Jess
I thought I knew my best friend.
Transcontinental video chats didn’t do him justice.
He’s not an awkward teenager anymore, and one look from him sets my body on edge.
I’m the type of woman who has her life together. Sure, a panic attack here or there might derail my day, but I’ve got this. I have my life under control.
I’m not the type of woman to lust after the most important person in my life.
But he knows me better than I know myself—even the anxious parts I try my best to hide.
Now that we’re in the same place, everything in our relationship is changing.
James
I’m back for her.
She’s my best friend.
Being in love with Jess has been the sweetest agony, and I’ve waited long enough.
I’ve watched her fall for men who don’t appreciate her.
I’ve waited for her to see me.
Now it finally seems like she might, and I won’t hold back until she’s mine.
Victoria is a lover of all things romance, including movies, books, and television shows. A hopeless romantic since childhood, she is always dreaming up stories and happily ever afters. Caramel lattes are her fuel in the morning and she can usually be found reading anything she can get her hands on. She lives with her family and a beautiful Siberian husky in sunny California.
After ending a relationship that began in an era before social media, Alan finds that good friends, a thriving medical practice, and an abundance of dates with a vast array of intriguing men in progressive Seattle aren’t enough to surmount the shortcomings of his own insight.
From endearing Justin to cultured Bradley, to his fantasy man, Marley, Alan frustrates his friends and therapist by being better at ambivalence than connection. The characters in A City of Hopes Unrealized represent people we all know and, although uncomfortable, may even remind us of ourselves as we try to navigate circumstances we would never choose and might never even envision.
If you’ve not yet picked up on it, I’m Alan. I feel like an Alan. Alan is not a very sexy name, but apparently an adequate one. Being single at fifty, I’m rounding down, I didn’t count on my sex appeal to win me a man. To my immense surprise, I was wrong. Who knew a balding, moderately hairy, average height, not too out of shape, older than middle-aged, Jewish professional man would be a “type”? I’m a type. And seemingly a popular one at that. I first hit my stride on this one particular Friday night. This is about my stride.
The story doesn’t begin where most of the plot picks up. It begins at the Boardroom, a man’s bar and dance hall with a hint of a backroom at the urinals. This is Seattle, a city of gay bars without backrooms. Nearing midnight on a Friday, the Boardroom exploded with men. Paying the inflated cover and walking in, I heard the thumping of my heart drowning out the thumping of the music, at least in my own ears. I ordered my standard rum and Coke, a process which took long enough to add to the mystique of the Boardroom by providing a sense of privilege for being able to hand over a ransom-worthy sum of money. Accompanied by fear, I made my way to the lower-level dance floor. Late enough to be packed, dancing meant moving up and down from one’s heels to one’s toes over and over, forcing me to try to not spill my overpriced drink, as the drink and I were being unavoidably knocked around by the beer-drinking crowd. This was a crowd where Friday meant ecstasy as assuredly as Monday would mean missing work to nurse a hangover.
I began my night by standing off to the side of the dance floor, feeling simultaneously unseen and conspicuous, fighting to dismiss that shy little boy from Massachusetts. The moment was one of those where a night pivots one way or another, in this case, toward the dance floor or toward the exit. I expected to be as surprised as anyone as to which way my pounding heart would direct my feet.
Then I saw him, Mr. Green Plaid. I’ll forever picture and fantasize about his shirt. His shirt had green-and-white checks with thin black lines that were illuminated when the disco laser hit him directly. The shirt must have cost him twice what it sold for when new. I imagined that Mr. Green Plaid had found this exact right outfit only hours before in one of Capitol Hill’s seriously overpriced men’s vintage clothing stores.
Green Plaid had the confidence to know his clothes would be the perfect calling card for his night out. His shirt, tucked into tight jeans, cemented in me a fetish that would forever drive my attraction to both the collegiate boy next door and the Wrangler Man. As soon as I saw him, I lost myself in a fantasy of Green Plaid as a twin, one the cute boy next door, and the other a hot Montana cowboy. Then, knocked out of my fantasy by a stumbling patron, I was jarred into an unplanned urgent decision which would soon tell me what direction my thumping heart and conflicted brain would carry my feet.
I did not head for the exit. I continued watching Mr. Green Plaid for several minutes, long enough to hurriedly and self-consciously guzzle my drink. I made my way to the bar, in almost a panic-driven mode, afraid he’d disappear, but much more afraid to be there without a second rum and Coke.
The gamble proved worth it. I got another drink and miraculously found that my previous spot on the side of the dance floor had reopened. Even better, Mr. Green Plaid had left the dance floor and coincidentally stood close by and was himself focused on the dance floor. Over the next twenty minutes, I concocted his life story in my head. More importantly, the man he had been dancing with, and now stood at his side, and with whom he shared an occasional word, likely drowned out by the music, was clearly not Mr. GP’s boyfriend. Their disconnect suggested that this man might be Mr. Green Plaid’s backup plan for the night. In my head, I was certain that GP must be single, at the Boardroom alone, and a bit short on courage, which caused him to stand beside his plan B to avoid the risk of approaching any man who might carry that plan A mystique.
My second drink now history, I surreptitiously moved closer to him with alcohol enhanced chutzpah and self-consciousness. Before my feet were firmly planted, the crowd pushed a man into me, which pushed me into Mr. GP’s left shoulder. We bumped, thanks to my compromised balance. What luck! GP glanced over and didn’t exactly smile, but he also didn’t dismiss me. I knew I had but a few seconds to commit myself to saying something, or the awkwardness would become overwhelming and an embarrassing admission of my inadequacy. So without having the time to indulge my anxieties further, I touched his left shoulder with my right hand. When he leaned in, I asked him to dance. Green Plaid answered by grabbing my right hand, and he led me onto the dance floor.
I fell in love! Mr. Green Plaid hadn’t rejected me. In fact, Mr. GP danced with me without even looking over my shoulder for someone better. Maybe I had become his new plan B, as there would be no convincing me I’d be anyone’s plan A. Yet even as plan B, this was the first moment I considered I might just be a type someone could perhaps possibly desire. At that moment I felt desired.
I’d like to tell you what happened after we left the dance floor, but there’s not much to tell. Even though my latest love and I hardly spoke given the loud music had destroyed any possibility of being heard, his expression reinforced my new beginning. My journey suddenly moved into second gear, and I had a first taste of confidence in my not yet fully drunken state. Shockingly, I might actually have the power to navigate the new and up-to-now terrifying terrain of dating. Perhaps dating could even be fun. I found myself walking home with an unfamiliar and unpracticed resolve, even though I walked home alone. I had a good evening and a new fetish. I had hope.
Howard Leonard earned his PhD in Clinical Psychology in 1981. Dr. Leonard and his partner moved to Seattle, Washington, in 1983, where he began a private practice which he maintained for thirty-five years. He chose Seattle in part due to his belief the region would allow two men to legally create a family through the use of surrogacy, something largely unchallenged by gay men in the eighties. He has two daughters, now adults, and one grandchild. Howard and his husband, Robert, live in Palm Springs, California. Writing has become an important part of his life since retiring from clinical practice. A City of Hopes Unrealized is the first novel in the “Seattle City Limits” series. Find Howard on Facebook.
Giveaway
One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code!
Victoria Lum has revealed the cover for The Sweetest Agony!
Releasing March 29, 2023
Jess
I thought I knew my best friend.
Transcontinental video chats didn’t do him justice.
He’s not an awkward teenager anymore, and one look from him sets my body on edge.
I’m the type of woman who has her life together. Sure, a panic attack here or there might derail my day, but I’ve got this. I have my life under control.
I’m not the type of woman to lust after the most important person in my life.
But he knows me better than I know myself—even the anxious parts I try my best to hide.
Now that we’re in the same place, everything in our relationship is changing.
James
I’m back for her.
She’s my best friend.
Being in love with Jess has been the sweetest agony, and I’ve waited long enough.
I’ve watched her fall for men who don’t appreciate her.
I’ve waited for her to see me.
Now it finally seems like she might, and I won’t hold back until she’s mine.
Victoria is a lover of all things romance, including movies, books, and television shows. A hopeless romantic since childhood, she is always dreaming up stories and happily ever afters. Caramel lattes are her fuel in the morning and she can usually be found reading anything she can get her hands on. She lives with her family and a beautiful Siberian husky in sunny California.
Jaya’s relationships never last more than six weeks. Austen wants to be her forever.
Six weeks is the outer limit for one of Jaya’s relationships. When men find out there is no future with her, they tend not to stick around for long.
She’s gotten into the habit of leaning on her cousin Austen to get over each breakup. Who better? Austen is six feet three of solid sympathy. Both adopted into the same extended family at young ages, they’ve been friends their whole lives, with a mutual taste for good food and expensive whisky. But when Jaya takes her latest failed romance to him, Austen makes it clear his interest in her is far from cousinly.
“Think about me,” Austen tells her, and Jaya starts to do just that. No doubt, Austen is incredibly attractive, and she can’t say she’s not curious to find out what he’s like in bed, but can their bond survive this new test?
Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of light bondage.
Excerpt
Austen answered his phone on the first ring.
“What do you need, kiddo?”
Jaya paused, taken aback by the curt greeting. After a moment, she realised that he always answered his calls from her in the same way. “What do you need?” As if she could never just be calling for no reason at all.
“Is that any way to greet your favourite cousin?” she replied, forcing a bright note into her voice. “You’re my favourite, you know.”
“As far as you know, you might have any number of cousins,” Austen said coolly. “How could you possibly claim to know I would be the favourite?”
Because you’re the only one I’ve actually met, she wanted to tell him, although she understood the crude point he was trying to make. By blood, she was no cousin of his.
Jaya wished she owned one of those old-fashioned phones with the long curly cord so she could twine it between her fingers. Instead, she shifted her mobile from one sweaty hand to the other.
She wasn’t about to tell him that she couldn’t bear her own company tonight. She’d left work early, needing to get away from the high-energy actors she was constantly surrounded by, only to find that the so-called peace of her apartment was too oppressively quiet.
“I thought we might grab a drink tonight,” Jaya said, still striving to maintain her cheerful tone. “It’s been a while.”
“Six weeks,” Austen said. “Right on schedule.”
She remembered what he’d said the last time they’d met up. That she only called him when she broke up with someone. That, to her, he was no more than a shoulder attached to a man. A shoulder for her to cry on, presumably, although she never did cry. She merely got drunk.
“Ha ha. Do you want the drink or not?” Jaya demanded.
“I have to get up early tomorrow,” Austen told her, sounding uncharacteristically reluctant.
What is wrong with him? Jaya wondered, pulled out of her own problems for a brief moment. It had to be bad if he was turning down liquor. They both fancied themselves connoisseurs of the hard stuff. Neither of them drank wine or, shudder, beer.
“I’ll get you home early, granddad,” Jaya told him. “So how about it? Nine o’clock at The Cat’s Whiskey?”
“All right, kiddo.”
Shaking her head, Jaya hung up. He didn’t have to sound so bloody glum about the prospect.
Nan Comargue is a romance and erotic romance writer who has been reading romance novels all her life. She prefers sexy confident heroes who win over slightly introverted heroines (read: nerdish types) but she writes about everything from angel-warriors to cowboy ménage.
Nan blogs about her writing journey and other interesting topics (zombies!) here but lately she tweets more than she blogs (and sometimes more than she writes).
Nan is Canadian, eh?
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Pretending to date your best friend is always a good idea…right? Wrong.
Greta Aske has a lot on her mind, and a string of bad dates has her giving up on men, at least for the time being. Her life contains a little too much drama, meaning she needs a break and to save money and get good grades. The perfect solution presents itself—pretend to date the campus playboy. That’ll keep the guys away for sure.
Aaron Hill is desperate to save his baseball career because, with his dad fighting cancer, he damn well knows he can’t ask for a single penny from his parents. Baseball is his past, present and future, so when a scandal threatens his chance in the MLB, he turns to his best friend for help. A fake relationship will keep him out of trouble. It’s perfect, really. Greta’s taking a break from dating and Aaron needs to focus on training.
Nothing could go wrong…as long as neither falls for the other. But when lines are crossed, what’s real and fake blurs and the two are forced to face their fears. Could Greta be the game changer Aaron needs?
Reader advisory: This book was previously released by Finch Books.
Excerpt
Action movies are full of shit, feeding us fake information our entire lives. For instance, when a fight breaks out in a bar, there’s no Mark Wahlberg look-a-like to rescue the damsel in distress. Second the sound of flesh hitting flesh is repulsive and meaty. There are no wooshes or bangs or ka-pows. Nope. It’s just disgusting.
I cringed at the smack and crashing of a fist meeting the face of my date. That’s right. I always picked the best of the best when it came to dating and tonight was no different. Todd, who had blood dripping down his eye, chin and nose, had made the bold decision to ask me out. I’d accepted, like a fool, and would live to regret this night for all eternity.
“Where is my money, Todd?” The broad-shouldered man with a beard longer than my hair pummeled his meaty fists into my date’s face. “Where the feck you keepin’ it?”
No response. Burly Guy didn’t like that. He grunted, swung his arm back past the table and hit Todd square in the nose. What happened in my past life for me to witness this?
No one got up to help. No one moved. They all watched with half-smiles on their faces and I knew in the pit of my stomach I needed to get the hell out. Like, ten minutes ago. I slowly slid my trembling hand into my purse to find my phone, but Mr. Burly heard me. He whipped his face toward mine, the terrifying glint to his eyes making me gasp. I gulped, the fear suddenly very real.
“You know this fecking asshole?” he barked at me. Countless gazes followed his voice and now stared at me. They wanted a show and I was so not the person for the role. My chin trembled as I shook my head.
“N-n-no. I j-just met him tonight.” I clutched my phone to my chest. I would use it as a weapon if necessary, although I had no fucking clue what damage I could do on this beast of a man.
He ran his fat tongue over his lips and studied me. I stood stock-still, my spine straight as a rod. “I think it’s time for you to go, doll. My boss ain’t gunna like me lettin’ ya leave, but your blonde hair don’t fit in here. Get the feck out and don’t come back.”
I nodded, glancing one more time at Todd. My gut screamed to get out, but I had been raised Catholic. Do I leave my epic failure of a date to get killed? Do I call the cops?
Mr. Burly thought I took too long and put his grimy fingers around my wrist. I squealed, yanking it out of his touch.
“Get gone, girl.” He kicked open the door and threw me outside. I stood on a rundown street with one streetlight working correctly. The others flashed and made a high-pitched buzzing sound that sent chills down my spine. “Fuck. Fucking. Fuck.”
I called my best friend with shaking fingers and snot running down my face. Oh, did I mention I had blood on me that wasn’t my own? I gagged, looking at the splatters. The phone rang and rang again. I loved Callie to death, but if that bitch didn’t answer right then, I would get her for it. Big-time. Because what the fuck? It appeared the downward spiral my life had begun a month ago still had a way to go before hitting pure rock bottom. Nothing topped this story, as long as I got home alive.
“Give me my fecking money!” A booming voice traveled through the closed door. My longtime sixth sense had sent warning after warning all day and I’d chosen to ignore it. This is my own damn fault.
I gripped my phone tighter and took a deep breath. Count to eight. Make a box with your breathing. It did me no good and my fingers still shook. After three failed calls to Callie, I called the other number I knew by heart. Aaron Hill answered after the first ring with his obnoxious and playful voice.
“G-spot, what’s crackin’? Finally calling me for a booty call?” His voice had the power to make me smile and roll my eyes simultaneously. This was not that time.
“I need you to come get me.” My voice shook as the shouting picked up. Why had I let Todd convince me this place was cool and a ‘real biker bar’? Standing alone on the dark country road made it feel more like a place where girls went missing than a legit biker hangout. I fell for it. Dumbass.
“Where the hell are you?” His good-natured tone shifted and I imagined his steel eyes going dark. “It’s past midnight. Shit, G, are you alone?”
“Uh, pretty much.” I sent him the address while still on the phone. “I texted you the place. I’m calling in my favor.”
“Jesus, Greta.” He let out a string of cuss words. “Why the fuck are you all the way out there?”
“A date gone bad.” Shame filled my chest, regret chasing it. The feelings had my throat closing. Tears weren’t far behind.
“Goddamn it. I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me. I swear, I’m going to wring your neck. I hate this shit.” A door slammed—he’d just gotten into his car. After a minute of silence, he sucked in a breath. “Are you at Dirty Matt’s? Please say no. Tell me no, right now, Greta.”
The neon signed mocked me, Dirty Matt’s, blinking over and over. “I’m at Dirty Matt’s.”
“Jesus Christ.” His deep voice got so low, so calm, I made a vow to end all my plans for dating. His anger and disappointment in me were well deserved.
I gulped. Ever since my childhood best friend Callie had found love the year before, I’d wanted to try it. She’d fought it, but seeing how damn happy she had been all year and how she’d grown into herself had motivated me. I was damn happy for her and in no way jealous. I just yearned to have the closeness she had with her boyfriend, Zade.
Okay, so all the longing and searching had led me to a series of bad, awful and miserable dates. Not one had clicked. Not one had ended with the promise for more. And, not one has ended with a guy acting like a gentleman. Apparently, I had a stamp on my head that read, I tend to date losers. And, now, I could add I dated felons. It was the only explanation I could muster why Todd had brought me here, and why they’d beaten the shit out of him.
“I’m twenty minutes out and I’m beyond pissed at you. You know the rep this place has? Do you?” His deep voice held nothing but rage and worry. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall. I had known about the reputation, but I’d wanted an adventure. Todd rode a motorcycle. He had tattoos and looked as good as sin. I wanted, even an inkling if possible, of the happiness Callie felt. Is that so bad?
Yes. I shivered.
Aaron’s shaking voice pulled me from my self-pitying thoughts. “Greta! Did you know and still go there?”
Shit. He was past mad. “Yeah.”
“Why? Tell me why. I know shit hasn’t been great for you recently, but stop with this self-destruction crap. I can’t watch you do this.”
The squealing tires informed me he was close. His dark SUV sped down the road on a mission, the headlights showcasing how wretched this place looked. He pulled up to the spot right in front of Dirty Matt’s and threw open his door. He stormed out, his anger evident on his handsome face.
“Aaron, look—”
“You asshole,” he said, yanking me into his arms. “You worried the hell out of me. I lost ten pounds on the drive here.”
“Aaron,” I managed to squeak out before he pressed my face into his chest. “I’m okay.”
“Just, let me be.”
So, we stood like that for at least three minutes. His ridiculously large frame towered over me, but not in the way Mr. Burly back there had. Aaron was different. His body was sculpted from hours and hours in the gym. My arms barely fit around his middle, but I tried anyway. He squeezed me one last time and broke our hug. His gray eyes still held on to some anger, but relief took over. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, G.” His lips turned white while he glanced at the sign. “Now, get in the car.”
I obeyed, not foolish enough to piss him off even more. He opened the passenger door and glared at me until I buckled myself in. Without a word, he shut it and pinched his nose walking to the driver’s side. His cologne clouded the car, the pleasant aroma of wood and leather comforting my nerves.
My body shook, the adrenaline wearing off. Aaron must’ve seen, because he turned on the heat despite the high July temperatures. I understood him well enough to let him stew. We had been close for over two years, but last year things were different. His dad being diagnosed with cancer had made the Aaron we all knew and loved change and we had grown closer and closer. Callie was my girl for life, but I couldn’t envision a future without knowing Aaron would be there. He understood me, respected me and pushed me to be better. He was allergic to feelings and emotions while I was forever giving up on men. Our friendship worked.
He drove the silent, dark path back to campus, one hand on the wheel and the other repeatedly making a fist. I blamed myself for his anger. He had enough to worry about and now picking me up… Remorse filled my chest and my eyes stung. “I’m fucking sorry. I’m an idiot. I don’t know why I went there. I wanted to have an adventure or something.”
He nibbled on his bottom lip, keeping his expression blank. Shit. Instead of remaining silent and letting him deal with it, I’d decided to ramble. Rambling was a favorite sport of mine and I couldn’t stop.
“He had a motorcycle…”
“I thought he would be a winner…”
“I want what Callie and Zade have…”
“I didn’t realize he was a felon or something and would get the shit beat out of him…”
“I had no fucking clue I would get manhandled…”
“Excuse me. What did you just say?” His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t have a clue—”
“No. You said manhandled. Someone hurt you?” His grip on the wheel tightened and I swallowed, loudly.
“Not hurt, no.” I tucked my arms further into myself. A bruise had already formed and Aaron was in no state to know that. “Forget I said anything.”
“I swear to God, Greta.” He pulled off the road and stopped the car. He shook, his large frame tight with pent-up rage. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Pissed-off Aaron could scare the boogeyman into retirement. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Are you hurt?”
Jaqueline Snowe lives in Arizona where the ‘dry heat’ really isn’t that bad. She enjoys making lists with colorful Post-it notes and sipping coffee all day. She has been a custodian, a waitress, a landscaper, a coach and a teacher. Her life revolves around binge-watching Netflix, her two dogs who don’t realize they aren’t humans and her wonderful baseball-loving husband.
You can take a look at Jaqueline’s Website and Blog and you can also follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
Giveaway
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Most college girls ‘swipe right’ to meet the right guy—Callie meets All-Star pitcher Zade while he’s buying tampons. College is all about learning, right?
How often do you meet your dream guy buying tampons at Target? Never, right? For Callie, a baseball-loving, hardworking college student, it happened just once. The magic was too real, too fast and too much, so she left the store without exchanging names.
But fate works in wonderful ways, right?
Zade Willows, the All-Star pitcher rumored to be drafted his senior year, gets what he wants. He has a fan club who follow his every move, but when he meets Callie, the game changes. She knows all his plays and that the game always ends—in heartbreak. But Zade doesn’t back down and is willing to try anything.
He’ll eventually get the girl, right?
Reader advisory: This book was previously released by Finch Books.
Excerpt
“Get your gorgeous ass in here and give me a hug.” Greta slammed the door open with her foot and jumped into my arms. She smelled the same as she had done in high school—floral and sweet. God, I had missed the hell out of my girl. She’d always been a violent hugger and the tradition continued. My lungs were gasping for air by the time she let go.
“Sorry I’m late.” I lugged the suitcase into the apartment and grinned at her motherly expression.
“Unless the reason is some hot guy or some awesome story, then I’ll remained pissed at you for another two minutes. I got afraid—”
“That I backed out? Me?” I held up my hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t back out of our pact from ten years ago. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Glad you learned something from your year off,” she mumbled loud enough for me to hear. We both had a mutual hatred of the deal my parents had forced me to accept and I understood her anger disguised the worry about this not happening. We’d dreamed about living together since we’d become best friends in fifth grade—when two kids get caught cheating on a math test, it forms a bond that’s hard to break.
“I learned, like, two things,” I replied to her comment and she skipped to my bedroom for the next year. “This is my room?”
“Yes!” she cheered. I’d expected the room to be small and I gasped when I saw a dresser, a built-in desk and a twin bed. “Wait here, I have a present for you.”
I obeyed her command and set my cases on the floor. I could fit every piece of clothing I owned in the closet, and maybe a little more. It could even serve as an extra bedroom if needed. I’d lived in my childhood home my entire life. The last year…it had been hell taking a year off to prove to my dad I could make it on my own. Pure hell. But I’d made it and it pleased me to be on my own for the first time.
“Here. I bought it for you.” She waltzed back into the bedroom with a package wrapped in sparkly paper. Greta would buy sparkly paper. “It’s nothing big, just a welcome present.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Greta. Come on.” I frowned at the gift, damn well knowing her kindness knew no bounds. She shoved it into my hands, despite my reluctance. “Fine.”
I opened it up to find the very first picture of the two of us, taken when we’d been in our band in high school. I met her eyes and we shared a smile. “Good lord. Why did we name ourselves the Crazy Gals again?”
“Because our names start with C and G. Obviously that made sense when we were fourteen.”
“I regret the name choice, but still dig the outfits.” Closing my eyes in shame, I swallowed down the memory of gaucho pants, clogs and popped-collared shirts.
She shuddered. “Oh, lord. Not me. I regret the outfit, not the name.” Greta’s legs had more style than I had in my entire body. She’d won best dressed in high school. Even now, she wore a trendy sundress with a hat while I was wearing ripped jean shorts and a vintage band tank top. “I have another gift for you, but you cannot get mad.”
“That’s a great opener. No promises, G.”
“It’s kind of small.” She bit her lip and pulled out something from her pocket. What the hell? Sundresses have pockets? A shadow of apprehension crossed her face and I worried what the fuck she’d gotten me.
I took the sticker from her hand, already planning where to put it. “I freaking love it.”
“I know you really don’t play in bands anymore, but you still have the same case.” She motioned her head to the guitar case I’d set down earlier.
“Of course I do.” I collected stickers from everywhere I went or from any large moment in my life. I peeled back the paper and placed the new college sticker on the front of the case, right in the center. Big. Freaking. Deal. “Thanks, Greta.”
“Phew. I’m super happy you love it. I’d been nervous, like, what if you hated it and used your guitar to beat me senseless? Or, what if you assumed we were getting back in business?”
“Greta. Am I crazy?”
“I’ve seen you punch two girls in the face. At the same time, I might add.” She bit back a grin and pointed down the narrow hallway. “Kitchen is down the hall to the right. I already know your first question.”
“Obviously.” I eyed the tile and large counters, sighing in pleasure. They were perfect. “Those girls deserved it, though. Sure, we were in a mosh pit, but they pushed a girl in a cast.” I smiled at the memory.
“Your smile alone is why you’re crazy.”
I flipped her off and she closed the distance between us with open arms. “I’m damn glad you’re going to be my roomie. I’m proud of you. You beat your dad at his own game and I love you more because of that.”
“Love you, too. Now, that’s enough affection. I need to paint my room black or something.” I blinked away the emotions that bubbled up. Those words, coming from her, meant much more than she might ever realize.
“This is going to be hella fun!” she squealed and squished me for another hug.
I loved that Callie not only enjoyed baseball, but was extremely knowledgeable of the sport. There aren’t enough Tom boys in romances. She was feisty, determined, and best of all, she didn’t give in to Zade. She made him fight to be with her, to prove he was worth her time.
Zade didn’t mind his playboy reputation until it nearly cost him the only girl who’s ever fascinated him. He’s driven, focused, but he’s never let himself fall in love… until now.
Both characters were complex and completely real. They had doubts, insecurities, hopes, dreams… just like anyone else.
I enjoyed the slow burn romance between Callie and Zade, but I especially loved their banter. Challenge Accepted is a true gem. Ms. Snowe knocked this one out of the park.
Jaqueline Snowe lives in Arizona where the ‘dry heat’ really isn’t that bad. She enjoys making lists with colorful Post-it notes and sipping coffee all day. She has been a custodian, a waitress, a landscaper, a coach and a teacher. Her life revolves around binge-watching Netflix, her two dogs who don’t realize they aren’t humans and her wonderful baseball-loving husband.
You can take a look at Jaqueline’s Website and Blog and you can also follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
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Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, friends to lovers, multicultural, geeks, nerds, marriage of convenience, green card marriage, demisexual, bisexual, family drama, inheritance, work drama, money problems, adulting, one-bed dilemma
Mariana Mitogo is struggling to make ends meet. Then, out of the blue, she learns she’s to receive a huge inheritance that would erase all her debt. The problem: she has to be married for six months to receive it, and her dating life is nonexistent.
In Spain…
Santiago de los Reyes, Mariana’s Internet friend, has drained his bank account to support his family. Desperate to get his mom the heart surgery she needs, he interviews for a better-paying job that would take him from Madrid to Virginia. When he’s offered the position but can’t get a work visa, Mariana offers a solution that benefits both of them—a fiancé visa and a quick wedding.
If anyone finds out it’s a green-card marriage, Santiago will be deported. Mariana would face a colossal fine and jail time. Good thing they’re committed actors.
But as Santiago and Mariana pretend to build a life together, the lines blur between charade and reality. Will they dare to choose the love that feels more honest every day?
Border Ctrl+Esc is a lighthearted friends-to-lovers marriage of convenience between LGBTQ+ Internet friends (a demisexual woman and a bisexual man).
Mariana Mitogo scanned the faces filtering through both the escalator and the stairs into the Arrivals area of the airport, hoping Santiago de los Reyes Martínez hadn’t changed his appearance since his last selfie. She had assumed he wore his glasses all the time like she did, but did he? Maybe they were only for the aesthetic. What if he didn’t have them on, or he cut his hair, and she didn’t recognize him? What if his plane had come in somewhere else and this wasn’t even the right flight?
Announcements squawked over the speakers; conversations murmured around her as a fresh wave of people came from the gates. The crowds swirled, heading to the luggage conveyors and the restaurants and the exit. She sidestepped travelers on their phones. She almost passed over the man who stepped off the escalator next—and then she couldn’t look away.
Thick, mussed black hair curled over the edges of his ears and down the nape of his neck, too long to look professional. His naturally tawny complexion had darkened with exposure to the sun, and she could see those big, dark eyes from here, even with his oversized hipster glasses. The edges of him were soft, not harsh with muscle, but something about the angle of his shoulders and the way he filled out his simple T-shirt and jeans scrambled her insides.
Please don’t be him, she prayed, ready to barter her health and wealth against her need to not have to deal with a cute guy friend. She hadn’t been interested in anyone since she was sixteen—she didn’t want to start now. Life was simpler that way.
As she stood there, appalled at her potential bad luck, he turned to meet her gaze, and he pulled back. No wave, not even a smile. He just pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, shoulders tense, lips pressed together.
Her throat prickled. Of course I look different. Cheeks hot, she smoothed her palms over the front of her yellow dress. I guess I didn’t expect to…to disappoint him.
He hadn’t even waved yet. She swallowed her embarrassment and, with a smile, did jazz hands.
A grin split his face, and it clicked.
She’d seen that grin in enough goofy selfies.
Damn it.
Santiago raced to her, dropped his suitcase, and swept her into a bear hug. For a split second she froze, not having expected outright affection—but then she relaxed and hugged him back, and her concern about attraction faded.
This is him, her heart and mind seemed to sigh, this time in relief. This is Santi. They already knew each other inside and out. Having him here in person, at long last, fit a piece into place she hadn’t realized was missing.
When he finally let go, she tapped him on the chest. “I’m not sure I know how to talk to you face-to-face. Let’s go sit somewhere so we can text.”
He snorted with laughter, as she’d hoped. “Maybe we can turn around and pretend to talk to our phones.” The lilt of his native language softened his English, prettier than her own slight Virginian drawl. Poor guy, having to practice his second language with a Southerner. He was going to end up with two different accents blended into one. Not to mention a propensity for the word y’all.
“How was your flight?” It seemed like the appropriate first question to ask.
He shrugged and rubbed his butt. “It was fine. Long.”
She grinned.
This response, though, made his forehead crinkle. “I said that right, didn’t I? Sorry about my accent.”
“Yeah, you said it fine.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Do you want any coffee or anything before we start the drive home? It’s gonna be another two hours until we get there.”
Santi glanced around the waiting area, probably looking for a coffee shop.
“Not here. There’s a Starbucks a couple miles down the highway.”
He half grimaced at the word miles. “And that’s…?”
“Oh.” She struggled to remember the correct ratio of miles to kilometers. Two to one? One to two? Ugh, math. She gave up. “About five minutes.”
They both stared at each other, looking a little blank, until they shared a self-deprecating laugh, and he picked up his suitcase. “Yes, let’s get some coffee. I’ll still be able to sleep when we get home.”
Ivy L. James wrote her first story on Post-it notes as a child. Since then, she has graduated to regular paper and enjoys writing inclusive, heartwarming romance as a way to counterbalance the negativity in the world. She lives in Maryland with her partner and their corgi, cat, and two snakes.
BellaRose
Life is a series of little moments. From the rising sun to the sweet smell of freshly cut grass to the discovery of a beautiful baby girl. Abandoned like forgotten garbage, it is up to me to keep her safe, even if it’s from her crime boss grandfather. I’m in a constant state of fear and anxiety with each passing day. Until Pennington James breaches my world and my soul.
Pennington
When my grandfather left me his house and asked me to take care of the home next door, he failed to mention anything about the woman who owns it. From the first time I met her, I knew BellaRose is beautiful with a caring heart. It’s that caring heart that has her hiding from the dark underbelly of our town. Keeping Bella safe is the perfect cover for my investigation. Falling in love with a baby and her savior is the last thing I wanted, but the heart is the ruler of love and mine wants Bella.
AEGIS is written in New York Times Bestselling author K. Bromberg’s Everyday Heroes World, which is one of two KB Worlds projects that launched in August 2020. With over 100 authors, who were selected by and are working with K. Bromberg, these stories will be fan fiction at its finest—and sexiest. Devoted fans of the Driven and Everyday Heroes series will have the opportunity to revisit their favorite characters and settings. You can find out more about K. Bromberg and the KB Worlds at kbworlds.com.
Hollis Wynn is a thirty-something gypsy who lives for adventure and calls home anywhere that she lays her head.
On her wandering she can’t live without three things… music, books and her yorkiepoo Boston.
Hollis has been writing stories for years and after successfully running the White Hot Reads blog, she finally gave in to her passion and took the publishing leap!
When she’s penning stories where life and love collide, you’ll find her desk covered in empty wine glasses, gluten free cupcake crumbs and multiple drafts of her latest WIP covered in ink (pink of course)!
Award-winning photojournalist Scott Rowe is struggling with the physical injuries and emotional scars caused by the terrorist attack that killed his interpreter, Omran Saleh. A long succession of doctors and surgeons have put his body back together, but to Scott, his mind seems beyond repair. Panic attacks ambush his days, and nightmares haunt his fitful sleep. He can’t bring himself to touch his broken camera, let alone consider returning to work. His only sanctuary is the darkroom, where he can escape the secret he carries surrounding Omran’s death.
Dr Jason Andrews is determined to bring Scott back from the brink. His alternative healing methods are like nothing Scott has ever seen, and at first, Scott feels foolish lying on Jason’s table with hot rocks in his hands or acupuncture needles in his skin. But one thing keeps Scott coming back: the detailed visions that appear like movies in his mind, of himself in other times, cultures, and continents, and Jason himself, whose relentless hope steers them through the storms of Scott’s recovery.
As his health improves, Scott begins to wonder what his visions mean. Are they vivid daydreams, figments of his exhausted mind? And why does he only have these visions when he is with Jason?
Scott hopes the answers will give him a reason to make peace with Omran’s death and begin to truly live again, instead of merely surviving. But what if they also give him a reason to love?
Scott opens his eyes slowly as he steps out of the darkroom. The small lamp on his bedside cabinet provides only a shadowy glow over the flat, and he shuffles toward it with a yawn, finally ready for sleep.
When he’d started renting this place in Camden three years ago, it was meant to be somewhere to crash between jobs, a glorified storage locker with a shower. It’s square and plain, his bed on one side and galley kitchen on the other, decorated only with photos and trinkets from his travels. After the accident, when it became clear he’d be grounded for a few months, he transformed the bathroom by draping a blackout curtain around the door and setting a plank over the bathtub for his chemical trays. There, he can flip on the fan and work for hours, just feet away physically but miles away mentally from his bed, where insomnia and nightmares crowd out any hope of sleep.
His darkroom habit is his only connection to photography these days. He hasn’t picked up his camera since he left the hospital in January; it’s in pieces, after all, his £3,200 digital Canon collecting dust in his cupboard. Scott never did find out who collected it from the scene and sent it along with him in the ambulance. They shouldn’t have bothered; he can’t bring himself to touch the thing, even to throw it out. Instead, he finds solace in the undeveloped film from his 35mm Leica.
Film is reserved for London, family, and home, where there are no publishing deadlines to meet or editors to please. He has compiled quite a collection of undeveloped rolls over the last few years; being home only a day or two at a time had given him a chance to take pictures but not develop them before he’d be on his way again, so his desk drawer holds a grab bag of birthday parties, impromptu picnics, and London day trips. He never knows what will appear on the long strip of film, but he knows what won’t. There will be no Ukraine, no Kabul, no Delhi; no plane crashes, no war zones, no children dying in poverty.
Last night, the roll he processed had turned out to be all Olivia and Thomas, two years ago at Christmas. Scott’s heart clenched pleasantly when the images appeared, remembering how he and his sister had sprinkled jelly babies and crisps in the garden for reindeer food because Thomas thought that’s what they’d like. Tonight, Scott picks out a few frames to print for Olivia, of their mum filling stockings and Thomas’s astonished reaction to his new toy train. He spends time printing the images, making sure the contrast is perfect. His eyes finally get heavy as he places the last few photographs on the drying rack.
The sky is not yet lightening. Scott picks up his phone from the bedside cabinet to check the time. Thursday, the 19th of May, 4:07 a.m. An appointment reminder lights up, and shit, today is his first session with the new guy Dr Coulter wants him to see.
At least the appointment isn’t until two.
After he crosses the day off his calendar with his black Sharpie (he’s up to day one hundred fifty-nine) and sends a quick goodnight message on WhatsApp, Scott arranges himself in bed, flat on his back with his bad arm propped up on pillows. He’ll get a few hours of sleep after all.
Cynthia’s love of romance began in eighth grade when she chose to read Jane Eyre instead of Huckleberry Finn. Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë, and Daphne du Maurier shaped her passion for love stories that feature mysterious plots and unforgettable characters. At thirteen, she couldn’t have imagined a world where books appear on screens at the touch of a button, but decades later, romances of all genres fill her (digital) shelves while her dog-eared, well-loved copy of Jane Eyre still lives on her bedside table.
Cynthia’s art history degree landed her a museum job in New York, but she left the Big Apple when her own love story took her to the prairies of the Midwest. She now lives a stone’s throw from the Mississippi River, and you can find her poring over art books, reading tarot cards, taking nature walks with her family, and reading and writing love stories.
Robbo is broken. He’s split up with his girlfriend. Given up on love. Forever. And now he must pretend to be happy for a friend’s week-long birthday celebration.
Daniel’s boyfriend refuses to go to the celebration with him. Another nail in the coffin for their relationship. So he brings his best friend, Sam. They notice the heart-broken straight guy has attractively filled swimming shorts and a body to draw their sunglasses-obscured gazes.
If Robbo can put aside how he thinks others will see him if he comes out and if Daniel can escape the history of his dead relationship, maybe they have chance.
When Robbo Met Daniel is a stand-alone gay romance with a curious man who’s only ever been with women and a flamboyant gay man who’s looking for someone to be kinder than his useless boyfriend. A dash of well-meaning friends and forced proximity could mean a happy ever after.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Monday Morning
Robbo stood back so he could stare at his suitcase, resting on the not very comfortable pull-out futon he’d been sleeping on. He threw four T-shirts, three pairs of shorts, and flip-flops into the case.
There was a knock on the door.
“All right,” Robbo replied.
Caspian opened the door. “Nearly packed?”
“Yeah. Some Lynx Africa, my shaving kit and I’m done.”
Caspian pushed the clothes into the suitcase. “And sun cream. Maya’s been on about factor fifty for weeks.” He rolled his eyes.
“I’ll borrow yours if that’s OK.” Robbo was already borrowing his friend’s spare room and bed, so what harm would a few squirts of sun cream be?
“’Course mate.” Caspian smiled weakly.
“Thanks.” Robbo turned to face the bed, his back towards Caspian. “Still think I’d be better off here. Don’t feel much in a party mood.”
“Lulu wants you there. Shaun told me. Said he’d told you.”
“Haven’t heard from him.” Robbo thought it worth trying one last time to get out of the trip. After the upheaval with Becky, he could have done with a week of work and of being alone in Caspian and Maya’s spare room. Just himself and his thoughts moping quietly on the futon.
“He told me he’d called you,” Caspian said. “Still, you know what he’s like. Probably didn’t know what to say.”
Robbo turned and perched on the bed.
“Shaun won’t mind if I don’t go. Lulu’s not going to miss me.”
“Shaun will mind, because Lulu will mind. Forty is a big deal.”
“Ancient.” Robbo let out a small laugh and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Lulu’s a bit of a cougar, isn’t she?”
“Shaun loves her. That’s all that matters, mate.” Caspian’s stern stare told Robbo all he needed to know.
“Sorry. I’m not myself. Bit cynical about couples, you know?”
Caspian manfully patted Robbo’s shoulder.
“It’s easy to pack. All I’m doing is moving stuff from that suitcase—” He pointed to the large one in the corner. “—to this one.” He indicated the small one on the bed. “Every cloud…”
“Won’t be long till you’re back on your feet. Best this way. You did try.”
Robbo felt the familiar sadness building in his eyes. He didn’t want to dissolve into another snot and tears covered heap like he had when he’d called Caspian, asking if he could crash in their spare room after leaving the flat he’d shared with Becky, his girlfriend. He swallowed, blinking the tears away from his eyes. “I tried. Lots of things. Lots of times.”
“Enough of this. Or I’m gonna have to hug you again, and we know how awkward that gets. Do you want me to bring out the big guns and hug you?” Caspian held his arms out, waggling his fingers comically.
Robbo shook his head. “Fuck off. I’ll live.” They stood in silence for a moment.
A woman’s voice floated from the far side of the flat, telling them the taxi was booked for an hour, and if they weren’t ready, she’d be leaving without them. But not Robbo. Maya—Caspian’s wife, could have organised her way out of any situation—including making sure Robbo wasn’t allowed to wallow in his sadness. On their futon.
Caspian raised his eyes, gesturing towards his wife’s voice. “Best get on.”
Robbo let out a long, exhausted sigh, knowing he had to put a brave face on things and that staying here being miserable wouldn’t do him any good. He collected his razor and shaving gel and pushed them into the duffel bag, squashing everything else in the process.
Caspian said, quietly now, “Mate. I’ll lend you my gel if it helps with the packing.”
Without turning to face his friend, Robbo removed the can of gel, nodded, then said, “Ta mate.”
“Lads weekend. Like before. Do you good. Trust me.” Caspian closed the door behind him.
Robbo turned back to his packing and focussed on the friends he’d soon be seeing, mentally ticking off their names in turn, then wondering why that didn’t sound quite right. And then, with a heavy heart, he remembered he’d excluded their wives and girlfriends. The pairing of names that meant they had someone. Caspian and Maya sounded much better than simply Caspian.
Robbo and Becky.
Robbo.
Maya’s voice, louder now, carried through his closed door, “Twenty minutes. Taxi. If you’re not ready in ten, I’m packing your case, and don’t think I’m beyond rifling through your pants.”
Robbo—knowing Maya meant every word she said, and once he was in the sun and swimming in the pool in Spain, he would indeed feel better than stewing in his own sorrowful juices in this box room alone—threw his phone charger, headphones, and a paperback into his case. “Packed and ready!” He zipped up the bag and carried it to the living room where Maya and Caspian stood next to theirs.
*
Daniel had been trying to persuade his boyfriend, Terry, to start packing for most of the last week. He had, at this point, already resorted to begging, bribing, and finally offering sexual favours. None of which had changed Terry’s opinion. Daniel fixed a stare at Terry. “The change of space will do us good.”
“Why?” Terry stuck his bottom lip out.
“I’m sure we can work things out. Bit of sun, some swimming in the pool. A beer in our hands and we’ll soon remember why we love each other.”
“You might,” Terry shot back, without humour or eye contact.
“Come on. Meet me halfway,” Daniel said, now kneeling at Terry’s feet.
Terry turned his head away. “I’m done. I can’t talk about this anymore. In fact, despite your romantic ideas about us sitting in Spain and working it all out, I don’t think there’s anything to discuss. Nothing of any value at any rate.”
Daniel slowly stood. “I’ve told you before; I’m not happy with this.” He gestured to Terry.
Terry’s legs were crossed, his arms folded, and his bottom lip still remained resolutely stuck out almost as far as his nose. “I knew it was a mistake when you started seeing that counsellor for your fear of flying issues.”
Daniel bit his tongue, considered his next move carefully, then said, “You’re not used to me telling you how I feel.”
“Fuck me gently. Daniel, it’s all you ever fucking well tell me. You’ve written me a letter. I’m expecting an interpretive dance routine next to make sure I understand how you feel. There’s nothing more to say. I’m done. We’re over.”
Although it bristled slightly, Daniel forged on. “So why don’t you want to do anything about it?” Quietly now, he added, “If you love me.” Didn’t Terry love him?
“We’ve been through this. Besides, I’m doing nothing wrong. It’s you who’s changed since getting these stupid ideas from that stupid woman.” Terry pouted, then checked his nails ostentatiously. “Better for you to fly alone, get used to flying and living without me. No point hanging on to me being by your side when I won’t be afterwards. We’re done. Really done. I’m sure your fear-of-flying woman would approve.”
Daniel realised he wouldn’t get any further with this line or argument since it hadn’t worked before and hadn’t worked now; they’d had this “we’re over” discussion before. So instead, he thought he’d appeal to Terry’s loyalty to his friend. “Lulu’s been planning this party for months. She picked the dates based on your availability. She’s always saying she doesn’t see you often enough. Come, if not for me, for her. Promise I won’t talk about any of this us stuff out there. Come for Lulu.”
“I’m done with this. Us. This conversation. We’re finished. Fuck Lulu, I’m not coming. She’ll live. Plenty of other uni friends there. Doubt she’ll notice I’m not there. I’ll text her now.” Terry, in a huff, large even for him, left the room.
Well, that had been Daniel’s best shot. That had taken everything he could muster and had still failed. Still, another new thing to discuss with the fear-of-flying woman next month, but now he had to call Sam. Going alone was the biggest challenge, getting used to flying, to being, without… But although he thought he should be, Daniel was far from ready for that. Far from ready to give up on him and Terry. Because surely Terry still loved him, didn’t he?
He scrolled through his phone, his thumb hovering over the S while Terry banged and crashed in their bedroom.
Liam Livings lives where east London ends and becomes Essex. He shares his house with his boyfriend and cat. He enjoys baking, cooking, classic cars and socialising with friends. He has a sweet tooth for food and entertainment: loving to escape from real life with a romantic book; enjoying a good cry at a sad, funny and camp film; and listening to musical cheesy pop from the eighties to now. He tirelessly watches an awful lot of Gilmore Girls in the name of writing ‘research’.
Published since 2013 by a variety of British and American presses, his gay romance and gay fiction focuses on friendships, British humour, romance with plenty of sparkle. He’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the Chartered Institute of Marketing. With a masters in creative writing from Kingston University, he teaches writing workshops with his partner in sarcasm and humour, Virginia Heath as http://www.realpeoplewritebooks.com and has also ghost written a client’s 5 Star reviewed autobiography.
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