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text 2018-06-20 12:35
Blog Tour: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu with Excerpt and Giveaway

Today’s stop is for Q. D. Purdu’s Faking Luckys. We will have info about the book and author, and a great excerpt from the book, plus a great giveaway. Make sure to check everything out and enter the giveaway.

Happy Reading :) 


Desdemona, a pianist in the Austin life-music scene, is channel-surfing when she stumbles upon the program Marriage Exposure. The trashy television show gets people to spill all the secrets of their sex lives, and Desdemona’s ex-boyfriend just happens to be a guest. To her shock and horror, Desdemona’s ex announces on national television that he dumped her because she never got the big O. “She faked…,” he says. Every single time. Her life is wrecked! If her friends, family and colleagues haven’t seen the interview yet, they will. How do you survive a scandal like this? How did he know she faked? And why is it that in the bedroom, Desdemona never, ever gets lucky? The lovable, creative and quirky heroine tackles these challenges. As Desdemona tries to run damage control on her reputation, she begins to explore her sexuality. Along the way, she will get a second chance at genuine love. Q. D. Purdu’s Finding Lucky won first place in the romance category of the Texas Writers’ League. Desdemona’s quest for the Big O is full of hilarious moments, handsome men, and heartfelt memories.

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Faking Lucky Chapter 1 So I’m home alone on Saturday night in my flannel PJs, relaxed on my denim sofa, eating fudge and brazil nuts, and channel surfing. Jewelry channel—maybe a flashy gem would jazz up my life. Gag—tonight it’s cameos. Sex in the City—I bet they all faked it, even Samantha. Marriage Exposure—where do they find people who will go on television and argue about their sex lives? Wait. I don’t believe my eyes. It looks like Burt on Marriage Exposure. I raise the volume and edge closer to the screen. It is him, the same reddish-brown hair and sharp features. He’s even wearing his favorite green-striped polo shirt. I haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s wearing that same shirt. The short-haired woman sitting next to him has her hands covering her face. She’s wailing something like, “You never loved me! You never loved me!” It can’t be. Burt’s in an L-word relationship? I edge closer to the screen, hardly breathing. Burt pulls at the back of his neck with one hand, the way he always does when he’s stressed, and looks down toward his feet. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t love you.” Unbelievable. He’s married to her. She uncovers her red, puffy face and leans close to him. “You never loved me.” Spit flies out with her words. “You’ve always loved…” She gives a big, gasping sob and then slowly, distinctly blurts out my name. “…Desdemona. With…with…her beautiful dark eyes. Her perfect body. Her incredible piano playing.” More spit with the p’s. “Her long, thick raven hair.” She raises both hands to her head and pulls at her brownish spikes. No. I must have misheard. But she repeats my name, dragging out each syllable as if it causes her physical pain. “Des…de…mon…a.” Could Burt have dated another Desdemona? Something mushes between my toes. Fudge under my foot oozes out onto my creamy-white lamb’s-wool throw, which is now on the floor. I must have stood when she wailed my name. Brazil nuts are all over the floor. Burt takes her by the shoulders. “Jenny, no.” He always was considerate of everyone’s feelings. “I could never love Desdemona. She…she’s a freak. She fakes orgasms.” A crazy giggle snakes its way up from my chest. Is this really happening? How could he have known? Guys can’t really tell, can they? The giggle morphs into a nauseated groan. Am I dreaming? Drugged? In a parallel universe? Has Burt just announced my unspeakable flaw to the world? And so what if I don’t get the big O every, single time? Well, I guess I hardly ever get it…OK—I got it three times, and it would have been four if my vibrator had not quit working. But I’m not even twenty-seven yet—far from the sexual peak of forty. At some point during the last minute my phone has started buzzing. My autopilot eyes glance at it. Friends are texting me about Burt being on TV. So there is something worse than being a nonorgasmic faker. It’s being a nonorgasmic faker and having the whole world know it. A loud animallike howl shocks the breath out of me. What is that? I freeze and listen for a split second before I realize the roar is coming from me. I muffle my howls, hoping I haven’t alarmed my landlady, who lives in the attached duplex. With foot in fudge and phone facedown, I’m transfixed. Burt embraces his sobbing wife and mutters endearments. The MC hoofs it into the audience, whose members are clamoring to speak into the microphone. A long-haired, leather-vested guy gets the first shot. “Hey, Burt.” He’s got an oily, smooth voice—could be a talk-show host himself. “Ah, maybe you just ain’t man enough for Mona.” Mona. I hate when people call me Mona. But this could be good. Maybe the world will forget my real name. Yes! Mona. Next a clean-cut, older guy steps up and glares at the leather vest. “Des. De. Mon. A. Not Mona.” Crap. “You should be respectful enough to pronounce her complete name.” The audience interrupts with hoots that could be boos or cheers or random insanity. The MC swings the mic toward an elderly lady, but the clean-cut guy jerks him back. “I’m not finished. The first gentleman—” He rolls his eyes toward the leather vest. “—was correct about one thing.” The impatient grandma reaches for the mic, and the MC blocks her hand and tries to hurry the clean-cut guy, who looks like he’s gearing up for a long lecture. “If Desdemona is not satisfied, it’s clearly a sign of the male’s lack of technique. Research shows…” Grandma’s hand darts between the two men and snatches the mic. She runs down an aisle with the MC in pursuit. “Burt!” Her voice is surprisingly loud and shrill. “Did you ask Desdemona what’s a matter?” She screams out questions as the MC chases, grabbing futilely for the mic. “Did you ask her why?” This elderly woman sprints like a teenager. “How do you know she faked? Did you go down?” The audience is out of control now. In a shuffle of arms, a tall, skinny guy commandeers the mic. “Hey, Desdemona.” It’s as if he’s looking straight at me—in the room with me—seeing me. “Come to me.” Hairs skitter across the back of my neck. “I’ll get you there, baby.” Somehow the MC has produced a second mic that overrides the other one and muffles the noise of the audience. “Thanks for being with us for another shocking episode of Marriage Exposure. Tune in tomorrow for an unbelievable brother-in-law who sneaks into bed with his own brother’s wife—” He pauses, moves close to the camera, and raises both eyebrows several times. “—without her knowing it. You’re not going to want to miss this.” The camera pans over the audience that is now chanting, “Desdemona, Desdemona, Desdemona…” A diet-pill commercial is halfway over before I shake off the shock enough to silence the TV. Eleanor, my cat, is batting a Brazil nut across the floor. My phone rings. Ugh. It’s Mom. I grab the phone and the ruined lamb’s wool, scoop up the nuts, and hop toward the kitchen to stick my foot in the sink. I would ignore my mother, but if I don’t answer, she’ll call my landlady to come over and make sure I’m not bound and gagged, unconscious, or murdered. How will I deal with my mother’s shock about Burt’s revelation? “Mija, where are you?” “Home.” “Alone?” She’d like me to be married and have several kids by now. Alone is never a word she welcomes. “Yes.” “On Saturday night—home alone? With all there is to do in Austin?” “Yes.” She lets a long silence hang. I would normally fill it with disclaimers about being too tired to go out or the last-minute cancellation of my gig tonight. Instead of chatting her up, I wait her out and run water over my foot. Eleanor, maybe sensing my misery, rubs against my other leg. Nothing I could say will divert Mother from Burt’s blast. I take deep breaths, steadying myself for the onslaught. She finally seems to realize she’s not getting an explanation about my solitary Saturday night. “How do I say this?” She sighs loudly. “It’s one thing to know people privately, but to see them as a nationally known personality…it’s…it’s…” “Mom, just say it.” Tears well in my eyes. The reality of an insane TV show barging into my life stabs in places I didn’t know I could hurt. “OK, OK. Well, it happened while I was with my book-club group at the bookstore.” It’s really just a book corner in the general store on Main Street. “You’re at the store?” This makes no sense. It’s too late for the store to be open. “No—I’m not there now. We were there from six to eight tonight for our weekly meeting, and then we went to ladies’ night at the margarita bar and had two-for-ones, and I just now got home. You know that new bar that opened where the bakery used to be?” There are only a dozen stores in my hometown of Garcia. How could I forget? “Yeah.” “The antique store is also adding a coffee shop—oh, I’m rambling. Want me to just get to the point?” I force out a whisper and blot my tear-slicked face with a paper towel. “Yes.” She takes a deep breath again. No question that she’s unnerved by the conversation we’re about to have. My stomach knots. It will be worse to hear my mother talking about Burt and fake orgasms than it was to hear strangers on national television. I lower my wet but clean foot from the sink so I’m standing solidly. I pick up Eleanor, who allows one of her rare cuddles. She must know I need it. “Hunter Johns.” I gasp. His name triggers the same pow in my chest that happens every time I think of him, or see a stranger tilt his head that certain way, or hear a laugh that mimics Hunter’s deep ring, or dream of kissing him only to wake and remember it will never happen again. Pow. “Desdemona, are you there? Did you hear me?” I should answer Mom—say something. It’s been over nine years since Hunter and I were seniors in high school and he left the campus in handcuffs. Nine years since we swore our love to each other. Nine years since I ruined our chances of ever being together. But still the regret and loss slice razor sharp. “Desdemona?” “What about Hunter?” My voice scrapes. “Oh, good, I thought we’d been cut off. Well, we were about to discuss our new novel when all these people flooded in. Not locals, but people from San Antonio, Austin, Houston. It was just amazing. Our quiet little Saturday-night book talk was turning into…” “What about Hunter?” I can’t fathom where this is going. I’m so caught off guard that for a full two seconds I forget Marriage Exposure. “I’m getting to him. So Alma went up to the manager and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ And he said a national best-selling mystery writer was here for a book signing. Have you read Des Amone’s books?” “Yes. Sure I have.” “Did you read the one that was made into a movie?” “Mom. Where is this going? What does it have to do with Hunter?” “Des Amone is Hunter’s pen name. And Hunter came to Garcia to do a hometown launch of his new book tour. It’s all over the Internet, but none of us noticed. You know we mainly stick to romances.” “Des Amone…” I repeat her words to make sense of them. “…is Hunter’s pen name.” “Isn’t that a hoot? And ya’ll were in school together.” Mom is oblivious to the relationship I had with Hunter. She lives in her own little world that revolves around her tiny, barely-break-even flower shop with her upstairs living quarters—my home until I moved to Austin. “So we each bought his book, and when he signed mine, he asked about you. Can you believe it—a famous, rich author still remembering a classmate from all those years ago? Isn’t it funny how his pen name kind of sounds like Desdemona?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So for our next meeting we’re all reading Hunter’s book. You know it’s just so much fun to read a book with a group…” “What did he say about me? What did you tell him?” “He just asked how you are, and I told him you were playing all over Austin and giving lessons. I showed him that picture of you in your long, red dress, playing that red baby grand. I think it was taken in some bar on Sixth Street. He said, ‘Still beautiful as ever.’” I shut my eyes and make myself breathe. “We could have talked and talked, but there was a line behind me, so I moved on. I told him to look you up when he goes to Austin on his book tour. And I gave him your number.” The pow that hit me when she said his name evolves into a melody that fills my chest while she drones on. The melody, not one that I could ever put to music no matter how hard I try, is always there—inside—below the surface. But at times like this it expands, presses, and hurts in the middle of my chest.

*** Until nine years ago, Hunter’s and my lives had always bordered each other’s. Garcia has only one high school, which at that time had fewer than eight hundred students. Hunter stood apart—confident, smart, athletic. For years my eyes were drawn to him whenever we had a class together—his height and his thick mahogany hair were like banners catching my attention. Even the bones in his face seemed more substantive than anyone else’s. His strong nose, his forehead with its masculine bulge above his eyebrows, the vertical line that creased each cheek, making his face strong even when relaxed. Our art teacher in ninth grade had said, “Hunter, with your bones, you’ll look the same when you’re an old man as you do now.” Throughout high school, whether I was in class or the hallway or a common area, my ears sought out his deep voice and warm laugh. Every day, no matter what else was going on, a part of me was always listening for Hunter. In our junior year, we had homeroom together. During the first semester, he sat in the middle of the room, usually surrounded by three cheerleaders, who acted as if it were their official role to keep him entertained. I sat in the back, pretended to study, and wished I could be pretty, blond, blue-eyed Georgina, the one sitting behind Hunter. Get over it. He’s a nice guy—nice to everyone. His occasional smile at me is just that—a simple smile. I was totally out of the in-crowd, and piano practice took all my time. So I never knew for sure who he was dating. One morning in homeroom, his three groupies were giggling about some whispered joke, and Hunter turned around to face Georgina, who was tapping his shoulder. I watched her hand relax onto his bicep and imagined it was my hand—imagined I was stroking those prominent muscles. When I let my gaze slide up his arm to his face, I was shocked that his eyes were waiting to meet mine. An involuntary gasp escaped from me, and somehow my soft sound pierced the giggling, and all three girls followed his gaze and turned to stare at me. I shook my head, and frowned down at whatever textbook was lying open in front of me. I pretended to be perplexed at some academic mystery. Then I gazed slightly to the right of Hunter, hoping they would think I was deep in thought and not that I had been salivating for him. After that embarrassment, I vowed to myself that I would keep my eyes off of Hunter, but the very next day, I was again drawn into watching Georgina and him. She slid into her desk and pulled a tightly folded sheet of notebook paper out of her jeans pocket. Hunter seemed to be ignoring her, focusing on an open book on his desk. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, but he just held up one finger as if to acknowledge her. He didn’t turn to face her. She stood, leaned her whole body over his shoulder, and passed the note to the cheerleader sitting in front of Hunter. The cheerleader unfolded the note, scanned, and instantly turned and slapped the paper onto Hunter’s desk. “Hardcore.” She grinned wickedly at Hunter. Hunter shook his head, covered the note with his hand, and slid it under his book. Clearly whatever he’d seen written on the paper was something he saw fit to cover up. By now a smattering of giggles all around Hunter caught the teacher’s attention at the exact moment Hunter tried to hide the note. Miss Gomez walked purposefully down his aisle, halted at his desk, and held out her hand. “Let’s have it, young man.” She was a first-year teacher, and she took her role as disciplinarian very seriously. Hunter gave her the note. The teacher’s eyebrows shot up above her black-framed glasses. Her tan skin flushed a burgundy red. “Does this…” Her voice shook. “…this thing belong to you?” Hunter nodded solemnly with his eyes cast downward toward his desk. “Yes, ma’am.” She wadded the note, stomped back to her desk, and started writing furiously on her pink pad. Hunter, anticipating a discipline referral to the office, dropped his book into his bag and was standing, ready for the pink slip as soon as she ripped it off the pad. Unbelievable. He was innocent. It was Georgina’s note. He had nothing to do with it. I gaped at Georgina, waiting for her to own up, but she slumped into her chair and guiltily stared at Hunter as he walked out of the room. I fumed all morning. And Georgina’s weeping in the hallway, telling her friends about Hunter taking the blame for her, didn’t soften my resolve. She needed to own up. I’d always been so frozen by my crush on Hunter that I’d never actually walked up to him and initiated a conversation. But now. Now I was determined to help him. At lunch I waited near his locker, hoping to talk with him. The hallway was almost empty. It looked as if he wasn’t coming. My heart sank lower as each second ticked by. Then he rounded the corner and started toward his locker. I blurted out, “Hunter.” My voice was too loud in the quiet hallway. “I…” I lowered my volume. “Could I talk to you?” He grinned and picked up his pace. In a few long strides, he was next to me, looking down at me. Warmth radiated from his body. The scent of him made my heart rate speed up—made me want to inhale deeply. His neck, up close, was strong and muscled, and I could see his pulse beat on one side. He had black stubble on his chin. His lips, the bottom one thicker than the top one, were slightly parted, as if waiting for me to say or do something. For long moments we stared at each other. Was he remembering the time in our sophomore year when he rescued me and we almost had a date? My face got hot, and then I did what I always do when nervous. I babbled. “Georgina brought that note in. You had nothing to do with it. You even ignored her when she tried to get your attention. She practically bowled you over leaning across you to pass the note. You are innocent. And it wasn’t fair for you to take the fall. I witnessed the whole—” He put his hands on my upper arms and gently squeezed. “Are you worried about me?” He grinned, and his eyes lit up as he peered into mine. “Well, I…it just isn’t right. I don’t think you should be blamed for something—” He squeezed again. The touch of his hands on my bare arms arrested my thoughts and my words. It wouldn’t have mattered what he said at that moment; I was speechless just from the touch of him. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me—coach will just make me run extra laps—it’s no big deal.” I shook my head—mainly in an effort to clear my head. Then I said as much for myself as for him, “You must really, truly love her.” “Georgina?” He huffed out a laugh. “Everyone loves Georgina. But she’s with Leo. They’re solid.” Leo had graduated the prior year—I had known they were an item while he was still in high school; I didn’t know they were still dating. “He probably gave her the joke—saw him with it last weekend.” My head was reeling with this new information. “But, still, you shouldn’t have to take—” “Desdemona.” My heart stopped when he said my name, especially when he squeezed my arms again and moved a little closer. “Georgina wants to be class president. If she took the wrap for the note, they’d probably DQ her. All that will happen to me is laps. And I do laps every day. It’s nothing.” My need to babble had ceased. All I knew was that Hunter, gorgeous Hunter, wasn’t with Georgina, and he was standing closer to me than necessary, and he was holding my arms way longer than he needed to, and his breath was warm on my face, and if I were to stand on tiptoes and lean four and one half inches forward, I could put my lips on that pulse beat on the side of his neck. And then one side of his lips tilted upward in a grin that tugged at a secret place deep inside my body. He whispered into my ear. “It will be worth every single lap just to know it matters to you.” And the next morning in homeroom, Hunter dragged a desk to the back of the room and sat behind me. No one questioned it. We were suddenly together. We didn’t get to actually go out on dates that year—neither of us had a car, and Hunter had huge responsibilities helping his mom take care of his dad, who had suffered a brain injury in a construction accident. But all day, every day at school, we were together. And within weeks we started having stolen moments alone in the piano room. The band director had given me keys to the high school’s main entry door and the small piano room because I spent so much time there either practicing alone or accompanying a student instrumentalist. From my freshman year on, my piano teacher often hooked me up with paying gigs in the community, so with no piano at home, I needed lots of practice time at school. During our junior year, Hunter’s mother took the job as school secretary, and often, hours after most people had left the campus, she and I would be the only ones in the building. Usually, few people ever came down to the small piano room, wedged between janitor’s supply and book storage. But sometimes Hunter would come in before he checked in with his mother after athletic practice. At first I would be surprised to look up from my music and find him listening to me play. But soon I tingled with hope everyday—hope that he would come in and tell me about his day. The first time we kissed was on the piano bench. He had been standing in the doorway while I practiced “Always on My Mind” for a fiftieth-wedding-anniversary party the next weekend. The small spinet piano was angled so that my side faced the doorway, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. After the last measure, I turned toward him. The word huggable flashed through my mind. That’s how he looked with his shower-wet hair, gray sweats, and sleeveless T-shirt. His head was tilted in his reflective way. “That’s beautiful.” Our eyes connected. “You’ll play it this weekend, right?” “Yeah—and some others—all their favorites.” He stepped closer. “Will it bother your playing if I sit beside you while you practice?” “Of course not.” I patted the bench. Instead of facing the piano, he straddled the bench and faced me. His closeness set every cell in my body dancing. His warm exhale touched my neck. My body breathed in on its own as if hungry to capture his breath. My eyes dropped from his eyes to his lips—and lower. As if my hands had a will of their own, they moved to reach for him. I caught myself. Forced my eyes forward. Forced my hands to the keyboard. But he leaned closer, his gaze on my face. I turned back toward him. “Maybe…” His brown eyes burrowed into mine. He seemed to be casting for his next words. “…maybe someday you and I—” I inhaled the breath of his words. “—will have a lifetime—” He moved so close that I felt his lips moving with his last words. “—of favorite songs.” I wanted to say, “That’s the sweetest, most romantic, most touching, beautiful thing anyone could say.” I wanted to say, “You’ve just probed into my deepest, most wonderful fantasy.” I wanted to say, “Hunter, I love you, love you, love you.” But I froze. Somehow his eyes asked me if I was OK. I must have nodded because the distance between our lips closed. The feeling of being connected to him—of not knowing where I ended and he started—blurred out everything else. For a time, I lost track of where our hands were, of how his legs were embracing me along with his arms, of how our bodies were plush together, of how his secret bulge was speaking to my thigh. Footfalls, his mother’s high-heeled shoes clanking up the empty hallway, pulled us apart. Hunter stood, and I played the opening measures of “Always on My Mind” as she opened the door.

Q. D. Purdu’s debut romance FAKING LUCKY, under the title of DESDEMONA FINDS THE BIG O IN LOVE, won first place in the Texas Writers’ League Romance category, 2014. Her novella THE LIGHT WE FOUND, first published in MOTHER'S DAY MAGIC anthology, is now available as a stand-alone short read.

Q. D. loves her rescued puppy, red wine, running through sprinklers, dark chocolate with sugared ginger, and anything wrapped in a corn tortilla. Her prized possessions include a hot pink Christmas tree and a garden full of okra and basil.

She hasn’t decided what she’ll be when she grows up, but whatever it is will be filled with romantic impossibilities.

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text 2018-06-18 12:35
Blog Tour: Friends & Lovers Book Series by PE Kavanagh with Excerpt and Giveaway

 

Today’s stop is for PE Kavanagh’s Friends & Lovers Book Series. We will have info about the books and author, and a great excerpt from one of the books, plus a great giveaway. Make sure to check everything out and enter the giveaway.

Happy Reading :) 

 


 

Collecting Secrets

(Book One) 

 

 

A grieving heiress. A celebrity psychologist. A decade of friendship. UNDONE BY ONE BOLD MOVE.

When Camille first met Jackson she was too young. Too innocent. Too traumatized.

Friendship was less than what she wanted, but all she could handle.

Ten years later and she’s a different woman. Strong, successful, brave. At exactly the wrong moment, one bold move threatens everything.

The safe harbor of Jackson’s family. The unconditional commitment of his friendship. The collection of secrets she never knew existed, Claims and confessions come hard and fast as Jackson and Camille navigate all that has never been said. Each step they take, closer to the truth and each other, demands another layer of secrets must fall.

Collecting Secrets is a steamy standalone contemporary romance with no cliffhanger. You will meet characters who will reappear throughout the series.

 

 

 

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Amazon

 

Coming Home

(Book Two) 

 

 
For Ramona Barrett, a lot has happened in fifteen years.
Her maniacal grandfather finally died.
Her father sobered up and got his life in order.
She built an enviable life based on righting her family’s wrongs.
And the chubby, awkward boy who used to be her best friend is now a man she hardly recognizes.
 
Lucas Winston recovered from his law-school fiasco and is now the hottest chef in DC. The elite clamor for a seat in his restaurant, the power-hungry vie for connections to his powerful family, and an old friend demands a forgotten promise be honored. Everyone wants a piece of him.
 
Except Ramona. She can’t see that he’s never stopped loving her. That they are meant to be together. Even if he is about to marry someone else.
 
If you’re looking for smart, sexy characters in a layered, emotionally-gripping story, Coming Home will take you there.
 
This steamy, standalone contemporary romance has no cliffhanger, but includes characters you will meet throughout the series.
 
 
 
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From Collecting Secrets

 

This was not the first time Camille had looked foolish, but it might have been the first time she didn’t care. Unable to find her room key or hold back the torrent of tears, she plunked down onto the ugly hotel carpet in front of her door and sobbed, loud and hard. With nothing but the back of her hand to wipe away the tears and snot, the scene quickly escalated from tragic to gruesome. Heartbreak was no stranger. But this break-up was beyond humiliating. How dare he? She had given him everything and he claimed it wasn’t enough. He’d stood in the cold marble lobby and yelled at her. Accused her of cheating. In front of everyone. Humiliation mingled with anger and desperation, halting any effort to pull herself together. They’d flown across the country to attend this wedding and now she’d be conspicuously dateless in a room full of happy couples. She tried to take a breath and choked on a new wave of tears. A soft crush of footsteps stopped in front of her, but Camille had no interest in lifting her head off her knees to look. “Hey, Cam. What’s wrong?” She knew that voice, as well as the gentle stroke of his hand in her hair. “Camille. You’re scaring me. What’s going on?” His worry pierced through her pain and, with great effort, she tilted her head up to see her best friend’s face inches from hers. His eyes flashed to fear. “Camille! What happened? Are you okay? Talk to me!” It took so much energy to form words. “Calm down, Jack. I'm okay.” “You don’t look okay. Did something happen with Charlie? Where is he?” The questions were coming too fast for Camille’s throbbing, blurry head. “He dumped me.” There, she said it. Out loud. The line of his lips flattened and his breath growled. Rage filled his expression. “That mother fu-” Camille shook her head, trying to regain her composure. “We flew all the way here and that bastard couldn’t even wait one more day.” Jackson’s mouth softened. “I'm so sorry.” He rubbed his thumb across her cheek. She looked into the warm brown eyes of her closest friend, the man who’d been like a brother for the past ten years. This was how she knew him best – kind, caring, and sweet. She didn’t care how the world saw him. She had gotten to know the real man. “Let’s get you up and into your room.” He slipped his long arms under hers and stood her up. She fell into his broad chest, melting into the arms that enveloped her. “Where’s your key, love?” he whispered into the top of her head. She mumbled into his chest. “I couldn’t find it.” Keeping a firm grip around her with one arm, Jackson dipped down to pick her purse up off the ground. “Can I take a look?” “Of course.” She had no secrets from him. She winced when he had to unlock his arm from her waist to search through her purse. Of course, he knew exactly where she would have put the key: in the smallest zippered pocket. He waved it in front of the magnetic pad and the loud click confirmed his success. As expected, the room had been cleared of all Charlie’s belongings. His compulsiveness would have prevented him from forgetting anything. Camille stepped away from Jackson to look around, hoping to find a belt, or a tie, or even a tube of shaving cream. Any excuse to contact him again. But there was nothing, not even a stray hair. Charlie had almost snuck out without her knowing. If she hadn’t had to leave the restaurant to go to the bathroom, she would never have seen him, bags in hand, striding across the lobby. Jackson stepped in front of her, halting her examination of the room, and began wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue. “I'm a mess.” Only the slightest tinge of self-consciousness colored the moment. This was who they were and had always been. He pressed the tissue across her nose and she blew, like a small child. “No, Cam. You’re just hurting.” He balled up the tissue and flicked it into the small metal bin to his right. “I know you’re upset, love. But, personally, I'm glad he’s gone. He was never good enough for you. And he reinforced his complete lack of class by doing this here. I mean, he couldn’t have ended it before flying to Chicago with you?” Camille dropped her head, another rush of tears pressing against her eyes. His broad palms cupped her face, tilting her up to look at him. “Hey, hey, Cam. He has no idea what an amazing woman you are. There are better things in your future. I know it.” His shoulders lifted as he took a deep breath. Something about the look on his face locked her attention on him. When he touched his lips to hers, a first in their relationship, a tiny spark of surprise jolted her awake. When he pressed in, more deeply, passionately and deliberately, gripping her and parting her lips, there was no question a line had been crossed. A column of heat filled Camille’s body as his mouth explored hers. She could not have imagined anything as wonderful as that kiss in that moment. Until she remembered to whom that mouth belonged.

 

 

 

 

 

I believe that everything we experience exists as a story within us.

My journey as a writer includes the award-winning poem I penned at the ripe old age of seven, decades of hiding and doubt, and then finally… finally!... realizing that art needs to be shared. Storytelling is part of my heritage, even though I denied it for so long. The stories I created - true and imaginary - have saved me numerous times.

My characters come to me, like old friends excited to tell me what's new. They represent the world I see and the world I want to see.

More than anything, I care about recovery from life’s setbacks… getting back on your feet after life has brought you to your knees… and my characters fight the hard fight for the lives they know are waiting for them.

I’ve drawn my inspiration from the many flavors of my life experience. Once a sad, shy girl, I’ve also been an MIT-trained engineer, biotech executive, professional dancer, yoga teacher and business owner, school founder, spiritual counselor, entrepreneur, and author.

And I own a magic wand that I’m certain will work one day.

When I’m not typing, furiously trying to capture the stories that pour from me, you can find me loving my people to excess, globe-trotting to the next great adventure, and sporting bright red lips as a tango diva. And of course on my digital homes: pekavanagh.com and boldsoulcoaching.com.

 

Links 

 

 
 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

 

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!

 

 

Source: snoopydoosbookreviews.com/index.php/2018/06/18/blog-tour-friends-lovers-book-series-bu
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text 2018-06-14 12:35
Blog Tour: The Dead Game by Susanne Leist with Excerpt and Giveaway

Today’s stop is for Susanne Leists The Dead Game . We will have info about the book and author, and a great excerpt from the book, plus a great giveaway. Make sure to check everything out and enter the giveaway.

Happy Reading :) 


 

Linda Bennett leaves New York for the slower-paced lifestyle of Oasis, Florida. She opens a bookstore and makes new friends. Life is simple that is until the dead body washes up onshore. She is horrified to learn that dead bodies and disappearing tourists are typical for this small town. Rumors abound of secret parties held by the original residents in their secluded mansions. Once night falls, the tourist-friendly community becomes a haven for evil and dark shadows. However, this is only the beginning. Linda and her group receive an unsigned invitation to a party at End House, the deserted house in the forest behind the town, a mansion with a violent history. They are pursued through revolving rooms and dangerous traps, barely escaping with their lives, leaving two of their friends trapped inside. It is up to Linda and her friends to search out The Dead and find the evil one controlling their once peaceful community. Can they trust the Sheriff and his best friend, Todd? THE DEAD GAME has begun.

 

**Only .99 cents!**

 

 

 

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Amazon *** B&N

 

 

Linda passed the empty tables by the tall windows when she felt her arm being tugged. Before she could react, she found herself being dragged through the open patio doors and onto the isolated garden path. She came face to face with the mighty Wolf and his trusted companion, Hayden. The grounds were deserted. Everyone had left the gardens, and she was all alone with the two wicked vampires. Wolf glared at Hayden. “Please let go of her arm; we are not animals. We never force ourselves on women.” “Chivalry among demons—I’m very impressed. Too bad your table manners and choice of dishes leave a lot to be desired,” Linda said. Her hatred of Wolf had just caused her to forget her low position in the food chain; she closed her mouth to stop herself from talking. In the future, she must remember that he was a vampire—the strongest one in the world—and that he could easily destroy her at any time. Wolf didn’t seem the least bit focused on her. “I didn’t come here to play parlor games with you. I need you to convince Todd to join with us. He can never be human or will ever be accepted by them. He belongs with us. He must stick with his own kind.” “He’s not like you in any way at all: he cares too deeply for people and is loyal to his friends. On the other hand, you and your kind enjoy killing too much and have no feelings whatsoever.” “Todd will never be accepted by humans or by his own kind. He will be an outcast with nowhere to go. He must join with us.” “Todd is human and will always be accepted by humans.” “Let’s kill her now, boss. She’s going to be trouble. I could take her away and no one will ever see her again,” Hayden said, grabbing hold of her arm again. Wolf strolled over to her with a wicked gleam surfacing in his eyes. “I have a much better use for her in the future. When she finally comes to her senses, she’ll realize that she will be better off with a real vampire with limitless powers than with a pathetic human. She’ll learn about intoxicating love and passion—not the games that humans play that pale in comparison. “Here comes the human. Let her go for now.” Linda was horrified to find herself wrapped in Wolf’s strong, muscular arms. She became hypnotized by his black eyes and tempted by his deep voice. He seemed perfect in every way. She only wanted to be with him. “I’ll be back for you.” Wolf held her tight against his body and whispered in her ear. “I love the way you stand up to me with your flashing blue eyes. Soon you’ll be mine, my beautiful ice queen.” Linda couldn’t move her body. She was stuck in some kind of trance…she couldn’t leave, didn’t want to leave if given the choice. His voice soothed her and made her think of love, passion, and great need: a need that could be satisfied only by him with his expert hands and mouth. She knew that one day she was going to be with him, to be joined with him. He lowered his mouth onto hers and drew her into a swirling haze of unexpected feelings and desires. His mouth fully covering hers introduced her to a new realm of pure pleasure. His powerful form enveloped her, making her feel feelings that were foreign and untried for her. She couldn’t get enough of him. Linda tentatively began touching his face and then his body with an eager and unrelenting hunger. She didn’t know what she needed, but she knew that she wanted and desired this beautiful man standing right before her. Her past life was washed out of her mind, never to be considered again. Linda begged him to take her with him tonight. In response, Wolf lifted her in his arms, as if she weighed nothing, and turned to leave the party. His beautiful face looked victorious and happy. His black eyes filled with passion. She hoped that it was because of her. He looked down into her small face and gave a hearty roar. While Wolf carried her in his powerful arms, a dark shadow swooped out of the house and flew directly at them. Linda was knocked out of his arms, and Wolf was thrown across the patio. She looked up to see who had attacked them. It was Todd, his eyes a deadly shade of green, standing there panting. Linda backed away in horror. Todd’s eyes cleared and returned to their original dark color. Then he looked at her. “Don’t ever be afraid of me. I’m here to protect you.” Then he was struck down by Wolf.

 

 

 

 

 

I have always loved to read. I grew up with Agatha Christie, Alistair Maclean and so many other authors who filled my imagination with intrigue and mystery. The TV show, Murder She Wrote, kept me entertained when I was not reading late into the night.

Over the years, my taste in books has expanded to include the supernatural and paranormal genres as reflected in my selection of shows, such as Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries, and The Originals.

My first book, The Dead Game, is a paranormal suspense/mystery. It brings fantasy and the surreal to the simple murder mystery. It has dead bodies and suspects. However, it also has vampires, vampire derivatives, and a touch of romance to spice up the mix.

 

 

Links

 
 
 
 
 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

 

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
 
 
 
 
Source: snoopydoosbookreviews.com/index.php/2018/06/14/blog-tour-the-dead-game-by-susanne-leist-with-excerpt-and-giveaway
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text 2018-06-13 12:35
Blog Tour: The Deadliest Blessing by Jeannette de Beauvoir with Excerpt and Giveaway

 

Today’s stop is for Jeannette de Beauvoir’s The Deadliest Blessing. We will have info about the book and author, and a great excerpt from the book, plus a great giveaway. Make sure to check everything out and enter the giveaway.

Happy Reading :) 


 

 

If there’s a dead body anywhere in Provincetown, wedding consultant Sydney Riley is going to be the one to find it! The seaside town’s annual Portuguese Festival is approaching and it looks like smooth sailing until Sydney’s neighbor decides to have some construction done in her home—and finds more than she bargained for inside her wall. Now Sydney is again balancing her work at the Race Point Inn with an unexpected adventure that will eventually involve fishermen, gunrunners, a mummified cat, a family fortune, misplaced heirs, a girl with a mysterious past, and lots and lots of Portuguese food. The Blessing of the Fleet is coming up, and unless Sydney can find the key to a decades-old murder, it might yet come back to haunt everyone in this otherwise-peaceful fishing village.

 

 

 

Buy Link

Amazon

 

 

Chapter One

 

The sunset was living up to expectations.

I’d parked my Civic—known affectionately as the Little Green Car—in the row of vehicles facing Herring Cove Beach, one of the few places on the East Coast where the sun appears to set into the water. As usual, the light was spectacular. It’s the light that made Provincetown what it is, the oldest continuously operating art colony in the United States: the light here, apparently, is like nowhere else.

Or so my friend Mirela tells me. She’s a painter, and is constantly talking about the light, though when it really comes down to it, she can’t explain exactly what it is they all see, the artists who live and work here. I know; I’ve asked.

It was late spring, and I didn’t yet have too many weddings crowding my daily calendar, so I was taking advantage of the calm before the storm of the summer tourist season really hitting when my spare time, like everybody’s else’s, would disappear altogether. I’m the wedding coordinator for the Race Point Inn, and while we do tasteful winter weddings inside the building, the bulk of my work is in the summertime, as Provincetown is pretty much Destination Wedding Central, mostly for same-sex couples but really for anyone who wants this kind of light. The sun was carving a path of gold right up to the beach, glittering and gilded, and I knew I was smiling, settling back into my seat with a sigh.

My phone rang.

Cell coverage is spotty out here in the Cape Cod National Seashore, and my experience is that it’s when you really need to reach someone that it’s not going to happen; on the other hand, when it’s something you don’t want to deal with, the signal comes through loud and clear. Murphy’s Law, or something along those lines. I sighed and swiped, my eyes still on the sunset. “Sydney Riley.”

“Sydney, hey, hi, it’s Zack.”

My landlord. This couldn’t be good. I mentally checked the date. Um, I’d paid my rent this month, right? “Hi, Reg.”

“Hey, hi. Listen, Sydney, I’ve got Mrs. Mattos here and she’s looking for you.”

Of course she was. I live above a nightclub, which makes for reasonable rent with free Lady Gaga thrown in at one o’clock in the morning; Mrs. Mattos is the eighty-something widow who owns the very large house directly across the street. Property developers are probably checking on her health daily as they wait for her demise; I can’t imagine how many million-dollar condos they could create in that space.

I take her grocery shopping to the Stop & Shop once a week and I’ve noticed, lately, that she’s finding more and more excuses to come over and buzz my doorbell. She’s lonely and probably a little scared and most of the time I try to help, but the silly season was already upon us and there was a lot less of my time available. Generally I try to wean her off daily visits by May, but we were already into the beginning of June now, and she was crossing the street rather than calling, a sure sign of distress.

Mrs. Mattos is frequently distressed.

Still, it must have been something out of the ordinary for her to have buzzed Zack, who owns the nightclub as well as the building and was probably peeled away from his never-ending paperwork to talk to her. Mrs. Mattos is usually a little nonplussed around Zack, who regularly paints his fingernails chartreuse or purple, and owns an extensive assortment of wigs. “She’s there with you now?”

A murmur of conversation, then Mrs. Mattos’ quavering voice on the line. “I just need you to come over, Sydney,” she said.

The sun was dipping into the water now; the show would soon be finished. Above it, scarlet and pink streaked across the sky. Some day, I told myself, I was going to be old and quavering, too. “Okay, you go back home,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Her name is Emilia Mattos, she stands about five-feet nothing and might weigh a hundred pounds. But every bit of her, like most of the Portuguese women in town, is muscle and sinew. I know her first name, but I’ve never used it; there’s a certain distance, a certain decorum the elderly Provincetown widows observe, and I respect that. Out on Fisherman’s Wharf there’s a collection of large-scale photographs of elderly Portuguese wives and mothers, an art installation called They Also Face The Sea; Mrs. Mattos isn’t one of them, but she could well be.

Back when Provincetown was one of the major whaling ports, ships stopped off in the Azores to take on additional crew, and a lot of those people settled back in town and sent for their families; by the end of the 1800s they were as numerous as the original English settlers. Nowadays there are fewer and fewer Portuguese enclaves, as gentrification switches into high gear and Provincetown’s fishing fleet dwindles; but the names are still here: Mattos, Avellar, Cabral, Gouveia, Silva, Amaral, Rego, Del Deo.

Up until about ten years go, a prominent advertisement in the booklet for the Portuguese Festival was for the small Azores Express airline, when there was still a generation in town that was from Portugal itself; you don’t see that anymore.

She was standing in her doorway when I found a parking place for the Little Green Car and got to our street. I’ve read in books about people twisting their hands; I’d never actually seen it until then. “Mrs. Mattos! Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” she said, on that same quavering note. “Oh, I’m probably disturbing you for nothing, Sydney.”

“Not at all,” I said firmly, taking hold of her elbow and turning her around. “Let’s go in, and you can tell me all about it.”

She was docile, letting me steer her back in the house and into the big kitchen where most of her life seems to take place. She has a home health aide who comes in to help her with bathing and laundry, but she doesn’t let anyone touch her stove: not to cook, not to clean. And when I say clean, I mean clean within an inch of its life: everything in Mrs. Mattos’ kitchen gleams. Not for the first time, I lamented that she couldn’t make it up my stairs: if she expended about an eighth of her usual zeal, my apartment would be cleaner than it had ever been.

She sat down, still fussing with her hands. “I’m having construction work done,” she said, and stood up again. “I should show you.”

“What kind of work?”

“Insulation.” Her voice was repressive, as if she were delivering censure of something. We’d just come off an amazingly, spectacularly cold winter, with single-digit temperatures and a nor-easter that brought the highest tides ever recorded, so I suspected she wasn’t the only one thinking about making changes. “In the walls. Them people at the Cape Cod Energy said I should.”

“Okay.” I still wasn’t getting what was wrong here. “Do you want to show me?”

She turned and led me into the front parlor (in Mrs. Mattos’ house, you don’t call it a living room); I had to duck to get through the heavy framed doorway, and the ceiling here was about an inch or so over my head. She, of course, had no such problems. A loveseat had been pulled away from one of the exterior walls and a significant hole made. She didn’t have drywall, but rather plaster and lathing, as older houses tended to. “There wasn’t nothing wrong with it. The insulation before was just fine,” she said, resentful. “Seaweed.”

“Seaweed?”

She nodded vigorously. “Dried out. It’s what they used.” No need for anything else, her tone suggested.

“Okay,” I said again. “What is—“

“Go look,” she said, flapping her hands at me. “Just look.”

I looked. I pulled my smartphone out of my pocket and used the built-in flashlight. Wedged between strips of lathing was a box. “Is this it?”

Mrs. Mattos blessed herself. “Holy Mother of God,” she said, which I took for assent.

“Can I take it out?” I asked, eyeing the box. It looked as innocuous as last year’s Christmas present. Well, maybe not last year’s. Maybe from sometime around 1950.

Another quick sign of the cross. “Just don’t make me look. I can’t look again.”

I put my smartphone in my pocket and reached gingerly into the opening. Didn’t Poe write a story about a cat getting walled up somewhere? “Who’s doing your work for you, Mrs. Mattos?” It didn’t look as though they’d gotten very far in opening up the wall.

She was back to twisting her hands again. “The company wanted so much,” she began, and I nodded. Rather than getting a contractor, pulling a permit, having a bunch of workmen in her house and paying reasonable rates, she’d found someone to do it on the side. Someone’s unemployed cousin or nephew, probably. That sort of thing happens a lot in P’town, especially among the thrifty Portuguese. It explained the size of the hole, anyway: this was someone without a whole range of tools.

I pulled the box out—it was about the size of a shoebox, only square—and set it down carefully on the coffee table. Mrs. Mattos was looking at it as though something were about to pop out and bite her, like the creatures in Alien; she actually took a physical step back. This wasn’t just Mrs. Mattos being Mrs. Mattos; this thing was really spooking her.

I sat down beside the table and gingerly—you can’t say that I don’t pick up on a mood—lifted the top off the box. Sudden thoughts of Pandora blew by like an errant wind and I shook them off and looked inside.

Shoes; small shoes. Children’s shoes. Three of them, and none matching the others. It was wildly anticlimactic. “Shoes?” I said, doubt—and no doubt disappointment—in my voice.

“It’s not the shoes,” she said. “It’s that we shouldn’t never have moved them.”

I looked at them again. Old leather, dry and curling and peeling. But shoes? She was clearly seeing something I wasn’t. Had these children died some horrible death? Were these memories of lives that hadn’t been lived to their fullest? Something haunting, a song or an echo of laughter, moved through my mind as though on a whisper of summer air. I didn’t recognize the tune. “Mrs. Mattos?”

“It’s to keep them witches out,” she said, grimly.

“Witches?”

She nodded. “An’ now there’s nothing to keep ’em from coming in. And nothing we can do about it, neither.”

 

 

 

Jeannette de Beauvoir grew up in Angers, France, but has lived in the United States since her twenties. (No, she's not going to say how long ago that was!) She spends most of her time inside her own head, which is great for writing, though possibly not so much for her social life. When she’s not writing, she’s reading or traveling… to inspire her writing.

The author of a number of mystery and historical novels (some of which you can see on Amazon, Goodreads, Criminal Element, HomePort Press, and her author website), de Beauvoir's work has appeared in 15 countries and has been translated into 12 languages. Midwest Review called her Martine LeDuc Montréal series “riveting (…) demonstrating her total mastery of the mystery/suspense genre.” She is currently writing a Provincetown Theme Week cozy mystery series featuring female sleuth Sydney Riley.

De Beauvoir’s academic background is in history and religion, and the politics and intrigue of the medieval period have always fascinated her (and provided her with great storylines!). She coaches and edits individual writers, teaches writing online and on Cape Cod, and thinks Aaron Sorkin is a god. Her cat, Beckett, totally disagrees.

 

 

Links

 

Website *** Facebook *** Twitter *** Amazon *** Goodreads

 

 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

 

 

 

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive content and a giveaway!

 

 

Source: snoopydoosbookreviews.com/index.php/2018/06/13/blog-tour-the-deadliest-blessing-by-jeannette-de-beauvoir-with-excerpt-and-giveaway
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text 2018-06-12 16:10
Stand & Deliver (Men of Haven) by Rhenna Morgan (Tour) ~ Giveaway/Excerpt


 

Security expert Beckett Tate has met his match in colleague Gia Sinclair. He’s given her time to get used to the idea of “them,” but her time is up and he’s ready to go all in on claiming what’s his. When someone attacks Gia’s character and career they’ll need to find a balance between her independence and his fierce desire to protect. Return to Rhenna Morgan’s sexy Men of Haven series available 2018 from Carina Press!

 

Stand & Deliver
 

Author: Rhenna Morgan

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Release Date: June 11th, 2018

Publisher: Carina Press

Series: Men of Haven

Format: Digital eBook / Print

Digital ISBN: B076ZV47MC

Print ISBN: 9781335948304

 

Synopsis:

 

Live hard, f*ck harder and make their own rules. Those are the cornerstones the six Men of Haven bleed by, taking what they want, always watching each other’s backs and loving the women they claim with unyielding tenderness and fierce.

 

Security expert Beckett Tate has met his match in colleague Gia Sinclair. He longs to run his hands over each and every one of her lush curves. She’s wicked smart and wicked hot. He’s given her time to get used to the idea of “them,” but her time is up and he’s ready to go all in on claiming what’s his.

 

Despite her love of all things girlie, Gia’s no typical Southern belle. She’s built her skills and reputation in a field normally dominated by men, and now she has a kick-ass career she loves. She certainly doesn’t need a man to take care of her—especially not one who’s pure alpha. Still, Beckett’s the one man who can satisfy the desires she’s hidden under her tough exterior, and she’s hooked.

 

Letting Beckett take the lead in the bedroom comes naturally to Gia—not constantly proving herself to him professionally is more of a struggle. And when someone attacks her character and career, Gia and Beckett will have to find a balance: her willingness to let go just a little, with his trust in her abilities and his deep, primal need to protect his woman.

 

 

Available at:  Amazon  |  Barnes and Noble  |  Kobo  |  iTunes 

 

 

Copyright© 2018 Stand & Deliver

Rhenna Morgan

As light as Gia was, getting her in the house was a breeze, and thanks to Knox, her alarm didn’t pose a problem either. Thank God, he’d actually convinced her to let his company be the one to install the system when she moved in. Otherwise, he’d have had a whole different set of problems to juggle.

Soft lamplight spilled from the corner of the living room, so Beckett aimed that direction and laid Gia out on the couch. Once settled, he crouched beside her and smoothed her hair away from her face.

The impact hit him instantly, the soft and silky strands jolting his amplified need for touch into high gear and tempting him like a junkie on a four-day dry spell. As out as she was, he could toy with the long strands and sample the skin on her face and neck for hours and she’d likely never remember a thing. The thing was, if he ever got the chance to touch her that way, he’d want her to remember. Would want to see the response in her eyes and learn how her body reacted to his touch.

He braced on hand on the couch above her head instead. The fabric was nowhere near as luxurious as her hair, but it was soft like the chairs he kept at his place and kept him from giving into touching where he shouldn’t.

That was the thing about people like him. Touch was everything. The thing he needed to stay in balance and keep his head and impulses in check. While his sensory processing disorder—or SPD—wasn’t as debilitating as it was for some people, he’d sure as hell learned not to underestimate it.

He leaned in and lowered his voice, knowing full well she probably wouldn’t hear or understand a word he said. “How about you chill here for a bit, gorgeous. Let me go get things ready for you upstairs.”

Gia moaned and rolled to one side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. The pose was cute. Totally innocent and sweet. Which meant she’d be mortified if she had any clue he’d seen it. “I’m gonna take that for a yes.”

 

 

A native Oklahoman, Rhenna Morgan is a certified romance junkie. Whether it’s contemporary, paranormal, or fantasy you’re after, Rhenna’s stories pack romantic escape full of new, exciting worlds, and strong, intuitive men who fight to keep the women they want. For advance release news and exclusive content, sign up for her newsletter at http://RhennaMorgan.com. You’ll also find all of her social links there, along with her smoking hot inspiration boards.

 

Connect with Rhenna:  Website  |  Twitter  |  Facebook  |  Goodreads  |  Amazon  |  BookBub 

 

 

Carina Press is offer three lucky winner’s a digital bundle of the first four (4) books in Rhenna Morgan’s Men of Haven series! Titles in the digital bundle include: Rough & Tumble (Book #1), Wild & Sweet (Book #2), Claim & Protect (Book #3), and Tempted & Taken (Book #4). To enter, simply fill out the Rafflecopter below:

 

CLICK HERE TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY
 

 

 

Source: angelsguiltypleasures.com/2018/06/stand-deliver-men-of-haven-by-rhenna-morgan-tour
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