Head or tail? She won't have to choose... Mated on Hades by Golden Angel is coming July 6th! 99¢ ON PRE-ORDER. HURRY!!! US → https://amzn.to/2tbFvpG AU → https://amzn.to/2MH2Kjn CA → https://amzn.to/2tcOdE0 UK → https://amzn.to/2tttk70 BLURB: The Celestial Mates agency always knows what - or who - you need. Tarrik would do anything to avoid breaking his mother's heart, so he begrudgingly signs up for Celestial Mates and agrees to come home and settle down once the agency finds his match. There's just one catch: he's not ready to give up his free and easy life traveling the galaxy. And he's doing exactly as his mother asked, so what will it hurt if he makes himself as unappealing as possible on his mate application? Juliette is a woman on the run. Her attitude, and more importantly her hacking skills, have pissed off all the wrong people. Now the target of a contract hit, she's decided the solution to her problems is to leave the planet as fast as she can. The Celestial Mates program is exactly what she needs. By the time her "mate" realizes she's impossible to live with, hopefully it will be safe for her to return to earth. She wasn't counting on a seriously hot alien who looked like the devil and could do the most sinful things with his tail... The sparks fly at first meeting when their chemistry ignites. But they can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. They shouldn't work at all. But Celestial Mates always knows best.About Angel Angel is a self-described bibliophile with a "kinky" bent who loves to write stories for the characters in her head. If she didn't get them out, she's pretty sure she'd go just a little crazy. She is happily married, old enough to know better but still too young to care, and a big fan of happily-ever-afters, strong heroes and heroines, and sizzling chemistry. She believes the world is a better place when there's a little magic in it.Find Angel Online! Amazon → http://amzn.to/2DplX3X BookBub → http://bit.ly/2G68e3O Goodreads → http://bit.ly/2rt4rdL Facebook → http://bit.ly/2Ds7c0e Website → http://bit.ly/2wczWv7
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Fans of Sarah Dessen, Stephanie Perkins, and Jenny Han will delight as the fireworks spark and the secrets fly in this delicious summer romance from a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. When Jade decided to spend the summer with her aunt in California, she thought she knew what she was getting into. But nothing could have prepared her for Quentin. Jade hasn't been in suburbia long and even she knows her annoying (and annoyingly cute) next-door neighbor spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. And when Quentin learns Jade plans to spend her first American summer hiding out reading books, he refuses to be ignored. Sneaking out, staying up, and even a midnight swim, Quentin is determined to give Jade days--and nights--worth remembering. But despite their storybook-perfect romance, every time Jade moves closer, Quentin pulls away. And when rumors of a jilted ex-girlfriend come to light, Jade knows Quentin is hiding a secret--and she's determined to find out what it is. Anything was possible. At least that’s what it felt like. Summer seventeen was going to be one for the record books. I already knew it. I could feel it—from the nervous-excited swirl in my stomach to the buzz in the air around me. This was going to be the summer—my summer. “Last chance to cry uncle or forever hold your peace,” Mom sang beside me in the backseat of the cab we’d caught at the airport. Her hand managed to tighten around mine even more, cutting off the last bit of my circulation. If there was any left. I tried to look the precise amount of unsure before answering. “So long, last chance,” I said, waving out the window. Mom sighed, squeezing my hand harder still. It was starting to go numb now. Summer seventeen might find me one hand short if Mom didn’t ease up on the death grip. She and her band, the Shrinking Violets, were going to be touring internationally after finally hitting it big, but she was moping because this was the first summer we wouldn't be together. Actually, it would be the first time we’d been apart ever. I’d sold her on the idea of me staying in the States with her sister and family by going on about how badly I wanted to experience one summer as a normal, everyday American teenager before graduating from high school. One chance to see what it was like to stay in the same place, with the same people, before I left for college. One last chance to see what life as an American teen was really like. She bought it . . . eventually. She’d have her bandmates and tens of thousands of adoring fans to keep her company—she could do without me for a couple of months. I hoped. It had always been just Mom and me from day one. She had me when she was young—like young young—and even though her boyfriend pretty much bailed before the line turned pink, she’d done just fine on her own. We’d both kind of grown up together, and I knew she’d missed out on a lot by raising me. I wanted this to be a summer for the record books for her, too. One she could really live up, not having to worry about taking care of her teenage daughter. Plus, I wanted to give her a chance to experience what life without me would be like. Soon I’d be off to college somewhere, and I figured easing her into the empty-nester phase was a better approach than going cold turkey. “You packed sunscreen, right?” Mom’s bracelets jingled as she leaned to look out her window, staring at the bright blue sky like it was suspect. “SPF seventy for hot days, fifty for warm days, and thirty for overcast ones.” I toed the trusty duffel resting at my feet.It had traveled the globe with me for the past decade and had the wear to prove it. “That’s my fair-skinned girl.” When Mom looked over at me, the crease between her eyebrows carved deeper with worry. “You might want to check into SPF yourself. You’re not going to be in your mid thirties forever, you know?” Mom groaned. “Don’t remind me. But I’m already beyond SPF’s help at this point. Unless it can help fix a saggy butt and crow’s-feet.” She pinched invisible wrinkles and wiggled her butt against the seat. It was my turn to groan. It was annoying enough that people mistook us for sisters all the time, but it was worse that she could (and did) wear the same jeans as me. There should be some rule that moms aren’t allowed to takes clothes from the closets of their teenage daughters. When the cab turned down Providence Avenue, I felt a sudden streak of panic. Not for myself, but for my mom. Could she survive a summer when I wasn’t at her side, reminding her when the cell phone bill was due or updating her calendar so she knew where to be and when to be there? Would she be okay without me reminding her that fruits and vegetables were part of the food pyramid for a reason and making sure everything was all set backstage? “Hey.” Mom gave me a look, her eyes suggesting she could read my thoughts. “I’ll be okay. I’m a strong, empowered thirty-four-year-old woman.” “Cell phone charger.” I yanked the one dangling from her oversized, metal-studded purse, which I’d wrapped in hot pink tape so it stood out. “I’ve packed you two extras to get you through the summer. When you get down to your last one, make sure to pick up two more so you’re covered—” “Jade, please,” she interrupted. “I’ve only lost a few. It’s not like I’ve misplaced . . .” “Thirty-two phone chargers in the past five years?” When she opened her mouth to protest, I added, “I’ve got the receipts to prove it, too.” Her mouth clamped closed as the cab rolled up to my aunt’s house. “What am I going to do without you?” Mom swallowed, dropping her big black retro sunglasses over her eyes to hide the tears starting to form, to my surprise. I was better at keeping my emotions hidden, so I didn’t dig around in my purse for sunglasses. “Um, I don’t know? Maybe rock a sold-out international tour? Six continents in three months? Fifty concerts in ninety days? That kind of thing?” Mom started to smile. She loved music—writing it, listening to it, playing it—and was a true musician. She hadn’t gotten into it to become famous or make the Top 40 or anything like that; she’d done it because it was who she was. She was the same person playing to a dozen people in a crowded café as she was now, the lead singer of one of the biggest bands in the world playing to an arena of thousands. “Sounds pretty killer. All of those countries. All of that adventure.” Mom’s hand was on the door handle, but it looked more like she was trying to keep the taxi door closed than to open it. “Sure you don’t want to be a part of it?” I smiled thinly back at my mom, her wild brown hair spilling over giant glasses. She had this boundless sense of adventure—always had and always would—so it was hard for her to comprehend how her own offspring could feel any different. “Promise to call me every day and send me pictures?” I said, feeling the driver lingering outside my door with luggage in hand. This was it. Mom exhaled, lifting her pinkie toward me. “Promise.” I curled my pinkie around hers and forced a smile. “Love you, Mom.” Her finger wound around mine as tightly as she had clenched my other hand on the ride here. “Love you no matter what.” Then she shoved her door open and crawled out, but not before I noticed one tiny tear escape her sunglasses. By the time I’d stepped out of the cab, all signs of that tear or any others were gone. Mom did tears as often as she wrote moving love songs. In other words, never. As she dug around in her purse for her wallet to pay the driver, I took a minute to inspect the house in front of me. The last time we’d been here was for Thanksgiving three years ago. Or was it four? I couldn’t remember, but it was long enough to have forgotten how bright white my aunt and uncle’s house was, how the windows glowed from being so clean and the landscaping looked almost fake it was so well kept. It was pretty much the total opposite of the tour buses and extended-stay hotels I’d spent most of my life in. My mother, Meg Abbott, did not do tidy. “Back zipper pocket,” I said as she struggled to find the money in her wallet. “Aha,” she announced, freeing a few bills to hand to the driver, whose patience was wilting. After taking her luggage, she shouldered up beside me. “So the neat-freak thing gets worse with time.” Mom gaped at the walkway leading up to the cobalt-blue front door, where a Davenport nameplate sparkled in the sunlight. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say most of the surfaces I’d eaten off of weren’t as clean as the stretch of concrete in front of me. “Mom . . . ,” I warned, when she shuddered after she roamed to inspect the window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums. “I’m not being mean,” she replied as we started down the walkway. “I’m appreciating my sister’s and my differences. That’s all.” Right then, the front door whisked open and my aunt seemed to float from it, a measured smile in place, not a single hair out of place. “Appreciating our differences,” Mom muttered under her breath as we moved closer. I bit my lip to keep from laughing as the two sisters embraced. Mom had long dark hair and fell just under the average-height bar like me. Aunt Julie, conversely, had light hair she kept swishing above her shoulders, and she was tall and thin. Her eyes were almost as light blue as mine, compared to Mom’s, which were almost as dark as her hair. It wasn’t only their physical differences that set them apart; it was everything. From the way they dressed Mom in some shade of dark, whereas the darkest color I’d ever seen Aunt Julie wear was periwinkle—to their taste in food, Mom was on the spicy end of the spectrum and Aunt Julie was on the mild. Mom stared at Aunt Julie. Aunt Julie stared back at Mom. This went on for twenty-one seconds. I counted. The last stare-down four years ago had gone forty-nine. So this was progress. Finally, Aunt Julie folded her hands together, her rounded nails shining from a fresh manicure. “Hello, Jade. Hello, Megan.” Mom’s back went ramrod straight when Aunt Julie referred to her by her given name. Aunt Julie was eight years older but acted more like her mother than her sister. “How’s it hangin’, Jules?” Aunt Julie’s lips pursed hearing her little sister’s nickname for her. Then she stepped back and motioned inside. “Well?” That was my cue to pick up my luggage and follow after Mom, who was tromping up the front steps. “Are we done already? Really?” she asked, nudging Aunt Julie as she passed. “I’m taking the higher road,” Aunt Julie replied. “What you call taking the higher road I call getting soft in your old age.” Mom hustled through the door after that, like she was afraid Aunt Julie would kick her butt or something. The image of Aunt Julie kicking anything made me giggle to myself. “Jade.” Aunt Julie’s smile was of the real variety this time as she took my duffel from me. “You were a girl the last time we saw you, and look at you now. All grown up.” “Hey, Aunt Julie. Thanks again for letting me spend the summer with you guys,” I said, pausing beside her, not sure whether to hug her or keep moving. A moment of awkwardness passed before she made the decision for me by reaching out and patting my back. I continued on after that. Aunt Julie wasn’t cold or removed; she just showed her affection differently. But I knew she cared about me and my mom. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t pick up the phone on the first ring whenever we did call every few months. She also wouldn’t have immediately said yes when Mom asked her a few months ago if I could spend the summer here. “Let me show you to your room.” She pulled the door shut behind her and led us through the living room. “Paul and I had the guest room redone to make it more fitting for a teenage girl.” “Instead of an eighty-year-old nun who had a thing for quilts and angel figurines?” Mom said, biting at her chipped black nail polish. “I wouldn’t expect someone whose idea of a feng shui living space is kicking the dirty clothes under their bed to appreciate my sense of style,” Aunt Julie fired back, like she’d been anticipating Mom’s dig. I cut in before they could get into it. “You didn’t have to do that, Aunt Julie. The guest room exactly the way it was would have been great.” “Speaking of the saint also known as my brother-in-law, where is Paul?” Mom spun around, moving down the hall backward. “At work.” Aunt Julie stopped outside of a room. “He wanted to be here, but his job’s been crazy lately.” Aunt Julie snatched the porcelain angel Mom had picked up from the hall table. She carefully returned it to the exact same spot, adjusting it a hair after a moment’s consideration. “Where are the twins?” I asked, scanning the hallway for Hannah and Hailey. The last time I’d seen them, they were in preschool but acted like they were in grad school or something. They were nice kids, just kind of freakishly well behaved and brainy. “At Chinese camp,” Aunt Julie answered. “Getting to eat dim sum and make paper dragons?” Mom asked, sounding almost surprised. Aunt Julie sighed. “Learning the Chinese language.” Aunt Julie opened a door and motioned me inside. I’d barely set one foot into the room before my eyes almost crossed from what I found. Holy pink. Hot pink, light pink, glittery pink, Pepto-Bismol pink—every shade, texture, and variety of pink seemed to be represented inside this square of space. “What do you think?” Aunt Julie gushed, moving up beside me with a giant smile. “I love it,” I said, working up a smile. “It’s great. So great. And so . . . pink.” “I know, right?” Aunt Julie practically squealed. I didn’t know she was capable of anything close to that high-pitched. “We hired a designer and everything. I told her you were a girly seventeen-year-old and let her do the rest.” Glancing over at the full-length mirror framed in, you bet, fuchsia rhinestones, I wondered what about me led my aunt to classify me as “girly.” I shopped at vintage thrift stores, lived in faded denim and colors found in nature, not ones manufactured in the land of Oz. I was wearing sneakers, cut-offs, and a flowy olive-colored blouse, pretty much the other end of the spectrum. The last girly thing I’d done was wear makeup on Halloween. I was a zombie. Beside me, Mom was gaping at the room like she’d walked in on a crime scene. A gruesome crime scene. “What the . . . pink?” she edited after I dug an elbow into her. “You shouldn’t have.” I smiled at Aunt Julie when she turned toward me, still beaming. “Yeah, Jules. You really shouldn’t have.” Mom shook her head, flinching when she noticed the furry pink stool tucked beneath the vanity that was resting beneath a huge cotton-candy-pink chandelier. “It’s the first real bedroom this girl’s ever had. Of course I should have. I couldn’t not.” Aunt Julie moved toward the bed, fixing the smallest fold in the comforter. “Jade’s had plenty of bedrooms.” Mom nudged me, glancing at the window. She was giving me an out. She had no idea how much more it would take than a horrendously pink room for me to want to take it. “Oh, please. Harry Potter had a more suitable bedroom in that closet under the stairs than Jade’s ever had. You can’t consider something that either rolls down a highway or is bolted to a hotel floor an appropriate room for a young woman.” Aunt Julie wasn’t in dig mode; she was in honest mode. That put Mom in unleash-the-beast mode. Her face flashed red, but before she could spew whatever comeback she had stewing inside, I cut in front of her. “Aunt Julie, would you mind if Mom and I had a few minutes alone? You know, to say good-bye and everything?” As infrequently as we visited the house on Providence Avenue, I fell into my role of referee like it was second nature. “Of course not. We’ll have lots of time to catch up.” Aunt Julie gave me another pat on the shoulder as she headed for the door. “We’ll have all summer.” She’d just disappeared when her head popped back in the doorway. “Meg, can I get you anything to drink before you have to dash?” “Whiskey,” Mom answered intently. Aunt Julie chuckled like she’d made a joke, continuing down the hall. I dropped my duffel on the pink zebra-striped throw rug. “Mom—” “You grew up seeing the world. Experiencing things most people will never get to in their whole lives.” Her voice was getting louder with every word. “You’ve got a million times the perspective of kids your age. A billion times more compassion and an understanding that the world doesn’t revolve around you. Who is she to make me out to be some inadequate parent when all she cares about is raising obedient, genius robots? She doesn’t know what it was like for me. How hard it was.” “Mom,” I repeated, dropping my hands onto her shoulders as I looked her in the eye. “You did great.” It took a minute for the red to fade from her face, then another for her posture to relax. “You’re great. I just tried not to get in the way too much and screw all that greatness up.” “And if you must know, I’d take any of the hundreds of rooms we’ve shared over this pinktastrophe.” So it was kind of a lie, the littlest of ones. Sure, pink was on my offensive list, but the room was clean and had a door, and I would get to stay in the same place at least for the next few months. After living out of suitcases and overnight bags for most of my life, I was looking forward to discovering what drawer-and-closet living was like. Mom threw her arms around me, pulling me in for one of those final-feeling hugs. Except this time, it kind of wasa final one. Realizing that made me feel like someone had stuffed a tennis ball down my throat. “I love you no matter what,” she whispered into my ear again, the same words she’d sang, said, or on occasion shouted at me. Mom never just said I love you. She had something against those three words on their own. They were too open, too loosely defined, too easy to take back when something went wrong. I love you no matter what had always been her way of telling me she loved me forever and for always. Unconditionally. She said that, before me, she’d never felt that type of love for anyone. What I’d picked up along the way on my own was that I was the only one she felt loved her back in the same way. Squeezing my arms around my mom a little harder, I returned her final kind of hug. “I love you no matter what, too.” Nicole Williams is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary and young adult romance, including the Crash and Lost & Found series. Her books have been published by HarperTeen and Simon & Schuster in both domestic and foreign markets, while she continues to self-publish additional titles. She is working on a new YA series with Crown Books (a division of Random House) as well. She loves romance, from the sweet to the steamy, and writes stories about characters in search of their happily even after. She grew up surrounded by books and plans on writing until the day she dies, even if it’s just for her own personal enjoyment. She still buys paperbacks because she’s all nostalgic like that, but her kindle never goes neglected for too long. When not writing, she spends her time with her husband and daughter, and whatever time’s left over she’s forced to fit too many hobbies into too little time. Nicole is represented by Jane Dystel, of Dystel and Goderich Literary Agency.
Title: Stud
Series: Dragon Runners #2
Author: ML Nystrom
Publisher: Hot Tree Publishing
Genre: MC Romance
Release Date: June 23, 2018
Blurb
Bold and brash, Eva MacAteer has spent her life working in her blue-collar familyâs construction business. In doing so, sheâs had to fight for her own place away from her overbearing father, as well as for her own identity as a woman. Struggling between her loyalty to her brothers and her desire to strike out to be her own person, Eva knows one thing for certain: getting involved with a womanizer, no matter how hot he may be, is not the path for her.
Stud is not one to be tied down to any woman. Fiercely loyal to the club and his single ways, the last thing he expects is to become fascinated by the fiery Eva. He sees his own life reflected in hers and is not quite sure how to handle the connection.
Can two mismatched people find enough common ground to overcome their fears and allow love to grow?
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Author Bio
ML Nystrom had stories in her head since she was a child. All sorts of stories of fantasy, romance, mystery and anything else that captured her interest. A voracious reader, sheâs spent many hours devouring books; therefore, she found it only fitting she should write a few herself!
ML has spent most of my life as a performing musician and band instrument repair technician, but that doesnât mean sheâs pigeon-holed into one mold. Sheâs been a university professor, belly dancer, craftsperson, soap maker, singer, rock band artist, jewelry maker, lifeguard, swim coach, and whatever else she felt like exploring. As one of her students said to her once, "Lifeâs too short to ignore the opportunities." She has no intention of ever stopping... so welcome to her story world. She hopes you enjoy it!
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Release Date: June 27, 2018 Cover Design: Kellie Dennis / Book Cover by Design SynopsisMatt: Want to know the fastest way to get screwed out of a football career? Get photographed in a compromising position in a gay bar. Yep, welcome to my life.My agent says he can fix my image. He wants me to become the poster boy for gay football players. Me? I just want back on the field. I’ll do anything to play for the NFL again, even pretend to have a steady boyfriend. If only my fake boyfriend wasn’t Noah Huntington III—the most arrogant, entitled rich guy in the world. Noah: Pretend to be Matt Jackson’s boyfriend, my best friend said. It’ll be fun, he said. What Damon neglected to mention is Matt is surly and bitter. Being his boyfriend is a job in itself. From his paranoia over being constantly photographed to his aversion to PDA, being with Matt isn’t the care-free fake relationship I expected when I signed on to do this. It’s supposed to be a win-win. I get to stick it to my politician dad who thinks no one is good enough for the Huntington name, and Matt’s reputation of being the bad boy of football dies. What I don’t expect is to start caring for the guy. That’s not part of the plan. Then again, neither is fooling around with him on my private jet. Oops.
GoodreadsAmazon US: https://amzn.to/2tvwkR0 Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2Ks0XAi Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2tEc4f7 Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2KrmoP2 Giveaway$25 Amazon Gift Card Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b1257f8d332/? About the AuthorEden Finley is an Amazon bestselling author who writes steamy contemporary romances that are full of snark and light-hearted fluff. She doesn’t take anything too seriously and lives to create an escape from real life for her readers. The ideas always begin with a wackadoodle premise, and she does her best to turn them into romances with heart.With a short attention span that rivals her five-year-old son's, she writes multiple different pairings: MM, MMF, and MF. She's also an Australian girl and apologises for her Australianisms that sometimes don't make sense to anyone else.
Connect with EdenNewsletter Sign Up: http://bit.ly/2owAsgY Facebook Author Page: http://bit.ly/2GMjfag Facebook Reader Group: http://bit.ly/2t1KqM4 Goodreads Author Page: http://bit.ly/2ouFzya Twitter: http://bit.ly/2HQnyCv Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2EV9Roi BookBub Author Page: http://bit.ly/2ouhBDq
Breaking Mr. Cane, the gripping, steamy follow up to the bestselling forbidden romance, Wanting Mr. Cane, is coming July 12th!Breaking Mr. Cane by Shanora Williams Genre: Contemporary Romance Publishing Date: July 12th Cover Designer: Hang Le KANDY I was left broken, my heart beating a little bit harder in order to survive. I'd tried picking up the pieces, but when it came to Cane, it was hard to let go. The way we touched was special and we promised to never forget one another. I had him right in the palm of my hand--thought everything was perfect--but in the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving me with no choice but to pretend that what we had never existed. CANE She was off-limits to me, but I pushed the boundaries anyway. Now, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, my career slowly but surely slipping out of my grasp, and ghosts from my past returning to make things much more complicated. My love life had never meant so much to me until I met Kandy. After being knocked down and left stranded, any sane man would have stayed far away, but I wasn't sane--not by a long shot. I knew reality was harsh, and the universe had all the odds stacked against us. Despite it all, nothing was going stop me from making her mine again. And if someone tried, they were going to have to go over my dead body first. Pre-Order your copy today! Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2tJDAbo Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/BreakingMrCaneSW Add to GoodReads: https://bit.ly/2kO5Ghn Start the series today! Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2sKWbmO Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/WantingMrCaneSW Add to GoodReads: https://bit.ly/2E7I8eF About the Author: Shanora Williams is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who loves writing about flawed heroes and resilient heroines. She is a believer that love outweighs all, but doesn’t have a problem making her characters fight for their happily ever after. She currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina and is the mother of two amazing boys, has a fiercely devoted and supportive man, and is a sister to eleven. When she isn’t writing, she’s spending time with her family, binge reading, or running marathons on Netflix while scarfing down chocolate chip cookies.Connect with Shanora: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ShanoraWilliamsAuthor/ Twitter: @shanorawilliams Instagram @reallyshanora Stay in touch with Shanora by signing up for her newsletter:
Brax can’t get the girl on the dance floor out of his mind, the woman he literally swept off her feet and into Club Verge. She’s no submissive, but he can’t help but admire her ferocity, even as he yearns to take her over his lap and teach her manners. He’s determined to keep her safe if he has to lock her up himself.
Officer Zoe Mackay can handle herself. But when she learns information that puts her life at risk, she’s forced to seek the assistance of a private investigator. Little does she know the man she hires is none other than Braxton Cannon, the high-handed dominant who gave her the hottest one-night stand of her life. With her assailants in hot pursuit, Zoe is forced to seek refuge in Club Verge, where she finds way more than she’s bargained for... Braxton I’m pretty sure it’s a total dickhead move to mentally undress the woman on the dance floor in front of me, but, you know, love is in the air and all that shit, so I don’t much care. I came here to toast the happy couple who, like smart people, went and eloped months ago. Their friends were a little miffed they didn’t get a chance to celebrate, so once spring came Zack and Bea announced they were having a reception. I’m always game for something that involves free food and liberal amounts of beer, so here I am, even dressed in a fucking suit which hasn’t happened since… ok, ever. But Jesus, this woman’s gorgeous, and likely young enough to make even looking at her illegal, but who’s gonna stop me? She’s got a dancer’s blood in her veins or something, because this girl has moves. As the music pumps through speakers so loudly I feel it in my bones, her hips grind in time to the beat, and it’s fucking beautiful. I’m half in awe of her energy, unable to take my eyes off her. Though she’s all round curves—petite but voluptuous, her creamy shoulders bare, the sleeveless short dress she’s wearing clearly being held up my magic—she’s got edges, too. I can tell just looking at her there’s a ferocity that fuels her. On her right shoulder she’s got a tattoo of a bird in flight. While I watch her dance, I fantasize about sinking my teeth into that tattoo, then smacking my hand against her curvy, gorgeous ass. She shakes her head, the thick locks of chestnut-colored hair loosening, little tendrils clinging to her damp forehead as she gets down to the music. The beat gyrates around me as she wiggles her hips, her feet moving in time to the crazy-ass beat. “Hey, Brax, have you seen Diana?” My friend Tobias comes up to me and taps my beer bottle with his. Diana, his wife and Beatrice’s best friend, toasted the happy couple, but I haven’t seen her since. “No, man,” I say, shaking my head. I take another swig of my beer, then watch the girl in front of me as she snags one of her friends around the waist and they dance together. Christ. One was bad enough. Two of them dancing together? I’ll leave this place with fucking blue balls. “Get it out of your head, man,” Tobias says. “Can’t get your eyes off Zoe? That won’t end well for you. Don’t even entertain the thought.” Tobias is technically my boss, but also my friend, and though I trust his judgment, I don’t hear warning in his tone but a dare. “Yeah?” I ask, watching her even more intently now. “Braxton,” he says warningly. “What? Dude, you can’t just say ‘stop looking at the most gorgeous woman in this room and forget about her’ and expect me be all, ‘yeah, sounds right, whatever you say.’ Did you forget who I am?” Tobias sobers then. He leans against the bar, crossing his arms on his chest, and fixes me with a serious look. His dark brown eyes, shadowed by a shock of dark brown hair that falls on his forehead, darken. “That’s one of Zack’s best friends, and she’s an officer with the NYPD. She’s easily ten years younger than you, and I don’t know much, but I know that girl has got a shit ton of baggage.” Who doesn’t? The idea of that woman kicking the crap out of someone makes her that much more attractive to me. And Jesus. Baggage? That doesn’t dissuade me. I live in fucking New York City. There’s no such thing as a New Yorker without baggage. Hell, I’m a classic example. I sold my auto body shop this past winter when a friend offered me a job that paid a hell of a lot more than I was currently earning. I’m a full time Dungeon Monitor at Tobias’s club, Verge, and I make good money there. Picking up some private work on the side has supplemented my income, and hell I need it, because Devin does, and child support doesn’t go on sale. The thought of my six-year-old daughter almost sobers me, then the music shifts and Zoe’s back at it again. “Everyone’s got baggage, man,” I say to Tobias. “You know I’m no exception.” He shakes his head. “Brax, there’s baggage and then there’s baggage. She’s beautiful, but she doesn’t know shit about the lifestyle, and if you touch a hair on her head, Beatrice or Zack, or possibly even both of them, will kick your ass. They’ve gotten tight.” Beatrice is like five foot nothing and now married to the sternest Dom in all of Verge. That’s supposed to scare me? I know Zack won’t care. “Fuck,” Tobias says, watching me with narrowed eyes as I finish my beer and plunk the empty on the counter. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I grin at him. “Challenge accepted.” USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry pens stern but loving alpha heroes, feisty heroines, and emotion-driven happily-ever-afters. She writes what she loves to read: kink with a tender touch. Jane is a hopeless romantic who lives on the East Coast.
Title: Just One Touch
Series: Oh Tequila Series #3
Author: C.A. Harms
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Publication Date: June 19, 2018
Publisher: Limitless Publishing
I should have known this would happen...
Nothing about my fraternity was ever simple. Parties, tequila – tons of tequila – and wild souvenirs from our kind of crazy.
Never, and I do mean never, did I expect my brother’s girl to target me in a midnight prank. A prank that backfired and left me squealing in pain.
Have you ever seen those shows, the ones that say the “dirty deed” sent you to the ER? Well, I went to the ER, and yes, my manhood was involved. Let me just say I gained absolutely no pleasure from it. Unless, of course, you consider that sweet nurse who treated me.
The problem? She hated me…and I had no idea why, but I wasn’t willing to let her walk away until I figured it out.
Emelie was feisty, and I’d never felt the type of excitement I did after spending only five seconds in her line of fire. I was gonna enjoy this...way more than I should, and I knew it.
She saw, she conquered, and I was defeated.
All it took was just one touch, and oh, what a ride it was.
C.A. Harms is like any other addicted reader. She enjoys happy endings and HEA love stories. She hasn't always been a lover of Romance and had once been addicted to a good Mystery. Just recently she has taken on a new liking and now is a full blown Romance novel addict.
She lives in Illinois and enjoys spending time with her husband and two children. You will always find her with her kindle or paperback in hand as it is her favorite pass time.
Title: Chronicles of a Hot Mess
Author: S.E. Rose
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: June 26, 2018
She’s a hot mess, and he’s intrigued from the first time he sees her. He’s a sexy former athlete who could have any woman, and she hopes he doesn’t break her heart.
Amery Walsh’s baseball career ended after an injury. He’s been a talent scout for his team and resident playboy since then. But three chance encounters with Lyla Perkins change everything. This tiny, feisty woman flips his world upside-down. Is he ready for a serious relationship?
Lyla Perkins just started her career and so far, it’s an epic disaster. She’s buckling down to prove herself at her job when Amery repeatedly pops into her life, forcing her to consider a more serious relationship. But can a playboy be trusted with her heart?
Amery
Hot Mess. That was the first thing that came to his mind. Like one of those psychological tests where you are supposed to say the initial thing that pops into your head when the doctor shows you a picture. The woman walking toward his gate tried to brush her long mahogany hair out of her face but lost her footing and tripped. She managed to catch herself only to lose her shoe in the process. She huffed and stopped, causing a chain reaction behind her as passengers tried to stop mid-step to avoid colliding with her. She was oblivious to the carnage she was creating. Instead, she walked off to the side and sat down on an empty chair trying to get her shoe back on. Her unruly hair kept falling in her face. She pulled a hair tie from her sweatshirt’s pocket and went to put it on and the thing snapped in her hand. She cursed under her breath and he had to stifle a laugh. She looked like a clumsy dark-haired version of Tinkerbell, small and feisty.
It was like a train wreck. He couldn't take his eyes away from her. She wasn't dressed in business attire but instead wore black leggings that looked like what he’d seen women wear to the gym. She had on an oversized hoodie that was at least two sizes too big.
“Welcome to flight seven-fifty-two nonstop to Baltimore. We’ll begin boarding in just a few minutes.”
The droning on of the airline attendant broke his gaze and when he looked back over she was gone. He loved people watching, always had. He had found since taking this job that the airport was excellent for this activity. He typically used the owner’s private jet as he was a close friend, but Derek had taken it on a business trip, so he was relegated to first-class flying instead. At the airport, most people just kept their heads down, playing with their electronic devices, but he never did. Maybe it was his cop grandfather or maybe he was just too curious, but either way, he always paid attention.
Sometimes people would spot him, and he’d be forced to take a selfie or sign an autograph. He’d played professional baseball for five years until an injury yanked him away from the one thing he loved. The owner of the team took pity on him and made him a scout for the organization. Derek Hathaway was one of the most involved owners in the league. He enjoyed being in the weeds, much to his general manager’s dismay. Amery did have the degree and demeanor for it, but he knew Derek had done it out of sympathy.
He picked up his bag and rolled his carry-on toward the gate. He knew he’d be boarding first. He waited for the cue from the attendant that first-class passengers were welcome to board, and he made his way toward her to scan his phone and board. He walked briskly down the corridor to the plane and greeted the flight attendant as he placed his carry-on in the overhead compartment. He was about to turn to sit when he was suddenly pushed from behind as someone went flying into him. He turned just in time to catch the person and as his eyes scanned down; he suddenly found himself face-to-face with the hot mess woman. Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed as she got her footing.
“That's quite alright,” he said, as he stepped back into his row still holding her arm. She was quite beautiful up close. Her eyes were almost violet in color and her skin was tan and flawless. She wore no makeup but had naturally beautiful lips and eyes. Her high cheekbones were blushed with a soft pink. She smelled of roses. He couldn’t help inhaling as he lingered slightly too close for slightly too long before letting her go.
She looked nervously from him to the seat numbers along the overhead compartments.
“Uh, I think that's my seat,” she muttered, pointing to the window seat next to him. He wanted to laugh out loud but bit his tongue as he moved aside to let her take the seat.
He stored his bag and then checked his emails one last time, trying to ignore the flutter of activity next to him. After a minute, he could no longer keep his gaze away. He turned to see her trying to pull something from her bag while pushing it under the seat in front of her. She gave one final tug and a travel pillow came flying out as she went flying into her seat. She was a disaster, a very cute, good-smelling disaster.
It took her a moment to realize she was being watched. She turned toward him.
“Sorry,” she mumbled as she placed the u-shaped pillow around her neck and laid a book on her lap. “I’m a bit of a mess today,” she continued with a shrug.
“That’s alright. We all have those days,” he offered in an attempt to put her at ease. It was a bit of a stretch, but certainly, some people might have days like hers. He extended his hand to her.
“Amery Walsh,” he said.
She gave him a shy smile. “Lyla Perkins,” she said as she shook his hand.
Her hand was soft and warm in his and just like the rest of her, it was petite.
“Nice to meet you, Lyla,” he said. He wanted to say more but the flight attendant came by asking if they wanted drinks. Lyla asked for a red wine and he asked for a whiskey.
When he glanced over at her again, Lyla was reading her book, a mystery novel, if he could guess. He pulled out his tablet and began to work on his notes. He’d met with three potential players. They’d all end up on a minor league team, but two had real potential, one might even get to go straight onto a major league team if the kid worked a little harder.
The flight attendant brought them their drinks and he passed the red wine to Lyla, their fingers touching briefly as she grasped it in her hand. She didn’t make eye contact but kept on reading. She drank her wine quickly. The attendant was back collecting trash before take-off when he noticed Lyla had passed out and her book was leaning against her precariously. He placed the bookmark back in it and set it on her lap before closing her seatback tray. He closed his own and kept typing, setting his iPad on his thighs.
The drink began to take affect the second they were in the air. Finally, tired enough, he was able to fall asleep for a few hours. He woke as the sun was just beginning to come up. Lyla was still fast asleep. She looked utterly adorable, curled into a tight ball. Her head leaned against his shoulder. Her book had fallen during the night and was sprawled out on the floor next to her sneakers, which she must have kicked off at some point. She looked more like a little kid than a grown woman with the giant hoodie that practically swallowed her up so much so that he was unsure what her body looked like beneath it.
Lyla
She woke with a start. She’d caught the red-eye from LA to Baltimore and from the looks of it, the sun wasn’t up yet. She stared at the sky that was just beginning to show the faintest hint of dawn on the horizon. She glanced down and saw her book in her lap, the bookmark lodged in between the pages. She must have dozed off after take-off and clearly before the in-flight food service. She was hungry, but food would have to wait a bit longer.
“Hungry?” a voice to her right asked.
She turned to Amery. He motioned to his tray which held a plate of some type of breakfast with fruit and a croissant. It looked delicious. Before she could answer, Amery, pulled down her tray table and set the plate down.
“I figured you might be hungry, so I had the stewardess bring me an extra plate for you,” he explained.
“I guess I slept right through breakfast,” she said as she pulled back the seal on the small cup of orange juice and took a sip. It didn’t taste half-bad.
Her day had been a bad one. OK, it was probably going in the record books. She had always, always been prone to disasters. It was like a disease that followed her around constantly. She had been sent to LA the week before as part of her first assignment with her first real job. She’d spent endless hours prepping for the photo shoot. She was to assist the head photographer in photographing several celebrities for the next issue of Look and See Magazine. She really wanted to work in PR, but this job would pay the bills until she could figure out a way to segue to work in PR or make her PR and marketing blog a career. The magazine worked out of several offices and somehow, she got stuck in the smallest in Washington D.C. Apparently, a lot of celebrities lived around D.C., and obviously, there were the frequent White House galas and state dinners and whatnot that they wanted to photograph. Matthew, the head photographer, was a nice enough guy, albeit a bit bossy and self-absorbed, but she could manage.
Yesterday had been the last day of shooting and she had royally fucked up everything. She forgot to tell the caterer to arrive early as Matthew requested. So, he had no breakfast before the shoot and wasn’t pleased. Albeit, he had completely changed the times for the shoot two hours after they had wrapped the day before, and so she was scrambling trying to rearrange schedules for their last day. She then tripped over a cord on the way to call said caterer and took down one of the cameras that had been set up earlier. It broke. Matthew went ballistic and sent her to fetch another one. Every store was sold out of this camera, and she ended up calling in a favor to get one for the shoot. Ugh, the favor…she didn’t even want to think of going on a date with that creepy guy from college that she was sure roofied the drinks of half a dozen of her sorority sisters at various parties over four years. Then, just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Matthew sent her to pick up several ball gowns. The cab driver she used got lost, and she ended up being late to the store. The manager had already gone out to an early lunch. The sales lady had no idea where the gowns were and then brought out several she thought were right. They weren’t.
Matthew had canceled the shoot and stormed out of the building muttering to himself about inept assistants. She’d caught the first flight home; fairly certain she would be canned when she arrived back in D.C. She sighed as she ate a piece of fruit. She needed a job and she needed it fast.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Amery asked.
Shit, had she sighed out loud? She glanced over at him. His blue eyes intently bored into hers.
“Long day, that’s all,” she said in between bites.
He glanced at his watch. “Well, we have another ninety minutes, so spill it.”
She was a little taken aback by his forwardness. “Uh, well,” she started. Where to start? “I had a pretty shitty day at work yesterday, and I’m ninety percent, strike that, ninety-nine percent sure I’m going to be fired when I get home.”
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I work for a fashion magazine. I was in LA for a shoot and well, it didn’t go very well.”
“You’re a model?” he asked.
She nearly choked on her croissant, and he patted her back.
“Uh, no, definitely no,” she said, taking a sip of orange juice. “I’m an assistant to our head photographer.”
“Oh,” Amery said. “Do you like doing that?”
She shrugged. “I guess so.”
Amery laughed. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
She sighed and turned to him, knocking over her remaining orange juice in the process. “Oh shit!” she exclaimed as she started to mop up the mess on her tray table. Suddenly, Amery was handing her napkins. She looked over at him quizzically. He pointed to a stash of napkins in his seatback pocket.
“I figured it was better to be prepared,” he explained. She rolled her eyes. She must have seemed a total fucking mess to him.
“I’m not always so prone to accidents,” she said tersely, although deep down she knew that was a blatant lie.
Amery threw his hands up in a defeated gesture. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m a little sensitive today.”
Amery put his finger up and the stewardess came over to him. “Two mimosas, please,” he said.
“Sure, Mr. Walsh,” she said politely and walked back to the galley.
She was back before he could speak again, as though mimosas were sitting around on standby for the passengers.
“Here, peace offering,” he said as he handed her a plastic champagne flute. “To your day vastly improving,” he added as he clinked glasses with her.
“Accepted,” she said as she took a sip of the mediocre drink.
He studied her for a few moments, and she stared back at him. His gaze was so intense, she had a hard time looking away from him until the captain spoke over the cabin intercom.
“We’ll be beginning our descent into Baltimore in about thirty minutes, folks. It’s currently seventy degrees at BWI and partly cloudy. The cabin crew will be coming around shortly to collect any trash you may have. We hope you’ve enjoyed your flight and we look forward to seeing you again soon. Have a great day, everyone,” she said.
Lyla downed the mimosa and handed her empty champagne flute back to the flight attendant.
“Well, that’s one way to start off the day right,” Amery laughed as he finished his.
“Cheers to that,” Lyla said as she stuffed her pillow back into her carry-on bag.
Lyla picked up her book and started to read again. Amery closed his notes on his tablet. She could feel the plane descending and knew they’d be landing shortly. She internally groaned at the thought of having to go to work in a few hours. She sighed again. She supposed she should just go in straight away and get it over with.
She placed her book in the pocket in front of her and looked out the window as the plane began to land. She could make out the Chesapeake Bay and Bay Bridge in the distance. A few minutes later the plane bumped as the tires hit the ground.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Lyla,” Amery said as he turned on his phone and reached for his carry-on bag.
“Likewise,” Lyla replied, trying to remember his name, something with an “A.” Yeah, she was a mess.
S.E. Rose lives in the DMV. And if you know what that means, then you know where she lives. She currently resides with her husband, two children, and always at least two cats and usually other random creatures her children decide they need. While she works at a desk during the day, her evenings and weekends are devoted to writing and editing her romance novels. She loves all things wine, coffee, tea and dark chocolate; that’s right, dark chocolate. In her spare time, she enjoys photography, traveling, going to concerts, and reading.
Title: Mafia Prince
Series: Royal Mafia Series #2
Author: Bella J.
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Release Date: June 26, 2018
For me, it’s both.
There was a time when I thought I wanted a different life. A life with her. But that changed the day she left—the day she ripped my heart out.
Now I’m a heartless bastard with the tendency to not give a shit.
I live my life like a man with nothing to lose. Reckless, ruthless, callous, and consumed by darkness.
But she’s back, the woman who destroyed me. Only this time she’s one of them—the enemy.
She thinks she can play me, torture me by walking around in our world like she belongs here. But on these streets, I’m a fucking prince. I’ll ruin. I’ll rule. And I’ll start a goddamn war in this city.
Because Layla Moore belongs to no one…but me.
All the way from Cape Town, South Africa, Bella J lives for the days when she’s able to retreat to her writer’s cave where she can get lost in her little pretend world of romance, love, and insanely hot bad boys.
Bella J is a Hybrid Author with both Self-Published and Traditional Published work. Even though her novels range from drama, to comedy, to suspense, it's the dark, twisted side of romance she loves the most.
Title: Whiskey Girl
Author: Adriane Leigh
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: June 26, 2018
Blurb
She was the one thing holding him together. Until she was gone.
And then there was whiskey.
Fallon Gentry has spent the last decade reliving one dark night in his head. The moment he lost the woman he loved when a single blink cascaded into a series of events that stole both of their lives. Now his nights are spent playing music in southern honky-tonks and nursing the memory of her the only way he knows howâat the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
A brief stint in Nashville, a hit song, and a brush with Hollywood couldn't bring him closer to God, but when the ghost of Augusta Belle Branson appears in his corner of another lonely dive bar late after dark, he's forced to confront everything he thought he knew about that fateful night, and a few things he didn't.
Heâs her contradiction, sheâs his salvation.
A firestorm of emotion consumes them when they come together after ten lost years, every moment more revealing, more unpredictable, more intoxicating than the next until the only reckoning left for Fallon is the one he must make with himself. But this time, fate may have left an after-burn too bitter to swallow. This time, he may lose his whiskey girl for good.
An unforgettable, epic love story about two lost souls who, against all odds, find themselves through their passion and music. Filled with raw emotion, this lyrical, all-the-feels masterpiece may catapult Adriane Leigh into the league of Colleen Hoover, Brittainy Cherry, and L.J. Shen. â Nelle L'Amour, New York Times Bestselling author of THAT MAN
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Excerpt
One
Fallon
The first time I met Augusta Belle Branson, she was fixinâ on killinâ herself.
Said the minute Iâd walked up, she was tryinâ to decide if jumpinâ off the bridge in the centerâwhere the water was deep and the current strongerâwould be a swifter end, or if she should jump near the edge, where jagged limestone slabs anchored the slow-moving current.
Certain death for sure.
I replayed the split second when the Indian summer sun burst through the orange oak leaves, a halo of warmth enveloping her.
Like an angel. Stardust sparkling straight from heaven, ploppinâ her in my path.
And then she turned, the most startling shade of liquid amber eyes breathing something real and alive, like fire, into my soul.
That same something Iâd been runninâ fromâor chasinâ, dependinâ on how you looked at itâjust about every day since.
I settled myself on the lone wooden stool that awaited at center stage, my thoughts drawing back to the present. My head swam, but the old familiar chords floated on through the current of whiskey in my blood, and I strummed the first few notes of a song I wrote a lot of nights ago by an act of sheer muscle memory.
Old acoustic guitar resting on my knee, my first and third fingers in position on the strings, the opening chords of âWhiskey Girlâ bled from my fingers.
Every chord, another dagger.
Every whispered lyric, my undoing.
I still didnât know what the fuck had overtaken me the night Iâd written this song in a fevered rush.
Well, the booze might have played a part, but I happened to think my best shit came out of uninhibited states.
Iâd just had a fuckton of uninhibited states recently.
And the harder the liquor, the more she haunted me.
Whiskey Girl.
My poisoned lullaby.
The crowd of a few hundred erupted into a standing ovation when I ended with the final, emotion-charged words.
The irony of this song was it was the one thatâd launched my career. The first single to hit radio waves and then the top spot on the Billboard charts, and brought reporters, music executives, long-lost family members I wasnât even really sure I was related to, and too much other scum with an end game that carried dollar signs to my front doorstep.
Iâd moved to Nashville a rising star and left two years later, middle finger in the air as I tossed my once-promising music career out with last nightâs liquor bottles in favor of the open road.
Chasing something.
Not finding the one thing I needed.
Playing local honky-tonks for a fraction of the money I could have made.
But the truth was, the road was the only place I could find my happy.
A familiar ball of pain formed in my throat as I stood, pushing my guitar over one shoulder and bowing deeply. I couldnât see a single face behind the glaring stage lights, but still, some part of me pretended she could be out there, that I was singing to her.
That she would hear her song and find her way back to me.
After hundreds of faceless crowds and too many bottles of Tennessee whiskey to bother counting, I still felt the pull inside me to travel to every town in America if thatâs what it took to find her.
Hell, maybe she was happily married with a few kids, a dog, and a fucking minivan by now.
I nodded my head, giving one last wave to the crowd in the dark beyond, then left the stage, taking the steps two at a time and angling past the curtains to head for the tiny-ass dressing room this dive bar provided. Heading for another chug of amber gold before packing my shit into my truck and hitting the road.
I pushed a hand through my hair, thinking maybe a shower would be in order before I bailed, when a curvy little thing backed right up into me.
My palms landed on her shoulders, warm blond waves falling in a cascade over one side. The heady scent of peaches and honey filled my nostrils. My eyes slammed closed and brought me back to summer nights under a giant oak, fireflies melding together with the stars above like a painting.
âSorry, I just dropped my phone.â The sweet-scented creature spun, brilliant smile falling from her face when our eyes made contact for the first time.
Every coldhearted memory slammed into my chest like a pallet of bricks.
I narrowed my eyes, gaze tracing the familiar yet unfamiliar angles of her porcelain face.
She was thinner now, cheeks sharp slashes of bone that highlighted her always-devastating round eyes and full lips. It was her, all right. Iâd know this woman anywhere.
âHi, Fallon.â Iâd been dreaminâ of this moment for the better part of a decade, and still, my heart wasnât prepared for those two words. My name on her lips left me with a toxic reaction.
My whiskey girl.
My damnation and my salvation.
âI need a fucking minute.â I dropped my hands from her shoulders, her skin still haunting my fingertips, and walked straight down the narrow hallway, pushing the rusted back door open so hard the hinges protested.
Warm night air filled my lungs, replacing the empty feeling seeing her again had left.
âFallonâ¦â Hell, sheâd followed me out.
And hell if wanted her to, but I didnât not want her to either.
The emotions bombarding my mind were just a-fucking-bout unbearable.
âI said I need a fucking minute.â The sentence came out as more of a growl than I intended. Before she could reply, I stomped across the potholed parking lot, aiming for my heavy-duty Ford.
I yanked the door open, digging behind the driverâs seat for a fresh bottle of my favorite recipe.
I couldnât be bothered to retrieve the half-full bottle Iâd left in my dressing room. I had to get as far the fuck away from her just to clear my head and process what her being here even meant.
My hands circled the neck of the bottle, and I opened it in a flash, chugging back the first warm bite of pleasure Iâd been craving.
I tossed the cap on my dash and fished the keys out of my pocket, about to climb into the cab and make hay, when fingertips painted a dark navy filtered into my vision and back out again, my goddamn truck keys hanging from one finger.
âFuck,â I bit out, crawling out of the cab and swiping for the keys.
My reactions were a helluva lot slower than I thought they were. How much of that bottle had I drunk before the show? I shook the thought from my head, realizing this was probably about close to my average state of play on any given day. Runninâ away from the life Augusta Belle and Iâd had took something out of me. Something only whiskey could fill.
âI donât care what your stupid ass does on your own time, but youâre not dying on mine, Fallon Gentry.â
My head pounded then. A whole fucking sentence out of her pretty pink lips, and my bodyâs old dependable reaction to her infuriating every cell of me.
Iâd never been in control when it came to Augusta. Shouldnât have been surprised it was no different now.
âAs irritating as ever, I see,â I said, swiping for my keys one more time and missing before I stumbled off around her, whiskey bottle clutched in my hand and hell on my mind.
Augusta was back, and there wasnât enough whiskey in the state of Tennessee to help me deal.
Author Bio
Adriane Leigh is an Amazon Top 25 and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and erotic romance. Raised in a snowbank in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, she was born with a book in her hand and won her first Young Authors award before the age of ten. She finished her first romance novel at 14, and hasn't stopped playing with words since. She earned a literature degree, co-founded and organized international book conventions with RARE: Romance Author & Reader Events, and has written more than 45 independent titles under various pen names.
Married to her own Prince Charming, she now lives among the sand dunes of Lake Michigan, and plays mama to two sweet baby girls. She's a romantic rebel and word junkie that believes wanderlust is life, is part of the #goodvibetribe, and wishes she had more time to read and knit scarves to keep her cozy during the arctic Michigan winters. Yoga pants, puppies, and mac and cheese also help. Never miss a release! Get an alert at: http://www.adrianeleigh.com
Praise for Adriane's work:
âSizzling chemistry, a glamorous world, plot twistsâ¦a perfect combination held together with Adriane Leighâs addictive writing. I dove into this world, and didnât want to come up for air. I canât wait for more!â â
Alessandra Torre, Hollywood Dirt
âAdriane Leigh never dissapoints with equal amounts of heat and heart with all the sex, suspense and scandalâ¦Leighâs newest mysterious hero will have you anxiously flipping pages well into the night trying to uncover his secrets.â â
Jay Crownover, Marked Men
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