tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4602959797604630142024-03-05T09:21:48.953-08:00The Consummate ReaderDedicated to reviewing of books of various genres :DThe Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.comBlogger1357125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-81712459857029396962024-02-05T03:30:00.000-08:002024-02-05T03:30:00.243-08:00HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Uncharted Flight of Olivia West by Sara Ackerman<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zJSC_A-3ffB9l4TAYpg_VC96kNFn8ksixCzpkzt3z5-VyP1ZxNUmDY2L7uufRIH5kYMrzSEObTxuQDNMCXOlfbwGtJsKPRFuYHr_6JvdQu0HIvUieDlKR8Uza2ln3SUKTKwDVxq_YTj6nIFC9JXl-3G0mQ9T0lU2i9yOcmaUSfKu7IywpGJqY8Hjqr8L/s1600/690-HTP-Banner---Winter-2024.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zJSC_A-3ffB9l4TAYpg_VC96kNFn8ksixCzpkzt3z5-VyP1ZxNUmDY2L7uufRIH5kYMrzSEObTxuQDNMCXOlfbwGtJsKPRFuYHr_6JvdQu0HIvUieDlKR8Uza2ln3SUKTKwDVxq_YTj6nIFC9JXl-3G0mQ9T0lU2i9yOcmaUSfKu7IywpGJqY8Hjqr8L/w400-h100/690-HTP-Banner---Winter-2024.jpg" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56erhQYlel50pd-1STD55C-YSHFWTaRJXrtrcUXf6BCnhxGNQ6smtg7y7xLrWOhwPXjqaSZ0dOn5XkMI4WZermEuCHdSNDopB0jFevHcKgjNOAW8GUZUyjhXRc7DeFcCfrY_D2MU4lphRQTpLEwTLLv1PnmMMOD8EczZozU4jBR-DrgfZ-v0azhL2t6S/s3200/Uncharted%20Flight%20of%20Olivia%20West%20final%20cover.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56erhQYlel50pd-1STD55C-YSHFWTaRJXrtrcUXf6BCnhxGNQ6smtg7y7xLrWOhwPXjqaSZ0dOn5XkMI4WZermEuCHdSNDopB0jFevHcKgjNOAW8GUZUyjhXRc7DeFcCfrY_D2MU4lphRQTpLEwTLLv1PnmMMOD8EczZozU4jBR-DrgfZ-v0azhL2t6S/w265-h400/Uncharted%20Flight%20of%20Olivia%20West%20final%20cover.jpg" width="265" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/150444508-the-uncharted-flight-of-olivia-west" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcbOUhaVtGgTmpMxsLUCmYlTTWcfrYn_OYgb7fgg8Ncsbkhcvmn0YWVg7-8W6RWG7QsLnBgbjW2BnTeDZrySJJ9gzyuUm9lj7TmGiW66P2oWMv6MyF0jNnu44W7m4FtEhqQiWpdYaKaVPz7flQaAfEDkXuoR4ZJicLAsulPxLoMdFAe-xAaR49BffQal6/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br />1927</span></b><div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;">Olivia ‘Livy’ Jones is a young and determined pilot with a love of adventure. She’s been bit by the flying bug and yearns to cross oceans and see the world, pioneering the way for other women pilots. When she learns of the Dole Air Race–organized immediately after Charles Lindbergh’s famous flight–a race to be the first to make the 2,400-mile Pacific crossing from the West coast to Hawaii, with a huge grand prize of $25,000–she sets her sights on qualifying. But it soon becomes clear that only men will make the cut. In a last-ditch effort to take part, Livy manages to be picked as a navigator for one of the pilots, before setting out on a harrowing journey that will change her life forever.<br /><br />1987</span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;">Nothing is going right for Emma Summers. When she learns that she has inherited a piece of land from a great uncle, she hopes it might hold something valuable, but instead she finds nothing but an old barn full of junk, including a small plane is in disrepair, with faded paint and a broken propeller. Then she discovers her great uncle's journal. He was a pilot in the Dole Air Race, but in the journal, he reveals that he fell ill over the Pacific, and that it was his navigator who piloted his plane. As she uncovers Livy's story, Emma finds new purpose, restoring the old plane and fighting to secure Livy's place in the aviation hall of fame.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Buy Links:</span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-uncharted-flight-of-olivia-west-original-sara-ackerman/20078544?ean=9780778369516">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9780369747785_the-uncharted-flight-of-olivia-west.html?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAiAzJOtBhALEiwAtwj8tpx8faaOKjw3dxaKQCfswk5u5hLLkBQok1BKsoiRvcjfBObVPna_ChoCsvAQAvD_BwE">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-uncharted-flight-of-olivia-west-sara-ackerman/1143431506;jsessionid=E32CA6D38DACF66F0A48786E75CEAC63.prodny_store01-atgap05?ean=9780369747785&st=AFF&2sid=HarperCollins%20Publishers%20LLC_7651142_NA&sourceId=AFFHarperCollins%20Publishers%20LLC">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Uncharted-Flight-Olivia-West/Sara-Ackerman/9780778369516?id=9049069213037">Books A Million</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/s?k=9780369747785&tag=hcg-02-20">Amazon</a></span></b></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmp4354N3qzcD4lj1s0A0ZlKjQUurMtc7MA7hKSdWKpSJC7oltnYrGhmWAXdvbBbCid5hL3GwIAVC_NdseKL2M2IrfudMfmIO8PO59uklFQUh4-5o_P7-exbNy42Q_fL27KKg_OcnbU_70XufN4oQkiZb_NZ82GDwi5LQmZ866YjyKvTn12uLfXI9ti7m/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmp4354N3qzcD4lj1s0A0ZlKjQUurMtc7MA7hKSdWKpSJC7oltnYrGhmWAXdvbBbCid5hL3GwIAVC_NdseKL2M2IrfudMfmIO8PO59uklFQUh4-5o_P7-exbNy42Q_fL27KKg_OcnbU_70XufN4oQkiZb_NZ82GDwi5LQmZ866YjyKvTn12uLfXI9ti7m/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><br /><br />Olivia San Diego, 1920 <br /><br />Livy had been coming to the airfield for months now but still had yet to go up in an airplane. On weekends, when Pa was out fishing, she would offer to wash the planes or do whatever odd jobs she could for a penny, while watching planes go up. Always hoping to get a ride, but so far out of luck. Though not for a lack of trying. She had been pestering Mr. Ryan for months now. “Paying customers only,” was his standard response. “Or students.” But so far, all students were men. A sixteen-year-old girl had no business in a cockpit. <br /><br />Ryan Flying Company and School of Aviation was on the edge of the Dutch Flats alongside the San Diego Bay and the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, a long Spanish-style building with a tall bell tower in the middle. Palm trees neatly lined up in front like green soldiers at attention. When the tide pulled out, you could smell salty brine and decaying sea life. The hangar was modern and clean, but it was plopped on a brown expanse of hard-packed mud that kicked up dust when dry. Of late, the place had become a magnet for all things aviation.<br /><br />Mr. Ryan had begun letting other people park their planes here free of charge, and customers flocked for the sightseeing tours.<br /><br />On a warm Sunday in March, after surviving a long sermon at church with her mother, Livy beelined it to the airfield. A new pilot had been hired for the tours and she was hoping he might be a softy, and maybe, just maybe, she could persuade him to take her up. Such a gloomy and gusty day, with dark clouds threatening rain, meant less people taking a tour. It also happened that Mr. Ryan was in Los Angeles for the week, and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.<br /><br />Livy was hunched over, wiping down the wheels of Mr. Hall’s biplane, when she heard the incoming engine. She stood up to watch the wobbly machine approach. A storm was brewing to the south, you could taste it in the air, and that always made the pilots nervous. She watched the plane make a precarious drop before leveling off, and then come in for a hard landing. As soon as he came to a stop, the new pilot hopped out of the plane, waiting for his customer and holding a hand out when she finally disembarked. A red-haired woman in heels, face white as chalk.<br /><br />Livy walked over, wiping her hands on her overalls. “How was it up there today?”<br /><br />The woman staggered past Livy without even a glance. “Never again.”<br /><br />The pilot trailed behind his passenger and shrugged. “What can I say? Usually, they’re begging for more.”<br /><br />Once the woman left, zooming off in a shiny Model T, Livy moseyed over to the hangar and stood in the doorway. The pilot was at the counter drinking a Coke and studying a clipboard. With his goggles pulled up on his head, his thick blond hair stood out in all directions, as though he’d stuck his hand in an electric socket.<br /><br />Livy cleared her throat.<br /><br />He looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked.<br /><br />“I’m Olivia West. I work here.”<br /><br />More like volunteer and hope that people would pay her, but she could dream.<br /><br />“Oh, right. Mr. Ryan said you might be here. I’m Heath Hazeltine, new pilot.” He was staring oddly at her, and for a second she wondered if she might have grease on her face, like she often did while working here, but then he said with a shake of his head, “I was expecting something different.”<br /><br />“I come in on the weekends, wipe down planes and other odd jobs,” she said, for some reason feeling like she had to explain, then added, “I’m learning to fly.”<br /><br />That was a stretch, too, but she did always listen to the pilots talk, watch how they got the propellers spinning and closely observe the takeoffs and landings. She knew which part of the runway was more rutted with potholes, and which angle was best for approach.<br /><br />He cocked his head slightly. “That so?”<br /><br />“It is.”<br /><br />One side of his mouth turned up, just a hint. “I didn’t know women could fly airplanes, let alone teenage girls.”<br /><br />Livy felt her whole face go red. “I’ll be seventeen in four months. And I’ll bet I know more about airplanes and weather than you do, especially down here in San Diego.”<br /><br />All she really knew about him was that he’d come from Los Angeles and had flown in Hollywood some, doing stunts. No one had mentioned anything about him being so young. She had been picturing some old guy with a sun-beaten face and graying hair.<br /><br />“Feisty. I like it,” he said.<br /><br />She stood on her tippy toes and straightened up, all five feet three inches. Though her thick curls tucked under the hat added some extra height. “Take me up, and I’ll teach you a thing or two.”<br /><br />He laughed. “What can you teach me?”<br /><br />When he smiled, his whole face changed, making him seem even younger and a little less arrogant—and painfully handsome. Livy felt a swoosh in her stomach and her cheeks tingled. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty, and yet there was a certain worldliness about him. She found herself wanting to impress him.<br /><br />“Like I said, I know everything there is to know about this area. What have you got to lose?” she said.<br /><br />He looked at his watch. “My new job, for one. And I have another tour in twenty minutes, so even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Want to help me patch that big pothole in the runway?”<br /><br />None of the other pilots ever offered to fill the potholes, they always figured someone else would do it. The mud stuck to everything and gave off a rank odor, and a lot of them saw it as beneath them.<br /><br />“How about I go fill those holes for you, and you take me up after your tour,” she said.<br /><br />She thought he was going to refuse her, like Mr. Ryan always did, but instead he nodded and said, “You’re on.”<br /><br />Disbelief flooded through her. “Really?”<br /><br />“Really. Now get out there before my next customer arrives.”<br /><br />But the passengers never showed up, most likely on account of the weather, and the books were empty after that. Heath helped Livy up onto the wing with a big, rough hand and a rock-solid arm. He moved like a man who was extremely comfortable in his own skin, as though the world rotated on his time. Livy decided that he was the perfect man for the job. You wanted your first time up to be memorable, but also to be survivable. Confidence was an asset.<br /><br />“Sure you want to do this? Those clouds look formidable,” he said.<br /><br />Livy had noticed the band of charcoal clouds at sea, heralding the foul weather moving up from Mexico. A sudden chill came over her, and she tried to blot out the memory that always accompanied storms blowing in. The dark thing that would always be with her, always haunt the recesses of her mind. Blinding salt spray, cold waves smashing over the bow and washing everything from the deck, the sound of her name being stolen by the whipping wind. Olivia! The last moments of his chafed hand holding on to hers. Her heart began to squeeze in on itself, but she willed the thoughts away.<br /><br />This storm was likely to be a bad one, but hell if she was going to blow her only chance to fly. Timed right, they’d be able to outrun it.<br /><br />“Positive. From the looks of it, we have about thirty-seven minutes before that front hits here. Just head north along the coast and we should be back in time.”<br /><br />She climbed into her seat, and he leaned in and tightened the belt on her waist. “Thirty-seven, huh? Not thirty-six?” he said, close enough that she caught a whiff of mint and salt water.<br /><br />When he pulled away, their eyes met. Chocolate brown with flecks of fire. Her first instinct was to look away, but instead, she held his gaze.<br /><br />“Nope, thirty-seven. Let’s go, we’re wasting time,” she said. “Oh, and you’ll probably want to come in from the east on your approach. The wind will swing around coming in off the ocean when it moves in.”<br /><br />When he stepped back, he almost fell off the wing, catching himself on the wire. They both laughed, breaking whatever strange thing it was that had just passed between them. Without another word, he hopped in and started up the engine. After a few sputters, it chugged to life. Livy slid her goggles on, and made sure her cap was strapped tight. The whole plane buzzed, sending vibrations from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. As they bounced down the runway, gathering speed, she could hardly believe her luck.<br /><br />One, two, three. Liftoff.<br /><br />The shift from clunky and earthbound to weightlessness was unmistakable. Everything went light and buoyant and yet Livy was pinned to her seat as the plane went up. It was a steep climb and all she could see was sky in front of her. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, imagining herself as an albatross soaring. The hum from the wires that held the wings together grew louder the faster they went. Heath let out a holler and Livy found herself half laughing, half crying. It was even more wonderful than she’d imagined.<br /><br />When they banked to the right and leveled out some, she saw that she had a bird’s eye view of San Diego Bay, Coronado Island and the city itself—white buildings, red roofs and palm trees. The wind from earlier had died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. They flew toward the cliffs of Point Loma and beyond that, the blue Pacific. There were none of the usual bumps and drops that everyone talked about. It was smooth sailing and she was in awe.<br /><br />About six minutes out, the nose of the plane suddenly pointed skyward and they began climbing sharply. Pretty soon, they were nearly vertical. Livy knew all her specs of the Curtiss JN 4 “Jenny”—top speed was about eighty miles an hour, she dove well, but when climbing fast, she had a tendency to stall. So, what the heck was Heath doing?<br /><br /><br />Excerpted from The Uncharted Flight of Olivia West by Sara Ackerman. Copyright © 2024 by Sara Ackerman. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A., a division of HarperCollins</span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><u>Author Bio:</u></span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34jyKal_n1YlbkF2aAP0b19Th1plm3PbUZT_oMA0PYkhxwxSloE6GLVSV9nzZWWPQynEULVEcPEYlX17kly012k7w_bXaXnSqSWSB1ug0YEsJwhrKctJYCv7ZhyP66i_ScoKdHpzidO3X9k3jCOw919Eq4bUtWIShKrm-GcXcQnsis5VMu9hZdvecEv2L/s3150/Sara%20Ackerman_Credit%20Tracy%20Wright-Corvo.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34jyKal_n1YlbkF2aAP0b19Th1plm3PbUZT_oMA0PYkhxwxSloE6GLVSV9nzZWWPQynEULVEcPEYlX17kly012k7w_bXaXnSqSWSB1ug0YEsJwhrKctJYCv7ZhyP66i_ScoKdHpzidO3X9k3jCOw919Eq4bUtWIShKrm-GcXcQnsis5VMu9hZdvecEv2L/s320/Sara%20Ackerman_Credit%20Tracy%20Wright-Corvo.jpg" /></a></span></b></div></span></b></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;">Photo Credit: Tracy Wright-Corvo</span></b></div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div>Sara Ackerman is a USA TODAY bestselling author who writes books about love and life, and all of their messy and beautiful imperfections. She believes that the light is just as important as the dark, and that the world is in need of uplifting stories. Born and raised in Hawaii, she studied journalism and later earned graduate degrees in psychology and Chinese medicine. She blames Hawaii for her addiction to writing and sees no end to its untapped stories. Find out more about Sara and her books at www.ackermanbooks.com and follow her on Instagram @saraackermanbooks and on FB @ackermanbooks.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">Social Links:</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.ackermanbooks.com/">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ackermanbooks">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/saraackermanbooks/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16914230.Sara_Ackerman?from_search=true&from_srp=true">Goodreads</a></span></b></div></span></b><br /></div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-65784861139769390242024-01-30T01:00:00.000-08:002024-01-30T01:00:00.134-08:00Promo Post: The Excitements by CJ Wray<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pq0I3urURXhrSgGZiIEY7thUekdwWTcfAmPsGsKL3u-DQCszm4_TlXi9jPOWrRD295fExwaQu79dKN9ke5uLwOuq8ZOdsNwHQsW_EaZMDedCr2lSU9Mu2Sbma_OaTR2NtgUexXb8QV4hNjxBfjP6kpmDvRBdb_u3X20dYo5exodFySBHPQf0hUVQZ2bg/s2775/145654359.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pq0I3urURXhrSgGZiIEY7thUekdwWTcfAmPsGsKL3u-DQCszm4_TlXi9jPOWrRD295fExwaQu79dKN9ke5uLwOuq8ZOdsNwHQsW_EaZMDedCr2lSU9Mu2Sbma_OaTR2NtgUexXb8QV4hNjxBfjP6kpmDvRBdb_u3X20dYo5exodFySBHPQf0hUVQZ2bg/w265-h400/145654359.jpg" width="265" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/145654359-the-excitements" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcbOUhaVtGgTmpMxsLUCmYlTTWcfrYn_OYgb7fgg8Ncsbkhcvmn0YWVg7-8W6RWG7QsLnBgbjW2BnTeDZrySJJ9gzyuUm9lj7TmGiW66P2oWMv6MyF0jNnu44W7m4FtEhqQiWpdYaKaVPz7flQaAfEDkXuoR4ZJicLAsulPxLoMdFAe-xAaR49BffQal6/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />A brilliant and witty drama about two brave female World War II veterans who survived the unthinkable without ever losing their killer instinct…or their joie de vivre.<br /><br />Meet the Williamson sisters, Britain’s most treasured World War II veterans. Now in their late nineties, Josephine and Penny are in huge demand, popping up at commemorative events and history festivals all over the country. Despite their age, they’re still in great form—perfectly put together, sprightly and sparky, and always in search of their next “excitement.”<br /><br />This time it’s a trip to Paris to receive the Légion d’honneur for their part in the liberation of France. And as always, they will be accompanied by their devoted great-nephew, Archie.<br /><br />Keen historian Archie has always been given to understand that his great aunts had relatively minor roles in the Women’s Royal Navy and the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, but that’s only half the story. Both sisters are hiding far more than the usual “official secrets”. There’s a reason sweet Auntie Penny can dispatch a would-be mugger with an umbrella.<br /><br />This trip to Paris is not what it seems either. Scandal and crime have always quietly trailed the Williamson sisters, even in the decades after the war. Now armed with new information about an old adversary, these much decorated (but admittedly ancient) veterans variously intend to settle scores, avenge lost friends, and pull off one last, daring heist before the curtain finally comes down on their illustrious careers.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9cTM5WB3MhjQnhBaTqF4ek-cwNbFf5-CSEv-goSsbC9WjCDf4NiSNyq7svG6mHF3A6aMnt0rO-y7MBwnIR0cVr2hj13jFiLXagHQ0_uh7N-1DPIrQRAN1hmoLwWv2c2aS6MEn-JQ0PE2f-zaNivDiIxuN0PSxmZdcVGwlk1mXvVeBIPf1GTgoAtw69UL/s500/ChrisManby2023_187.webp"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9cTM5WB3MhjQnhBaTqF4ek-cwNbFf5-CSEv-goSsbC9WjCDf4NiSNyq7svG6mHF3A6aMnt0rO-y7MBwnIR0cVr2hj13jFiLXagHQ0_uh7N-1DPIrQRAN1hmoLwWv2c2aS6MEn-JQ0PE2f-zaNivDiIxuN0PSxmZdcVGwlk1mXvVeBIPf1GTgoAtw69UL/s320/ChrisManby2023_187.webp" /></a></span></b></div></span></b><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;">Photo Credit: Author's Webpage</span></b></div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br />CJ Wray is the pseudonym of Christine Manby, a Sunday Times bestselling author with more than forty books to her name. Raised in the west of England, she studied psychology before embarking on an entertaining and wide-ranging career that has seen her selling kitchens, editing erotica, interviewing an armed robber, and impersonating a princess.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://christinemanby.com/">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/chrissiemanbyauthor/?ref=embed_page">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/chrissiemanby">Twitter</a></span></b></div></span></b></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-70603727750039646512024-01-22T16:29:00.000-08:002024-01-22T16:29:09.395-08:00HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Friendship Club by Robyn Carr<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRLJnLBPbUYXno_k9hLH6JMkrNTmf0w_O_580UAE4UwMQVL43Vj0NVd6PtEPcYi5QQxSwuYwVKg5Ifwfp2xUT_vMEqvzG164MKehEezHNiDXIkAHkY7dBPCtEZo4M7EwT7QY5RVoSoq7w6N1dg7C0NoGkJdnUzNDqGQGmg3fSB1FMQhmXAqVEccGzh1Y1/s1600/690-HTP-Banner---Winter-2024.jpg"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRLJnLBPbUYXno_k9hLH6JMkrNTmf0w_O_580UAE4UwMQVL43Vj0NVd6PtEPcYi5QQxSwuYwVKg5Ifwfp2xUT_vMEqvzG164MKehEezHNiDXIkAHkY7dBPCtEZo4M7EwT7QY5RVoSoq7w6N1dg7C0NoGkJdnUzNDqGQGmg3fSB1FMQhmXAqVEccGzh1Y1/w400-h100/690-HTP-Banner---Winter-2024.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBGbV8-rkLAQouC0rtyBDyqsGCiwuiNCuvAO7ITKtrtY58H6FMyUoKw8zMc2TBX_7cRfFOhSVSrfCTGlkWXitdngiGrvJYauMLcIEAr0oKsA4srcvCtvncGaW6-bK_nNI4iZRGeqpKnLFSo4x6YmkeoN257AJ76hqHzW178HRp-Jl-wJu_iSbSKSC85Ct/s2775/The%20Friendship%20Club%20Cover.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBGbV8-rkLAQouC0rtyBDyqsGCiwuiNCuvAO7ITKtrtY58H6FMyUoKw8zMc2TBX_7cRfFOhSVSrfCTGlkWXitdngiGrvJYauMLcIEAr0oKsA4srcvCtvncGaW6-bK_nNI4iZRGeqpKnLFSo4x6YmkeoN257AJ76hqHzW178HRp-Jl-wJu_iSbSKSC85Ct/w264-h400/The%20Friendship%20Club%20Cover.jpg" width="264" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62325775-the-friendship-club" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcyrROOLcvHW1QoTQF0cbuo_6yUiYBMWzHYHbkfe5Sa3hcwjyyouhEJGdOnU-PubgMADUnFIcCXE8ZIpBlFzlqRAZbQGdjOhq76S0H4uiXTiejKOel0srDpUvfVGqjm1sohRFkniK5kbiY1ORwMum4FzdWBq04ZVJP9avVrbipHrj_RKggMX84_NmBlqn/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Four women who work on a popular cooking show band together when they discover the youngest member of their group has an abusive boyfriend. The Barefoot Contessa meets Big Little Lies in this drama-filled novel about the power of female friendships.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni McGuire is the host of a popular television cooking show and leads a very happy life. Twice married, she has been widowed and divorced and now, in her mid-fifties, she enjoys being a successful single woman. But Marni's daughter Bella, who is pregnant with her first child, is convinced that Marni is lonely and she is determined to find a new man for her mother. To humor her daughter, Marni goes on a series of terrible dates. Marni's best-friend and colleague from the cooking show, Ellen, is a widow who has no interest in meeting anyone new and the two women have discussed the challenges of marriage and the joys of being single. But, while Ellen is adamant she wants nothing to do with men, Marni has to admit to herself that she would like to be with someone but only if he is the right fit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As Bella's pregnancy progresses she admits to her mother that she has some concerns about the state of her own marriage, and all three women are concerned that the young intern on the cooking show is caught in a toxic relationship.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni and Ellen are determined to guide the two younger women to have the strength, confidence and support to improve their situations and the women gather regularly to talk about the important issues in their lives.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When Marni and Ellen each unexpectedly find themselves falling for new men in their lives the younger women help them navigate the dating world.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Together these four women form a strong bond of family and friendship that will anchor all of them as they navigate the challenges and celebrate the joys of life.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Buy Links:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9780778311881_the-friendship-club.html" style="font-weight: bold;">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/book/9780778311881" style="font-weight: bold;">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-friendship-club-robyn-carr/1142766773?ean=9780778311881" style="font-weight: bold;">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Friendship-Club/Robyn-Carr/9780778311881?id=8292090795540" style="font-weight: bold;">Books A Million</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Friendship-Club-novel-Robyn-Carr/dp/0778311880/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701968754&sr=8-1" style="font-weight: bold;">Amazon</a></span><div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOLmxV2UuNFl9Kk4spJyjz_vYPY62M97eysEbeT4ep7iMwJgWoziJdkJgFV_knpY3jeqvzonK6e1dTit9ecWHAcyhyphenhyphenUaW9b51pGrwpF7M-kjWKL7iDdLhuKp1AnKK7bIZmJZ9X04SQoKOXOLEd3WGjzVmLXdb4unOO9lTs8i9LUVbEd8v1rOooXbr84o2/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOLmxV2UuNFl9Kk4spJyjz_vYPY62M97eysEbeT4ep7iMwJgWoziJdkJgFV_knpY3jeqvzonK6e1dTit9ecWHAcyhyphenhyphenUaW9b51pGrwpF7M-kjWKL7iDdLhuKp1AnKK7bIZmJZ9X04SQoKOXOLEd3WGjzVmLXdb4unOO9lTs8i9LUVbEd8v1rOooXbr84o2/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And that’s a wrap,” the director said. “I think I have everything I need. I’ll do some editing and you can review it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thanks, Kevin,” Marni said. “My sister and my daughter are coming by for a glass of wine. Would you like to join us for a drink to celebrate finishing another season?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thanks, no. I’m on the timer. New baby on the way,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course! How’s Sonja feeling?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Huge,” he said with a laugh. “But the baby’s still cooking. The midwife says she has a few more weeks. Sonja cried for an hour after hearing that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I remember that feeling,” Marni said. “Like it was yesterday. You better stay close to her. Thanks for everything this season. I think we got some good stuff.” Then Marni turned to her intern, Sophia Garner. “But you’ll stay, right?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “It’s going to be an intervention, I think.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, fabulous, I love those,” Marni said with a hint of panic. “If you and Ellen clean up, I’ll put out some hors d’oeuvres.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Of course she was prepared; just a little fixing up and presentation required. Marni Jean McGuire worked every day and took very few breaks from cooking, writing, studying, traveling and experimenting with new recipes but they only filmed the segments of her show sixty days a year. But filming was intense. Twice a year they’d film for thirty days over six weeks—enough for two seasons. She hosted one of the most popular cooking shows on a cable network. Today marked the last day of filming and they always celebrated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni’s kitchen was essentially a set; all their filming was done in her home as opposed to a studio. She smiled as she watched her producer, Ellen, who was busy cleaning up with Sophia. Ellen was a bona fide chef but she had no interest being in front of the camera. Sophia loved the camera and the camera loved her; after being caught on camera accidentally a few times, she had become beloved by the viewers for her quick wit and delicious accent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni Cooks was very popular but hosting a TV show had never been her lifelong goal. Far from it. It fell into her lap like a glorious miracle. When she was a young widowed mother, she did whatever she could to make a dollar and raise her little Bella. She took a job handing out food samples for a chain of grocery stores. With her baby in a carrier on her back, she turned out to be a hit. She sold out her product day after day, probably because Bella was so funny and flirtatious and Marni, despite the fact that life hadn’t been easy, was personable and approachable. Almost immediately after she began, shoppers came looking for her, engaging her in conversation. They gave her good reviews and told store managers how much they liked her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Once she filled in for a product demonstrator for the same grocery chain, showing interested patrons how to slice, dice, shred, spiral and chop vegetables. Again, Bella rode along; childcare was impossibly expensive. Her sense of humor and ease with being in front of a small audience charmed people—including the producer from a television station. Marni was hired to demonstrate a couple recipes every week on a local morning show. Along with that she did cooking demonstrations at fairs or exhibits, published a couple of small cookbooks, helped out at catering services, began writing a short cooking column for the newspaper and filled in when other chefs were unavailable as a guest on various cooking shows. Then she landed a full-time job as the on-air chef for a cable cooking show. She had been thirty-two. Her viewing audience grew quickly and soon after she hired Ellen, who was an expert in her own right. Marni was syndicated to a handful of affiliates and her popularity continued to grow. She knew she owed as much of her success to Ellen as to her own hard work. Ellen had a knack for delectable creation but she was such an introvert she would never agree to join Marni in front of the camera.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But in Ellen’s hands the food became a living, breathing wonder and she had become the associate producer over time, thanks to Marni. She knew what a gift she had in Ellen and took very good care of her. And Ellen knew what a great opportunity she had with Marni; no one else in the business would let her just cook without taking on any management responsibilities and yet pay her so well. But every time Marni’s fortunes improved, Ellen benefited as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A little over twenty years ago Marni had met Jeff, a news anchor for the local affiliate. Since she lost her young husband when Bella was only nine months old, she hadn’t been optimistic she’d ever find another forever man but fate shocked her by delivering up Jeff. It was a great love, filled with promise and passion. They were a team from the start, both of them being in TV and very visible in the community. They worked together, shoring each other up and urging each other on. Jeff was a fantastic stepfather for Bella and proudly walked her down the aisle six years ago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shortly after that something changed. Marni was concerned that a woman Jeff worked with had ulterior motives. She’d been stalking him for years, texting him, asking his advice, professing to be his friend and protégé and constant supporter. Marni had warned Jeff many times that he needed to be careful not to encourage this woman and he always said he could handle things. But his behavior changed and Marni grew suspicious. She caught them making out in Jeff’s car in the parking lot of a local park that sat in the shadow of the beautiful Sierras.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When she realized what she was witnessing, she drove very slowly up close to Jeff’s car and laid on the horn. They jumped apart like two heart attacks. It was divine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She knew in that moment that her marriage, which she had enjoyed a great deal, was over. Clearly Jeff had been lying and leading a double life for years. The pain of that was excruciating. She also instinctively knew that Jeff and the woman had both gotten what they deserved—each other. Neither was honest nor faithful. In an instant she knew, she would not go a second further with a man who could look her in the eye and deceive her. She told him to leave. He didn’t argue or try to save their marriage, but he did hire a good lawyer and fought for a healthy settlement. At that time they both had solid careers, but Marni was edging ahead. Jeff went after a big slice of that success; indeed, he took credit, as he’d given her so much wonderful advice. At least that was his perspective.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">At Marni’s insistence, they settled and divorced quickly. Marni had asked herself if she should pause and think it over, maybe try marriage counseling, but a gut instinct said end it fast. When he asked for a percentage of her future earnings, she knew she’d been right. It had to be over as swiftly as possible. She gave him half, though he hadn’t earned half. Since there were no minor children or businesses involved, he couldn’t possibly do better. She cut him a big check, waved goodbye and ran for her life. She learned you can still sprint pretty well with a broken heart.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After a couple of years of hating him, things settled down. Marni had handed over more money than seemed fair to her, certainly more than Jeff deserved, and that angered her but the relationship was over in her heart. And Karma being a vicious soul, Jeff was demoted in his job while Marni’s popularity soared.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jeff had used his settlement to open a restaurant, hoping to capitalize on Marni’s notoriety as a television chef. But Gretchen, the other woman, was his business partner and Marni refused to endorse the restaurant. While he was busy trying to cash in on her success, Marni just put her head down, worked hard and became even more popular.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then there was a sea change. Jeff had not married Gretchen, but he had spent a lot of money on her, found her cheating, and she unceremoniously dumped him, leaving Jeff a broken, much poorer man…with a struggling restaurant. Of course he brought his tons of regret to Marni, begging her forgiveness. Telling her that letting her go was the biggest mistake of his life!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No doubt about it,” Ellen had said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Too little, too late,” Bella said. Bella was, if possible, angrier than Marni about Jeff’s betrayal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Men are so stupid,” said Sophia when she heard the story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni had long since stopped complaining to her friends. To Jeff she said, “You broke my heart and tore my family to pieces. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You don’t understand, Marni,” he said. “I think she used me and turned me against you, the only woman who truly loved me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, I believe I understand completely,” she had said. The story was as old as time. He’d succumbed to flattery and been thinking with his dick. No amount of his regret would change the fact that she’d be an idiot to ever trust him again. She was no idiot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But she did soften her anger slightly and they were now cordial. Every now and then Jeff would call her or text her or stop by, though the locks on the house had long since been changed. Over the past couple of years he had suggested a few times that they go out for dinner and she always declined. He clumsily proposed she might cook something for him. “One of your favorite new recipes… I would love that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not in your wildest dreams,” she had replied.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni heard the dishwasher start and snapped out of her thoughts of the past. She pulled her pesto canapés from the oven, the artichoke dip from the refrigerator and heard Kevin depart.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The door opened again. “Mama?” Bella called.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right in here,” Marni said. “How is the bump?” Bella was five months pregnant and cute as a button. It was a pregnancy hard won through wildly expensive in vitro fertilization.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A little feisty,” she said with a very proud smile.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The door opened again and Marni’s sister, Nettie, came in from the garage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni put down her hors d’oeuvres and transferred the centerpiece from the kitchen island to the long rectangular coffee table in the great room just as Ellen was bringing in a tray of wineglasses. Sophia followed with a large oval-shaped bucket filled with ice and two opened bottles of white wine. She went back for a chilled bottle of sparkling cider in an ice bucket on a tripod stand for Bella since she was off alcohol.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni loved watching them enter the room, her colleagues and loved ones. Ellen came into a room with shy demeanor, standing nearly six feet tall, lithe and graceful. She wore her her once blond and now white-gray hair in a simple pageboy. She always bent her head slightly and Marni wasn’t sure if her height made her uncomfortable or if it was her shy nature.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nettie, ten years younger than Marni and the mother of two sons, was an English professor at the university in Reno.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni brought out a couple more plates of hors d’oeuvres, Sophia placed napkins all around, Ellen pushed over an ottoman for Bella to rest her feet upon, and they settled in. First was a toast. “A very good season, I think,” Marni said. “One of our best. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Glasses were clinked in agreement, small plates were filled, napkins unfolded. And Marni looked around with a feeling of warm satisfaction. This was her happy place. This great room with her closest friends and family. And outside, through the patio doors, reflected in the backyard infinity pool was the sight of the Sierra Nevada mountains, still covered with snow, though it was May. They all lived in Breckenridge, Nevada, a picturesque little town nestled into the base of the mountain range just south of Reno and Lake Tahoe. There was a winding road, not exactly a secret but little known, that went switchback up over the mountains and then down into Lake Tahoe. People who grew up in Breckenridge knew it well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This was an agricultural and ski town, with the mountains so close, and it was beautiful with its million-dollar views of nature at her best. To Marni, it looked similar to Austria.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marni had overseen every aspect of the construction of this house, the kitchen being the focal point. She and Jeff were married at the time and while he helped by sharing advice and supervising construction, it was her house. She approved the plans and made it part of her business. And she loved it. Knowing it would be caught on camera, it was beautifully decorated in beiges, browns, pinks and mauves. It was redecorated almost annually for the same reason—updating for the viewers. But the most important thing to Marni was that the house felt like a hug to her, making her feel safe and protected.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When Jeff moved out, she filled the empty space he left in no time at all. Filling the empty space in her heart had taken longer. Even though she had stopped loving him and stopped hating him, there was still a hole there. A black cold hole. It frequently reminded her that she had no talent for love.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Friendship Club by Robyn Carr. Copyright © 2024 by Robyn Carr. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG75kq94zPjPzGG8iGQykEtWCl01Ju3JWtPbhW7ccTUt3-tdRFau_Uisj-_r1JJuHiSsxT_B-4WE6e8qFt93TpQltre0fFiAb2JmITf6wbyMcvSGlXFD1XqL_1pkIqFk3jjkxl8vwkhesvvbHqsjjj5hI5Ie-o56XZIGEhPtFwALxt5NVM_Ok_7esETBKG/s2820/Robyn%20Carr%20Author%20Photo.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG75kq94zPjPzGG8iGQykEtWCl01Ju3JWtPbhW7ccTUt3-tdRFau_Uisj-_r1JJuHiSsxT_B-4WE6e8qFt93TpQltre0fFiAb2JmITf6wbyMcvSGlXFD1XqL_1pkIqFk3jjkxl8vwkhesvvbHqsjjj5hI5Ie-o56XZIGEhPtFwALxt5NVM_Ok_7esETBKG/s320/Robyn%20Carr%20Author%20Photo.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Michael Alberstat</span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Robyn Carr is an award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including highly praised women's fiction such as </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">Four Friends</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">The View From Alameda Island</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and the critically acclaimed </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">Virgin River</i><span style="font-weight: bold;">, </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">Thunder Point</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">Sullivan's Crossing</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> series. </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">Virgin River</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> is now a Netflix Original series. Robyn lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Visit her website at </span><a href="http://www.RobynCarr.com" style="font-weight: bold;">www.RobynCarr.com</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.robyncarr.com/" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Author website</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/robyncarrwriter/" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Instagram </a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://twitter.com/RCarrWriter" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Twitter</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Robyn-Carr-134368309920956/" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Facebook</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@robyncarrwriter" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">TikTok</a></div></span><br /></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-77001495059950036992024-01-06T18:48:00.000-08:002024-01-22T19:07:31.292-08:00HTP Romance Blog Tour Promo Post: The Fearless One by Lori Foster<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDF_FzRpRURuBgJ1gaskFY3AyLHoIx-ck3vJ_Tgx2KoK-x_wR4oerWgP3-Rzv8Kpe_WRSsSUNiem0_-Lm9laFDy4Gnyp_odLtvokW8hEtyaRSLGHiEN9Fpaa3quMuJsNT-Opabb0iJgcjh0uSJEMKd2Va1WOtN3losoA1JQ2oPYkdR-7zAHxt4-2oZ6CR/s1600/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDF_FzRpRURuBgJ1gaskFY3AyLHoIx-ck3vJ_Tgx2KoK-x_wR4oerWgP3-Rzv8Kpe_WRSsSUNiem0_-Lm9laFDy4Gnyp_odLtvokW8hEtyaRSLGHiEN9Fpaa3quMuJsNT-Opabb0iJgcjh0uSJEMKd2Va1WOtN3losoA1JQ2oPYkdR-7zAHxt4-2oZ6CR/w400-h100/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMH3BmChsSxaxKeS5QyGVfbame4gD7gy5PKqzl8dRYMDLsY__hQhUOQVlyUo34WOz5k4ja9Ugawp-JUFyQyf0_H5WeER88qpZIi7EVWoudbrsKb-geUodHkTaSJmjHC8YSyJ-ETUG19UIoZWnngq4klZ6uLLVN3YjZodnliqnBSHab5-UT9QOkUis0esu3/s2650/The%20Fearless%20One.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMH3BmChsSxaxKeS5QyGVfbame4gD7gy5PKqzl8dRYMDLsY__hQhUOQVlyUo34WOz5k4ja9Ugawp-JUFyQyf0_H5WeER88qpZIi7EVWoudbrsKb-geUodHkTaSJmjHC8YSyJ-ETUG19UIoZWnngq4klZ6uLLVN3YjZodnliqnBSHab5-UT9QOkUis0esu3/w253-h400/The%20Fearless%20One.jpg" width="253" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/75339233-the-fearless-one" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4WUhrrZDRLrK2zk7imq2LeMx5N4DpTr03z_bBYNZoUKr5XXNPnqJ2epOY7poR4v3uFHCjGadQqCGK8lrsF9k6AmewuRHA0gseL4EvJQ1BXpGgyRyxK5tUF1RRRvZOQBh0Bs3tBbRTQKgPlQ9HvCDmu00aifGj0t7xnyrxAhHUOErAzUmkhw4_at3rkvd/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had it all planned…until she showed up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jedidiah Stephens came to the Colorado Rockies for one reason: to uncover the truth behind the fire that killed her family. She’s been chasing down clues, and everything has led her to an isolated campground. Her plan is to get a job there so she can investigate who comes and goes. Getting involved with her boss, Memphis Osborn, the ruggedly handsome groundskeeper, is definitely not part of the plan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When Jedidiah arrives on the scene, Memphis just knows she's up to something. He can see the desperation in her eyes and warily agrees to hire her. As they work side by side, Diah triggers his deepest protective instincts—and the chemistry between them ignites.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But the more Diah digs into her family’s past, the more secrets she unravels…and the more afraid she becomes. She lost everything once before. She’ll never forgive herself if now she loses Memphis, too.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/a/397/9781335517135">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-fearless-one-lori-foster?variant=41039781429282">Harlequin</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335517135&retailer=barnesandnoble">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335517135&retailer=amazon">Amazon</a></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335517135&retailer=booksamillion">Books-A-Million</a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwLo2eJXqCAa759ctiNkmgbm8UZOip_YPlZ5HDRUEkd6gZTMlmmapagotKXxapYvaAXZb4hVmJQ-Au-c6cATfincFQIht7SLIxeG-Oh_Z2vObEdWVVRQr6SW037zvt-qbSoWM170WKjmeOY2PN-dVlG0c3alcLIx2DcbJ-fmqtjYVDS9T8jbjxQWRrhv/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwLo2eJXqCAa759ctiNkmgbm8UZOip_YPlZ5HDRUEkd6gZTMlmmapagotKXxapYvaAXZb4hVmJQ-Au-c6cATfincFQIht7SLIxeG-Oh_Z2vObEdWVVRQr6SW037zvt-qbSoWM170WKjmeOY2PN-dVlG0c3alcLIx2DcbJ-fmqtjYVDS9T8jbjxQWRrhv/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For early April, the Colorado weather was unseasonably warm. Probably in the low sixties with enough sunshine to make it feel warmer. Jedidiah Stephens, who went by Diah for short, loosely held Tuff’s leash in the only available finger she had. Loaded down with supplies, she made her way along the rutted, occasionally muddy road leading to the budget campground.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hard to call the miserable path an entry, though. Surely the guy who’d bought the place planned to fix it up a little before he opened in mid-May. If not, she’d see what she could do about it. At the very least, the potholes needed to be filled and everything regraveled. Otherwise, anyone pulling a camper was in for a really bumpy ride, possible damage to the undercarriage of their travel trailer, and there was a good chance they’d get stuck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Checking the time on her phone, she saw that she was thirty minutes early. Hey, it wasn’t easy to be timely when she relied on others for her transportation. Good thing she’d found a nice woman who’d let her, her number-one guy, Tuff, and her luggage hitch a ride in the back of her pickup. Talk about getting jostled, and now she was more windblown than ever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not that she cared. This was the chance she needed to solve the mystery, rid herself of nagging questions and finally get on with a new, better life. Free.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oh, how she wanted to be free.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She couldn’t change the past or stop the occasional nightmare; she understood that. But by God, she could put an end to running, and in the process forge a new future.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If she let it, excitement and even a little nervousness would take over. Ruthlessly, she tamped down those two disagreeable emotions. The owner’s brother had sent her here, so her early arrival shouldn’t be a big deal. Supposedly, she was a shoo-in for the job.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Can’t be too much farther,” she said to Tuff, who looked up at her with a frown of concern. For real, her dog was a world-class worrier, but this time Diah had to agree with him. It was starting to feel creepy. The long road in, lined by tall aspens and pines, was plenty isolated. Other than the sounds of critters in the trees, the area was dead silent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Don’t be such a chickenshit… You gotta toughen up… Jesus, you’re a scaredy-cat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d heard those comments too many times to count. Worse than hearing them?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Knowing they were true.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">To the right of her, something rustled in the underbrush—and effectively stalled her breathing. Tuff went alert, staring in that direction, then dismissed it. Almost immediately to her left, a flock of birds took flight, stripping a year off her life. Tuff sidled closer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Automatically, she sought to reassure him, and in the process reassure herself as well because Tuff’s nervousness always became her own, and vice versa.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Putting a hand on his neck, appreciating the contact with another living creature, she gently rubbed. “Yeah, maybe I should have asked that lady to drive us right up to the campground, huh? I hadn’t figured on it being such a hike, though. His street sign should give a damn clue, right?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuff looked forward and perked his ears.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Squirrel?” she asked, because she could handle a critter. “Rabbit?” But no. She heard it now, too. Singing. And there up ahead, finally, the winding road opened to a clearing, with a small parking lot on the right and a wooden shed that served as a gatehouse and check-in station on the left. Right now the shed was empty, but it had been recently painted and looked big enough to accommodate a few people. Nearest the road was a drive-through window, so visitors wouldn’t have to get out to check in for their stay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thank God they’d finally reached the campgrounds. With a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, her packed tent slung over the other, and a suitcase in her hand, her shoulders were killing her. The soft suitcase was a roller, but not on this pitted, bumpy path.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seriously, she wished she were stronger. Wished she were braver, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sometimes she wished she were someone else entirely.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As Tuff strained against the leash, he almost got away from her. Quickly readjusting her free hand, not just a few fingers, Diah said, “Quiet,” in her low command voice, and although Tuff’s furry lips rippled, he didn’t make a sound. Such a smart boy. So many times over the past two grueling years, she’d given thanks that Tuff had come into her life. He was her best friend, her protector and pretty much the only reason she ever smiled. “We’ll sort of sneak in, okay?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A muffled, “Fft,” was Tuff’s reply. And yup, she grinned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When she got to the check-in, Diah unloaded her belongings beside it. Looking around, she took in several small cabins that appeared newly repaired. Some trees had been trimmed, RV and tent lots were mostly cleared, but overall the grounds were a work in progress.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Straight ahead, not too far from the entry, a larger cabin—which by no means made it large—appeared to be the source of the singing. She heard, “Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me,” in a high falsetto and couldn’t help but laugh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, man, Tuff, do you hear that?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Lovefool” by The Cardigans. If she hadn’t heard it in a bar during karaoke night, she’d have no idea. The drunken chick who’d sung it then hadn’t done as good of a job as this guy. He really belted it out with gusto.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Snickering, she said to Tuff, “No time like the present,” and led him along to the cabin, around to the side and there… Ho boy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Naked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Using an outside shower.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Forget the warmth of the sunshine. It was freaking April in Colorado.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thank God a concrete block half wall kept her from seeing him in all his glory, but holy moly, what he showed was enough to keep her gawking. Dude had seriously hot, muscular shoulders and flat abs… Heck, she could see the tops of his hip bones, too. It was a mighty fine display, one she hadn’t been prepared for. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuff sat down, maybe mesmerized. Diah’s legs were suddenly shaky enough that she wouldn’t mind sitting, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lounge back and watch the show? Would’ve been nice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unfortunately, she was a human adult, not a dog, so she had to announce herself. She tried loudly clearing her throat, followed by a sharp “Ahem.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nothing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Face turned up, he sang out another verse while rinsing shampoo from dark brown hair a few inches too long. When was the last time she’d seen anyone built like him, all firm, ropy muscles on a tall frame?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yeah, that’d be never.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not once in her twenty-four years had she ever encountered any guy, anywhere, who looked like this one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shameful to admit, but she eyeballed him a little longer before saying again, louder this time, “Ahem.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pausing in midverse, he cocked open one dark blue eye, framed by spiked lashes. He spotted her and at his leisure, without a hint of haste—or modesty—pushed back his wet hair and got both eyes open.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Intently watching her now, no longer singing, he…continued his shower.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What. The. Hell.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A big soapy hand went over his throat, the back of his neck, across his chest and beneath one arm.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was so damn attractive, her heart ping-ponged around in her chest. Since he didn’t speak, she assumed she’d have to. “Hi, I’m, um…” Who was she? Oh, yeah. “Jedidiah Stephens. Appointment at three.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Turning his back to the water, not at all put off by being caught in the buff outside, his gaze moved over her body, but quickly came back to her eyes. “I don’t have any appointments.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She went blank for a moment before the obvious answer came to her. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry for disturbing you.” Belatedly remembering that people were usually put off by her intent stare, she turned to give him privacy. But yeah, she wasn’t comfortable with anyone at her back so she shifted again, facing to the side. If he tried to leave the shower to approach her she’d catch him in her peripheral vision, but at least her gaze wasn’t directly on him. “I’m looking for Memphis Osborn.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He’s busy showering.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Confusion hit her. “You’re both showering?” How… Why…? Thoughts of mud wrestling or some other sexy activity flashed through her mind. Two sweaty guys. Muscles straining…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sucked that she’d missed it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A gruff, short laugh came from him and he said, “You’re not seeing the big picture. I’m Memphis, I’m showering and I don’t have any appointments.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chagrin brought her around so that she fully faced him again. Yup, still gloriously naked. How could she not stare? “You own this place?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Beside her, Tuff stirred. The poor dog was as tired as she was and no doubt ready to bed down somewhere for a nap.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Guilty. As you can see, I haven’t opened yet.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know the place isn’t open.” She resisted adding “Duh.” As if explaining to a little kid, she spoke slowly. “I have an appointment about a job.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His gaze dipped over her bare legs, making her wish she’d worn jeans instead of shorts. Yeah, if only she’d had a chance to do laundry, but it wasn’t always possible on the road. His attention lingered for a mere heartbeat before returning to her face…and roaming over her every feature as if figuring out who—or what—she was. Rude!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Because she’d ogled him, too, she couldn’t really get huffy about it… The hell she couldn’t! She was fully dressed, not prancing around outside bare-assed. “Take a picture, why doncha?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You wouldn’t mind?” He reached for the cell phone he’d left on the top of the half wall near a folded towel. As he lifted the phone, the music that came from it abruptly died.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The sudden quiet was jarring.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He pretended to take aim.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Belatedly, she found her voice, which erupted with irritation. “Look, I was told to be here and that you’d hire me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sight unseen?” Shaking his head to deny that, he set the phone aside, turned off the water and reached for the towel—which he only slung around his neck. “I don’t think so.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Swear to God, she could see steam rising off those impressive shoulders. Her palms tingled at the idea of touching him, maybe coasting her fingers over the swells of muscle. “Aren’t you freezing?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Little bit.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yet, he didn’t dry off. “Is there a reason you’re showering out here instead of inside somewhere?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Fine, she could play this game. “Wanna share?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amusement tugged at one corner of his very sexy mouth. “Might as well, since you’re still here.” He made a halfhearted effort at drying himself. “I’ve been living in this cabin, which is the biggest on the grounds, but still not big enough for me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Seriously?” It looked great to her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The shower was especially small,” he explained, “so I’m extending the back end with a larger bedroom and bathroom. It’s not quite done and until it is, I have more room out here.” He eyed her again. “Used to have plenty of privacy, too, until some girl and her dog just showed up out of the blue.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Odd that the words were disgruntled, but the tone not so much. If anything, he seemed amused. Maybe she was going about this all wrong. After adjusting her tinted glasses, she tried on a congenial smile. “This is Tuff.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What is?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“My dog. His name is Tuff.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Glancing down, he gave a short laugh at the dog’s sleepy expression. “Hey, boy. Are you really that tough?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“T-u-f-f,” she explained. “He came with the name when I adopted him. He’s fast, smart and super protective.” She tacked on the last just in case he wasn’t as easygoing as he seemed and had any thoughts of hassling her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Disinterested in all the human chitchat, Tuff yawned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He’s also tired.” Memphis searched the area. “Where’s your car? I didn’t hear you drive in.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I walked.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Skeptical, he asked, “From where?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Right. Nowhere was near so the question made sense. “We hitched a ride in the back of a woman’s truck. She dropped us off by the camp sign.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The camp sign that’s a little over a mile away?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That far? Hmm. Maybe she could garner some sympathy and that’d soften him up. “Only a mile?” To add an edge of drama, she put a hand to her back. “Felt longer with me carrying all my gear and leading the dog. I think it took me a good forty minutes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lacking even an ounce of pity, he grinned. “Great exercise, right?” He turned a finger in the air. “I’m stepping out now, so unless you want your feelings hurt, you might want to turn around.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why would it hurt my feelings?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He hitched one of those big shoulders. “No idea, but you’re acting all affronted that I’m out here naked, on my own property where you shouldn’t be, showering in a place that’s none of your business, so I assumed you’d object.” After spewing that mix of nonsense and censure, he waited.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Left with no choice, she gave him the truth. “Eh, since you’re a stranger and everything, I’d prefer to keep an eye on you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What a weak excuse. Admit you want to see me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Of all the… She folded her arms and tried to glance away. Couldn’t quite do it, though. “I won’t stare.” She wouldn’t. Her stare had gotten her into trouble too many times.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Had gotten her hurt as well. A long time ago, she reminded herself, and yet it was a lesson she’d never forget.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Suit yourself.” The towel wasn’t nearly big enough to adequately wrap around his lean hips, but he came out from behind the block wall anyway.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And strolled away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hey.” Diah hustled after him. “Where are we going?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m going for clothes, and you aren’t invited.” He glanced back. “Much as you’d apparently love to watch.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Damn it. She had to do better about staring—and usually she did. Given how good he looked, she’d cut herself a little slack for the lapse.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ignoring his jibe, she aimed for a marginally reasonable comment. “I’ll wait out here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Keeping his back to her, he said, “No reason. I’m not hiring you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unacceptable, so she stalled with a question. “You don’t have a shower room here for guests?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Idly, he pointed in the direction of a concrete building farther out. “Right there, but it’s still loaded with spiders.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Even as she shuddered, she prodded him by asking, “Squeamish about bugs?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not particularly, but I’d as soon not shower with them.” He went up a few wooden steps to his front door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rather than keep chasing him, Diah acted like everything was on track. “Go ahead and get dressed, then I’ll explain.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">At that, he dropped his head forward and laughed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She waited to see what he’d say, but with another shrug, he opened his door and went inside.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Damn. Now what?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pacing away, her every step kicking up debris in the gravel walkway, Diah tried to plan. She came up blank. He had to hire her, period. In fact, thanks to Memphis’s brother and his wife, she’d already considered herself hired. They’d offered her assurances.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Could she use that to her advantage?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t returned. People didn’t take that long to get dressed. It was a nice day. Underwear, shorts, a shirt…presto. He’d be done in under a minute.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So he was dodging her. Did he think she’d give up and leave? Fat chance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She considered knocking on his door, but that wasn’t a great way to make a good impression on a job interview.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If she could turn this into an interview.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If she hadn’t just been completely dismissed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Crap, what if he was calling the police or something?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuff whined, and that helped strengthen her resolve. She hadn’t come this far just to give up. True, she wasn’t the bravest person. So what? She had perseverance and initiative. “Come on, buddy. We both need a rest and Mr. Naked can just do whatever the hell he’s in there doing. I’m not budging unless I’m dragged away.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Having done it many times now, in many different places, she methodically moved her gear to a cleared site, dug out Tuff’s bowl and filled it with water from Mr. Naked’s outdoor shower. While the dog drank she got set up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Naturally, she’d chosen the spot closest to his cabin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d figure out that she wasn’t leaving. She couldn’t.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One way or another, this was where she had to be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">While Memphis hastily pulled on boxers and loose cargo shorts, he watched the woman through one of the specialty one-way mirrored windows installed on his cabin as she literally—and expertly—pitched her tent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On his property.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As if she had every intention of staying, despite anything he’d said. It nettled him big time, and yet it also had his blood pumping. Exhilarating. He hadn’t been this enthralled since moving here and buying the campgrounds.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sure, he went into town every so often, and he’d visited with his brother and sister-in-law a few times. At least once a week he conferred with Madison, who was not only hardcore at tech but also claimed to be his BFF. Most best-friends-forever would visit in person more often. So far, he’d only met Madison in person a handful of times. Not a biggie since her husband and brothers were scary dudes who excelled at intimidation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They didn’t intimidate him only because he understood them. They were big-time enforcers of justice, and on a smaller scale, he could help do the same from this campground.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">To make the idea a reality, he’d been mostly working alone, setting up security cameras, motion sensors and reliable public WiFi for the guests—which he could easily monitor when necessary.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Eventually, he’d finish some of the necessary things, like cleaning out the showers and fixing the entry road, but any contractors he had around would be clueless to the real reason he had this place.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In fact, the only people so far who knew were his brother, sister-in-law and Madison.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After thumbing his brother’s number on his cell, he waited, and as soon as Hunter answered, Memphis said, “What the hell is this?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Memphis?” Hunter asked with feigned innocence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, it’s your brother. I thought you loved me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Do,” Hunter said, then asked, “So what’s the problem?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You sent someone here for a job.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I told you about that.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You told me about a guy—Jedidiah—not a pushy girl.” A girl with super-long, gorgeous legs, silky-looking brown hair with blondish ends, and an arresting set of eyes partially hidden behind rose-tinted glasses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Eyes that instantly captivated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She also had a totally funky fashion sense.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not that he didn’t appreciate her cute coverall shorts worn with a faded pink long-sleeve top.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hunter stated, “Jedidiah is a woman.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No shit.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You called her a girl.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You know what I meant.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She’s qualified. Has an amazing background as a handyman—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Woman,” Memphis said, throwing the correction back at his brother. “Handywoman.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“—and she can fix, or oversee the fixing of, all the things you still need repaired. Plus, Jodi liked her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis hated to admit it, but an endorsement from his sister-in-law counted for a lot, because Jodi didn’t trust many people. “Background check?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We figured you’d do more, but overall she’s clear.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Overall clear and yet she’d watched him shower without a single qualm. That definitely felt shady…or at least ballsy. Worse, though, she’d heard him singing. Being fickle, he grinned and said, “I don’t like it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You mean you don’t like her? Will it help if I tell you she’s a lot like Jodi?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Good Lord.” No, that definitely wouldn’t help. If that was true, he shouldn’t have left her unattended.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Good thing he could see her walking around the grounds, inspecting one thing, frowning at another, testing the sturdiness of something else. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ll share your reaction with Jodi.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Don’t you dare.” He adored Jodi and though she didn’t need it, he felt very protective of her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So what’s the problem? You were all about me marrying Jodi.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His stomach dropped. “What the hell does any of this have to do with marriage?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I just assumed if you had any type of issue with Jodi, you wouldn’t have sacrificed me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sacrifice? Ha! He’d have liked to see anyone try to separate his brother from Jodi. Satan himself couldn’t have accomplished it. “Jodi, with all her special talents, is perfect for you—but you and I are very different people and you know it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jodi swears that in the most elemental ways, we’re the same and she wants you to hire Jedidiah.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Damn. Memphis watched as the woman sat cross-legged on the ground, then dug around in her duffel bag and found an apple. When had she last eaten?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Memphis?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I told her to leave,” he murmured aloud, as much to himself as his brother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Did she?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No.” Bemused, he watched her fill a bowl with dry food and set it before Tuff. First a water dish, and now this. What else did she have in that pack?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He kind of liked that she’d taken care of her pet first.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Memphis?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She seems to be settling in,” he grumbled. “Now I’m going to have to oust her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hang on.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Alarm drew his attention off Jedidiah. “Hunter, don’t you dare put me on with—” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hey, Memphis.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Damn it. “Hey, Jodi,” he said in his nicest happy-to-hear-from-you voice. “How’s my favorite sister-in-law?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m your only sister-in-law.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Even if there were a dozen, you’d be my favorite.” He saw Jedidiah yawn with an elaborate stretch, her arms reaching high, back arching, before she relaxed again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fascinating.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Showing visible impatience, she pulled the band from her ponytail, finger-combed her hair and deftly began braiding it over her shoulder.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mesmerizing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’re piling it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jodi’s droll tone again gained his attention. “Not at all. You’re special. You know I’ve always said so.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well, as someone special, I want you to keep her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis rubbed the back of his neck where droplets from his still-wet hair trickled down his spine. He really needed to finish dressing so he could confront his unwanted guest. “Putting an attractive woman here with me isn’t wise.” He snatched up the towel and roughly ran it over his head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You think she’s attractive?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis rolled his eyes. “You’re not blind, honey. You know she is.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I guess, but hey, I’m assuming you can control yourself.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Can I?” He’d never had to before. Given how Jedidiah had stared at him, the interest would be returned. If she became an employee, he couldn’t very well react to basic urges. Or could he? He’d never been a boss before. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then again, if he didn’t hire her, she’d leave. Hmm.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know you can,” Jodi said. “And, Memphis, she really needs the job. Give her a shot. See how it goes. You have a little time before you open, and I guarantee she’ll help you get the last few things in order.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That casual last few things should have alarmed him, because seriously, he didn’t want others knowing why he’d bought the campground and how he planned to use it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hung up on a different part of what Jodi said, he harked back to, “What do you mean, she needs the job?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jodi huffed out a breath. “You met her, Memphis. Does she look like someone with a lot of resources?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d hitchhiked in. She’d pitched her tent. Worse, she looked exhausted, so… “No.” Did she carry all her personal belongings with her? If so, she didn’t have much. “Spell it out for me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Look, it’s her business, okay? All I’ll say is that if you send her packing, she’ll be sleeping in the woods somewhere.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sleeping in the woods? “What the hell are you getting me into?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hunter rejoined the conversation, saying, “Madison recommends her, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Of all the… They’d already discussed this with Madison? “Listen up, brother. Women do not run my life.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jodi’s laugh came through loud and clear. “Keep her, Memphis.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She’s not a stray dog, you know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Definitely not.” With more humor than the situation warranted, Jodi said, “You’ll like having her around. Trust me. I’ll check back with you in a few days.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jodi—” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Later, gator.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, hell.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hunter asked, “So that’s settled?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Had he given Memphis a choice? He hated to disappoint Jodi, and now if Jedidiah left, he’d worry about her. No woman should be alone and unprotected in this area, much less alone in the woods.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And it wasn’t just the wildlife and weather that concerned him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis watched her stretch again, then pet the dog. “How did you and Jodi meet her anyway?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She was asking around town about you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His brows went up. “How so?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Curious about the campgrounds at first. When she found out you owned it now, she wanted to know your plans for the place. When you’d bought in, how long you’d been out there, stuff like that. Jodi got wind of it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course she did.” Most likely, Madison had clued in Jodi. For a guy raised with only one brother, Memphis now had two awesome women in his life—a sister-in-law and a tech wizard bestie. He enjoyed them both; Jodi because she was special, both cunning and kind, and she made his brother very happy, and Madison because she was brilliant, connected, and it was nice to talk shop with someone who understood.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Once we located Jedidiah, Jodi spoke with her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Bet that was an interesting conversation.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Actually, Jedidiah seemed skittish at first, and you know Jodi. That made her extra curious, too, but also sympathetic. Jodi claims Jedidiah is here for a reason.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That was the only conclusion that made sense. Why else would an attractive, healthy woman choose to hitchhike through Colorado and then apply for a handyman job at a remote, rundown campground? “She could be dangerous.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You can handle yourself. Plus, Jodi said she wasn’t armed.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He hadn’t even thought about her having a weapon. “Jodi would know.” His sister-in-law was more astute than most, and deeply aware of everything and everyone. Sad, how and why she’d learned to be that way—but it had made her perfect for Hunter, and vice versa, and that was what mattered most, not any tragedies in the past.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Did Jedidiah have a tragic past?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seemed possible. After all, Jodi had a nose for recognizing kindred spirits.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Memphis?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That particular tone from his brother put him on guard. “What?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Give her a try, okay? If it doesn’t work out, if you have legit reason for wanting her off your property, Jodi and I will help you make it happen.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why is it you two think you know everything I need?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Fine. She can stay the night and we’ll see how it goes.” He’d make no promises beyond that. “I should check on her now. She’s been out there stewing while we talked.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ass,” Hunter said in exasperation. “Go take care of her, and let me know if you need anything.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thanks.” He stuck the phone in his pocket, finished toweling his hair, grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer and stepped into old sneakers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A singular sense of anticipation, something he hadn’t felt in forever, took him back out to the grounds and right up to where Jedidiah Stephens sat with her dog. No way did she miss his approach, especially now that his shadow encompassed her, yet she continued to pet Tuff without acknowledging him. The dog, however, sat up and let his tongue loll out—cautious, ready, but not yet aggressive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis waited, but Jedidiah said nothing, which meant he had to. “So do you have a reference?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Squinting against the sun, aqua-colored eyes peered up at him. “Your brother and sister-in-law aren’t good enough?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Afraid not.” Was it the pink-tinted glasses that made her eyes that unique shade, a cross between blue and green? Or perhaps it was compliments of colored contacts. For certain, he’d never seen eyes like hers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She quickly glanced away, but as if she couldn’t help herself, her gaze returned to him. “Then no, I don’t have a reference.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When she didn’t stand, he crouched down in front of her, noting her touch of wariness. Long lashes lifted, brown eyebrows went up…and then drew down.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What?” she asked, her tone defensive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ll keep you on a trial period.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Miraculously, her expression changed to one of relief mingled with joy. “For real?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Happiness made her even more appealing. “A week.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Awesome.” A big smile put dimples in her cheeks. “That’s time enough to convince you that I’m good to have around.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bothered by her nearness, Memphis stood again. “Would you like the use of a cabin?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A cabin?” Finally, she came to her feet, too, and though she fought it, her attention flickered to his place. “Where?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So much suspicion. Had someone mistreated her? It didn’t really feel like a specific concern as much as general caution. A good idea since she was a woman alone, in an isolated area with a large man she didn’t know. If Jodi was right, she didn’t even have a weapon to protect herself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Standing in front of her, he guessed her to be around five feet seven inches—which put her a good five inches shorter than him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The braid she’d refashioned was crooked but cute, and his fingers curled with the urge to see if her hair was as silky as it looked. Traces of dust clung to her arms and cheeks. Wisps of hair around her face had darkened with sweat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">None of that should have stirred him, and yet it did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What?” she asked again, this time in annoyance. She straightened those silly colored glasses, flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Something wrong?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unfortunately, everything seemed right. “No.” Gesturing to the cabin across from his own, he asked, “Will that do? It’s small, only a loft bedroom, kitchenette, love seat with a TV, and a tiny bathroom.” He needed her to be close by so he could keep an eye on her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sure. Or I can stay in my tent.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And then shower with the spiders?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her lips scrunched to the side. “Yeah, okay. Cabin it is. Er… I mean. How much?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Benevolent, Memphis held out his arms. “It comes with the job.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her eyes narrowed. “Is there a catch?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So much distrust. “Yes. If I’m not satisfied with the job you do, you lose the cabin.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’s it? For real? I’ll do a great job, you’ll see.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He believed her. “Would you like to know how much you’ll get paid?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I suppose I should.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Meaning she’d take the job regardless? Things got more interesting by the minute. He named the amount—slightly more than he’d intended to pay—but why not? She looked like she needed it. When her eyes widened, he felt good about upping the pay. “Will that suffice?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’d be terrific, yeah.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One issue down, now on to the rest. “Have you eaten?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You watched me eat an apple.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He blinked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Dude, you have reflective windows. I know what they are. You look out, no one can look in.” She smirked. “Besides, I could feel you staring.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His fascination grew. “I was on the phone with my brother.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Did he sing my praises?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why would you think that?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He seemed all gung ho on you hiring me. His wife did, too. They smiled about it a lot.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yeah, Memphis just bet they did. The lie came easily. “Actually, they cautioned me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her brows dropped. “About what?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He started her toward his cabin with a wave of his hand. “You asked about me around town.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nothing. Not a word as she followed along.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Prodding her, he asked, “How did you hear about the campground?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">More silence. He glanced at her and caught her concentrated frown. Ah, so she and this campground had a history? He’d have to look into that. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The thing is…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Understanding about secrets, he said, “Never mind, we’ll get back to that later. Would you like to come in while I get the keys to unlock your cabin?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She peered around him, gave it some thought and looked at Tuff. “I can’t leave him out here alone. He’d go bonkers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Should I assume you’ll only be able to work when the dog can be beside you?” That’d certainly limit what she could do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“This is our first day here. First hour, even. He’ll relax once he gets used to the place. Usually, I can leash him nearby and he’s fine.” She shifted, then asked with dread, “Is that going to be a problem?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memphis shook his head. Instincts were a very real thing and his were telling him to accommodate her. “Tuff is welcome inside as well.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For only a second, she showed her surprise. “Oh, okay, then sure. I can check out your bathroom, too, if you want.” Verbally backpedaling, she said, “I mean, to see what else has to be done.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He let that go without a joke. “You have plumbing skills?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Give me the right tools and a little more muscle and I could pretty much build a house from the ground up.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No kidding?” He opened his door and stepped aside for her to enter. “A formidable skill for a… How old are you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After the slightest beat of hesitation, she said, “Midtwenties.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And so exact.” He came in behind her, which had her quickly turning to face him. Right, her aversion to having people at her back. Without making an issue of it, Memphis strode around her toward the kitchen. “Had some experience in contracting?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s mostly what I’ve done.” Leaning against a wall, she watched as Tuff sniffed everything—each piece of furniture, cabinet and along the floor. “I tried other jobs, but then I realized I have a knack for handyman work and pick up on stuff easily, so I’ve stuck with it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unlocking a large cabinet on the wall, Memphis surveyed the labeled keys on tiny hooks, each with multiple duplicates, and withdrew the one he’d need. “Was your father in construction?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">With deep interest, she continued to stare at the cabinet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It took Memphis a second to figure out why, and once he did, compassion overshadowed everything else. Whatever was going on with Jedidiah, she’d learned to be extra cautious. “I need duplicates in case one gets lost.” Her gaze shot to his and held. Such remarkable eyes. She didn’t just look at a person, she fixed on them as if nothing else existed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The only time Memphis could recall a woman gazing at him like that was during sex, and even then, the attention hadn’t felt so intense.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Should he tell her that the tinted lenses did nothing to lessen the impact of her stare? Probably not—at least not yet. Not when she looked so mistrustful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Each cabin has a dead bolt on the inside of the entry door so when you’re inside, you’re safe. I have extra keys just in case someone locks themselves out, or loses the key.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She needlessly adjusted her glasses and glanced away. “Right.” The uneasy smile she flicked his way didn’t include her endearing dimples. Giving her atten it, Memphis strode around her toward the kitchen. “Had some experience in contracting?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s mostly what I’ve done.” Leaning against a wall, she watched as Tuff sniffed everything—each piece of furniture, cabinet and along the floor. “I tried other jobs, but then I realized I have a knack for handyman work and pick up on stuff easily, so I’ve stuck with it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unlocking a large cabinet on the wall, Memphis surveyed the labeled keys on tiny hooks, each with multiple duplicates, and withdrew the one he’d need. “Was your father in construction?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">With deep interest, she continued to stare at the cabinet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It took Memphis a second to figure out why, and once he did, compassion overshadowed everything else. Whatever was going on with Jedidiah, she’d learned to be extra cautious. “I need duplicates in case one gets lost.” Her gaze shot to his and held. Such remarkable eyes. She didn’t just look at a person, she fixed on them as if nothing else existed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The only time Memphis could recall a woman gazing at him like that was during sex, and even then, the attention hadn’t felt so intense.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Should he tell her that the tinted lenses did nothing to lessen the impact of her stare? Probably not—at least not yet. Not when she looked so mistrustful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Each cabin has a dead bolt on the inside of the entry door so when you’re inside, you’re safe. I have extra keys just in case someone locks themselves out, or loses the key.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She needlessly adjusted her glasses and glanced away. “Right.” The uneasy smile she flicked his way didn’t include her endearing dimples. Giving her attention to the rest of the kitchen, she said, “I know how it works. No worries.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh?” Happy to give her the change in topic, he asked, “Have some experiences with campgrounds, too?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We visited them often when I was a kid.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Something in how she said that made him wonder: Had she been to this campground? Trying to be subtle about it, he asked, “When was the last time you and your family visited—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She interrupted to ask, “Mind if I take a look at your addition now?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Huh. Apparently, discussions of her family were off the table. His curiosity grew, but again, he let it go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Knowing her preferences, he stepped around her to lead the way to his bedroom. “It’s back here.” As they walked down the hall, he asked, “So other than an apple, have you eaten?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“This morning.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Got a meal hidden in your gear? Because I don’t have the camp store open yet and even when I do it’ll be for basics without a lot of meal choices. The cupboards in your cabin aren’t stocked, either.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her hand went to her stomach, but instead of answering his question, she said, “I heard you’re making this a budget place, right?” Studiously ignoring his bed, she moved along to the extension.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In between his special projects for the campgrounds, he’d gotten the bigger bedroom and bathroom semifinished. The doors and all the windows were in, so the room was secure. The drywall was up, the seams mudded, but they needed to be sanded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’ll be an affordable stay, not at all fancy. Only the basics offered.” Which meant that less reputable people would find it appealing. The grounds wouldn’t be on anyone’s radar. Low-key, unobtrusive—quick in and quick out. However, while guests were here, Memphis could do all the digging he wanted on their extracurricular and often illegal activities.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jedidiah moved on, inspecting everything. “Electrical, plumbing and HVAC are all roughed in?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes.” He glanced around at the incomplete work. Once the room was closed up, he’d put finishing it on hold to focus on other projects that he considered key to the campground. “The shower only needs to be caulked.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So rather than caulk it, you choose to shower outside in April?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The weather has been mild and I find it invigorating.” Only a partial lie. There’d been times when he’d thought he’d freeze his balls off, completing his shower in under two minutes and racing back into the warmth of his cabin. “I sing to scare off the bears.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“There aren’t any bears around.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Guess my singing is working.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She snickered. “Want me to caulk it for you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why?” She sounded so earnest, he lifted his brows and teased her. “Just because you’re here, you don’t want me showering outside anymore?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The humor slipped and her expression went blank. “I mean, no, sure…” Confusion brought her brows together. “Did you still plan to?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fighting a grin, he gestured at the bedroom. “At least until the rest of this is done.” When it was finished, his bed would get moved in here and he’d have the old, crowded bedroom to use as office space. “A little sanding, trim, paint… Won’t be much longer anyway.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Determined, she faced him. “I can do all that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Never before had he met anyone so eager to take on work. “No kidding?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Again moving past his question, she explained, “You’ve had your final inspections, right? I can do the hookups for the electrical, plumbing, HVAC—all that. Plus, I’m really good at trim work and I’ve done drywall plenty of times. Painting isn’t a problem, either.” Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I’ll even clear out the spiders in the public showers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Damn. Did she think she needed to work sunup to sundown? “Jedidiah…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Call me Diah. It’s not such a mouthful.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Diah.” Pretty name and it suited her. “All right.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This time her smile showed only resolve. “I promise I’ll be a good worker.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I never doubted it.” He realized Tuff wasn’t with them and turned to see the dog snuffling into his closet. Quickly striding to him, Memphis said, “Hey there, Tuff, how’d you get that door open?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before he could reach the dog, Diah darted past him and pulled Tuff away. “Sorry.” Stiff and unsure, she stood protectively in front of the dog. “He gets nosy.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her moods bounced around too fast for Memphis to keep track, but always, to one degree or another, the uncertainty was there. Now, when it came to her dog, she did her best to shield him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What did she think he’d do? Wondering about that, Memphis gentled his tone. “First, there’s nothing awful in my closet so I wasn’t worried.” To reassure her, he reached out and opened the closet door the rest of the way. She could see the clothes in front, but not really the shelving in the back. Not that he was hiding anything but he didn’t think she wanted him to give her an accounting of his belongings. “Even if I was hiding something top secret, I would never mistreat an animal. You don’t have to worry about me with Tuff. I just didn’t want him eating my shoes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Tuff would never!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her affront on behalf of her dog was endearing. “If you say so. My brother has this goofy basset mix who seems to like the laces in my shoes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The mention of Turbo eased some of the defensiveness from her posture. “I met Turbo. He makes funny noises.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That he does. His barker is broken or something. He came that way when Hunter rescued him so we’re not sure how it happened, and now it’s just a very Turbo-like thing to hear a dog quacking.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The dimples reappeared in her cheeks. “He’s bottom heavy, too, and bounces when he’s excited.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I imagine he was excited to meet Tuff.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Very.” Putting her hand on Tuff’s head, she said, “We didn’t know what to think, did we, bud?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuff said, “Fft.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’s his quiet bark, his way of keeping things understated. When he’s mad he sounds demonic.” Realizing what she’d said, she quickly backtracked. “Oh, but he doesn’t get mad often, only when something is really wrong or…” Her voice trailed off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Or he thinks you’re being threatened?”</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Fearless One by Lori Foster. Copyright © 2023 by Lori Foster. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnq7JeJ_qjhz_VLC02EqALaqleKxv0ovMufCdPbOR4xN5X4ACmW6oitwwYka2uteb4B2FTHckWb38W3hs-tFkPgyM4X1Rp8rZR5iZ4oETQ6vi8CPQVmHW1-CYxwiKtKgFI3vKJOnRPHiy5NCBFb7FNhn156w0ugh3RhHhGt9WZW6JxMIDiuAkfUj6r6UI/s3167/Lori%20Foster%20credit%20Mason%20Combs.jpg"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnq7JeJ_qjhz_VLC02EqALaqleKxv0ovMufCdPbOR4xN5X4ACmW6oitwwYka2uteb4B2FTHckWb38W3hs-tFkPgyM4X1Rp8rZR5iZ4oETQ6vi8CPQVmHW1-CYxwiKtKgFI3vKJOnRPHiy5NCBFb7FNhn156w0ugh3RhHhGt9WZW6JxMIDiuAkfUj6r6UI/w277-h320/Lori%20Foster%20credit%20Mason%20Combs.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Mason Combs</div></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lori Foster is a New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author and a recipient of the prestigious RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. She lives in Central Ohio, where coffee helps her keep up with her cats and grandkids between writing books. For more about Lori, visit her website at <a href="http://www.lorifoster.com">www.lorifoster.com</a>, like her on Facebook or find her on Twitter (</span><a href="https://twitter.com/lorilfoster" style="font-weight: bold;">@lorilfoster</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">)</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lorifoster.com">Author Website</a><b> | <a href=" https://www.facebook.com/lorifoster" target="_blank">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/lorilfoster" target="_blank">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/lorilfoster/" target="_blank">Instagram</a></b></div></span>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-46949369009878055822024-01-02T16:46:00.000-08:002024-01-22T18:57:03.645-08:00HTP Romance Blog Tour Promo Post: River Strong by BJ Daniels<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgwqhVDKRMbWcUAI3KPxeR38HJL2s2gXJugRp1mL0gA16IK3vquSLu5MS4SvEox-K1v3S1iaMG-x-lcc3XTIhYZBzlA68u7_P9_8wQrdJCAOkW4xL45v0MJUwReBRZgcDMersm0ffN4k532ZyWmG_s7ZQorNszHbCYPj2aTs4963E6KOuSYBd_utK6Qw9/s1600/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgwqhVDKRMbWcUAI3KPxeR38HJL2s2gXJugRp1mL0gA16IK3vquSLu5MS4SvEox-K1v3S1iaMG-x-lcc3XTIhYZBzlA68u7_P9_8wQrdJCAOkW4xL45v0MJUwReBRZgcDMersm0ffN4k532ZyWmG_s7ZQorNszHbCYPj2aTs4963E6KOuSYBd_utK6Qw9/w400-h100/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjzm-ZNagRoGxUb42_ZaX6ZYFzyV09ibmz9p-61e7mN9ROrZHwqtCCY60otBgwEjE7YMDb0ZpUFWsFlPqU63i-9_S_q33s5HeFjSkcF7m5ihEkARSwvM9OZGNjeXTyRQU-vvvJnn1bgPgaBuQ1mugQP8E0UOKTXHNBVN-L2zKm0yoMkDxud-e2UxGXAci/s2650/River%20Strong.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjzm-ZNagRoGxUb42_ZaX6ZYFzyV09ibmz9p-61e7mN9ROrZHwqtCCY60otBgwEjE7YMDb0ZpUFWsFlPqU63i-9_S_q33s5HeFjSkcF7m5ihEkARSwvM9OZGNjeXTyRQU-vvvJnn1bgPgaBuQ1mugQP8E0UOKTXHNBVN-L2zKm0yoMkDxud-e2UxGXAci/w253-h400/River%20Strong.jpg" width="253" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/142388939-river-strong" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcyrROOLcvHW1QoTQF0cbuo_6yUiYBMWzHYHbkfe5Sa3hcwjyyouhEJGdOnU-PubgMADUnFIcCXE8ZIpBlFzlqRAZbQGdjOhq76S0H4uiXTiejKOel0srDpUvfVGqjm1sohRFkniK5kbiY1ORwMum4FzdWBq04ZVJP9avVrbipHrj_RKggMX84_NmBlqn/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For two rival families, the only thing that matters more than land…is love.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There’s a lifetime of tension between the McKenna and Stafford ranching families, and Oakley Stafford has the bullet scar to prove it. Defying the bitter rivalry between their families, Oakley grew up thick as thieves with Duffy McKenna. But now the Staffords and the McKennas are competing to buy a neighboring property. Both need that land desperately—and the reasons are more dangerous than Oakley knows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But there’s another unspoken rivalry, too, between Duffy and Pickett Hanson, the McKenna family’s ranch hand. Once upon a time, Oakley ignored the way the two handsome cowboys playfully flirted with her, but now she’s untangling complicated feelings that could upend years of friendship. And when a body is found on the contested ranch, their secrets will be forced into the open at last…</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links:</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/a/397/9781335508140">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/river-strong-bj-daniels?variant=41039781232674">Harlequin</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335508140&retailer=barnesandnoble">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335508140&retailer=amazon">Amazon</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335508140&retailer=booksamillion">Books-A-Million</a></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOLmxV2UuNFl9Kk4spJyjz_vYPY62M97eysEbeT4ep7iMwJgWoziJdkJgFV_knpY3jeqvzonK6e1dTit9ecWHAcyhyphenhyphenUaW9b51pGrwpF7M-kjWKL7iDdLhuKp1AnKK7bIZmJZ9X04SQoKOXOLEd3WGjzVmLXdb4unOO9lTs8i9LUVbEd8v1rOooXbr84o2/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOLmxV2UuNFl9Kk4spJyjz_vYPY62M97eysEbeT4ep7iMwJgWoziJdkJgFV_knpY3jeqvzonK6e1dTit9ecWHAcyhyphenhyphenUaW9b51pGrwpF7M-kjWKL7iDdLhuKp1AnKK7bIZmJZ9X04SQoKOXOLEd3WGjzVmLXdb4unOO9lTs8i9LUVbEd8v1rOooXbr84o2/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley Stafford jolted upright in bed, the nightmare chasing her from the deep darkness of sleep into the growing light of the Montana winter day. The sun rimmed the mountains to the east, but her view from her bedroom window on the Stafford Ranch was still cast in shadow. Through the bare-limbed cottonwoods, the Powder River wound its way north, dark and silent beneath a thick layer of ice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Even now awake, Oakley felt as if she was still spurring her horse through the darkness of the cottonwoods months earlier. The leaves created a dark canopy overhead with only slivers of sunlight filtering through, casting long shadows in her path. She raced for the county road, chased by a killer as she ran for her life. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shuddered, the recurring nightmare feeling so real because it had been. She’d awoken in the hospital, shocked to hear that she’d been shot just as she and her horse had burst from the cottonwoods and onto the county road. Shot in the back, she’d fallen from her horse, striking her head so hard that it wiped out all memory of two full days of her life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her hand went automatically to her scar near her heart where the bullet had been removed. Even after all this time, the shadowy images still plagued her, daring her to remember. What had really happened that day?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">While her memory felt like a black hole tempting her to come closer and look at what was waiting for her inside, her mind kept crying out, Don’t look back! It made her fear that the truth might be more terrifying than her lack of memory.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley started as her bedroom door opened, her older sister filling the frame. “I heard you cry out. The nightmare again?” She nodded as Tilly entered the room and sat down on the edge of her bed. “I thought after CJ confessed to accidentally shooting you, it would get better.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So did I.” But she didn’t trust her older brother’s version of the story. There was a part of her brain that told her there was something important she desperately needed to recall before it was too late.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You stayed here last night?” she asked. Tilly often stayed with her fiancé at the McKenna Ranch that adjoined theirs. The river dividing their land, the two families had been at odds for years. The bitterness between the McKenna patriarch, Holden McKenna, and their mother, the matriarch of the Stafford Ranch, Charlotte Stafford, had gotten worse recently.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Have you heard from Mother?” Tilly asked as she rose from the bed and walked to the window. Oakley saw her glance at the engagement ring on her finger, the diamond catching the early-morning light. In the distance, the mountains rose in rocky cliffs and pine-dotted hillsides capped with the last of winter’s snow. Closer, the thick stand of cottonwoods stood stark along the river as it wound its way through the Powder River Basin under a clear, cold, cloudless blue late-December sky.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Maybe you should tell her about your engagement before she returns home,” Oakley suggested, leaning against the headboard as the remnants of her nightmare burned away like morning mountain mist, leaving her unsettled.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mother has enough on her plate right now.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley had been shocked when she’d learned who’d shot her. Her own brother. CJ swore it was an accident. She knew in her heart that there was more to it and that was what had her scared. She had to remember, because all her instincts told her that her would-be killer was waiting in fear for her to do just that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">While Oakley had been fighting for her life in the hospital, CJ had tried to flee the law. He’d rolled his pickup, almost killing Tilly and himself. Paralyzed, he’d been whisked away by their mother to a hospital in Minnesota that specialized in the care he needed. Their mother had gone with him. Oakley hadn’t seen either of them since; nor had she gotten a chance to confront her brother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I haven’t heard anything from her,” Oakley said. As far as she knew, CJ was still paralyzed, needing a wheelchair, something their mother refused to accept. If stubborn determination could heal her oldest son, Charlotte Stafford would have had him walking by now and the two would have returned to the ranch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I can’t believe that you’ve forgiven him,” Tilly said. “He almost killed you.” CJ had fired the bullet that had come so close to Oakley’s heart that it had been amazing that she survived. It was his reason for shooting her that still haunted her. He’d apparently followed her onto McKenna Ranch property because he thought she was meeting someone from the rival ranch. Allegedly, he’d fired a warning shot to stop her that had gone awry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know that I can ever forgive him entirely,” Oakley said. “It was bad enough what he did to me. But he almost killed you.” She shook her head. “He’s never had to suffer the consequences of his actions, thanks to Mother. But this time he went too far. Not that I’d ever wish him to be badly injured. But he needs to spend some time behind bars. Not that Mother will ever allow that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tilly looked as if she hadn’t completely forgiven their brother, either. She’d been on her way into town the day CJ found out the sheriff knew that he’d fired the near-fatal shot. Their brother abducted Tilly, taking her hostage as he raced along backroads, determined to escape punishment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You realize CJ will go berserk when he finds out about your engagement to Cooper McKenna,” Oakley said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m not worried about CJ,” Tilly said. “I’m more concerned about Mother. You know how she feels about the McKennas.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Charlotte Stafford could be scary when crossed, but for Oakley it was CJ who appeared in her nightmares, along with a nagging conviction that he was lying about the shooting. “I just worry about what she’ll do, Tilly. Didn’t she threaten you if you kept seeing Cooper?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“There’s nothing she can do,” her sister said, sounding more confident than Oakley suspected she was. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m marrying Coop and she can’t stop me. As far as the ranch…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley heard the catch in her sister’s voice. Tilly loved the homestead, loved working it, always thought she would be the one who kept the Stafford Ranch going for future generations. It was why she and CJ and their mother often argued about the future of the ranch and ranching. They’d especially been at odds over coalbed methane drilling on the property. CJ had talked their mother into letting the gas company drill on the ranch for the money. He’d never considered the long-term or what it would mean to future generations.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mother’s going to need me working the ranch even more now until CJ is up and around again,” Tilly said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“If he ever is.” Oakley didn’t remind her sister how Charlotte Stafford handled those she felt had been disloyal. She cut them out of her life as brutally as if taking a knife to them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I should get moving,” Tilly said. “Cooper and I are driving out to Oregon to pick up a bull. He wants to start a whole new breeding program at the ranch. Holden has offered us a section of land for a house as a wedding present. We’re planning to build this summer, although I know Holden would be happy if we stayed in the main house. But with Cooper’s older brother so opposed to us being together…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Treyton,” Oakley said like a curse. “He is so much like CJ except for the fact that he hasn’t shot anyone lately.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“As far as we know,” Tilly said. “Holden thinks his son will come around. I have my doubts. But it doesn’t matter. Cooper and I are going to be together, no matter what.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley smiled. Her sister seemed to glow whenever she said her fiancé’s name. “I couldn’t be happier for you.” Tilly had found love and like she said, there was nothing anyone could do to stop them from marrying. At least she hoped that was the case.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The sun broke over the mountains and filled her bedroom with warm golden light, chasing away the nightmare—at least until tonight. She couldn’t wait for the days to get longer, the sun stronger. This winter had been harder than most and it had only begun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You have plans today?” Tilly asked, still standing next to her bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She heard the suspicion and worry in her sister’s voice. “Nothing exciting. Just going into Miles City, meeting up with some friends.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Anyone I know?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley knew exactly what Tilly was asking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I hope you’re not still involved with that subversive group, Dirty Business,” her sister said. “Stu told me that there’d been more vandalizing of the coalbed methane drilling rigs. He said the gas company is going to be cracking down.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She heard the warning loud and clear. “You still see the sheriff?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Don’t try to change the subject. Stu and I and Cooper are friends. I was never serious about the sheriff. Oakley, you can’t stop the drilling in the Powder River Basin. Sabotaging the drilling equipment will only end you up in jail or worse.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It hurts me that you think I would do something like that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tilly rolled her eyes. “Maybe that works on Mother—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It didn’t. “Thank you for the early-morning lecture, big sis, but I’m well aware of all of that.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and felt that twinge around the gunshot scar. She was kidding herself if she thought she could ever forgive her brother for shooting her, especially when she couldn’t shake the feeling that there had been more to it than he’d admitted. If only she could remember those lost forty-eight hours.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unlike Tilly, she was anxious for CJ and her mother to return to the ranch. She wanted answers. She would finally get to confront her brother. She planned to get the truth out of him, one way or another. But that wasn’t all she had planned as she waited for her sister to leave her room so she could call her two coconspirators about tonight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You have another date?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy McKenna turned to see the latest addition to the McKenna Ranch standing in the doorway, one hip cocked, a smile on her cute pre-teenaged face. He touched his finger to his lips and pretended it was a secret. It actually was, but he didn’t want Holly Jo to know that any more than he did the rest of the family.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You must like this one,” the twelve-year-old said as she plopped down in a chair to watch him finish getting ready. “You’re always looking in the mirror, messing with your hair, but you seem nervous this time.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He turned to look at her, unable not to grin. Holly Jo was sharper than some of the people in this house gave her credit for. He needed to watch this one. “You think so, huh?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So what’s she like?” she asked, twirling a lank of her long dark hair on a finger as she studied him with those big blue eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Smart, strong, determined,” he said at once. He laughed at how quickly the words had come to him and yet they didn’t do Oakley Stafford justice. He realized he could have added another half dozen adjectives easily.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Holly Jo rolled her eyes. “Is she pretty?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No prettier than you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She mugged a face at him, but he could tell she liked the compliment. “Are you serious about her?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d never been that serious about any girl he’d gone out with. But Oakley? He realized he was dead serious. So why hadn’t he done something about it? He’d been telling himself that there was plenty of time, except that he’d been thinking that for a long time now. She wasn’t as close to anyone as she was him, he told himself. So of course they would be together one day. What was the hurry?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What do you think?” he said in answer to Holly Jo’s question. “You know what a serious cowboy I am.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Exactly,” she said. “Cooper says you like to play the field. That you’re too immature to have a real relationship. Treyton said he doesn’t understand what women see in you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy laughed. “Me neither.” Great to know how the family really feels, he thought. Even his brother Treyton had weighed in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You going to break this one’s heart?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Chances are that she’ll end up breaking mine.” That was a sobering thought.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Elaine says it will take getting your heart broken before you find your true love.” Elaine was their cook, head housekeeper, a fixture at the ranch from before Duffy was born.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’s what Elaine says, huh? You two spend a lot of time talking about me, do you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“As much as anyone else except Treyton,” Holly Jo said innocently enough. “Elaine doesn’t see much hope for him and neither do I. But she says everyone has the potential to change and be a better person no matter their past indiscretions.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I never knew Elaine dispensed so much good advice.” He grinned at her. “What does she suggest for you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Holly Jo made a face. “She says I have a lot of growing up to do, but that I just need to be patient.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I agree with her. Now, get going. I can’t be late for my date. Don’t you have homework to do?” He watched her shove herself up with a groan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Holden says I can’t date until I’m at least sixteen. Sixteen! Do you know how old that is?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I do.” As he watched her shuffle out of his room, he wondered what the real story was about Holly Jo. All his father had told them was that he’d made a promise to Holly Jo’s mother years ago that he would take care of her daughter if anything happened to her. Had he known the mother was going to die young?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">More to the point: Was there any blood connection to the girl and their family? Holden swore she wasn’t his daughter. But Duffy had no doubt there was more to the story. There always was.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">All the family knew was that Holly Jo was going to be living with them indefinitely. Not that the girl had been pleased about that. She’d spent months getting into trouble, trying to leave and generally fighting with their father.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy liked her. It was probably the kid in him, but he thought she liked him, too. Treyton ignored her, their sister, Bailey, threatened her if she came near her room or her business, Cooper taught her to ride a horse and their ranch hand and Duffy’s best friend, Pickett Hanson, was giving her trick riding lessons. Lately, she’d seemed to be settling in as if accepting the way things were. He hoped it worked out. He would miss her if she left for any reason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy turned his attention to his so-called date tonight. Who was he kidding?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It wasn’t a date. It was three friends, Duffy, Pickett and Oakley, going to a Dirty Business secret meeting. Sometimes he felt like Oakley was completely out of his league even if she hadn’t been a Stafford. Not just that. She often seemed to like his best friend, Pickett, more than him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He planned to change that, he thought with a grin as he looked in the mirror. This woman was a challenge, something he wasn’t used to, but that made him all the more determined. He raked a hand through his thick dark hair. Holly Jo was right, he thought with a laugh. He definitely more than liked this one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But he also didn’t want anyone else to have her—not that he was worried about Pickett. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cooper found his father behind his desk in the den. He saw worry etched deep in Holden’s once very handsome face. Holden McKenna was still a powerful-looking man with broad shoulders. His dark hair had gone salt-and-pepper with gray, and his blue eyes seemed to have dimmed some, but there was an inner strength to him that Cooper had always admired.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Problem?” he asked as he stepped into the room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father looked up from the papers on his desk. “I suppose you’ve heard. Inez Turner is now in hospice care. Word is that the Montana 360 Ranch will be up for sale after she passes. Her son Bob isn’t interested in ranching, apparently. We could use that land, but mostly we need the water that flows through it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When Charlotte Stafford had a coalbed methane well drilled right next to their ranch, their artesian well had gone dry. It was a loss that had put the two families even more at odds. Cooper was familiar with the Montana 360 Ranch. It had good wells and access to the river.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You know Charlotte will want that land,” he said. “If she diverts the water away from our ranch…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father nodded. “I’ve already spoken to Bob, letting him know we’re interested in purchasing the ranch. We will have to top whatever Charlotte offers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cooper figured this would make the rivalry between the two families even worse. But it also might put the McKenna Ranch in financial jeopardy. He was pretty sure that was why his older brother, Treyton, had been pushing their father to cash in by having coalbed methane wells drilled on their ranch. Thankfully, Holden was dead set against it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But there would also be a personal cost for his father. According to the local scuttlebutt, his father and Charlotte had been lovers when they were young. She’d thought they would marry. Holden’s father had someone else in mind for his son, a woman whose ranch land the McKenna Ranch needed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Charlotte never forgave him for betraying her. Cooper suspected his father had also never forgiven himself. There were times when her name was mentioned that Cooper had seen the pain in his father’s eyes. He’d long suspected that Holden still loved her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Does Treyton know?” he had to ask. Since recently returning to the ranch after leaving two years ago, he suspected his brother might be planning to go behind their father’s back to do what he felt was best for the ranch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He doesn’t know the extent of it,” Holden admitted. “I don’t want to have another argument with him about drilling on McKenna land. We just have to make sure we get the Montana 360 Ranch. I’m afraid it’s going to be a bidding war with Charlotte Stafford and probably some other ranchers in the area. Treyton seems to think I should go to the ranch, get Irma to sell to me on her deathbed.” He shook his head. “I don’t know about your brother sometimes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sometimes? Cooper had butted heads with Treyton since they were kids. Since returning to the river basin a some months ago, he’d warned his father about Treyton having been seen talking with one of the methane company bosses. He’d also told him about catching Treyton at the real estate office in town, possibly seeing what the ranch might be worth on the open market.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His brother always seemed to be angry, wanting their father to step aside and let him take over the ranch, convinced he could run it better. Cooper feared what Treyton would do if he got the chance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’re headed out to Oregon, right?” Holden asked. “Taking Tilly with you?” He smiled. “Make it a nice little holiday. No reason to rush back.” As if thinking the same thing Cooper was, his father asked, “Any word on when Charlotte is coming back?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He shook his head. “As far as I know she hasn’t been in communication with anyone here. I don’t think CJ is healing as she’d hoped. Doubt she wants to return until he is.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father sighed. “Charlotte hates to lose, but from what I’ve heard, CJ will be coming home in a wheelchair. How long he might be in one, possibly the rest of his life, is debatable. If she has anything to do with it, he’ll walk again.” Charlotte Stafford’s iron will was legendary. “Does she know about the engagement yet?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not that I know of,” Cooper said. “Tilly hasn’t heard from her. But the fact that her mother hasn’t been taking her calls could be an indication that Charlotte has heard.” He saw his father frown. They both feared how Charlotte would take it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As for CJ Stafford, he and his father felt the same way about the cowboy who had almost killed both of his sisters. Cooper was hoping CJ walked again for personal reasons. He needed to settle a few things with him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m sure you’ve heard,” Cooper said. “Charlotte’s lawyers are fighting to get the cases against CJ for both incidents dropped.” No one in the county who knew the Stafford matriarch believed her son would ever do any jail time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father said nothing. In recent years, he’d argued for peace between the families. Now he changed the subject. “Well, have a good trip. Can’t wait to see this bull when you get back. Drive safely.” Holden’s gaze shifted to something behind Cooper. “Was that Duffy leaving?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Said he had a date.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father shook his head. “I doubt he’ll ever settle down and get serious about a woman—let alone working this ranch.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley showered, dressed and headed for Miles City with a planned stop along the way to pick up her two cohorts, Duffy McKenna and Pickett Hanson. Duffy was Holden McKenna’s youngest son. Pickett had been a McKenna ranch hand since all three of them were in their teens. Both were her best friends and partners in crime and had been since then. She used to sneak over to the neighboring ranch and the three managed to get into all kinds of trouble. They still did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Both young men had stolen a piece of her heart with their good looks, their heart-fluttering grins and outrageous senses of humor. Lately, the three of them had become even closer out of their determination to stop the coalbed methane drilling in their valley.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As she pulled up to the meeting place just outside town, the two men exited the pickup they’d arrived in and walked toward her, smiling. They were both so darned handsome, cowboys through and through. For years, Oakley had watched cowgirls throwing themselves at the two of them. She hadn’t been one of those cowgirls. She’d ignored both men when they flirted with her—and still did. It only seemed to make them both more determined to win her over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She laughed now as the two wrestled over who was going to sit on the pickup’s bench seat next to her. They’d made a game out of trying to court her favor. “Quit horsing around. We need to get going.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy won the wrestling match, sliding in next to her, grinning and giving her a hip bump. Like all the McKennas, he had thick dark hair and incredible blue eyes with long dark lashes that made her jealous. “Hey, beautiful.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She elbowed him in the side as Pickett climbed in, slammed the door and then got the truck moving. “Tilly told me that the sheriff mentioned to her that another drilling rig had been vandalized,” she said, getting down to business. Sheriff Stuart Layton was close to both Tilly and Cooper. Her sister had dated Stuart for a while before her true heartthrob Cooper had returned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley glanced over at the two men as she drove out of town and headed for the mountains they would cross before dropping down into the Yellowstone River Valley and Miles City. She loved both Duffy and Pickett, but lately Oakley felt as if something was changing. Or maybe it was her. “You know Stuart suspects us,” she said, keeping to the subject at hand.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But he has to prove it was us,” Duffy said and grinned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I think we need to work on the ranchers,” Pickett said, always the practical one. When the three of them had built a treehouse in the woods, Duffy had been convinced it was safe enough. Pickett refused to climb up until it was supported better. Duffy broke his arm in the fall when the treehouse collapsed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“If ranchers don’t let them drill on their land, CH4 will have to move on,” Pickett said. “Keeping them from using their drilling equipment for a few weeks isn’t stopping them.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Neither is trying to get ranchers not to drill,” Duffy said. “Too many of them need the money and if this drought continues…” It was no secret that Duffy enjoyed sabotaging the drilling rigs, but he really did want the drilling to stop. Like Pickett, he tended to joke around, making people think he didn’t take anything seriously. But most people didn’t know either man the way Oakley did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It does come down to money,” Pickett agreed. “So many of the ranches had to sell their cattle earlier than they wanted because of it, our ranches included.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley knew the argument too well. “Maybe someone will have a suggestion at this meeting in Miles City. We need to be careful, though. The sheriff is watching us. So are the folks at the methane gas company. It’s getting more dangerous.” None of them spoke until she was almost to Miles City.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m not sure you should go with us to the meeting,” Pickett said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shot him a look that she hoped sent her clear answer to that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m serious, Oakley. You’re right about it getting more dangerous. I’m worried about you. Isn’t your mother coming back soon?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What does she have to do with this?” she demanded. While she planned to confront her brother, she knew her mother would fight like a mama grizzly to protect her oldest son—maybe especially if his injuries still had him in a wheelchair.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The next well could be on your ranch,” Duffy said. “Your mother had been about to make a deal with CH4 before she left. I doubt CJ’s changed her mind.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oakley let out an oath, slamming her hand down on the steering wheel. “CJ,” she said. “I’m sure he talked her into it. He’d have wells all over the ranch if he had his way. All he thinks about is the money. Doesn’t care about what it will do to the ranch that our children and grandchildren will inherit.” She groused under her breath for a moment before glancing over at them. “If she goes ahead with it, we’re going to stop that well from going in.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They instantly started voicing their concerns about any plan that meant crossing Charlotte Stafford. “That’s a little too close to home, don’t you think?” Pickett said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Exactly,” she snapped. “Duffy, you already lost a major well on your ranch because of the drilling on our ranch. You can’t afford to lose another one. Eventually, it is going to destroy our own water wells, not to mention what all that salt from the drilling water is going to do to the Powder River. We have to stop it. If you don’t want to help me—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You know better than that,” Pickett said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Duffy chuckled. “Like we would let you do this alone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you,” she said, meaning it even as her stomach roiled at the thought of going head-to-head with her mother and CJ. She had no idea how much time she had before her mother returned and the drilling began—let alone how they were going to stop it and stay out of jail.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In his office, Sheriff Stuart “Stu” Layton sorted through the photographs taken at the crime scene. The incidents of vandalism on the gas rigs had escalated, the damage more extensive. A bigwig from the CH4 gas company was flying in today, demanding something be done and threatening to go to the feds if the sheriff couldn’t handle the job.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stu didn’t like being threatened. He really doubted the feds would be interested in taking on vandalism cases, but he was no fool. Things had gotten out of hand. He had to stop it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He sorted through the photos again, knowing full well that the group calling themselves Dirty Business was growing in numbers. It was no longer some young hotheads. Area ranchers had joined the group, trying to organize against the gas company.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The sheriff figured the vandals only made up a small portion of the group, though. He was pretty sure he knew some of them, but he had no proof. They’d been clever, making sure no one saw them and leaving no evidence as to their identities.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He studied the photographs more closely. No tire tracks. They’d walked into the site where the drilling equipment had been. But they’d also left no footprints. He figured they had to be wearing shoe coverings. He wasn’t dealing with kids or hopped-up teenagers. This group knew what they were doing. He suspected they had been trained.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The only way to catch them was to stake out drilling equipment in isolated places around the Powder River Basin. The thought of putting his new deputy, Ty Dodson, on it gave him pause. Dodson tended to throw his weight around because of the badge. Stu hated to think what the deputy might do if the vandals ran or worse, put up a fight. He didn’t want anyone getting killed over spray paint and some temporarily inoperable equipment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Got a minute?” He looked up to find a pretty brunette smiling in through his open office doorway at him. He and Abigail Creed, the new nurse at the local small hospital, had been dating for a few months off and on. Mostly off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the first time he’d met her, Stu had been suspicious of her reasons for being in Powder Crossing. Also for being so friendly to him. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, just a gut feeling that unnerved him. Maybe he just wasn’t used to sweet, thoughtful women being interested in him, he joked to himself. Or maybe Abigail wasn’t exactly who she pretended to be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Free for dinner? I hit the market in Miles City and I feel like cooking. Feel like eating?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He searched only a few moments for an excuse to decline and then changed his mind. He felt as if their relationship was reaching some sort of climax, one way or the other. “I’d love to. What can I bring?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Just your appetite. Seven?” He nodded, smiling. “See you then,” she said and was gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stu sat for a moment chastising himself. Abigail was probably what she appeared, a lovely, caring, pretty young woman who for whatever reason seemed interested in him. Why wasn’t he more suspicious of the ones who would end up leaving him for someone else? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He thought of Tilly Stafford. He’d really thought she might be the one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She turned out to be the one all right—for Cooper McKenna, he reminded himself. Her falling for Cooper had strained his relationship with his once best friend. He and Coop had patched up their grievance, but there was some history there that they kept stumbling over. Another woman they’d both been interested in was now dead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He pushed away the thought of Leann Hayes, not wanting to go back down that dark alley. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed. She’d committed suicide, end of story. He just hoped that he could eventually convince Cooper of that before he demanded the case be reopened. His friend was convinced that Leann hadn’t killed herself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fortunately, Cooper was busy, enjoying his engagement to Tilly Stafford and hadn’t mentioned reopening the case lately. His friend had stopped by earlier to tell him that he was going out to Oregon to pick up a bull. Tilly was going with him. “Can I pick you up anything from the West Coast?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stu marveled at how he and the ranch kid had become friends to begin with. The sheriff was as blond as Cooper was dark. The two of them had grown up together. Close to the same age, they’d been in the same grade in the small rural school for years. He couldn’t remember when they’d become best friends. There were rough times over the years when they’d fought over ball games or girls, but they’d lasted as friends. They’d always had each other’s back—even in the worst times.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Until recently. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stu had a bad feeling that chasm in their relationship was about to widen when Cooper found out that the sheriff had been seeing quite a lot of his sister, Bailey. She would stop by his office or drop by the house to talk. She’d already told him about her brother’s trip, but Stu didn’t let on to Cooper that he already knew or that he’d been seeing his wild younger sister. He had a feeling that his old friend wouldn’t be happy about that. It had been Bailey’s idea to keep it on the down-low.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The sheriff had no idea where it was going—or if it was going anywhere. He liked Bailey’s company and she seemed to find his job fascinating. She also liked to talk about the valley’s history. Since Stu had taken his dad’s job as sheriff, he remembered stories his father had told. Those seemed to interest Bailey, too. She was especially interested in the feud between her family and the Staffords.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thanks, but I don’t need anything,” Stu had said, touched that Cooper would ask if he wanted anything from the West Coast. “Have a nice trip. When are you coming back?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not sure. Only a day or two.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d gotten the impression Coop had wanted to say more, but Stu had to take a call and his friend had waved goodbye as he’d left.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from River Strong by B.J. Daniels. Copyright © 2023 by Barbara Heinlein. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrryK5J4JvZxkEAOA8D9IR5C5m8kjdps66eI6K0-LiECeLfM3SURuOiVNSLYqLQOVt02tZ_6cnXjgNltt5TIkBiFdLDIOBwvuVgGkCZP9I3QXBAYXqybiFDVg90Ps2PJ5byaIwfjShXJjW-1C160JeqBeC-Hj6hTpsYMHlEKQF9pxWH1YMxShAwVv15fxw/s1220/B.J.%20Daniels%20credit%20Doug%20Loneman.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrryK5J4JvZxkEAOA8D9IR5C5m8kjdps66eI6K0-LiECeLfM3SURuOiVNSLYqLQOVt02tZ_6cnXjgNltt5TIkBiFdLDIOBwvuVgGkCZP9I3QXBAYXqybiFDVg90Ps2PJ5byaIwfjShXJjW-1C160JeqBeC-Hj6hTpsYMHlEKQF9pxWH1YMxShAwVv15fxw/s320/B.J.%20Daniels%20credit%20Doug%20Loneman.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Doug Loneman</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">New York Times and USA Today bestselling author B.J. Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and plays tennis. Contact her at <a href="http://www.bjdaniels.com">www.bjdaniels.com</a>, on Facebook at B.J. Daniels or through her reader group the B.J. Daniels' Big Sky Darlings, and on twitter @bjdanielsauthor.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Social Links:</span></span></u></div></span></u><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.bjdaniels.com/" target="_blank"><b>Author Website</b></a> <b>| <a href="https://www.facebook.com/people/BJ-Daniels/100058056520669/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/b.j.daniels/?hl=en" target="_blank">Instagram</a></b></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-45856608910004175502024-01-01T17:07:00.000-08:002024-01-22T18:54:32.254-08:00HTP Romance Blog Tour Promo Post: An Inconvenient Earl by Julia London<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDF_FzRpRURuBgJ1gaskFY3AyLHoIx-ck3vJ_Tgx2KoK-x_wR4oerWgP3-Rzv8Kpe_WRSsSUNiem0_-Lm9laFDy4Gnyp_odLtvokW8hEtyaRSLGHiEN9Fpaa3quMuJsNT-Opabb0iJgcjh0uSJEMKd2Va1WOtN3losoA1JQ2oPYkdR-7zAHxt4-2oZ6CR/s1600/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDF_FzRpRURuBgJ1gaskFY3AyLHoIx-ck3vJ_Tgx2KoK-x_wR4oerWgP3-Rzv8Kpe_WRSsSUNiem0_-Lm9laFDy4Gnyp_odLtvokW8hEtyaRSLGHiEN9Fpaa3quMuJsNT-Opabb0iJgcjh0uSJEMKd2Va1WOtN3losoA1JQ2oPYkdR-7zAHxt4-2oZ6CR/w400-h100/Copy%20of%20688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFc6fToS_yjc85CKfkACUzeA3YHyqUaldgdjrQfPmyfl6Z0-a1jIsQBUgpPT3kD3JoFfwf7kj3ub5eyHVOqMZguSPzkeNi21_fsTv5gUFTsXf-7e2H14D1thCd3rl88viQJ8lnbeICYBpKbRiSy1Zr85TTsKSTHIRtQvAFOxkSbPjVlwpF7pVDBbtFddy/s2650/An%20Inconvenient%20Earl.jpg"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFc6fToS_yjc85CKfkACUzeA3YHyqUaldgdjrQfPmyfl6Z0-a1jIsQBUgpPT3kD3JoFfwf7kj3ub5eyHVOqMZguSPzkeNi21_fsTv5gUFTsXf-7e2H14D1thCd3rl88viQJ8lnbeICYBpKbRiSy1Zr85TTsKSTHIRtQvAFOxkSbPjVlwpF7pVDBbtFddy/w253-h400/An%20Inconvenient%20Earl.jpg" width="253" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/75339230-an-inconvenient-earl" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4WUhrrZDRLrK2zk7imq2LeMx5N4DpTr03z_bBYNZoUKr5XXNPnqJ2epOY7poR4v3uFHCjGadQqCGK8lrsF9k6AmewuRHA0gseL4EvJQ1BXpGgyRyxK5tUF1RRRvZOQBh0Bs3tBbRTQKgPlQ9HvCDmu00aifGj0t7xnyrxAhHUOErAzUmkhw4_at3rkvd/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br />It’s been over a year since Emma Clark’s no-good husband left on an expedition. The Countess of Dearborn has played the abandoned wife, but people are beginning to presume the earl is dead, which doesn't suit Emma at all. Emma likes being head of household in Albert’s absence and does her best to keep his family believing he is alive and well. She’s thirty years old and finally having some fun. If the earl is in fact dead, his family is waiting in the wings to swoop in and throw Emma out, leaving her destitute.<br /><br />Then along comes Luka Olivien, the Weslorian Earl of Marlaine. He’s traveled all the way from Egypt, duty-bound to return to the countess her deceased husband’s precious pocket watch—only to discover she doesn’t know he’s dead… Or does she? It’s hard to tell. Luka catches glimpses of the desperate vulnerability beneath the party girl exterior and can’t help being drawn into the beguiling countess’s ruse.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/a/397/9781335498250">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/an-inconvenient-earl-julia-london?variant=41039781330978">Harlequin</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335498250&retailer=barnesandnoble">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335498250&retailer=amazon">Amazon</a></span></b></div></span></b><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://aps.harpercollins.com/hc?isbn=9781335498250&retailer=booksamillion">Books-A-Million</a></span></b></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A Royal Match series</span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XjZpzk1LpaMOz5VYvB8vpUCLhkYR1A7MOVCBuKiexuN2IAHky3D006ABzcgOZX3RRcR8D5nqLq836aYnzqq1cNKNIAdWbQbZmkozofVBV_XwGxd0pLAYLTTUfR0oWcsoT6c3KujTsPIxzOXb-SCkNrHZxR-ASJxLcEsSB5A6lfk1dLUSBkvI0wZzyKql/s594/Screenshot%202024-01-22%20184256.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="594" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XjZpzk1LpaMOz5VYvB8vpUCLhkYR1A7MOVCBuKiexuN2IAHky3D006ABzcgOZX3RRcR8D5nqLq836aYnzqq1cNKNIAdWbQbZmkozofVBV_XwGxd0pLAYLTTUfR0oWcsoT6c3KujTsPIxzOXb-SCkNrHZxR-ASJxLcEsSB5A6lfk1dLUSBkvI0wZzyKql/w400-h144/Screenshot%202024-01-22%20184256.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /></u></div></u><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://consummatereader.blogspot.com/2022/02/blog-tour-promo-post-last-duke-standing.html" target="_blank">Book 1: Last Duke Standing</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://julialondon.com/books/the-duke-not-taken/" target="_blank">Book 2: The Duke Not Taken</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://julialondon.com/books/the-viscount-who-vexed-me/" target="_blank">Book 3: The Viscount Who Vexed Me</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Book 4: An Inconvenient Earl (This book!)</div></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwLo2eJXqCAa759ctiNkmgbm8UZOip_YPlZ5HDRUEkd6gZTMlmmapagotKXxapYvaAXZb4hVmJQ-Au-c6cATfincFQIht7SLIxeG-Oh_Z2vObEdWVVRQr6SW037zvt-qbSoWM170WKjmeOY2PN-dVlG0c3alcLIx2DcbJ-fmqtjYVDS9T8jbjxQWRrhv/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwLo2eJXqCAa759ctiNkmgbm8UZOip_YPlZ5HDRUEkd6gZTMlmmapagotKXxapYvaAXZb4hVmJQ-Au-c6cATfincFQIht7SLIxeG-Oh_Z2vObEdWVVRQr6SW037zvt-qbSoWM170WKjmeOY2PN-dVlG0c3alcLIx2DcbJ-fmqtjYVDS9T8jbjxQWRrhv/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Butterhill HallEngland, 1871</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma Clark was thinking of taking a lover. She had an itch that could not be scratched, one that was causing her to look at men—all men, whether short or tall, lean or round, old or young—with lust.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A sinful, and probably unpardonable, but undeniable fact.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After surveying the nearest candidates, she settled on Mr. John Karlsson, the new stablemaster at Butterhill Hall. He looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of her thirty-two years, had flaxen blond hair, arms as big around as her thighs, and an easy smile that sparkled in his blue eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d made a habit of going down to the stables to watch him exercise the horses. She would call out to him. “That mount is full of vinegar today.” He’d laugh. “Toby would run straight to the sea if I let him.” Or she would note the excellent grooming of the horses’ coats. “They’re so shiny,” she would say approvingly, and he’d say proudly, “Aye, ma’am, I’ve a new lad in the stables.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sometimes, when one of the stable hands was putting a horse through its paces around the paddock, Mr. Karlsson would stand with his back to the fence, his elbows propped on the railing as he watched. He would remove his hat and drag his fingers through his hair. He smelled of horse and sunshine and salt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On the opposite side of the fence, Emma liked to step onto the bottom rail and lean over the top one beside him. She’d attempt to make small talk. She’d run through various scenarios in her mind, different ways she might ask him if he would like a lover. She dismissed most of them as impractical or cringe-inducing. Propositioning a man didn’t come naturally to her, and she continued to be bewildered by what might be considered offensive versus what might be considered enticing. She’d even thought about consulting her very married sister, but she imagined Fanny would be appalled and spend an entire afternoon lecturing her why she could never ever do such a thing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then Emma decided that it ought to be his idea and mulled over ways to lead him to it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After days of chatting about horses, she’d decided it would never come to fruition if she didn’t take the reins. Ironically. She came up with a scheme that seemed the least egregious of all she’d imagined—she would ask him to saddle a horse for her. She was not the best rider, but she was competent enough, and she thought she could manage to dislodge herself from the horse and fall—Lord knew she’d done it before—but in a manner that would necessitate her rescue.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She just hoped it didn’t hurt. Or that she didn’t break an arm or leg. Worse yet, her head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On the day she was set to carry out her plan, she made her way to the stables. But Mr. Karlsson was in the company of a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old. She had the same flaxen hair as he, the same lean build. Emma watched as he picked the girl up and swung her around so that her braids flew out like wind streamers. That laughing girl was the spitting image of him. Which meant, with a high degree of probability, that he was married.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Alas, so was Emma.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ah, well. She changed course and walked away, leaving behind her dashed hopes of taking him as her lover.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Granted, there had been other obstacles besides marriage that she’d not yet established how to overcome. For example, the cumbersome business of her being the Countess of Dearborn, and thus, Mr. Karlsson’s employer. Ethics and morals were probably involved in a way she preferred not to think about.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She trudged on in disappointment. What was a woman of her age to do when her estranged husband was in Africa or some other far-flung place for months on end with no sign of ever returning? Not that she wanted that intolerable human being to return. But that didn’t mean she’d given up personal desires.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma hadn’t always thought Albert intolerable. Years ago, when he was wooing her, he’d been the perfect gentleman. He and his mother would come for supper, and he’d charm her and her family by reading a sonnet after the meal or singing along with Fanny to some tune. He escorted her to church and back and picked wildflowers for her along the way, which he would insert into her bonnet or her hair. He would call on her and Fanny with his friends and they’d play cards and laugh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It had all been cordial and exciting and precisely the sort of thing Emma’s mother had promised her love would be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her parents were thrilled when Albert Clark, the Earl of Dearborn, asked for her hand in marriage and had happily trundled her off to holy matrimony unto death with a modest savings in the event she ever needed money of her own. Emma had been so sure of her and Albert’s mutual affection that she believed she would never need it. The sum had been tucked away, quietly collecting a small interest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d expected marital bliss with Albert. She imagined evenings spent with him reading sonnets as she quietly did her needlework. She imagined they would entertain on occasion but would catch each other’s eye across a crowded room and realize they preferred their own company to anyone else’s. She imagined they would take long walks around the lake and travel to London and spend long winter nights tucked away in bed, making love.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The problem with expectations, she discovered, was that they rarely lived up to reality.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Curiously, from the start, Albert had seemed indifferent to their intimate relations. Which was precisely the opposite of what Fanny had said she might expect. Fanny said she’d spent the first few months of her marriage fending off her husband several times a day. Not Emma. At times, Albert had seemed downright annoyed with the prospect of it. And when he did perform his marital duty, he was not a man to take his time—he wanted it done as quickly as possible. Emma had tried everything she knew to make it more pleasant for him, which, in truth, was not a lot. And when she attempted to make things better, or more pleasurable, he said she made them worse.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And yet, Albert was obsessed with producing his obligatory heir. Unfortunately, human biology required that he have a working appendage, and increasingly, he did not. Every time he failed, he grew angry and verbally abusive. Every month that Emma didn’t conceive, he blamed her. Every month they tried again, but the coupling was rougher and devoid of affection. She’d begun to feel like a cheap vessel, misused and unappreciated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He soon began to blame her for everything inside and outside of the marital bed. He belittled her and dressed her down in front of family and friends. Everything she said was open to ridicule. He avoided her presence and told others he found her company unendurable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma sincerely believed she’d tried as hard as one might, but she came to loathe her husband. On the day he announced he was going on expedition to Africa, she could not have been happier. He said he needed to go and “clear his head” and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma secretly rejoiced and imagined being widowed in the event he was gored by a rhinoceros. His family, on the other hand, was distraught. What of the estate? Who would manage his wife? How could he leave them there alone with her?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His older sister Adele was a spinster who looked after his fourteen-year-old brother, Andrew. The boy needed Albert, Adele said. And really, wasn’t it Albert’s duty to remain in England until he’d sired his heir? “Your wife has passed her thirtieth year, Albert,” she’d said. “You haven’t long before she’s no longer any use to you.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She’s no use to me now,” he’d said sharply.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m sitting right here,” Emma had reminded the siblings. “You do know that I am a person and not just a womb, don’t you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d received a tongue-lashing for mentioning her supposedly barren womb.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In the end, Albert turned a deaf ear to the pleas of his sister and prepared to leave. Emma was secretly giddy with happiness. She said she hoped the wind would always be at his back and privately hoped the winds would blow him all the way to China and he’d never return.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And indeed, it had been a beautiful ten months since Albert had left. Emma had begun to feel herself again, free to be who she was without fear of disparagement. She didn’t miss him in the slightest or wish for his return. What she wanted was love—physical, emotional, consuming love—and she would never have that from him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She was beginning to fear love would not be hers to have. She was biding her time, waiting for her husband, wandering through her life, playing the role of countess and, in her husband’s absence, estate manager. She dined alone, slept alone, spent nights before the hearth alone. And while that was infinitely more desirable than spending that time with Albert, it did make for loneliness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She reached the hall in something of a mood and tossed her hat carelessly onto a console as she walked into the foyer. Feeney, the butler, appeared from another corridor to take her hat. “You’ve a caller, my lady,” he said. “Mr. Victor Duffy.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She so rarely had callers. “Who is that?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He did not say. He said he has news for you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">News for her? How odd. It probably had something to do with the town house in London. A tax or something like it. “Thank you, Feeney. Whatever it is, I’ll dispose of it quickly and send him on his way so do stay close by.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Very good,” Feeney said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The man standing in the receiving room was wearing a coat that had faded, the sleeves and hem frayed. His collar appeared to have a ring of dirt around his neck. His waistcoat strained across his paunch, and he’d combed his thinning hair over as much of his head as he could. He coughed as she entered, obviously trying to swallow it down, but as coughs were wont to do, it escaped him. “Lady Dearborn,” he said, and coughed again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma unthinkingly took a step back. “Good day, sir. How may I be of help?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He suffered a fit of coughing and removed a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth. “I do beg your pardon. I am perfectly well, but I think I’ve gotten a bit of the road in my throat.” He dabbed at his forehead, which, Emma noticed, had broken out with perspiration. “I’ve have come from Egypt.” He coughed again. “With news of your husband,” he rasped.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Albert?” Just her luck. “And how does he fare?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Duffy reached into the interior of his coat and withdrew an envelope and held it out to her. From where she stood, she could see her husband’s distinctive handwriting. She didn’t move to take it straightaway. “That’s from Albert?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’ve come from Egypt to deliver it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma sighed. “He might have posted it and saved you the trouble, Mr. Duffy.” She gingerly took the letter from him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Duffy suffered another short fit of coughing. “Unfortunately, madam, I am the bearer of distressing news. You may want to sit.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, now he had her attention. What could be more distressing than the news Albert was coming home? “I’m sturdier than I look. What news?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He coughed again. He was starting to look a little gray.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Would you like some water, Mr. Duffy?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, no. Please don’t trouble yourself. I do beg your pardon. As I was saying, it is my solemn and distressing duty to inform you that your husband has…died.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma froze. She was certain she’d misheard him. “Died?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Died. Yellow fever.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She was stunned. So stunned that she didn’t believe him. “What?” Could it possibly be true? Could Albert really be dead? “Are you certain?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Quite.” He reached into his pocket again and withdrew a small leather pouch. He opened it and out dropped Albert’s signet ring. “He was buried immediately, as is the custom there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Buried?” She was gaping at this man, her mind racing. Albert was dead? Her belly began to churn with confusion and sorrow and joy all at once. “Have you been to his sister?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, ma’am. I have come to you first.” He tried to stifle another cough. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh my,” she said, and turned away from him, her mind struggling to comprehend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Duffy coughed and said hoarsely, “Shall I ring for your butler? Someone to help you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, no. I… I will manage.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. Would she manage? She stared at the wall, thinking. What did this mean? How would they memorialize him? What would happen to her? Had he left a will? How ridiculous of her to never have asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A sudden and tremendous thud startled her, and she whipped around. Mr. Duffy was lying face down on the rug. “Mr. Duffy!” she cried and rushed to his aid. It took all her strength to roll him onto his back. His eyes were bulging, and his face was turning a shade of blue. Emma shoved the letter into her pocket and ran to the door, shrieking for Feeney.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The butler came running. Then came two footmen. One of the footmen fought with the knot of Mr. Duffy’s neck cloth to release it, but it was no use. Mr. Duffy was dead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They carried the man to a bedroom and laid him out there until they could determine what to do with him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In the chaos and days that followed that untimely death, no one asked why Mr. Duffy had come to call. Emma was grateful for it, because it gave her a chance to breathe, and when she did, she realized that had Mr. Duffy made it to Adele’s house, or had he gone there before he’d come to Emma, Albert’s little brother would be the earl now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And she’d be…what? Out on her arse, that’s what, with nothing but her savings to lean on. She had no illusions about Adele’s regard for her or what she’d force Andrew to do. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And then it occurred to her: she was the only person who knew Albert was dead. No remains of her husband were going to suddenly appear, and apparently, his sole personal effect was in that leather pouch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If everyone assumed Albert was alive, Emma could carry on as she had for the past ten months, living life on her own terms.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The letter Mr. Duffy had delivered had been one Albert had written presumably before he’d taken ill. He curtly informed her he’d be home by Christmas.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma tucked the signet ring where no one could find it. She burned Albert’s letter in the fire in her room. She said nothing to no one. Not even Carlotta, her lady’s maid and friend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma was very good at keeping secrets.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from An Inconvenient Earl by Julia London. Copyright © 2023 by Dinah Dinwiddie. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">About the Author</u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZBZhyKcJkxICAC4mLRDsXA6FCmbo_uaSppCCxVuGUjIm1qyAlqN2a-xBoxA7KLHMuW_abWeRkOV31u2flDxwE1LYGtr4SFCK5MiCGQUNN2p4ZjwUgCcKtLnkOW2UdKc0znpP7AyutwOy7fOVYgvjfldS_vYdrCnQW5LmHe1hIMa_B7ItQW00aJG0rYh2/s1573/Julia%20London%20credit%20Kathy%20Wittaker.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZBZhyKcJkxICAC4mLRDsXA6FCmbo_uaSppCCxVuGUjIm1qyAlqN2a-xBoxA7KLHMuW_abWeRkOV31u2flDxwE1LYGtr4SFCK5MiCGQUNN2p4ZjwUgCcKtLnkOW2UdKc0znpP7AyutwOy7fOVYgvjfldS_vYdrCnQW5LmHe1hIMa_B7ItQW00aJG0rYh2/s320/Julia%20London%20credit%20Kathy%20Wittaker.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Kathy Wittaker</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Julia London is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over sixty novels of historical and contemporary romance. She is the author of the popular Highland Grooms series as well as A Royal Wedding, her most recent series. Julia is the recipient of the RT Bookclub Award for Best Historical Romance and a six-time finalist for the prestigious RITA award for excellence in romantic fiction. She lives in Austin, Texas. Visit her at </span><a href="http://www.julialondon.com" style="font-weight: bold;">www.julialondon.com</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Social Links:</u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://julialondon.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JuliaLondon" style="font-weight: bold;">Facebook</a> | <b><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/JuliaFLondon" target="_blank">Twitter</a></b> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/julia_f_london/" target="_blank"><b>Instagram</b></a></div><br /></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-2478029784403102252023-10-02T04:00:00.017-07:002023-10-02T04:00:00.138-07:00HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Roaring Days of Zora Lily by Noelle Salazar<b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsaLT5WtPassnkmbjrNz4e-1TshELA9WvVy0HC1GvDTo_7Af5kb-h8INqlnx4RCWsSaHl48RyUO3pWYV2cti-9lew_EBnTAfmpY8HSVE83zUz6etX3CX5v2WpBSjWbC7mRsEAc4ricOoNARS2MqwWNI2bt9EWhtDeVGVuDkJn3DQDF3t4wuCrIjpiQoyYH/w400-h100/Copy%20of%20689-HTP-Banner---Fall-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></div></span></b><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BAt8k_rQ0biRXybp6XFYZe4h6UGq1cnpllEviETU0flvJ0-tX4flN2W8HekdA2EWlODc9CvSsYs0dh-BnT0k9xonmlrvKX1xZnbFDCQfli0MIHAPR0UXrpN4J9RLrix2DZFsoWssuG48hoYNx3NTNztNsRdULcwCjNmQYYaFqDvC5-iG5oWcE6RF1-vQ/s3700/The%20Roaring%20Days%20of%20Zora%20Lily%20final%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3700" data-original-width="2438" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BAt8k_rQ0biRXybp6XFYZe4h6UGq1cnpllEviETU0flvJ0-tX4flN2W8HekdA2EWlODc9CvSsYs0dh-BnT0k9xonmlrvKX1xZnbFDCQfli0MIHAPR0UXrpN4J9RLrix2DZFsoWssuG48hoYNx3NTNztNsRdULcwCjNmQYYaFqDvC5-iG5oWcE6RF1-vQ/s320/The%20Roaring%20Days%20of%20Zora%20Lily%20final%20cover.jpg" width="211" /></a></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/75294612-the-roaring-days-of-zora-lily?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=pK7rlwBGVJ&rank=1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuwwgOmXxPT95NGTcm-EfckxGR9VgZEL81GIv-RgrQvb3MRrXgKCeF__bmCi4EY0h-F2XNKJvREmlsgwGEAy3BwfJm5TTaZflE9z-e4SI89J3149oxyfjKzlpWe2QNGrKz5eVRUPxgWa3zjEDNggDnbQG122nWkGg9UhpK2m8mc20tSa0thA3pCWYbhXv/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br />Set during a period of rapid social and technological change, The Roaring Days of Zora Lily follows a struggling young seamstress from her long nights sewing costumes in the smoke-filled speakeasies of Seattle to designing gowns for Hollywood’s biggest starlets.<br /><br />2023, The Smithsonian's National Museum of American History: A costume conservator is preparing an exhibition featuring movie costumes from the 1920s to present day. As she gingerly places a gown once worn by Greta Garbo on a mannequin, she discovers another name hidden beneath the designer's label, leaving her to wonder—who is Zora Lily?<br /><br />1924, Seattle: Poverty-stricken Zora Hough spends her days looking after her younger siblings while sewing up holes and fixing hems for clients to bring in extra money, working her fingers to the bone just to survive. But at night, as she lies in the bed she shares with one of her three sisters, she secretly dreams of becoming a designer like Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin.<br /><br />When her best friend gets a job dancing in a club downtown, Zora is lured in by her stories of music, glittering dresses and boys. She follows her friend to the underground speakeasies that are at once exciting and frightening—with smoke hanging in the air, alcohol flowing despite Prohibition, couples dancing in a way that makes Zora blush and a handsome businessman named Harley. It’s a world she has only ever imagined, and one with connections that could lead her to the life she's always dreamed of. But as Zora's ambition is challenged by tragedy and duty to her family, she'll learn that dreams come with a cost. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></b><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links</u></span></b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u><br /></u></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0778305201/keywords=historical%20fiction?tag=harpercollinsus-20">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-roaring-days-of-zora-lily-noelle-salazar/1143092714?ean=9780778305200">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/9780778305200">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-jazz-girl-original-noelle-salazar/19574911?ean=9780778305200">Bookshop.org</a></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXYhIdeFHZiM3PIvbpzJJf0yZRgt-xuO9jHGi7ZyQL9jwbXeOOQ5xmDX1AHh4T4bpvGau_DmFlUiZ1OWUtiFab0-PoO1Fs5SA8cRJxWilZXPu2XLh0FEahmXkMS6XgDzjhjYcI0xoRfsqrGDSoCNVgNRBXUa8oUqZn1Jdae-98xtWlJvQmEMdVsn3x2SP/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></b><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br />Washington, DC, 2023<br /><br /><br /><br />The fluorescent lights blinked on in a domino effect, one after the other, a faint buzzing sound filling the room as I stood squinting in the unnatural light.<br /><br />I inhaled, taking in my small slice of heaven within the storied walls of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The long room with its high ceiling, soothing taupe walls, and wood floors—weathered in spots from years of conservators standing and pacing as they labored over the works of great minds—brought a sense of peace as soon as I stepped inside.<br /><br />The museum had been my happy place since I was a little girl, when my mother would walk with me from our baby blue–painted row house on Capitol Hill, her slender fingers wrapped around my pudgy ones. We’d wander past sprawling parks, melancholy monuments documenting history, to the austere but magical facade housing wonders my six-year-old eyes could barely comprehend. By the age of eight I knew all the regular exhibits like the back of my hand, and waited anxiously for the monthly newsletter that arrived in our mailbox, telling us what traveling exhibits we could expect next. It was one such exhibit, a gallery of gowns worn by British royalty, that had burrowed itself inside me in such a way that a dream was born. <br /><br />“I’m going to work here one day,” I’d told my mother, pushing back a strand of dirty-blond hair as I stared up at a jewel-colored gown once worn by Queen Elizabeth the Second. <br /><br />I was twelve. <br /><br />I wanted to exist within these walls. It was my church, and I believed in its teachings wholeheartedly. I had drunk the water. Read the great books. And prayed to the gods of knowledge and creativity. I wanted to be part of whatever it took to bring history to life for others. And for the past nine years…that’s exactly what I’d done. <br /><br />I stared at the scene sprawled out before me. <br /><br />“Sanctuary,” I whispered, tucking a blond-highlighted strand of hair behind my ear. <br /><br />Gleaming table after gleaming table sat covered in silk, satin, lace, and velvet. Gowns and dresses and blouses previously only seen on movie screens and in photographs now lay delicately in wait of tending to, their sparkle and sinew in contrast to the stark lights and tepid surroundings. Mannequins, my constant companions, stood at the ready, waiting for their moment. <br /><br />Thread in every color imaginable, like a rainbow of rotund spool soldiers on a rolling rack, waited to be chosen. Needles in pincushions, strips of bias tape, shimmering appliqués, ribbons, seam rippers, clear drawers filled with buttons and clasps and snaps, and boxes upon boxes of straight pins, their colorful heads a happy bouquet of tiny plastic globes, were scattered across every surface, peeking from where they’d fallen to the f loor, rolled beneath furniture, and stuck—I bent to pull a pink-headed pin from the rug beneath my feet—in a variety of inconvenient places. <br /><br />The door clicked open behind me and I smiled. <br /><br />“Good morning, Sylvia,” a familiar voice said.<br /><br />“Morning, Lu,” I said to the one member of my team who, like me, couldn’t wait to get to work. <br /><br />Every day, my friend and fellow fashion-obsessed cohort, Lu Huang, and I arrived within minutes of one another, and a full half hour before anyone else. Working as conservators for the museum was a coveted get for us. A dream job that every morning caused us to rush from our respective homes, grabbing an insufficient breakfast on our way out the door, and wondering hours later why we were so hungry. We lost track of time constantly, surviving on coffee and bags of chips from the vending machine, and leaving friends and family waiting on us as we turned up late to holiday parties, dinners, and events we’d implored others to attend but couldn’t possibly get to on time, and having forgotten to blend the concealer we’d hurriedly dotted on in the train, with paint under our nails and bits of thread or glue on our jacket cuffs. <br /><br />In Lu I’d found not only the perfect work companion, but a kindred spirit. Over the nine years we’d worked together, we’d enjoyed laughing over our shared love of no-nonsense ponytails, and waxing poetic about old films and vintage fashion. We sat in her living room or mine, rewatching the movies that had shaped us and sharing stories of our schoolgirl walls plastered with images of iconic women of the silver screen, while our schoolmates favored posters of half-clothed men. So, when the idea for the newest exhibit started floating around our superiors’ offices upstairs, we’d spent many a night poring over which films we’d choose if asked, and then deliberated, scrapped, and chose again until we had the perfect array. <br /><br />Out of curiosity, we began to inquire with movie studios about the costumes we’d be interested in displaying, running into new obstacles with each call we made. Several times we chose a beloved film only to find half the costumes had been lost in a fire, were part of a decades-long legal battle, or were just plain lost—a travesty over which we consoled ourselves with a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas. Eventually, the decisions about which movies to include boiled down to three simple things: Where were the costumes we’d need? Would they be available to us for the time required? And what kind of shape were they in? <br /><br />Once we’d gotten the green light that the exhibit was on, we finalized our list, made the calls, gathered confirmations, and began the design for the wing the costumes would be shown in. And then we waited, barely able to contain ourselves as one by one the garments that would be featured in The Hollywood Glamour Exhibition arrived. <br /><br />We chose two movies per decade, going back one hundred years to the 1920s. Every piece that had been worn by the female lead was sent to us from studios, museums, or estates. Once in our possession, my job as costume curator, along with my staff of seven, was to remove each gown or outfit from its protective garment bags or boxes, and go over it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for tears, stains, missing buttons, and the like. We’d been working for months. Some of the more intricate gowns needed extensive rebeading or sequin replacement, and many of the older pieces needing patching inside to hold the outside fabric together. In two cases we’d had to sew exact replicas of the linings, and then carefully fit them inside the original, giving it something to cling to, extending its life. <br /><br />A pantsuit from the forties had lost an outside pocket and matching the fabric had been hell. The brim of an iconic straw hat that belonged to another outfit had been scorched by a cigarette and needed to be patched. Each garment presented its own set of unique problems, and we were giddy as we worked to solve each puzzle. <br /><br />With our intention for each item to be viewed from all sides, it was crucial they looked as flawless as possible. Thankfully, my team were experts in their field, and excited at the opportunity to handle costumes worn by some of the most famous women in film history. <br /><br />“Can’t believe we’re down to the final film,” Lu said, running a finger over a strip of fringe hanging from a black evening gown. “I think this batch is my favorite.” <br /><br />I nodded, taking in the room of costumes from the 1928 film The Star. Each piece had been worn by the iconic Greta Garbo and was the epitome of elegance and class. And a notable diversion from the designer’s usual style. <br /><br />“It’s so odd Cleménte changed her MO for this one film,” I said, tilting my head as I took in the distinct wide neckline featured in each of the eight pieces. Even a blouse and jacket had been designed to show off the actress’s collarbones. The pieces were alluring, but Cleménte had always been known for a more modest style. <br /><br />Michele Cleménte had been a well-known designer in the ’20s and ’30s, her signature style demure, with higher necklines and longer hems. But for this movie, she’d completely diverged. <br /><br />“It is strange,” Lu said, frowning. “The studio must’ve wanted something exact.” <br /><br />“Then why hire her?” I asked. “Not that she didn’t do a lovely job. The clothing is exquisite. I’d wear them all now.” <br /><br />“And look fab doing it.” <br /><br />I felt myself blush with pleasure at the compliment. Being tall and willowy had its advantages. Unfortunately for me, I had neither the opportunity nor the bank account to wear clothes as fine as the ones before us. <br /><br />“Thanks, Lu,” I said, bending to peer closer at the large white beaded star on the white satin gown that was to be the centerpiece for the entire show. <br /><br />Aside from the star, the rest of the fabric had been left unadorned, letting the beaded element shine before one’s eye went to the skirt, which fell in soft overlapping layers to the floor. It was a stunning piece of art. But a confusing one. Because it <br /><br />had no resemblance to any piece ever sewn before by Cleménte. At least not any piece I’d seen in my years of studying the different famous designers. It didn’t have her specific way of hand sewing or her distinctive technique of tying off a knot, or even her tendency toward geometric shapes. But it was the neckline that really threw me off. Cleménte had preferred to leave a lot to the imagination. It was her calling card during a time when everyone else was showing more skin. And yet for these, she’d completely gone off-script. <br /><br />The rest of the crew arrived at nine on the dot and the quiet of the room rose to a dull roar as individual desk lights were turned on, loupes donned to scrutinize the tiniest details, and we all began to sew, glue, and chat our way through the day. <br /><br />“Syl?” <br /><br />I glanced up and winced as my back protested from having been bent over a table for the past hour. Lu stood, her coat over her arm, by the door. Everyone else had vanished. <br /><br />“What time is it?” I asked. <br /><br />“Nearly seven.” <br /><br />“Shit. How does that always happen?” I pulled the loupes from my head. <br /><br />“You happen to be in love with a dress,” Lu said. “That’s how.” <br /><br />“Story of my life.” <br /><br />“Explains so much.” <br /><br />“Does it?” <br /><br />“I mean, it definitely explains why you haven’t had a date with a real live human in a while. Only—” She gestured to the mannequin beside me. <br /><br />We laughed. She wasn’t wrong. <br /><br />Lu was the only person who truly understood me. The only person besides my sister who I’d ever allowed to see inside my guest room closet where dozens of scavenged vintage dresses, trousers, jackets, and hats hung, waiting to be delicately cared for like the ones I lovingly handled at work.<br /><br />“You gonna stay?” Lu asked, watching me as I looked back at the dress spread out before me. <br /><br />I rubbed my eyes and stared at the tiny white beads I’d been replacing. We’d named the dress The Diaphanous Star, and I’d been carefully sewing on one bead at a time for the past two hours. It was a delicate task as the fabric they clung to was nearly one hundred years old. I had to work slowly and thoughtfully to keep from shredding it. <br /><br />“Yeah,” I said, rotating my head. “I want to get this star done. How’d you do today?” <br /><br />I glanced over at the black evening gown she was working on. <br /><br />“I’m close,” she said. “You can barely see the snag in the back now, and I should be able to replace the bit of fringe that’s missing tomorrow.” <br /><br />“Perfect,” I said, reaching over to wake my laptop and clicking on the calendar. “We are ahead of schedule, which bodes well should we have any catastrophes.” <br /><br />Lu knocked a small wooden box holding scissors inside it. <br /><br />“Don’t jinx us,” she said and then waved. “See you B and E.” <br /><br />“See you B and E,” I said. <br /><br />B and E. Bright and early. We’d made it up one day after the youngest woman in our group rattled off a bunch of acronyms as if the rest of us should know what they mean. We used it constantly. She didn’t think it was amusing. This of course made it that much funnier. <br /><br />I pulled my loupes back down and resumed placing the beads that formed the shimmering star. Thirty minutes later I sat up, set the magnifying glasses on the table, and arched my back in a well-deserved stretch. <br /><br />“Okay, you,” I said to the dress. “Time to get you on a mannequin.” <br /><br />Sliding my arms beneath the gown, I lifted it carefully and carried it to the far end of the table where a mannequin with roughly Greta Garbo’s 1927 torso measurements stood in wait, <br /><br />minus its arms which would be attached once I got the dress on it. <br /><br />Unfortunately, the wide neckline made it hard to secure. <br /><br />“You’re pretty,” I muttered, trying to keep the dress from slipping to the floor while I reached for one of the arms. “But a pain in my ass.” <br /><br />I clicked an arm into place, moving the capped sleeve over the seam where the appendage attached to the shoulder, and making sure the hand was resting just right on the mannequin’s hip. Satisfied, I reached for the other arm and did the same on the other side. <br /><br />“Not bad, headless Garbo,” I said, straightening the gown and smiling at the beaded star glimmering under the lights. <br /><br />I grabbed my notepad and made my way around the dress, writing down problems that still needed to be addressed. Loose threads, the unraveling second tier of the skirt, and a bit of fabric that looked like it had rubbed against something and was scuffed. There was a stain on the hem in back, and one of the capped sleeves sagged, leading me to investigate and find a spot inside where the elastic was stretched out of shape. <br /><br />My eyes moved along every inch of fabric, bead, and thread, my fingers scribbling notes as I took in what was easier to see with the dress hanging rather than sprawled on a tabletop. As I scrutinized the neckline in back, I noticed the tag was exposed and reached up to tuck it in. But as I pulled the material back, the tag fluttered to the floor. <br /><br />With a sigh, I bent to pick it up. I could leave the fix until morning, but as I had nothing but an empty apartment waiting for me, I began the task of detaching the arms of the mannequin and sliding the dress back off and onto the table. <br /><br />“Always something with you ladies,” I said, grabbing a needle and thread. “Can’t complain, I guess. Hottest date I’ve had in a while.” <br /><br />But as I turned my attention to the spot the tag had fallen <br /><br />from, I frowned and pulled the dress closer, peering at a small, elegant stitch no longer than the length of the tag that had covered it. <br /><br />“Is that…” <br /><br />I grabbed my loupes and looked again, the stitching now magnified and leaving zero doubt that beneath the tag, in white thread and a beautiful freehand stitch, was a name—and it wasn’t Cleménte’s. <br /><br />Sitting back, I removed my glasses and stared at the gorgeous dress with its beautiful wide neckline and capped sleeves, the beaded star, the tiered skirt that was so unlike Cleménte in style, and wondered aloud to the empty room— <br /><br />“Who the hell is Zora Lily?”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />From THE ROARING DAYS OF ZORA LILY by Noelle Salazar. Copyright © 2023 by Noelle Salazar. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></span></b></div></span></b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9OoVbZk4IxWgRaNfoeBLvniKHlH9xbBE7xZq3D9SO8yWcNM4Y0PRcu8wL4bPoWCa0Skjn4cGgPSB9JR9w-Li1P9jKBbyybhfqTRPRZ6ZPAunIT3KdGwUnD1Gl7fmtYRWcLv_Nw4dumZYmSw4_7UMg5y2jFQq-xTHPAztWR9WJVv7gzB6sXiUmd3jnvEm/s2965/Noelle%20Salazar%20author%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2965" data-original-width="1865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9OoVbZk4IxWgRaNfoeBLvniKHlH9xbBE7xZq3D9SO8yWcNM4Y0PRcu8wL4bPoWCa0Skjn4cGgPSB9JR9w-Li1P9jKBbyybhfqTRPRZ6ZPAunIT3KdGwUnD1Gl7fmtYRWcLv_Nw4dumZYmSw4_7UMg5y2jFQq-xTHPAztWR9WJVv7gzB6sXiUmd3jnvEm/s320/Noelle%20Salazar%20author%20photo.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Noelle Salazar</div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Noelle Salazar was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, where she's been a Navy recruit, a medical assistant, an NFL cheerleader, and always a storyteller. As a novelist, she has done extensive research into the Women Airforce Service Pilots, interviewing vets and visiting the training facility—now a museum dedicated to the WASP—in Sweetwater, Texas. When she’s not writing, she can be found dodging raindrops and daydreaming of her next book. Her debut The Flight Girls, was an instant bestseller, a Forbes Hypable book of the month, and a BookBub Top Recommended book from readers. Her second novel, Angels of the Resistance: A Novel of Sisterhood and Courage in WWII was also published to wide praise including an Amazon Editors’ Fiction Pick of the Month. Noelle lives in Bothell, Washington with her family.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></div></u><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Author Website: </span><a href="https://www.noellesalazar.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">https://www.noellesalazar.com/</a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Instagram: </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/noelle__salazar/" style="font-weight: bold;">https://www.instagram.com/noelle__salazar/</a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Facebook: </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/noellesalazar" style="font-weight: bold;">https://www.facebook.com/noellesalazar</a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twitter: </span><a href="https://twitter.com/noelle_salazar" style="font-weight: bold;">https://twitter.com/noelle_salazar</a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Goodreads: </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18424925.Noelle_Salazar" style="font-weight: bold;">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18424925.Noelle_Salazar</a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> </div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-29374283725585257882023-09-14T15:04:00.003-07:002023-09-14T15:04:59.183-07:00HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Book Club Hotel by Sarah Morgan<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLlJpXtnX-Ni8QT3bQ4Zn54XtQGrFfi0MjpE654tW2CFe-NAxh4UjvbIDaan99LoCfA37Sd4zlZ0OzWzW_Lk3fXFVYg9dhTxvHt2_bl9yDTmi1-mY2b1u0DhH7O1wWH6GhB_TXWS5h4Df42JFGdzUcYRYIYCjle0i5qJUbPkrVFaVnA8prNsChO_vO5Kn/s1600/689-HTP-Banner---Fall-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLlJpXtnX-Ni8QT3bQ4Zn54XtQGrFfi0MjpE654tW2CFe-NAxh4UjvbIDaan99LoCfA37Sd4zlZ0OzWzW_Lk3fXFVYg9dhTxvHt2_bl9yDTmi1-mY2b1u0DhH7O1wWH6GhB_TXWS5h4Df42JFGdzUcYRYIYCjle0i5qJUbPkrVFaVnA8prNsChO_vO5Kn/s320/689-HTP-Banner---Fall-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey73pxzIhGHv3bgx6PHEeO9DTF9S0KduVMuqlGqDyZZZKJCHpVPtlJ_nNyCpp38cc2BWDoatkpnrr0yHWb-vhZW6DaDnxZtuaF8Y4O8114sVhSctTqo8WD0lPuw0Hi9d1O3SoUu4g_8mhJc31UDy7DSTxRuUHS7zhw2b6chQg8irB2CgWMh0jUCEgmE5Y/s3600/Book%20Club%20Hotel%20Cover.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey73pxzIhGHv3bgx6PHEeO9DTF9S0KduVMuqlGqDyZZZKJCHpVPtlJ_nNyCpp38cc2BWDoatkpnrr0yHWb-vhZW6DaDnxZtuaF8Y4O8114sVhSctTqo8WD0lPuw0Hi9d1O3SoUu4g_8mhJc31UDy7DSTxRuUHS7zhw2b6chQg8irB2CgWMh0jUCEgmE5Y/s320/Book%20Club%20Hotel%20Cover.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/75692052-the-book-club-hotel"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibw4qiU53D3YUykv30roCBvdB-iY8W_btupGJODHw83BTzwfUDekdDjoj3xDDkts-7AnIKCl-_9RVm6jSBi4KygRFiEQK25cRILwAbQ3AbDpfWqUpBwa2Gi9v0bh9VLJAao4IcwXWPuZbps-WnPXAUGfBbQhXBBqU-cFl7n1rbKTJguuGxWiqQzSrKdbkp/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This Christmas, USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan returns with another heartfelt exploration of change, the power of books to heal, and the enduring strength of female friendship. Perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Jennifer Weiner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">With its historic charm and picture-perfect library, the Maple Sugar Inn is considered the winter destination. As the holidays approach, the inn is fully booked with guests looking for their dream vacation. But widowed far too young, and exhausted from juggling the hotel with being a dedicated single mom, Hattie Coleman dreams only of making it through the festive season.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But when Erica, Claudia and Anna—lifelong friends who seem to have it all—check in for a girlfriends’ book club holiday, it changes everything. Their close friendship and shared love of books have carried them through life's ups and downs. But Hattie can see they're also packing some major emotional baggage, and nothing prepares her for how deeply her own story is about to become entwined in theirs. In the span of a week over the most enchanting time of the year, can these four women come together to improve each other’s lives and make this the start of a whole new chapter?</span><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/book/9781335005120">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-book-club-hotel-sarah-morgan?variant=41003790270498">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-book-club-hotel-sarah-morgan/1142912865?ean=9781335005120">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Book-Club-Hotel/Sarah-Morgan/9781335005120?id=8292090795540">Books A Million</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Book-Club-Hotel-Sarah-Morgan/dp/1335005129/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2WH32Q49OTNW3&keywords=book+club+hotel&qid=1691437007&s=books&sprefix=book+club+hotel%2Cstripbooks%2C101&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VrFIZYuspU1wV7VenbNFWb2VU4wJx1RcM0hWep28h1f1FTVyr6EIRhRmqTHiJnNHPUulPpy_F_WemeCbUpRYeeP0CJ8HBtXyk4izknPW6dZ_eAo6l7yuH4gvRdS4sPntTsC_lYo3jhnCvYmTB7c1sp98fxbb2dHe3wzw0vjvRSb7iwYaWVCV4jOGBEOU/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VrFIZYuspU1wV7VenbNFWb2VU4wJx1RcM0hWep28h1f1FTVyr6EIRhRmqTHiJnNHPUulPpy_F_WemeCbUpRYeeP0CJ8HBtXyk4izknPW6dZ_eAo6l7yuH4gvRdS4sPntTsC_lYo3jhnCvYmTB7c1sp98fxbb2dHe3wzw0vjvRSb7iwYaWVCV4jOGBEOU/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hattie</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hattie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you…with oops, we made a mistake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her homemade cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short conversation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think we should get married…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think we should start a family…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And pink.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Excuse me?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pink.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a particular date in mind?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“There’s no way of getting a second window?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.</span><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Book Club Hotel by Sarah Morgan. Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Morgan. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></u></div></span><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkroo8sCxcpub_Q-8qBKlTjdDj3t3myx06bje_8ReOvRW-Y6I7sYZKsuNHRWXUKAfDqyoy8WCBCs2KAO1ZUCMo2nxAW7iCRBaETtEcmDAoH2piIOW3lNoUXzfGgyyqvY7kA7q8wto3Oc2-DQeJ2CbAOnB7YwKAIESWGZiixzC8RrBSr8_z4Qv_oPxj95Z/s5832/Sarah%20Morgan%20credit%20Ev%20Sekkides.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkroo8sCxcpub_Q-8qBKlTjdDj3t3myx06bje_8ReOvRW-Y6I7sYZKsuNHRWXUKAfDqyoy8WCBCs2KAO1ZUCMo2nxAW7iCRBaETtEcmDAoH2piIOW3lNoUXzfGgyyqvY7kA7q8wto3Oc2-DQeJ2CbAOnB7YwKAIESWGZiixzC8RrBSr8_z4Qv_oPxj95Z/s320/Sarah%20Morgan%20credit%20Ev%20Sekkides.jpeg" /></a></div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Ev Sekkides</span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan writes lively, sexy contemporary stories for Harlequin. </span></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Romantic Times has described her as 'a magician with words' and nominated her books for their Reviewer's Choice Awards and their 'Top Pick' slot. In 2012 Sarah received the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America. She lives near London with her family.</span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Find out more at <a href="http://www.sararahmorgan.com">www.sararahmorgan.com</a></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></u></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://sarahmorgan.com/">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSarahMorgan">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/SarahMorgan_">Twitter aka X</a> | <a href="https://instagram.com/sarahmorganwrites/">Instagram</a> | <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/45898.Sarah_Morgan">Goodreads</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-43990166057678677022023-09-07T01:00:00.036-07:002023-09-14T14:51:45.086-07:00HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour: What you are looking for is in the library by Michiko Aoyama<b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66uLxVD2wHQKL7dOUKOe_vscXg8pOvPqRH0MIQ79nhHrMdaE_fpK2NKQPFFzDoF7t18sK43Ptg6gtu017uhPU5hRoEbg-tYe_qXgkHoI0gtXOPRnocyrP32yZXCEb28giyiIEcZFBEmfIoRBM7l-KQNfUaXPjeY52PlcJAVZO3b6bSGpWYae70HOp2z7k/s1600/689-HTP-Banner---Fall-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66uLxVD2wHQKL7dOUKOe_vscXg8pOvPqRH0MIQ79nhHrMdaE_fpK2NKQPFFzDoF7t18sK43Ptg6gtu017uhPU5hRoEbg-tYe_qXgkHoI0gtXOPRnocyrP32yZXCEb28giyiIEcZFBEmfIoRBM7l-KQNfUaXPjeY52PlcJAVZO3b6bSGpWYae70HOp2z7k/s320/689-HTP-Banner---Fall-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcUy-UUlb53yGrvlx8dnUfX7ZVF_ENq-yuyZnm026efz3i8xt97NR5oFc-ze8JL7ng3ofX37m9FU2nZVjAmiA8_PaqKb7bVqZKLf98yRZumShIa7ydAFGuaNki11-ySm3ewhuL0HFKDjaoS2NssDutHzcvPrVSs_F99eYeCfKyVnhp5_KamSHqc0OU2dm/s2975/What%20You%20Are%20Looking%20For%20Is%20in%20the%20Library%20Cover.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcUy-UUlb53yGrvlx8dnUfX7ZVF_ENq-yuyZnm026efz3i8xt97NR5oFc-ze8JL7ng3ofX37m9FU2nZVjAmiA8_PaqKb7bVqZKLf98yRZumShIa7ydAFGuaNki11-ySm3ewhuL0HFKDjaoS2NssDutHzcvPrVSs_F99eYeCfKyVnhp5_KamSHqc0OU2dm/s320/What%20You%20Are%20Looking%20For%20Is%20in%20the%20Library%20Cover.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIH5xW2aMRoJuwDzqAKkCKOaqne1-1gnUrTw6PJZGP3-JrHaWvPTRSUJz5cH_GyRObzlWPbstBcd-z8KzaZOQxoglPS5DVZ2dNMDIcDwtcJ4wBjqSGrficnsFZNzXkR3SOKgMYdfZsOk3rquegTadBP0j-3uw9HSEyDKLqLs-loEkcLuO79HGwxRCHfVM/s130/add%20to%20goodreads.png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIH5xW2aMRoJuwDzqAKkCKOaqne1-1gnUrTw6PJZGP3-JrHaWvPTRSUJz5cH_GyRObzlWPbstBcd-z8KzaZOQxoglPS5DVZ2dNMDIcDwtcJ4wBjqSGrficnsFZNzXkR3SOKgMYdfZsOk3rquegTadBP0j-3uw9HSEyDKLqLs-loEkcLuO79HGwxRCHfVM/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a><br /><br />For fans of <i>The Midnight Library</i> and <i>Before the Coffee Gets Cold</i>, a charming Japanese novel about how the perfect book recommendation can change a readers’ life.<br /><br />What are you looking for? is the question that Tokyo’s most enigmatic librarian, Sayuri Komachi, poses to those who come to her for their next book. The list of recommendations she gives, however, always contains one unexpected addition that promises to give its the borrower the motivation they didn’t realize they needed to change their life.<br /><br />Each visitor comes to the library from a different juncture in their career, family, or stage of life, from the restless sales attendant who feels stuck at her job, to the struggling working mother who dreams of being a magazine editor. The conversation that they have with Sayuri Komachi – and the surprise book she lends each of them – will have life-altering consequences.<br /><br />With heartwarming charm and wisdom, What You Are Looking for is in the Library is a paean to the magic of libraries, friendship, and community, perfect for anyone who has ever found themselves at an impasse in their life and in need of a little inspiration.</span></b><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: helvetica;"><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/book/9781335005625">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/what-you-are-looking-for-is-in-the-library-michiko-aoyama">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/what-you-are-looking-for-is-in-the-library-michiko-aoyama/1142989253?ean=9781335005625">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/What-Looking-Library/Michiko-Aoyama/9781335005625?id=8292090795540">Books A Million</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/What-You-Are-Looking-Library/dp/1335005625/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=what+you+are+looking+for+is+in+the+library&qid=1691084793&s=books&sprefix=what+you+are+lookin%2Cstripbooks%2C108&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcWBG-Pq2NagbJULNuuBScjs0p3l__6WSiNTPFYe1SHQ4H2ZwSG5oAUCQLrVoq4SeKmLuGHBARKR_IZLtiIKapk7SmKAWcFeGcxH6TM2emDLph0NzhigflQiYeMYhcOFvV4grx6rxlnYTz0Coo-HdNLkELA7w4b_OXW0V3mYZw7TcjxUgJ-vEeVTphckbu/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcWBG-Pq2NagbJULNuuBScjs0p3l__6WSiNTPFYe1SHQ4H2ZwSG5oAUCQLrVoq4SeKmLuGHBARKR_IZLtiIKapk7SmKAWcFeGcxH6TM2emDLph0NzhigflQiYeMYhcOFvV4grx6rxlnYTz0Coo-HdNLkELA7w4b_OXW0V3mYZw7TcjxUgJ-vEeVTphckbu/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two days later, I’m standing outside the elementary school with my laptop in hand. I follow the directions from the Community House home page and walk along the school fence until I reach a narrow road. There it is: a two-story white building with a sign over the canopy at the entrance that says “Hatori Community House.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I go through a glass door and see an old guy with bushy gray hair at the front desk. In the office behind him, a woman with a bandana sits at a desk writing something.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Um, I’m here for the computer class,” I say to the old guy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Put your name down here. It’s in Meeting Room A.” He points at a folder on the countertop. A sheet of paper inside has a table with columns headed Name, Purpose of visit, Time of arrival and Time of departure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Meeting Room A is on the ground floor. Going past the front desk to the lobby, I turn right and find it immediately. Through an open sliding door I can see two students sitting at long tables facing each other with their laptops open: a girl a bit older than me with soft wavy hair and an old guy with a square face.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The teacher turns out to be a woman, not a man. Ms. Gonno is probably in her fifties.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I go over and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Tomoka Fujiki.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She gives me a friendly smile. “Please, sit wherever you like.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I choose to sit at the same table as the girl, but at the other end. She and the old guy are concentrating so hard on their own stuff they take no notice of me. I open up my laptop, which I’d already started up at home since I haven’t used it in ages and which took forever to boot. My fingers feel like bananas on the keyboard, probably because I only ever use a smartphone. I should probably do some practice in Word as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ms. Fujiki, you want to learn Excel, don’t you?” says Ms. Gonno, glancing down at my computer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes. But this computer doesn’t have Excel.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She looks at my screen again and moves the mouse around a bit. “Yes it does. I’ll make a shortcut for you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A green icon with an X for Excel appears at the edge of the screen. No way! Excel has been hiding in my computer all along?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I can see you’ve used Word, so I assume you have Office installed.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about… But I did ask a friend at college to set up Word for me when I couldn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe that’s how it got in there. This is what happens when you leave stuff up to other people.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For the next two hours, I learn all about Excel. Ms. Gonno wanders between me and the other two but I get special attention, because I’m the newcomer, I suppose.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The most amazing thing I learn is how to perform addition by highlighting cells. Just press a key and bam! with one touch they all add up! It impresses me so much I can’t help cheering, which Ms. Gonno seems to find funny.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">While practising as instructed, I overhear the conversation between Ms. Gonno and the other students. I get the impression they are regulars: the old guy is building a website about wildflowers, while the girl is setting up an online shop. I feel like such a waster. All the time I’ve been lazing around in my apartment doing nothing, not far away these two have been getting on with stuff—learning things! The more I think about it, the more pathetic it makes me feel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When it’s nearly time to finish, Ms. Gonno says, “There’s no set textbook, but I’ll give you a list of recommended titles. Don’t restrict yourself to these, though. Have a browse in a library or bookshop and see what you can find for yourself that’s easy to follow.” She holds up a computer guide and smiles. “You might like to look in the library here in Community House.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Library. What a nice-sounding word. So comforting. I feel like I’m a student again. Library… “Am I allowed to borrow books?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, anybody who lives in the ward can borrow up to six books for two weeks. I think that’s the rule.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then the old guy calls for help and Ms. Gonno goes over to him. I make a note of the recommended titles and leave.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">~</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The library is also on the ground floor. I pass two meeting rooms and a Japanese-style room at the back of the building beside a small kitchen. The door is wide open with a sign on the wall that says “Library.” Rows and rows of bookshelves fill an area about the size of a classroom. A counter to the left of the entrance is marked “Checkouts and Returns.” Near the front counter a petite girl in a dark-blue apron is arranging paperbacks on a shelf.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Feeling shy, I approach her. “Excuse me, where are the books on computers?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her head jerks up and she blushes. She has huge eyes and hair tied back in a ponytail that swings behind her. She looks young enough to still be at high school. Her name tag says “Nozomi Morinaga.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Over here.” Still holding several paperbacks, Nozomi</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Morinaga walks past a reading table and guides me to a large shelf against the wall. “If you need any recommendations, the librarian is in the reference corner.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Recommendations?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You tell her what you’re looking for, then she will do a search and give you recommendations.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I can’t find any of the books Ms. Gonno recommended on the shelf. Maybe I should consult the librarian. Nozomi said she was at the back, so I make my way to the front desk, then look toward the rear. That’s when I notice a screen partition with a sign hanging from the ceiling that says “Reference.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heading over, I poke my head around the corner, and yikes! My eyes nearly jump out of their sockets. The librarian is huge… I mean, like, really huge. But huge as in big, not fat. She takes up the entire space between the L-shaped counter and the partition. Her skin is super pale—you can’t even see where her chin ends and her neck begins—and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter. Her hair is twisted into a small bun right on top of her head, and she has a cool kanzashi hairpin spiked through her bun with three white flower tassels hanging from it. She is looking down at something, but I can’t see what exactly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The name tag around her neck says “Sayuri Komachi.” Cute name.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I edge a bit closer and clear my throat. Ms. Komachi’s eyes roll up to look at me, without moving any other part of her body. The whites of her eyes are enormous. She’s stabbing a needle at something the size of a Ping-Pong ball balanced on a mat the size of a handkerchief. What is she doing? Putting a jinx on someone? I almost scream out loud.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ah…it’s, ah…it’s okay,” I manage to squeak, but all I want to do is turn tail and get away as fast as possible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What are you looking for?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her voice…it’s so weird… It nails my feet to the floor. As if it has physically grabbed hold of me somehow. But there’s a warmth in it that wraps itself around me, making me feel safe and secure, even when it comes from that unsmiling face.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What am I looking for? I’m looking for… A reason to work, something I’m good at—stuff like that. But I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she expects. “Um, I’m looking for books on how to use a computer.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms. Komachi pulls a dark-orange box closer. I recognize the design of white flowers in a hexagon shape. It’s a box of Honeydome cookies. I love these. They’re dome-shaped, with a soft center, and made by Kuremiyado, a company that specializes in Western-style confectionery. They’re not exactly gourmet, but just a little bit special and not something you can just pick up in a convenience store.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When she lifts the lid, I see a small pair of scissors and some needles. She must be using an empty box for her sewing things. Ms. Komachi puts away her needle and ball, then stares at me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What do you want to do on the computer?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Excel, to begin with. Enough to tick the boxes on a skills checklist.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Skills checklist,” Ms. Komachi repeats.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m thinking I might register on a career-change site. I’m not that happy with my current job.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What do you do?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Nothing great. Just selling ladies clothes in a general department store.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to one side. The flower tassels on her hairpin shake and sparkle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Is being a sales assistant in a department store really not such a great job?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I don’t know what to say. Ms. Komachi waits patiently for my reply.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well, I mean… Anybody can do it. It’s not like it was my dream job or anything I desperately wanted to do. I just kind of fell into it. But I live on my own, so I have to work to support myself.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You managed to find employment, you go to work every day and you can feed yourself. That’s a fine achievement.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nobody’s ever summed up my life in this way before. Her answer makes me want to cry. It’s as if she sees me, just as I am.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But all I do to feed myself is buy stuff from the convenience store,” I blurt out clumsily, though I know that’s not what she really means by “feed yourself.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to the other side. “Well, the motive doesn’t matter so much as wanting to learn something new. That’s a good attitude to have.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She turns to the computer, places both hands on the keyboard and pauses. Then she begins typing, at amazing speed! Shoo‑tatatatata! Her fingers move in a blur and I nearly fall over myself in surprise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ta! She gives one final tap, then delicately lifts her wrists from the keyboard. Next moment, the printer springs into action.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“These should be suitable for a beginner on Excel.” Ms. Komachi hands me the sheet. A Step-by-Step Guide to Word and Excel, Excel for Beginners, Excel: Fast Efficient Notebooks, A Simple Introduction to Office. Then I notice, right at the bottom, a title that stands out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Guri and Gura? I stare at the words. The kids’ picture book about two field mice, Guri and Gura?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, and this too.” Ms. Komachi swivels on her chair slightly as she reaches below the counter. I lean forward a bit more to sneak a look and see a wooden cabinet with five drawers. She opens the top one, which seems to be stuffed with soft, colorful objects, picks one out and hands it to me. “Here you are—this is for you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Automatically I hold out my palm and Ms. Komachi drops a lightweight object on to it. It is round and black, about the size of a large watch face and with a straight bit poking out. A frying pan?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The object in my hand is a felted frying pan with a tiny round clasp on the handle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Um, what’s this?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A bonus gift.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Bonus gift?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, something fun, to go with the books.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I stare at the frying pan…er, bonus gift. It is sort of cute.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms. Komachi opens the Honeydome box and takes out her needle and ball again. “Have you ever tried felting?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No. I’ve seen it on Twitter and stuff, though.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She holds up her needle for me to see. The top is bent at a right angle for holding it, while the tip at the end has several tiny hooks sticking out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Felting is mysterious,” she says. “All you do is keep poking the needle at a ball of wool and it turns into a three-dimensional shape. You might think that you are simply poking randomly, and the strands are all tangled together, but there is a shape within that the needle will reveal.” She jabs roughly at the ball again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There has to be a ton of felted things inside that drawer. Are they all bonus gifts to give away? But her attention is now completely focused on her hands, as if to say My job here as librarian is done.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When I return to the shelf of computer books, I find the recommended titles and choose two that seem easy enough to understand. But what about Guri and Gura? Maybe I should get that too. I read it many times when I was in kindergarten. I think I remember my mother reading it to me too. Why would Ms. Komachi recommend this book? Did she make a mistake?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The children’s picture books are in a space next to the window sectioned off by low bookshelves. It’s a shoes-off area covered with interlocking rubber floor mat tiles. When I enter and find myself surrounded by lots of cute picture books, I feel peaceful all of a sudden. Calmer, and more relaxed. There are three copies of Guri and Gura. I guess the library keeps multiple copies because it’s such a classic. Maybe I will borrow it… I mean, it’s free, isn’t it?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So I take my two computer books and Guri and Gura over to Nozomi at the checkout counter, show my health-insurance card as ID to apply for a borrower’s card, and check out the books.</span><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama. Copyright © 2023 by Michiko Aoyama. Translation from the Japanese copyright © Alison Watts 2022 Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DJyRxp6rKwUJJjF8CJE5PdYBDLsmJGHgT2u3aw4JIQwnTSRsLXWMOZpYmXSfy5LFpXD9U9lFHWu9JnwRVjZdaaLvNtlycA7fPwiRAwweknscWv7rp6uU2r3vraYnjK4jFn8J0G2yciv0YLHtTg30jpe6A35ARZEa3lLBdRyFBiFW61PrhiE7TywlH39J/s3324/Michiko%20Aoyama%20Author%20Photo.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DJyRxp6rKwUJJjF8CJE5PdYBDLsmJGHgT2u3aw4JIQwnTSRsLXWMOZpYmXSfy5LFpXD9U9lFHWu9JnwRVjZdaaLvNtlycA7fPwiRAwweknscWv7rp6uU2r3vraYnjK4jFn8J0G2yciv0YLHtTg30jpe6A35ARZEa3lLBdRyFBiFW61PrhiE7TywlH39J/s320/Michiko%20Aoyama%20Author%20Photo.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Born in 1970 in Aichi prefecture, and currently living in Yokohama, Michiko Aoyama worked for two years as a reporter for a Japanese newspaper in Sydney after graduating from university. After her return to Tokyo, she started to work as a magazine editor at a publishing house before turning to full time writing. Her work has won the 1st Miyazakimoto Prize, the 13th Tenryu Literary Prize, and has been a runner up of the 2021 Japan Booksellers Awards. This is her English-language debut.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Link</span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18144498.Michiko_Aoyama" style="font-weight: bold;">Goodreads</a></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-3978969415396237872023-08-24T01:00:00.049-07:002023-08-24T01:00:00.138-07:00HTP Romance Reads Promo Post: Talulah's Back in Town by Brenda Novak<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/s1600/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="1600" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/w400-h100/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8jwpGlb7jkkg3zCcvBVNC1s38HDNO9F3uvgTez3JWsWpRia1jODYJlXiy2G9UyKeHCNAAxvx5Lz5AIW6OLpuno04D0maTnQ1la5cUvNnJvk3Aw0K8H0esFq_q2daSjqEk90iUkDqio9ZgO-lviW_R7blWmBnG565nYkpC97k3a1Z7nzwJgDRt3B0x2wY/s2650/Talulah_s%20back%20in%20town.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8jwpGlb7jkkg3zCcvBVNC1s38HDNO9F3uvgTez3JWsWpRia1jODYJlXiy2G9UyKeHCNAAxvx5Lz5AIW6OLpuno04D0maTnQ1la5cUvNnJvk3Aw0K8H0esFq_q2daSjqEk90iUkDqio9ZgO-lviW_R7blWmBnG565nYkpC97k3a1Z7nzwJgDRt3B0x2wY/w253-h400/Talulah_s%20back%20in%20town.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62196699-talulah-s-back-in-town"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ3TzVKJBYWbXz1UiHOFm1wZqTmERJeAHcInmnMD7qZUG1Vc4_arNjqotYtObGI6lAGPHYQKgO6M5bCQ7iE4BEF8hysvBFXTALsnMTfjDvI3qgfSiRgMvQjqJRgjSGvJiaTc62XDA8fHq_0g6RTNAQBDwVDUirc1BmPOYyVuaAwqpF2lr4DJqpOASHZeh/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><br /><b>Talulah Barclay returns to Coyote fourteen years after leaving her fiance at the altar. She’s back to sell her deceased aunt’s home and head back to Seattle as quickly as possible since the memories in a small town are long and no one has forgiven her for running off. And when she finds herself falling for the best friend of her jilted ex she knows life is going to get more difficult. And when she’s injured by shattered glass after someone throws a rock through her window she knows she is not welcome in town. But she still has close friends there and they rally around her and she finds herself willing to open her heart to the town and to the man she truly loves.</b><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Buy Links:</b></span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/talulah-s-back-in-town-original-brenda-novak/19575098?ean=9780778386179">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/talulahs-back-in-town-brenda-novak?variant=40991415762978">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/talulahs-back-in-town-brenda-novak/1142651777?ean=9780778386179">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Talulahs-Back-Town-Coyote-Canyon/dp/0778386171/ref=sr_1_1?crid=SNMQAEWAZ7PH&keywords=talulah%27s+back+in+town&qid=1691735973&s=books&sprefix=talulah%27s+back+in+town%2Cstripbooks%2C87&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Talulahs-Back-Town/Brenda-Novak/9780778386179?id=8875782594791">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://www.powells.com/book/talulahs-back-in-town-9780778386179">Powell’s</a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_NX9PFjEqOxWUA2mkdSeqw6EoMFy7YBvJPkBoxRGaoHuETwfgcNLgy_HJNFPFmNMMZ1QG2wtgmGh8yJfkyuRD_Pyt7OGjpklMCPOiw00pxKgnb-3IkXuEnwyUIQ9U8zJpOz1KGo9YAMA40y33n8I5ql1wVllLsCNObv9OWwvq0TCD7BfCQ8IDhFPKrvD/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_NX9PFjEqOxWUA2mkdSeqw6EoMFy7YBvJPkBoxRGaoHuETwfgcNLgy_HJNFPFmNMMZ1QG2wtgmGh8yJfkyuRD_Pyt7OGjpklMCPOiw00pxKgnb-3IkXuEnwyUIQ9U8zJpOz1KGo9YAMA40y33n8I5ql1wVllLsCNObv9OWwvq0TCD7BfCQ8IDhFPKrvD/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Excerpt - Tahlulah’s Back in Town by Brenda Novak</b></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>One</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div></b><br /><br /><b>“Well, if it isn’t the runaway bride.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah Barclay glanced up to find the reason a shadow had just fallen across her plate. She’d been hoping to ease back into the small community of Coyote Canyon, Montana, without drawing any attention. But Brant Elway, of all people, had happened to come into the café where she was having breakfast and stopped at her booth.</b><br /><br /><b>“Of course you’d be the first to bring up my past sins,” she grumbled. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly fourteen years, and he’d certainly changed—filled out what had once been a spare frame, grown a couple of inches, even though he’d been tall to begin with, and taken on a rugged, slightly weathered look from spending so much time outdoors. But she would’ve recognized him anywhere.</b><br /><br /><b>The crooked smile that curved his lips suggested he was hardly repentant. “I’m not likely to forget that day. I was the best man, remember?”</b><br /><br /><b>She wasn’t likely to forget that day, either. Only bumping into her ex, Charlie Gerhart, would be more cringeworthy.</b><br /><br /><b>She felt terrible about what she’d done to Charlie. She also felt terrible that she’d repeated the same mistake with two other men since. Admittedly, jilting her fiancés at the altar hadn’t been among her finest moments, but she’d had every intention of following through—until the panic grew so powerful it simply took over and there was no other way to cope.</b><br /><br /><b>It said something that, while she regretted the pain she’d caused others, especially her prospective grooms, she didn’t regret walking out on those weddings. That clearly indicated she’d made the right choice—a little late, perhaps, but better not to make such a huge mistake than try to unravel it later.</b><br /><br /><b>She doubted Brant would ever view the situation from that perspective, however. He’d naturally feel defensive of Charlie. He and Charlie had been friends for as long as she could remember. She’d hung out with Charlie’s younger sister, Averil, since kindergarten and could remember seeing Brant over at the Gerhart house way back when she and Averil were in fifth grade, and he and Charlie were in seventh.</b><br /><br /><b>Dressed in a soft cotton Elway Ranch T-shirt that stretched slightly at the sleeves to accommodate his biceps, a pair of faded Wranglers and boots that were worn and dirty enough to prove they weren’t just for show, he rested his hands on his narrow hips as he studied her with the cornflower-blue eyes that’d been the subject of so much slumber-party talk when she was growing up. Those eyes were even more startling now that his face was so tanned. Had he lived in Seattle, like her, she’d assume he spent time cultivating that golden glow. But she knew he hadn’t put any effort into his appearance. According to Jane Tanner, another friend who’d hung out with her and Averil—the three of them had been inseparable—Brant’s parents had retired, and he and his three younger brothers had taken over the running of their two-thousand-acre cattle ranch.</b><br /><br /><b>“What brings you back to town?” he asked. “You’ve laid low for so long, I thought we’d seen the last of you.”</b><br /><br /><b>Pretending that running into him was no more remarkable to her than running into anyone else, she lifted her orange juice to take a sip before returning the glass to the heavily varnished table. “My aunt Phoebe died.”</b><br /><br /><b>“That’s the old lady who lived in the farmhouse on Mill Creek Road, right? The one with the blue hair?”</b><br /><br /><b>Her great-aunt had been a diminutive woman, only five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds. But she’d had her hair done once a week like clockwork—still used the blue rinse she’d grown fond of in her early twenties when platinum blond had been all the rage—and dressed in her Sunday best, including nylons, whenever she came to town. So she’d stood out. “That’s her.”</b><br /><br /><b>“What happened?”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah got the impression he was assessing the changes in her, just as she was assessing the changes in him, and wished she’d put more effort into her appearance today. She didn’t want to come off the worse for wear after what she’d done. But when she’d rolled out of bed, pulled on her yoga pants and a sleeveless knit top and piled her long blond hair on top of her head before coming to the diner for breakfast, she’d assumed she’d be early enough to miss the younger crowd, which included the people she’d rather avoid.</b><br /><br /><b>That had proven mostly to be true; except for Brant, almost everyone else in the diner was over sixty. But he worked on a ranch, so he was probably up even before the birds that’d been chirping loudly outside her window, making it impossible for her to sleep another second. “She died of old age. Aunt Phoebe was almost a hundred.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m sorry to hear you lost her.” He sounded sincere, at least. “Were you close?”</b><br /><br /><b>“No, actually, we weren’t,” Talulah admitted. “She never liked me.” Phoebe hadn’t liked children in general—they were too loud, too unruly and too messy. And once Talulah had become a teenager, and her mother had allowed her to quit taking piano lessons from her great-aunt, they’d never really connected, other than seeing each other at various family functions during which Talulah and her sister, Debbie, had gone out of their way to avoid their mother’s crotchety aunt.</b><br /><br /><b>His teeth flashed in a wider smile. “Maybe she was a friend of the Gerharts.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah gave him a dirty look. “So were you. But unfortunately, you’re standing here talking to me.”</b><br /><br /><b>He chuckled instead of being offended, which soothed some of her ire. He was willing to take what he was dishing out; she had to respect that.</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m more generous than most,” he teased, pressing a hand to his muscular chest. “But if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who struggled to get along with your aunt.”</b><br /><br /><b>“You knew her personally?” she asked in surprise.</b><br /><br /><b>“Not well, but I’ll never forget the day someone had the audacity to honk at her because she was driving at the speed of a horse and buggy down the middle of the highway, holding up traffic for miles.”</b><br /><br /><b>“What happened?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Once I got around her, I found she was capable of driving a lot faster. She tailgated me to the bank, where she climbed out and swung her purse at me while giving me a piece of her mind for scaring her while she was behind the wheel.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah had to laugh at the mental picture that created. “You’re the one who honked at her?”</b><br /><br /><b>“The bank was about to close.” He gave a low whistle as he rubbed the beard growth on his squarish chin. “But after that, I decided if I was ever in the same situation again, I’d skip the bank.”</b><br /><br /><b>Most people in Coyote Canyon probably had a similar story about Aunt Phoebe, maybe more than one. She might’ve been small, but she was mighty and wouldn’t “take any guff,” as she put it, from anyone. “Yeah, well, imagine being a little girl on the receiving end of that sharp tongue. I’d dread my weekly piano lesson and cry whenever my mother left me with her.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’ll have to let Ellen know that,” he said.</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah didn’t remember anyone by that name in Coyote Canyon. “Who’s Ellen?”</b><br /><br /><b>“I assume you’re staying at your aunt’s place?”</b><br /><br /><b>She nodded. “My folks moved to Reno a couple of years after I embarrassed them at the wedding,” she said glumly.</b><br /><br /><b>He laughed at her response. “Ellen lives on the property next to you. She and I used to go out now and then, when she first moved to town, and she told me the old lady would knock on her door to complain about everything—the weeds near the fence, trees that were dropping leaves on her side of the property line, the barking of the dogs.”</b><br /><br /><b>“But they both live on several acres. How could those small things bother Aunt Phoebe?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Exactly Ellen’s point. Heaven forbid she ever decided to have a dinner party and someone parked too close to your aunt’s driveway.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah found herself more distracted by the mention of his relationship with this Ellen woman than she should’ve been, given that it wasn’t the point of the anecdote. Brant had always been so hard to attract. Most girls she knew had tried to gain his interest, including her own sister, and failed. So she couldn’t help being curious about how he’d come to date her new neighbor—and why and how their relationship had ended. “Sounds like Phoebe.”</b><br /><br /><b>A waitress called out to tell Brant hello, and he waved at her before returning his attention to Talulah. “How long will you be in town?”</b><br /><br /><b>She arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you running recognizance for my enemies?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Just curious.” He winked. “Word will spread fast enough without me.”</b><br /><br /><b>“You can assure everyone who cares that it’ll only be for a month or so,” she said. “Until I can clean out my great aunt’s house and put it on the market.”</b><br /><br /><b>“If you weren’t close to her, how come you were unlucky enough to get that job?” he asked.</b><br /><br /><b>“My parents are in Africa on a mission.”</b><br /><br /><b>“For the Church of the Good Shepherd?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Yeah.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I didn’t realize they sent people out on organized missions.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Sometimes they do, but this one is self-funded, something my dad has wanted to do ever since hearing a particularly rousing sermon.” Talulah wasn’t religious at all—much to the chagrin of her parents. But a good portion of the town belonged to her folks’ evangelical church or one of the other churches in the area.</b><br /><br /><b>“What about your sister?” Brant asked. “She can’t help?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Debbie’s married and living in Billings. She’s about to have her fourth child any day now.”</b><br /><br /><b>He feigned shock. “Married? Fear of commitment doesn’t run in the family, I guess.”</b><br /><br /><b>She scowled. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go through with it, Brant. I was only eighteen—way too young.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I never said I thought it was a good idea,” he responded.</b><br /><br /><b>“If you’ll remember, I made the same argument way back when.”</b><br /><br /><b>“How could I ever forget?” They’d always been adversaries. He’d hated the amount of time his best friend had devoted to her, and she’d resented that he was often trying to talk Charlie into playing pool or going hunting or something with him instead. “But let’s be fair. I doubt I’m the only one with commitment issues.” She glanced at his hand. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’ve never left anyone standing at the altar.”</b><br /><br /><b>She could tell he was joking, but he’d hit a nerve. “Because you bail out before it even gets that far.”</b><br /><br /><b>He seemed to enjoy provoking her. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. I can teach you how, if you want me to.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Oh, leave me alone,” she muttered with a shooing motion.</b><br /><br /><b>He chuckled but didn’t go. “How much are you hoping to get for your aunt’s house?”</b><br /><br /><b>“I have no idea what it’s worth,” she replied. “I live in Washington these days, where prices are a lot different, and haven’t met with a real estate agent yet.”</b><br /><br /><b>“You know Charlie’s an agent, right?”</b><br /><br /><b>Slumping back against the booth, she sighed. “Here we go again…”</b><br /><br /><b>He widened those gorgeous blue eyes of his. “That wasn’t a jab! I just thought you should be aware of it.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m aware of it, okay? Jane Tanner told me.”</b><br /><br /><b>“You still in touch with Jane?”</b><br /><br /><b>“We’ve been friends since kindergarten,” she said as if he should’ve taken that for granted. But she’d been equally close to Charlie’s sister, and they hadn’t spoken since Talulah had tried to apologize for what she’d done at the wedding and Averil had told her she never wanted to see her again.</b><br /><br /><b>“Maybe it’d help patch things up if you listed your aunt’s house with him,” Brant suggested.</b><br /><br /><b>“You’re kidding. I can’t imagine he’d want to see me—not even to make a buck.”</b><br /><br /><b>His eyes flicked to the compass tattoo she’d gotten on the inside of her forearm shortly after she’d left Coyote Canyon. “Does he know you’re in town?”</b><br /><br /><b>She shrugged. “Jane might’ve told him I was coming. Why?”</b><br /><br /><b>He studied her for a long moment. “I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here. Thanks for breaking the monotony,” he said, and that maddening grin reappeared as he nodded in parting and walked over to the bar, where he took a stool and ordered his breakfast.</b><br /><br /><b>Disgruntled, Talulah eyed his back. He’d removed his baseball cap—that was a bit old-fashioned, perhaps, but her parents would certainly approve of his manners—so his hair was matted in places, but he didn’t seem to care. He came off more comfortable in his own skin than any man she’d ever known, which sort of bugged her. She couldn’t say why. He’d always seemed to avoid the foibles that everyone else got caught up in. For a change, she wanted to see him unable to stop himself from falling in love, do something stupid because he couldn’t help it or make a mistake he later regretted.</b><br /><br /><b>“Would you like a refill?”</b><br /><br /><b>The waitress had approached with a pot of coffee.</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah shoved her cup away. “No, thanks. I’m finished.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Okay, hon. Let me put this down, and I’ll be right back with your check.”</b><br /><br /><b>Leaving twenty-five bucks on the table, more than enough to cover the bill, Talulah got up and walked out.</b><br /><br /><b>The last thing she wanted was to run into someone else she knew.</b><br /><br /><b>Most of the town had been at that wedding.</b><br /><br /><b>Aunt Phoebe’s house was going to take some work. Two stories tall, it was a Victorian farmhouse with a wide front porch, a drawing room/living room off the entry, a music room tucked to the left, a formal dining area in the middle and a tiny kitchen—tiny by today’s standards—at the back, with a mudroom where the “menfolk” could clean up before coming in from the fields at dinner. Probably 2,400 square feet in total, it was divided into thirteen small rooms that were packed with furniture, rugs, decorations, books, lamps and magazines. The attic held objects that’d been handed down for generations, as well as steamer trunks of old clothes, quilts and needlepoint—even a dressmaker’s dummy that’d given Talulah a fright when she first went up to take a look because she’d thought someone was in the attic with her.</b><br /><br /><b>The basement held shelf upon shelf of canned goods, a deep freezer full of meat that’d most likely been butchered at a local ranch, which meant there would be certain cuts—like tongue and liver—Talulah would have no idea what to do with, and stacks of old newspapers and various other flotsam Phoebe had collected throughout her long life.</b><br /><br /><b>Even if she started right away, it’d take a week or more to sort through everything, and the house wasn’t the most comfortable place to work. The windows, while beautiful with their old-fashioned casings and heavy panes, weren’t energy-efficient. There was hardly any insulation in the attic and no air-conditioning to combat the heat. Typically, summers in Coyote Canyon were quite mild, with temperatures ranging between fifty and ninety degrees, but they were in a heat wave. It was mid-August, the hottest part of the year to begin with, and they were setting records.</b><br /><br /><b>A bead of sweat rolled between Talulah’s breasts as she surveyed the basement. Even the coolest part of the house felt stifling. And it was only noon. She couldn’t imagine how Aunt Phoebe had managed in this heat. But her aunt could handle just about anything. She’d had a will of iron and more grit than anyone Talulah had ever met.</b><br /><br /><b>“How am I going to get through all this junk—and what am I going to do with it?” Talulah muttered, disheartened by the sheer volume of things her great-aunt had collected over the years.</b><br /><br /><b>Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her yoga pants. Pulling it out, she saw that her sister was calling. “Hey,” she answered.</b><br /><br /><b>“How’s Coyote Canyon?” Debbie asked.</b><br /><br /><b>“I just got in last night, but from what I’ve seen so far, it hasn’t changed much.” The town’s population had stayed at about three thousand since the end of the nineteenth century, when the railroad came to town and Coyote Canyon had its big boom.</b><br /><br /><b>She chuckled. “It never does. Bozeman is growing like crazy, though. I read somewhere that it’s the fastest growing town in America. You should see how much it’s changed.”</b><br /><br /><b>“No kidding? Who’s moving there?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Mostly families, I guess, but enough millennials and nature-lovers to change the whole vibe from Western to trendy.”</b><br /><br /><b>Only forty minutes away, Bozeman had been where their parents would take them to buy school clothes and other supplies. But she’d had no reason to go there since she’d left Coyote Canyon. Thanks to the stigma caused by the wedding, she’d tried to forget the whole area. “Did you guys come for Rodeo Days this year?” The week before the Fourth of July, Coyote Canyon held seven days of celebration that included rodeos, a 10K/5K run, a Mountain Man Rendezvous, parades, tractor pulls and bake-offs. Everything culminated in the fireworks of Independence Day.</b><br /><br /><b>“No. I wanted to,” Debbie said, “but Scott was under too much pressure at work to take the time, and I didn’t want to try to manage the kids on my own.”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m sorry that Paul and I couldn’t make it.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Has something changed I’m not aware of? Are you two together now?”</b><br /><br /><b>He’d been trying to get with her since she met him, especially after they started the diner. But it was only recently that she’d gone on the pill and slept with him for the first time. “Not really. We’ve started dating. Sort of.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Sort of?” her sister echoed.</b><br /><br /><b>“You know how hard it is for me to know when I really like a guy. Anyway, how’ve you been feeling? Any news on the baby?” She asked because she was interested, but she was also eager to change the subject.</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m fine,” Debbie said. “Just tired.”</b><br /><br /><b>“It shouldn’t be much longer, right?”</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m due in a week, and the doctor won’t let me go more than a few days over.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Call me as soon as labor starts. I’ll come for the birth.” Billings was only a hundred miles to the east. Part of the reason Talulah had agreed to handle her aunt’s funeral and belongings was because it put her in closer proximity to Debbie. She wanted to be there for the arrival of the new addition, especially since their parents couldn’t be.</b><br /><br /><b>“I will. I can’t wait until this pregnancy is over.” She groaned. “I’m getting so uncomfortable.”</b><br /><br /><b>“You’ve done this three times before. I’m sure the birth will be routine.”</b><br /><br /><b>Maybe not strictly routine. Debbie had developed gestational diabetes, so there was a good chance this child would have to be delivered by Caesarean section. But they were pretending there’d be no complications. Neither of them cared to consider all the things that could go wrong.</b><br /><br /><b>“I feel bad that you’re having to take so much time away from the dessert diner,” she said. “Maybe I should drive over for the funeral, at least, and help while I can.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Don’t you dare!” Talulah said. “I don’t want you going into labor while you’re here. Your husband, your doctor, everyone and everything you need are there.”</b><br /><br /><b>“But I’m just sitting around with my swollen ankles while you deal with everything in that musty house.”</b><br /><br /><b>Musty, sweltering house. But Talulah didn’t want to make Debbie feel any guiltier. Besides, her sister wasn’t just sitting around. She was watching her other kids. Talulah could hear them, and the TV, in the background and knew that Debbie would have to bring her young nieces and nephew if she came here. Having them underfoot would only make it harder to get anything done. “The church is stepping in to organize the funeral. You set that up yourself. So you have been involved. Besides, much to our parents’ dismay, you’re the only one giving them grandkids. This is the least I can do for Mom and Dad.”</b><br /><br /><b>Debbie laughed. “Have you heard from them?”</b><br /><br /><b>“They called last night to make sure I got in okay.”</b><br /><br /><b>“How long did the drive take you?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Ten hours.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Ugh!”</b><br /><br /><b>“It wasn’t a big deal. I couldn’t fly—I knew I’d need a car while I was here.” She’d made the trip to Reno several times since her family moved from Coyote Canyon, so she was used to driving even farther. They’d only visited Seattle once, but Talulah had been so busy with college, then culinary school, then working in various restaurants before launching Talulah’s Dessert Diner with Paul, whom she’d met along the way, that she didn’t mind.</b><br /><br /><b>“I’m surprised they aren’t coming home for the funeral,” Debbie mused.</b><br /><br /><b>Not to mention the birth of their latest grandchild. Talulah thought she could hear the disappointment in her sister’s voice, but Debbie would never complain, especially to a defector like Talulah. Debbie remained as committed to their parents’ faith as they did. “I’m not surprised,” Talulah said. “Africa is so far away, and they’d only have to turn around and go right back. They want to remain focused on their mission, at least until they’re officially released.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Aunt Phoebe was so prickly, she and Mom were never very close, anyway,” Debbie added.</b><br /><br /><b>That wasn’t strictly true. Phoebe used to have them over for dinner every Sunday, and Carolyn brought Talulah and Debbie over for piano lessons. It was only later that they had a bit of a falling-out and quit talking. Despite that, Talulah guessed their mother felt conflicted about missing her aunt’s funeral. She also understood that Carolyn wasn’t going to change her mind. Choosing her mission over her family was almost a matter of pride; it showcased the level of her belief. “When we visited Aunt Phoebe, and we weren’t there for piano lessons, we had to sit on chairs in the cramped dining room or living room, and she’d snap at us to quit wiggling, remember?”</b><br /><br /><b>“That was if she’d let us in the house at all,” Debbie said drily. “She used to tell us to go out front and play.”</b><br /><br /><b>“With no toys.”</b><br /><br /><b>“She was the sternest person I’ve ever met.”</b><br /><br /><b>“She also never threw anything away.”</b><br /><br /><b>“She was a hoarder?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Kind of. She somehow managed to be fastidious and clean at the same time, so it’s not the type of hoarding you imagine when you hear the word, but it’s so cluttered in here I can barely move from room to room.”</b><br /><br /><b>“If it’s that bad, I should come over, after all.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah blew a wisp of hair that’d fallen from the clip on top of her head away from her mouth. “No, I’ve got it. Really.” There was no way Debbie would survive the heat, not in her condition.</b><br /><br /><b>“But you must be feeling some pressure to get back to Seattle,” Debbie said. “You told me you have a line of people every night trying to get into the diner.”</b><br /><br /><b>“We do, but Paul’s there.” She couldn’t have taken off for a whole month in any prior year. In the beginning, their business had required too much time, energy and focus—from both of them. She’d come up with the concept and had the name, the website, the logo, the location and the recipes figured out when Paul decided to come on board to help with the capital, credit and muscle required to get the rest of the way. It’d been touch and go for a while, but the place was running smoothly now, following a familiar routine. They had employees they could trust, and with her partner managing the day-to-day details, she wasn’t too worried.</b><br /><br /><b>“He doesn’t resent you being gone so long?” Debbie asked.</b><br /><br /><b>“He has a family reunion in Iowa at the end of September. Then he’ll be hiking in Europe for three weeks with a couple of friends. So I’ll be returning the favor soon enough.”</b><br /><br /><b>“He gets to go to Europe while you have to spend your vacation in Coyote Canyon, attending a funeral and cleaning out a house that was built in the 1800s?”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah didn’t mind the work. It was facing the past and all the people she hadn’t seen or heard from in years that would be difficult. “It’s not a big deal,” she insisted.</b><br /><br /><b>“Okay.” There was a slight pause. Then her sister said, “I hate to bring up a sensitive subject, but…what are you going to do when you see Charlie?”</b><br /><br /><b>“I don’t know.” She certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.</b><br /><br /><b>“It’d be a lot easier if he was married.”</b><br /><br /><b>Talulah agreed. If he had a wife, he’d be able to believe she’d saved him for the woman he was really supposed to marry. His family and friends would then be more likely to forgive her, too. But according to Jane, he wasn’t even seeing anyone, so she had no idea how he’d feel toward her. “I ran into Brant,” she volunteered, simply because she knew her sister would be interested.</b><br /><br /><b>“How’d he look?”</b><br /><br /><b>Too good for the emotional well-being of the women around him. But such an admission would never pass Talulah’s lips. She preferred not to acknowledge his incredible good looks. “Haven’t you seen him fairly recently?” She knew her sister came back to Coyote Canyon occasionally.</b><br /><br /><b>“Four or five years ago.”</b><br /><br /><b>“He probably hasn’t changed much since then.”</b><br /><br /><b>“He married?”</b><br /><br /><b>“No.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. I doubt he’ll ever settle down. What’d he say when he saw you?”</b><br /><br /><b>“Just gave me a hard time about Charlie.”</b><br /><br /><b>“When I was in high school, I was so disappointed I couldn’t get his attention. Now I’m glad he had no interest in me. He would only have broken my heart.”</b><br /><br /><b>“Probably,” Talulah agreed. But, truth be told, she felt sort of bad talking about Brant that way. It was a case of “the pot calling the kettle black,” as her aunt would’ve said. She’d broken her share of hearts, too, and possibly in worse ways, as he’d intimated. But she couldn’t seem to settle down. No matter how hard she tried to force the issue and be more like her sister—to do what her parents expected of her—she wound up having such terrible anxiety attacks she literally had to flee. Maybe Brant had the same problem when it came to making a lifelong commitment. Maybe he was just better at accepting his limitations.</b><br /><br /><b>The doorbell rang as her sister finished telling her about little Casey, her three-year-old niece, who’d gotten hold of a pair of scissors and cut her bangs off at the scalp. “That’s probably the woman from the church now,” Talulah said. “I need to go over the funeral with her. I’ll call you later, okay?”</b><br /><br /><b>Her sister said goodbye, and Talulah disconnected as she hurried up the narrow, creaking stairs. There was a woman standing on the stoop, all right. But before she pushed open the screen door—the regular door was already standing open because she’d been trying to catch even the slightest breeze—Talulah could see enough to know it wasn’t anyone from the church.</b><br /><br /><b>This woman had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Excerpted from Talulah’s Back in Town by Brenda Novak. Copyright © 2023 by Brenda Novak, Inc. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLw6DHSWGPv7NuQC_2SEzhbgHGTGe0WaL_kGfxw_phLgNzMc6d5ofsRInk7m0a6X3wLhKiNbe4nTMyaGpezWIyIj33WwRzrZnzaBWEwA1reSsuL49hHOzFa6XBC6V05ftYK8JykOV_4b7UVQnRRj0qjNQ2xdh_GdPgaP6aWKaei9NuR3uuSRveHMswirVL/s8014/Brenda%20Novak%20credit%20Rudy%20Meyers%20Photography.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLw6DHSWGPv7NuQC_2SEzhbgHGTGe0WaL_kGfxw_phLgNzMc6d5ofsRInk7m0a6X3wLhKiNbe4nTMyaGpezWIyIj33WwRzrZnzaBWEwA1reSsuL49hHOzFa6XBC6V05ftYK8JykOV_4b7UVQnRRj0qjNQ2xdh_GdPgaP6aWKaei9NuR3uuSRveHMswirVL/s320/Brenda%20Novak%20credit%20Rudy%20Meyers%20Photography.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Photo Credit: Rudy Meyers Photography</b></div><br /><br /><b>New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak has written over 60 novels. An eight-time Rita nominee, she's won The National Reader's Choice, The Bookseller's Best and other awards. She runs Brenda Novak for the Cure, a charity that has raised more than $2.5 million for diabetes research (her youngest son has this disease). She considers herself lucky to be a mother of five and married to the love of her life. Visit Brenda at www.brendanovak.com.</b><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://brendanovak.com/">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBrendaNovak">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/brenda_novak">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/authorbrendanovak/">Instagram</a> | </span><a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@authorbrendanovak">TikTok</a></div></span><div><br /></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-91313047976082271612023-08-23T00:30:00.117-07:002023-08-23T00:30:00.132-07:00HTP Romance Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: Cursed at Dawn by Heather Graham<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/s1600/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="1600" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/w400-h100/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdSKL0DAQ_-HoidZBmaaHqoJ-hl4ky0ImjhFDGnOa-D7VAsUMyQZ-Az1r_xSbms6BLE9XR_1jpaLw7SWVNHSxWOkogBAWbsdwZ28cWJctnWHFMT_ETOPW6syyviTo4uIbeCq---ZOFfU719VamHwjm7tf16-OVdXMbUyELnjVjF96Hc0kY2B9FmlZ964A/s2650/Cursed%20at%20dawn.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdSKL0DAQ_-HoidZBmaaHqoJ-hl4ky0ImjhFDGnOa-D7VAsUMyQZ-Az1r_xSbms6BLE9XR_1jpaLw7SWVNHSxWOkogBAWbsdwZ28cWJctnWHFMT_ETOPW6syyviTo4uIbeCq---ZOFfU719VamHwjm7tf16-OVdXMbUyELnjVjF96Hc0kY2B9FmlZ964A/w253-h400/Cursed%20at%20dawn.jpg" width="253" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63063945-cursed-at-dawn"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ3TzVKJBYWbXz1UiHOFm1wZqTmERJeAHcInmnMD7qZUG1Vc4_arNjqotYtObGI6lAGPHYQKgO6M5bCQ7iE4BEF8hysvBFXTALsnMTfjDvI3qgfSiRgMvQjqJRgjSGvJiaTc62XDA8fHq_0g6RTNAQBDwVDUirc1BmPOYyVuaAwqpF2lr4DJqpOASHZeh/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dracula lives—and he’s hunting for his bride.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Vampires may not walk among us, but FBI agents Della Hamilton and Mason Carter know real monsters exist. They’ve witnessed firsthand the worst humankind has to offer. They’re still catching their breaths after the apprehension of two such monstrous killers when they’re met with horrific news: Stephan Dante, the self-proclaimed king of the vampires, has escaped from prison, followed only by a trail of blood.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">All too familiar with Dante’s cruelty, Della and Mason know the clock is ticking. But as Dante claims more victims, a chilling message arrives. The vampire killer seeks his eternal bride—Della herself. Playing into Dante’s desires might be the only way to stop the carnage once and for all, assuming they can outwit him. Della is confident the agents have the upper hand, but Mason knows every gamble runs the risk of not paying off, and this time, the consequences could be deadly.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><u style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></div></u><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/cursed-at-dawn-original-heather-graham/18996189?ean=9780778334262" style="font-weight: bold;">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/cursed-at-dawn-heather-graham?variant=40985079611426" style="font-weight: bold;">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cursed-at-dawn-heather-graham/1142545643?ean=9780778334262" style="font-weight: bold;">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cursed-Dawn-Novel-Blackbird-Trilogy/dp/0778334260/ref=sr_1_1?crid=BHJUOAV2HZW2&keywords=cursed+at+dawn&qid=1691729714&s=books&sprefix=cursed+at+dawn%2Cstripbooks%2C96&sr=1-1" style="font-weight: bold;">Amazon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Cursed-Dawn/Heather-Graham/9780778334262?id=8875782594791">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://www.powells.com/book/cursed-at-dawn-9780778334262">Powell’s</a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_NX9PFjEqOxWUA2mkdSeqw6EoMFy7YBvJPkBoxRGaoHuETwfgcNLgy_HJNFPFmNMMZ1QG2wtgmGh8yJfkyuRD_Pyt7OGjpklMCPOiw00pxKgnb-3IkXuEnwyUIQ9U8zJpOz1KGo9YAMA40y33n8I5ql1wVllLsCNObv9OWwvq0TCD7BfCQ8IDhFPKrvD/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_NX9PFjEqOxWUA2mkdSeqw6EoMFy7YBvJPkBoxRGaoHuETwfgcNLgy_HJNFPFmNMMZ1QG2wtgmGh8yJfkyuRD_Pyt7OGjpklMCPOiw00pxKgnb-3IkXuEnwyUIQ9U8zJpOz1KGo9YAMA40y33n8I5ql1wVllLsCNObv9OWwvq0TCD7BfCQ8IDhFPKrvD/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Excerpt - Cursed at Dawn by Heather Graham</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">One</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I still don’t see how it was possible,” Della said. They had worked so hard, taken such risks, to </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">arrest and in- carcerate Stephan Dante, the self-proclaimed “king of the vampires,” that it was </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">unimaginable that he had managed to escape while awaiting trial.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They were headed back to the United States, ready to meet with the horrified warden of the jail where Dante had been awaiting trial. They were both exhausted but wired, as they hadn’t slept since they’d heard the news that the man was back on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Just days after they’d finally caught up with one of his protégés—who had shed the concept of competing in the vampire field to become “king of the Rippers”— they had learned that Stephan Dante had somehow man- aged a miraculous escape. He had killed the doctor who had assumed he was desperately trying to save his life, sent the nurse to intensive care, where she remained, and had killed one guard and seriously wounded an- other on his way out. He’d walked easily into the sunlight, having taken the doctor’s clothing, identification and keys—and therefore, he had simply driven away. The most bizarre thing seemed to be that it was on tape, though Dante had managed—through a tech friend he’d met while incarcerated, Della believed—to create false images of the infirmary while he had carried out his attacks with a scalpel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They hadn’t been “vampire” assaults and kills.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They had just been murders and attacks that had been expedient. He had his way of killing that he considered unique and special. But he was also a cold-blooded killer who would rid himself of anyone who got in his way by any means necessary.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Dante continues to carry out the impossible.” Mason Carter, seated at her side in the FBI’s Blackbird plane that was rushing them back to the States, shook his head, staring straight ahead as he spoke. “He manages to befriend every criminal who can do something he wants done or provide something he needs. I’ve never seen a criminal as capable of accruing funds and forged documents in the way that he has managed.” He let out a sigh. “I’ve been conflicted on the death penalty all my life. You execute the wrong man—or woman—and you can’t fix it if you’re later proved wrong. You let a man like Dante live and…others have already paid the price.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He never made it to trial, Mason,” Della reminded him. “Mason, this is horrible, but it isn’t on us. And we will—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Get him again,” Mason said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was still staring straight ahead. She wasn’t worried about Mason as her partner—no inner conflict would interfere with his abilities as an investigator—or as a man to have at her back. He was adept at numerous martial arts, with a knife, and was also a crack shot who could move with incredible dexterity, speed and quiet when necessary. He had blue eyes that could appear as dark as the deep blue sea—or as piercing and cold as shafts of ice. It didn’t hurt that he was a dark-haired man who stood at a good six foot five, but as they all knew, a bullet or an explosive could kill, no matter your size or expertise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had told her once that a good agent’s mind was the greatest weapon they could carry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She just worried about whatever torture he might be putting himself through. He’d been military before the FBI, been responsible for the apprehension of some of the country’s most heinous killers and seen his last partner gunned down before him. He had grown weary of killing and he’d been working solo until he and Della had met on a case in a Louisiana bayou, taking down a serial killer there before becoming the first chosen agents for Blackbird, a unique unit created to help when the very specialized assistance the Krewe of Hunters could give was needed in Europe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They had worked with local law enforcement from Norway, Scotland, Ireland and France. Their liaison from Interpol, François Bisset, as well as French Detective Jeanne Lapierre, English Detective Inspector Edmund Taylor and Norseman Jon Wilhelm, would be joining them the next day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Their sixsome had followed Dante, in one way or another, through France, Britain and Norway, then back to the States.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They’d all expected to be here; Adam and Jackson had set up a meeting for the group of them at Quantico, one to debrief and the other for a chance to discuss the future of their new unit—within the Krewe of Hunters.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Della wondered if Jackson and Adam knew things about their team that they didn’t know themselves. They had discovered that Edmund, a striking and formidable-looking man in his thirties, could converse with the dead. As always, very few among the spirit world chose to communicate with the living for their own reasons. But she didn’t know about Wilhelm, François or Jeanne. Law enforcement might often speak about protocol, especially within different countries, but in meeting people one seldom just asked bluntly if their fellows could see the dead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They were back in the States. But with Stephan Dante on the loose, they could be heading anywhere in the world in the days to come.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mason, we can’t second-guess anything,” she said quietly. “We take oaths. And you and I both believe in standing up and honoring our oaths. We follow the law,” she reminded him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He smiled and turned to her. “Of course. I just…I just thought that we were done worrying about him. And seriously? It was nice being tourists in London. For what? All of three days.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She grinned back at him. “They were good days, though, right? They had to end because we were due back here anyway. And I talked to Jackson earlier. When we get Dante locked up again, we get a month, he promised.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right. Unless something else happens,” Mason said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shook her head. “I know Jackson and Adam.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They’re busy building up Blackbird and in time, we won’t be the only American representatives.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded, pulling up his tablet. “Not sure if all this is the order in which it occurred, but this is still just… I don’t see how… All right, according to the reports, Dante was bleeding out so badly that it was assumed he wouldn’t make it. He wasn’t shackled to the bed because everyone thought he was all but dead. He caught hold of the scalpel when the doctor and the nurse were urging quick care, ordering blood for transfusions. People ran out of the infirmary, he downed the nurse and then the doctor and stole the doctor’s clothing, wallet and keys. Two guards walked in and he took care of them. He had apparently already gotten someone to somehow get him a fake MD’s identification and all the right certifications to slip into the doctor’s wallet. How the hell did he go from bleeding to death to slashing others and escaping in the blink of an eye?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well, he isn’t a vampire,” Della said flatly. “The problem with Dante is that he doesn’t use force as much as he uses charm and wiles. He is extremely clever, an intelligent man. I believe that he’s one of those people who constantly studies online. And, of course, as we’ve known, he’s great at making friends among the killer elite.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Killers, forgers, bank robbers… I doubt if he bothers to befriend those who can’t do anything for him, but to others… I don’t understand. Then again, I still don’t understand how Jim Jones got nearly a thousand people to drink poisoned Kool-Aid. The power of the mind is incredible.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Beyond a doubt. We’ve said it before—people believe because they want to believe. They grasp on to concepts and ideas that work for them because they’re down and out, because they’re bitter or because they’re in pain. Some are too smart to be swayed, but I believe that our Mr. Dante recognizes those he can control and those he can’t—and he wastes no time on those who aren’t going to fulfill any of his needs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The power of the mind!” Della murmured, continuing. “I spoke with our friend and colleague Special Agent—Dr.—Patrick Law. He warned everyone that Dante might well pull something. They believed that they had him in control, that they had so much security that he couldn’t possibly escape.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“They tried to save his life,” Mason murmured.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“They’re bound by their oaths, too, Mason. For those in law enforcement, oaths similar to those we took. And for a doctor…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know. I know. The Hippocratic oath,” Mason said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No choice,” she reminded him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So, of course, we know that he’s out. We will learn more on the particulars of how he did it. But he is out—so his escape isn’t the question.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Della nodded and looked out the window. They would be landing soon. She rested her head back against the comfort of her chair, wishing they’d managed to sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Smiling grimly, she turned to Mason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He has escaped. He escaped in Louisiana and we know that he does love the bayou country, and who doesn’t love New Orleans? So he escaped here, but the main question remains,” she said quietly. “Just where will he strike next?” When a man managed to escape when he was known as high risk, he had to have had help, Mason believed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">While Della headed to the intensive care unit at the hospital to interview the nurse who had a slim chance of surviving the assault, he worked with the warden, a man named Roger Sewell, still in disbelief that such a thing could have happened.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m sure you have already heard the particulars, but I’ll go over them again,” Sewell told him as they walked along the aisle where prisoners spent short incarcerations or awaited trial.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It started in the cafeteria with the riot. Ridiculous thing, of course. No matter how hard anyone tries, there’s always a pecking order in a facility like this—you wind up with rival gangs within the walls themselves. Someone hit someone else in the face with a spoonful of grits. Then all hell broke out with food flying back and forth, crowd insanity followed, several guards were injured and Stephan Dante was found on the bottom of a pile of men with a blood pool the size of Texas under him. Naturally, we rushed him straight to the infirmary, calling the doctor, warning that the prisoner might exsanguinate within minutes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You found him in a pool of blood,” Mason said. He imagined the scene—and why guards and a smart man might be fooled.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“With a toothbrush shank still in him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Warden Sewell was a serious man, known for having handled the facility in his charge with diligence, running a tight ship while recognizing human rights as known in the country and the state. His guards respected him; there had never been such a serious incident before during his tenure. He continued disgustedly with, “Food fights happen. Gang members gang up on a target and break his nose. But this food fight…ridiculous food fight…escalated into disaster.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It wasn’t a ridiculous food fight,” Mason told him, pausing along with the warden at the cell where Dante had so recently resided. “It was planned. And that pool of blood didn’t belong to Dante—some of the blood, sure. But you’re going to find that you have one or more other inmates who lost pools of blood in that fight.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Wait, you’re trying to tell me that Dante planned a food fight to escape? But he didn’t attack any of the guards, he didn’t—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He planned to get to the infirmary,” Mason told him. “Just as he found someone—someone here on a more minor charge—to rig it so that Dante’s assaults on the staff weren’t seen on the cameras. One of your prisoners is a damned good tech guy who breached the system.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No. That’s not possible—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Warden, I’m not throwing any stones here, trust me. This man has taken all of us in one way or another. But I doubt your guards were all asleep at the wheel. And when the police ran the security tapes, they saw nothing but a nurse moving back and forth across the infirmary. We know that Dante assaulted his caretakers. And the guards who then tried to stop him. And then—caught on camera—he used the dead doctor’s identity and clothing to escape. Oh, yes, Dante was shanked. But he’s a man who made sure that he drew blood without hitting any vital organs—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You think that he shanked himself?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I do. Or he had a friend hit him in just the right place in just the right way.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But the blood—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The ‘pool the size of Texas’ belonged to one or more other men. And a forensic crew would find DNA so mixed that it would be worthless. But, trust me, the entire escape was planned from the time the first spoonful of grits went flying,” Mason told him grimly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What do you need from me now?” Sewell asked him. “What the hell can I do now to help?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Interviews. I need to speak with anyone who was close to or friendly with Dante in any way.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sewell suggested, “Start with his cellmate?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason nodded. “Have him brought to an interview room. I’ll observe him a few minutes before going in. What’s the man’s name and what is he in for?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Terry Donavan. His third DUI in a month involved a vehicular manslaughter charge.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sounds like an alcoholic and not a cold-blooded killer. Interesting that he was in with Dante.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Overcrowding in the system, I’m afraid. Special Agent Patrick Law had suggested that we keep Dante in solitary and we were planning on moving Dante to follow the suggestion.” Sewell paused, wincing and shaking his head. “We were planning to do the right thing—just waiting on the move. We have some hardened folks here, awaiting their days in court. One man is accused of killing his entire family—for the life insurance payouts. Another in here is presumed guilty of five robbery/invasion homicides. Sometimes it’s hard as hell to see the forest for the trees.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Gotcha,” Mason assured him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Observation here,” Sewell said, stopping by a door. “Entry to the interrogation room just down a few steps.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“All right. Tell the guards not to shackle the man. I’m going to have to build up some trust—get past whatever blind faith he might have in believing whatever lies Dante might have told him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You think Terry Donavan might be involved? He’s… In my mind, the man is a pathetic waste of what he might have been. In here, he’s polite, agreeable and, so it appears, truly remorseful for what happened. Went through hell when he first came in—in fact, the doctor Dante killed helped get Terry through the worst of withdrawal when he came in here. If the kid—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Kid?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sorry. He’s just twenty-three,” Sewell said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right. If he’d had help and embraced it, he wouldn’t be where he is,” Mason said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sewell nodded. “Step on in. I’ll get Terry in there,” he said, pointing to the stark interrogation room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Would you mind seeing if you can arrange coffee and water for us both? Sounds like he’s the type who just might help if I can reach him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sewell nodded. Mason stepped into the observation room and looked through the glass at the room with its simple table—equipped with attachments for shackles when necessary—and gray walls and flooring. That was it. The table, the walls, the floor. Planned for focus.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A minute later, he saw a guard bringing Terry Donavan in to sit. The man sat. But he wasn’t shackled and after he’d been left a few minutes, he began to pace the floor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He did look like a kid. Short hair still showing something of a rakish and shaggy appearance, movements nervous, eyes caught in a concerned face as he walked the few feet within the room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The guard returned with two cups of water and two cups of coffee. That seemed to perplex the young man even further.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason waited another few minutes. Then Terry Donavan sat again, looking suspiciously at his cup of coffee before sipping at it, then letting out a sigh as he apparently decided that it hadn’t been laced with any kind of poison.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason stepped out of the observation room, nodded to the guard and thanked him, and headed on in, taking the seat across from Terry Donavan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Donavan looked at him nervously.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Who are you? Why are you here?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“My name is Mason Carter,” Mason told him. “Special Agent Mason Carter. And I need your help.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You need help—from me?” Donavan asked nervously. He looked around the room as if afraid that someone might be watching him, might see him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Guards were watching. But Donavan wasn’t afraid of the guards. He was afraid of the possibility that another prisoner might hear him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Or maybe even Stephan Dante himself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason nodded, leaning toward him, deciding to first use what he knew. “You know that your doctor is dead, right?” he asked quietly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He saw the young man look down quickly and wince. The doctor had meant something to him. He had helped him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That had to be…an accident. I mean—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Terry, I know that you were in a cell with Stephan Dante. I know how mesmerizing and hypnotic the man is capable of being.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He never hypnotized me!” Donavan protested.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Dante doesn’t sit you down in a chair and tell you to count backward while concentrating on a point,” Mason told him. “He charms you—the same way a dad might charm his child while telling a bedtime story. He talks and creates a new world. And it’s all right—trust me. Plenty of men and women have fallen for his stories, so well told. And you fell for him, too. If you help me, I can talk to the district attorney. It will help.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I never meant to hurt anyone—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I believe you. Addiction is a terrible disease. And the doctor who has now given up his life is the man who helped you through the agony and suffering of withdrawal.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Terry looked down again, not wanting to face him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why?” Mason asked very softly. “Did Dante promise that no one was going to be killed as he planned his escape?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“If someone died, it was an accident—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s not an if. People died. And it wasn’t by accident, Terry. Stephan Dante killed the doctor and took his clothing and his wallet and his car to escape. Hard to do that if—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He was just going to knock him out. You know. Drugs. It’s an infirmary. They sedate people all the time—I mean, seriously, our infirmary is like a hospital setting!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You don’t sedate a man with a scalpel,” Mason said quietly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Donavan looked down for a long moment, his thumbs moving nervously as his hands lay on the table. He shook his head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Terry!” Mason said. “Hey, I can tell. You are not a bad guy. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. Alcoholism is a disease, and it can take a hell of a lot to cure it. The doctor who finally led you on a path to relief—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hey, I’m locked up awaiting trial where they’ll want to put me away forever,” Donavan said bleakly. “Had to get cured in here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But it could have been a cruel cure. In fact, if withdrawal isn’t handled correctly at the level you were drinking, you could have been left to rot and die. But they did things here by the law—even using compassion where it fit. Dante killed the man who offered you every kindness and every ounce of compassion. How the hell can you still stand up for him?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I—I—I never thought the doctor would die! The doctor or anyone else. And you don’t understand,” Donavan told Mason, shaking his head. “And you must be blind. Don’t you see it? Stephan Dante tells the truth. He said that he’d be out. He said that it was easy to play the authorities when we all played together. He did it. And he’s coming back for me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He’s coming back for you?” Mason asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes! He will regain his power, all that was taken from him, and when he does have his power again, he’ll come back. And he’ll find us, wherever we are. He’ll come in glory and he’ll sweep us away to his place where his believers become immortal—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, good God, Terry! You’ve had trouble, yes, but you don’t seem to be a stupid man. Seriously, you believe that?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He has already done what he said that he’d do!” Donavan reminded Mason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason shook his head. “I just don’t understand you falling for a ridiculous theory. Do you believe that the Heaven’s Gate suicides jumped on spaceships to travel to a heavenly astral plane? You do believe that the earth is round, right?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Terry, do you want to believe in something solid and real? I’m solid and real and right here and the FBI does have sway with the Justice Department. Let me show you something else that’s real.” He pulled out his phone and flipped to pictures of Dante’s victims. “They look beautiful, right? But I don’t believe that you meant to hurt anyone. And when Dante steals all their blood, Terry, they die. They are the beautiful dead who—as all living creatures—will now rot and decay. They are not buying anyone a ticket to vampire immortality. I can help you, Terry. Trust me. Stephan Dante has gotten what he wants from you. Oh, well, first he’s not going to turn into an immortal and he knows it. By the way, he trained Jesse Miller, who is no longer with us—having been tutored by Dante, but deciding the heck with vampires, he’d just become Jack the Ripper. An honest thing at least—he just liked the power of stealing life from others. That’s not you, Terry. Accept this—Dante is not coming back for you. He not only can’t help you, but if he could, he wouldn’t. You don’t offer him anything more than he needs. I know that you’re not a cold-blooded killer. So does he. You’ve no history of forging, and to the best of my knowledge, you’re not sitting on a multimillion-dollar haul anywhere. Help me—and I will help you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Terry stared at him a long time and then hung his head. “I… He didn’t say that I had to kill anyone. He said that my work here would be enough for me to gain my place with him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He lied. He gave you a bold, all-out lie, Terry. And somewhere inside you, you know it. You wanted to believe in him. You wanted it so badly because it was better than the prospect of twenty years to life behind bars. Anything was better than that. You know, sometimes it starts with someone promising all good things. A truly equal society. That’s pretty much what Jim Jones promised his followers. Social justice. But what turned him on, what kept him moving forward at all times, was a desire for power. Dante doesn’t believe in the least that he’s going to be immortal. What he loves, what he craves, is power. He also loves the act of playing God—he loves killing. Terry, this is your chance to help me out.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes!” Donavan said, suddenly looking up at him. The man had tears in his eyes. “Yes, I will help you. I am so sorry. I—I was a wretched alcoholic. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but when I didn’t drink the shaking and the headaches got so bad, all until I was in here…all until the doctor… I…” He stopped speaking and looked Mason in the eye. “I will help you. I don’t know everything, but I will help you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Libby Larson has two small children,” Alexandra—Alex—Beaufort told Della. “Her poor husband—he’s beside himself. I don’t think that Libby will be returning to work with prisoners, not after this! In this crazy day and age, the woman has a beautiful home life, people who truly love her, and now this…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She’s still touch and go?” Della asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The doctors believe that she will make it. We were just fighting different situations. He hit her with a needle filled with sedation, stabbed her in the side—luckily missing major organs—and knocked her on the head with something…no one was even sure what he grabbed. But we’ve been giving her constant transfusions and, of course, done everything possible to clean out her system from the overdose of morphine. Such a good person!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Della smiled and nodded at the young nurse speaking with her. “Did you know her before she came in after the attack?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I did. We went to nursing school together. She believed that everyone deserved a second chance. That human beings were basically good, and that…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her words trailed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I still believe, just like Libby, that most people are good,” Della told her ruefully. “It’s like anything—we hear the most about the bad. And sometimes we’re unfortunate enough to see it. But I’ve been at this awhile and I can tell you that most people are good and want to help when help is needed. We know about the bad—which I believe is the fringe—because the bad is always loud and makes us question all else. Anyway, sorry, I understand her—and understand if she doesn’t go back to work at the facility. I didn’t come to cause further problems—I don’t want to upset her any more but if possible, I would like to talk to her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She wants to see you,” Alex said. “She heard the FBI had brought him in and she wants to help catch him again. Still…for her safety and well-being, five minutes?” Alex asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Five minutes,” Della promised.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Libby Larson was in a private room. An IV ran fluids into her arm, while a tube in her nostrils provided oxygen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Even in a hospital bed with tubes and wires all around her, Libby was a beautiful young woman. Her eyes were closed when Della entered the room, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Dante had been furious that he couldn’t tend to her as he did his victims—dressing her up to lie in “sleep” like a fairy-tale princess just waiting for true love’s kiss.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her hair was dark black and swept across the whiteness of the hospital sheets. When she opened her eyes, they were an incredible deep brown.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“FBI?” she whispered.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Della nodded, smiling, drawing up a chair. “And so grateful to see you alive and on your way to recovery.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I knew who he was. And still…we thought he was going to die. The doctor… Oh, God, we were even discussing the fact that we were compelled to do everything we could to save life. He should have been dead! I was one of the medical personnel who rushed into the cafeteria when the guards had it under control and I saw the blood… He shouldn’t be alive! But he is, and Dr. Henson is dead and others and… I’m so sorry!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What happened?” Della asked. “Do you remember anything at all?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes. When Dante came in, naturally he wasn’t cuffed. I don’t remember exactly, but one of us figured he needed to be cuffed and the doctor went out to see the guards. Then I felt a stab, a little prick, and I was bleeding and then I think something hit me on the head but I barely even felt it…he was so fast. I—I don’t remember more!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Did he say anything at all?” Della asked. “We’re trying to ascertain where he might be heading.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No. Not a word. But…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’d seen him before,” she said softly. “Prisoners get vaccines, checkups. He was always so polite, friendly to those around him. And prisoners…talk. When they don’t think that others can hear them. He made friends with everyone in here—the worst of the worst.” She paused, wincing. “The only hard-core people he seemed to ignore were pedophiles—he had no interest in them.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t kill children,” Della said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“How can a man appear to be so decent, polite, even charming and be such a monster? And I can’t help but feel that it’s partially my fault—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Never think that. Never. Saving lives is a beautiful thing. Trust me. Stephan Dante has fooled just about everyone he’s ever met. Don’t let him succeed. Don’t let him change you,” Della said softly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He whistled sometimes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What did he whistle?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I can’t quite put my finger on the tune, but…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It seemed as if he was taunting people with it. A lot of what I’m saying is hearsay. I only saw him a few times while he was incarcerated. I just…” Tears stung her eyes. “The doctor is dead. A guard… That man is a monster!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thank you,” Della told her. “Thank you. And get better! Rest, get better.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I will. I have children and the dearest husband in the world. Do you have children?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, I don’t. But I’ve heard yours are wonderful.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Little boy, little girl. And my husband! Are you married?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m sorry. That was rude—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, it’s okay. There are people in my life who make it very precious, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hold them close. Because we never know. We just never know.” She smiled weakly. “Ah, no children, but there is someone you love. I mean, besides your family!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes,” Della said, smiling in return. “There is someone very important in my life.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Make sure he knows! There were moments when I was semiconscious when I thought I might die, and I wondered what the last words were that I had said to my husband. And I was so glad… We’d been on the phone. He’d told me he could pick up the kids and I thanked him and I told him that I loved him. I was so glad to realize that! Well, happier that they think I’m going to be okay, but…tell people that you love them. Because none of us knows what our last words to anyone will be!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I will. I will remember your words. And thank you. Thank you again. I’m going to leave my card on your bedside table. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, will you have someone call me for you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course, yes. And I’m going to work on my memory—and my whistle.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As Della rose to leave, Libby Larson indeed began trying to whistle. Trying to replicate what she had heard.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Despite her condition, she found a tune.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And as she walked out, Della went still. At first, the whisper of a whistle just teased at her memory as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then she thought that she recognized the tune—and that yes, it had been meant to tease and taunt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And knowing Dante, she thought bitterly, it was almost an invitation. He wanted them to run around trying to follow him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He didn’t want them missing any of his handiwork.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from Cursed at Dawn by Heather Graham. Copyright © 2023 by Heather Graham Pozzessere. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFJJJ8vtTsd566KpR-JFGHNumcvbTL73FpxYkPVQIkOXTfv0AE-ShgekEoi4fPhYkLV74sfltOH24wPufJspXnd3xFy8C55W__YsgpXL_wiT0tfLk-hvADIGYGPefkjc6InBFn7ev9lCpmDsSuIZ9o7EsXrEv-zSpg5x6EorpK8ZDSQ3FXD-BVC7z3_LL/s3599/Heather%20Graham%20credit%20Marti%20Corn.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFJJJ8vtTsd566KpR-JFGHNumcvbTL73FpxYkPVQIkOXTfv0AE-ShgekEoi4fPhYkLV74sfltOH24wPufJspXnd3xFy8C55W__YsgpXL_wiT0tfLk-hvADIGYGPefkjc6InBFn7ev9lCpmDsSuIZ9o7EsXrEv-zSpg5x6EorpK8ZDSQ3FXD-BVC7z3_LL/s320/Heather%20Graham%20credit%20Marti%20Corn.jpg" /></a></div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Marti Corn</span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: <a href="http://TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com">TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com</a>, <a href="http://eHeatherGraham.com">eHeatherGraham.com</a>, and <a href="http://HeatherGraham.tv">HeatherGraham.tv</a>. You can also find Heather on Facebook.<br /><br /></span></b><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theoriginalheathergraham.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/HeatherGrahamAuthor">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/heathergraham">Twitter</a> </div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-20523094068122580012023-08-21T01:30:00.017-07:002023-08-22T00:08:38.543-07:00HTP Romance Reads Promo Post: Suddenly This Summer by Susan Mallery, Synthia Williams, and Stefanie London<div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/s1600/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHQFUqJg-uOGrQvCqhtVlPI1majzeFEmYVePm4q6smSxlyK5amusNnznpb3-bNTqffDu2jKvnyK0rwKb2aH4ooGwysil7EK_iNOlpdXNHf5IDVNajGRGeOgMLtlmIbcFdNpOlTb52djDAG9PRITrOvuH-jjTifrOOnC21g4efcVBHHjSx2atQTr0_hwf/s320/688-HTP-Banner---ROMANCE-for-Google-Form.jpg" /></a></div><b style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsafeg0cmIT1U74U9CJt1hcSOvhSNsBgPHx5KP5bUhe6lujyikAafR7BnSAoNl9EN75_FID-wq2lpW84wVUMaY1_LPFLxSIdfGh_MAvQAej5qvOfp7F85Lpfa9GwWAkU1GhfFZJSjaArhC06Ru3kzdZrEsSoKug4-LA18fIGVsgy3d_1kXeQRwz_glT2nW/s2650/Suddenly%20this%20summer.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsafeg0cmIT1U74U9CJt1hcSOvhSNsBgPHx5KP5bUhe6lujyikAafR7BnSAoNl9EN75_FID-wq2lpW84wVUMaY1_LPFLxSIdfGh_MAvQAej5qvOfp7F85Lpfa9GwWAkU1GhfFZJSjaArhC06Ru3kzdZrEsSoKug4-LA18fIGVsgy3d_1kXeQRwz_glT2nW/s320/Suddenly%20this%20summer.jpg" /></a></span></b></div></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63205341-suddenly-this-summer"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNpuvfrRqFNpr1x-7h-sI3f7CF2eWtZVWN3d9yiufSslDsxlQa0hPMKypZXADU1lllu9HFogDd0N3yBUrXsL9F_SSdmRRwNFI5RgNBdhcIsEB5zA1YSob6q_OUuKkNc6vm_y4CWXAMNbtaQGiwxXP4F7ZYkRjjqICtcLWoMm0nB254exsD3dpOU4mDRi63/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nothing is sweeter than the first kiss of summer...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SAY YOU'LL STAY by Susan Mallery. Shaye Harper has sworn off men for good. But when she meets army vet Lawson Easley during a pit stop on the road to a fresh start, she’s drawn in by the quirky town—and the handsome stranger she can’t resist. Lawson knows there’s no place better than Wishing Tree. Too bad the woman he's certain is “the one” is just passing through…unless he can convince her to give him and his hometown a chance at forever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE TIME FOR KEEPS by Synithia Williams. Home to care for her ailing father, Michaela Spears is on a mission: reconcile with the one man she can’t forget. She broke his heart years ago, so when Khalil appears on her parents’ doorstep in his scrubs, she knows it’s her last chance. Khalil Davenport shouldn’t have taken the job as her dad’s home nurse, but he couldn't resist her. Their timing was never right, but now can he trust that she’s home to stay?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BEST MAN NEXT DOOR by Stefanie London. For Sage Nilsen, coming back to her small Massachusetts hometown for a family wedding feels like high school all over again. Except Jamie Hackett has gone from charming boy next door to handsome best man. And sparks are suddenly flying between the popular guy and the so-called outcast. As the wedding gets closer, Sage finds herself on the edge of something unexpected—a second chance in the town she left behind…with the guy she’s never forgotten.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/suddenly-this-summer-original-susan-mallery/19074498?ean=9781335004871" style="font-weight: bold;">BookShop.org</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/suddenly-this-summer-susan-mallerysynithia-williamsstefanie-london?variant=41035205279778" style="font-weight: bold;">Harlequin</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/suddenly-this-summer-susan-mallery/1142601154?ean=9781335004871" style="font-weight: bold;">Barnes & Noble</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Suddenly-This-Summer-Susan-Mallery/dp/1335004874/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3BPIAZSWL8IL8&keywords=suddenly+this+summer&qid=1691728402&s=books&sprefix=suddenly+this+summer%2Cstripbooks%2C109&sr=1-1" style="font-weight: bold;">Amazon</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Suddenly-This-Summer/Susan-Mallery/9781335004871?id=8875782594791">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://www.powells.com/book/suddenly-this-summer-9781335004871">Powell’s</a></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62ow12x_-wGF28WWNFzSFwzXA3pKdVBAp3-ze1nTT45ZlJar8pdxzC5mHURBqoCa9oH0gVYkhv0TS4BjRwN1Lp_KjcFxPH5Cpe0wjJzk5GE3W9LKH_WVQ8FEGvwIPlL8hqBLzmJqifmLkyqiufytbogODEVg348hWhVFoXM4nSBV4WKcUbFgPTF0D3QuE/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62ow12x_-wGF28WWNFzSFwzXA3pKdVBAp3-ze1nTT45ZlJar8pdxzC5mHURBqoCa9oH0gVYkhv0TS4BjRwN1Lp_KjcFxPH5Cpe0wjJzk5GE3W9LKH_WVQ8FEGvwIPlL8hqBLzmJqifmLkyqiufytbogODEVg348hWhVFoXM4nSBV4WKcUbFgPTF0D3QuE/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Suddenly This Summer</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Best Man Next Door by Stefanie London</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">CHAPTER ONE</div></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before today, Jamie Hackett had thought he’d already faced death.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Like the time he dove off a cliff on a dare, plunging into the ocean with the speed of a bullet. Or </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the time he’d come face-to-face with a territorial goose who’d gone apeshit at him for getting too </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">close to her goslings. Or when his car skidded across a patch of black ice in the middle of winter </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">and he’d narrowly missed crash- ing into a big oak tree.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d been cool as a cucumber, every single time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But it turned out he hadn’t really faced death. Now that he’d confronted it for real, he understood </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">what it felt like.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie glanced around the sterile white hospital hall- way, feeling weirdly disconnected from it </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">all. If some- one had told him he was floating in the air, watching everything happen from above, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">he would have believed it. Giving himself a shake, he reached one hand to his opposite arm and </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">pinched himself. Hard. He winced from the pain.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Still alive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But the quicker he was out of here the better.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His mom stood at the administration desk, her shoulders hunched. Exhaustion seeped into her posture and made her look even smaller than usual. When she turned to face him, he noticed her blouse was buttoned wrong and her curly ginger hair was sticking out in all directions like it always did when she didn’t have time to style it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ready to go, hon?” She tried to smile, but her eyes were watery and the dark shadows circling underneath made her look hollowed out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You did that to her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Your dad has gone to get the car so he can meet us out front.” She slipped her arm into his and held him close, her fingernails biting into his skin, as if she was worried he’d float away like a discarded balloon if she didn’t hold on tight enough. “No need to rush—we’ll walk slow.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You didn’t have to wait around. I could have gotten a cab,” he said quietly. He kept his gaze averted from the goings-on around him, not wanting to see the people being wheeled about and the elderly folk shuffling along, walking their fluid bags like strange, lifeless pets.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It freaked him out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was thirty-two for crying out loud. Thirty-two with his whole life ahead of him. With decades ahead of him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jamie Hackett, if you think I would let my child come home from hospital in a cab then I don’t even know…” Her voice broke as she shook her head, still clutching him tightly. He could hear the tears she was holding back, companions of the ones she’d been shedding ever since she’d arrived at the hospital yesterday. “Of course we were going to take you home.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There was no point arguing. Patty Hackett was an overprotective mama bear at the best of times, let alone when one of her own was hurt. Although really, aside from a few stitches in the back of his head and some chest pain that felt like a couple of boulders had been propped there, Jamie was walking away from this situation a lot better than he could have.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A lot better than what would have been if his best friend hadn’t saved him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When they made it outside, Jamie sucked in as much air as his lungs would allow, and even though doing so burned, he had to clear the hospital smells from his nostrils. It was warm and sunny out, with a clear blue sky and not a cloud to be seen. The perfect early summer day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Perfect like it had been the previous evening when he’d decided to get a good sweaty workout in. Perfect like when he’d jogged across the gym floor, warm sunshine streaming in through the windows and the high-quality shock-absorbent flooring cushioning his feet. Perfect like when his fists had sailed at the heavy punching bag, the repetitive pounding motion better than any form of therapy he’d found to date.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Perfect…until he’d almost died.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie shook the dark thoughts from his head as his father pulled the family SUV up in front of the hospital’s pick-up area. His mom rushed forward to open the passenger side door for him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I can open the door myself, okay?” he said. He hated seeing her worry like this. Hated knowing that he caused it. “You don’t need to wait on me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Just get in the car, James,” she sighed and shot him a look that told him there was no point arguing. It was easier to do what he was told. And if she was calling him by his full name, it meant she was a hair away from clipping his ear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So he climbed into the car without another word.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Son.” His father looked over to him with a crinkled brow. “Let your mother fuss. She needs it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie nodded. “You’re right.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His father turned to face the road as the back door opened and Patty climbed in, scrambling to hoist her small frame up into the giant SUV like she always did. The ride home was filled with rapid-fire questions from the back seat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Why didn’t you tell us you were stressed out?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Should you be talking to a professional about your problems?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Is it happening again?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The last one made a weird acidic taste burn in the back of his throat. No matter how many years he put between himself and The Great Breakdown of his early twenties, he was frequently reminded that nobody would ever forget it happened.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Because when you were a world-class athlete, your failures didn’t only become gossip—they became lore.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The doctor said you need to keep your stress levels down and take a break from work,” his mother relayed. “This could happen again. She said that panic attacks can be triggered by working too much and not getting enough rest, and—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know, Mom. I was there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We care about you, Jamie.” His father’s voice was gruff. “This isn’t about blame or trying to make you feel bad. You know that, right?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Despite everything that had happened in the past, his parents had never once made him feel like he was to blame for what had happened…even if he himself had felt like a giant failure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And the doctor said we need to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours to make sure there are no complications,” Patty continued. The car rolled smoothly along the highway, other vehicles passing them at a rapid pace thanks to his dad’s careful—read: slow—driving. “I got your sister to set up the spare bedroom at our place. And don’t bother protesting about going home by yourself because I won’t have it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie glanced at his father, who simply shrugged as if to say, she’s the boss. Too right. Nobody was under any illusions about who was head of their household, that was for damn sure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mom. But what about—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Flash is staying at Clay’s house,” she said without letting him finish. “He said we could leave him there until you were ready to go home.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Whenever Jamie wasn’t feeling himself, the first thing he wanted to do was to hang out with his dog. They really were man’s best friend. No doubt Jamie’s business partner, Clay Harris, would spoil him rotten with treats and belly scratches, so it wasn’t like he’d be sad having a sleepover.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie watched the scenery roll along outside the window. Soon they were approaching Reflection Bay, the town where he’d spent most of his life—a town that wasn’t even big enough for its own hospital.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d driven along this road so many times he’d lost count, watching the silvery blue of the ocean flicker between patches of green and rugged cliff faces, the tourist-favorite red-and-white lighthouse rising up in the distance. It was the same as it had always been and yet…it felt different now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Everything felt different.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Forty-eight hours after returning home from the hospital, Jamie was “discharged” from the Hackett Family Hospital. But not without needing to pass a rigorous interrogation from his mother. If someone had overheard the conversation, they might mistake Patty Hackett for an actual doctor rather than the elementary school art teacher she was.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But now that Jamie could taste the sweet air of freedom, he was happier than ever to be alive. Especially since he had been reunited with his canine best friend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Isn’t it glorious? The sun is shining. The birds are singing.” Jamie glanced down at his dog, Flash, who ambled with the kind of gait that could only be described as “walking under duress.” “Oh, come on, bud. It’s not that bad.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The chunky fawn-and-white bulldog looked up at him with imploring eyes as if to say, please make it stop. Flash, named in the most ironic fashion, hated working out as much as Jamie loved it. In fact, it was somewhat of a local joke that the two fittest guys in town had adopted the laziest dog ever as the mascot for their gym.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But Jamie loved Flash with everything he had. The dog might not be able to move faster than a drunk snail, but he had a heart of gold. Flash was always happy to see Jamie, never judged him for working too long or for stressing out too much about his business, and loved nothing more than just hanging out. No expectations, no bullshit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That was love.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The pair ambled along the street. His business, Reflection Fitness, sat right at the end of the main strip, on a corner. It never failed to make pride surge through Jamie’s veins to see what he and Clay had built together. Their goal had been to create a gym that catered to all the people in their small town, leaving no one to feel like they didn’t belong. Reflection Fitness had clients who were training for big goals like marathons and fitness competitions, as well as clients like Jamie’s grandpa—who was combating osteoarthritis with regular, low-intensity workouts—and Jamie’s favorite personal training client—a bubbly woman in her forties who’d decided to try weight lifting after years of thinking cardio was the only option for women. They had a trainer on staff who specialized in pre- and post-natal fitness and another who ran classes for seniors aimed at improving joint mobility. They had built the gym to be accessible for clients with mobility needs. It was important to both Jamie and Clay that everyone who came to the gym felt welcomed and catered to.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Let’s get you inside where there’s some air-conditioning, huh?” Jamie looked down at Flash, who was taking each plodding step with great effort. To be fair to the dog, it was unseasonably hot for so early in the summer. “We’re almost there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie turned the corner to access the gym from the back door, which led directly into the office he and Clay shared. He tried not to take Flash through the front if he could help it, in case anyone working out had asthma or allergies. But when Jamie got to the door and tried to turn the handle, he found it locked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Weird,” he muttered.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The back was usually open if Clay was working, which he should be, given the hour. But perhaps he’d stepped out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie tried unlocking it. Only…the key wouldn’t fit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What the heck?” He tried again. No dice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He stared at the key, wondering if the knock he’d taken to the back of his head had done more damage than he’d realized. But no, it was definitely the right key.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Befuddled, Jamie walked Flash around to the front of the gym, where a sleek set of glass doors opened to a small reception area. The space was light and welcoming, with a big potted plant and a white couch in one corner. An old black-and-white photo hung on the wall, showing Clay and Jamie in their high school days, arms around each other—a tennis racket in Jamie’s hand and a basketball in Clay’s.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jamie!” The receptionist, Sara, brightened when she saw him. She wore a blue Reflection Fitness uniform polo shirt and her long, dark brown hair hung over her shoulder in twin braids. “How are you feeling?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Never better,” he replied breezily. “And thank you for sending those flowers to Mom’s place. That wasn’t necessary.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Everyone was thinking about you.” Her brow wrinkled. “We were all so worried when Clay told us what happened!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ugh, Clay. The guy had a big mouth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I told him to keep it quiet,” Jamie muttered. “In any case, I appreciate the gesture. Mom commandeered the flowers right away for her living room.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sara laughed. “That’s why I picked tulips. I had a feeling she would end up with them.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mama Hackett was a favorite among the staff since she often made oatmeal cookies, energy balls and other healthy treats for everyone who worked at Reflection Fitness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Is Clay in?” Jamie asked. “I tried the back door, but I think something’s wrong with my key.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Uh…” Sara’s expression turned strange, and she reached for the phone on the desk. “Let me call him through.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s okay, I’ll head in.” Jamie had his swipe pass on hand, like always, and he tapped it against the electronic reader which activated the gate into the gym.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The screen flashed red and made an angry beep sound.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">First his key didn’t fit the lock and now his pass wasn’t working. What the—</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jamie.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He looked up and saw Clay striding through the gym toward the foyer, a no-nonsense look on his face. At six foot five with shoulders that could bridge two cities, Clay had the perfect build for the sport he’d loved as a child—basketball. He had dark brown skin, warm eyes and close-cropped curly black hair. Usually, Clay would be flashing his signature charming smile—a smile that had won over just about every cheerleader the guy had ever encountered in his high school and college days. A smile that, now, was conspicuously absent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You locked me out.” Jamie shook his head in disbelief. “You changed the locks on the office without telling me?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Outside, now.” Clay pointed to the front doors as he strode through the gate. “We’re not doing this in front of the clients.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sara dropped her head and pretended to bury herself in work, ignoring Jamie’s gaze pleading for support.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He let out an irritated huff. “Fine.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The two men walked back outside and Jamie felt a pang of guilt as Flash made a noise of protest about returning to the hot summer day. The trio rounded the corner away from the front of the gym so they could have it out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“This is for your own good, Jamie.” Clay held up his hands, signaling he didn’t want a fight. Despite being strong enough to beat most men in anything physical, Clay was a gentle giant with a big heart.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was also, however, stubborn as an ox.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We’re partners, Clay. You can’t lock me out of my own damn business.” Jamie gestured with his free hand toward the building next to them. “That’s…that’s got to be illegal.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clay folded his arms across his chest. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t take this seriously. The doctor said you need to rest and your mom told me to keep an eye on you, because she’s worried, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Typical Patty. Jamie made a sound of disbelief. “I rested.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“For two days.” Clay shook his head. “That’s not enough.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Man, it was nothing. You’re overreacting.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I am not overreacting. Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk up on your best friend lying unconscious on the floor? I thought you’d had a heart attack or something. I thought you were dead.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He felt terrible for putting Clay through that, but he was already feeling vulnerable about this whole thing. He couldn’t let his friend see how much it had shaken him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So dramatic.” Jamie rolled his eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“See, this—” Clay circled a finger at his face just like his mom used to when they were naughty kids “—is why I know you’re not listening to what the doctor said. You came right here to go back to doin’ exactly what you were doin’ before.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Building our business?” he replied, biting back his frustration.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Running yourself into the ground. Wake up, Jamie.” Clay shook his head. “You might not be so lucky next time.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s my call to determine whether I’m ready to come back, not yours.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It sure is, because I won’t give you a new key until I’m sure you’re actually taking this thing seriously.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie’s mouth popped open. “You can’t do that!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sure I can. It’s my name on the lease, remember?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oh yeah. That. He’d been meaning to get that bit of paperwork updated for almost three years now, but it was one of those things that kept falling off his to-do list in favor of more impactful items. Besides, he’d always thought Clay would never do him dirty, so it didn’t seem like a big deal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s our business, no matter what the lease says.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Jamie, I’m doing this because you’re my best friend. I want you to take care of yourself.” Clay looked genuinely concerned. “Coach always used to say a heart that pumps too fast is no better than one that doesn’t pump at all. Rest is as important as work.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie let out a groan. “Sitting at a desk isn’t exactly strenuous. I just need to answer some emails—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And then you’ll just need to look at some spreadsheets and make some calls and then some new client will come to you with a sob story and you’ll squeeze them in even though you said you weren’t going to take on any more PT clients yourself.” Clay shook his head. “I know your tricks, man. Don’t try to play me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But what about the clients I have—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I split them up between the other trainers. It’s already done.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You called everyone already?” Jamie scrubbed a hand over his face. “I told you I didn’t want anyone to know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I said you were helping me plan stuff for the wedding. Best man shit.” Clay grinned and Jamie found his anger withering away. It really was hard to hate the guy when he smiled. “You’re loyal like that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He let out a strangled noise of frustration. “I’ll call the locksmith myself.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Then he’s gonna have to get through me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie considered his options. Anyone who didn’t know Clay might be too intimidated to try changing the locks against his wishes and anyone who did know him would be too charmed to want to try. Fact was, his best friend had him over a barrel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What am I supposed to do with myself, huh?” Jamie hated the panic in his voice. Who on earth felt panicked at the prospect of time off?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know. Play ping-pong with your dad, go up to the Cape, sleep in. You’re a big boy—you’ll figure it out.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clay’s hand came down hard on Jamie’s shoulder, earning him a soft grunt. There was no reasoning with the guy, that much was clear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maybe Clay and his mom were right and this was serious. Jamie could have died. When he’d woken up in the ambulance, everything had flashed before his eyes—his whole life. His family. Work. His failed professional tennis career. His business. Long hours at his computer after longer days on the gym floor. Chasing the next thing, expanding the business, more clients, more money. Never satisfied. Always restless.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Was that all his life was about?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d always been hyper competitive, driven, and ambitious. But what if he had died the other day? What would he have left behind?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jamie realized then that Clay was looking at him, as if waiting for him to speak. “No sweat. You want me to chill for a bit, fine. I can do that. You’ll see this isn’t a big deal.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But even as he brushed off the severity of the incident, he knew the earth had shifted beneath his feet. What he’d thought was solid ground was now loose earth and uneven terrain. He needed to find his footing again. He needed to get himself straight. Most of all, he needed to prove to everyone that this was just a one-off. That he could handle pressure—unlike when he was younger.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Because he couldn’t ever go back to being Jamie Can’t-Hackett ever again.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from Suddenly This Summer by Susan Mallery, Synithia Williams, Stefanie London. The Best Man Next Door by Stefanie London Copyright © 2023 by Stefanie Little. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span></span><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Authors</span></span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpWJyM0Wo2XEcAnFoiN3MVL2ezi5z64H-B2Yviumg8r0Rmi5WzEsg0NHd1aFRJFvnJeQsJjWTuf7MpC6WdX33QXvw5zagVY1FOGTy-1AdZBuNTHhimfBfjAoC0_GSYpeNFOs9senfDAkqj9_jjxOZhcArWxM_Zuc_GIiEj1aSFmKDxBAQgzoZXAhY-HKC/s2714/Susan%20Mallery%20credit%20Annie%20Brady.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpWJyM0Wo2XEcAnFoiN3MVL2ezi5z64H-B2Yviumg8r0Rmi5WzEsg0NHd1aFRJFvnJeQsJjWTuf7MpC6WdX33QXvw5zagVY1FOGTy-1AdZBuNTHhimfBfjAoC0_GSYpeNFOs9senfDAkqj9_jjxOZhcArWxM_Zuc_GIiEj1aSFmKDxBAQgzoZXAhY-HKC/s320/Susan%20Mallery%20credit%20Annie%20Brady.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Photo Credit: Annie Brady</b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Susan Mallery is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of novels about the relationships that define women's lives—family, friendship, romance. Library Journal says, “Mallery is the master of blending emotionally believable characters in realistic situations," and readers seem to agree—40 million copies of her books have sold worldwide. Her warm, humorous stories make the world a happier place to live. Susan grew up in California and now lives in Seattle with her husband. She's passionate about animal welfare, especially that of the ragdoll cat and adorable poodle who think of her as mom. Visit Susan online at <a href="http://www.susanmallery.com">www.susanmallery.com</a>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Social Links</u></span></b></div><div><br /></div></span></b><b style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.susanmallery.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SusanMallery">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/susanmallery">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://instagram.com/susanmallery">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/susanmallery">Goodreads</a></b></div></b></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JweEAM-BKP6uOnHSER7FhA9BJdhcNn0DQUKDHPs7pb8pMqIpXcbAMOK_7BXZmV2qgXDoUYlbcdpNBzawviXoUWectoijUZlctH4RVcAuvDhDX8p_234uFsNoIvU00ZfF98gmg7RolGYjB3v1iKei88BrFtD1z_SyXEydXl8VPvUg9Dm4pRj7J4jIjTLx/s5216/Synithia%20Williams%20credit%20Kristen%20Gordon,%20Lavish%20Moments%20Photography.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JweEAM-BKP6uOnHSER7FhA9BJdhcNn0DQUKDHPs7pb8pMqIpXcbAMOK_7BXZmV2qgXDoUYlbcdpNBzawviXoUWectoijUZlctH4RVcAuvDhDX8p_234uFsNoIvU00ZfF98gmg7RolGYjB3v1iKei88BrFtD1z_SyXEydXl8VPvUg9Dm4pRj7J4jIjTLx/s320/Synithia%20Williams%20credit%20Kristen%20Gordon,%20Lavish%20Moments%20Photography.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Photo Credit: Kristen Gordon, Lavish Moments Photography</b></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Synithia Williams has loved romance novels since reading her first one at the age of 13. It was only natural that she would one day write her own romance. When she isn’t writing, Synithia works on water quality issues in the Midlands of South Carolina while taking care of her supportive husband and two sons. You can learn more about Synithia by visiting her website, <a href="http://www.synithiawilliams.com">www.synithiawilliams.com</a>.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.synithiawilliams.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/i/flow/login?redirect_after_login=%2FSynithiaW">Twitter </a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/synithiarwilliams">Facebook</a></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9NqBF0q-RqX7qIZ7D3TCOrSFCLB8BJ7ITF5gICbh0pcZuvOE90eiwUNoBRE-lcf1Nk6cQkf8aWp-xAtU-lb-X-Ptned1kcYmg2zvEVYjS92N48uxOv1ljWC9fShveQDXV8zDDH1FevIBENnRt3Bbc64KPG-yoOx-AxWcYYh7onQUEViKOaOGun1ug6vg/s5537/Stefanie%20London%20credit%20jimmyamerica.com.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9NqBF0q-RqX7qIZ7D3TCOrSFCLB8BJ7ITF5gICbh0pcZuvOE90eiwUNoBRE-lcf1Nk6cQkf8aWp-xAtU-lb-X-Ptned1kcYmg2zvEVYjS92N48uxOv1ljWC9fShveQDXV8zDDH1FevIBENnRt3Bbc64KPG-yoOx-AxWcYYh7onQUEViKOaOGun1ug6vg/s320/Stefanie%20London%20credit%20jimmyamerica.com.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">Photo Credit: <a href="http://www.jimmyamerica.com/about/">Jimmy America</a></b></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stefanie London is a USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies. Her books have been called “genuinely entertaining and memorable” by Booklist and have won multiple industry awards, including the HOLT Medallion and OKRWA National Readers’ Choice Award. Originally from Australia, Stefanie lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie related. Visit Stefanie online at <a href="http://Stefanie-London.com">Stefanie-London.com</a>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Social Links:</u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-6355a5f2-7fff-f193-6757-ac96b37ba7d9" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-align: left;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://stefanie-london.com/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">Author Website</span></b></span></a> | | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8138287.Stefanie_London" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">Goodreads</span></b></span></a></p></span></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-42699991026640070642023-08-15T10:12:00.021-07:002023-08-15T10:12:00.137-07:00Blog Tour Promo Post: The Keeper of Hidden Books by Madeline Martin<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMGkejXhOeo4dp4nQntJUiKaHh2-JUjx5MTfktLrAAfIYikwBFg_-4MtcpE6XmX02-OZysPsKVek9JwTqY_veUw24mHgHULmWO32ZFFUjL1-TOs_13FvQjTf3ju8rP4xl8ZkWfhKVe6WzcSnzdjfuRSRcYGZp1hcs2cfqjsH-RhT3MMnvYDcSvaTXQaXol/s3200/The%20Keeper%20of%20Hidden%20Books%20cover.jpg"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMGkejXhOeo4dp4nQntJUiKaHh2-JUjx5MTfktLrAAfIYikwBFg_-4MtcpE6XmX02-OZysPsKVek9JwTqY_veUw24mHgHULmWO32ZFFUjL1-TOs_13FvQjTf3ju8rP4xl8ZkWfhKVe6WzcSnzdjfuRSRcYGZp1hcs2cfqjsH-RhT3MMnvYDcSvaTXQaXol/w265-h400/The%20Keeper%20of%20Hidden%20Books%20cover.jpg" width="265" /></b></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62054146-the-keeper-of-hidden-books"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJ03MM4BvVkUIpMduA33b2LZHE2qo5j5O2VLgOHceIT1UKnYqo4qzTffCrMO9LbQGtQhwhlNZs5-snmAoIfSyM0OoYlhjzoQKMzSQIGnczaxI1lbP4cpVjaQIWup5dSlLxlKzJl79lFZ2dWnfSu-QRkRscyd-gVeGFf1IVSjiOEFb_he1HQ_AURfQwC3F/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></b></span></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1939, Warsaw: All her life, Zofia has found comfort in two things during times of hardship: books and her best friend since childhood, Janina.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But now as Germany bombs and destroys their city, and the horror increases around her, Zofia jumps to action to save her friend and salvage whatever books she can from the wreckage, hiding them away, and even starting a clandestine book club. She and her dearest friend never surrender their love of reading, even when Janina, half Jewish, is forced to relocate into the newly formed Warsaw ghetto.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> But life only becomes more dangerous for the women and their families – and escape may not be possible for everyone. Through the war raging around them, Marta and Janina find hope and the will in each other to survive, and fight using the only weapon they have left – literature.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1335455027?tag=harpercollinsus-20">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-keeper-of-hidden-books-madeline-martin/1142592141">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Keeper-Hidden-Books/Madeline-Martin/9781335455024?id=8885782705460">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-keeper-of-hidden-books-a-novel-of-world-war-ii/18842611?ean=9781335455024">Bookshop.org</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Madeline_Martin_The_Keeper_of_Hidden_Books?id=OHmCEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-keeper-of-hidden-books-madeline-martin?variant=40957166223394">HarperCollins</a></div></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbWx_8aogIxWmnnipNOP4zgzP3CidH-ZOEpcKJ0fRbExObGRidg05WMXDz3stt6iwFq8QPB3eCCqMinQZcVQGff9iAFRn5JtBMrY5t3_GULXKuJqEOSbpDxiJgb_pSjI6BUp2zK9sOBp-DutRN9K8KucYzeSpFXSPEc46bpDyX7AsY5gfPhcaLGuLmBeT/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbWx_8aogIxWmnnipNOP4zgzP3CidH-ZOEpcKJ0fRbExObGRidg05WMXDz3stt6iwFq8QPB3eCCqMinQZcVQGff9iAFRn5JtBMrY5t3_GULXKuJqEOSbpDxiJgb_pSjI6BUp2zK9sOBp-DutRN9K8KucYzeSpFXSPEc46bpDyX7AsY5gfPhcaLGuLmBeT/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Warsaw, Poland August 1939</span></span><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><b><br /></b><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ZOFIA NOWAK SAT BACK on her calves in the warm summer grass while her friend Janina clumsily wound a bandage around her head. The other pairs of Girl Guides sat in a semicircle beneath the oak trees in Łazienki Park, all working to perfect their first aid skills. Not that the looming war on Poland would ever come to Warsaw. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Still, it was wise to be ready and everyone in the city was preparing in their own particular way. For Papa, it was stocking medical supplies at the hospital while Zofia’s mother waited in endless grocer’s lines to ensure their cabinets were overflowing with tinned food. Posters were plastered all over the city asking men to line up at elementary schools and enlist, and radio stations filled the air with the pulse of patriotic music. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And it was why Helen Keller’s The Story of My Life was nestled in Zofia’s bag, another read inspired by the list of books Hitler had banned in Germany. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia pulled the bandage from her head and repurposed the linen to bind a splint onto Janina’s lower leg. “How’s that?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It feels good.” Janina wriggled her limb. “Studying medicine like your father might be a good choice for next year.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rather than reply, Zofia considered her handiwork. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Have you decided what you want to do after our final exams?” Janina’s voice was gentle as she spoke, but nothing could lighten the pressing decision that weighed on Zofia every day. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This was their last year of secondary school, a final exam away from graduating. They would be eighteen then—adults. The whole world stretched out ahead of them like a runway so they could soar into the future. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For everyone, except her. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You sound like Matka,” Zofia groused. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Though it wasn’t really true. Janina’s characteristic delicacy was nowhere near the brusque tone of Zofia’s mother. Whether she was insisting Zofia dress nicer, be more outgoing, or be more proactive with choosing a career path—something lucrative, like medicine—there was always a demanding air about her mother. Which was precisely why Zofia referred to her in the more formal regard as Matka, rather than Mama. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Janina’s mother was a Mama. The type to smile and ask after a test, or to offer hugs on a bad day rather than criticism. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Perhaps that was why Janina was always so kind and considerate. It was that congeniality that started their friendship so many years ago when they were children. Zofia had never been gregarious, more the kind to keep to herself and tuck into a book than drum up conversation with people she didn’t </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">know. Being the tallest in class did her no favors, leaving her feeling as though she stuck out like an ugly duckling among baby chicks. On Janina’s first day in school, she’d strode over to Zofia with an enviable confidence and shared some of the flower-shaped butter cookies her mother had baked, filling in any silence between them with an animated chatter that made Zofia instantly like her. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Now, Janina moved her leg, testing Zofia’s bandage. “If I sound like Matka, then I take back my suggestion.” The loosely tied bandage gave and the neat knot slipped free, the band unraveling from her leg. One of the splints tilted over into the grass. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Being in medicine is not my path, evidently.” Zofia collected the splint with what she hoped was an uncaring smile. “I think Papa understands.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her father was a renowned doctor in Warsaw, specializing in surgeries. His was a name that would be impossible to live up to, especially for a daughter who couldn’t commit to any kind of future. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You love to read.” Janina blew a lock of dark hair out of her brown eyes. “Maybe you could study literature.” She gasped in excitement and sat up straighter. “Perhaps you could become an author, like Marta Krakowska.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It sounded ridiculous even when Janina said it with such sincerity. While Zofia had no idea what she wanted to do, she did know she was no Marta Krakowska. The author penned epic tales of romance featuring lovers who meet amid the strife of war. Every story was better than the last, each ending in contented happiness for the couple and a little calico cat. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But Zofia didn’t believe in romance, and she didn’t have the lyrical voice of Krakowska. She was no author, to be sure. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia pulled the other splint from Janina’s leg and wound the bandage into a neat ball. “Did you read The Story of My Life yet?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Janina’s eyes lit up. “I did. What an incredible—” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No,” a voice called out from the pair beside them. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Their friend Maria shook her head, blond curls swaying, her arm extended toward her Guide partner, who had it wrapped partially to the elbow. “You can’t talk about the book right now, when I can barely hear you.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“At the library then.” Janina turned her attention back to Zofia with a mischievous glint in her eye. “But you clearly want to change the subject, so let’s turn to something more pleasant. Like how much you’re looking forward to school tomorrow.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia groaned and Maria turned away with a quiet smile. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Math was tediously dull, the series of numbers lacking any real challenge. Government was dryer than the dust gathering on her unopened textbooks from last year. Even art was awful. While Zofia appreciated the beauty of it, the medium of their application was of little interest to her. Oh, and how she hated, hated, hated being subjected to the mediocrity of her own limited skills when forced to try her hand. On and on it went with every class, each one more lackluster than the last. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Except literature. She did enjoy that subject. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">At least at university, her courses would be tailored to her future endeavors. Whatever they might be. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Their Girl Guide captain, Krystyna, clapped her hands to get their attention, sparing Janina a sardonic reply from Zofia about just how much she was not looking forward to school tomorrow. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Great job today, Guides.” Krystyna looked around the circle of paired-off girls, her head lifted with satisfaction. “War with Germany is coming, and Poland must be ready. At least the Girl Guides definitely are.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Warmth effused Zofia’s chest at those words. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Girl Guides was a scouting organization meant to prepare girls and young women for life with social skills, philanthropic ideals, and the ability to offer aid to the public in whatever form was needed. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If Germany did attack, the Girl Guides’ efforts would help Poland. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia was part of the generation of Poles born in a free state after regaining its sovereignty during the Treaty of Versailles. It was something Poland had fought for more than one hundred and twenty years to obtain. From their earliest days, they were fed tales of heroism and bravery until their eyes burned bright with patriotism and their hearts thumped with Polish pride. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Theirs might be a country young in her independence, having only just celebrated twenty years, but she was ready to cut her teeth on victory. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Something the Germans would likely soon learn. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What does Antek say about the war?” Janina asked as they pushed up from the grass. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia smoothed a hand over her hair to tame her waves back into place after Janina’s bandaging attempts. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Like most men and boys in Warsaw, her brother was a self-appointed battle strategist in casting his predictions on the impending incursion. The map he had tacked on his wall was crowded with red-tipped pins representing the German army where they clustered around potential attack points. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“He thinks it’ll start in Gdansk.” She kept her tone glib. Antek may be one year older than Zofia, but that didn’t mean she trusted his assessment. “Maybe it’ll happen before school starts tomorrow.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Zofia,” Janina scolded. “You shouldn’t say such things.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia picked a blade of grass from where it had stuck to her knee and grinned up at Janina. “Maybe you should come see his map sometime.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Janina’s face went red, just as Zofia knew it would. Though the two had been friends for well over a decade, Antek had never noticed Janina until earlier that year. Ever since, he’d made a fool of himself whenever she visited, tripping over his words and giving a funny smile that made a little muscle under his right eye tick. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And as much as Janina protested her own lack of affection for him, Zofia caught her discreet glances and inevitable blushes. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maria sidled up next to Zofia, her honey-brown eyes as brilliant as Baltic amber. “Are we still going to the library? Papa was recently in Paris and said he’d bring me with him on his next trip. I have to study more books.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“More?” Janina teased. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As any Francophile worth her Parisian silk, Maria knew everything about the city. And, no, it was not enough that Warsaw was considered the Paris of Eastern Europe. She wanted Paris. The Paris of all the world. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The trio wandered toward Koszykowa Street, keeping to the shadows where the late-August sun couldn’t beat down upon them. They were at the main branch of the Warsaw Public Library nearly every day now, not that Zofia minded. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In previous times, however, they might have gone to the cinema or purchased ice cream from one of the vendors in the park, but the recent lack of coins made such things difficult. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rumor had it that Hitler ordered all the bronze and nickel coins out of Poland until not a groszy remained, so little things like a single postage stamp or an ice cream were impossible to pay for. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Can we finally talk about The Story of My Life?” Janina slid a pointed glance toward Maria, who smirked. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Now that I can hear and participate without being wrapped up like a mummy, yes.” Her chin lifted slightly, a sure sign she’d had her way. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What Helen Keller has been able to accomplish in her life is truly incredible.” Janina nudged Maria with her elbow. “As I was going to say before.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’s why I thought this was such a good selection to all read together,” Zofia said. It had been her idea for them to read Germany’s banned books as a slight against Hitler. Maria and Janina had agreed, but only after Maria accused Zofia of trying to assign them all summer homework. Once Janina was on board, so was Maria. So far this was the fourth banned book they had read. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Zofia turned to regard her friends, almost tripping over a crack in the walkway. “Did you know she wrote a letter to Hitler and the students of Germany who burned books?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Really?” Maria’s brows lifted. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A chimney sweep passed, and the three young women immediately grasped for a button on their Girl Guide uniforms. After all, who would turn down an opportunity for good luck with war on the horizon? </span><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From THE KEEPER OF HIDDEN BOOKS by Madeline Martin. Copyright 2023 Madeline Martin. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins. </span><br /><br /> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">About the Author</span></span></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuuT1mGLtWPIhZtmY0lJYLWwAm_MO8T69llS0A3wDVg4flWIHaSEO4jMzoRRQkKymair1Vaz5PKEUkadp3PzmqM69Hciqep8pjzyee5HA01-xiWR9L4-bW1vrVa5VrQR9HOkrN9zMEQamLllErq5EB16rTXS0WdurS4Ka-ckoeoYrlbTofCT74tvFqiKm/s3088/Madeline%20Martin%20Author%20photo.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuuT1mGLtWPIhZtmY0lJYLWwAm_MO8T69llS0A3wDVg4flWIHaSEO4jMzoRRQkKymair1Vaz5PKEUkadp3PzmqM69Hciqep8pjzyee5HA01-xiWR9L4-bW1vrVa5VrQR9HOkrN9zMEQamLllErq5EB16rTXS0WdurS4Ka-ckoeoYrlbTofCT74tvFqiKm/s320/Madeline%20Martin%20Author%20photo.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Madeline Martin is a New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of historical fiction and historical romance with books that have been translated into over twenty-five different languages.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> She lives in sunny Florida with her two daughters (known collectively as the minions), two incredibly spoiled cats and a man so wonderful he's been dubbed Mr. Awesome. She is a die-hard history lover who will happily lose herself in research any day. When she's not writing, researching or 'moming', you can find her spending time with her family at Disney or sneaking a couple spoonfuls of Nutella while laughing over cat videos. She also loves research and travel, attributing her fascination with history to having spent most of her childhood as an Army brat in Germany.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://madelinemartin.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MadelineMartinAuthor">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/MadelineMMartin">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/madelinemmartin/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12062937.Madeline_Martin">Goodreads</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-6380947547921841232023-08-02T00:30:00.050-07:002023-08-02T00:30:00.131-07:00Promo Post: A Bakery in Paris by Aimie K. Runyan<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhByiq6v_ukA4d4y7JJhmyvpRewDePVWCvsaizJJy12gYhFaW88-jUdkN1BCho6uiZLzGYqzIjuTSF6Y64XY4Y72BqPVSTahIlouH06wdSyVNu-oA85LHg5Kmej0kWZMwBCFPvTypRRVUgCT0syIEgeWJ2aAhDVYitpF1VPa-Job6ALsykjWjaBdj9f475r/s400/61980327.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhByiq6v_ukA4d4y7JJhmyvpRewDePVWCvsaizJJy12gYhFaW88-jUdkN1BCho6uiZLzGYqzIjuTSF6Y64XY4Y72BqPVSTahIlouH06wdSyVNu-oA85LHg5Kmej0kWZMwBCFPvTypRRVUgCT0syIEgeWJ2aAhDVYitpF1VPa-Job6ALsykjWjaBdj9f475r/s320/61980327.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61980327-a-bakery-in-paris"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtohnfdgRCR5pf5TycwSndYbAGLbnIRMJfdsGxoPf9XCe3RAADp2j0KZhooIgxHiFRBex9O1bx7jNWTwwAG024XjeHVmNGtdvq5UmOKiyEFKq1pTRDcqY1-LmmlhWKm2SEj6VBG9RIhRuMfKzXhJi7rlzCff1OttkSl5q6XUGgS5d096exSN2z-Aq4SgKf/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the author of </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">The School for German Brides</i><span style="font-weight: bold;">, this captivating historical novel set in nineteenth-century and post–World War II Paris follows two fierce women of the same family, generations apart, who find that their futures lie in the four walls of a simple bakery in a tiny corner of Montmartre.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1870: The Prussians are at the city gates, intent to starve Paris into submission. Lisette Vigneau—headstrong, willful, and often ignored by her wealthy parents—awaits the outcome of the war from her parents’ grand home in the Place Royale in the very heart of the city. When an excursion throws her into the path of a revolutionary National Guardsman, Théodore Fournier, her destiny is forever changed. She gives up her life of luxury to join in the fight for a Paris of the People. She opens a small bakery with the hopes of being a vital boon to the impoverished neighborhood in its hour of need. When the city falls into famine, and then rebellion, her resolve to give up the comforts of her past life is sorely tested.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1946: Nineteen-year-old Micheline Chartier is coping with the loss of her father and the disappearance of her mother during the war. In their absence, she is charged with the raising of her two younger sisters. At the hand of a well-meaning neighbor, Micheline finds herself enrolled in a prestigious baking academy with her entire life mapped out for her. Feeling trapped and desperately unequal to the task of raising two young girls, she becomes obsessed with finding her mother. Her classmate at the academy, Laurent Tanet, may be the only one capable of helping Micheline move on from the past and begin creating a future for herself. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Both women must grapple with loss, learn to accept love, and face impossible choices armed with little more than their courage and a belief that a bit of flour, yeast, sugar, and love can bring about a revolution of their own. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></span></b></div><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bakery-Paris-Aimie-K-Runyan-ebook/dp/B0B93ZYP6G/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-bakery-in-paris-aimie-k-runyan/1141972648;jsessionid=C968064E1FBEE898ED2409AD3F548794.prodny_store02-atgap09?ean=9780063247710">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Bakery-Paris/Aimie-K-Runyan/9780063247710?id=8885782705460">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/a-bakery-in-paris-aimie-k-runyan/19045267?ean=9780063247710&ref=&source=IndieBound&title=A+Bakery+in+Paris%3A+A+Novel">Bookshop.org</a></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Aimie_K_Runyan_A_Bakery_in_Paris?id=uoWAEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></div></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgebZxekwP_5pjb7MScjDcikGQd_ixYEygFEDlYRTyNmSWmTZRe8qP5gIbX0xdWF_pm2ILL_CLq0YoS6S3JTl6oWp7JMXmld1OGyT71ZVl5BT9w0W8N5ujmc-w8z5zvMD1Y4tZlCv9nqqNh4Ok3QJWIOJr8UnIatCeYfArqotaMTeH-T5LIrv7b-LEGYs/s1024/ka.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgebZxekwP_5pjb7MScjDcikGQd_ixYEygFEDlYRTyNmSWmTZRe8qP5gIbX0xdWF_pm2ILL_CLq0YoS6S3JTl6oWp7JMXmld1OGyT71ZVl5BT9w0W8N5ujmc-w8z5zvMD1Y4tZlCv9nqqNh4Ok3QJWIOJr8UnIatCeYfArqotaMTeH-T5LIrv7b-LEGYs/s320/ka.jpg" /></a></div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Author's Website</span></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aimie K. Runyan, author of The School for German Brides, writes fiction that celebrates history’s unsung heroines. When she isn’t writing, Aimie is active in the writing community as a speaker and educator. She’s a proud Adjunct Instructor for the Drexel University MFA in Creative Writing program and loves interacting with book clubs and writer groups. She is also a passionate amateur baker with a special talent for chocolate cheesecake. She lives in Colorado with her amazing husband, two (usually) adorable children, and two (always) adorable kitties. And a dragon. To learn more, please visit </span><a href="http://aimiekrunyan.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">aimiekrunyan.com</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://aimiekrunyan.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">Website</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/aimie.runyan.author">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/aimiekrunyan">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/bookishaimie/">Instagram</a> | </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/11883099.Aimie_K_Runyan" style="font-weight: bold;">Goodreads</a></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-11623940756905213942023-08-01T12:31:00.007-07:002023-08-01T12:31:50.717-07:00Promo Post: The Last Masterpiece by Laura Morelli <div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BQrJyT2b2cuihtQU5w-aJF_XyZ6yo0sXDL7o0RwPc92uLvyarp604-KXf1Zw7Nr8JZ0AyO0c147OKedRSQM3cTNaq6tBHTzuOWPLCJdh-3dNfSzgHY7-JDhsQyBhxS1j355vWbiWl9ig2AHUNeez3iRdEYXCdBb8tTElvRCJeDnPfk45XrpBDo8vEuBc/s400/62119775.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BQrJyT2b2cuihtQU5w-aJF_XyZ6yo0sXDL7o0RwPc92uLvyarp604-KXf1Zw7Nr8JZ0AyO0c147OKedRSQM3cTNaq6tBHTzuOWPLCJdh-3dNfSzgHY7-JDhsQyBhxS1j355vWbiWl9ig2AHUNeez3iRdEYXCdBb8tTElvRCJeDnPfk45XrpBDo8vEuBc/s320/62119775.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62119775-the-last-masterpiece"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtoL2sVb_XRrOfgFltV7Xrl-iW4ODEJmKrn1pvLoV-IMCDdwhZHzbuv4-wjRnTV5puU7ZsZseIxoQyJ37YNY77dZWqTMDQU5Ua7lbO314pb98u4KjdelcGFEOBfprkJ-Vlr4ogLAenroaFKzITLJ52uXIOucp01sXB2YK_jf6J4fj5pNVJbtQgdL9y2J6R/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In a race across Nazi-occupied Italy, two women—a German photographer and an American stenographer—hunt for priceless masterpieces looted from the Florentine art collections.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In the summer of 1943, Eva Brunner is taking photographs of Nazi-looted art hidden in the salt mines of the Austrian hinterland. Across the ocean in Connecticut, Josephine Evans is working as a humble typist at the Yale Art Gallery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When both women are called to Italy to contribute to the war effort, neither imagines she will hold the fate of some of the world’s greatest masterpieces torn from the Uffizi Galleries and other Florentine art collections in her hands.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But as Italy turns from ally to enemy and Hitler’s plan to destroy irreplaceable monuments and works of art becomes frighteningly clear, each woman’s race against the clock—and against one another—might demand more than they were prepared to give.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Last Masterpiece takes readers on a heart-pumping adventure up the Italian peninsula, where nothing is as it seems and some of the greatest works of art and human achievement are at stake. Who might steal and who might save a work of art—and at what cost?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Inspired by the incredible true story of the Monuments Women, the Fifth Army WACs, and the looted Florentine art collections during World War II, the latest historical novel by USA Today bestselling author and art historian Laura Morelli plunges readers into the heart of war-torn Italy. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Last-Masterpiece-Novel-Laura-Morelli-ebook/dp/B0BBGK72YD?tag=lauramorelli-20&geniuslink=true">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-last-masterpiece-laura-morelli/1142674848;jsessionid=77A8F308E31ACBFCA8F8C9FB2BBF3BD3.prodny_store01-atgap06?ean=9780063205970">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Last-Masterpiece/Laura-Morelli/9780063205987?id=8885782705460">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-last-masterpiece-a-novel-of-world-war-ii-italy-laura-morelli/19045152?ean=9780063205987">Bookshop.org</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details/Laura_Morelli_The_Last_Masterpiece?id=AQAAAECCem06_M">Google Play</a></div></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>About the Author</u></span></span></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Laura Morelli holds a Ph.D. in art history from Yale University and is an award-winning, USA Today bestselling historical novelist. Laura has taught college students in the U.S. and in Italy. She has covered art and authentic travel for TED-Ed, National Geographic Traveler, Italy Magazine, CNN Radio, and other media. Laura is the author of the popular Authentic Arts guidebook series that includes Made in Italy. Her historical novels, including The Night Portrait and The Gondola Maker, bring the stories of art history to life.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://lauramorelli.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/lauramorelliphd">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/lauramorelliphd">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/lauramorelliphd/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/766767.Laura_Morelli">Goodreads</a></span></div></span>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-72818581854573391662023-07-18T00:30:00.285-07:002023-07-18T13:24:12.693-07:00Blog Tour Book Review: Resonance Surge by Nalini Singh<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUb5xXAWKfpHmOKgVqaypUpheBdOcp_f10pL-dBSnHLMdq2-0sTKeGECMRwv0l2XsbHQHG_LN-Ks4_S3xPYfHyst2uOgyKu2Yg8RJaSTGEULCzIgCPN3TPDRzm09oqB2RV8KATzMBBFc6eKt_f0uPlTqedQQxx_rfBlqpjdAVo56yXGXqEfZbJzUN-1SW/w265-h400/63200679.jpg" width="265" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63200679-resonance-surge"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireLe20PZhsrqM1IvKI7na54g9pySak_m7VkKYdvXaaQ2oEweWNOTmvg6rvS5Msd2AO1Njy65clXqjU5ncf4048hc-b_xSIDH1h_FXhUxAtLrYzy2RAmA-199qKMF0WT38KPkatMhebTVCB1AJghzLFz0Fn8UFnwVyRHZzI2xG0YsFc6xIBoPycp56u9ph/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br />Twins Pavel and Yakov Stepyrev of the StoneWater bear changeling clan have been an inseparable unit since birth, but now their lives are moving in different directions.<br /><br />Pavel is in the mating dance with Arwen Mercant, the only man to ever bring him to his knees. A Psy empath, Arwen is free to feel emotion now that Silence has fallen. While he is free to love in the open now, it doesn’t come easy. Pavel walks a fine line in loving Arwen, careful not to push him too far, too fast.<br /><br />Another pair of twins, Pax and Theodora Marshall, have a bond with a far darker history. A low-Gradient Psy, Theo is considered worthless by everyone but her violently powerful and loyal brother, Pax. She is the only person he trusts to investigate a hidden and terrible part of their family history—an unregistered rehabilitation Center established by their grandfather.<br /><br />The Centers, places of unimaginable pain designed to psychically wipe minds, are an ugly remnant of the Psy race’s Silent past. And now Theo must uncover the awful truth of this secret Center alongside Yakov, who certainly doesn’t trust her. Especially considering that Theo has been haunting his dreams since he was sixteen…<br /><br />Yakov is the great-grandson of a foreseer and he’s already seen Theo’s death. The question is how can he stop it?</b></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links</u></span></b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u><br /></u></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BKK898C2/ref=x_gr_bb_kindle?caller=Goodreads&tag=x_gr_bb_kindle-20">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/resonance-surge-nalini-singh/1142562800;jsessionid=B35183A5BCCAAC1F37CCE6974E339C93.prodny_store01-atgap10?ean=9780593440704">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Resonance-Surge/Nalini-Singh/9780593440704?id=8885782705460">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/resonance-surge-nalini-singh/18993263?ean=9780593440704&ref=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.indiebound.org%2Fsearch%2Fbook%3Fkeys%3DResonance%2BSurge&source=IndieBound&title=Resonance+Surge+%28Psy-Changeling+Trinity+%237%29">Bookshop.org</a></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Nalini_Singh_Resonance_Surge?id=c22XEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJP2JzIkwpEe2F-VDPaP0j_1PjNanM_AdjrP8d7oHjiEyh5nOmsvpvsqy5yfKx-yZERtjlysbyTvoX1OBhHNXeyxzE5Ey3rRUMGyyb-iZczwPZDOaemT7nnHiJ3xcUZdWE9iySrCfCon8v80K_xIxM2fM2o8YP_bFXRBVtwEtyV1uP37GhjLkyRhkwK-mQ/s338/review%20banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="135" data-original-width="338" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJP2JzIkwpEe2F-VDPaP0j_1PjNanM_AdjrP8d7oHjiEyh5nOmsvpvsqy5yfKx-yZERtjlysbyTvoX1OBhHNXeyxzE5Ey3rRUMGyyb-iZczwPZDOaemT7nnHiJ3xcUZdWE9iySrCfCon8v80K_xIxM2fM2o8YP_bFXRBVtwEtyV1uP37GhjLkyRhkwK-mQ/s320/review%20banner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b style="color: #0c343d; text-align: start;">Disclaimer: I received an advanced reader's copy from Berkley, an imprint of HarperCollins, via Penguin Random House. The following thoughts and opinions are entirely my own. </b><b style="color: #0c343d; text-align: start;">Spoilers below. Read at your own risk.</b></b><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>I've been a fan of Nalini Singh and her Psy-Changling series for a long time. Writing is not easy, especially when writing a series. Keeping the story fresh while incorporating a full cast of characters is a juggling act that I think Nalini is very good at. </b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">This book is a little different from previous Psy-Changeling-Trinity books. We're back with the StoneWater Bears! Pavel and Yakov Stepyrev with their love interests Arwen Mercant and Theodora Marshall, respectively. Since the book features two couples, there is alternating POV. I like alternative POVs because we see the world from that </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>character's</b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"> perspective. We see other characters that add context to the current state of the world, especially since the creation of the island on the PsyNet created by Ivan Mercant (see </b><i style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Storm Echo</i><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">). Due to having a F-Psy </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>ancestor, Pavel and Yakov have heightened psychic senses. Since he was sixteen, Yakov has been dreaming of Theo, however, the dreams stopped. It was only until recently that he started to have dreams of an adult Theo and her subsequent death. It certainly doesn't help that there is a serial killer running around Moscow killing women with similar hair and coloring to Theo. </b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>The Marshall Group was something I wondered about. Lead by Pax Marshall, following the assassination of Councilor Marshall Hyde, the Marshall Group is a nest of vipers despite their adherence to Silence. Pax Marshall, is presented as a typical Psy with Silent guards, but he cares for his twin sister, Theo. I appreciated the bond between brother and sister, especially since they're twins. Pax is waging battles on all fronts, within the family and in the business world. If that wasn't hard enough, he also has Scarab Syndrome. He's a ticking time bomb. He's mentioned throughout the book and has interactions with several characters, but the scene at the end of the book makes me nervous for the future of the Psy-Changeling universe. </b></span></div><div><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></b></div><div><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">Back to the main couples, the romance between Yakov and Theo was quickly established. The whiplash I got from how quickly this pair got together was something else. I thought their relationship progressed too fast, but at the same time, I understand that Yakov's "known" her for some time. The initial wariness between Yakov and Theo quickly turned into a tenuous partnership and </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>genuine</b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"> </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>affection. Moving on to the other couple: i</b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">n previous books, Arwen and Pavel have been dating, but in this book, it's </b><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">established that same-sex mating bonds is possible (I cannot remember if same-sex mating bonds were previously established). Nalini has written many books and all of them have featured a male-female hetero main couple. It wasn't until recently that she wrote about the relations of same-sex couples (e.g. </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>Aodhan and Illium) and even then, it focused more on the emotional aspect of their relationship. I assume Nalini Singh is cis-het so it makes sense for her to not delve too deeply into the sexual aspect of a same-sex couple's relationship. Her same-sex characters' interactions with each other portrays deep intimacy through other physical means, rather than just sex. Sex scenes that do occur on paper are generalized and focuses more on the emotional connection, rather than the physical. </b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>The plot of this story was decent enough. Theo is investigating an </b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">unregistered rehabilitation Center established by her grandfather, Marshall Hyde. Little tidbits from other Psy-Changeling books </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>portrayed</b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"> Marshall Hyde as an incredibly cruel and sadistic Psy, despite the </b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b>facade</b></span><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"> of Silence. We learn in this book that he funded several rehabilitation Centers to have a supply of guinea pigs for mind-altering experiments. Following his death and Pax's bid for control of the Marshall Group, the discovery of the disclosed and undisclosed rehab centers got the ball rolling as more and more of Marshall Hyde's depravity and cruelty is revealed. Overall, this book was a solid continuation of the Psy-Changeling universe. </b></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6W8ob6N2ju1DL_wEvAikU-e75R6XieeF9PN53Ioay2Fcd44XpRtGjvhorTIkZzXChZjHddETkq8JaTmjLxsKfXtuybsXZgJeBRVO6VijckutCyk-EFpCYTfS7e95yFnp2E3zuwoPif8UtkdKw9Lk6kPRquQ4z48i-EHtqruaXdpL5hZhhwprfISzo7_UM/s170/4%20stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="53" data-original-width="170" height="53" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6W8ob6N2ju1DL_wEvAikU-e75R6XieeF9PN53Ioay2Fcd44XpRtGjvhorTIkZzXChZjHddETkq8JaTmjLxsKfXtuybsXZgJeBRVO6VijckutCyk-EFpCYTfS7e95yFnp2E3zuwoPif8UtkdKw9Lk6kPRquQ4z48i-EHtqruaXdpL5hZhhwprfISzo7_UM/s1600/4%20stars.jpg" width="170" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>4 stars </b></div></b><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WzcG2FQcfw0/V2yu_0oIDTI/AAAAAAAAI0Q/aDWczlCw7vc-431PYd0UE6FUNkigeki6wCLcB/s320/nalini%2BSingh.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">Photo Credit: Author's Website</span></b></div><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">Nalini Singh is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Psy-Changeling, Guild Hunter, and Rock Kiss series. She lives and works in beautiful New Zealand, and is passionate about writing.<br /><br />If you’d like to explore her other books, you can find lots of excerpts and free short stories on her <a href="https://nalinisingh.com/">website</a>.<a href="#"> </a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/178476.Slave_to_Sensation">Slave to Sensation</a> is the first book in the Psy-Changeling series, while <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3819326-angels-blood">Angels’ Blood</a> is the first book in the Guild Hunter series. The <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/series/133905-rock-kiss">Rock Kiss</a> books are all stand alone and can be read in any order.</span></b><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></b><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Connect with Nalini!</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"></span></b></p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://nalinisingh.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorNaliniSingh">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/NaliniSingh">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/71688.Nalini_Singh">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/authornalinisingh/">Instagram</a></span></b></div></div></div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-47330131721492365592023-07-17T00:30:00.036-07:002023-07-17T00:30:00.124-07:00HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: Women of the Post by Joshunda Sanders<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiSVwjKAOl4AywJteDIGA4P8jEjwoCM6-FkhtO3lVc-ivvi5ZM-GpPZ6xfcoZ9brb3kNM32MLFFNNjHsiJoPtoY9e439yqpMaNvje_AvDoIf9nVUnChjr1RSSQ7IhEVjTP8zUp-jT7yjVHfXgaECjGQanENB6ALARh5JtJSwxQJtIsOSxDD2sctCAIf4I/s1600/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiSVwjKAOl4AywJteDIGA4P8jEjwoCM6-FkhtO3lVc-ivvi5ZM-GpPZ6xfcoZ9brb3kNM32MLFFNNjHsiJoPtoY9e439yqpMaNvje_AvDoIf9nVUnChjr1RSSQ7IhEVjTP8zUp-jT7yjVHfXgaECjGQanENB6ALARh5JtJSwxQJtIsOSxDD2sctCAIf4I/w400-h100/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSS0RiAryP31EXAMq0Tbe750V3LKDqlJsCsmRx3dVqVyoPAsCNZ7r3LUb0mKhrFxoPytYYGvYZPXD7mf8DJpZ1HDlZ8PVUiANsPc2vDVNMZOQGilHqRloSY-fGMXtTOnKYFRmz07RAUJK4lGtLUjlyqY7g22sRNI4z5ZIbESmv-KSZ3KdJXguoT_pKy7Es/s2400/9780778334071_REVISED_FC.jpg"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSS0RiAryP31EXAMq0Tbe750V3LKDqlJsCsmRx3dVqVyoPAsCNZ7r3LUb0mKhrFxoPytYYGvYZPXD7mf8DJpZ1HDlZ8PVUiANsPc2vDVNMZOQGilHqRloSY-fGMXtTOnKYFRmz07RAUJK4lGtLUjlyqY7g22sRNI4z5ZIbESmv-KSZ3KdJXguoT_pKy7Es/w266-h400/9780778334071_REVISED_FC.jpg" width="266" /></b></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62325784-women-of-the-post?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=ge3CwVXI93&rank=1"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXJRgZpWBZLJbDb1u4MFUe1kpH2AfobKz7AmZMVleLyXqHPW7Z6nyHZc26m6Ou8Zx4aslm17vqPK1f5lb8L6w7kQP9oSYYzLDqEREDJovsTeQZZudZVH8C_3eNenPnYPknJSZfvajaMFSX4mMaEqefUuLjMiD01PG1HDFVC-wTD7tBTeBXslWmeVeMp2I/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></b></span></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br />Inspired by true events, Women of the Post brings to life the heroines who proudly served in the all-Black battalion of the Women’s Army Corps in WWII, finding purpose in their mission and lifelong friendship.<br /><br />1944, New York City. Judy Washington is tired of having to work at the Bronx Slave Market, cleaning white women’s houses for next to nothing. She dreams of a bigger life, but with her husband fighting overseas, it’s up to her and her mother to earn enough for food and rent. When she’s recruited to join the Women’s Army Corps—offering a steady paycheck and the chance to see the world—Judy jumps at the opportunity.<br /><br />During training, Judy becomes fast friends with the other women in her unit—Stacy, Bernadette and Mary Alyce—who all come from different cities and circumstances. Under Second Officer Charity Adams's leadership, they receive orders to sort over one million pieces of mail in England, becoming the only unit of Black women to serve overseas during WWII.<br /><br />The women work diligently, knowing that they're reuniting soldiers with their loved ones through their letters. However, their work becomes personal when Mary Alyce discovers a backlogged letter addressed to Judy. Told through the alternating perspectives of Judy, Charity and Mary Alyce, Women of the Post is an unforgettable story of perseverance, female friendship and self-discovery.<br /><br /></b></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links</u></span></b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u><br /></u></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Women-Post-Novel-Joshunda-Sanders/dp/0778334074/ref=sr_1_1?crid=22I8IE18R4Y7B&keywords=women+of+the+post&qid=1688669577&sprefix=women+of+the+pos%2Caps%2C129&sr=8-1">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/women-of-the-post-joshunda-sanders/1142106285">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Women-Post/Joshunda-Sanders/9780778334071?id=8812630658257">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/women-of-the-post/18847348?gclid=CjwKCAjwzJmlBhBBEiwAEJyLu1nryTwbHOWZl-90gN_Go1Lc0MfbQ-Hn-9VsU-M1ByhrCeWaDjVq0RoCkXYQAvD_BwE">Bookshop.org</a></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Joshunda_Sanders_Women_of_the_Post?id=0GOGEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></b></p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwOUrJJa3a_y9Qa4OmroMEh9LMLPqTI0js4PcsJZ33EVoiGa3J8cj0Bw1yzin_aQVviGAlnmvkJ3UDIZG5tZbisjVEC-JNnB4AjGkr75XHOevedq3TamADsjB7a4jnqZ9g8Uz8dofls84de6Vnt7kx0t2QbWwJgg540QPitxN-Z0yeZu49NAFEtuxK8P7/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwOUrJJa3a_y9Qa4OmroMEh9LMLPqTI0js4PcsJZ33EVoiGa3J8cj0Bw1yzin_aQVviGAlnmvkJ3UDIZG5tZbisjVEC-JNnB4AjGkr75XHOevedq3TamADsjB7a4jnqZ9g8Uz8dofls84de6Vnt7kx0t2QbWwJgg540QPitxN-Z0yeZu49NAFEtuxK8P7/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></b></div><br /><br />One<br /><br />Judy<br /><br />From Judy to The Crisis<br /><br />Thursday, 14 April 1944</b></span><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /><br />Dear Ms. Ella Baker and Marvel Cooke,<br /><br />My name is Judy Washington, and I am one of the women you write about in your work on the Bronx Slave Market over on Simpson Street. My husband, Herbert, is serving in the war, so busy it has been months since I heard word from him. It is the fight of his life—of our lives—to defend our country and maybe it will show white people that we can also belong to and defend this place. We built it too, after all. It is as much our country to defend as anyone else’s.<br /><br />All I thought was really missing from your articles was a fix for us, us meaning Negro women. We are still in the shadow of the Great Depression now, but the war has made it so that some girls have been picked up by unions, in factories and such. Maybe you could ask the mayor or somebody to set us up with different work. Something that pays and helps our boys/men overseas, but doesn’t keep us sweating over pails of steaming laundry for thirty cents an hour or less. Seems like everyone but the Negro woman has found a way to contribute to the war and also put food on the table. It’s hard not to feel left behind or overlooked.<br /><br />Thank you for telling the truth about the lives we have to live now, even if it is hard to see. Eventually, I pray, we will have a different story to tell. My mother always says she brought us up here to lay our burdens down, not to pick up new ones. But somehow, even if we don’t go to war, we still have battles to fight just to live with a little dignity.<br /><br />I’ve gone on too long now. Thank you for your service.<br /><br />Respectfully,<br /><br />Judy Washington<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Since the men went to war, there was never enough of anything for Judy and her mother, Margaret, which is how they came to be free Negro women relegated to one of the dozens of so-called slave markets for domestic workers in New York City. For about two years now, her husband, Herbert, had been overseas. He was one half of a twin, her best friend from high school, and her first and only love, if you could call it that.<br /><br />Judy had moved with her parents from the overcrowded Harlem tenements to the South Bronx midway through her sophomore year of high school. She was an only child. Her father, James, doted on her in part because he and Margaret had tried and tried when they were back home in the South for a baby, but Judy was the only one who made it, stayed alive. He treasured her, called her a miracle. Margaret would cut her eyes at him, complain that he was making her soft.<br /><br />The warmth Judy felt at home was in stark contrast to the way she felt at school, where she often sat alone during lunch. When they were called upon in classes to work in groups of two or three, she excused herself and asked for the wooden bathroom pass, so that she often worked alone instead of facing the humiliation of not being chosen.<br /><br />She had not grown up with friends nor had Margaret, so it almost felt normal to live mostly inside herself this way. There were girls from the block who looked at her with what she read as pity. “Nice skirt,” one would say, almost reluctantly.<br /><br />“Thanks,” she’d say, a little shy to be noticed. “Mother made it.”<br /><br />Small talk was more painful than silence. How had the other Negro girls managed to move with such ease here, after living almost exclusively with other Negroes down in Harlem? Someone up here was as likely to have a brogue accent as a Spanish one. She didn’t mind the mingling of the races, it was just new: a shock to the system, both in the streets she walked to go to school and to the market but also in the halls of Morris High School.<br /><br />Judy had been eating an apple, her back pressed against the cafeteria wall when she saw Herbert. He was long faced with a square jaw and round, black W.E.B. Du Bois glasses.<br /><br />“That’s all you’re having for lunch, it’s no wonder you’re so slim,” he said, like he was continuing a conversation they had been having for a while. Rich coming from him, with his lanky gait, his knobby knees pressing against his slacks.<br /><br />A pile of assorted foods rose from his blue tray, tantalizing her. A sandwich thick with meat and cheese and lettuce, potato chips off to the side, a sweating bottle of Coke beside that. For years, they had all lived so lean that it had become a shock to suddenly see some people making up for lost time with their food. Judy finished chewing her apple and gathered her skirt closer to her. “You offering to share your lunch with me?”<br /><br /><br />Herbert gave her a slight smile. “Surely you didn’t think all this was for me?”<br /><br />They were fast friends after that. It was easy for her to make room for a man who looked at her without pity. There had always been room in her life for someone like him: one who saw, who comforted, who provided. Her father, James, grumbled disapproval when Herbert asked to court, but Herbert came with sunflowers and his father’s moonshine.<br /><br />“What kind of man do you take me for?” James asked, eyeing Herbert’s neat, slim tie and sniffing sharply to inhale the obnoxious musk of too much aftershave.<br /><br />“A man who wants his daughter to be loved completely,” Herbert said. “The way that I love her.”<br /><br />Their courting began. Judy had no other offers and didn’t want any. That they had James’s blessing before he died from a heart attack and just as they were getting ready to graduate from high school only softened the blow of his loss a little. As demure and to herself as she usually was, burying her father turned Judy more inward than Herbert expected. In his death, she seemed to retreat into herself the way that she had been when he approached her that lunch hour. To draw her out, to bring her back, he proposed marriage.<br /><br />She balked. “Can I belong to someone else?” Judy asked Margaret, telling her that Herbert asked for her hand. “I hardly feel like I belong to myself.”<br /><br />“This is what women do,” Margaret said immediately.<br /><br />The ceremony was small, with a reception that hummed with nosy neighbors stopping over to bring slim envelopes of money to gift to the bride and her mother. The older Negro women in the neighborhood, who wore the same faded floral housedresses as Margaret except for today, when she put one of her two special dresses—a radiant sky blue that made her amber eyes look surrounded in gold light—visited her without much to say, just dollar bills folded in their pockets, slipped into her grateful hands. They were not exactly her friends; she worked too much to allow herself leisure. But some of them were widows, too. Like her, they had survived much to stand proudly on special days like this.<br /><br />They settled into the plans they made for their life together. He joined the reserves and, in the meantime, became a Pullman porter. Judy began work as a seamstress at the local dry cleaner. Whatever money they didn’t have, they could make up with rent parties until the babies came.<br /><br />Now all of that was on hold, her life suspended by the announcement at the movies that the US was now at war. The news was hard enough to process, but Herbert’s status in the reserves meant that this was his time to exit. She braced herself when he stood up to leave the theater and report for duty, kissing her goodbye with a rushed press of his mouth to her forehead.<br /><br />Judy and Margaret had been left to fend for themselves. There had been some money from Herbert in the first year, but then his letters—and the money—slowed to a halt. Judy and Margaret received some relief from the city, but Judy thought it an ironic word to use, since a few dollars to stretch and apply to food and rent was not anything like a relief. It meant she was always on edge, doing what needed doing to keep them from freezing to death or joining the tent cities down along the river.<br /><br />Her hours at the dry cleaner were cut, so she and Margaret reluctantly joined what an article in The Crisis described as the “paper bag brigade” at the Bronx Slave Market. The market was made up of Negro women, faces heavy for want of sleep. They made their way to the corners and storefronts before dawn, rain or shine, carrying thick brown paper bags filled with gloves, assorted used work clothes to change into, rolled over themselves and softened with age in their hands. A few of them were lucky enough to have a roll with butter, in the unlikely event of a lunch break.<br /><br />Judy and Margaret stood for hours if the boxes or milk crates were occupied, while they waited for cars to approach. White women drivers looked them over and called out to their demands: wash my windows and linens and curtains. Clean my kitchen. A dollar for the day, maybe two, plus carfare.<br /><br />The lists were always longer than the day. The rate was always offensively low. Margaret had been on the market for longer than Judy; she knew how to negotiate. Judy did not want to barter her time. She resented being an object for sale.<br /><br />“You can’t start too low, even when you’re new,” Margaret warned Judy when her daughter joined her at Simpson Avenue and 170th Street. “Aim higher first. They’ll get you to some low amount anyhow. But it’s always going to be more than what you’re offered.”<br /><br />Everything about the Bronx Slave Market, this congregation of Negro women looking for low-paying cleaning work, was a futile negotiation. An open-air free-for-all, where white women in gleaming Buicks and Fords felt just fine offering pennies on the hour for several hours of hard labor. Sometimes the work was so much, the women ended up spending the night, only to wake up in the morning and be asked to do more work—this time for free.<br /><br />Judy and Margaret could not afford to work for free. Six days a week, in biting winter cold that made their knees numb or sweltering heat rising from the pavement baking the arches of their feet, they wandered to the same spot. After these painful experiences, day after day all week, Judy and Margaret gathered at the kitchen table on Sundays after church to count up the change that could cover some of the gas and a little of the rent. It was due in two days, and they were two dollars short. Unless they could make a dollar each, they would not make rent.<br /><br />Rent was sometimes hard to come up with, even when James was alive, but when he died, their income became even more unreliable. They didn’t even have money enough for a decent funeral. He was buried in a pine box in the Hart Island potter’s field. James was the only love of Margaret’s life, and still, when he was gone, all she said to Judy was, “There’s still so much to do.”<br /><br />Judy’s deepest wish for Margaret was for her to rest and enjoy a few small pleasures. What she overheard between her parents as a child were snippets and pieces of painful memories. Negroes lynched over rumors. Girls taken by men to do whatever they wanted. “We don’t need a lot,” she heard Margaret say once, “just enough to leave this place and start over.”<br /><br />Margaret’s family, like James’s, had only known the South. Some had survived the end of slavery by some miracle, but the Reconstruction era was a different kind of terror. Margaret was the eldest of five children, James was the middle child of eight. A younger sibling left for Harlem first, and sent letters glowing about how free she felt in the north. So, even once Margaret convinced James they needed to take Judy someplace like that, it felt to Judy that she always had her family in the South and the way they had to work to survive on her mind.<br /><br />Judy fantasized about rest for herself and for her mother. How nice it would be to plan a day centered around tea, folding their own napkins, ironing a treasured store-bought dress for a night out. A day when she could stand up straight, like a flower basking in the sun, instead of hunched over work.<br /><br />Other people noticed that they worked harder and more than they should as women, as human beings. Judy thought Margaret maybe didn’t realize another way to be was possible. So she tried to talk about the Bronx Slave Market article in The Crisis with her mother. Margaret refused to read a word or even hear about it. “No need reading about my life in no papers,” she said.<br /><br />Refusing to know how they were being exploited didn’t keep it from being a problem. But once Judy knew, she couldn’t keep herself from wanting more. Maybe that was why Margaret didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to want more than what was in front of her.<br /><br />Herbert’s companionship had fed her this kind of ambition and hope. His warm laughter, the way she could depend on him to talk her into hooky once in a while, to crash a rowdy rent party and dance until the sun came up, even if it got her grounded and lectured, was—especially when James died—the only escape hatch she could find from the box her mother was determined to fit her future inside. So, when Herbert surprised her at a little traveling show in Saint Mary’s Park, down on one knee with his grandmother’s plain wedding band, she only hesitated inside when she said yes. It wasn’t the time to try and explain that there was something in her yawning open, looking for something else, but maybe she could find that something with Herbert. Her mother told her to stop wasting her time dreaming and to settle down.<br /><br />At least marrying her high school buddy meant she could move on from under Margaret’s constant, disapproving gaze. They had been saving up for new digs when Herbert was drafted—but now that was all put on hold.<br /><br />The dream had been delicious while it felt like it was coming true. Judy and Herbert were both outsiders, insiders within their universe of two. Herbert was the only rule follower in a bustling house full of lawbreaking men and boys; Judy, the only child of a shocked widow who found her purpose in bone-tiring work. Poverty pressed in on them from every corner of the Bronx, and neither Judy nor Herbert felt they belonged there. But they did belong to each other, and that wasn’t nothing.<br /><br />Excerpted from Women of the Post by Joshunda Sanders, Copyright © 2023 by Joshunda Sanders. Published by Park Row Books.</b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span></u></b></div><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uO-Np-bd5RiiRxzouPE0BQY9r4MiAOMKFnd6yP-hDqPLUXphwDWio0IZEr5dFD1CF7Bxuli01rHxRvbVBFJFefgWmoAfd-aaz5hSQED7jqwtlGjuHcfCNNISwz3hVsY7ZjYu1W2ZgscWNmrdHpyVOtFJBveZaM0MxUvAhhlF7C7F5iaZMUPED6aif7BP/s1238/IMG_6331.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uO-Np-bd5RiiRxzouPE0BQY9r4MiAOMKFnd6yP-hDqPLUXphwDWio0IZEr5dFD1CF7Bxuli01rHxRvbVBFJFefgWmoAfd-aaz5hSQED7jqwtlGjuHcfCNNISwz3hVsY7ZjYu1W2ZgscWNmrdHpyVOtFJBveZaM0MxUvAhhlF7C7F5iaZMUPED6aif7BP/s320/IMG_6331.JPG" /></a></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Joshunda Sanders is an award-winning author, journalist and speechwriter. A former Obama Administration political appointee, her fiction, essays and poetry have appeared in dozens of anthologies. She has been awarded residencies and fellowships at Hedgebrook, Lambda Literary, The Key West Literary Seminars and the Martha's Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing. Women of the Post is her first novel.<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">SOCIAL LINKS:</span></u></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://joshundasanders.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/JoshundaSanders">Twitter</a></b></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-47874941711075113252023-07-05T11:07:00.001-07:002023-07-05T11:07:06.287-07:00HTP Spring Reads Blog Tour (Romance Edition) Promo Post: A Rogue at Stonecliffe by Candace Camp<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6li9eGbHHDSnsZX7GQXJumMC0Rj6VzKZCGjozjoNQ_O7ajujyjxwDf4PVuERVgbws-jjzAZKe7UJMQWx_kuAAmhyK-rL20pSOEykoJ_J19Sq6DTBS54QUPG66AYbjaQtPCd9Xv6WBzhLIdd3yxxTPfZ2Aappx4ZAqjmZXrlSidNblWEdls_3iGS6E-A8/s1600/Banner.jpg"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6li9eGbHHDSnsZX7GQXJumMC0Rj6VzKZCGjozjoNQ_O7ajujyjxwDf4PVuERVgbws-jjzAZKe7UJMQWx_kuAAmhyK-rL20pSOEykoJ_J19Sq6DTBS54QUPG66AYbjaQtPCd9Xv6WBzhLIdd3yxxTPfZ2Aappx4ZAqjmZXrlSidNblWEdls_3iGS6E-A8/w400-h100/Banner.jpg" width="400" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0ZollkJwqE_-GnfCiHW6TFpCIIG_FPYt8iMqGKDy2tRjxyZve5Wx-NUuQxaOB75qS6boJNoNtoLM31WwKJi3h5C-N_-sNe4QFFLEAk_p5G7f4c6o4grcYmw2uCN9M0kvtOOiHRTPtxck1avYQrSMRLdil-dJElvslq4jY--wvPI-WlPY21xw9FvoaUtA/s2674/A%20Rogue%20at%20Stonecliff%20(1)33.png"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0ZollkJwqE_-GnfCiHW6TFpCIIG_FPYt8iMqGKDy2tRjxyZve5Wx-NUuQxaOB75qS6boJNoNtoLM31WwKJi3h5C-N_-sNe4QFFLEAk_p5G7f4c6o4grcYmw2uCN9M0kvtOOiHRTPtxck1avYQrSMRLdil-dJElvslq4jY--wvPI-WlPY21xw9FvoaUtA/w254-h400/A%20Rogue%20at%20Stonecliff%20(1)33.png" width="254" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62991072-a-rogue-at-stonecliffe?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=0b3TS0ROTu&rank=1"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg843Il50BGxiE9bEwxR1cipMInE_sk6tUT7wWVMU7vUD3F6cajPLcUp3UIiiPCkjFlB5zf3MhFADZ-j804gLtksXgYXSXY0LlaTFgEP479zFhGgj-GQLD-mGSoKPTtRHNkuPAGW2q5ip2QDqY0Xoz5ITAXW64v-VfPacUykTYokpBo0DLTfoyflnIoSZSw/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">New York Times bestselling author Candace Camp invites you back to Stonecliffe for a second adventure! Action and romance ensue on this adventurous trip through the beautiful English countryside.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When the love of her life left without any explanation, Annabeth Winfield moved on despairingly, knowing she'd never have a love as thrilling as her first ever again. Sloane Rutherford was roguish and daring, but as Annabeth grew up, she realized that their reckless romance was just a passing adventure, never meant for stability. Twelve years later, Annabeth is engaged to someone new, ready to start her life with a dependable man.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That's when Sloane returns. And he brings with him a serious warning: Annabeth is in trouble.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After spending the last dozen years working as a spy, Sloane thought he'd left espionage behind him. But now a dangerous blackmailer is after Annabeth. Sloane offers to hide his former lover at Stonecliffe, the Rutherford estate, but stubborn Annabeth demands to be part of the investigation. As the two embark on a dangerous and exciting journey, memories of their past romance resurface. Sloane and Annabeth aren't the wide-eyed children they used to be, but knowing they're wrong for each other makes a nostalgic affair seem very right...</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links:</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/a-rogue-at-stonecliffe-original-candace-camp/18979643?ean=9781335513106">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/a-rogue-at-stonecliffe-candace-camp?variant=40955326431266">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-rogue-at-stonecliffe-candace-camp/1142519066?ean=9781335513106">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rogue-Stonecliffe-Novel/dp/1335513108/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2LEGM6Z66HDV2&keywords=a+rogue+at+stonecliffe&qid=1687578208&s=books&sprefix=a+rogue+at%2Cstripbooks%2C130&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Rogue-Stonecliffe/Candace-Camp/9781335513106?id=8875782594791">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://www.powells.com/book/rogue-at-stonecliffe-9781335513106#product_details">Powell’s</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPKv0LB_Z85qjZSRfKciYDts_vVghpW0aNWWk6BnP2wQ4te_nvh99_4cvQSd8MaeAiJZVuvL5-hgXQWszimF7FmI2Q6l8QnHc0h_Lc2UX9CujUf8XW4Q0BMXU4EWH1-yk3t4lO3w7uB0HCPdmwjER3Lh11DGQqMeBIvrd7f7tMsh8DUDt8F_LrLwV_7PH/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPKv0LB_Z85qjZSRfKciYDts_vVghpW0aNWWk6BnP2wQ4te_nvh99_4cvQSd8MaeAiJZVuvL5-hgXQWszimF7FmI2Q6l8QnHc0h_Lc2UX9CujUf8XW4Q0BMXU4EWH1-yk3t4lO3w7uB0HCPdmwjER3Lh11DGQqMeBIvrd7f7tMsh8DUDt8F_LrLwV_7PH/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1822</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane Rutherford was not a man who hesitated. He made his decisions, for good or ill, and he lived with them. But today he sat slouched at the breakfast table, food untouched, turning a note round and round in his hand, unable to make up his mind. Should he go to the wedding or not?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Actually there was no question whether he should do it; clearly he should not. The question was whether he would. The event itself didn’t figure into his thoughts. While he was surprised and faintly pleased by the fact that Noelle had invited him, he held most of his own family in disregard…and they looked on him with even less liking. Estranged wasn’t the word for his relationship with the Rutherfords. Shunned would be more like it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So, no, he had no interest in the wedding itself, no reason to go, and normally he would have tossed the invitation in the ash can. But what drew him almost painfully to attend was precisely the thing that set up an equal ache of reluctance inside his chest: she would be there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Annabeth?” Marcus said from the doorway.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane glanced up, startled, and scowled at his father.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So you’re reading minds now? One would think you would have done better at the card tables.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, wouldn’t one?” Marcus replied amicably, and strolled across the room. “Sadly, it didn’t seem to work that way. And your problem didn’t take much intuition. It’s written all over your face.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marcus settled into a chair across from Sloane. Clad in his dressing gown and soft slippers, Marcus looked every inch the indolent aristocrat that he was—his luxurious white mane of hair combed back stylishly, his jaw smooth from his valet’s shaving, and his dressing gown made of the richest brocade and cut to fit perfectly. Even if he looked somewhat more worn than his age from years of reckless living, he was still a handsome man.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane wondered if his father might catch the eye of some wealthy widow who would take the man off his hands…but no, Marcus was equally banned from the ton—more because of Sloane’s history than his own numerous vices.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What are you doing up so early?” Sloane asked, ignoring Marcus’s comments. “You usually don’t stir from your room until ten or eleven.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Unfortunately the only appointment Harriman had available was at the ungodly time of nine. It’s quite difficult to get in to see him on such short notice.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ah, your tailor. That would be enough to pull you out of bed.” Sloane’s mouth quirked up. Marcus was still a peacock at his age. No doubt the bill the tailor sent Sloane would be enormous, but Sloane didn’t mind. He’d far rather spend his money on his father’s fashion than on some of Marcus’s other habits.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But I won’t complain. I was lucky he was able to make room to see me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I expect he’s grateful that I pay your bills on time, unlike most of his aristocratic clients,” Sloane said dryly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And I’ll have the entire afternoon to enjoy the prospect of the wedding,” Marcus went on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A wedding?” Sloane asked skeptically. “You look forward to weddings?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not everyone is as much of a hermit as you are. Some of us find social occasions agreeable.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m not a hermit.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mmm, yes. No doubt that’s why you spend so much time alone, brooding. Cornwall suits you perfectly.” Marcus picked up the cup of tea the footman had just set before him and took a sip, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “But this wedding, I must admit, offers rather more entertainment than the usual one.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane made no response. The last topic he wanted to discuss was this wedding.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But his father needed no reply. He went on, “For one thing, there is Noelle, the lovely bride herself, and the potential of gossip over her scandalous past.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I can’t see how running from Thorne is any scandal,” Sloane interjected. “Anyone with sense would do so. I find it far stranger that she stopped.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marcus chuckled. “Yes, he is a dull one, isn’t he? But I suspect Noelle livens him up. Still, the wedding offers more excitement than that. Lady Lockwood can always be counted on to cause some sort of contretemps…though hopefully she will not bring her dog. Of course Lord Edgerton will be there. I believe he annoys her ladyship even more than her first son-in-law—who knows what barbs she will cast his way?” He paused, then added, “And just imagine the stir if you show up.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane grunted and slid back from the table, standing. “Which is precisely why I am not going to the wedding.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course not. That’s why you haven’t tossed out that invitation. Why you were sitting there mooning over it when I came in.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I wasn’t mooning over anything. I was just…” He trailed off his sentence with a grimace.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You were just contemplating whether facing down your relatives outweighed the prospect of seeing Annabeth Winfield.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about facing my relatives.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ah…then it’s whether seeing Annabeth is worth the pain.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Don’t be absurd.” Sloane’s voice held little conviction, and he turned away, walking over to the window. He crossed his arms and gazed out at the street below. A moment passed, and he said in a quiet voice, “It would be foolish to see her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No doubt.” Marcus let out a sigh. “The foolish things are always the ones you most desire.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve done well enough not seeing her for eleven years.” Being out of the country most of that time had helped. But even since he returned to England, Sloane had avoided Annabeth—well, maybe there was that one time when he first returned and he’d stood outside Lady Lockwood’s house in the dark to get a glimpse of Annabeth coming down the front steps and getting into a carriage. With Nathan. Sloane’s lips tightened at the thought.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It had come as something of a shock to see her at Stonecliffe two months ago. He had not realized that she and Lady Lockwood were visiting or he wouldn’t have gone there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But as he had stood in the entryway with Noelle and the others, a door had opened down the hall, and there she had been: her soft brown hair in a little disarray, her face faintly flushed from activity, carrying a basket full of flowers. And in the moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stare. She was as lovely as ever. And he was as dumbstruck as ever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d turned and left like someone had shot at him. He wasn’t sure whether he even tossed a goodbye to Noelle and Carlisle. And bloody Nathan—of course he’d been there. That moment had disrupted Sloane’s carefully nurtured indifference, and even after his heart stopped beating like a madman’s and he’d reminded himself that he’d gotten over her years ago, he had not been able to keep his mind from going back to Annabeth time after time. Like a tongue returning to a bad tooth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Behind him his father said, “Why do you continue like this? Why don’t you go to see her, tell her how you feel?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane snorted. “I’d have to fight my way through the butler and probably Lady Lockwood, too, to talk to her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve never known you to avoid a fight.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Maybe not. But I can’t fight Annabeth. And she’s the one who hates me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“How do you know that?” Marcus persisted. “She’s never married in all this time. She has no money, of course, but a sweet, pretty girl like that? She’s bound to have had plenty of offers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No doubt.” Sloane’s jaw tightened. “But that doesn’t mean she’s been pining after me. I broke her heart. I knew I was breaking her heart. And the fact that I broke mine as well wouldn’t have made her feel any better or despise me any less.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why don’t you tell her the truth?” His father’s voice turned sharp, his usual affability gone. “Explain what you did. Why you did it. Tell her that bastard Asquith blackmailed you into it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sloane whirled, his eyes flashing. “I can’t tell her that. The truth would cause her just as much pain now as it would have then. I knew when I did it that I was sacrificing her love for a lifetime. I just thought my lifetime wouldn’t last very long.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Letting out a disgusted noise, Sloane started out of the room. Before he’d taken two steps, there was a furious pounding at the front door. Frowning, he turned toward it. The pounding continued, along with someone shouting his name. Sloane reached the entry hall just as the footman opened the door and began an indignant dressing-down of the boy before him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But the boy on the doorstep paid no attention and shoved his way past the footman, calling again. “Mr. Rutherford!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Timmy.” Sloane strode toward the door, alarm rising in him. “What is it? What the devil are—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s the docks, sir. Mr. Haskell sent me. You’ve got to come quick. The new warehouse is on fire.”</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from A Rogue at Stonecliffe by Candance Camp. Copyright © 2023 by Candace Camp and Anastasia Camp Hopcus. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span></span><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLEPaz3dYEeBr5tf3ZVsCPD4akY0O7qkwgKftZ63Q0q92aFORy5JRqdDBFW_HRfEbsKeHFBFhd34vdZkAtSgfwM5aqKscj_2Z2DKieI74OjcMFR3fGsLhVoDJEtK8nPCVKsa5cJC7zv1aU9xJko6xIms-jKC1RezgyYIg48QNQNIKskl-E2-A2hRfVTiA/s2172/Candace%20Camp%20credit%20Anastasia%20Hopcus.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLEPaz3dYEeBr5tf3ZVsCPD4akY0O7qkwgKftZ63Q0q92aFORy5JRqdDBFW_HRfEbsKeHFBFhd34vdZkAtSgfwM5aqKscj_2Z2DKieI74OjcMFR3fGsLhVoDJEtK8nPCVKsa5cJC7zv1aU9xJko6xIms-jKC1RezgyYIg48QNQNIKskl-E2-A2hRfVTiA/s320/Candace%20Camp%20credit%20Anastasia%20Hopcus.jpg" /></a></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Anastasia Hopcus</span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Candace Camp is a New York Times bestselling author of over sixty novels of contemporary and historical romance. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned a law degree and practiced law before making the decision to write full-time. She has received several writing awards, including the RT Book Reviews Lifetime Achievement Award for Western Romances. Visit her at <a href="http://www.candace-camp.com">www.candace-camp.com</a>.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links:</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://candace-camp.com" style="font-weight: bold;">Author Website</a><b> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/CandaceCampauthor/">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/candacecampauthor/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/campcandace?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor">Twitter</a></b></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-57667129210597957502023-07-05T00:30:00.000-07:002023-07-05T00:30:00.133-07:00HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Housekeepers by Alex Hay<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleIFPXe2jBSO7wTPIYNuKMF3bCdGaPEZZtSL5E18-zQwOq5gq2oDk-zbHUh2lXf339xAMyLEeHVfFiCzI6_zPnNmU6BfOTWB1KnElFZaunVo1wLvu94ELdyUL5MqX2GgucruBUxgynvo-ENQDvGe086iuMHpC54MSojLXzwV48AvaR5q4f0lXI-kRA/s1600/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleIFPXe2jBSO7wTPIYNuKMF3bCdGaPEZZtSL5E18-zQwOq5gq2oDk-zbHUh2lXf339xAMyLEeHVfFiCzI6_zPnNmU6BfOTWB1KnElFZaunVo1wLvu94ELdyUL5MqX2GgucruBUxgynvo-ENQDvGe086iuMHpC54MSojLXzwV48AvaR5q4f0lXI-kRA/w400-h100/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhbMlRllACLcFbrw33Tr4f-2As23NHHW6D35tXf46DqDrNBEFNJwjAiY3qmj9dRazzWpnR5WGuffliYqlltLreDBxMRszi9nc57a3fAyazcQudxVXe0JXWJHrGhBDaXGi4zEIDCvyE_d-f2RQQkgOWKwOTyLkGhJJFEPjnS3TbCqE29oRFWUbhm12bA/s3700/The%20Housekeepers%20Cover.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhbMlRllACLcFbrw33Tr4f-2As23NHHW6D35tXf46DqDrNBEFNJwjAiY3qmj9dRazzWpnR5WGuffliYqlltLreDBxMRszi9nc57a3fAyazcQudxVXe0JXWJHrGhBDaXGi4zEIDCvyE_d-f2RQQkgOWKwOTyLkGhJJFEPjnS3TbCqE29oRFWUbhm12bA/w264-h400/The%20Housekeepers%20Cover.jpg" width="264" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62197595-the-housekeepers?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=kvXdrhkhAb&rank=3"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXSKDokq4shdUZQ8Q5M6ML-_xNM7R3mgWg0XEGoqI5L-NHCrQQPbtpQ1AdHrNSuIiU1yyYdDxjXXu5pzh07cpZbvqRqQf_xqG3_KvmkZEshtI7SdFCuMEBg_lTKH1x7-0YazGB1Ibvl38OjluL1AFnGel8xneDZqTF86aBGKi83NhgN4KzMdvdhdQWg/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The night of London's grandest ball, a bold group of women downstairs launch a daring revenge heist against Mayfair society in this dazzling historical novel about power, gender, and class</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. King is no ordinary housekeeper. Born into a world of con artists and thieves, she’s made herself respectable, running the grandest home in Mayfair. The place is packed with treasures, a glittering symbol of wealth and power, but dark secrets lurk in the shadows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When Mrs. King is suddenly dismissed from her position, she recruits an eclectic group of women to join her in revenge: A black market queen out to settle her scores. An actress desperate for a magnificent part. A seamstress dreaming of a better life. And Mrs. King’s predecessor, with her own desire for vengeance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Their plan? On the night of the house’s highly anticipated costume ball—set to be the most illustrious of the year—they will rob it of its every possession, right under the noses of the distinguished guests and their elusive heiress host. But there’s one thing Mrs. King wants even more than money: the truth. And she’ll run any risk to get it…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After all, one should never underestimate the women downstairs.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links:</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-housekeepers-alex-hay/18794135?ean=9781525805004">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-housekeepers-alex-hay?variant=40912960946210">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-housekeepers-alex-hay/1142080806?ean=9781525805004">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Housekeepers/Alex-Hay/9781525805004?id=8292090795540">Books A Million</a> </div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Housekeepers-Novel-Alex-Hay/dp/1525805002/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+housekeepers+alex+hay&qid=1686235709&s=books&sprefix=the+housekeepers+alex%2Cstripbooks%2C122&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE41s6WWd543WFSawJ5By9gP9OIEcnl8iFIw8_BQ-JwAngOG9wSguc1Q_weqBVA-7hBmUQ7XSJFSP9q91nAH00Az3lTS2Bxg9IIsHG4f-0DSfQo-o3aeYsjpqyQHxtJMK53BxD0pZ0n7A2ME01dOWpPw7aR9k-1e_CPnrExj0TJDaxmiGSIFEG4hJ98w/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE41s6WWd543WFSawJ5By9gP9OIEcnl8iFIw8_BQ-JwAngOG9wSguc1Q_weqBVA-7hBmUQ7XSJFSP9q91nAH00Az3lTS2Bxg9IIsHG4f-0DSfQo-o3aeYsjpqyQHxtJMK53BxD0pZ0n7A2ME01dOWpPw7aR9k-1e_CPnrExj0TJDaxmiGSIFEG4hJ98w/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday June 2, 1905</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Park Lane, London</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. King laid out all the knives on the kitchen table. She didn’t do it to frighten Mr. Shepherd, although she knew he would be frightened, but just to make the point. She kept good knives. She took excellent care of them. This was her kitchen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They had scrubbed the room to within an inch of its life, as if to prevent contamination. The tabletop was still damp. She could feel the house straining, a mountain of marble and iron and glass, pipes shuddering overhead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She reckoned she had twenty minutes until they threw her out. Madam was awake and on the prowl, up in the vast ivory stillness of the bedroom floor, and they were already late with breakfast. It was important that Mrs. King didn’t waste time. Or endanger anyone else. She didn’t care what they did to her—she was past caring about that—but troubles had a way of multiplying, sending out tendrils, catching other people. She moved fast, going from drawer to drawer, checking, rummaging. She was looking for a wrinkle in things, a missing piece, something out of place. But everything was in perfect order.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Too perfect, she thought, skin prickling.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A shadow fell across the wall.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ll need your keys, please, Mrs. King.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She could smell Mr. Shepherd standing behind her. It was the odor that came off his skin, the fried-up scent of grease and gentleman’s musk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Breathe, she told herself. She turned to face him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He made an excellent butler. But he’d have done even better as a priest. He had that air about him, so tremendously pious. He stared at her, feasting his eyes on her, loving every minute of this.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Good morning, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, voice smooth, same as every morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. King’s rule was: choose your first move wisely, and you could steer things any way you liked. Choose it badly, and you’d get boxed into a corner, pummeled to pulp. Mr. Shepherd pursed his lips. He had a strange mouth, a nasty little rosebud.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Keys,” he said, holding out his hand.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Straight to business, then. She circled him, making her approach. She wanted to capture a picture of his face in her mind. It would be very helpful later, once things were properly underway. It would give her all the encouragement she needed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m still doing my rounds, Mr. Shepherd,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He took a tiny step back, to preserve the distance between them. “No need for that now, Mrs. King,” he said, eyeing the door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The other servants were eavesdropping in the kitchen passage. She could feel them, folded just out of sight, contained in the shadows. She placed them like chess pieces in her mind. The chauffeur and the groomsman in the yard, the housemaids on the back stairs. Cook in the pantry, entirely agitated, twisting her handkerchief into indignant knots. William, sequestered in Mr. Shepherd’s office, under close guard. Alice Parker upstairs, keeping well out of trouble. Each of them watching the clock. The entire house was waiting, motion suspended.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I never leave my work half-finished, Mr. Shepherd,” she said as she slid around him. “You know that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And she made for the door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She saw figures scattering, ducking into pantries and offices. Her boots echoed hard on the flagstones. She felt the cold, damp breeze coming down from the back stairs and wondered, Will I miss it? The chill. The unforgiving scent of carbolic on the air. It wasn’t nice, not at all, but it was familiar. It was funny how you got used to things after so much time. Frightening, even.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Shepherd followed her. He was like an eel, heavy and vicious, and he moved fast when he wanted to.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Mrs. King,” he called, “we saw you in the gentlemen’s quarters last night.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know,” said Mrs. King over her shoulder.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A steep staircase ran from the kitchen passage up to the front hall. She kept her eyes fixed on the green baize door at the top. It was a partition between worlds. On the other side the air thinned and the light became frosted around the edges. “Don’t go up there,” called Shepherd.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. King didn’t care for this. Being ordered about by Shepherd made the inside of her nose itch. “I’ve things to check,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He continued to follow, sending a tremor through the staircase.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Come on, thought Mrs. King, chase me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You stay right here,” he said, reaching to pull her back.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She stopped on the staircase. She wouldn’t run from Shepherd.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He got her by the wrist, his stubby fingers pressing into her veins. His breath smelled stale, but she didn’t recoil. She did the thing he hated most. Looked him straight in the eye.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He said, “What were you doing last night, Mrs. King?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shepherd had begun balding over the years, and all he had left were scrubby little hairs dotted right across his brow. Yet still he slicked them with oil. No doubt he waxed them every morning, one by one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Perhaps I was sleepwalking.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Perhaps?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, perhaps.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Shepherd loosened his grip slightly. She saw him calculating. “Well. That might change things. I could explain that to Madam.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But, then again,” she said, “perhaps I was wide-awake.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Shepherd pressed her wrist to the banister. “Keys, Mrs. King.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She peered up at the green baize door. The house loomed over her, vast and unreachable. The answer she needed was up there. She knew it. Hidden, or sliced into bits, but there. Somewhere. Waiting to be found.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I’ll just have to come back and get it, she thought.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She took him to the housekeeper’s room, her room, and he stood guard in the doorway, blocking the light. Already it seemed to belong to her past. It wasn’t cozy, just cramped. On the table was the master’s present to her. Four weeks before, she’d marked her birthday, her neat and tidy thirty-fifth. The master had given her a prayer book. He gave them all prayer books, gilt edging, satin ribbons.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She held her head up as she handed Mr. Shepherd the keys.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Any others?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shook her head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We’ll see to your personal effects. You can come and collect them in…” He considered this. “In due course.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. King shrugged. They could inspect her bedroom and sniff the sheets and lick the washbasin all they liked. Even give away her uniforms, if it pleased them. Serge dresses, plain ribbons, tight collars. You could construct any sort of person with those. “Best to choose a new name,” they’d told her when she’d first arrived, and she chose King. They frowned, not liking it—but she held firm: she chose it because it made her feel strong, unassailable. The Mrs. came later, when she made housekeeper. There was no Mr. King, of course.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She kept her navy coat and her hatpins, and everything else she folded away into her black leather Gladstone. There was only one more thing she needed to remove. Pulling open a drawer in the bureau, she rummaged for a pack of papers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She threw them on the fire. One neat move.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Shepherd took a step. “What are those?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The menus,” said Mrs. King, all the muscles in her chest tight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The packet was held together with a ribbon, and she watched it darken on the fire. Red turning brown, then black.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The what?” His eyes hurried around the room, disturbed, as if he were looking for things he’d missed, secrets stuffed and hidden in the walls.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“For Miss de Vries’s ball,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Shepherd stared at her. “Madam won’t like it that you did that.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve settled all the arrangements,” Mrs. King said with a cool smile. “She can take it from here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She studied the ribbon on the grate. It was satin no longer, simply earth and ash. How quickly it changed, dematerialized. How completely it transformed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shepherd marched her through the servants’ hall to the mews yard, but he didn’t touch her again. They passed the portrait of the master hanging above the long table. The frame had been draped with black cloth. She wondered when Shepherd would replace the portrait, now that the funeral had passed, now he’d been buried. Would he put up one of Madam instead, something in soft oils and lavender? It would give everyone the willies if he did. That girl’s eyes were like pincers. She guessed Shepherd would delay as long as he could. He’d be mourning his master longer than anyone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I hope you’re watching from heaven, she said inwardly, looking at the portrait. Or wherever you’ve landed. I hope you see it all play out. I hope they pin your eyes open so you have to watch what I do to this house.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The house. She’d admired it, once. It was bigger than any other on Park Lane. A sprawling mass of pillars and bays, seven floors high from cellars to attics. Newly built, all diamond money, glinting white. It obliterated the light, shriveled everything around it. The neighbors hated it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Had any house in London ever been decorated in such sumptuous and stupendous style? Miles of ice-cold marble and gleaming parquet. Walls trimmed with French silks and rococo paneling and columns. Electricity everywhere, voltage throbbing through the walls, electroliers as big as windmills. Enormous gas fires. Acres of glass, all smelling wildly of vinegar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And everywhere, in every room, from floor to ceiling, such treasures: stupendous Van Dycks, giant crystal bowls stuffed with carnations. Objets d’art in gold and silver and jade, cherubs with rubies for eyes and emeralds for toenails. The zebra-hide sofas in the saloon, and the baccarat tables made of ivory and walnut, and the pink-and-onyx flamingos outside the bathrooms. That library, with the most expensive private collection in Mayfair. The Boiserie, the Red Parlor, the Oval Drawing Room, the ballroom: all dressed with peacock feathers and lapis lazuli and an endless supply of lilies.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They didn’t impress Mrs. King at all anymore.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She didn’t shake hands with Mr. Shepherd. “I shall keep you in my prayers, Mrs. King,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Do.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She supposed the upstairs servants were already clearing out her room. The girls would be scrubbing the floorboards with boiling water and soda crystals and taking the bedsheets to be laundered, eliminating any trace of her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was important that she didn’t look over her shoulder on the way out. The wrong look at the wrong person could betray her, spoil things when they were only just underway. A pigeon landed on the portico of the gigantic marbled mausoleum as she crossed the yard. She didn’t give it a second glance, didn’t dip her head in respect to the old master. She marched straight past instead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She stepped into the mews lane, alone. Heard the distant rumble of motors, saw a clutch of wild poppies growing out of a crack in the paving stones. They were being neglected, trampled, yearning upward to the sky. She plucked one, pressed a fragile crimson petal in her palm, held it warm. She took it with her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her first theft.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Or, rather, the first correction. It wasn’t simply stealing, not at all.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Housekeepers by Alex Hay. Copyright © 2023 by Alex Hay. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><u>About the Author</u></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtI82xmQ-XfCLeOOR8iIbMZxuApluZZhP7mEPuRggMkK1bAvxo4yQKWu0q7iW8Rt9dNGdYeB7mxpmhBYNlNg-zbB1Wr_x9g5BulFKLSBr2jdU5fm8MvMj0Tx5jpjVPQ4IFnlhb8Hqnal5RUaPTtSt3z2Ivcj24OXiZ7P7Tua9ggnsnyirGIIbVURZAmg/s1280/Alex%20Hay%20Author%20Photo.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtI82xmQ-XfCLeOOR8iIbMZxuApluZZhP7mEPuRggMkK1bAvxo4yQKWu0q7iW8Rt9dNGdYeB7mxpmhBYNlNg-zbB1Wr_x9g5BulFKLSBr2jdU5fm8MvMj0Tx5jpjVPQ4IFnlhb8Hqnal5RUaPTtSt3z2Ivcj24OXiZ7P7Tua9ggnsnyirGIIbVURZAmg/s320/Alex%20Hay%20Author%20Photo.jpeg" /></a></span></b></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ALEX HAY grew up in the United Kingdom in Cambridge and Cardiff, and has been writing as long as he can remember. He studied history at the University of York, and wrote his dissertation on female power at royal courts, combing the archives for every scrap of drama and skulduggery he could find. He has worked in magazine publishing and the charity sector and lives with his husband in London. The Housekeepers is his debut novel and won the Caledonia Novel Award.</span><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Social Links:</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://alexhaybooks.com/" style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"></span></a><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://alexhaybooks.com/">Author Website</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/AlexHayBooks">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/alexhaybooks/">Instagram</a> | </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1556322.Alex_Hay" style="text-align: center;">Goodreads</a></div></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-50155038088677978012023-06-27T00:30:00.049-07:002023-07-05T11:05:20.866-07:00HTP Spring Reads Blog Tour (Romance Edition) Promo Post: Whispers at Dusk by Heather Graham<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6li9eGbHHDSnsZX7GQXJumMC0Rj6VzKZCGjozjoNQ_O7ajujyjxwDf4PVuERVgbws-jjzAZKe7UJMQWx_kuAAmhyK-rL20pSOEykoJ_J19Sq6DTBS54QUPG66AYbjaQtPCd9Xv6WBzhLIdd3yxxTPfZ2Aappx4ZAqjmZXrlSidNblWEdls_3iGS6E-A8/s1600/Banner.jpg"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6li9eGbHHDSnsZX7GQXJumMC0Rj6VzKZCGjozjoNQ_O7ajujyjxwDf4PVuERVgbws-jjzAZKe7UJMQWx_kuAAmhyK-rL20pSOEykoJ_J19Sq6DTBS54QUPG66AYbjaQtPCd9Xv6WBzhLIdd3yxxTPfZ2Aappx4ZAqjmZXrlSidNblWEdls_3iGS6E-A8/w400-h100/Banner.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G144rqFzd2MBtovqTKJLrxMEHYe7cezYlyj_oyHNM_4I3rrwOLKJmzKxJoMZ-tswCh1K5TiZgvvO9h-Cv8U-41vDqKwBNY9A-JqvCfyL4SMTs954f0Hqmk_OwEKgAbZefk8ajxZIIQ_nNWuuUUV1gpRdTaWL48MwRk7Ws4fVii5PiIdHaNEuRdWzrwNH/s2674/Whispers%20at%20Dusk.png"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G144rqFzd2MBtovqTKJLrxMEHYe7cezYlyj_oyHNM_4I3rrwOLKJmzKxJoMZ-tswCh1K5TiZgvvO9h-Cv8U-41vDqKwBNY9A-JqvCfyL4SMTs954f0Hqmk_OwEKgAbZefk8ajxZIIQ_nNWuuUUV1gpRdTaWL48MwRk7Ws4fVii5PiIdHaNEuRdWzrwNH/w254-h400/Whispers%20at%20Dusk.png" width="254" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62924831-whispers-at-dusk?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=rXLiO4sarg&rank=1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg843Il50BGxiE9bEwxR1cipMInE_sk6tUT7wWVMU7vUD3F6cajPLcUp3UIiiPCkjFlB5zf3MhFADZ-j804gLtksXgYXSXY0LlaTFgEP479zFhGgj-GQLD-mGSoKPTtRHNkuPAGW2q5ip2QDqY0Xoz5ITAXW64v-VfPacUykTYokpBo0DLTfoyflnIoSZSw/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br />Don't miss the first book in the brand-new, suspense-filled trilogy spinning out of Heather Graham's popular Krewe of Hunters series!<br /><br /></span></b><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Krewe of Hunters goes international with the introduction of Blackbird, a brand new team of operatives bringing justice, and their unique talent of speaking to the dead, to Europe!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They've barely finished stopping one serial killer on American soil before FBI agents Della Hamilton and Mason Carter are brought into the fold and sitting in a jet bound for Norway. A disturbed individual has been killing their way across the continent, starting in the United Kingdom and eventually making their way to the sleepy town of Lillehammer. The victims have been left completely drained of blood, with two telltale pinpricks in their necks! As the body count rises the couple must bring all of their abilities to bear as they work to uncover the identity of this vampire killer and put a stop to the terror they've begun to inspire.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/whispers-at-dusk/18847341?ean=9780778333562">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/whispers-at-dusk-heather-graham?variant=40993010090018">Harlequin</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/whispers-at-dusk-heather-graham/1142347224?ean=9780778333562">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Whispers-Dusk-Novel-Blackbird-Trilogy/dp/0778333566/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1WJ3H2SUDMNY9&keywords=Whispers+at+dusk&qid=1687578784&s=books&sprefix=whispers+at+dusk%2Cstripbooks%2C239&sr=1-1">Amazon</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Whispers-Dusk/Heather-Graham/9780778333562?id=8875782594791">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://www.powells.com/book/whispers-at-dusk-a-novel-9780778333562">Powell’s</a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPKv0LB_Z85qjZSRfKciYDts_vVghpW0aNWWk6BnP2wQ4te_nvh99_4cvQSd8MaeAiJZVuvL5-hgXQWszimF7FmI2Q6l8QnHc0h_Lc2UX9CujUf8XW4Q0BMXU4EWH1-yk3t4lO3w7uB0HCPdmwjER3Lh11DGQqMeBIvrd7f7tMsh8DUDt8F_LrLwV_7PH/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPKv0LB_Z85qjZSRfKciYDts_vVghpW0aNWWk6BnP2wQ4te_nvh99_4cvQSd8MaeAiJZVuvL5-hgXQWszimF7FmI2Q6l8QnHc0h_Lc2UX9CujUf8XW4Q0BMXU4EWH1-yk3t4lO3w7uB0HCPdmwjER3Lh11DGQqMeBIvrd7f7tMsh8DUDt8F_LrLwV_7PH/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 1</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason Carter knew he had backup. The man now holding seventeen-year-old Melissa Wells hostage had been busy for months, and law enforcement across the country had been on his tail. Spread about in various positions outside, an FBI SWAT crew was situated along with local police who knew the area well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Still, they were in bayou country surrounded by snake-and alligator-infested waters and a range of high grasses, trees, and brush that might hinder any assistance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Though he’d left a trail of carnage across the country by taking nine victims along the way, the killer’s identity was unknown. He’d left behind fingerprints, but they couldn’t be found in any database, and nothing else discovered by any agency across the country had given them a single clue toward discovering his identity. The truth existed somewhere; it just hadn’t been found as yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d been labeled the Midnight Slasher since most of his abductions and kills had been after midnight. His note—handwritten and mailed from Las Vegas to the NYC FBI offices—had assured them he was fond of his moniker, and he’d try to make sure his murders did, indeed, occur after midnight in the future. He’d really have preferred being the Vampire, but that name had already gone to a coworker who was busy in Europe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Coworker?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason knew about murders that were being called “the vampire killings” in Europe. He doubted this man and the European madman knew each other, though it appeared they were trying to outdo one another.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But then again, he didn’t really know.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maybe this killer needed the moniker because he was such an ordinary-looking man. Not exactly handsome—cute might be a term applied to him. He didn’t appear at all insane or creepy as some seemed to think he must appear, not at all as people might think a maniacal killer should look.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was about twenty-seven—the profilers had been right on his age—six feet even, perhaps a hundred and seventy pounds, with shaggy dirty blond hair, a clean-shaven face and friendly brown eyes. He smiled a lot. Mason could see how he’d managed easily enough to charm or coerce his victims out with him to a place where they might be alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And here they were. Mason had trailed the killer from Virginia and had suspected from the few clues he’d been told by the locals that the man would steal a boat and bring his victim far into the bayou. He’d been at the forefront of the investigation, and he called in as he made his way, seeking help from any and all law enforcement agency so they might really end the reign of the Midnight Slasher with a true force against him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But Mason was the one who now stood alone, facing the man who held the teenaged girl, his blood-stained knife held so tightly to her throat that a trickle of blood ran down to her collarbone. Her terror-filled eyes were on Mason. She didn’t want to die.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason didn’t want her to die, either.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was a good shot—but he’d still have to be at his fastest to hit the man before the knife could slide into the soft flesh of her throat and on to arteries and veins and…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Okay, Midnight Slasher,” he said, his Glock trained hard on the man, “do you really want to die today?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve been here before, and I’m still alive!” the killer said. The girl let out a terrified whimper; the killer had jerked with his words. Another trail of blood slid down to her collarbone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know. You’re in bayou country now. With people who know it well,” Mason said, shrugging.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was truly doubtful the man would survive the day if he didn’t surrender, but Mason was telling the truth. And it was true, too, that before Mason had been called in on the case, the killer had escaped a similar situation in the Shenandoah mountains.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had killed his hostage and tossed her to his would-be captors before escaping.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Backup wasn’t going to help.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Not here. Not now. While agents and officers might be all around, Mason was alone in the cabin with the man. His backup crew was holding. They all knew if the killer heard anyone trying to enter from the rear or break down any of the old wooden walls, the girl would die.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You can do it, and there is no choice,” a voice whispered to Mason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was alone in the cabin with the killer—and with the ghost of one Gideon Grimsby, an Englishman who had come to the new world to meet, befriend, and then serve under the legendary Jean Laffite. He had fought at the Battle of New Orleans. Gideon had survived the battle, fallen in love and changed his ways—only to be shot down in the street by a vengeful man who had once coveted the beauty who had become Gideon’s wife.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Now, Gideon enjoyed the music of New Orleans, watched over his descendants and tended to haunt Frenchman Street. But having realized Mason was aware of him at a lounge one night, he’d discovered his afterlife of being a ghostly—and very helpful—investigator as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Do it. Do it, Mason lad, you must!” Gideon said. “He’s going to kill her. The officers and agents outside will lose patience. They’ll seek entry as you know they must. And this rotten beast will die, but so will she. Dammit, man, take your shot!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I have to be sure!” Mason said the words aloud and cursed himself. He was accustomed to seeing the dead. And he’d learned before he was ten not to be seen talking to them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But maybe this time it was good.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Who the hell are you talking to?” the killer demanded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason made a split-second decision and shrugged, saying, “I guess you can’t see him. Gideon is here. You’d have liked him. He was a pirate. Well, he was, but then cleaned up his act. And sadly wound up being murdered, but he’s enjoying his afterlife.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Man, they think I’m crazy. You’re crazy!” the killer said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There was suddenly a gentle tap at the door to the cabin, surprising both Mason and the killer. Mason knew he frowned as the killer frowned. No one was bursting in; it was a gentle and polite tap.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The killer’s young hostage let out a terrified squeak as the knife drew closer against her flesh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What the hell?” the killer murmured. “You—you go and see what those idiots outside want. Because I’m telling you, you can kill me today, but she will die with me.” He laughed. “Maybe the two of us can haunt you, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“God help me,” Mason murmured. “Fine. You want me to check the door?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah. I want to see who is trying what.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His gun still trained on the killer, Mason backed to the door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We don’t need any disruptions here,” he said loudly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m not a disruption,” a female voice said. “I’m unarmed. I just wanted to offer to trade myself for Melissa Wells.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What?” Mason demanded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Open the door, check her out. See if she’s really unarmed,” the killer said. “And don’t forget—if I’m going, she’s going with me!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason cracked the door open. There was a woman standing there, mid-to late-twenties, about five foot eight with long light brown hair and a striking thin face. She was wearing black knit leggings and a tunic and lifted her arms to show that she carried nothing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m really a better choice,” she said, looking around Mason to see and talk to the killer. “Think of it! If you don’t manage to escape and get out of this or if you do, you’ll have killed a special agent or used her for your escape. I’m Della Hamilton, FBI. And I know you like your victims to have long hair. My hair is long and I’m the right age… Come on. This kid is a teenager. So far, you’ve at least chosen victims who were out of high school!” She paused, shaking her head. “You have a reputation. You’re a famous killer—don’t sully all that by having people think you were a pedophile.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Apparently, she’d said just the right thing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I am not a pedophile!” the Midnight Slasher protested. “That’s disgusting. I haven’t gotten it down right yet, but I’m working on it, and I will be a master! I will learn to… Well, never mind! I will achieve what is necessary!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Whatever,” Mason said dryly. “And she has one hell of a point, I mean, you want to be a master killer, get it all right…perfect it all. But you don’t want to be remembered as a pedophile. That would…well, ruin your whole legacy.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah, yeah… I never touched any of them. Except to kill them. And I was going to get it all right this time, but you found a stupid boat and followed me and… Ah, screw it! But you’re right. The pretty girl at the door can get me out of here, or… Well, I will be known for having killed a special agent! Yeah! Get in here, Special Agent Whoever. You come straight to me. When I can switch the knife over, this kid can go. But you need to know—if I die today, you die, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m willing to accept that,” Special Agent Della Hamilton said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The killer laughed. “Suicidal, eh?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, I just think I can talk you down,” she said. “And frankly, you fascinate me! Your mind is so amazing! And I’m older, okay, and maybe this is only in my own mind, but I think I’m…well, sexier, grown-up, and just a better choice for a victim all the way around. If you want to be famous—kill an agent!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Talk me down? I don’t think so. But I fascinate you? And you really are pretty damned gorgeous, so…hmm. Okay, lady, come on.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I am coming—when this guy lets me!” she said, smiling and shrugging to Mason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Let her by!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She wants you to take the shot during the exchange!” the ghost of Gideon Grimsby said. The ghost’s presence was near him. He all but whispered in Mason’s ear, almost startling him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But Mason was staring at Della Hamilton, and she nodded at the words. As if she had heard them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Had she?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d heard there were others like him. He’d even heard there was a special “ghostbusters” unit in the Bureau with some nothing title like Special Circumstances Unit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He inclined his head; she blinked, letting him know she had the message.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m coming over…slowly, slowly, and I’ll back up so you can free Melissa and get the knife right on me…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She walked to him just as she had said she would do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The killer moved the knife to push Melissa forward and reach out for Della Hamilton. And as he did, Della Hamilton dropped down, shouting, “Now!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And Mason fired.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Melissa leaned to the side; Della was hunkered close to the floor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The bullet hit the killer dead center in the forehead. While Melissa shrieked and cried with relief, the Midnight Slasher fell without a whimper.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The killer was dead. The reign of the Midnight Slasher had come to an end.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The wrap-up and the paperwork had just begun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Naturally, there was chaos at first as other agents and police rushed in. The medical examiner and forensics arrived, and officers held the press at bay. Melissa’s parents were called, but before she raced down to meet them, she fell hysterically into the arms of Della Hamilton and then Mason, telling them, “Oh, my God, thank you, thank you! Thank you, both. You saved my life!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason assured her he was grateful she was alive, as did Della Hamilton.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gideon Grimsby stood by the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, a proud look on his face. Well, the ghost did like helping.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason saw Della Hamilton manage a wave and a nod and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to Gideon at one point. Gideon smiled and nodded in return.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason turned in his firearm as necessary and was surprised to hear that a counselor was waiting to see him in the city. His Glock would be returned in the morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Things never happened that fast. He knew something was going on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason was hailed by the waiting officers and agents, and he knew everyone was relieved a serial killer’s spree had come to an end. He wished he could feel celebratory, and he knew he had carried out the only feasible action. But he didn’t feel celebratory, just weary.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Of course, it had been just minutes before midnight when they’d taken down the slasher. With all the aftermath, it was the next day before anyone left the bayou country. And because of where they were, the press had finally arrived, but thankfully, by then the action was over and officers arranged to maintain the crime scene. People had a right to know what was going on but keeping details of such an event within ranks might prove to be extremely important.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was ordered back to the city and the office before Della Hamilton finished a discussion with a member of the forensic team.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He didn’t see her again until they were finishing the last of the paperwork on the case and by then everyone involved was about to keel over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sleep was in order. When he was finally able to return to his hotel, he had no trouble crashing down into a sound sleep—despite the fact that dawn had arrived long ago and the sun was shining brightly beyond the heavy drapes that covered his windows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He woke in the middle of the afternoon. An evening left in NOLA, time to finish up any necessary business, and then a flight back to the DC area in the morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Luckily, they’d been so far back in the bayou country the media hadn’t seen any of the takedown. And when asked, he assured the local powers that be he didn’t want his name seen anywhere, which was the right policy as known field agents could be at risk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A press release saying the Bureau had rescued the Slasher’s latest victim and the man had been killed in the operation was just fine with Mason. He wondered if Della Hamilton was going to want more recognition.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She didn’t.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason was out on Royal Street, trying to decide on a restaurant for dinner, when he looked into a shop front and saw a TV screen showing the news.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The takedown had been perceived just as he’d hoped—a joint effort by the FBI and local authorities.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A lot of his friends at the local FBI offices and police precincts he’d come to know in NOLA had wanted to get together that night. And while he truly enjoyed a lot of the camaraderie and understood the feelings of many that a celebration was in order, he just wanted to be on his own that night.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He felt as if he needed to shake something off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He decided then to go over to Magazine Street for dinner and hopefully some soothing music at one of its many restaurants. He was surprised when Gideon slid into a seat beside him there; he’d been nursing a scotch and listening to some great jazz, something that helped still his mind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You are a strange bird,” Gideon told him. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That fellow stole the greatest gift from so many—the gift of life. Mason, you stopped him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“With your help, for which I’m grateful—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And the help of Della Hamilton. I hung around her awhile earlier. She’s something, huh? As they say in your time, that girl has balls! Wait, she can’t, can she. Guts? Would that be right? She has guts!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She saw you in a flash,” Mason said. “And by the way, I am glad I brought a killer down. I’m just tired of… I took his life. I guess I hate killing.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But you love saving.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason shrugged. “I will always act in the best interests of the victim. Let’s listen to the music, huh?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Sure. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. Some bigwig with the Bureau is coming down tonight. He’s coming specifically to see you—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why? Wait a minute. Last I heard, I run by the NOLA office, pick up another agent to drop me and bring the car back for the next guy who needs it. How did you hear that? I’ll be heading back to DC tomorrow.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Maybe not,” Gideon told him. “I heard Della talking to someone on the phone when she left the offices. She was going out, but that call changed things and she didn’t. She decided she’d better get some sleep. You were busy tonight,” Gideon told him, grinning. “You don’t interrupt a counseling session, and then it was a long day! You were supposed to have some dinner, some downtime… You’ll be informed. Apparently, this is…big. A couple of people are heading down from Washington just to discuss this with you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And they informed another agent before me—about my assignment?” Mason asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m guessing it involves her,” Gideon said with a shrug. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And that would be a darned good thing. You couldn’t do better, from what I saw.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She was good, yes. But—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason groaned. Strange. He’d wanted this job; he’d worked hard for this job. But after his years in the military, now he was wondering why. He was good at what he did. He was a good investigator—largely because of a lot of help from the dead. But he was also good at killing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And it just seemed to be weighing down on him lately.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Damn you, man!” Gideon said. His accent—which he had largely lost during the many years since his death—came back strong when he was angry. “There is a seventeen-year-old girl alive and in the arms of her family because of you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And Special Agent Hamilton, of course—or mainly,” Mason said dryly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gideon nodded. “I was glad to see her. I hadn’t met her, but friends saw her when she worked a case here not too long ago. The bank robbery out of Baton Rouge. They say she tricked the three—it was a woman and two men. That she got them into position by pretending to be a lost tourist, crying and desperate to find her way back to the airboat they’d been on. Anyway, she has a way that makes her excellent in this kind of case. But you! Stop it. When there is no choice, there is no choice. That teenager from today is going to need therapy for the rest of her life most probably, but she’ll have a life. Do you know what that man—so called Midnight Slasher—did to some of his victims?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, yes, I do.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, he wasn’t a pedophile. He sliced them, Mason. Slashed and sliced them! Cut off their fingers and ears while they were still alive.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I do know,” he said calmly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason was glad he’d paid his tab. He stood. As he’d learned to do, he pretended he was on a phone call as he told Gideon, “I am so grateful she is alive—and our local intelligence knew where to find him before he could hurt her. Truly, I am. I just… I guess I wish I’d been a negotiator. I’d like to talk someone down for a change.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You talk them down when you can—you save the victim when you can’t,” Gideon said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason nodded. “Yes, I know. Guess I’m tired.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You should be. Get some sleep.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m going to.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Finish listening to the jazz. See you in the morning,” Gideon said, and then he was gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That was the problem sometimes befriending ghosts. Since they were excellent at slipping away through crowds and even walls, it was extremely difficult to have the last word with them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The following morning, just as Gideon had said, Mason found himself in an office with the “bigwigs” down from Washington.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two bigwigs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The one was an elderly man. Mason had heard of him. His name was Adam Harrison, and he was known for both his philanthropy and the fact he’d been instrumental in forming special units of the Bureau.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was with another man, this one in his forties, a striking fellow with Native American blood and a stature that indicated hours in the gym—and probably out in the field as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This man was Jackson Crow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason knew who they were. Everyone in the Bureau knew about the special, separate unit that was called in for bizarre cases that included cult activity, so-called witchcraft and cases which involved “haunted” buildings, “werewolves,” or any other strange manifestation. They had an amazing record for resolving cases, and while they were teasingly called “the ghostbusters,” the Krewe of Hunters were also highly respected.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had thought at times about seeking an interview with Adam Harrison or Jackson Crow. But he’d discovered he was good at working alone. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have children. That meant he could keep going at any time he wanted on his own—all day and into the night—when he was hot on a trail.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But now, he was intrigued.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had been called in by them. He was sure that meant they’d been observing him from afar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And they knew.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Just as he had known the truth about the Krewe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That morning, the three of them were alone in the office. When the introductions were done, Jackson Crow began his speech.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Due to recent developments, we’re forming a new team, attached to our current unit. Loosely, we’ve been referring to our new operation as Blackbird—but officially, it will be the Euro Special Assistance Team. You’ll be working with me as your immediate supervisor, and you’ll still be stationed out of our Northern Virginia offices. But you’ll be on the move a great deal—should you accept this, of course,” Jackson Crow told him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason shook his head. “Accept… I’m not sure what. I mean… Well, truthfully, I know you run a special unit, and you must know that I—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Speak to the dead. Yes, of course. Gideon didn’t fill you in?” Adam Harrison asked him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason’s brows shot up. Then he grimaced.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He’d assumed the people who were selected for this unit were found from across the country. Some were possibly found through the academy, and some because they stumbled into a case while working with other law enforcement or because they’d simply become involved.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason smiled, nodded, and leaned back. “I guess you’ve met Gideon.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We started up in New Orleans,” Jackson said. “We have many…friends here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course,” Mason acknowledged dryly. “No, Gideon didn’t tell me much. But Euro—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, we’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but the world has grown very small in the last several years. You are aware the Bureau has sixty legal attaché or legate offices around the world, as well as at least fifteen offices in our embassies in foreign countries?” Adam Harrison asked him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded. “Of course. I’ve been with the Bureau six years, ever since I got out of the service. Yes, I was aware. I admit—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We’re federal, yes, and our focus is this country. But as Adam said, it’s a small world these days, and when we have an American causing havoc abroad, conspiracies that involve Americans, felons we wish to apprehend abroad, hostage situations, and so on, we need a presence. Do we have great relationships with all countries? No. But with most of Europe and beyond, law enforcement likes to be reciprocal,” Jackson said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Okay, so…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I was asked by someone as high up in the chain as you can get to begin this project, to open support on strange cases that stretch outside of the country,” Jackson told him. “Someone who doesn’t want to admit we have help from strange places—yet still wants to make use of our rate in solving crimes and catching killers—wants us to get a team to Norway as quickly as possible. They’ve now found four bodies, stretching from France to England to Norway, completely drained of blood along with strange writing on the river embankments where the bodies have been displayed,” Jackson said. “There might have been earlier victims here in the States. They are afraid the Vampire isn’t working alone, or perhaps something even more sinister is going on. You’d work with Interpol and local police over there—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t speak Norwegian.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Neither do I. The amazing thing is most Europeans speak English or a minimum of two languages, something I wish we were better at here,” Adam said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You said ‘a team’. So—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We’ll be starting this with two agents and detectives from England, France, and Norway, as well as an Interpol liaison, a Frenchman named Bisset who seems able to get anything needed at the drop of a hat. And, you’ll be working with support back here in anything tech or forensic. You’ll be the first of a team with Special Agent Della Hamilton,” Jackson told him, then nodded his head toward the door to the office.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It opened on cue.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And Della Hamilton walked into the room, wearing a pantsuit today, her long sweep of hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Very pro. When taking down the Midnight Slasher, she had made herself appear to be all casual and cute—and naive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Today, the woman was all professional.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Della, thanks. And Mason, you, too,” Jackson Crow said. “First, we’d like you both to accept this venture. As I’ve explained, I hope you’ll still be working with me. We have Angela—my wife and one of our first Krewe members along with a few others—and an amazing team of techs and experts in our offices to help with anything at any time. We really have a great team to deal with any evidence no matter how small. They’re brilliant with video and so much more. So, here we are. We want you willing to begin this new venture, ready to accept it, and move forward. If you’re hesitant, that’s all right. We want you, for many reasons—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason was surprised to discover he was slightly amused.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’ve been stalking me?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not stalking!” Adam Harrison protested. “Heaven forbid!” Grinning, he glanced at Jackson.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course,” Jackson continued, amused as well, “we’ve done our homework. If you don’t choose to accept this assignment, we’d still appreciate you accepting a transfer to the Krewe.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’d thought about requesting an interview with you,” Mason admitted.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why didn’t you?” Jackson asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I guess I got used to working alone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And yet, you can’t imagine the amazing abilities and teamwork that exists among our people,” Jackson said. “Okay, to be blunt—no recorders in here—we know you have the ability to speak with the dead. We are a small percentage of a small percentage of the world population,” he added quietly. “You’ve never worked with anyone who was just like you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“No, I haven’t,” Mason admitted.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was silent for a minute. He turned to look at the woman who would be his partner for the enterprise, curious as to her reaction.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She was looking at Jackson, nodding. “I’ve been reading about the killer they’re calling the Vampire. He needs to be stopped—especially if he’s gaining followers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We don’t know that,” Jackson told her. “Nor can we be certain he started this in the United States—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Our killer last night wasn’t the Vampire killer on the move across the pond,” Mason said. “He was slashing throats—not drinking blood.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right,” Jackson said. “And he may not have known the Vampire, or wanted to emulate him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But…he did talk about getting it right,” Della said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Most probably not associated, but…the man you brought down was William Temple of Slidell. We’ve investigated his background and the profilers had it just right on him. He was bullied through school. He asked a girlfriend to marry him and she turned him down and took off—he drank heavily at several of the bars along Bourbon Street. He worked for one of the bayou tour companies until he was fired for unwanted attention toward female tourists—and calling them filthy names when they spurned his advances. He was evicted from his apartment off Esplanade.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A killer, but hardly a brilliant one.” Della nodded. “And again, nothing compared to the man leaving bodies in pristine condition and beauty, just devoid of blood.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The display of the victims has become important now. One of our Krewe members, also a medical examiner, believes the victims discovered in the Florida Everglades and the Blue Ridge in Virginia might have been this killer’s beginnings for murder—practice victims, one might say. They were also exsanguinated. While the throats on the victims were slit, because of other markings, Kat believes he was perfecting his ability to pierce blood vessels perfectly—and draw blood from the neck, leaving marks that could appear to be those left by vampire fangs. Right now we just know he’s on a cross-country killing spree in Europe, either on his own or with an accomplice. Interpol is on it—officers from three countries are now on it. But I’ve been asked from on high to help, so…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m in,” Della said. “Of course, you knew I would be.”</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Thank you, Della,” Jackson said. He stared at Mason. “Special Agent Carter?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I… Wow. I—I admit to being intrigued. Why us?” he asked, curious.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well, the obvious, of course. Della had been assigned to my office already when this came up. And, yes, we have watched your work.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Someone else knows your record for finding resolutions to cases. Remember, I told you voices on high in the government wanted this, and they were adamant you were the man for the job, Mason,” Adam Harrison told him. “But you’re hesitating.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason shrugged and grimaced. “No, not really. Maybe I’m afraid of failure. This is important to many people, naturally, and I am hoping I am capable to stop—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You may be afraid. We’re not,” Jackson told him. He leaned forward. “Should you choose to accept this assignment—not mission, assignment,” he added dryly, “you’ll be leaving this evening.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason lifted his hands. “I’ve been chasing the Midnight Slasher for months now. I guess I thought I’d be getting a few weeks of vacation.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You get this Vampire,” Jackson said, “and I’ll see to it you get a month’s vacation after, if you wish.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I…” Mason lifted his hands again. “Honestly, it’s not that I need or expect so much time off, I just…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You may refuse,” Jackson assured him. “This isn’t for everyone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But should you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He turned to see Della Hamilton had spoken quietly and was staring at him, again, as if she read something in him, as if she knew more than he did about himself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He didn’t know what it was about the way she was looking at him. Challenging him? Or seeing something in him he really wasn’t sure of himself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He looked from her to Adam Harrison and then to Jackson Crow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So,” he said with resolve, “we’re leaving tonight. I take it we’ll be briefed—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Every file from every country will be sent to your inboxes immediately. Along with connections here in the home office for any help you need, and bios on the members of European law enforcement you’ll be involved with. We will be planning a larger team, of course, but this came up suddenly. And they need our help. Also, one of the officials in Norway has a suspicion the Vampire might well be an American.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“American?” Mason said, surprised. “I understand there were similar killings here that might have been this killer’s start-up. But now, the display of the killings has apparently stretched from country to county. Maybe he’s gotten it all right where he wants it to be, but these killings have been in Europe—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I think, in the killer’s mind, the killings have been perfected in Europe,” Jackson said. “I believe the killer’s practices were here in America. I have been involved in this for a long time, and I consider it an educated theory. You’ll find everything you need will be sent to you, every piece of information or even supposition that we have. I’ve done all the reading on this and, trust me, there’s plenty of reading material for a long flight.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason nodded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“All right. So, tonight. When and how do we leave?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Private jet, Krewe jet,” Adam told him. The older man shrugged. “I’ve been lucky in life. The plane is my gift to special agents who are…special.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m packed and ready,” Della said. She looked at Mason.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve been living out of a suitcase here in New Orleans. I’ll get my things from the hotel.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We’ll meet up at Louis Armstrong International,” Della said, rising. She nodded to Jackson and Adam. “I know we’ll have cooperation, and I truly hope we’ll do the Bureau proud.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I know you will,” Jackson said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It took Mason less than fifteen minutes to collect his belongings from the hotel. The drive to the airport where he returned his rental car took another forty-five. He met up with Della Hamilton at the coffee bar in the terminal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’re here,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course, I’m here. I said I would be.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But you don’t seem pleased with the assignment.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m just enthralled.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You’re just enthralled,” Della murmured. “Strange choice of words.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I was obviously being sarcastic,” Mason told her dryly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I didn’t miss your tone,” she assured him. “It’s just that we’re headed for Norway. The word enthralled comes from thrall—which is what the Norse called the human beings they enslaved. People tend to think the Vikings were after gold and jewels—and they were, but they were also slave traders. They needed slaves to build their ships and sew their sails and work the land when it was workable, but they also found great wealth in the slave trade.” She paused, shaking her head. “Humanity hasn’t changed. Of course, it wasn’t just the Vikings. The Romans were big on enslaving conquered people, and so on throughout history. And still, though we try to stop it, there are still some places today that enslave others. Anyway, the conquerors could be cruel. Some of the sagas that were written in Iceland in the fourteenth century portray the invaders as great heroes—and the thralls as dull and stupid creatures who needed owners since they were fit for little more than slavery. They’ve found iron collars and chains in archaeological digs, proof of man’s treatment of man, or in slavery, more of woman. But anyway, being enthralled means you’re basically enslaved by someone or something.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Woah!” Mason said. “Woah, so, I’m traveling with a walking encyclopedia! But, hmm, you are hard on those people. Are you sure you should be going to Norway?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shook her head impatiently. “I hardly blame anyone today for the Viking age. It ended a long, long time ago. We call the Dark Ages the Dark Ages because that’s what they were—dark. Torture chambers abounded! Oh, and I love Norway and the Norwegian people. My maternal grandparents were born there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Ah, that’s why they’re sending you,” he said. “You know the terrain?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hopefully, they’re sending me because I’m a competent agent, capable of rolling with whatever comes up. And yes, I know some of the terrain, of course. We traveled fairly frequently when I was a kid.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Rich kid?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shook her head. “My parents just knew how to make travel with the family into both a fun and profitable event. My mother was an artist and my father was a great marketer—he found buyers for her work all over in ad campaigns and the like. So yes, I know and love Norway.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And the Bureau?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She shrugged. “I was majoring in criminology when an old friend suggested I use everything I have to get bad guys. I went into the academy straight from college.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A dead friend?” he asked quietly. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, a dead friend. You?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“College, the military, more college, the academy. Oh, and on the enthralled—maybe I said it just right. I get the feeling you’re something like me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, I doubt that! And why—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Because work became your life at some point. Basically, we’re slaves to it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Della shook her head. “Not true. Or I don’t see it that way. I’m still dedicated. I believe in what we’re doing, and the fact we can get help sometimes from those who are gone—that not everyone can—is amazing. Don’t you believe in what we’re doing?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mason hesitated. “Yes, of course. Okay, honestly? I just… I don’t want to kill anymore. Maybe what I thought I needed was a breather. Not that I would have preferred to have been killed myself, I mean…” He paused. He barely knew Della Hamilton, and he wasn’t really ready to pour his heart out to her. But…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Seeing so much death,” he continued, “I’ve gained a marked appreciation for life. I have never killed in any circumstance in which I wasn’t being shot at myself or in a situation in which it was necessary to protect another—an innocent, someone stunned and terrified to suddenly find themselves the target of a killer, or in the middle of a crime, war, or violence. But I wish I was better at…negotiating! Getting people to surrender. I… No matter what, it still takes something out of you when you take a human life.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, I agree,” she said, “and everyone hopes to bring a suspect in alive because our job is to uphold the law while judges and juries do the rest. I understand how you feel. I was told you were a good guy. You are. No one wants to kill, Mason. But sometimes, negotiation doesn’t work, and we must care about the victim first. Negotiation is great, but when there is no choice… Well. And honestly, I guess you haven’t had much chance to read about this Vampire yet, but… Mason, he’s a truly terrifying figure. And if he has others joining his ranks… Mason, you do know there are groups of people across the world, I believe—I know of a few in the States—who call themselves vampires, right? Some just meet and drink one another’s blood. Some say they are spiritual vampires, and claim it’s in a good way—they can gain kindness from others and all that. But…if this guy really thinks he’s a vampire, we may be looking at worse things to come. At one time, people believed in blood-sucking vampires—diseases that destroyed the blood caused that kind of theory. In the 1800s, even in the United States, people dug up their loved ones to stake them through the heart or burn their hearts, afraid they were coming back to drink their blood when in truth, the disease was just spreading. But—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t think this killer believes he’s a vampire, though if he is seeking followers, he’ll want to convince them he is a supernatural creature. I believe he’ll be like the guy we just got—probably handsome or charming enough to lure victims. Somewhere in his twenties or thirties. Thirties, I think, old enough to have gotten clever enough to clean up a crime scene and have the finances to pull off what he’s doing. He’ll be making sure he gets a lot of press all over Europe. He wants the fame or the infamy.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You spent time with profilers?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I did,” he said. “And we all know a profile can be wrong—but most of the time, it turns out to be right on. Let’s hope we have good help once we get there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We will. And we have tons and tons of time to study all the files on the plane. Mason, we can make this work. And I know you’re a loner. This is the first time you’ve worked with a partner and a team in a long time. But I swear, I’ve got your back.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded. “I’ve uh… I’m sorry if I’m…difficult. You’re right. I’ve been on my own for a few years now. And—I swear—I’ve got your back, too.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She smiled. “Hey, I’ve gotten to see you do that already. And I’m so sorry. I heard. I heard your last partner was killed in the line of duty,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded, looking away, and not sure why he didn’t want to look at her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yes, Stan Kier had been killed. Mason had been nearby when it happened, and seeing Stan, he had felt a burning fury. Perhaps there had been no choice, but the searing sensation of anger and hatred he’d felt when he brought down the killer had been horrible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There were things an agent had to do. Times when he had to kill.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But the amount of hatred he’d felt then…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It had scared the hell out of him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was just something he didn’t want to ever feel again. Though he had to admit, it didn’t come close to the pain of seeing Stan die. Stan had been a great guy, a family man, a friend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He started, feeling her hand on his knee. He looked her way. In truth, he knew nothing about her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Like I said. Not to worry. I’ve seen you in action,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah, thanks. And I’m sorry. I’m not sure if I ever said anything to you after the events in the bayou. You were amazing. For what you did in that cabin. That was…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Unorthodox?” she asked, wincing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I was going to say it was very brave. Coming in unarmed.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I had a little Beretta hidden in my waistband,” she said. “I also read up on you and I knew you were a crack shot. The SWAT director there was getting edgy. And while you are such a good shot and you’d have been fine without me, I figured a little help couldn’t hurt. It can be hard to get a guaranteed clean shot. I had talked to Melissa’s parents and… We just couldn’t let him take out another victim.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well, then, thanks. You threw me. I had heard things about the Krewe of Hunters, but I didn’t know you were with them—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Newbie,” she reminded him. “Not quite a year. The Krewe was formed over a decade ago. In New Orleans, as a matter of fact. There were originally just six, and now we have dozens of agents, and it’s good—we’re all always out, all over the country.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So you were down in this area with the Krewe before?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right before I joined the Krewe I was on assignment as a field agent down here. In fact, it was almost right after the case I was on here that I had my interview—and found out they were real. I promise you, it’s like…sanity in the insane world we’ve chosen to work in.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“And I think I still doubted in my way—since we’re taught by our parents and families not to let other people think we’re crazy—that what I’d heard could be real, that the Bureau really had a unit in truth that was composed of…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Weird people like us?” she asked, grinning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He nodded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“As I told you, I’m still fairly new to the Krewe. Well, not that new, almost a year. I went to the academy, started in the field, and then my supervisor told me I had an interview with a special unit,” she told him. “I believe sometimes the head players at the Krewe know from our records or cases… Well, they have it themselves so they recognize it in others. They seek people from other law enforcement agencies as well. I believe Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow are pretty amazing at studying situations.” She paused, smiling. “It’s a wonderful place to be, with others like us, and they just have that talent for determining who the weird people are. And instead of hiding and feeling weird, we get to see that it is amazing, this ability we have, because it’s like so many things with DNA, just a fraction of a fraction of the population has it, so…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hmm.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hmm?” she asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He smiled. “I wonder if Norwegian ghosts will speak any English.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She smiled in return for a minute, and then she was dead serious. Her eyes were a true green he realized—like emerald lasers the way she was staring at him. “We’re going to make this work,” she told him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“All right. We’re going to make this work. Partner.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her phone was ringing and she answered it quickly and told him, “Our plane is ready and the pilot is aboard. I understand the plane is great. So…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“On to hours of reading in the air,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“We are going to work well together,” she vowed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He forced himself to nod. He had been so uncertain; and then again, as Gideon had said, she had balls. And she was unorthodox.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He might even like her. He imagined she was an excellent agent, able to use her natural beauty and abilities in her investigations and takedowns.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yeah, he liked her. But he was going to be careful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He vowed he wasn’t going to like her too much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Because nothing changed the fact there were kill-or-be-killed situations.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It wasn’t a good thing to become too involved with a partner—not in their line of business. He’d learned that the hard way. And he’d worked on his own—with plenty of backup, of course—for several years now. Working as a loner had its advantages.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He would have her back. And he’d try to be a team player.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He just couldn’t lose another partner.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from Whispers at Dusk by Heather Graham. Copyright © 2023 by Heather Graham Pozzessere. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></b></u></div><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnWdMP35ug8hdLuPnhIcwp3Tq2ir2xtQOKL4dvuKA_DM2xkUzjxWmvWVcXkhTTXONfIkjLyvcIwI_kYGRthMxaSmj1qp1ofbJs3fgQshKIykRiUJ7ZNj70z8EgC_lD8YR4XOf-SFjFprdlpq2jBQla8blvWtEfTP9AOpCBkyYWq-Zh844RHrAWIufNPIh/s3599/Heather%20Graham%20credit%20Marti%20Corn.png"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnWdMP35ug8hdLuPnhIcwp3Tq2ir2xtQOKL4dvuKA_DM2xkUzjxWmvWVcXkhTTXONfIkjLyvcIwI_kYGRthMxaSmj1qp1ofbJs3fgQshKIykRiUJ7ZNj70z8EgC_lD8YR4XOf-SFjFprdlpq2jBQla8blvWtEfTP9AOpCBkyYWq-Zh844RHrAWIufNPIh/s320/Heather%20Graham%20credit%20Marti%20Corn.png" /></span></b></a></div><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;">Photo Credit: Marti Corn</span></b></div><br />New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: <a href="http://TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com">TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com</a>, <a href="http://eHeatherGraham.com">eHeatherGraham.com</a>, and <a href="http://HeatherGraham.tv">HeatherGraham.tv</a>. You can also find Heather on Facebook.<br /><br /></span></b><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theoriginalheathergraham.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/HeatherGrahamAuthor">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/heathergraham">Twitter</a> </div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-28884376962337465542023-06-26T00:30:00.003-07:002023-06-26T00:30:00.130-07:00HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Night It Ended by Katie Garner<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleIFPXe2jBSO7wTPIYNuKMF3bCdGaPEZZtSL5E18-zQwOq5gq2oDk-zbHUh2lXf339xAMyLEeHVfFiCzI6_zPnNmU6BfOTWB1KnElFZaunVo1wLvu94ELdyUL5MqX2GgucruBUxgynvo-ENQDvGe086iuMHpC54MSojLXzwV48AvaR5q4f0lXI-kRA/s1600/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleIFPXe2jBSO7wTPIYNuKMF3bCdGaPEZZtSL5E18-zQwOq5gq2oDk-zbHUh2lXf339xAMyLEeHVfFiCzI6_zPnNmU6BfOTWB1KnElFZaunVo1wLvu94ELdyUL5MqX2GgucruBUxgynvo-ENQDvGe086iuMHpC54MSojLXzwV48AvaR5q4f0lXI-kRA/w400-h100/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fqKM-O11F0tZZ3Eigpx1Rkf6Gi5NsWtf3WjFXLwgFWCtKLmC5A7OWP8KixCP3rGaOAGtfeOvPEAPXey5AEuG3XUp1aR_K-hKEAvwj10O2ZgQhgFu4oFE304x9IBI4cJJajUrbA85jbHFf6VghZbxnKfhZ0CFqBR1et4a_SCq1VaoQafEYKv_qbWdiA/s3200/The%20Night%20It%20Ended%20final%20cover.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fqKM-O11F0tZZ3Eigpx1Rkf6Gi5NsWtf3WjFXLwgFWCtKLmC5A7OWP8KixCP3rGaOAGtfeOvPEAPXey5AEuG3XUp1aR_K-hKEAvwj10O2ZgQhgFu4oFE304x9IBI4cJJajUrbA85jbHFf6VghZbxnKfhZ0CFqBR1et4a_SCq1VaoQafEYKv_qbWdiA/w265-h400/The%20Night%20It%20Ended%20final%20cover.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62679690-the-night-it-ended"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXSKDokq4shdUZQ8Q5M6ML-_xNM7R3mgWg0XEGoqI5L-NHCrQQPbtpQ1AdHrNSuIiU1yyYdDxjXXu5pzh07cpZbvqRqQf_xqG3_KvmkZEshtI7SdFCuMEBg_lTKH1x7-0YazGB1Ibvl38OjluL1AFnGel8xneDZqTF86aBGKi83NhgN4KzMdvdhdQWg/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Finding the truth seems impossible when her own dark past has her seeing lies everywhere she looks...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the outside, criminal psychiatrist Dr. Madeline Pine's life appears picture-perfect--she has a beautiful family, a successful mental health practice and a growing reputation as an expert in female violence. But when she's called to help investigate a mysterious death at a boarding school for troubled girls, Madeline hesitates. She's been through tragic cases before, and the one she was entangled in last year nearly destroyed her...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yet she can't turn away when she hears about Charley Ridley. After the girl was found shoeless and in pajamas at the bottom of an icy ravine on campus, the police ruled it a tragic accident. But the private investigator hired by her mother has his doubts. And if it were Madeline's daughter who died, she'd want to know why.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Arriving at the secluded campus in upstate New York, Madeline's met by an unhelpful skeleton staff and the four other students still on campus during winter break. Each seems to hold a piece of the puzzle. And everyone has secrets--Madeline included. But who would kill to protect them?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Intertwining the narrative with the transcript of an anonymous interview, this stunning suspense debut from Katie Garner will take you on a twisting path where nothing--and no one--is what it seems.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links:</span></u></div></u><br /></span><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Night-Ended-Novel-Katie-Garner/dp/0778334457">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-night-it-ended-katie-garner/1142299804">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/9780778334453?AID=10747236&PID=7310909">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-night-it-ended/18847353?ean=9780778334453">Bookshop.org</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Katie_Garner_The_Night_It_Ended?id=zfmKEAAAQBAJ&hl=en_US&gl=US">Google Play</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-night-it-ended-katie-garner?variant=40901604311074">HarperCollins</a></b></p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE41s6WWd543WFSawJ5By9gP9OIEcnl8iFIw8_BQ-JwAngOG9wSguc1Q_weqBVA-7hBmUQ7XSJFSP9q91nAH00Az3lTS2Bxg9IIsHG4f-0DSfQo-o3aeYsjpqyQHxtJMK53BxD0pZ0n7A2ME01dOWpPw7aR9k-1e_CPnrExj0TJDaxmiGSIFEG4hJ98w/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE41s6WWd543WFSawJ5By9gP9OIEcnl8iFIw8_BQ-JwAngOG9wSguc1Q_weqBVA-7hBmUQ7XSJFSP9q91nAH00Az3lTS2Bxg9IIsHG4f-0DSfQo-o3aeYsjpqyQHxtJMK53BxD0pZ0n7A2ME01dOWpPw7aR9k-1e_CPnrExj0TJDaxmiGSIFEG4hJ98w/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday, December 16</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I’m speeding home when the phone rings, persistent and angry, demanding to be heard. I know I should answer it, even though I want nothing more than to throw it out the window. I could let the call slide into voice mail, delete it, never hear the voice on the other side.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But I can’t.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I jerk to the side of the icy road to a chorus of blaring horns, dig the phone out from the cavernous tote bag resting on the passenger seat beside me. The phone is sleek and black, brand-new—opposite of the cracked, chunky white one I’m used to shoving in my back pocket.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A sweet little chime and the ringing ends.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1 new voice mail.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Quickly, I glance in the side mirror. Car exhaust melts away into the morning winter sky. Nothing is behind me, nothing but air. I exhale a deep sigh of relief, press the phone to my ear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“H-hi, this message is for Dr. Madeline Pine—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A siren wails in the distance. The phone slips through my fingers, lands mutely in my lap. A knot swells in my throat. I glance in the side mirror again, feel my heart pound, each breath shrinking to tiny gasps. The sirens near. An emergency vehicle speeds past.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s only an ambulance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My body wilts. I take a deep breath. In. Out. The knot in my throat loosens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I hate the person I’ve become. I’ve never been this nervous, this afraid, anxiety and fear clinging to my every move. I wish I could escape—step into someone else’s life, if only for a moment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Just twelve short months ago everything was different. I was different. Any other December, I would’ve been home, prepping for the holidays, shopping online for last-minute deals on things none of us needed. My husband, Dave, would be staying too late at work, his dinner wrapped in a blanket of aluminum foil, kept warm on the stove. My teenage daughter, Izzi, would be upstairs in her room, scrolling noiselessly through her phone, feet kicked up on the bed behind her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The house would’ve hummed with the steady softness of disjointed home life, but instead here I am, lurched to the side of the road, the air frigid in the tiny cabin of my car, listening to a voice mail I never thought I’d hear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I replay the message:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“H-hi, this message is for Dr. Madeline Pine. If you get this, I’m Matthew Reyes, a private investigator working on behalf of a family. Listen, I was hoping you could please call me back at this number, I—I’d really appreciate it. We have a sixteen-year-old female who died on school property. The police believe it’s an accident, but the mother hired me to be sure. The girl was found at the bottom of a hill. No witnesses. I thought you might be able to help—given your expertise. Please call me back. Thanks.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I repeat his words in my head. The girl was found at the bottom of a hill—I can picture it, picture her. She’s there, fallen sideways, her body splashed across the woodland floor. Moss and stones, skin and blood, leaves and twigs. I don’t know her, but I don’t have to. I already feel as if she were mine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The man who left the voice mail, Matthew Reyes, has a voice both gravelly and weary, and I know what he wants the moment he mentions the school. Police often believe they can demand anything they want and get it immediately—even psychological evaluations—but it takes time to gain trust from strangers, and even more time to tease out the truth. Especially from teenage girls.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I start weighing my options. I’m not sure I’m capable of this, of anything. Especially after last year…especially after what just happened in that too-hot office during this morning’s disastrous therapy session.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My face flushes at the memory of the woman who’d been sitting cross-legged in front of me. Her beautiful face. Her pink silk shirt blurring out of focus. Her condescending tone—as though the therapy sessions weren’t all for her benefit to begin with.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That’s what I have to remind myself. That’s what I have to hold on to. They’re for her. Not me. I’m the one who’s fine. I should be taking comfort in that, taking comfort in the fact that I never have to see her beautiful face again, never have to be reminded of—</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s over. I didn’t have a choice before. Now I do. I have lots of choices. An avalanche of choices. My life before today was preprogrammed for me. Not anymore. I fixed it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tears slip down my cheeks. I bite them back, strangle the phone in my lap, squeeze it so tight I wonder how it fails to snap in two. Choices. Possibilities.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My mind whirls as I punch the gas, merge into traffic, race home. I run inside, slam the door, bolt the lock. Gazing around my gloom-infested house, I shrivel back as wind blows branches of a nearby tree, scraping the side of the house like fingernails.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Peering at the bulging paper bag of prescriptions on the kitchen island, my eyes prick with tears. My glasses fog. I take them off, rub the lenses clean on my turtleneck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">After so many months, the pills should be working. I should stop taking them altogether. Just throw them all in the toilet, flush them down, watch them whirl around the porcelain bowl.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think of words my daughter, Izzi, said to me: Mom, please just stop.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stop.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I don’t know the person I’ve become, too empty, too full, all at once. I need to change. I want to be different. Every day, I think of ways I can be. It can still happen. I’m free now. I have choices now, possibilities. Maybe it’s never too late to change everything. Maybe I just need to escape.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Besides, wiggle room is all it takes for a snake to get out of its skin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The phone rings again. I snuff the urge to hurl it across the room before glancing at the screen. It’s the same number as before. The same number as the voice mail. I hold my breath and answer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hello?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Hello—is this Dr. Madeline Pine?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Um—yes. It is.” My heart thuds. “Who’s this?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A sigh of relief, deep and heavy, into the phone. “This is private investigator Matthew Reyes. Thank you so much for answering, Dr. Pine. I—I know it’s a chaotic time of year and you’re probably busy with family but…would you be able to make a trip up to Iron Hill?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I—I don’t know where that is.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s about two hours north of Poughkeepsie. Upstate New York.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Right, okay.” Far. Very far. Too far for my ailing car to make it. I know I should just buy a new one, but I can’t. My husband Dave always said the color perfectly matched my eyes. Now I can’t even remember the last time we looked at each other.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So, are you busy this weekend?” Reyes asks, then pauses. “I mean, you’re sure you don’t mind ditching your family right before the holidays?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“When you put it that way, it sounds horrible.” Awkward laugh. “But, um, my husband and daughter aren’t home now, anyway—they’ve gone away to visit my in-laws.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You have no idea how grateful I’d be if you could make it,” he says, sounding hopeful. I don’t know what he looks like, but I can imagine him smiling. “I mean, I’ve been calling around to different psychologists all day, and—well, it should only be for a couple of days. You’d definitely be back by Christmas, the latest.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I wince, feel a surge of sorrow. I’m too embarrassed to admit that Dave and Izzi have no intention of spending the holidays with me this year. It’s what I deserve after what I did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m sorry,” I say, “please refresh my memory. Have we ever met? You said you’re a private investigator hired by the victim’s—er, the deceased’s—family?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yes, I mean, we haven’t met, but I read about the work you did on the Strum case last year. I believe one of the victims was around the same age as our current victim. And I pulled up your book online—Dark Side: A Psychological Portrait of the Criminal Female Mind. You specialize in women. Just so happens the case is at an all-girls boarding school.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My stomach clenches. Focus. Deep breath. I shift my gaze to the calendar hanging in the kitchen. I don’t even know why I bother to keep one anymore. I have the same schedule now, week in, week out. Before, the month of December would’ve been filled with holiday office parties, Izzi’s end-of-year school activities, Dave’s plans for winter break, which I’d always beg him to change.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I glance up. Friday, December 16. This morning’s therapy session slashes across my mind again. I see her face. Blank, empty. Her lips begin to curl around a word. I see myself in the reflection of her eyes. I’m close. Closer. I swallow hard.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The, um, the students don’t go home for the holidays?” I ask, slumping down to the floor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Winter break is Saturday, the tenth to New Year’s. A few students stayed behind.” Reyes pauses. “The students who either couldn’t travel for various reasons or chose not to go home.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I lean the back of my head against the wall.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Reyes continues. “The school is asking me to wrap up my investigation before students and staff return January 2.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Okay…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He senses my discomfort, keeps talking. “Please. Please say yes. You mentioned you have a daughter. How would you feel if it were her?” he asks. “If she was found dead, you’d want closure, right? To be sure everything was done by the book and no stone was left unturned.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My stomach flips. “Of course I would.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“So, please. Please say you’ll help.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think of my daughter, Izzi, the lengths I’d go to if she was found at the bottom of a hill. Even if it was an accident, I’d want to know why. I’d want to know how she got there. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If she was alone. Afraid. Or if someone else was responsible. I’d want to know. I’d find them, I’d—</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know if I can do this,” I confess.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I shut my eyes, see her face again, legs crossed, sitting prim in that too-hot office, the heat blasting, the furniture too big for the tiny space. I tug at the neck of my sweater, suddenly tight, see my reflection in her eyes—close, so close.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">No. Stop. I suck up a big breath, blow it all out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I don’t know if you’re aware, but after that case last year—” My voice cracks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The Strum case?” A note of curiosity in Reyes’s question.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Yeah. Since then, things have been difficult. I ended up taking some time off—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I—I wasn’t aware. I’m sorry.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s fine. It just—it makes cases like this difficult.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh—”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“But before I say yes or no, can you give me an overview? What, exactly, I’ll be doing when I get there? I want to be sure I know what I’m stepping into.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Reyes lets out a breath. “Yeah—yes, of course,” he says, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Well, it happened at a private, all-girls boarding school called Shadow Hunt Hall. They have a very small student body on a very large campus. It’s densely wooded and incredibly isolated. It’s one of those ‘back-to-nature, no technology on campus’ sort of places. The girls are mostly… I guess the best word for it is—troubled?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Isn’t that the best kind of girl?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Uh, here,” he says, ignoring my attempt at a joke. “I’ll send you some info.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I glance at the screen, see he’s texted a link to the school’s website. I tap it open, swipe down the page. The school is ancient. Giant and stone, with iron gates and actual turrets, like a possessed fairy-tale castle. The curriculum looks interesting.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Definitely nontraditional. It’s all music and arts and dance. I skim the mission statement:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">We believe in a holistic, individual approach to learning and rehabilitation, focusing on a curriculum centered on nature, group trust, and a healthy mind-body connection.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Code words for no junk food or internet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Reyes waits patiently on the other end as I peruse the site. I click on the Tuition & Financial Aid page and flinch. A single term is more than twice the down payment we put on the house.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“You there? Dr. Pine?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I lick my lips. “I’m here.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He pauses. “I’m having trouble getting any of the students to even talk to me,” he admits. “That’s why I need you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I think of Izzi, chewing on her fingernails, avoiding eye contact when I ask how her day went. Ever since she started high school it’s been all one-word answers—good, fine—before she’d bound upstairs, not to be seen again until dinner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So I can’t imagine how the girls at this boarding school would react to a male private investigator showing up out of nowhere, prodding them with questions right after their classmate died. No doubt they’d recoil, want nothing to do with him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Okay… I’ll help you,” I whisper.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Night It Ended. Copyright © 2023 by Katie Garner. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">About the Author</span></span></u></div></u><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPHdV0Q3Vu38uSVfYWFLiCF4SpUAB769Pa-itpadC1o_-pvGZuhmE2Amj6aa0LIu9PyR2xqrvuqavAI6wX4AEw4NRmGMyCkQOrxhXy7aM43J6DedRrJUjfsLcMLVmwk5Dz91jt_dH82C0qngZROsBfwLDFvoO2fx2UwruDF408w6DY7JnwDyof1FFVw/s1538/Katie%20Garner%20author%20photo,%20credit%20Kyle%20Giacomarra%20%20-%20Copy.bmp"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPHdV0Q3Vu38uSVfYWFLiCF4SpUAB769Pa-itpadC1o_-pvGZuhmE2Amj6aa0LIu9PyR2xqrvuqavAI6wX4AEw4NRmGMyCkQOrxhXy7aM43J6DedRrJUjfsLcMLVmwk5Dz91jt_dH82C0qngZROsBfwLDFvoO2fx2UwruDF408w6DY7JnwDyof1FFVw/s320/Katie%20Garner%20author%20photo,%20credit%20Kyle%20Giacomarra%20%20-%20Copy.bmp" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Kyle Giacomarra</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Katie Garner was born in New York and grew up in New Jersey. She has a degree in Art History from Ramapo College and is certified to teach high school Art. She hoards paperbacks, coffee mugs, and dog toys and can be seen holding at least one of those things most of the time. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Katie lives in a New Jersey river town with her husband, baby boy, and shih-poo where she writes books about women and their dark, secret selves. The Night It Ended is her debut novel.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.katiegarnerauthor.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/kgarnerauthor">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/katiewritesmystery/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62679690-the-night-it-ended">Goodreads</a></div><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139718401165029509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-41106591661453506322023-06-22T01:00:00.051-07:002023-06-22T01:00:00.130-07:00Blog Tour Promo Post: A Fatal Illusion by Anna Lee Huber<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis_Ofl1GVGq_VjGcM0OmtAsAOrHUGAZLZ93_UOR223uJ6--H-SWbu342pMxZyAHWQcP8o6ogZcFSBODqAQjC6i2xQNNl8_3qtI6r1-LhE0xwWOO09L1iQYEq4fBYmnofYEjPDopJmPqdeSc_KSCh6MVkEYVn-7mRjxmpIeUrlwlc-S-cqYK94ZQcl4JwN/s2400/9780593198483.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis_Ofl1GVGq_VjGcM0OmtAsAOrHUGAZLZ93_UOR223uJ6--H-SWbu342pMxZyAHWQcP8o6ogZcFSBODqAQjC6i2xQNNl8_3qtI6r1-LhE0xwWOO09L1iQYEq4fBYmnofYEjPDopJmPqdeSc_KSCh6MVkEYVn-7mRjxmpIeUrlwlc-S-cqYK94ZQcl4JwN/w256-h400/9780593198483.jpg" width="256" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61045825-a-fatal-illusion?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=I77b5K0L8n&rank=1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBe9Tbkfpd6pV1iHl3nHyKCf8rMHFnUnm0G9mOW5H8g56M2k9B20Rhc4OPDuXN52HDzGJfQVvgTYxAcbQ8jfrmIIm12jIUXjNGHjqcbEcWAUs1Tk8EzYVag5rLodSp5664OiFpC2yTpPd6TYrvkKcnuPiOAUpP2QJNIJvUb9ZBptwYeQLQ2cW1AXkHwPt/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">New parents Lady Kiera Darby and Sebastian Gage look forward to introducing Sebastian’s father to his granddaughter, but instead find themselves investigating an attempt on his life...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yorkshire, England. August 1832. Relations between Sebastian Gage and his father have never been easy, especially since the discovery that Lord Gage has been concealing the existence of an illegitimate son. But when Lord Gage is nearly fatally attacked on a journey to Scotland, Sebastian and Kiera race to his side. Given the tumult over the recent passage of the Reform Bill and the Anatomy Act, in which Lord Gage played a part, Sebastian wonders if the attack could be politically motivated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But something suspicious is afoot in the sleepy village where Lord Gage is being cared for. The townspeople treat Sebastian and Kiera with hostility when it becomes clear they intend to investigate, and rumors of mysterious disappearances and highway robberies plague the area. Lord Gage’s survival is far from assured, and Sebastian and Kiera must scramble to make the pieces fit before a second attempt at murder is more successful than the first.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0593198484/ref=x_gr_bb_amazon?ie=UTF8&tag=x_gr_bb_amazon-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0593198484&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-fatal-illusion-anna-lee-huber/1141726882;jsessionid=01B72AF6D8CB87ED6A149AC9D545ED8E.prodny_store02-atgap03?ean=9780593198483">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Fatal-Illusion/Anna-Lee-Huber/9780593198483?id=8812630658257">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/a-fatal-illusion-anna-lee-huber/18634484?ean=9780593198483&ref=&source=IndieBound&title=A+Fatal+Illusion+%28A+Lady+Darby+Mystery+%2311%29">Bookshop.org</a></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Anna_Lee_Huber_A_Fatal_Illusion?id=yAp5EAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></div></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAz1_rPldT9fiEFzdiK4tQ-PgkxZ2JP3oIVfpEeP2SuCmr69j_ETAWLcn1Fs4ubk684ndYfTEj2CVd1yiUcelyP2-1_ZFfFBCASCHkwXf_DK4Z8x-XT1UXckjGAz_Xgymr09Vioj_zRNpTENWsoFAwHJ_6BX88JeHMLcsiA845sTC5fBFcV8D__zMB6CtR/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAz1_rPldT9fiEFzdiK4tQ-PgkxZ2JP3oIVfpEeP2SuCmr69j_ETAWLcn1Fs4ubk684ndYfTEj2CVd1yiUcelyP2-1_ZFfFBCASCHkwXf_DK4Z8x-XT1UXckjGAz_Xgymr09Vioj_zRNpTENWsoFAwHJ_6BX88JeHMLcsiA845sTC5fBFcV8D__zMB6CtR/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">August 1832</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yorkshire, England</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The sun shone hot on our backs as we left the shade of the old-growth forest behind us to navigate the steep, rutted road. I trusted in Figg's sure-footedness to manage the descent. There wasn't much more I could do, for it took most of my concentration to maintain my seat in the saddle. I might have remained in the carriage, but having spent nearly a week inside its confines on the road from the Highlands, I'd begun to relish any opportunity I could to escape. When we'd broken our journey in the Borders at Blakelaw House-my childhood home, which now belonged to my brother-I'd seized the chance to requisition the strawberry roan, who for all intents and purposes had always been mine, from the stables.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">By all rights, I should have remained at Blakelaw House with our young child and the female members of our staff. At least, that's what any normal wife would have done. But I, and everyone around me, had long accepted I wasn't a typical gentlewoman, and I simply couldn't bear to wait in comfort while my husband faced what was before him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The exact nature of what he was to confront wasn't yet known to us, but it soon would be-likely within the hour-and the evidence of that strain marked his handsome face. His strong jaw was tight, and his brow furrowed, and whenever I caught a glimpse of his pale blue eyes, I could see the fear lurking in their depths.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As if aware of my scrutiny, he pressed his hand to the breast of his deep green frock coat over the interior pocket, which contained the source of his distress. I'd watched him remove the letter often enough over the past six days, unfolding it to study the few short lines, as if perhaps, this time, the words would be different. But no matter how many times he read it, or how worn and pliant the paper became with use, the message never changed. His father had still been attacked along the Great North Road nine days ago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was impossible to know what we would discover once we reached Wentbridge. The letter Lord Gage's valet, Mr. Lembus, had penned to my husband had been short on details. Haste had clearly been his sole objective. That fact alone stirred the dread within me, as I knew it did Gage. For if his concern that word reach Gage promptly had not been so great, would he not have shared more? As such, the trepidation that we might arrive to find his father was already deceased was never far from either of our thoughts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">We could see little of what lay before us, for the carriage blocked the road, and the cuttings through the limestone soared twenty feet high on either side. Plants and vines had begun to take root in the crevices of the rock walls and along the verge of the road, and trees that had been trimmed back when the cutting was made had begun to gently arch over the lane in places, forming a tunnel. The air was thick with a swirling musk of damp from the vegetation and dust from passing coaches.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As we rounded a series of slight curves, the road began to level and the walls ended to afford us an expansive view of golden fields and brilliant blue skies. Several hundred feet farther along we spied the first stone cottages perched at the outskirts of the village. The carriage slowed, and Gage and I spurred our horses forward to overtake it now that we were no longer in danger of being bowled over by it on the steep incline.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two riders waited at the edge of the road a short distance away, and my stomach dipped at the sight of the familiar figures. Gage had sent his half brother, Lord Henry Kerr, and his loyal valet, Anderley, ahead to do reconnaissance, as it were. For while Lembus's terse letter had said that Lord Gage had been taken to the village of Wentbridge, he hadn't told us exactly where. Perhaps because he didn't know where his employer would end up. By sending Henry and Anderley ahead of us to find out, we'd hoped to be spared from traveling back and forth across the village with a lumbering carriage and an infant in tow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I searched the two men's faces as we approached, seeking any indication of what they'd uncovered-whether Lord Gage was alive or already deceased-but neither revealed more than a stoic resolve. Anderley's face habitually wore such an expression, so I found my eyes drawn toward Henry, who was not usually so adept at hiding his emotions. Though the prospect of facing his natural father for the first time in years, the father who had firmly stated he wanted nothing to do with him and then forbidden him to tell Gage-his half brother-of his existence, must be weighing on him heavily. That Gage now knew, and had confronted his father on the issue, albeit only in letters, simply increased the tension.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Any word?" Gage asked as we drew our horses to a stop before them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Anderley turned to Henry, perhaps feeling he should reveal their findings, and the pause made my heart stutter in my chest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"He's alive," Henry finally declared.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from A Fatal Illusion by Anna Lee Huber Copyright © 2023 by Anna Lee Huber. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;">About the Author</u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_x7yPml2cbdsJx3YuY_JvudfJKWlzu9kN00iQKbYehjX8hc5WnIyB6NEW9RbXHe-N-NfWoqEoGVLaCR0EWvRwmOUTr2OKg78w0rP95DS3gS0EIhqiPirPLE8sGnf7uY_c899InkzxkjFVfMbF5AFGEGVEirfxW_sBJ8Is1lgJaL5wjzMGAhOzMjh95SI/s1551/Anna_Lee_Huber_Credit%20Shanon%20Aycock.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_x7yPml2cbdsJx3YuY_JvudfJKWlzu9kN00iQKbYehjX8hc5WnIyB6NEW9RbXHe-N-NfWoqEoGVLaCR0EWvRwmOUTr2OKg78w0rP95DS3gS0EIhqiPirPLE8sGnf7uY_c899InkzxkjFVfMbF5AFGEGVEirfxW_sBJ8Is1lgJaL5wjzMGAhOzMjh95SI/s320/Anna_Lee_Huber_Credit%20Shanon%20Aycock.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Shanon Aycock</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Anna Lee Huber is the Daphne Award–winning author of the national bestselling Lady Darby Mysteries and the Verity Kent Mysteries. She is a summa cum laude graduate of Lipscomb University in Nashville, Tennessee, where she majored in music and minored in psychology. She currently resides in Indiana with her family and is hard at work on her next novel. Learn more online at </span><a href="http://www.annaleehuber.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">www.annaleehuber.com</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://www.annaleehuber.com/index.php">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorAnnaLeeHuber">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/AnnaLeeHuber">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/annaleehuber/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5775520.Anna_Lee_Huber">Goodreads</a></span></div></span>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-49561472173522376812023-06-20T01:00:00.063-07:002023-06-20T18:35:02.351-07:00Blog Tour Promo Post: Welcome to Beach Town by Susan Wiggs<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJPDv_e-dUgLrlRm4eS_gyJSehmHpyyWrk_b8_oqBwZPZ1U4wi0_pG81ACjQZif-QEyw0-hZfT38UErhaPUQDMU7NMP7K_uncjkg1ocTy5Obqg_LAw3JAIKmtSUQYrIYSOhJZp2CHGVUGqZs_eQlCzQT-ggMehsKlOG02z41Oq-QkTBYo6ILxVx9lRQ/s2775/COVER_Welcome%20To%20Beach%20Town.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJPDv_e-dUgLrlRm4eS_gyJSehmHpyyWrk_b8_oqBwZPZ1U4wi0_pG81ACjQZif-QEyw0-hZfT38UErhaPUQDMU7NMP7K_uncjkg1ocTy5Obqg_LAw3JAIKmtSUQYrIYSOhJZp2CHGVUGqZs_eQlCzQT-ggMehsKlOG02z41Oq-QkTBYo6ILxVx9lRQ/w264-h400/COVER_Welcome%20To%20Beach%20Town.jpg" width="264" /></a></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63017253-welcome-to-beach-town"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoCQik4Th1qjkqbMa2s_ETgmgn4PxcrwptNVdXCGTICK202XLy69LchtD74IWq8-FE0urkAmfNzAyStSbJmUmX98Ed5w3FNVVgnGKkajMPrNe-2Nz9UFpt0XFvv9VciSdBv1I0euik1ex_Sqy3fxzHT1nIofuegaiHu54S0tpLVCG15NdjlnSRBc8dw/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Every town has its secrets...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In idyllic Alara Cove, a California beach town known for its sunny charm and chill surfer vibe, it’s graduation day at the elite Thornton Academy. At Thornton, the students are the worldly and overindulged children who live in gated enclaves with spectacular views. But the class valedictorian is Nikki Graziola, a surfer’s daughter who is there on scholarship. To the shock of everyone in the audience, Nikki veers off script while giving her commencement address and reveals a secret that breaks open the whole community. As her truth explodes into the light, Alara Cove will face a reckoning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nikki Graziola’s accusation shakes the foundation of Alara Cove, pitting her against the wealthy family whose money runs the town. Her new notoriety sends Nikki into exile for years, where she finds fame—but not fortune—overseas as a competition surfer...until a personal tragedy compels her to return to Alara Cove.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> As Nikki struggles to rebuild her future, she finds that the people of the town have not forgotten her. But time has changed Alara Cove, and old friendships, rivalries, and an unexpected romance draw her back into the life of the beach town she’s never quite forgotten, and where joy and redemption may be possible after all.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0062914162/ref=x_gr_bb_amazon?ie=UTF8&tag=x_gr_bb_amazon-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0062914162&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/welcome-to-beach-town-susan-wiggs/1142468501;jsessionid=7119A270300B3C6EBAC6ED0966EDC958.prodny_store02-atgap05?ean=9780062914163">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Welcome-Beach-Town/Susan-Wiggs/9780062914163?id=8730514837294">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/welcome-to-beach-town-susan-wiggs/19064466?ean=9780062914163&ref=&source=IndieBound&title=Welcome+to+Beach+Town%3A+A+Novel">Bookshop.org</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Susan_Wiggs_Welcome_to_Beach_Town?id=n4qUEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></div></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyJNDSaRrocvQiiEYpwFYf-lLh9IMz8qS_aDWLRQWnZy0-DtAM1TOi3TvYyEtepL-x9OxzrdYUBQjz4c8gMFCZ5RvupBIqMfmdxkKhY6BNBHCeLOQwQ6SbZO-3dt9KO92kKWXvw8A2YkV7JoxVfUtwtpwCfMHuypaKA4zFp8o-tuODfyBSUVFCvX82A/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyJNDSaRrocvQiiEYpwFYf-lLh9IMz8qS_aDWLRQWnZy0-DtAM1TOi3TvYyEtepL-x9OxzrdYUBQjz4c8gMFCZ5RvupBIqMfmdxkKhY6BNBHCeLOQwQ6SbZO-3dt9KO92kKWXvw8A2YkV7JoxVfUtwtpwCfMHuypaKA4zFp8o-tuODfyBSUVFCvX82A/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV1hvK3BSdgQXdDFioyyB6MRw95nyJJ2hAFAdQiYQszspMh3WCS03usSzpZIMNJ7e7D5CTYgB3VZhyZGBsit2JkGGwIV6nrYCSGBWTTTwW60mx1MfCAXhAC4Xan4i11J2ispVGE2BU7_56Pj16EtmABedkggVVeMZQmNffwUtaNqvF9Q2UlPl-uhNTg/s4256/(c)%20Yvonne%20Wong.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV1hvK3BSdgQXdDFioyyB6MRw95nyJJ2hAFAdQiYQszspMh3WCS03usSzpZIMNJ7e7D5CTYgB3VZhyZGBsit2JkGGwIV6nrYCSGBWTTTwW60mx1MfCAXhAC4Xan4i11J2ispVGE2BU7_56Pj16EtmABedkggVVeMZQmNffwUtaNqvF9Q2UlPl-uhNTg/s320/(c)%20Yvonne%20Wong.jpg" /></a></div></span><div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: Yvonne Wong</span></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /><b>Susan Wiggs is</b><span style="font-weight: bold;"> the author of more than fifty novels, including the beloved Lakeshore Chronicles series and the recent New York Times bestsellers The Lost and Found Bookshop, The Oysterville Sewing Circle, and Family Tree. Her award-winning books have been translated into two dozen languages. She lives with her husband on an island in Washington State’s Puget Sound.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><u><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Social Links</span></span></u></div></u><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.susanwiggs.com">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/susanwiggs">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/susanwiggs">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/susan_wiggs_/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21155.Susan_Wiggs">Goodreads</a></div></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div> </div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-33276440310759897112023-06-14T01:30:00.047-07:002023-06-26T13:04:00.177-07:00HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Paris Agent by Kelly Rimmer<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ1WI_w2PL7VpUTdmeM1RayfnqadUDijWX28CtbHVd7hKF8k4XlnsjVdnmhRmOaHLqBl6gsxq9CfdzEsdQjyy7j7E7yDSBZTf1BjSz-nxrsGLXJgZWmLommY-PbP36wYfCiNfo_il12sOcaWjcjxOLu6IGshZgo68gpd0Se6dkpK-nkyRkN6SzuV8HQ/s1600/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ1WI_w2PL7VpUTdmeM1RayfnqadUDijWX28CtbHVd7hKF8k4XlnsjVdnmhRmOaHLqBl6gsxq9CfdzEsdQjyy7j7E7yDSBZTf1BjSz-nxrsGLXJgZWmLommY-PbP36wYfCiNfo_il12sOcaWjcjxOLu6IGshZgo68gpd0Se6dkpK-nkyRkN6SzuV8HQ/w400-h100/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfb5xqtHatGJLD-S_lhio8X-1NWsYo2CBT5omGxFOSD8RiEZC8y6NCpxv7X-_porytHHFO7bNT4e4tPq9SxgaVITxp-87lTWc2RnPnYfwJymCIOOCvnS8T_0yJBlbP0oRJE9oDCCWQn9S3bmYvx8KTlGV5Jk8f6R48gG1Ktzv8QTFx44dB20PQNBGBKag/s3200/9780369736420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3200" data-original-width="2125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfb5xqtHatGJLD-S_lhio8X-1NWsYo2CBT5omGxFOSD8RiEZC8y6NCpxv7X-_porytHHFO7bNT4e4tPq9SxgaVITxp-87lTWc2RnPnYfwJymCIOOCvnS8T_0yJBlbP0oRJE9oDCCWQn9S3bmYvx8KTlGV5Jk8f6R48gG1Ktzv8QTFx44dB20PQNBGBKag/s320/9780369736420.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><b><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62197599-the-paris-agent"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-xeNEXyfhGfwU2ZtAk2pmjZFd3SF8BGwE4-S7yGTPA5fl0hnBv7W0w_qeJs_ZoEQgvbNIvUmw-QliObkoaC6d-Ky6gJqueuhrKiFx5pWBM6T3molCR4Wz6-JsF_d1EBfnXJdaT_gjQglbps6uY-VL9epWT1fVjB0zPNEXah2-ub7nQ4qKswLqMgCGQ/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></a></span></b></div><br />For fans of fast-paced historical thrillers like Our Woman in Moscow and The Rose Code, Rimmer’s brilliant new novel follows three female SOE operatives as their lives intersect in occupied France, and the double agent who controls their fate.<br /><br />Twenty-five years after the end of the war, an aging Marcel Augustin is reflecting on his life during those perilous, exhilarating years as a British SOE operative in occupied France—in particular the agent who saved his life during a mission gone wrong, whose real name he never knew, nor whether she survived the war. Piqued by her father’s memories, Marcel’s daughter Charlotte begins a search for answers that resurrects the unrest and uncertainty from that period of his life. What follows is the story of Eloise, Josie and Virginia, three otherwise ordinary, average women whose lives intersect in 1943 when they’re called up by the SOE for deployment in France. Taking enormous risks to support the allied troops with very little information or resources, the three women have no idea they’re at the mercy of a double agent within their ranks who's causing chaos within the French circuits, whose efforts will affect the outcome of their lives.<br /><br />As Charlotte’s search for answers continues, new suspicions are raised about the identity of the double agent, with unsettling clues pointing to her father, and more mysteries are unearthed from the last days of the war about the eventual fates of Eloise, Josie and Virginia.<br /><br /></span></b><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Buy Links</u></span></b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><u><br /></u></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Paris-Agent-Kelly-Rimmer/dp/1525826689">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-paris-agent-kelly-rimmer/1143459526?ean=9781525826689">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Paris-Agent/Kelly-Rimmer/9781525826689">Books-A-Million</a> | <a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-paris-agent-kelly-rimmer/18794141?ean=9781525826689">Bookshop.org</a></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Kelly_Rimmer_The_Paris_Agent?id=hnWFEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a></span></b></p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI41a7Ntf87tez-n3UHvms4y4rMkIrUomWhXOKTfF98dxHnYogBUWMsvA9lYWGPzAVgNkg1iUOFkV0dltlZp2kZWswUXuZ_pBiAmw1wQ5Lni8PzXP_kRZpqOMMxqhDybVhARKum8cbizIYQwkO6GdkQ5qA-Y6soQ3B7q8fLZN-ppEuypa5wxxn32EyJw/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI41a7Ntf87tez-n3UHvms4y4rMkIrUomWhXOKTfF98dxHnYogBUWMsvA9lYWGPzAVgNkg1iUOFkV0dltlZp2kZWswUXuZ_pBiAmw1wQ5Lni8PzXP_kRZpqOMMxqhDybVhARKum8cbizIYQwkO6GdkQ5qA-Y6soQ3B7q8fLZN-ppEuypa5wxxn32EyJw/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Prologue</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">ELOISE</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">Germany</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;">October, 1944</div></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Perhaps at first glance, we might have looked like ordinary passengers: four women in civilian clothes, sitting in pairs facing one another, the private carriage of the passenger train illuminated by the golden light of a cloudless late-summer sunrise. Only upon closer inspection would a passerby have seen the handcuffs that secured us, our wrists resting at our sides, between us not because we meant to hide them but because we were exhausted, and they were too heavy to rest on our bony thighs. Only at a second glance would they have noticed the emaciated frames or the clothes that didn’t quite fit, or the scars and healing wounds each of us bore after months of torture and imprisonment. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I was handcuffed to a petite woman I knew first as Chloe, although in recent weeks, we had finally shared our real names with one another. It was entirely possible that she was the best friend I’d ever known—not that there was much competition for that title, given friendship had never come easy to me. Two British women, Mary and Wendy, sat opposite us. They had trained together, as Chloe and I had trained together, and like us, they had been “lucky enough” to recently find themselves imprisoned together too. Mary and Wendy appeared just as shell-shocked as Chloe and I were by the events of that morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As our captors had reminded us often since our arrests, we were plainclothes assassins and as such, not even entitled to the basic protections of the Geneva Convention. So why on earth had we been allowed the luxury of a shower that morning, and why had we been given clean civilian clothes to wear after months in the filthy outfits we’d been wearing since our capture? Why were they transporting us by passenger train, and in a luxurious private carriage, no less? This wasn’t my first time transferring between prisons since my capture. I knew from bitter personal experience that the usual travel arrangement was, at best, the crowded, stuffy back end of a covered truck or at worst, a putrid, overcrowded boxcar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But this carriage was modern and spacious, comfortable and relaxed. The leather seats were soft beneath me and the air was clean and light in a way I’d forgotten air should be after months confined to filthy cells.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“This could be a good sign,” I whispered suddenly. Chloe eyed me warily, but my optimism was picking up steam now, and I turned to face her as I thought aloud. “I bet Baker Street has negotiated better conditions for us! Maybe this transfer is a step toward our release. Maybe that’s why…” I nodded toward our only companions in the carriage, seated on the other side of the aisle. “Maybe that’s why she’s here. Could it be that she’s been told to keep us safe and comfortable?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chloe and I had had little to do with the secretary at Karlsruhe Prison, but I had seen her in the hallway outside of our cell many times, always scurrying after the terrifyingly hostile warden. It made little sense for a secretary to accompany us on a transfer, but there she was, dressed in her typical tweed suit, her blond hair constrained in a thick bun at the back of her skull. The secretary sat facing against the direction of travel, opposite the two armed guards who earlier had marched me and Chloe onto the covered truck at the prison, then from the covered truck onto the platform to join the train. The men had not introduced themselves, but like all agents with the British Special Operations Executive, I’d spent weeks memorizing German uniforms and insignias. I knew at a glance that these were low-ranking Sicherheitsdienst officers—members of the SD. The Nazi intelligence agency.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The secretary spoke to the guards, her voice low but her tone playful. She held a suitcase on her lap, and she winked as she tapped it. The men both brightened, surprised smiles transforming their stern expressions, then she theatrically popped the suitcase lid to reveal a shockingly generous bounty of thick slices of sausages and chunks of cheese, a large loaf of sliced rye bread and…was that butter? The scent of the food flooded the carriage as the secretary and the guards used the suitcase as a table for their breakfast.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was far too much food for three people but I knew they’d never share it with us. My stomach rumbled violently, but after months surviving on scant prison rations, I was desperate enough that I felt lucky to be in the mere presence of such a feast.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I heard the announcement as we came onto the carriage— this train goes to Strasbourg, doesn’t it? Do you have any idea what’s waiting for us there? This is all a bit…” Wendy paused, gnawing her lip anxiously. “None of it makes sense. Why are they treating us so well?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“This is the Strasbourg train,” Chloe confirmed cautiously. There was a subtle undertone to those words—something hesitant, concerned. I frowned, watching her closely, but just then the secretary leaned toward the aisle. She spoke to us in rapid German and pointed to the suitcase in her lap.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Had we done something wrong? More German words but it may as well have been Latin to me, because I spoke only French and English. Just then, the secretary huffed impatiently and pushed the suitcase onto the empty seat beside her as she stood. She held a plate toward me, and when I stared at it blankly, she waved impatiently toward Chloe and spoke again in German.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She wants you to take it,” Chloe translated for me, and I took the plate with my one free hand, bewildered. Chloe passed it to Wendy, and so on, until we all held plates in our hands. The secretary then passed us fat slices of sausage and cheese and several slices of bread each. Soon, our plates were filled with the food, each of us holding a meal likely more plentiful than we’d experienced since our arrival in France.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“She’s toying with us,” Mary whispered urgently. “She’ll take it back. She won’t let us eat it so don’t get your hopes up.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I nodded subtly—I’d assumed the same. And so, I tried to ignore the treasure sitting right beneath my nose. I tried not to notice how garlicky and rich that sausage smelled, how creamy the cheese looked, or how the butter was so thick on the bread that it might also have been cheese. I told myself the increasing pangs in my stomach were just part of the torture and the smartest thing I could do was to ignore them altogether, but the longer I held the plate, the harder it was to refocus my mind on anything but the pain in my stomach and the feast in my hands that would bring instant and lasting relief.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When all the remaining food had been divided between us prisoners, the secretary waved impatiently toward the plates on our laps, then motioned toward her mouth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Eat!” she said, in impatient but heavily accented English.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chloe and I exchanged shocked glances. Conditions in Karlsruhe Prison were not the worst we’d seen since our respective captures, but even so, we’d been hungry for so long. The starvation was worse for Chloe than me. She had a particularly sensitive constitution and ate a narrow range of foods in order to avoid gastric distress. Since our reunion at the prison, we’d developed a system of sharing our rations so she could avoid the foods which made her ill but even so, she remained so thin I had sometimes worried I’d wake up one morning to find she’d died in her sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What can you eat?” I asked her urgently.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She looked at our plates then blurted, “Sausage. I’ll eat the sausage.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For the next ten minutes we prisoners fell into silence except for the occasional, muffled moan of pleasure and relief as we devoured the food. I was trying to find the perfect compromise between shoving it all into my mouth as fast as I could in case the secretary changed her mind and savoring every bite with the respect a meal like that commanded. By the time my plate was empty and my surroundings came back to me, the guards and the secretary were having a lovely time, laughing amongst themselves and chatting as if they didn’t have a care in the world.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For a long while, we prisoners traveled in silence, holding our plates on our laps at first, then after Wendy set the precedent, lifting them to our mouths to lick them clean. Still, the guards chatted and laughed and if I judged their tones correctly, even flirted with the secretary? It gradually dawned on me that they were paying us very little attention.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“How far is Strasbourg? Does anyone know?” I asked. Wendy and Mary shook their heads as they shrugged, but Chloe informed me it was hundreds of miles. Her shoulders had slumped again despite the gift of the food, and I nudged her gently and offered a soft smile. “We have a long journey ahead. Good. That means we have time for a pleasant chat while our bellies are full.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">By unspoken agreement, we didn’t discuss our work with the Special Operations Executive (SOE). It was obvious to me that each of the other women had been badly beaten at some point—Wendy was missing a front tooth, Mary held her left hand at an odd angle as if a fractured wrist had healed badly, and Chloe… God, even if she hadn’t explained to me already, I’d have known just looking at her that Chloe had been to hell and back. It seemed safe to assume we had all been interrogated literally almost to death at some point, but there was still too much at stake to risk giving away anything the Germans had not gleaned from us already. So instead of talking about our work or our peculiar circumstances on that train, we talked as though we weren’t wearing handcuffs. As though we weren’t on our way to, at the very best, some slightly less horrific form of imprisonment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">We acted as though we were two sets of friends on a casual jaunt through the countryside. We talked about interesting features outside our window—the lush green trees in the tall forests, the cultivated patches of farmland, the charming facades of cottages and apartments on the streets outside. Mary cooed over a group of adorable children walking to school, and Wendy talked about little shops we passed in the picturesque villages. Chloe shared longing descriptions of the foods she missed the most—fresh fruit and crisp vegetables, eggs cooked all manner of ways, herbs and spices and salt. I lamented my various aches and pains and soon everyone joined in and we talked as if we were elderly people reflecting on the cruelty of aging, not four twenty-somethings who had been viciously, repeatedly beaten by hateful men.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I felt the warmth of the sunshine on my face through the window of the carriage and closed my eyes, reveling in the simple pleasures of fresh air and warm skin and the company of the best friend I’d ever known. I even let myself think about the secretary and that picnic, and feel the relief that I was, for the first time in months, in the company of a stranger who had shown kindness toward me. I’d almost forgotten that was something people did for one another.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I’d never been an especially cheerful sort of woman and I’d never been an optimist, but those past months had forced me to stare long and hard at the worst aspects of the human condition and I’d come to accept a certain hopelessness even when it came to my own future. But on that train, bathed in early morning sunlight and basking in a full stomach and pleasant company, my spirits lifted until they soared toward something like hope.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For the first time in months, I even let myself dream that I’d survive to embrace my son Hughie again. Maybe, even after all I’d seen and done, the world could still be good. Maybe, even after everything, I could find reason to have faith.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from The Paris Agent by Kelly Rimmer, Copyright © 2023 by Lantana Management PTY Ltd. Published by Graydon House Books. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBrnpdSp_4kZ46O6VhTVBd0ZYG8Ln64YX1hz6wJ-6-O7-LKdWX8p9AD41fNfrqm-DNtitnF8hOhR7KA_eDSEtlDdzC0i-N03IeWn6KHBz2nkWG57-GIxL_dmWM-qjr6XQmFVZyhcDeqXdFuqPVG07ZosPdE6FpE4-Jk1OH6IrTX5-WIy2jesg90Ao-A/s5832/Kelly%20Rimmer.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBrnpdSp_4kZ46O6VhTVBd0ZYG8Ln64YX1hz6wJ-6-O7-LKdWX8p9AD41fNfrqm-DNtitnF8hOhR7KA_eDSEtlDdzC0i-N03IeWn6KHBz2nkWG57-GIxL_dmWM-qjr6XQmFVZyhcDeqXdFuqPVG07ZosPdE6FpE4-Jk1OH6IrTX5-WIy2jesg90Ao-A/s320/Kelly%20Rimmer.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Bree Bain Photography</div></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kelly Rimmer is the worldwide, New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of The German Wife, The Warsaw Orphan, and The Things We Cannot Say. She lives in rural Australia with her husband, two children and fantastically naughty dogs, Sully and Basil. Her novels have been translated into more than twenty languages. Please visit her at </span><a href="http://www.kelly.rimmer.com" style="font-weight: bold;">www.Kelly.Rimmer.com</a> <br /><br /></span><div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><u><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Social Links</b></span></u></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.kellyrimmer.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Kellymrimmer/">Facebook</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/KelRimmerWrites">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/kelrimmerwrites/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5817530.Kelly_Rimmer">Goodreads</a></span></b></div><br />The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-460295979760463014.post-26614335205586752582023-06-13T01:30:00.072-07:002023-06-13T01:30:00.126-07:00HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: Cassandra in Reverse by Holly Smale<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ1WI_w2PL7VpUTdmeM1RayfnqadUDijWX28CtbHVd7hKF8k4XlnsjVdnmhRmOaHLqBl6gsxq9CfdzEsdQjyy7j7E7yDSBZTf1BjSz-nxrsGLXJgZWmLommY-PbP36wYfCiNfo_il12sOcaWjcjxOLu6IGshZgo68gpd0Se6dkpK-nkyRkN6SzuV8HQ/s1600/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ1WI_w2PL7VpUTdmeM1RayfnqadUDijWX28CtbHVd7hKF8k4XlnsjVdnmhRmOaHLqBl6gsxq9CfdzEsdQjyy7j7E7yDSBZTf1BjSz-nxrsGLXJgZWmLommY-PbP36wYfCiNfo_il12sOcaWjcjxOLu6IGshZgo68gpd0Se6dkpK-nkyRkN6SzuV8HQ/w400-h100/684-HTP-Banner---Summer-2023-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="400" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrF1LU_szfN9CaRfbz4UW5_qOPB3ghYC0KgQ2fd7TZ0jctq24-T9ixjZ5ggQC9duaHytjNQdCEMXTfXwigE5t7NebwUmby0d-enhZU1fhL1wqrYwjQhkT6hhRy3TWdqT_Pdojr7DJwEYmqb0F4J_3DGZF1O6NZKMl7-KAvW-XlTvWwXGw7HfBRj8Bgw/s3600/9780778307877_TSX_ITPE_RPT1_TSX_ITPE_RPT1.jpg"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrF1LU_szfN9CaRfbz4UW5_qOPB3ghYC0KgQ2fd7TZ0jctq24-T9ixjZ5ggQC9duaHytjNQdCEMXTfXwigE5t7NebwUmby0d-enhZU1fhL1wqrYwjQhkT6hhRy3TWdqT_Pdojr7DJwEYmqb0F4J_3DGZF1O6NZKMl7-KAvW-XlTvWwXGw7HfBRj8Bgw/w266-h400/9780778307877_TSX_ITPE_RPT1_TSX_ITPE_RPT1.jpg" width="266" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61987507-cassandra-in-reverse"><b><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-xeNEXyfhGfwU2ZtAk2pmjZFd3SF8BGwE4-S7yGTPA5fl0hnBv7W0w_qeJs_ZoEQgvbNIvUmw-QliObkoaC6d-Ky6gJqueuhrKiFx5pWBM6T3molCR4Wz6-JsF_d1EBfnXJdaT_gjQglbps6uY-VL9epWT1fVjB0zPNEXah2-ub7nQ4qKswLqMgCGQ/s1600/add%20to%20goodreads.png" /></span></b></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If you had the power to change the past, where would you start?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cassandra Penelope Dankworth likes what she likes, and strongly dislikes what she doesn't. Her life runs in a pleasing, predictable order…until all these things happen on the same day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She gets dumped.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She gets fired from her PR job for not being a 'People Person’</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her local café runs out of her favorite muffins</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Then, something truly unexpected happens: Cassie discovers she can travel back in time and change the past.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">She decides to use this newfound ability to change all the broken parts of her life. Get undumped, unfired. And with time on her side, how hard can it be?</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Buy Links</span></u></div></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cassandra-Reverse-Novel-Holly-Smale/dp/0778334538/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="font-weight: bold;">Amazon</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cassandra-in-reverse-holly-smale/1143332733?ean=9780778334538" style="font-weight: bold;">Barnes & Noble</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Cassandra-Reverse/Holly-Smale/9780778334538?id=8859746613976#" style="font-weight: bold;">Books-A-Million</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-cassandra-complex-holly-smale/18745506?ean=9780778334538" style="font-weight: bold;">Bookshop.org</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Holly_Smale_Cassandra_in_Reverse?id=OnCBEAAAQBAJ">Google Play</a> | <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/products/cassandra-in-reverse-holly-smale?variant=40900522541090">HarperCollins</a></div></span></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI41a7Ntf87tez-n3UHvms4y4rMkIrUomWhXOKTfF98dxHnYogBUWMsvA9lYWGPzAVgNkg1iUOFkV0dltlZp2kZWswUXuZ_pBiAmw1wQ5Lni8PzXP_kRZpqOMMxqhDybVhARKum8cbizIYQwkO6GdkQ5qA-Y6soQ3B7q8fLZN-ppEuypa5wxxn32EyJw/s338/flipped%20crop.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI41a7Ntf87tez-n3UHvms4y4rMkIrUomWhXOKTfF98dxHnYogBUWMsvA9lYWGPzAVgNkg1iUOFkV0dltlZp2kZWswUXuZ_pBiAmw1wQ5Lni8PzXP_kRZpqOMMxqhDybVhARKum8cbizIYQwkO6GdkQ5qA-Y6soQ3B7q8fLZN-ppEuypa5wxxn32EyJw/s320/flipped%20crop.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">WHERE DOES A STORY START?</span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s a lie, the first page of a book, because it masquerades as a beginning. A real beginning—the opening of something—when what you’re being offered is an arbitrary line in the sand. This story starts here. Pick a random event. Ignore whatever came before it or catch up later. Pretend the world stops when the book closes, or that a resolution isn’t simply another random moment on a curated timeline. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But life isn’t like that, so books are dishonest. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maybe that’s why humans like them. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And it’s saying that kind of shit that gets me thrown out of the Fentiman Road Book Club. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Here are some other things I’ve been asked not to return to:</span><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Blenheim Road Readers Group<br /><br /></span></span></li><li><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A large flat-share I briefly attempted in Walthamstow<br /><br /></span></span></li><li><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My last relationship<br /><br /></span></span></li><li><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My current job</span></span></li></ul><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The final two have been in quick succession. This morning, Will—my boyfriend of four months—kissed me, listed my virtues out of nowhere and concluded the pep talk by ending our relationship.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The job situation I found out about eighty seconds ago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">According to the flexing jaw and flared nostrils of my boss, I’ve yet to respond to this new information. He seems faint and muted, as if he’s behind a pane of thick frosted glass. He also has a dried oat on his shirt collar but now doesn’t seem the right time to point it out: he’s married—his wife can do it later.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Cassie,” he says more loudly. “Did you hear me?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Obviously I heard him or I’d still be giving a detailed report on the client meeting I just had, which is exactly what I was doing when he fired me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The issue isn’t so much your work performance,” he plows on gallantly. “Although, Christ knows, somebody who hates phone calls as much as you do shouldn’t be working in public relations.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I nod: that’s an accurate assessment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“It’s your general demeanor I can’t have in this office. You are rude. Insubordinate. Arrogant, frankly. You are not a team player, and do you know what this office needs?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A better coffee machine.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“That’s exactly the kind of bullshit I’m talking about.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I’d tell you my boss’s name and give him a brief description, but judging by this conversation, he isn’t going to be a prominent character for much longer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’ve spoken to you about this on multiple occasions— Cassandra, look at me when I’m talking to you. Our highest-paying client just dropped us because of your quote, unquote relentlessly grating behavior. You are unlikable. That’s the exact word they used. Unlikable. Public relations is a People Job. For People People.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Now, just hang on a minute.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I’m a person,” I object, lifting my chin and doing my best to stare directly into his pupils. “And, as far as I’m aware, being likable is irrelevant to my job description. It’s certainly not in my contract, because I’ve checked.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My boss’s nostrils flare into horsiness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I rarely understand what another human is thinking, but I frequently feel it: a wave of emotion that pours out of them into me, like a teapot into a cup. While it fills me up, I have to work out what the hell it is, where it came from and what I’m supposed to do to stop it spilling everywhere.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rage that doesn’t feel like mine pulses through me: dark purple and red.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">His colors are an invasion and I do not like it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Look,” my boss concludes with a patient sigh that is nothing like the emotion bolting out of him. “This just isn’t working out, Cassie, and on some level you must already know that. Maybe you should find something that is better suited to your…specific skill set.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That’s essentially what Will told me this morning too. I don’t know why they’re both under the impression I must have seen the end coming when I very much did not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Your job has the word relations in it,” my boss clarifies helpfully. “Perhaps you could find one that doesn’t?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Standing up, I clear my throat and look at my watch: it’s not even Wednesday lunchtime yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Relationship: over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Job: over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Well,” I say calmly. “Fuck.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So that’s where my story starts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It could have started anywhere: I just had to pick a moment. It could have been waking up this morning to the sound of my flatmates screaming at each other, or eating my breakfast (porridge and banana, always), or making an elaborate gift for my first anniversary with Will (slightly preemptive).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It could have been the moment just before I met him, which would have been a more positive beginning. It could have been the day my parents died in a car accident, which would have been considerably less so.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But I chose here: kind of in the middle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thirty-one years into my story and a long time after the dramatic end of some others. Packing a cardboard box with very little, because it transpires the only thing on my desk that doesn’t belong to the agency is a gifted coffee mug with a picture of a cartoon deer on it. I put it in the box anyway. There’s no real way of knowing what’s going to happen next, but I assume there will still be caffeine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh shit!” My colleague Sophie leans across our desks as I stick a wilting plant under my arm just to look like I’m not leaving another year of my life behind with literally nothing to show for it. “They haven’t fired you? That’s awful. I’m sure we will all miss you so much.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I genuinely have no idea if she means this or not. If she does, it’s certainly unexpected: we’ve been sitting opposite each other since I got here and all I really know about her is that she’s twenty-two years old and likes tuna sandwiches, typing aggressively and picking her nose as if none of us have peripheral vision.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Will you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sophie opens her mouth, shuts it again and goes back to smashing her keyboard as if she’s playing whack-a-mole with her fingertips.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Cassandra!” My boss appears in the doorway just as I start cleaning down my keyboard with one of my little antiseptic wipes. “What the hell are you doing? I didn’t mean leave right now. Jesus on a yellow bicycle, what is wrong with you? I’d prefer you to work out your notice period, please.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh.” I look down at the box and my plant. I’ve packed now. “No, thank you.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Finished with cleaning, I sling my handbag over my shoulder and my coat over my arm, hold the box against my stomach, awkwardly hook the plant in the crook of my elbow and try to get the agency door open on my own. Then I hold it open with my knee while I look back, even though—much like Orpheus at the border of the Underworld—I know I shouldn’t.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The office has never been this quiet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heads are conscientiously turned away from me, as if I’m a sudden bright light. There’s a light patter of keyboards like pigeons walking on a roof (punctuated by the violent death stabs of Sophie), the radiator by the window is gurgling, the reception is blindingly gold-leafed and the watercooler drips. If I’m looking for something good to come out of today—and I think I probably should—it’s that I won’t have to hear that every second for the rest of my working life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s a productivity triumph. They should fire people for fundamental personality flaws more often.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The door slams behind me and I jump even though I’m the one who slammed it. Then my phone beeps, so I balance everything precariously on one knee and fumble for it. I try to avoid having unread notifications if I can. They make my bag feel heavy.</span><br /><br /><i><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dankworth please clean your shit up</span><br /></i><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I frown as I reply:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>Which shit in particular</i></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There’s another beep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>Very funny. Keep the kitchen clear</i></span><br /><i><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It is a COmmUNAL SPaCE.</span></i><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It wasn’t funny a couple of weeks ago when I came down for a glass of water in the middle of the night and found Sal and Derek having sex against the fridge.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Although perhaps that is the definition of communal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Still frowning, I hit the button for the lift and mentally scour the flat for what I’ve done wrong this time. I forgot to wash my porridge bowl and spoon. There’s also my favorite yellow scarf on the floor and a purple jumper over the arm of the sofa. This is my sixth flat-share in ten years and I’m starting to feel like a snail: carrying my belongings around with me so I leave no visible trace.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I send back:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>OK.</i></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My intestines are rapidly liquidizing, my cheeks are hot and a bright pink rash I can’t see is forming across my chest. Dull pain wraps itself around my neck, like a scarf pulled tight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It’s fascinating how emotions can tie your life together.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One minute you’re twelve, standing in the middle of a playground while people fight over who doesn’t get you as a teammate. The next you’re in your thirties, single and standing by the lifts of an office you’ve just been fired from because nobody wants you as a teammate. Same sensations, different body. Literally: my cells have cunningly replaced themselves at least twice in the interim.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The office door swings open. “Cassandra?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ronald has worn the same thing—a navy cashmere jumper—every day since he started working here a few months ago. It smells really lovely, so I’m guessing there must be plural.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He walks toward me and I immediately panic. Now and then I’ve caught him looking at me from the neighboring desk with an incalculable expression on his face, and I have no idea what it could be. Lust? Repulsion? I’ve been scripting a response to the former for a month now, just in case.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I am honored by your romantic and/or sexual interest in me given that we’ve only exchanged perfunctory greetings, but I have a long-term boyfriend I am almost definitely in the process of falling in love with.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, that excuse isn’t going to work anymore, is it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ronald clears his throat and runs a large hand over his buzz-cut Afro. “That’s mine.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Who?” I blink, disoriented by the grammar. “Me?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The plant.” He points at the shrubbery now clutched under my sweaty armpit. “It’s mine and I’d like to keep it.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ah, the sweet, giddy flush of humiliation is now complete.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Of course,” I say stiffly. “Sorry, Ronald.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ronald blinks and reaches out a hand; I move quickly away so his fingers won’t touch mine, nearly dropping the pot in the process. It’s the same fun little dance I do when I have to pay with cash at the supermarket checkout, which is why I always carry cards.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I get into the lift and press the button. Ronald now appears to be casually assessing me as if I’m a half-ripe avocado, so I stare at the floor until he reaches a conclusion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Bye,” he says finally.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Bye,” I say as the lift doors slide shut.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And that’s how my story starts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">With a novelty mug in a box, a full character assassination and the realization that when I leave a building I am missed considerably less than a half-dead rubber plant.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from CASSANDRA IN REVERSE. Copyright © 2023 by Holly Smale. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author</span></u></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9fL1mL20ru0AgAuILIkaepwi29dkjMeXSJwqnXu_jPZtVnkdI3RP3vNMng0ylQuobYSjv9TfGNwDHg1Z28A0yU6WOXVoTeUPE4uJEwLN5_TktzX8q19c5F15r3mUp9RafUhM9GIehUHIQXunfIgS_rK8ECMZDuxBwmc33zKJVODLBz1R1lU3j3r-Dg/s5768/Holly%20Smale%20author%20photo%20-%20credit%20David%20Myers.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9fL1mL20ru0AgAuILIkaepwi29dkjMeXSJwqnXu_jPZtVnkdI3RP3vNMng0ylQuobYSjv9TfGNwDHg1Z28A0yU6WOXVoTeUPE4uJEwLN5_TktzX8q19c5F15r3mUp9RafUhM9GIehUHIQXunfIgS_rK8ECMZDuxBwmc33zKJVODLBz1R1lU3j3r-Dg/s320/Holly%20Smale%20author%20photo%20-%20credit%20David%20Myers.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Photo Credit: David Myers</span></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Holly Smale is the internationally bestselling, award-winning author of the Geek Girl (soon to be a Netflix series) and The Valentines teen series, which have sold 3.4 million copies worldwide. In January 2021, Holly was diagnosed autistic at the age of 39. Suddenly a lot of things made sense. Holly regularly shares, debates about, and celebrates neurodiversity on Twitter and Instagram @holsmale. <i>Cassandra in Reverse</i> is her adult debut and was named A Reese’s Book Club Pick, an Amazon Editors’ Top Pick of the Month, and a June Must Listen on Apple.</span><br /></span><br style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;" /><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social Links</span></u></div><br style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;" /><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://www.hollysmale.com/">Website</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/holsmale">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/holsmale/">Instagram</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5824402.Holly_Smale">Goodreads</a></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>The Consummate Readerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13935577074725192750noreply@blogger.com0