HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Good Ones are Taken by Taj McCoy

When Maggie's best friend admits he's in love with her, she'll have to decide whether it's worth giving up something good for something that could be amazing in this laugh-out-loud friends-to-lovers rom-com.

After a bad breakup, Maggie wants to find her Prince Charming, but all she’s finding are frogs. When her best friends, Savvy and Joan, apply pressure and demand she find a date worthy of attending their respective weddings, she agrees to take her own advice and try online dating. Since she's the maid of honor for both weddings, her bridal party duties are massive, but both brides insist that Maggie prioritize finding a date. After an onslaught of maybes, noes and hell noes, she’s close to giving up, when she meets a handsome doctor at the gym who just might be the one.

Meanwhile, her college bestie, Garrett, throws salt in everyone’s game. At every turn, he points out the red flags and tells Maggie to keep looking. Things come to a head when Maggie demands that Garrett be happy for her, and he finally admits that he can’t. Not when he’s not with her. When he blurts out his feelings, Maggie’s world is turned upside down. Now she must choose between the perfect guy and a friendship that is the foundation for everything she’s ever wanted.

Buy Links

Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books-A-Million  |  Bookshop.org

Harlequin

1

HER EYES LOCKED WITH ANOTHER PAIR ON THE OTHER side of the bar—deep brown eyes framed with black, curly lashes and bookended with laugh lines. Maggie’s heart flopped in her chest as she inhaled a breath, almost willing the scent of his cologne to travel the fifteen feet to where she sat. He looks like he smells good.

The man looked back at her, eyeing her intently. His long locs were pulled back into a messy bun, random tendrils reaching toward his bearded jawline—a lone streak of silver to one side of his manicured chin. His full lips spread into a wide smile bright enough for a toothpaste ad, and he raised two fingers in the air before beckoning her over. He jutted his thumb toward a booth behind him where the table was set with a bottle of champagne on ice and two empty flutes.

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up, and she pointed at herself. “Me?” she mouthed.

His smile widened and he bit his lip as he nodded slowly. The carnal look in his eyes spread warmth to her belly.

She swiveled her bar stool to the side, a moment from stepping down and crossing the room before she caught a glimpse of the woman standing directly behind her. Late twenties, svelte and a dress that hugged every curve of a Coke-bottle figure. She had deep dimples, and her honey-blond goddess locs were pulled up and away from her face, showing off her sparkling green eyes and fluttering lashes. The woman strode to the other side of the bar confidently in stiletto sandals tied just below muscular calves. The sexy, loc’d-up couple embraced tightly, kissing twice before they slid into the booth and poured themselves some bubbles. They snuggled close as he raised his glass to toast the occasion, his beautiful date beaming as they clinked their glasses together and tenderly locked lips.

Damn. Strike one.

Maggie turned back to face the bar, sipping the final dregs of her cocktail before running her fingers over her glass of water. The ice had melted and the glass was slick with condensation. With the pad of her finger, she drew a figure eight before dabbing it on a cocktail napkin. She opened her mouth to ask the bartender, Matt, for her check when someone spoke behind her.

“Anyone sitting here?” The rich baritone voice sent a delicious shiver down the back of her neck.

Maggie peeked coyly over her shoulder, her right brow arching slightly as her eyes swept over the tall specimen behind her. The man wore a tailored black suit with a loosened silk tie and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His easy smile widened as she regarded him. “Seat’s all yours,” she responded slowly, her voice a sultry whisper as she swept a loose coil behind her ear. She turned back toward the counter, sending an amused wink in the direction of the bartender.

“Thanks.” He slid onto the bar stool and unfastened his tie, tucking it into his jacket pocket.

Matt nodded a greeting. “Hey, man, looks like you could use a drink. What can I get you?”

“Yeah, let me get a Maker’s Mark old-fashioned, and another drink for the lady.” The handsome stranger tilted his head in Maggie’s direction, turning to observe her. His salt and-pepper fade contoured down to a closely cut beard; a few grays speckled the sections framing his mouth.

Matt nodded and set to making the drinks.

Maggie eyed the man next to her, notes of spiced oud and sandalwood invading her senses from his cologne. “Thank you.”

“What you drinkin’?” He crossed his arms, setting his elbows on the bar. He leaned toward her slightly, pointing to her empty cocktail glass.

“A filthy gin martini, extra olives.” She accepted a fresh glass from Matt and took a slow sip, savoring the briny liquid. Her heel crooked over the stool’s footrest, she flexed her foot and then pointed her toe, her feet still sore from enduring a long day of meetings. She’d braved the day in her favorite Cole Haan pumps, mistakenly deciding that she didn’t need to carry her customary pair of flats in her laptop tote. Never again.

“Long day?” She eyed him curiously, the stem of her martini glass between her index and middle fingers, her palm flat against its cool foot. Slowly, she swirled the contents of her drink, her shoulders finally beginning to relax, courtesy of Tanqueray.

He nodded. “You could say that. Divorce mediations. You?”

“Tax attorney, and it’s nearing April.” Maggie sipped slowly, willing the gin not to take hold of her too quickly. “I’m sorry about your marriage.”

His brow lifted. “How did you know the settlement was mine? I could be the attorney.”

She pursed her lips, considering that statement before shrugging a shoulder. “You could, but your thumb keeps rubbing against the space between your middle and ring finger, like you’re missing something.”

The bartender slid over a glass tumbler filled with an oversize ice cube, amber liquid and an orange peel. The man took a big gulp before jutting his chin upward in thanks. “I guess as an attorney, you know all the tells.”

Her face softened slightly. “Not all of them, but I’ve seen enough to know it’s not going well.” She regarded him out of the corner of her eye for a moment. “Sorry.”

His shoulders slumped a little. “Not your fault. All mine, really.” He took another gulp, almost finishing off his drink, gazing at her in her cream pantsuit and camel pumps. He leaned a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “This may be forward of me, but you are a very beautiful woman. Would you maybe want to get out of here?” He raised his eyebrows as he pressed his lips together.

Maggie’s eyes widened as she sputtered, almost choking on her cocktail. “Damn, you just go straight for ass, huh?”

Shocked, he laughed awkwardly. “Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about what I was saying until after it came out of my mouth. Please don’t be offended. I just— My eyes were immediately drawn to you when I walked in and, honestly, I’ve been out of the game for a long time.” He put a hand to his chest as he apologized, frustration furrowing his brows.

Maggie tilted her head as she employed the poker face she used with her clients, her gaze moving back and forth between her drink and the bartender, who had frozen at the proposition. “Well, I appreciate the compliment and the drink, but I’m going to have to pass. I’m not really the type to bust it open when I don’t know your name, we’re not dating and you’re still married. That’s a lot to ask of a stranger.” She shook her head, chronicling this proposition among the many things she intended to share with her girlfriends over dinner. Who does that?

The man pressed his lips together and nodded, chuckling. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. My wife and I, we’ve been living separate lives for a long time, though I can understand why it still sounds fresh. I didn’t mean any harm.”

Maggie smiled down at her drink and flipped her wrist at him. “All good, and thanks for the drink. Honestly, I’m still getting over my own breakup, so I wouldn’t make great company tonight.”

The man turned his entire body to face her, his knee bumping the outside of her thigh. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m obviously not a relationship expert, but I can listen.”

Sweet Jesus, that was not an invitation. She shook her head slowly, her lips pressed together in a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not tonight but thank you.”

It had been a few months since Rob left, and the sting of his betrayal still burned right below the surface of Maggie’s skin. She thought they were getting close to moving in together, but he had already set his sights on someone else. Now she wanted nothing more than to junk punch him in front of his new girl. Too embarrassed by the fact that he chose someone else, she preferred to brood over a cocktail rather than air out her hurt, even though her eyes had opened to the potential for someone new. Just not this guy. Being in the midst of divorce proceedings didn’t exactly signal emotional availability. Now, if only he would take a hint.

The door opened, and a couple of women breezed toward a high-top table in dark corporate suits, their identical bobs parting bone-straight hair with recent highlights. Maggie’s neighbor perked up, and she prayed silently for his departure.

“Will you excuse me? I think I recognize someone,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the newcomers.

“Of course. Thanks again.” Maggie raised her glass and watched with amusement as he moved quickly across the room and greeted the pair, neither of whom seemed to recognize him. That didn’t stop him from planting himself at their table, oblivious to the panicked look on their faces. Maggie winked at Matt, who rested his hands on the bar, an easy smile spreading across his face. “That was…a lot!” She rested her chin in her hand, shaking her head as she laughed.

He whistled in agreement. “One more for the road, Mags? On me. You deserve it after—” he gestured around chaotically “—whatever that was.”

She grinned. “You know what, Matt? I think that I’m going to save myself from strike three and head on home. Can you cash me out?” She handed money to him to cover her drink and tip.

“You got it.” He moved over to a digital register—a tablet connected to a cash till and a printer. “Thanks, Mags. See you next week?”

“Uh-huh.” Maggie’s eyes were drawn across the bar to the-booth-that-could-have-been: the loc’d couple entwined and oblivious to the world around them. Their lips and hands were in constant movement, connecting fervently, and when they broke apart to breathe, the intensity of their gazes told everyone in the room what time it was. These two were going to ravish each other, probably before they even made it home. Their kisses made Maggie ache low in her stomach.

I want that.

Excerpt from The Good Ones Are Taken by Taj McCoy. Copyright © 2024 by Taj McCoy. Published by MIRA.

About the Author

Photo Credit: Alaysia Jordan

Law grad Taj McCoy is committed to championing plus-sized Black love stories and characters with a strong sense of sisterhood and familial bonds. Born in Oakland, Taj started writing as a child and celebrated her first publications in grade school. When she’s not writing, Taj boosts other marginalized writers, practices yoga, co-hosts the Fat Like Me and Better Than Brunch podcasts, shares recipes, and cooks supper club meals for friends.

Social Links

Website |  Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads

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HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour (Rom-Com Edition) Promo Post: Zora Books Her Happy Ever After by Taj McCoy

A heart-pounding, curvy romance about an indie bookstore owner who finds herself in a love triangle when she meets the author she's had a crush on for years...and his best friend.

Zora has committed every inch of her life to establishing her thriving DC bookstore, making it into a pillar of the community, and she just hasn’t had time for romance. But when a mystery author she’s been crushing on for years agrees to have an event at her store, she starts to rethink her priorities. Lawrence is every bit as charming as she imagined, even if his understanding of his own books seems just a bit shallow. When he asks her out after his reading, she’s almost elated enough to forget about the grumpy guy who sat next to her making snide comments all evening. Apparently the grouch is Lawrence’s best friend, Reid, but she can’t imagine what kind of friendship that must be. They couldn’t be more different.

But as she starts seeing Lawrence, and spending more and more time with Reid, Zora finds first impressions can be deceiving. Reid is smart and thoughtful—he’s also interested. After years of avoiding dating, she suddenly has two handsome men competing for her affection. But even as she struggles to choose between them, she can’t shake the feeling that they’re both hiding something—a mystery she’s determined to solve before she can find her HEA.

Buy Links:

Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books a Million  |  BookShop.org  

Google Play   |  Apple

“Well, is he attractive? You know I don’t want no ugly great-grandbabies.”

“Granny!” Zora laughed, pulling books from the stocking cart to arrange on the shelving display for the storefront window. The sun poked through the cloudy morning, threatening to scorch another early September day. Opus Northeast had been open for less than fifteen minutes, and its owner was already rolling her eyes. Silly her for making the mistake of mentioning the man who hit on her as she walked from her parked car into the store. “There’s no such thing as an ugly baby.”

Granny Marion shook a ruby-red fingernail at her granddaughter. “Now, I know I taught you better than that. Ain’t no reason to lie, baby. You know good and well that the li’l girl two doors down from you has one, bless his heart.”

Zora stifled a snort as she stacked middle-grade fantasy books next to some young-adult ones. Stories of witches, magic, and other worlds rich in cultural traditions and majesty. Running her fingers over the foiled titles of their hardcover jackets, she pictured her younger self staring into the window in awe, ready to devour each word in the safety of her cozy bedroom fort. Her parents would shake their heads in amusement before turning her loose in the children’s section. She’d beg to take home every new story that she hadn’t previously spent hours poring over, eventually convincing her parents to allow her a new armful. “That baby is cute. He just has a big head.”

“Hmmph. I think the word you’re looking for is oblong. And why are his eyes so big?” Granny Marion widened her eyes until they bulged behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her taut brown skin hugging high cheekbones and a proud forehead. Her long, salt-and-pepper hair twisted neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck—a nostalgic reminder of her past as a professional dancer turned dance teacher. Every move of her petite frame flowed with grace and intention, even when she ridiculed their neighbor’s newest family addition.

“Granny.” Zora squeezed out from the window front, smoothing her hands over her shapely figure clad in her usual skinny jeans, camisole and cardigan—today’s was hip length and plum colored. She loved a layered look, and her sweater matched her matte lipstick perfectly. “I’m sure he’ll grow into his features as he gets older.” She leaned down to kiss her grandmother on the cheek. “Remember, I had to grow into my smile—I had that awful headgear the orthodontist made me wear.”

For her entire fifth grade year, Zora had been plagued with jeers and jokes about the metal contraption affixed to her upper jaw to help with her overbite. Her only reprieve was when she ate, but even then, her classmates would tease Zora about her protruding front teeth. She’d sit with her closest friends on benches outside to avoid the meanest kids posted up at tables in the cafeteria.

Granny Marion kissed her granddaughter back, eyes sparkling. “Mmm-hmm, I remember. That gear gave you character. But there ain’t no headgear to fix a misshapen head, baby.”

“Jesus.” Zora shook her head, unable to hide her smile. She grabbed Granny’s hand, entwining their arms, and led her farther into the store. “So what are your plans for today?”

They walked past rows of bookshelves, display tables full of must-read paperbacks, and the checkout counter to a large corner filled with comfortable furniture for patrons to enjoy their purchases. Four-top tables lit with antique desk lamps were often filled with college students studying or local writers needing a change of venue. Against the farthest wall stood a coffee kiosk operated by a local Black-owned coffee shop and bakery. “I’m going to grab myself a latte and a breakfast bagel before I enjoy today’s newspaper.”

Granny Marion visited the store daily without fail, only deviating slightly from her routine when the Kerri’s Coffee kiosk sold holiday-inspired treats and she craved a holiday spice latte with a splash of eggnog instead of her regular skim latte. From open to close, Granny was often the one constant, greeting patrons, playing with kids, sharing her favorite reads and best cake recipes and reading her morning paper. She set her newspaper down on her favorite plush, high-backed chair in the reading corner, winking at the barista as they neared the coffee kiosk. “Hey there, young man, how you doin’ today?”

As they approached, Brian, a shy college sophomore, circled in front of the kiosk to wrap his arms around her. “Good morning, Ms. Marion. I’m doing good. How you doin’?” He waved at Zora. “Hey, Z.”

“What up, B?” Zora slapped him five and grabbed her usual from the counter—a raspberry cheese Danish and an oat milk latte. Before she could grill Brian about his upcoming calculus exam, the bell on the front door jingled. She raised her latte in thanks, and left her grandmother to chat. On Zora’s way to the front, she picked up a folded paper towel from the floor and chucked it into a waste bin. “What’s this doing here?”

Rushing in with several bags in her hands and flushed cheeks was Emma, Zora’s best friend and roommate. Her box braids were swept up into a high bun and framed by a colorful head wrap. Big hoop earrings barely skimmed the shoulders of her chambray dress shirt, which was tied at the waist over a colorful pleated skirt. “Girl. It’s already hot out there—I’m sweating! Now, don’t get mad. I know I’m late.”

Zora bit into her Danish and chewed, waiting. “I’m not mad.” Ain’t nothin’ new.

“It’s just that, I don’t even know how to tell you this…” She shoved her bags into a cabinet under the checkout counter, clenching and releasing her hands as she shuffled from one foot to the other nervously.

Zora sipped her latte, side-eyeing her friend. Nothing was new about these antics. “Rip the Band-Aid off, Em.”

She blew out a breath, grimacing. “I think I lost the inventory tablet. I couldn’t find it last night. It wasn’t in any of my bags or at home. I am so, so sorry. If we can’t find it, I promise I’ll pay for a replacement.” Emma wrung her hands. “I’m kinda hoping you can do your Zor-lock Holmes thing and help me retrace my steps.”

Emma lost everything. Back when they were college roommates, she lost her dorm keys the day she moved in. She lost her car in parking lots, lost her water bottle at yoga, and lost good wigs on multiple occasions when there was no logical reason for them to have been removed in the first place. One time she lost her date, which Zora never let Emma live down. Emma tried organizing differently, or keeping a note on her phone so that she knew where she parked, but then she’d lose her phone. Their freshman year Zora spent all of her free time retracing Emma’s steps to find her lost items, eventually printing instructions to call Zora onto adhesive labels to stick onto most of Emma’s property for the next time it went missing. They used Emma’s number originally, but she lost her phone more than anything else that she owned.

Chewing on a bit of Danish, Zora interlaced her fingers, pushing her palms out in front of her to stretch her arms before shaking them out at her sides. She tilted her head side to side, cracking her neck. “Okay, so you stayed to do inventory last night. What section were you working on?”

“Cookbooks.” Emma bit her lip.

Zora pulled her lips into her mouth, pressing them together as she nodded. “What did you eat for dinner?”

“I bought a chicken wrap from Brian, but then I wanted French fries, so I grabbed some duck fat fries from next door.” The bistro next door boasted New American cuisine with a hefty price tag.

“Ooo, I love those.” Now I want some.

“Right? They’re perfection.” Emma brought her fingertips to her mouth, kissed them and splayed them wide.

“Hmm.” Zora sipped her latte thoughtfully. This is too easy. “Did you check the bathroom? On top of the paper towel dispenser.”

Emma frowned, hugging her arms over her stomach. “Why would I check the bathroom? This isn’t like that time I ate those deep fried Oreos…”

Zora giggled. “I promise you, I wasn’t thinking of the day you blew up the bathroom. Honestly, I’d rather forget that one. Just go check.”

In a huff, her friend turned on her heel, walking back toward the coffee kiosk. “Hey, B! I’ll be right back for my coffee.” The bathroom door opened. “What the— How?” Emma rushed back, tablet in hand, mouth wide open. “How did you know it would be in the bathroom?” She plugged it into a charger hidden behind the counter and grabbed the backup, which was fully charged.

Zora sipped her latte, serving enough suspense to make her friend bounce with anticipation. “You had a chicken wrap and then ordered duck fat fries. You brought the food over to the cookbook section, but you always forget napkins, so you went to the bathroom. You carried the tablet with you, because you were worried you’d lose it. I found a paper towel on the floor next to the cookbook display.”

“So much for keeping it safe,” Emma muttered, eyeing it like the device betrayed her.

“It’s fine, we found the tablet, and now we can keep going through the inventory. Are you still on cookbooks?”

Emma nodded. “One last shelf, and then on to travel.”

“Okay, well let’s try to get through travel and self-help today? I want us to get through a full inventory sweep so that we can place our next orders and start planning out the short-story contest. We only have a couple of months left.”

“You got it. What are you working on today?” Emma leaned against the counter, looking surprised when Brian brought over her cinnamon-topped cappuccino. “You betta stop flirting with me, B!”

He grinned, walking back to the kiosk, as several shoppers wandered into the store.

“I’ve got social media posts, graphics for event flyers, and I’m trying to nail down this author for a book signing in two weeks.” Zora logged in to her workstation, climbing onto her black mesh-back stool at the main checkout desk of the bookstore.

Emma surveyed and greeted the guests, offering a friendly nod. “You know you could work in your office, Z. Take advantage of the peace and quiet? I can handle this out here while you get through some of that computer work.”

“I know you can, but I like it out here.” Zora shrugged.

Emma sucked her teeth. “You should be a professional people-watcher, girl.”

She chuckled in response. “It’s an addiction. I really can’t help it!” Zora watched her friend turn toward the cookbooks, but not before giving Granny Marion some sugar. Squeezing the matriarch’s hand, Emma plopped a big kiss on her cheek before leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Granny chuckled and they slapped five, as Emma strode to the cookbook display, sat cross-legged on the floor and started reviewing inventory figures on the tablet.

Z exchanged an amused look with her grandmother, who blew a kiss in her direction. Catching it, she touched the tips of her fingers to her cheek. She blew a kiss back and turned her attention to her computer monitor. After pulling up the bookstore’s calendar, she made a list of the upcoming events for the next three weeks, putting together digital flyers using templates she’d made previously. She added book covers and author photos to author event flyers, candid photos of regular customers highlighting some of their favorite reads that year, and a photo of Granny Marion reading to a group of children to publicize upcoming story time events. She dropped links to all of the graphics into her social media spreadsheet, where she scheduled out posts weeks in advance, complete with post language, hashtags, author account handles, and registration links. Such a Capricorn.

Being organized was how Zora had gotten the business running smoothly so quickly. After her father died, she’d received a generous inheritance that allowed her to purchase Opus Northeast from its previous owner, Ms. Betty. A bookeller for decades, Ms. Betty had decided to retire and move to Arizona to be closer to her grandchildren. Betty had known Zora since adolescence, and she was delighted to sell her store to someone who loved the place just as much as she did. Zora took great pride in updating Opus Northeast in a way that invited the community to come in and stay awhile.

After a couple of hours of events and social media planning, she moved on to email, deleting all of the spam before responding to emails from book distributors, patrons inquiring about upcoming releases not currently available for preorder, and local authors replying to her invitations for in-store author events. Looking down at her desk, she clicked her tongue at herself for leaving her breakfast sitting there as she worked. She had a habit of leaving food sitting next to her for hours as she zoned in on a task only to pick at it once it was cold. She popped the last of her flaky Danish into her mouth, as a new email hit her inbox. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?” Emma asked curiously as she advanced toward the counter, setting a fresh latte in front of Zora.

“He said yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She lifted the latte to her lips on autopilot, humming softly as she took in the scent. “Thanks.”

Her friend peered over her shoulder. “Is he who I think he is?”

Stunned, Zora looked up at Emma, her brows furrowed in confusion. “He said yes?”

“Are you having a stroke? I’m gonna need for you to use your words, sis.” Emma waved her hand in front of Z’s face.

She couldn’t find the words. Her mouth went dry. Helpless, Zora pointed to her computer screen.

Emma leaned forward. “‘Dear Ms. Dizon,’ blah blah blah. ‘I’ve spoken to Lawrence Michaels, and he would love to have an author event hosted at Opus Northeast! As you may know, he grew up not far from there, and he is excited for an opportunity to read an excerpt from Trial by Fire, which is also based in Northeast D.C. Following the reading, he can stay for a brief Q&A and a book signing,’ blah blah blah. Wow, are you freaking out right now?”

It was no secret that Zora had been crushing hard for years on bestselling author Lawrence Michaels, whose newest installment of his Langston Butler mystery thriller series was selling like hotcakes, and word on the street was that the first two books in the series were being optioned for film. Aside from being a local star, Lawrence’s good looks were undeniable. “I bet he’s tall,” Zora murmured, grabbing his book from a pile of new releases on the counter behind her. Opening the book to the author photo inside the back cover, she ran her fingertips over the image of his clean-shaven brown skin, a hint of a smile curving at the edge of his closed mouth. A cleft in his chin and strong jaw led down the column of his neck to broad shoulders cloaked in a dark blue blazer. “Wonder if he has dimples.”

Emma stared at her friend, pinging her eyes back and forth between Zora and the author photo. “I think you might need to break out the ol’ vibrator tonight, girl. This ‘hot for author’ thing is getting unhealthy. Look at you—you can barely string words together right now. What are you going to do when he gets here? Drool on him?”

Zora swatted her friend away. “I’m fine. It’s just… I didn’t think he’d actually be willing to come here.”

“Why? He’s too big and bad for Brookland? He’s from here!” Emma shoved her hands onto her hips.

Zora pulled at one of her tight curls, coiling it around her finger. “You know what I mean. Folks like that set their sights higher than modest indie bookstores like this. And he’s from Petworth.”

“He’s from D.C. And he could still be a total douche. Besides, when have you ever cared about someone having too much bravado to fit their big ass head through our doors? He’s lucky to be invited, girl. Don’t gas that dude up too much.” Emma dragged her fingers across her throat, deading the subject. She really should have gone to law school.

She struggled to find the words. “I just— I’m surprised is all.”

“‘Oh, Rexy, you’re so sexy.’” Emma quoted one of their favorite movie quotes from their college days—they’d scored a box of her sister’s old DVDs and binge-watched everything, but some lines stuck forever. Emma was forever quoting Empire Records, Center Stage, and The Cutting Edge. She curled her fingers into a claw and delicately pawed in Zora’s direction as she turned toward the travel section.

Exasperated, she pursed her lips, still tugging at her curls. “I hate you.”

“I heard that, heffa.”

Excerpted from Zora Books Her Happy Ever After by Taj McCoy © 2023 by Taj McCoy, used with permission from HarperCollins/MIRA Books.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Photo Credit: Alaysia Jordan

Law grad Taj McCoy is committed to championing plus-sized Black love stories and characters with a strong sense of sisterhood and familial bonds. Born in Oakland, Taj started writing as a child and celebrated her first publications in grade school. When she’s not writing, Taj boosts other marginalized writers, practices yoga, co-hosts the Fat Like Me and Better Than Brunch podcasts, shares recipes, and cooks supper club meals for friends.

Social Links:

Website | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads

HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour (Rom-Com Edition) Promo Post: Token by Beverley Kendall

She’s brilliant, beautiful…and tired of being the only Black woman in the room.
Two years ago, Kennedy Mitchell was plucked from the reception desk and placed in the corporate boardroom in the name of diversity. Rather than play along, she and her best friend founded Token, a boutique PR agency that helps “diversity-challenged” companies and celebrities. With corporate America diversifying workplaces and famous people getting into reputation-damaging controversies, Token is in high demand.

Kennedy quickly discovers there’s a lot of on-the-job learning and some messes are not so easily fixed. When Kennedy’s ex shows up needing help repairing his company’s reputation, things get even more complicated. She knows his character is being wrongly maligned, but she’s reluctant to get involved—professionally and emotionally. But soon, she finds herself drawn into a PR scandal of her own.

Buy Links:

BookShop.org  |  Harlequin  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books A Million

Amazon  |  Apple Books  |  Google Play  |  Book Depository

Excerpted from TOKEN by Beverley Kendall © 2023 by Beverley Kendall, used with permission from Graydon House/HarperCollins.


Looking for a job sucked.

Getting laid off sucked even more.

Three weeks ago, Kennedy Mitchell found herself in both unenviable positions.

While searching for a new job in her field of expertise— marketing and five solid years of it—she’d accepted a four- week receptionist position to tide her over. Hey, student loans didn’t pay off themselves and they couldn’t care less about your employment status. But, as grateful as she was to have money coming in, she hated the part of the job that had her slapping herself awake every five minutes.

That also sucked.

It would be one thing if the place were a bevy of human activity (she generally liked people and they tended to like her back). Nope, that wasn’t even close to what she was dealing with. Per the visitor log, a grand total of six had passed through the first-floor lobby of ECO Apparel in the two weeks she’d been there. Three on one day alone. And during the hours when the employees were upstairs ensconced at their desks, the place resembled a ghost town. Seriously, she wouldn’t be surprised to see tumbleweed roll past the reception desk one fine windy day. Although, for a ghost town, the lobby was sleekly modern, all sharp angles, and glass and chrome.

Glancing down at her cell phone, Kennedy released a long- suffering sigh. How was it possible that only three minutes and not an hour had passed since her last five-minute check-in? This was usually when she prayed for one of two things: the power to control time, or another job.

Since the chances of either happening within the next seventy- two hours were zero to none, she grudgingly resigned herself to her fate and tapped the keyboard, bringing the sleeping monitor back to life, and the email from an interested recruiter back into view. Seven hours to go, and the jury was still out on whether she would make it until noon—much less to the end of the day. The ding of the elevator broke the lonely silence and was soon followed by the click of heels on the faux marble floors. Twisting in her seat, Kennedy spotted Nadine from Administrative Services striding purposely toward her, folder and purse in hand. She hastily closed out of her email and treated

the brunette to a bright smile.

“Hey, Nadine, is it break time already?” The pretty admin assistant usually came to relieve her for a midmorning break at ten. Currently, it was an hour shy of that, and taking a break right now would upset the monotony of her day. How would she cope with the upheaval?

“Mr. Mullins wants to see you in his office, and I’ll be filling in for you for the rest of the day,” her coworker announced abruptly.

Kennedy stiffened and her eyebrows rose at the hint of annoyance and resentment threading Nadine’s tone.

Well, good morning to you too.

What the hell happened to the pleasant, chatty girl of not even twenty-four hours ago? And why on earth did the director of Human Resources want to see her in his office? Especially as she, like Nadine, reported to the manager of Administrative Services.

Then Nadine’s folder landed with a splat on the desk near the monitor. Kennedy’s gaze flew to hers and she found herself on the receiving end of a very pointed come on—get a move on, girlie. There’s only one chair and you’re sitting in it look.

That was enough to galvanize Kennedy into action even as her jaw ticked and she prayed for calm. She hurriedly collected her purse from the bottom drawer before surrendering her seat to her visibly impatient coworker.

As if it’s my fault she’s getting stuck down here answering the phone.

Despite Kennedy’s own growing annoyance, she paused and turned before leaving, her shoulders squared, and chin lifted. “Any idea why Mr. Mullins wants to see me?” Her voice was stiff but scrupulously polite.

Since her interaction with him was limited to a brief walk-by wave on her first day during a tour of the offices, she was at a loss. Nadine gave a bored shrug. “I hear no evil and speak no evil.

They tell me nothing. I just go where I’m told to go, and do the work they pay me to do, if you know what I mean.”

Kennedy’s heart instantly softened, and she excused Nadine’s uncustomary churlishness for what appeared to be the frustration that came with being the Jane-of-all-menial-work of the company.

“Believe me, I know exactly what you mean.” They shared a commiserative what we women have to put up with look before Kennedy took the elevator up to the eighth floor.

Honestly, the drawbacks of possessing a vagina were sometimes too much. Giving birth was only one of them. Or so she’d been told. Her turn in the stirrups hadn’t come yet, but she assumed one day it would, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

The company directory alone pointed to an obvious gender bias. Not one woman held an executive, director, or senior- level management position.

Not. One.

And it had been eight years since the previously all-male clothier had ventured into female clothing. One would think that one woman would have made it to the ranks of at least a senior manager position by now. What were they waiting for, a march on Washington?

But wait. If she didn’t think it could get worse, it did. Kennedy had yet to see one Black face of any hue in the parade of employees who walked by her every day—that was, unless she looked in a mirror, and her hue skewed to the lighter shade of that spectrum. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the reasons she’d been picked to grace the reception desk. In the twenty-first century, one would think that impossible. Especially in the city that didn’t sleep, and could be touted as America’s United Nations, every race, ethnicity, language, and sexual orientation duly represented on the postage-stamp

island.

Be that as it may, Kennedy knew better than most that the city tended more toward separate individual dishes—separate being the operative word—rather than one big old melting pot. Once off the elevator, she detoured to the bathroom, where she freshened her lipstick, powdered the shine off her forehead,

and gave her long, thick brown curls a few twists.

With her hair and face in order, she ran a critical eye over her outfit, a purchase of pure indulgence. Although had she even the vaguest idea that she’d be unemployed a week after she bought it, she most assuredly would not have indulged.

But the cream pencil skirt and the baby blue fitted shirt ensemble had called out to her. Buy me. I come in your size. Your body will thank you in the end. And Kennedy, self-proclaimed clotheshorse that she was, hadn’t been able to resist the Siren’s call.

Okay, so maybe due to financial constraints she was more a clothes pony.

After ensuring no visible panty lines ruined the overall effect of polished professionalism and stylishness, she proceeded to Mr. Mullins’s office.

She found him at his desk, the door to his office wide-open. Upon seeing her, a smile broke out across his face. “Ah, Miss Mitchell, come in.”

Kennedy met him halfway, where they shook hands, and she offered a pleasant greeting. He then gestured toward the table and chairs at the other end of the room. “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Average in height and build, hair graying and thinning at the crown, the man himself was as nondescript as middle- aged white men came. If his smile—wide and genuine—was any indication, she could relax, which she did one vertebra at a time. It didn’t look as if she was about to be let go early. Typically, people didn’t smile like that when they were about to deliver bad news. Unless, of course, they were psycho- paths. No, they tended to furrow their brow, feigning concern and sympathy.

Kennedy took a seat where instructed as Mr. Mullins swiped a sheaf of papers off his desk before joining her. She looked around for somewhere to put her purse that was not on the table or the floor and found nothing suitable. In the end, she simply plopped it on her lap.

Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, Mr. Mullins glanced down at the papers in front of him before directing his attention back to her. “So how are you settling in? Everyone treating you all right? No one bothering you, I hope.”

Yeah, nope! Absolutely not. No way was she falling into that trap. This was the kind of throwaway question people asked when they didn’t want or expect an honest answer.

“No, everyone has been great.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that two of the managers had asked for her number and the head of IT asked her out for dinner. As someone person- ally opposed to mixing business with pleasure, and that included dating coworkers—been there, regretted that—invitations like that were shot down faster than a clay pigeon at a skeet shooting competition.

“Good, good, good. Now, I’ve just been looking over your résumé—” he paused, glanced at it and then back at her over the rim of his glasses “—and by the looks of things—your previous experience and education—it’s apparent that you’re overqualified for the receptionist position. Any receptionist position, for that matter.”

For the measly sum of two hundred and fifty grand—the majority of which had been covered by scholarships or else she wouldn’t have been able to afford a school like Columbia—for both her undergraduate and graduate degrees, she sure hoped she was overqualified for the task of greeting visitors and for- warding calls.

“Yes, but this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. The agency said it was a four-week assignment.”

Mr. Mullins nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been told Nancy should be back in a few weeks.” He lowered her résumé, but still held it loosely between his fingers. “Does that mean you aren’t interested in a permanent, full-time position? I might have thought you’d prefer something in Marketing.”

Kennedy watched as he turned the situation over in his mind. He seemed determined to solve the mystery of the overqualified temporary receptionist. But this wasn’t Agatha Christie-level stuff. No amateur sleuthing required.

“I was laid off and this just sort of fell into my lap. The right job at the moment,” she stated simply.

There were layoffs and then there were layoffs. Hers had been the latter, as she’d been assured she’d keep her job after the merger. The following week, she’d walked into the offices of Kenners in the morning and was carting a box with every personal item she’d accumulated over the course of five years—including a dazzling pink slip—out the front door by the time the clock struck noon.

Just like that, five years of job—no, financial security— ripped out from under her. And to add insult to injury, two weeks of severance was all she had to show for years spent busting her ass putting in fifty- and sixty-hour weeks.

God, how she hated them, pink slips, which shouldn’t be pink at all. They should be black like the hearts of the people who played favorites with other people’s livelihoods.

“Completely understandable,” he replied, nodding. “Now, getting to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I assume you’ve heard of Sahara, right? She’s a singer. Won several Grammys. I believe she’s recently gotten into acting. Really a lovely young woman.”

Have I ever heard of her?

Almost everyone on planet Earth had heard of Sahara, and she wasn’t just some wannabe actress. Her first role garnered her an Oscar nod. Not too shabby for a small-town girl from New Jersey, who bore such a striking resemblance to Aaliyah, some people in the music industry called her Baby Girl. Rumor had it she hated the name with the fires of a thousand suns. If true, Kennedy didn’t blame her.

She’s a woman. Call her by her stage name, dammit!

Ironically, her real name was Whitney Richardson, a name she decided not to use professionally, fearing it would invite certain comparisons. One Black superstar singer named Whitney was enough.

“That’s a pretty sound assumption.” Especially since her songs were on heavy rotation on every major radio station in almost every major city in the country. “She’s very popular.”

Popular was an understatement. Sahara was huge. As big as Beyoncé but with first-rate acting chops. And her social media game was, bar none, the best Kennedy had ever seen. Her fans called themselves the Desert Stormers and congregated at OASIS, an online community, to discuss everything Sahara. And God forbid anyone say one bad word about their Desert Queen, they went after them guns blazing.

“I had a feeling you would,” he said with a smugness Kennedy found hard to fathom. It wasn’t as if he’d discovered Jimmy Hoffa’s remains or the identity of Jack the Ripper. “Well, this afternoon we are going to have the pleasure of her company. She and her representatives will be meeting with our executive team.”

“That’s…wonderful.” She didn’t know what he expected her to say. Was he looking for tips on how to interact with young Black women and assumed she was an expert on the subject? Should she tell him she hadn’t yet read this month’s issue of The Secret Guide to the Black Female Mind?

His expression became earnest as he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers. “The CEO of the company would like you to attend.”

Her jaw dropped. A sound escaped from her suddenly dry throat.

Okay, that she hadn’t seen coming.

She reflexively convinced herself he couldn’t have meant what she thought he did, since she was certain she’d heard him correctly.

“Do you mean attend the meeting? With Sahara?” She needed to make sure they were reading from the same hymnal.

His mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Her fingers curled around her purse strap. “Why would Mr. Edwards want me there?” She was a temp. How did the CEO of the company know who she was? Or that she even existed? She only knew his name because it was at the top of the company directory. She couldn’t say for sure she’d actually seen him in the flesh, and if she had, he certainly hadn’t introduced himself.

“Well, you see, Kennedy, I believe the collective thought was that you represent exactly the type of young woman Sahara will be targeting with her clothing line, and having you in the meeting would make her…more comfortable. Put her at ease.”

Ah, yes. She got it, all right. As clear as glass.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean. What type of woman is that?” she asked, all wide-eyed and guileless.

Surely, he meant intelligent, professional, ambitious, and highly educated?

Yeah, right.

The crests of his cheeks reddened, but he was stalwart in his determination to hold her gaze. “Well, you’re a beautiful young woman with an obvious eye for fashion, and her line hopes to encompass all aspects of work, life, and play.”

Nice save, bub. But not good enough.

“And the fact that I’m Black didn’t have anything to do with the decision? Not even a little?” she coaxed, doubting anyone had ever taken him to task on the subject of race this directly, if at all.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, yes, there is that too.” No, there was no too—that was the whole of it.

Suddenly, his expression turned apprehensive. “I hope that didn’t offend you. With this whole #MeToo movement, I’m not sure if I just crossed the line. Am I still allowed to compliment you on your looks?”

Oh dear lord, shoot me now.

Did this man not interact with any women in a professional capacity? A sensitivity class or four wouldn’t go awry at this company.

“No, I’m not offended.” At work, she generally took such compliments in stride. As long as they weren’t accompanied by a suggestive leer and a hotel room key card pressed into her palm during a handshake. True story. That had actually happened.

“Things have changed so much lately, sometimes it’s best to ask, or the next thing you know… Well, who knows what will happen,” he finished, f lashing her an awkward smile.

“Anyway,” Kennedy said, eager to get back to the subject at hand, “about the meeting. As much as it would be a thrill to meet her, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. I don’t know very much about the inner workings of the company. I’m probably not the right person—”

But Mr. Mullins was having none of that, bulldozing her objections with, “For your additional responsibilities, you’ll receive five thousand dollars.”

Kennedy had to steel herself from physically reacting. On the inside, however, it was nothing but fits of jubilation. Cart- wheels and back handsprings that would make the women’s Olympic gymnastics team proud.

Five thousand dollars! Found money, all of it. And to think of how happy she’d been last month when she found a twenty between the cushions of her sofa and last year when she’d dis- covered a ten spot in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Careful to calibrate her response, she began slowly, “That is—”

“No, no, my mistake,” Mr. Mullins interjected again, his eyes darting from her face to the paper in front of him, which he proceeded to tap repeatedly with his finger. “I meant seventy- five hundred. An additional seventy-five hundred.”

Kennedy sat there utterly gobsmacked. “Mr. Mullins—” “Ten thousand.”

Another minute and Kennedy was certain the strain in his voice would give way to full-blown panic.

Ten thousand dollars for one meeting? Oh my god, that’s wild.

But the best kind.

With dollar signs flashing like a bright neon sign in her mind, she smiled. “What time should I be there?”

About the Author

BEVERLEY KENDALL published her first novel in 2010, a historical romance with Kensington. She has since published over ten contemporary and historical romances. She also manages the romance review blog, Smitten by Books (smittenbybooks.com). Bev now writes full-time while raising her son as a single mother. Both dual citizens of the U.S and Canada, they currently call Atlanta home. 

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Author Website  |  Facebook  |  Instagram  |  Goodreads

HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour (Mystery & Thriller Edition) Promo Post: Someone Had to Do It by Amber Brown and Danielle Brown

It’s the perfect crime…until the accused fights back.

Brandi Maxwell is living the dream as an intern at prestigious New York fashion house Simon Van Doren. Except “living the dream” looks more like scrubbing puke from couture dresses worn by hard-partying models and putting up with microaggressions from her white colleagues. Still, she can’t help but fangirl over Simon’s it-girl daughter, Taylor. Until one night, at a glamorous Van Doren party, when Brandi overhears something she shouldn’t have, and her fate becomes dangerously intertwined Taylor’s.

 

Model and influencer Taylor Van Doren has everything…and is this close to losing it all. Her fashion mogul father will donate her inheritance to charity if she fails her next drug test, and he’s about to marry someone nearly as young as Taylor, further threatening her stake in the family fortune. But Taylor deserves the money that’s rightfully hers. And she’ll go to any lengths to get it, even if that means sacrificing her famous father in the process.

 

All she needs is the perfect person to take the fall…

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BRANDI

I had a ton of illusions, vivid fantasies of what it would be like to score a coveted internship at Van Doren. Deluded old me thought I would be strutting around the stunning tri-story headquarters in single-soled heels, flitting from design concept meetings to on-location photo shoots, living my best fashion-girl life. Instead, I’m in the back corner of the two-thousand-square-foot ready-to-wear samples closet scrubbing fresh vomit from a slinky gown worth double my rent during my lunch hour.

Italian Vogue’s current cover girl borrowed the hand-sewn dress for a red-carpet event last night, and apparently getting it back on a rack without ruining it was too much for one of the other interns to handle. She was so hungover when she came to the office this morning that she vomited all over the dress before making it out of the elevator. But of course this dress needs to be ready for another model to wear to some big extravaganza tonight, and since I’m the designated fuckover intern, I have to clean it by hand because the satin-blend fabric is too delicate to be dry-cleaned.

This is what it takes.

I chant this to remind myself why I’m here as the lactic acid builds up in my biceps. Working for Van Doren has been on my proverbial vision board ever since I reluctantly gave up the idea, in middle school, that I could be Beyoncé. It’s a storm of hauling hundreds of pounds of runway samples around the city and sitting in on meetings with the sketch artists. A glorious, next-to-holy experience when I’m on duty at photo shoots and one of the stylists sends me to fetch another blazer, not a specific blazer, which means I get to use my own vestiary inclinations to make the selection. Which has only happened once, but still.

Just as I get the stain faded by at least seventy percent, I hear the sharp staccato of someone in stilettos approaching. I turn around and see Lexi. Lexi with her bimonthly touched-up white-blond hair and generous lip filler that she’ll never admit to having injected. When she steps closer in her head-to-toe Reformation, I am grateful that I remembered to put on a few sprays of my Gypsy Water perfume. The one that smells like rich people. But the way she’s staring at me right now, it’s clear that no matter how much I try, I am still not on her level. I do not fit in here. She does not see me as her equal, despite the fact that we are both unpaid, unknown, disposable interns. It’s become glaringly obvious that at Van Doren, it’s not actually about what you contribute, but more about how blue your blood is. Lexi doesn’t even know my name, though I’ve been here a solid nine weeks and I’m pretty sure I’ve told her at least a dozen times.

I’m already on edge because of my assignment, so I jump in before she can ask in her monotone voice. “Brandi.”

“Right,” she says, like she does every time yet still forgets. “Chloé wants the Instagram analytics report for last week. She said she asked you to put it together an hour ago.”

Which is true, but completely unfair since Jenna from marketing also asked me to run to Starbucks to buy thirty-one-ounce cups of liquid crack for her and her entire department for a 9:00 a.m. meeting, an effort that took three trips total, and technically I’m still working on the data sheets I promised Eric from product development. Not to mention the obvious: getting rid of the puke from the dress.

“I’m still working on it,” I tell her.

Lexi stares at me, her overly filled brows lifted, as if she’s waiting for the rest of my excuse. I understand her, but also I’m wondering how she still hasn’t realized this is not a case of Resting Bitch Face I have going on, that I am actually intolerant of her nagging.

Normally, I am not this terse. But nothing about today has been normal. Since this week is my period week, I’m retaining water in the most unflattering of places and the pencil dress I’m wearing has been cutting off the circulation in my thighs for the past couple of hours, and being that I’ve spent most of my break destroying the evidence of someone else’s bad decisions, it is not my fault that I’m not handling this particularly well.

“I’ll send it over as soon as I’m done,” I say to Lexi so she can leave. But she doesn’t.

“HR wants to see you,” she says with what looks like a smirk.

My mouth opens. I have no idea what HR could want, and although I’m still new to this employee thing, I know this can’t be good.

“Like, now,” Lexi barks and pivots away in her strappy, open-toe stilts.

I hang the sample next to the door, and before I leave the room I pause to briefly take in the rest of the dresses stuffed on the racks, each one in that chic, elevated aesthetic that is the cornerstone of Van Doren. This is my favorite part of the day, the chaotic nature of this room a little overwhelming but also inspiring, and I can’t wait for the day that this is my world, not just one I’m peeking my head into. A world in which I command respect.

I cross through the merchandising department, where everyone has their own private office with aerial views of Hell’s Kitchen, Soho and the Garment District, and then move through the maze of the sprawling suite in a mild sort of panic until I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong. Ever since spring semester ended, I’ve been putting in more hours than the sun. I slip in at six-thirty when the building is dark and vaguely ominous, my eyes still puffy with sleep, and when I finally drag myself into the elevator at the end of the day, it’s just as black and quiet outside. I religiously show up in current-season heels despite the blisters, albeit mass-produced renditions of the Fendi, Balenciaga and Bottega Venetas the other summer interns casually strut around in, and mostly stick to myself. I am careful about raising my voice, even if I vehemently disagree with my neurotic supervisor. I keep my tongue as puritanical as a nun’s, even when fucking incel or coddled narcissistic bitch are on the tip of it. I’m not rude or combative. I stay away from gossip. I complete all my tasks with time to spare, which is usually when I check Twitter and help out some of the other interns, even though I’d rather FaceTime Nate in the upstairs bathroom with the magical lighting. I even entertain the gang of sartorially inclined Amy Coopers in the making who insist on obnoxiously complaining to me about all of their first-world, one-percenter problems. I’ve done nothing but consistently given them reasons to think I am a capable, qualified, talented intern who would make an exceptional employee.

I have nothing to worry about.

When I knock on the door to Lauren’s office, she looks up from her desk and waves me in through the glass. I have a feeling this will not go my way when I see that my supervisor, Chloé, one of the more amiable assistants, is also here, fiddling with her six-carat engagement ring in the corner and avoiding eye contact.

“Have a seat, Brandi,” Lauren says, and I tell myself to ignore that her bright pink lipstick extends above her lip on one side.

There is no small talk. No hello or how’s it going? Under alternate circumstances, I would feel slighted, but because I’m growing more anxious by the second, I’m grateful for her smugness.

As I sit down, Chloé shifts in her chair, and I speak before she can. “I’m sorry. The Instagram report is at the top of my task list. I’ll definitely have it to you before I leave today. I just—”

“That’s not why you’re here, Brandi,” Lauren interjects.

“Oh.” I pause, and as she glances down at her notes, I try to make meaningful eye contact with my supervisor, but she is still actively dodging my eyes.

Lauren begins by throwing out a few compliments. My work ethic is admirable and I have great attention to detail, she says, and the whole time my heart is pounding so loud, I can barely make out most of her words. Chloé jumps in to effusively agree, then Lauren finally stops beating around the bush and looks me directly in the eyes.

“We just don’t feel like you’re fitting into the culture here at Van Doren.”

Every word feels like a backhanded slap across the face, the kind that twists your neck and makes the world go still and white for a few disconcerting moments, like an orgasm but not like an orgasm. It’s obvious what they mean, yet can’t quite bring themselves to say.

They just don’t like that I’m black.

They don’t like the way I wear my braids—long and unapologetic, grazing my hips like a Nubian mermaid.

They don’t like that I’m not the smile-and-nod type, willing to assimilate to their idea of what I should be, how I should act.

Culture.

That’s their code for we-can’t-handle-your-individuality-but-since-we-don’t-want-to-seem-racist-we’ll-invent-this-little-loophole.

Black plus exceptional equals threat.

“If we don’t see any improvement in the coming weeks, we’re going to have to let you go,” Lauren says with no irony, her mouth easing into a synthetic smile.

I blink. I cannot believe this is happening right now. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, my internship at Van Doren, the one fashion company whose ethics align with mine. I wasn’t just blowing smoke up Lauren’s ass when I interviewed for this job, though I was looking at her sideways, wondering why she had not a stitch of Van Doren on. I’d splurged on a single-shouldered jumpsuit from this year’s spring collection that I couldn’t really afford just to impress her, while she hadn’t even felt the need to represent the brand at all as she shot out all those futile questions interviewers love propelling at candidates, I’m convinced, just to see them squirm. Even minuscule amounts of power can be dangerous.

This is bullshit, being put on probation, and I’d give anything to have the balls to call them on it. As I sit here paralyzed, Lauren’s words reverberate in my head and I rebuke them, want to suffocate and bury them.

About Amber and Danielle Brown

Photo Credit: Deidhra Fahey Photography

Amber and Danielle Brown both graduated from Rider University where they studied Communications/Journalism and sat on the editorial staff for the On Fire!! literary journal. They then pursued a career in fashion and spent five years in NYC working their way up, eventually managing their own popular fashion and lifestyle blog. Amber is also a screenwriter, so they live in LA, which works out perfectly so Danielle can spoil her plant babies with copious amount of sunshine.

Our debut novel with Graydon House, SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT, is available for preorder now.

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Website | Amber's Twitter | Danielle's Twitter | Instagram

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HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour (Inkyard Press & YA Edition) Promo Post: The Empress of Time by Kylie Lee Baker

In this riveting sequel to The Keeper of Night, a half Reaper, half Shinigami soul collector must defend her title as Japan’s Death Goddess from those who would see her—and all of Japan—destroyed.

Death is her dynasty.

Ren Scarborough is no longer the girl who was chased out of England—she is the Goddess of Death ruling Japan’s underworld. But Reapers have recently been spotted in Japan, and it’s only a matter of time before Ivy, now Britain’s Death Goddess, comes to claim her revenge.

Ren’s last hope is to appeal to the god of storms and seas, who can turn the tides to send Ivy’s ship away from Japan’s shores. But he’ll only help Ren if she finds a sword lost thousands of years ago—an impossible demand.

Together with the moon god Tsukuyomi, Ren ventures across the country in a race against time. As her journey thrusts her in the middle of scheming gods and dangerous Yokai demons, Ren will have to learn who she can truly trust—and the fate of Japan hangs in the balance.

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Deep down below the land of the living, in a place where light could not reach, I lived in a castle of shadows.

It sat on a high platform of stone, its towers spiraling into Yomi’s endless sky with rooftops sloped like claws and edges that blurred away in the night, as if a black fog had wrapped its arms around the castle and choked its breath away. Most people would never have the displeasure of seeing the monstrosity of my home in the total darkness of Yomi, but Shinigami, like me, could sense it clearly.

I knelt in an empty courtyard marked by smooth tiles just beyond the lotus lake, every breath echoing forever into the darkness. At times, the night was so still and vacant that I felt like it was listening to me, waiting for me, and if I only said the right words, the whole world would unfold and light would break in from above.

One of my shadow guards hovered beside me, his shape ebbing and flowing, pulsing like a heart as he waited for my instructions. My guards were people of the shadows—inhuman creatures born from the lost dreams of the dead, spirits with no body to call home, formless and ephemeral. My palace was filled with too many of them and an absurd number of handmaids—women bound forever to the palace from deals they’d made with Izanami. Most of them had bargained for more time with the living, either for themselves or their families. I didn’t know if their quiet subservience was out of fear, or if Izanami had bound them with some sort of curse.

“Have Chiyo send someone to clean the courtyard,” I said, glancing at the muddy marks I’d left on the stones. The mess didn’t bother me, but it would surely bother Chiyo, and I wanted the guard to leave me alone.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the guard said, evaporating into the darkness.

Before going inside, I turned to the west wing of the courtyard, where the darkness grew thick like treacle, clinging to my sandals as I walked. After a few steps, I could no longer see my hands in front of me, even with my Shinigami vision. The world was nothing but my own slow heartbeat and the cold sweat on my skin, the weight of a thousand worlds crushing down on my shoulders as the darkness grew heavier and heavier.

I fell to my knees at the border of deep darkness and reached a hand out in front of me. My palm pressed into a cold wall, unyielding but invisible. Beyond it, the darkness was so dense that it seemed like the world had simply ceased to exist.

I pressed harder against the wall, feeling my bones creak and joints protest. Even before I’d become a goddess, I’d been strong enough to crush bricks to dust and bend steel like dough. As a goddess, my anger could make mountains tremble and my touch could shatter diamonds. Yet the wall that barred me from the deep darkness would not yield. It had grown weaker over the years—I could hear the tinkle of hairline cracks forming on the other side—but still, it remained standing.

At first, I would sit outside for hours pushing against the wall until my fingers broke and my wrists snapped, but now I knew that if I wasn’t strong enough, no amount of time spent pushing would change that. Only more souls in my stomach could weaken the barrier. So instead of trying anymore, I fell forward onto my hands and glared across the darkness, whispering a secret prayer and hoping that somewhere in that dark infinity, Neven could hear me.

When humans grew desperate, they offered me anything at all to spare them and their loved ones from suffering. But there were no gods left for me to pray to. I had become my own god, and now I knew the cruel truth: gods were just as helpless as humans when it came to things that mattered.

I rose to my feet and trudged back to the palace doors, where two more shadow guards stood at attention. They bowed as I approached, then raised the great metal bars that sealed the palace and let me inside.

Chiyo stood waiting just beyond the door, her arms crossed. Out of all the handmaids Izanami had left behind, I’d chosen her to attend and advise me. Despite the way Death often blurred one’s features, Chiyo’s eyes had a sharpness to them, like she was ready for a sudden attack. She was the only servant who seemed like she’d retained even a piece of her soul after having her heart eaten by Shinigami. The others had vacant stares and cowered in fear, but Chiyo always had a sour look on her face when I frequently displeased her, which I much preferred. My guess was she’d died somewhere in her thirties, though the sternness in her face made her look older.

“That took longer than scheduled,” Chiyo said, frowning at the trail of mud behind me. “The Goddess of Death can’t even kill efficiently?”

“I felt like making you wait,” I said, stepping through the doorway. Chiyo did little to conceal her disapproval for my extra soul collections, but she helped me because I was her goddess and I’d asked her to, and she had to trust that a goddess knew what was best, even if we both knew that was a lie.

I lit the ceremonial candles in the hallway with a wave of my hand, casting the palace in dim light. Chiyo flinched like I’d set off fireworks, but I ignored her and trailed muddy footprints down the hallway.

One of the many changes I’d made from Izanami’s reign of total darkness was that I required at least dim light in the palace at all times. Even though my Shinigami senses could make out the furniture and wall paintings in the darkness, I’d also started to see faces that shouldn’t have been there. In the formless swirl of darkness, they came together piece by piece, hazy nightmares that dispersed whenever I blinked and then reappeared when I turned around.

Chiyo bowed and opened the door to the bathroom. She tried, as she did every day, to help me undress, but I shooed her away with a wave of my hand while other servants filled a tub with scalding hot water. I cast off my soiled human clothes and dropped them in a wet pile on the floor.

“Burn them,” I said to Chiyo, stepping into the tub. My clothes reeked of blood and wouldn’t have been salvageable even if I’d wanted them.

“Most deities don’t waste quite so many kimonos,” she said, gathering the dirty fabric.

“Most deities don’t do anything,” I said, scrubbing the blood from under my fingernails. “They just bask in humans’ prayers and have their underlings do their chores. But I have tasks that only I can do correctly.”

Chiyo made a noncommittal humming sound that she always made when her thoughts weren’t polite enough to say to a goddess, but she didn’t deny my words. The Shinto gods all had great adventures and conquests and tragedies when the world was first beginning, but since the modern era, none of them seemed particularly active.

While I hadn’t expected any of them to welcome me with open arms, none had deigned to even speak to me. Chiyo mentioned their doings in passing—when typhoons tore through Japan, that was likely the doing of Fūjin, the god of wind. And when the population increased, that was the doing of Inari, goddess of fertility. But none of them ever drained the seas or turned the sky purple or performed any sort of godlike miracle, anything that couldn’t be explained by nature or luck. I imagined that they merely sat in their palaces and watched the changing winds.

“Has anything of importance happened in my absence?” I asked. Chiyo knew well that important meant any situation I had to deal with immediately or risk total chaos and peril. Anything else, she could handle on her own.

“Yomi is quiet, Your Highness,” she said. “It is Obon, so the dead are on Earth.”

Just like every year, I had forgotten about the Obon festival until it was upon us, marking the waning days of summer, one more year of nothing changing at all. It was now a Buddhist holiday, but I observed it even as a Shinto goddess, for the two religions had long ago become intertwined in the lives of humans in Japan. Every year, the souls of the dead traveled back to their hometowns on Earth, summoned by fire. After three days of festivals and dancing, fire bid the spirits goodbye, and they returned to Yomi. Usually, that meant that no one bothered me for three days.

“However, there are Shinigami waiting upstairs,” Chiyo said.

“Why?” I frowned, combing my fingers through my wet hair. The water clouded with blood.

“I believe they are hoping for a transfer.”

I sighed, nodding as I scrubbed the blood from my forehead. It was my fault for daring to hope that Obon would mean a few days of peace and quiet in Yomi. What right did I have to peace?

“I don’t suppose you could tell them to come back tomorrow?”

Chiyo’s thin smile twitched, her eyes glinting like sharpened knives as she turned toward the light as if considering my request. Chiyo had to be patient with me, but I knew her patience was not infinite.

“Fine,” I said, sinking deeper into the water, “but I’m not going to meet them sopping wet, so they’ll just have to wait a bit longer.”

“Of course,” Chiyo said, bowing in a way that somehow felt sarcastic, even if I couldn’t prove it. “I will take care of your clothes and have the floors cleaned,” she said, turning to leave.

“Chiyo.”

She stopped in the doorway. “Yes, Your Highness?”

I could not look at her face when I asked my next question because I would know the answer from her eyes alone. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the muddy water, dirty and distorted like me.

“Have the guards found anything in the deep darkness?” I asked.

Every day, right before she answered, there was a moment of breathless silence when I allowed myself to hope. Sometimes I would stop time and cling to the moment just a bit longer, allowing myself to think that maybe today was the day.

“No, Your Highness,” Chiyo said. The only time her voice was gentle was when she answered this question. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I said, shifting in the tub so that my reflection rippled and broke, “perhaps.”

She bowed again, then hurried out of the room. I glanced at my ring on the counter, then sank under the water.

I closed my eyes as a wave of fresh souls rushed over me, a warmth spinning through my blood, burning from my heart to my fingertips. I could always feel when my Shinigami brought me fresh souls. A thousand names flashed behind my closed eyes, streaks of bloodred kanji burned into my vision. The ache in my bones abated slightly, heat returning to my core. With every soul, I felt a little less like I’d been dragged through wet earth with a sick stomach full of hearts and more like someone who might be a goddess one day.

I stepped out of the tub and into my room, where servants were already waiting with clothing.

When I’d first taken the throne, they’d tried to dress me in twelve layers of fabric, so heavy that I could hardly stand up.

“The royal junihitoe is the proper clothing for a goddess,” Chiyo had said.

But I hadn’t felt like a goddess then, and I still didn’t now. I was just a pathetic girl whose anger had killed her brother and then her betrothed, and my prize was an eternity of lonely darkness. I didn’t deserve the throne, nor did I want it. But this was the only way to stay in Yomi and wait at the edge of the deep darkness, either until my guards brought Neven back or I finally grew strong enough to break through the wall and find him myself. So, for the time being, I would have to play the part.

“I want a simple black kimono,” I’d said to Chiyo. “I don’t want to look pretty. I want to be able to move.”

“Your Highness,” Chiyo had said, the first traces of impatience starting to curdle her expression, “for a goddess, black clothing looks rather mournful.”

“Yes, and?” I said, casting the last of the purple fabric to the ground and standing only in my slip. “My brother is gone, my mother is dead, and I stabbed a ceremonial knife into my fiancé’s heart. I will mourn if I want to.”

To that, Chiyo said nothing, bowing deeply to hide her expression. The next day, she’d brought me a closet full of kimonos as dark as Yomi’s endless sky, and that was what I’d worn ever since.

The servants dressed me, tying my kimono tightly behind me. Even now, it reminded me of the first time someone had helped me into a kimono with hands that glowed like moonbeams and skin that smelled like brine.

A servant bowed and offered me my clock, which I clipped to my clothes and tucked into my obi. Finding a new clock of pure silver and gold had been difficult in Yomi, but it turned out that Death Goddesses got almost anything they wanted. I had never found Neven’s clock that I’d dropped on the floor of the throne room all those years ago, despite having my servants turn over every mat and empty every drawer in the entire palace. I suspected Hiro had destroyed it.

Chiyo tried to tie my hair up, but I stepped away from her and brushed it myself. I’d spent too long hiding the color of my hair from Reapers to simply tie it up and hide it again for the sake of proper styling. Nothing about me was traditional or proper, so what difference did a hairstyle make? I slipped my ring necklace over my head and rose to my feet, pushing the doors to my room open before the servants could do it for me. They threw themselves to the ground in apology, but I ignored them, charging down the hallways past the murals of Japan’s history—Izanagi and Izanami stirring the sky with a spear, the birth of their first child, Hiro, and their final children, the gods of the sun, moon and storms.

At first, I’d thought someone had painted the murals so the history wouldn’t be lost. But the palace had a mind of its own—mere days after my ascension, I’d walked past a new painting. It showed an angry girl cast in shadows, holding a candle in one hand and a clock in the other, standing at an outdoor shrine that dripped with blood, the body of a man at her feet.

I’d ordered the servants to paint over it and watched unblinking until it was done, but the next day, the picture appeared again. It seemed no matter what I did, I couldn’t erase it. I no longer visited that wing of the palace.


The guards at the entrance to the throne room bowed and opened the doors as I strode past them.

Inside, two Shinigami knelt on cushions on the floor, one man and one woman. They wore crimson red robes embroidered with gold dragons that captured the pale candlelight. How unfair it was that they could wear the uniform of Shinigami when I never had the chance, their lives so simple and whole.

I stepped up onto the platform and sat on my throne. The ceremonial candles lit the platform around me like a stage, Izanami’s katana mounted on the wall above me.

This was the room where I’d first met Izanami, back when I’d truly believed that she could help me. Once, the distance between the sliding doors and the great platform of Izanami’s throne had felt like a thousand miles, the pale reed mats an endless desert that pulled nervous sweat from my palms as I crawled across them. Now it was just a room of echoes and darkness, a chair that was expensive and uncomfortable, and a murder weapon mounted above my head because I didn’t know where else to put it. What had made the room magnificent was the fear that Izanami inspired, and now she was gone.

I sat down on the throne and crossed my arms as they bowed to me, then closed my eyes. The names of the Shinigami appeared in the darkness of my mind.

“Yoshitsune and Kanako of Naoshima,” I said, opening my eyes. “Speak.”

“Your Highness,” the man, Yoshitsune, said, “we’ve come to ask for your permission to transfer to Tottori.”


I sighed. What a waste of time. This had hardly been worth getting dressed for.

“No,” I said. “Was that all?”

“But…” Kanako frowned, rising up from her reverent bow, “why not?”

“‘Your Highness,’” I reminded her, scowling. In truth, I hated the title, but letting them speak informally to me was a quick path to being called Ren and then Reaper.

“Why not, Your Highness?” Kanako said, though the title sounded more like an insult than any sign of respect.

“You know why,” I said. “Do not waste my time with this.”

“Her father lives in Tottori, and he’s growing old,” Yoshitsune said, frowning as if I was singularly responsible for this. How quickly they had gone from pressing their noses to the floor to glaring at me. This was how it always went—they were willing to pretend I was their goddess until I didn’t give them what they wanted.

Most Shinigami didn’t even keep in touch with their parents enough to justify such a request. Just like Reapers, Shinigami families were only useful for alliances and protection. Once children married, there was no practical need for them to see their parents anymore. One of the many reasons my father had renounced me was probably that he’d never expected me to marry, so he wouldn’t have had a convenient excuse to disappear from my life. I doubted that the Shinigami before me truly wanted to relocate for noble reasons.

“I don’t need more Shinigami in Tottori,” I said. “The population there is hardly growing. You may transfer to Tokyo or Osaka, but Tottori is already bursting with Shinigami who are bored to death. My answer is no.”


“Izanami allowed us to stay with our families,” Yoshitsune said, glaring at me through the darkness.

Lies, a voice whispered, the words scratching down my ear like my head was full of spiders. I had figured as much, but comparing myself to Izanami rarely ended well. As much as I wanted to grant their wish and shut them up, the only thing worse than angry Shinigami was uncollected souls floating in the ether because there weren’t enough Shinigami to reap them. Then, instead of thinking me heartless, the other Shinigami would think me incompetent, which was much worse.

They had no innate respect for me, a foreign girl who had abruptly replaced the creator of their world. Reapers had impeccable hearing, so I knew all the things they whispered about me before I summoned them to my meetings—that I had seduced Hiro just to steal his throne, that I had taken Japan as an English colony to enslave, that I had no right to sit on Izanami’s throne and give orders. I couldn’t bring myself to disagree with the last one.

So, if they wouldn’t respect me, they had to fear me.

My shadows reached out and wrapped around their arms and legs, tearing the couple to opposite sides of the room. They screamed as the shadows pinned them to the walls, long tendrils of darkness crawling around their throats, lifting up their eyelids to examine the soft flesh below, tickling up their noses to peer at their brains.

Tears pooled in Yoshitsune’s eyes as the shadows dived down his throat, but Kanako bit down on the dark coils before they could choke her, spitting inky blackness back at me.

“Which one of you would like to die first?” I said in Death. The language was useful for intimidation, for even if my words were inelegant, Death curled them into a sinister lilt that made the Shinigami break out in goose bumps.


“You can’t kill us and you know it!” Kanako said. “The population is growing too quickly and you need all the Shinigami you can get.”

Unfortunately, she was right. Though the death of any Shinigami would result in the birth of another, I couldn’t exactly wait the hundred years it would take for them to grow up and complete their training. More Shinigami were already being born to meet the needs of the growing population, but all of them were still too young to reap.

“There are things worse than Death,” I said. This, I knew all too well.

I snapped both of their legs and dropped them to the floor.

They groaned as they fell limp against the mats, my shadows retreating back to me. They would heal in a few hours.

“Chiyo,” I said.

The door slid open instantly, as if she’d been waiting with an ear pressed against it. Her eyes were wide and alarmed, and for a moment I hesitated—she was used to my outbursts when dealing with Shinigami, so surely a few broken shins wouldn’t have unsettled her. Something else must have happened.

But whatever it was, she could find a way to resolve it herself. I didn’t have the patience for another catastrophe right now.

“Have them taken outside,” I said. “They can crawl home.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Chiyo said. “If I may—”

I strode past the Shinigami, but one of them grabbed my ankle, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to Kanako, her face twisted in pain but her grip iron strong around my leg.


“Have you no respect?” I said, my jaw tense. “I could have killed you. I can spare one Shinigami, I promise you that.”

Kanako shook her head, nails biting into my skin.

“I don’t worship foreign gods,” she said.

I sighed, then yanked my ankle away and stomped firmly on her hand. It crackled with a sound like stale bread.

“Take them out now,” I said to Chiyo, storming past her.

Foreign gods, I thought, stomping toward my study. That was always the problem. Years ago, I’d given up fighting the word foreigner, knowing it was futile. Gods weren’t supposed to care what lower beings thought of them. All my power was supposed to extinguish that sort of weak, mortal doubt. Because if it didn’t, then why had I sacrificed everything for it?

Somehow, despite all my power, I was still trapped. It didn’t matter if foreigner stung less now than it had ten years ago, because the result was the same—no one respected me. No amount of introspection or confidence could change the fact that I had no say in who I was. Even as the most powerful being in all of Yomi, I felt like none of it truly belonged to me—my palace was a dollhouse, my riches trinkets, and all of it was a sham, because someone like me was not allowed to be a goddess.

“Your Highness!” Chiyo called, hurrying behind me.

“I’m going to my study,” I said.

“But Your Highness, there’s someone here in the lobby—”

“I don’t care if Izanami herself has risen from the grave and come over for tea. I am not seeing any other guests today.”

Chiyo clamped her mouth shut, but at the mention of Izanami, her eyes went wide.

“Chiyo,” I said, slowing to a stop. “Is Izanami—”

“No, no, Your Highness,” Chiyo said, shaking her head. “But there is someone I think you’ll want to speak to.”

I sighed, my jaw locked with annoyance. “Who is it?”

Chiyo looked at her feet. “He didn’t exactly say, but his face…”

She trailed off, but it was enough to make me hesitate. Chiyo knew better than to waste my time, so if she was stopping me for this visitor, he must have been of some importance.

I turned back down the hallway and headed toward the main entrance, Chiyo following close behind. I entered the main lobby, bristling past the shadow guards into the golden entranceway, its ceiling painted with a thousand flowers and its walls mapped with more of the castle’s murals cast in a backdrop of gold.

A man stood by the door, arms crossed as he examined the painted walls. He wore a kimono in ethereal white that glowed so brightly it seemed to emanate a pale mist of light. He turned around, as beautiful and terrifying as an endless sea, skin of moonbeams and eyes of exquisite coal. Someone I never thought I’d see again.

“Hiro?”

Excerpted from The Empress of Time by Kylie Lee Baker, Copyright © 2022 by Kylie Lee Baker. Published by Inkyard Press.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Photo Credit: Greg Samborski

Kylie Lee Baker is the author of The Keeper of Night. She grew up in Boston and has since lived in Atlanta, Salamanca, and Seoul. Her writing is informed by her heritage (Japanese, Chinese, and Irish), as well as her experiences living abroad as both a student and teacher. She has a B.A. in Creative Writing and Spanish from Emory University and is currently pursuing a Master of Library and Information Science degree at Simmons University. In her free time, she watches horror movies, plays the cello, and bakes too many cookies.

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