did have a slight point. He had no desire to die, especially since he hadn’t seen the world except for his tiny slice of neighborhood and the bit of lawn within the black gates. The unmated omegas he’d seen were considered strange anomalies in the circles his father traveled in and were best to be left alone and shunned.
As if they couldn’t function without a knot to drool over.
Cambry rolled his eyes. The idea of a knot made him a bit nauseous. He had no desire to bend over and take it like he was supposed to. His feral side agreed with toothy gusto.
“You should pack. I’ll give you space.” She set a duffel bag on the floor before she swept from the room, the loss of her presence barely palpable in the quiet house.
She was his polar opposite. His beast refused to be compliant and meek, even when he tried so hard to overcome that part of himself. He didn’t want to be his mother, who was a shadow of a human being ruled by society more than her education and emotions.
Sighing, he looked around the room before grabbing the bag. If he were lucky, he would have just enough room to pack his books under a thin layer of clothing. Then, at least, he could take everything that meant something to him.
He looked at the business card one last time. Alpha and omega instinctive therapy sessions. Two hundred acres of supervised development.
Well, on the bright side, he would probably get to see some hot alpha ass. A smile tugged at his lips. He could have a positive attitude. At least he was getting out of the house. And two hundred acres would give his beast a lot more places to run, even if he was supervised.
Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he lifted the floorboards just inside his closet. His collection of books that he’d spent years gathering barely fit in the space anymore. The pages were worn from being read so many times, the front covers smudged from his fingers. The covers gave away everything that his father didn’t need to know. Two men, bigger than even himself and twined in a primal embrace, painted a steamy picture that made his mouth water. Forbidden Alphas.
Heat flushed his cheeks as he packed them out of sight, zipping the bag shut with a hard pull. He balled up a pair of socks and underwear, jamming them into the side pouch to disguise the corners the books had created.
M.C. Roth lives in Canada and loves every season, even the dreaded Canadian winter. She graduated with honours from the Associate Diploma Program in Veterinary Technology at the University of Guelph before choosing a different career path.
Between caring for her young son, spending time with her husband, and feeding treats to her menagerie of animals, she still spends every spare second devoted to her passion for writing.
She loves growing peppers that are hot enough to make grown men cry, but she doesn’t like spicy food herself. Her favourite thing, other than writing of course, is to find a quiet place in the wilderness and listen to the birds while dreaming about the gorgeous men in her head.
I have many reading apps on my phone and tablet. Kindle Unlimited, Scribd, Apple Books, and various e-comic apps like TappyToon, WebToon, Manta and Tapas. When money gets tight, the Scribd and KU apps are awesome, and Manta works similarly. I pay a $4.99 monthly fee and can read as much as I want without having to purchase or unlock comics.
So, my current read is on my Scribd app, but it’s available on other platforms too …
I enjoy a mix of adult and young adult titles, so below you’ll find a bit of both. Some may be available at multiple retailers, others may only be in Kindle Unlimited. I hope you find something to read, and maybe a new-to-you author 🙂
Generally, if a book is in Kindle Unlimited, it can’t be offered elsewhere. However, certain larger publishers (like Kensington) are able to post their titles in Kindle Unlimited as well as offering it other places like Kobo, Apple, and Scribd.
What am I reading now?
I really LOVE my Scribd app! Not only for ebooks, but for audiobooks too. And I adore this series! The Wherlocke family is awesome!
Every century, the four sinful ruling coven lords choose a new concubine from the human population. This is a medium-burn reverse harem romance.
Their fates are linked. Their lives entwined. Can they work together to overcome the past so they may have a future?
Who would’ve thought that a witch with no potions powers could be a part of New York’s most reputable potions manufacturing family? Unfortunately for me, that’s exactly my situation and I’ve got a lot to live up to.
“Ghost Town” is the first in a paranormal YA high school mystery series by Krystal Doolittle. Perfect for fans of YA romance and YA paranormal, this short but impactful story will keep you reading until the last page. Also available in Kindle Unlimited. Don’t miss the next book in the series: Haunted.
FREE READS
Fans of vampire books will love this fast-paced, urban fantasy novella set in London and featuring a diverse cast of characters.
I’ve never been anyone’s first choice, last choice, or anything in between.
For the Love of Brigid Nanette Littlestone
Publication date: December 15th 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Discover an ancient legend, powerful magic, and heartwarming romance in the gentle hills of western Ireland.
Tongue-tied around men, the only place shy librarian Brigid Cleary finds love is in the books she reads. Certainly not in the novel she’s writing—as appealing as a dusty desert. Then a famous mystery writer enters her life to research an Irish legend related to her family. As their easy conversation grows, Brigid develops feelings. There’s just one large problem—he’s engaged.
With two failed books behind him, Andrew Connally is desperate for success. The Irish legend has to pull him through. When Brigid invites him to Ireland for a family celebration, in exchange for his help with writing, he jumps at the chance. But surprises emerge in this enchanted land. The flames of attraction climb, and the legend pulls them both on a powerful journey.
As the secrets of the legend come to light, Brigid and Andrew discover an unexpected path to love and the dreams they both desire.
Walking up the path to my house, I think about Annemarie’s love and encouragement. The best of friends, she’s always buoyed my spirit and helped me through crisis after crisis. Setting up the library after Gran’s death was a major undertaking, one I’d felt incapable of handling. There were thousands of books. Whole rooms to remodel. Furniture and lighting and wallpaper to choose. So many times I thought I’d go insane. But with Annemarie’s help, we met every obstacle with determined positivity. And now here I am with a gorgeous mansion that feels more like a home with enormous playrooms.
Smiling, I climb the stone steps to my door and reach into my pocket for the key.
“Excuse me, are you Brigid Cleary?”
My heart stutters and I whirl with a gasp. A pleasant looking man stands by the steps, slightly hunched in his winter coat. “By all the gods!” I yell. “Ye startled the crap out of me.” I wince at the hint of Irish in my voice.
“Beautiful and Irish.”
“Of course I’m Irish.”
He steps closer. “They said you were, but—”
“They? They who?”
“My publisher. Well, his assistant. So you are Brigid Cleary.”
I lean against the door to my house, my heartbeat beginning to slow. He doesn’t look like he’s going to attack. “Who wants to know?”
“Andrew. Andrew Connally.”
Not the Andrew Connally. No, it can’t be. I shiver as a gust of wind bites through my clothes. “Well, Mr. Connally, why are you here?”
“Do you suppose we can continue the Inquisition inside? It’s freezing.”
So he’s not immune to the cold. “I’m not in the habit of inviting strangers into my home.”
“That’s understandable, and certainly fair, but . . .”
“But it’s freezing.” And five more seconds might turn us both into icebergs. “Go around to the library entrance.” I point to the right. “I’ll meet you there.”
When he leaves, I unlock the door and walk inside, my toes stiff and painful. What I really want is a hot drink and a warm fire, but somehow I’ve picked up a stray man. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he were the famous mystery writer? What a story I’d have for Annemarie.
With that, I hang up my coat and scarf and make my way through the library, turning on lights as I go.
Cold gusts of air follow when I let him in. He stamps his feet loudly, the heels of his shoes thudding against the thick carpet. “This is the last time I’m coming here in the winter.”
“I’ve been imagining the tropics all day. Care to go with me?” I can’t believe I’ve issued an invitation. To a complete stranger.
“I just might do that,” he says with a smile that looks so honest, so pure, and so familiar.
I stare and he matches my stare. Open. Inquisitive. And a little mischievous. I have to ask. “Are you the Andrew Connally?”
“The Andrew Connally? Well, now, I’m not sure.”
He’s playing with me. “You know, the mystery writer.”
“Ah, that Andrew Connally.”
“Yes, that one. Because you look like him. I mean, I’ve never seen him up close, just on the back of book jackets. And his smile is so . . . well, professional yet engaging. As if he’s inviting you to come closer, to get to know him better, to have a conversation. And your smile just then, it was . . .” I’m rambling. To a stranger. I never ramble. I never talk to strangers either. But now, with Andrew, my mouth is literally a fountain of words.
I shake my head to clear whatever unfortunate clutter has collected and realize we’re still standing by the entrance. Where are my manners? “I’m so sorry. Would you like to sit down?” I move through the lobby and into Hush Hush, the cozy area for adults with long couches and a wide fireplace just perfect on this frosty night. Crouching before the fake logs, I turn on the gas and watch the flames come to life.
For long moments my guest gazes into the fire. He seems softer in person than on his back cover photos, if he even is the Andrew Connally. He still hasn’t answered that question. And his wavy hair, chestnut brown with flecks of gold, hangs longer, brushing his shirt collar. Much more youthful than that stern, suit jacket look he projects. And more dashing. But does his personality match his profile? Is he staid and somber or casual and easy-going? And, more importantly, what is he doing here?
Author Bio:
Get ready for a journey of the heart! Award-winning novelist Nanette Littlestone believes in happily ever after. But most people don’t live fairy tale lives, so her stories explore the struggles and heart-wrenching decisions we make, as well as the joy, delight, and happiness when we embrace our dreams. It’s all about the love.
Her books include “The Sacred Flame” (a historical novel in ancient Rome), “Bella Toscana” (the contemporary sequel), “The Heart of Everything” (an underwater fantasy), and “For the Love of Brigid” (the Irish romance coming out Dec 2022).
She lives in Atlanta, GA but still calls California home, loves making origami butterflies, and watching romantic movies that make her cry. Her favorite quote: “Flattery will get you nowhere. Chocolate, everywhere.”
Resting Grinch Face Alina Jacobs
Publication date: November 17th 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Holiday, Romance
I might not be able to ruin his life, but I will ruin his Christmas.
Yeah, I’m totally a grinch. But I come by it honestly.
Because of Oliver Frost, I flamed out at Harvard in the most humiliating way possible.
Now I’m back in my small town—just in time to suffer through a display of small-town Christmas cheer so festive it will make you puke your eggnog. But who cares about being home for the holidays when you live with your family like a loser and have to share one bathroom with seven other people?
I plan to spend my Christmas purgatory being tsked at by elderly residents and passive aggressively prodded by my mom’s friends about what I plan to do with my life.
I don’t know, Deborah, work in the Christmas market and get screamed at by tourists because I didn’t put enough sprinkles on their little brats’ coffees? Seriously, who gives five-year-olds that much caffeine anyway?!
See? Like I said. A grinch.
I hate Christmas.
I set a nativity scene on fire.
Got in a fistfight with an elf—I lost, by the way.
And threw a vat of Snowman Surprise all over Oliver. Don’t ask. Small-town Christmas insanity. Sleigh what? Oliver is here???
The man who humiliated me and ruined my life?
Ho ho ho, fuck no.
He doesn’t deserve a quaint small-town Christmas.
He doesn’t deserve a fancy Christmas tree from my family’s farm.
And he certainly does not deserve to win a bottle of whiskey in the daily Christmas market raffle.
Goddamn, I needed that drink.
He should be haunted like Ebenezer Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Past. Or at least the Ghost of Hookups Past.
Momma’s gonna have herself a very merry Christmas revenge.
Swapping the salt and sugar so his Christmas cookies are ruined? Be still, my shriveled little heart.
Spying on him so I can gather recon to ruin his holidate? Damn, I forgot how ripped his chest was.
Sneaking down his chimney to steal all the presents under his tree? Amateur hour.
Until I get caught…
Guess I’m spending Christmas in jail.
But when he sees I’m not wearing a bra under my ugly Christmas sweater, Oliver smiles like Santa has come early.
Crap! I knew I should have worn my good underwear.
Hold on to your stockings because the eggnog is spicy and mostly booze. This is a fuck-second-chances, Santa-stalker, holiday-revenge romantic comedy. Featuring Christmas-hating heroines with poor decision-making skills, ripped guys who will leave a very large package under your tree, and adorable corgis dressed up as reindeer, this standalone book has a happily ever after, guaranteed!
I slid like a squirrel straddling the roof peak, scooting along the ridgeline to the massive brick fireplace. I pried the round ceramic top off and stuck my head inside.
The Victorians liked their fireplaces.
While my parents’ wood-burning fire was more of a stovepipe, this house had been built to hold a massive fire.
I swung my feet over and shimmied into the chimney. Below me, Max must have figured out what was up because he was barking, the noise echoing up the chimney shaft.
“Dang, I can’t believe I fit,” I marveled. The cold air whipped my face, and I had a moment of clarity.
“Maybe this was a bridge too far,” I said and tried to hoist myself back up.
The chimney rim was slick with ice. My hand slipped. Then I fell down into the sooty black tube.
I stopped abruptly, my teeth knocking together.
“Help,” I squeaked.
I was stuck in the chimney, my arms wedged up above my head. Every time I let out a breath I slid farther down. My skirt was wedged under my boobs, and my sweater was wrapped around my head and neck.
“Help!” I rasped, kicking my legs. “Max, get help.”
The dog’s frantic barking changed to excited yips.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around my soot-covered thighs.
In any other scenario, I would have been really put out that Oliver was finally touching me only after I had flaked on working out the past year and developed a layer of winter flab. But I just wanted to be free. It was difficult to breathe.
“Save me,” I forced myself to whisper.
“Shit,” Oliver said, giving a solid tug on my legs.
I wedged down farther.
“I think you’re stuck in there.” His hands disappeared.
“Don’t leave me,” I begged.
His hand was back, his thumb stroking me reassuringly on my ankle.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to call the fire department. We’ll probably have to dismantle the chimney. I’m sure my neighbors will complain to me about it.” I heard the eye roll in his voice. Then his phone emitted beeps.
I kicked my feet. “Don’t you dare, Oliver Frost. Don’t you dare call the fire department. My mother will find out. I’ll be the talk of the town for years. Decades. It will be on my tombstone.”
“I can’t leave you here,” he said, voice echoing up the shaft.
“Oh, yes you can. I insist. I’ll be dead and done rotting in about three weeks. Then we can all just pretend this never happened.”
“Are you insane?”
Oh God. I had a horrible thought.
He can probably see straight up my crotch.
Was I wearing my nice underwear? Did I even own any sufficiently nice underwear?
“Please,” I begged. “My life is shit. Please just try pulling me out one more time?”
“I’m afraid to make you more stuck. Embarrassment won’t kill you.”
“It literally will,” I shrieked with my remaining breath.
Oliver muttered something that sounded like “God save me from this woman.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, moving the logs and the metal grate out of the way. “I’m giving this one shot. Then we’re going to host the fire department for the second time in as many days.”
After a rustling of fabric, his large hands slid up my bare legs.
“Sorry for manhandling you like this.”
His bare arms circled my waist, and I squawked as he wrapped them around my bare torso, connecting my body with his.
I could feel his bare chest against my thighs.
His head was somewhere in crotch vicinity, and he squeezed me tight.
Maybe I could just tell him to eat me out and then die happy.
Oliver gave a sharp hard tug. My sweater slipped up.
He adjusted his grasp and pulled, grunting hard.
“I think I’m moving,” I called.
He gave one more strong tug. My sweater ripped, and then I was free, tumbling down in a heap of ash and yarn on top of him.
He was covered in black soot. It was all over his pale skin, turning his hair a dark gray and making his eyes a startlingly bright blue.
“See,” I said, spreading my arms. “I knew you could do it. And you wanted to call the fire department.”
He didn’t say a word. He was staring at me, or more specifically my boobs.
I looked down.
“Elf balls.”
Author Bio:
If you like steamy romantic comedies with a creative streak, then I’m your girl!
Architect by day, writer by night, I love matcha green tea, chocolate, and books! So many books…
Sign up for my mailing list to get the free novella, AFTER HIS PEONIES, along with special bonus content, giveaways, and more!
Bain met Diana, a.k.a. Luce, the night before he was set to deploy to Afghanistan.
It’s not every day that you take your brother’s girlfriend to prom because he refuses to put out the effort.
That night was one of the best nights of his life and the next day, he leaves and doesn’t see her again.
But there are letters. Not many, but enough for them to form a connection.
Over the two-year deployment, they became great friends.
The best of friends—at least, as good of friends as you can be when it’s your brother’s wife.
Fast-forward six years and she still counts him as one of her greatest friends. Even going as far as to stick by him when he’s sent to prison because his own brother turned on him.
***
Luce had a crush on her then-boyfriend’s brother since way before she and Bain’s brother were married. From the moment he volunteered to take her to prom, she’d fallen.
Over the years, she’d tried to hide it. Tried to go on with her life and act like she loved her husband and only her husband. But as time went on and Braxton started to treat her more and more like crap, she realized the truth. Her husband wasn’t Bain. Her husband would never be him.
Hell, that’d been proven time and time again.
The smoking gun, though? The thing that made her realize it was time to leave?
When her husband stood by while she was assaulted, while the man she tried to act like was just a friend protected her. Then was sentenced to eight years in jail for it.
It was time to admit the truth.
Bain McDempsey was it for her. She just had to help him see it. Oh, and get him out of prison first.
BOOK REVIEW – 5 stars
Luce & Bain are the perfect couple!
Looking for a book with a military hero who’d go to jail if it meant keeping his woman safe?
Or a book with a determined, self-sufficient woman who goes after what she wants?
Need something with drama, action, and a psycho villain?
Well… that is definitely Good Trouble! Bain is this super big teddy bear – with fangs. He’s sweet and caring when it comes to his parents and his woman. Anyone who dares to hurt those he loves better have their affairs in order. Sure, that makes him like pretty much every romance hero out there, but isn’t that what we love about these books? The imperfectly perfect her?
Luce has her own issues, not to mention an ex-husband who is quite the piece of work! But Bain brings out her best qualities and loves her exactly as she is. She’s tough when she needs to be. Brave. Fierce. And loyal. Honestly, I think she’s now my favorite LLV heroine. She’s amazing.
I’d planned to start this book, then set it aside so I could actually sleep. I should have known better. Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Lani Lynn Vale has done it yet again. Seriously. This book is all kinds of amazing.
*Disclaimer: I received an ARC and am voluntarily leaving a review.
Marisburg Connections is a collection of stories centered around four couples and their deepening relationships.
In “Sunlight,” Jack and Tyler struggle with family complications and Jake’s loss of eyesight. Will their love survive six months apart?
“Out For You” is the story of Eric’s fears of being out of the closet and the extraordinary lengths to which he’ll go to keep his lover, Trent, in a state where being gay is considered amoral.
With Mike’s help, Aidan wrestles with his past. Can Mike’s love help him lose the shadow of “Guilt”?
“Dachshund Blocked” is the tale of three rambunctious little dogs and how they help sabotage Peter’s and Abe’s wedding plans.
A Quick Interview with Trent, the second hero of “Out for You.”
EC: So…what attracted you to a man who was in the closet?
Trent: Besides his stunning good looks, his humor, and his passion on the dance floor?
EC: Actually, yeah. What else?
Trent: His honesty.
EC: But, didn’t he refuse for almost a year to be out?
Trent: He’s honest about his feelings. He made his fear clear to me and his love. That’s why I waited so long for him.
EC: Tell us what he looks like.
Trent: He’s ripped. He exercises three days a week and runs almost every day with a running guide.
EC: What’s a running guide?
Trent: When you’re visually impaired, like Eric, you can run with a guide dog or a human guide. Eric has…interesting view…about guide dogs, so he uses a white cane.
EC: What interesting views?
Trent: He vacillates between thinking he should get one and worrying that our little apartment isn’t big enough for a Labrador or other large dog to get the exercise he needs.
EC: What do you think of his old boyfriend’s behavior, breaking Eric’s arm when they were both in high school?
Trent: I’ve never met Aidan Delaney, and I honestly don’t want to, but I tend to think people are the choices they make, and he chose to apologize to Eric. That counts for something in my book.
EC: Thank you for your time.
Trent: No trouble. Just, please, don’t judge Eric too harshly. He is living in one of the reddest states in the US. Being afraid of being jumped is a legitimate fear.
It was early June when Jake emerged from the three-story building that housed the ADA Coordinator’s office. He’d been moving quickly but the moment he opened the door, the world went white. He stumbled to a halt and covered his eyes partially with his left hand. His right tightened on the handle of the white cane he’d only been half paying attention to. It wasn’t that he didn’t need the cane to get around. He’d learned rather quickly that the white cane could save him from many embarrassing or painful situations. But, inside, he barely noticed its whispering across the floor in constant contact with the rugs or tiles. Now, he wished he could just duck back into the safety of the building’s dimmer interior.
But Tyler, his lover, was waiting for him out in the parking lot and Jake really needed Tyler’s comfort. He hadn’t struggled through a bad day, hadn’t done that in a while, but the glare from the sun that turned everything white made him both sad and timid.
He allowed the door to close behind him, listening to its click of finality. Oh, stop thinking like that, he remonstrated himself.
He needed to get to Tyler. So, closing his eyes, he put the cane out in front of him and swept it right to left, checking for obstacles. And, taking his first tentative step forward, he thought, I guess the ophthalmologist was right. Glare was bound to affect me sooner or later.
He wanted so badly to be able to peek and make sure that he was headed in the right direction that he covered his eyes all the way to not allow himself that opportunity. Even assuming he could see something other than white light, he’d give himself a blinder of a headache by trying to use his vision when his eyes were already streaming with tears of strain and overexposure to light.
He heard a door ahead of him somewhere open and close. Then, Tyler said, “Are you okay?” He was still a good distance away but surely he could see Jake’s hand over his eyes. Jake cursed softly, squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, and dropped his hand. Even through his eyelids, the world was terribly bright but at least he could walk without opening his eyes.
He started to move faster, needing to get to Tyler and the shelter of the truck. He swept his cane from right to left and left to right, trying to feel everything. But he missed something, maybe a crack in the sidewalk, maybe nothing more than an imagined crack, and tripped. He kept hold of his white cane and managed to right himself before Tyler reached him, but both were near things.
“Are you all right?” Tyler asked, touching his arm and then making a sound Jake thought was frustration. “Obviously you’re not. What happened?”
Jake wondered if that frustration was with him. He doubted it. Tyler was the world’s most patient person. He took a breath, needing to confess because he’d end up blurting it out sooner or later. “The glare is killing me. Dr. Metz was right. It finally showed up. The sun…” He shook his head and turned away slightly. “When I’m not looking directly at it, it hurts less.”
Tyler ran his hand up Jake’s arm to his shoulder. Then he leaned close and kissed Jake’s temple, which was thoroughly distracting in a way that made Jake aware of his cock as he hadn’t been all day.
“Maybe it’s time to meet with the white cane instructor again,” Tyler suggested.
Jake’s orientation and mobility teacher was a busy man. He had most of their part of Pennsylvania to look after. “If he’s ever free.”
“I’ll take you to Philly once a week if that’s what it takes.”
“I love you,” Jake blurted. It wasn’t a new concept, but he felt completely overwhelmed with gratitude and desire.
When Tyler kissed him full on the mouth, making him weak at the knees, he knew Tyler’s answer, in his own way, was, “I love you too.”
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender erotica. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires.
Fantasy creatures not your thing? Emily has also created a contemporary romance world, called Sticks and Stones, where she explores being “different” in a small town.
