Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: We of the Forsaken World by Kiran Bhat #literaryfiction #WeOfTheForsakenWorl

WE OF THE FORSAKEN WORLD
By Kiran Bhat
Literary Fiction/Metaphysical Fiction

The Internet has connected – and continues to connect – billions of people around the world, sometimes in surprising ways. In his sprawling new novel, we of the forsaken world, author Kiran Bhat has turned the fact of that once-unimaginable connectivity into a metaphor for life itself.

In we of the forsaken world, Bhat follows the fortunes of 16 people who live in four distinct places on the planet. The gripping stories include those of a man’s journey to the birthplace of his mother, a tourist town destroyed by an industrial spill; a chief’s second son born in a nameless remote tribe, creating a scramble for succession as their jungles are destroyed by loggers; a homeless, one-armed woman living in a sprawling metropolis who sets out to take revenge on the men who trafficked her; and a milkmaid in a small village of shanty shacks connected only by a mud and concrete road who watches the girls she calls friends destroy her reputation.

Like modern communication networks, the stories in, we of the forsaken world connect along subtle lines, dispersing at the moments where another story is about to take place. Each story is a parable unto itself, but the tales also expand to engulf the lives of everyone who lives on planet Earth, at every second, everywhere.

As Bhat notes, his characters “largely live their own lives, deal with their own problems, and exist independently of the fact that they inhabit the same space. This becomes a parable of globalization, but in a literary text.”

Bhat continues:  “I wanted to imagine a globalism, but one that was bottom-to-top, and using globalism to imagine new terrains, for the sake of fiction, for the sake of humanity’s intellectual growth.”

“These are stories that could be directly ripped from our headlines. I think each of these stories is very much its own vignette, and each of these vignettes gives a lot of insight into human nature, as a whole.”

we of the forsaken world takes pride of place next to such notable literary works as David Mitchell’s CLOUD ATLAS, a finalist for the prestigious Man Booker Prize for 2004, and Mohsin Hamid’s EXIT WEST, which was listed by the New York Times as one of its Best Books of 2017.

Bhat’s epic also stands comfortably with the works of contemporary visionaries such as Umberto Eco, Haruki Murakami, and Philip K. Dick.

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2DQIclm

Barnes & Noble → https://bit.ly/2Lqe9Fi

“My people. Now speaks the man destined to make the great cats bow to feet, now speaks the man who will lock eyes with the sun. I have found our new land. Take your canoes and follow me. A new time for our tribe has come.” 

Not a single man found it in himself to raise a weapon, nor did a single wife open her mouth. The eyes of the eternal shone not from the skull but from the eyes of our chief’s first son. We believed that the spirits had bestowed him with our future. He had the eyes of life and death and life once more.

(Bhat, we, of the forsaken world… p. 191)

Kiran Bhat was born in Jonesboro, Georgia to parents from villages in Dakshina Kannada, India. An avid world traveler, polyglot, and digital nomad, he has currently traveled to more than 130 countries, lived in 18 different places, and speaks 12 languages. He currently lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Website  → http://iguanabooks.ca/

 

 

Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: The Road to Delano by John DeSimon & Giveaway! @jrdesimone #histfic

THE ROAD TO DELANO
By John DeSimone
Historical Fiction

Jack Duncan is a high school senior whose dream is to play baseball in college and beyond―as far away from Delano as possible. He longs to escape the political turmoil surrounding the labor struggles of the striking fieldworkers that infests his small ag town. Ever since his father, a grape grower, died under suspicious circumstances ten years earlier, he’s had to be the sole emotional support of his mother, who has kept secrets from him about his father’s involvement in the ongoing labor strife.

With their property on the verge of a tax sale, Jack drives an old combine into town to sell it so he and his mother don’t become homeless. On the road, an old friend of his father’s shows up and hands him the police report indicating Jack’s father was murdered. Jack is compelled to dig deep to discover the entire truth, which throws him into the heart of the corruption endemic in the Central Valley. Everything he has dreamed of is at stake if he can’t control his impulse for revenge.

While Jack’s girlfriend, the intelligent and articulate Ella, warns him not to so anything to jeopardize their plans of moving to L.A., after graduation, Jack turns to his best friend, Adrian, a star player on the team, to help to save his mother’s land. When Jack’s efforts to rescue a stolen piece of farm equipment leaves Adrian―the son of a boycotting fieldworker who works closely with Cesar Chavez―in a catastrophic situation, Jack must bail his friend out of his dilemma before it ruins his future prospects. Jack uses his wits, his acumen at card playing, and his boldness to raise the money to spring his friend, who has been transformed by his jail experience.

The Road to Delano is the path Jack, Ella, and Adrian must take to find their strength, their duty, their destiny.

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2Rdrc0G

Barnes & Noble → https://bit.ly/381fQT9

Book Depository → https://bit.ly/2Ld0z82

IndieBound → https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781644280317

1933
Sugar Duncan was known around Lamoille County as a gambler who could farm, but Sugar called himself a farmer who understood a sure bet. He grew up a plowboy on a hardscrabble patch of Vermont hill country and had calluses before he knew he had brains. It was in the seventh grade, in Pete Colburn’s barn, waiting out a driving rain that he found his power. While playing seven-card stud he could see the patterns, he understood the odds. He lived by the bluff, and he lived well as far as a child of the Depression could. Before he reached high school, they were calling him Sugar because he was sweet about taking their money.
While his college buddies baled hay and slopped pigs to pay their way through Ag school at Vermont U, Sugar found it more profitable to relieve the hooligans and rumrunners of their easy fortunes at the card table above Markham’s Grill over in Providence. After four years of playing cards and a new degree, he left town to farm where the land hadn’t been wiped clean of its strength.
Sugar rode west to California’s Central Valley in a Pullman with a new pair of tan and white brogues stuffed with cash packed in the bottom of his steamer. FDR had just signed the Cullen-Harrison Act ending Prohibition, and a fifth of whiskey was now as cheap as an acre of California farmland. He hadn’t any choice. Returning to Vermont would mean he’d starve. With gasoline a luxury, his father had resorted to using mules to plow his hundred acres. Milk and corn prices had fallen so sharply, a farmer could live better by killing his cows than by selling their milk. California was the place he could make a living. And he intended to make that living as a farmer— eventually.
A couple of weeks after arriving in Frisco, Sugar stood on the running board of a dusty Model T on the road leading into Delano and surveyed the flatlands of the valley planted in golden September wheat. He removed his hat, wiped his brow with the sleeve of his seersucker suit, and his instinct told him there was a sure bet.
He ensconced himself in the Freemont Hotel on Nob Hill. Each night around six, he made his way downstairs to a back room where he took up residence with a fresh deck of cards and a new bottle of Jim Beam, thankfully back in production, and waited. It didn’t take long for his table to fill. About a year later, he bought his first section of land.
On a mission to see an angel, Sugar debarked the Nob Hill trolley at Taylor and California on a foggy Sunday morning, after a long night of wagers and bluffs. Grace Cathedral’s carillon was in full melodic stride, pounding out a hymn he hadn’t heard in years. He paused midway up the ascending concrete steps, the tip of its campanile obscured in thick fog, trying to recollect its name. He’d not heard that song since he’d left the Methodist church as a teen. The Methodists didn’t have bells that could sing like this stone and stained glass beauty now emerging from the mist of the rising morning. Neither did Methodists take kindly to boys who gambled.
The crowd swelled up and carried him along in a cavalcade of San Francisco’s best citizens in their finest clothes. The building itself was a monument to European Gothic, with soaring stained glass windows, buttresses, candelabras of beaten silver, and hard oak pews. Striding down the wide center aisle, he nodded at several men he’d become acquainted with in the back room of the Freemont. The altar was a majestic slab of marble, adorned with satin cloth and golden candlesticks. Three stained glass Palladian windows rose four stories behind it.
In the warm umbra of the early light, he waited to see for himself what Mr. Dalton, a colleague in cards, had meant by angels appearing during the service. Not that he disbelieved in the possibility of divine intervention, he just wanted to witness it for himself. The choir assembled in a rustle of white robes trimmed with red satin stoles.
According to the Order of Service, they began with Jesu, Meine Freude and while it wasn’t ordinary, it wasn’t angelic to Sugar’s tastes. At least not in the way Dalton had described a divine manifestation. At the refrain, a raven-haired singer stepped forward, a few light steps and she settled in a sliver of light from above. The choir hushed. The congregation quit their fidgeting. She lifted her voice, and something inside him ascended along with her, sweeping him up, so even the German lyrics took on a secret meaning. The importance of the lyrics magnified by her conviction, a message from God, undecipherable, but absolutely true. Her music expanded to fill every cubit of the vault. When she finished the quietness of the miraculous settled over the congregation, a hushed moment of wonder. She melded back into the white-clad choir. A part of Sugar refused to return, still soaring high, shiny and lit by the sun. He perused the Order of Service again: Soloist Miss Shirley Gray. Now here was a dark-haired angel he had to meet.
Shortly after purchasing his fourth section, Sugar drove his shiny black Model A back along the road to Delano, with a lovely and satisfied Miss Shirley Gray bundled in the seat next to him. She wore a white cotton dress in the new style almost to her knees and a silk scarf to tamp her beautiful black hair down against the sweep of dry valley air rushing across the flatlands. And she had the long slender fingers of a pianist, the daintiest of hands that Sugar wanted desperately to hold in his.
Sugar parked along the shoulder of the dusty county road. He helped her out, then led her through the scrub and mesquite. Not a tall man, but neither was he short, he had the build and stride of a man who had worked the land, though his hands had gone soft from playing cards. His black hair was swept back under a new fedora, and he was dressed in a new Brooks Brothers suit, with a pleat cut to the pants and two-tone white and tan oxfords. Shirley picked her way, slipping her slender legs through gaps in the brush, with dainty steps she skirted the holes and dips.
Not far off the road, they stopped on a gentle rise to survey the sparse landscape in silent awe. His suit jacket flapped in the breeze. Water in Spring Gulch that cut across the southwest corner glistened blue in the brightness. The sky appeared so translucent he considered the possibility of seeing straight through to heaven. She pushed her hair under her scarf and had to work to keep her skirt from flying up. Her hand shielding her dazzled eyes, she turned full around taking in the flat expanse and let out a low sigh.
“This would be a nice place to build a house,” Sugar said. “A farmhouse?”
He turned to her. “Why a farmhouse?”
She couldn’t conceal her smile. “I always wanted to marry a farmer and live on a farm.” Her cheeks now blushed. He took up her hand in his, fresh and light, the skin of her palm as smooth as a baby’s face.
“What about marrying a gambler?”
“Never.” She stepped away, letting his hand go before he could read her eyes. For all of his acumen in divining the facial expressions of card players, he was at a loss to understand the game she was playing. Driving home, he thought of explaining his view of gambling and farming, how they both entailed managing risks, calculating odds, and the subtle art of placing a bet. But she’d already revealed her hand. She would marry a farmer. He realized then that if she had said she dreamed of marrying a gambler, he would have no use for her. He had every intention of playing his last game—soon. He just needed a better stake.
A few days later Sugar visited the offices of Collette and Sons and signed a contract to build an impressive Victorian home on the site that had made Miss Shirley Gray sigh with undeniable pleasure. Something like the grand mansions that stood on Nob Hill, he told old man Collette, who listened while stroking his heroic mustache.
Mr. Collette built the three-story Victorian with two turrets, gabled roof with dormers, and a wide veranda on the rise Shirley had enjoyed, in the southeast corner where Spring Gulch swept by. A natural spring ran in a culvert fronting his acreage, bequeathing the riparian land rights.
In March of ’39, he escorted the new Mrs. Shirley Duncan down the aisle of Grace Episcopal Cathedral. Descending through the gauntlet of rice to their waiting Cadillac, he now owned four thousand acres of the most fecund soil west of the Mississippi. When he proposed to her, she had reminded him that she wouldn’t tolerate any more gambling. He sealed the deal with a promise that he had played his last card game and would plant his land that spring.
So the year before their wedding, he had planted all his land in durum wheat. When Sugar wasn’t watching his supervisor, Isidro Sanchez, work a crew of men plowing in John Deere tractors from an hour before dawn until an hour after sunset, he spent time in his farm office on the second-floor planning and figuring. Across from his office, Shirley set up her sewing room with the new Singer machine her mother gave her as a wedding gift. When she wasn’t sewing dresses and shirts or a new buckskin jacket for Sugar, she played her Steinway grand in the parlor, running through Chopin and Schubert. In the late afternoon, Sugar would lean against the doorway in the hall, one foot across the other, his planter’s hat askew on his head like a man on the hunt. She’d break into a high fevered Benny Goodman or his favorite jazz piece, and he’d sit close by, tapping his foot to the time and smiling like a man who’d eaten ice cream his whole life and was better for it.
In the evening, when the heat had dried out every ounce of a man’s efforts, Sugar took Shirley’s hand and led her into the parlor and stacked their favorite albums on the phonograph. The sound of jazz and swing filled the house. They fox-trotted across the floor, their bodies swinging and pulsing to the beat. Her scent a promise of her treasure. Sugar held her close as a certainty against all the uncertainties. And they kissed in the vanilla moonlight that streamed in through the tall windows, her slimness against his, warm and powerful and urgent.
One day Shirley brought coffee on a silver serving tray up to his office. She wore a new spring dress, white with purple violets splashed across it from the hem to the collar, one she made herself. Sugar introduced her to a well-dressed man with slicked-back hair black as coal. He rose when she entered, a tan planters’ hat in his hand. She set the coffee service down on a Queen Anne side table and poured two cups, and took one to her guest.
Both of the men stood. “Shirley, this is Herm Gordon.”
Herm held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Duncan. Sugar’s told me a lot about you.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m with Lacy’s Farm Equipment,” he said while fingering the brim of his hat.
“Herm says they’re coming out with a new combine that’ll harvest fifty acres an hour,” Sugar said.
“You say so,” she said.
“Three times faster than what we have now,” Sugar said.
“You say so.” She handed him the cup and saucer.
He took the coffee. “I do,” Herm said a broad smile on his face. “Do you take sugar, Mr. Gordon, or cream?” She motioned toward the tray.
“No thank you. I always drink mine black.” He stirred the coffee with the silver teaspoon, tapped the rim once, and set it on the saucer.
“Herm’s been selling farm equipment in the valley for years. He’s seen it all. He thinks our place will be one of the most productive around.”
She handed Sugar his cup and saucer and looked over the salesman one more time.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Herm nodded. “Usually farmers aren’t too friendly to new ways, but not Sugar.”
“You look way too young to have seen that many harvests, Mr. Gordon.”
Herm smiled, and two dimples formed in the center of his cheeks, both fired with a flash of blush. “Good food and fresh air. It keeps me young.”
“Herm also said we might look into planting grapes. There’s a trade group over in Delano that’s made up mostly of grape growers. He thinks I should join.”
“You think so, Mr. Gordon,” she said.
“Grapes are the biggest cash crop. It’s the future of Delano as long as labor’s so cheap and we get the water.”
Sugar set his cup down and looked at her inquisitively as if wondering what she would say.
“Well,” Shirley said, touching her throat. “Then maybe we should plant some grapes.”
“A couple hundred acres in the east sector to start.” Sugar pointed toward the large plat map on the wall.
Herm nodded, and Sugar smiled, and he asked her to sit with them as they talked of hardiness and climate and varieties. Sugar favored wine grapes, Herm table grapes.
“I love Thompson Seedless,” Shirley said. “I could eat those forever.” The men gave each other knowing looks. “Well then, let’s start with Thompsons,” Sugar said.
Sugar prospered during the war years because everything that could be eaten was in high demand. The U.S. military coveted his high-protein durum. And his land had the highest yields an acre of any in the valley. Shirley took advantage of the good years and had a half-acre set aside behind the house. She reminded Sugar she didn’t want any planting up to the porches just to maximize the yields. He had a wooden fence built around her parcel where she planted a garden. Shirley in her woven sun hat and pedal pushers, she laid out neat rows of vegetables, and flowers and she purchased seedlings for apricot, peach, and orange trees. And in the heart of the garden, she built a grape arbor, cool and shady, where she often rested from the afternoon heat.
Around the oak in the front yard, she sowed Bermuda grass that would take the heat and wear of the large family she and Sugar were working on, but that hadn’t taken root yet. Soon the tree would spread its thick limbs, and she’d hang a swing from it and rock her boys in the silent rhythms of the Central Valley breezes.
The year the Sears and Roebuck opened in town, Shirley bought a brand-new Singer sewing machine, one that could do thirty different stitches, and had a foot pedal. She enlarged her sewing room on the second floor by taking over a second bedroom and turned out dresses and shirts for farmers’ wives who came to the house to be measured and choose patterns.
It seemed every few days she had a new dress—winter dresses with heavy fabrics; spring dresses white with flowers; bright summer dresses, light and swishy; and autumn always brought out the burnt oranges and browns. She sewed dresses to dine in, to dance in, and to listen to music in, and practical dressed to work in, which had all the elegance of the city, but with large pockets for gloves and scissors and trimmers and small spades.
Shirley didn’t like the cars being covered in dust from the wind that blasted from the foothills. So Sugar built a car barn on the east side of the house, in the same style of the three-story Victorian. They painted it tan with dark brown trim to match the house whose two turrets, dormer windows, slender brick chimneys, and peaked roofs with gingerbread trim rose three stories above the parched brown fields, a castle on an isolated plain.
In the years after the war life settled in for them and Sugar sold every bushel he grew. By 1950, Sugar’s first table grape harvest had grown to two hundred acres, and he knew the future was in grapes. Prior years he’d sold to vineyards where the picking and packing didn’t matter. But table grapes were different. Appearance and sweetness were as important as price, and table grapes cost three times what vineyards paid.
Some of what he knew about grapes he learned at the dinner table. Shirley would only set her table with grapes that were the sweetest tasting, had a consistent golden hue and had the fewest marks of rot and pests. If he could please her, he could satisfy any woman in America? His Thompsons pleased her immensely.
“It’s like eating raindrops coated with sugar,” she said one night at dinner, after plucking a few damp golden grapes from a bowl. There was a sweet satisfaction that ran across her smile that traveled right up into a happy squint in her eyes. If he could grow the best grapes in the Central Valley with his own brand, he could ship them all over the world. But he’d need a completely new way of farming. The work and cost to convert his land would stretch every financial resource. He’d have to do it soon because wheat just didn’t bring the profit it once had.
Though anything a man planted around Delano seemed to grow taller and thicker than in other parts, Shirley didn’t get pregnant until early 1950. One evening, both of them sat in the parlor, after she’d learned she was expecting their first child, listening to Benny Goodman on their Victrola when the announcer broke in. Shirley crocheted. Sugar read a book. They both set down their work at the sound of President Truman’s voice. The president spoke in a grave tone, one that matched his declaration of a national emergency because of the North Korean Communist’s attack on peaceful South Korea. He had considered using an atomic bomb to stop them.
Shirley stifled a gasp. “An atom bomb,” she said, shaking her head, “again?”
Sugar shushed her with a hand, and he bent to the radio. She pursed her lips and listened.
“He’s sending MacArthur to kick them damn communists’ butts,” Sugar said when the radio address finished.
“But a nuclear bomb, honey? If he used it the whole world would be in flames again.”
Sugar smirked at the sly grin that crept across her face. “See, already you understand the difficulty communist subversives would have in our own community,” he said. “We got MacArthur on our flank ready to reap havoc, Truman in DC ready to drop the A-bomb, and the mothers of America protecting our farms. Those dirty Reds can’t win for nothing.”
She laughed and held out her hand, and he took it. She drew him toward her, and placed his warm palm on her stomach, and went back to crocheting. “We’ll soon have more to think about ourselves.” Comfortable beside her, Sugar felt warm with that consideration. Later that year she delivered a 7lb. 4oz. boy on the third of December around midnight, as the silvery moon rose full over the land. She wanted to name him Jack, after her grandfather, but Sugar
wanted Paul.
“Paul? You don’t have any relative named Paul.” “I like Paul. It’s from the Bible.”
She looked at him, her head askance. “I know that.”
“I spent a lot of time reading the Bible when I was younger. It’s a good book.”
The baby made one of those sucking noises that distracted both of them. Shirley pulled him away and gently held him while Sugar placed a cloth diaper on her shoulder. She settled the boy on the white square and lightly tapped his back. After he burped, she held his tiny body in front of her.
“I think he looks like Jack? But then I can see Paul too.”
Sugar brushed at a tiny wisp of hair on his head. “You’re right about that. He’s going to be a man among men, well-trained in the ways of the land.”
After all the baby’s noises ended, she held him under his arms and lifted him high in the air, letting his little feet dangle. “Well then, how do you do, Mr. Paul Jack Duncan? Welcome to Duncan Farms.”
Sugar smiled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand Sugar and Shirley soon began calling their son Jack. Like his
father, he took to the details of farming. One cold morning, after the final wheat harvest, Jack rode the tractor with Isidro as he prepared the land for planting grapes. Year-old vines were stored in their canisters on the north side of the ranch. When spring warmed the air, they would begin planting. Jack rose early during that spring planting to watch the men loading the young plants on flat trailers before leaving for the fields. Rising early became second nature to him, like every good farmer. Before school, he fed the chickens in the small coop his mother built behind the car barn and brought in fresh eggs before catching the bus on the county road.
Summer evenings, with the land resting in the heat, the family would sit out on the large porch that wrapped around the front and side of the house. They watched the fireflies light up the night air and listened to the croaking of tree frogs under the starlight while they drank sweet lemonade squeezed from the fruit grown in Shirley’s own garden. Sugar told jokes and stories as the three of them rocked back and forth on the porch swing, Jack squished between them like a ripe watermelon aching to break open, while they swirled away the still evenings.
The year Jack turned eight, just after the grape harvest, Shirley sat at the kitchen table, one hand on her stomach the other over her mouth, a glass bowl on the table in front of her. Jack brought her a glass of water and set it on the table. Jack was hoping for a baby brother. She’d told him they wanted so many more brothers and sisters, but it had been hard for her to get pregnant. The doctor had advised extra caution, afraid she would miscarry as she had before. So she had decided to stay home when Dad went to the annual Association meeting in San Francisco where he’d been invited to speak.
On that Friday in November, after Dad turned out of the driveway on his way to Frisco, the phone calls started up again.
They’d changed their number three times over the past year and a half. Each time the calls would stop for a while, then a month or so later start up again. Every time the phone jangled in the hall or the kitchen, Shirley would sit up real straight and get this far-off look in her eyes as if she already heard what was being said on the line. She never told him who called or what they wanted, but Jack knew they disturbed her. Dad never said much about them either. But one night after Jack went to bed, when they thought he was asleep, he could hear the two of them up late talking about something. There was a sternness in their voices, so he knew it was something important. At times they argued. Then it would be quiet till the deep darkness of the morning, the phone would ring again, and between each metal jangle the house took on a vacant silence. He imagined his parents lying awake down the hall, staring into the darkness, holding their breaths, hoping it would stop. But it kept on. Then they would stop for a time. And they all breathed a sigh that maybe whatever had caused them to ring in the first place had passed by them.
Friday evening, Jack ran to answer it in the kitchen, but she called to him. He pulled up short, wishing he could lift the receiver to hear that voice. Maybe he might recognize him. He’d shoot his eyes out next chance he had, just for causing all this fear.
“Leave it alone.” She called to him in her don’t mess-with-me voice.
Jack held up, waiting for it to stop. Dad planned on returning after the banquet on Saturday night. He didn’t want to be away too long with Shirley needing him like she did. So in a day or so this ringing would pass.
When the kitchen phone rang later that afternoon, they both stared at it.
“That could be Sugar.” She stared at the black rattling instrument. “He’s probably in Frisco by now.” She rose and answered it. She listened for a while, her eyes turning frightened then angry. “Stop calling here.” Her voice was controlled, but Jack knew she was afraid. She dropped it on the cradle. From the slump of her shoulders, he could see her fear. She had one hand to her forehead, another on her mouth.
“Who is it, mom? I’ll kick his butt.” “You’ll do no such thing.”
He thought she dabbed at her eyes before she turned to sit back down. Jack ran upstairs to his room, loaded his BB gun, pumped it up, and leaned it against the wall by his bedroom door. He knew where Dad kept his hunting rifle and shotgun in the bedroom closet if he needed them. At the bottom of the stairs, he stood where he could see into the kitchen one way and another way to the front door.
When she didn’t hear from Sugar on Saturday morning when he promised to call, she paced the kitchen, a worried look on her face. She kept saying as much to herself as to him that everything was okay. After the Association meeting, Dad would probably make the rounds at the jazz clubs in Frisco, probably listened until the sun came up. Jack kept thinking to himself that Dad was just fine, having fun somewhere, telling jokes, laughing and smoking cigars. He would call soon.
She kept up a constant patter of reasons why he hadn’t called. When the phone rang Saturday at midmorning, she hustled to the hall extension on the second floor. She gave a cheery “Hello.” Jack could tell by the sudden tightening of her face, the voice on the other end wasn’t Dad’s. She held the phone in the air for a moment, then dropped it to the cradle as if it was contaminated, wiping her sweating palm on her dress.
“Who was that, Mom?” Jack stood a few feet down the darkened hall. When she didn’t answer, he asked again.
“Just a wrong number.”
After church on Sunday, she paced the hall by the telephone, forgetting the time until Jack called to her that he’d made a dinner of tuna fish sandwiches and lemonade. There were more calls, and out of her anxiety, she answered them all, but after listening for a few moments, she’d slam the receiver down hard on the cradle.
Late Sunday she called his hotel. He always stayed at the Fairmont, but they had no record of him checking out. They called back later to tell her his belongings were still in his room, but none of the hotel staff had seen him since Saturday. Was he home and forgot to pack and check out? Did she want his clothes shipped?
Monday she spent hours calling the hospitals. He hadn’t been admitted to any of the local ones, but one woman asked if she’d called the police. She did and was switched to a detective who handled missing persons. The man kept her on the phone, which made her wonder if they’d found his body and this cop was trying to figure out a pleasant way to deliver the news.
Tuesday she sat on the rose-patterned sofa in the parlor with her face in her hands when Jack left for school. When he got home, she still had not risen from her place by the phone. She asked him to make some lemonade and maybe sandwiches for them. When he brought in a tray full of food and drink, she took the glass he offered in one hand and ran the other through his longish brown hair, but she didn’t take a sip.
Wednesday he didn’t go to school. She sent him to the door when neighbors stopped by. Later that day, she heard men talking to Jack at the door, voices she didn’t recognize. Men in police uniforms—one tall and thin, the other short and stocky—stopped asking questions when they saw her. When she noticed the brown Plymouth parked behind them in the drive, something came untethered, and she moved around as if she was trying to float away. She squeezed Jack’s shoulder, and he held her hand tightly.
“Can I help you?” she said, talking to them through the screen.
“Mrs. Duncan,” the first man said in uniform, touching the brim of his white Stetson.
“I’m Sheriff  Gates. Can we talk?”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“We’re here about Sugar.”
She folded her arms and turned from the door. The two men stood on the polished wood of the cool hallway, hats in hand. The short one built like a whiskey barrel nodded toward Jack. She stood in the hall considering for a long moment. She invited them into the parlor and turned to Jack.
“Honey, come over here.” The two stood together in front of the sofa. “He’s a part of this.” She fixed her eyes on the two.
“If you say so,” the sheriff said. He introduced Detective Sergeant Kipps of the San Francisco PD.
“All the way from San Francisco, Detective Kipps?”
“Yes, Ma’am I was asked by Sheriff Gates to report on your husband’s stay at the Fairmont Hotel.”
“What did you find?”
Kipps hesitated. Sheriff Gates nodded at him. Kipps cleared his throat.
“We have his belongings from the Fairmont in the car, Ma’am.” She bit her lip. “Where’s Sugar?”
“That’s what we’ve come about,” the sheriff said. “We found his car on Highway 7, heading east, right over the Kern County line.”
Mom’s eyes turned suddenly hard as if she was tightening up expecting a big blow. “Yes.”
“As close as we can tell, he ran off the road and crashed into a deep gulley.”
“Where’s Dad now?” Jack nearly shouted.
Neither of the men said anything; their eyes turned furtive. “We found him in the vehicle,” Sheriff Gates said in a consoling whisper. “There was nothing we could do for him.” From his low tone, almost like a voice you’d use when telling someone good night, Jack wasn’t at all certain what he was saying.
Mom closed her eyes and stood motionless. All the air of expectation seeped out of her as if she could sigh right through her pores. Her whole spine went slack, and she slid right onto the sofa. Jack sat beside her, and she clutched his hand. The two men took a step forward, but she held up her hand. Her eyes were downcast for a long while as if she were gathering her thoughts.
Dad in a car wreck? People got in wrecks and were fine. But these men were acting strange, and Jack wanted to know where he was now. If they found him then why wasn’t everyone happy about it? There was a light tapping at the screen door.
“That’s Sugar’s luggage,” Sherriff Grant said. “You want him to bring it in now?”
“Why didn’t he check out himself?”
Kipps cleared his throat. “Witnesses report he spent the evening at the tables in the backroom of the Fairmont all night after his speech. He never went back to his room. Rumor is he ran into some trouble at the tables.”
“Sugar gave up gambling twenty-five years ago, Mr. Kipps,” Shirley said, getting her matter of fact tone back under her. She squeezed Jack’s hand tighter till the little bones in his knuckles hurt, but he didn’t say anything. Jack tried to figure where Dad might be, and why they couldn’t help him, and why the sheriff would have to bring Dad’s luggage all the way out here?
“I doubt if those rumors are true.” She put a finger to the corner of her eye and wiped something away.
“All five men who played with him had the same story,” Kipps said.
“He’s not a gambler, Mr. Kipps.”
There was another tapping at the screen.
Shirley glanced up. “Let the boy in.”
The sheriff went into the hall and returned with a young fellow carrying three pieces of luggage and a leather briefcase. He settled them on the floor right in the doorway between the hall and the parlor then straightened up. The nameplate on his breast pocket read, Cadet Earl Kauffman.
While the sheriff whispered to Shirley, Jack fixated on his father’s suitcase. If that was Dad’s stuff, then he wasn’t coming back. And the house around him that’d been so full of everything he could ever want was suddenly empty; a vast place opened inside, dark and vacant. His world slowed, and snippets of the talk reached him—“car crushed…gambling and drinking…morgue…must identify body… sorry for your loss.…”
He shot up from his seat and turned to his mother’s Steinway behind him, where Dad used to stand and listen to her play, and smile while he tapped his foot. And Jack thought he saw him there, holding his hat, brimming with satisfaction after a day of work, nodding at him to come over and join the fun, the room emptied, and he knew.
Scalding streams flowed down his cheeks, and he ran, banging through the kitchen. Mom’s plaintive voice, calling for him, faded as he slammed out the back door into the yard, trounced across her garden, and bolted flat out into the vines, screaming as he tore into Dad’s fields, green and freshly brushed by the afternoon breeze.

 

John DeSimone is a published writer, novelist, and teacher. He’s been an adjunct professor and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Spalding University. His recent co-authored books include Broken Circle: A Memoir of Escaping Afghanistan (Little A Publishers), and Courage to Say No by Dr. Raana Mahmood, about her struggles against sexual exploitation as a female physician in Karachi. His published novel Leonardo’s Chair published in 2005.

In 2012, he won a prestigious Norman Mailer Fellowship to complete his most recent historical novel, Road to Delano. His novels Leonardo’s Chair and No Ordinary Man have received critical recognition.

He works with select clients to write stories of inspiration and determination and with those who have a vital message to bring to the marketplace of ideas in well-written books.

website & Social Links

Website  → https://www.johndesimone.com/

Twitter  → https://twitter.com/JRDeSimone

Facebook  → https://www.facebook.com/bookwriter718/

 

 

Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: STELLAR FUSION by E.L. Strife #Scifi #Fantasy #STELLAR FUSION @ElysiaLStrife

STELLAR FUSION
By E.L. Strife
Scifi/Fantasy

This isn’t the first invasion. This time, they’re taking everything… and everyone.

Earth, still patching itself together from the 300 Years War, is severely unprepared and outnumbered when the invasion hits. Their only hope is a small team of soldiers on a suicide mission to infiltrate the mothership and relay critical defense information home.

The last survivor of the first encounter can’t explain why she knows what she does. Sergeant Nakio Atana is the Universal Protectors’ elite assassin and holds within a spark of unimaginable power. But a daring escape from an enemy ship knocked the first fifteen years of her life into darkness, leaving her with only inexplicable apathy and technical knowledge beyond Earth’s evolution.

What she is can change their future.

Sergeant Bennett must guard her with his life.

Together, Atana and Bennett lead the team in hopes her knowledge, and his crew’s skills, will render them a soft spot in the alien armor. What they find when they reach the mothership is entirely unexpected. The truth they uncover will challenge the code they live by and their concepts of the power within.

PRAISE:

“Stellar Fusion is the work of a new aspiring writer with a penchant for exploring possibilities of future life for humankind. Good versus evil, loyalty, truth, integrity, and the power of strength, love, and hope are all masterfully interwoven into this inaugural novel by E.L. Strife. With the age-old theme of making the world a better place, Strife casts her characters in the spotlight as they embrace survival on the planet. Stellar Fusion offers readers an opportunity to look to the future and reflect on what is most important to ensure the happiness, success, and survival of the human race.”
-Amazon Customer

“Great book. Would recommend it to anyone who enjoys fast-paced sci-fi action with moments that slow to profoundly grab your heart and draw you into the characters’ lives. Looking forward to reading book 2 when it’s released.”
-Amazon Customer

cLICK BELOw TO Order Your Copy

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2PfzdPQ

______________________

TEASER

______________________

EXCERPT

Hour Zero

NO ONE WAS BORN READY FOR IT—for the war on Earth, the war of three hundred years. The stars beyond seemed so distant, unreachable, a dream delayed as Earth fought over politics, cultural differences, and remnants of non-toxic land. After a long-overdue truce, the world united under common laws, electing a silent force of guardians to maintain peace and unity. Their system of justice: ‘an eye for an eye,’ as the saying goes. And it was effective. Until they arrived.
Man’s deadliest disease used to be hatred.
They came in ships blacker than the deepest wormhole to a forgotten galaxy, ships that dripped with blood from starving mouths. Ships that didn’t register on Earth’s scanners until it was far too late.
They took Earthlings from their homes, from their broken families, their suffering planet, and enslaved them, slowly torturing each until they could endure no longer. And then they came back for more.
They leave galaxies swirling in fragments and chaos—the planets molten in rage—rendering countless species extinct.
They do it without remorse.
It has been like this since almost the beginning of time.
Because they were looking for me.
I won’t be born for many long-cycles, but my kind, we surpass time. We live outside the boundaries of dimensions. We are the oldest spark, the strongest and brightest in the dark. And we thrive in the twilight, the shadows between all things.
They are an evil that spreads like blackened veins through the nebulae, siphoning life with a single touch. They feed off of us, drain our sparks without a moment’s hesitation. There will be no warning. There will be no mercy.
I tell you this now. Find those you love and hold on tight for as long as you can. Life is a struggle—a chain of choices and fate. It is too short to let go.
May the stars of my ancestors guide you and protect you.
I know my mother and father will do their best.
But it is not enough. Not without me.
I am Luna.
This is my family.
And this is the Universal War.

 

______________________

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Adopted by two educators, Strife developed a deep love for learning new things. In 2012, she graduated from Oregon State University with two Bachelor’s Degrees in Public Health and Human Sciences: Interior Design and Exercise Sport Science. Her past wears fatigues, suits, and fitness gear, sprinkled with mascara and lace.

“I like to question everything, figure out how things work, and do tasks myself. Experiencing new things is fun but also helps with writing raw and genuine stories. And I’m always trying to push my comfort zones.”

Strife likes the rumble of her project car’s 350-ci V8. She enjoys the rush of snowboarding and riding ATVs on the dunes. But nothing brings her more solace than camping in the mountains where the stars are their brightest.

Strife enjoys connecting with readers and welcomes all feedback and questions.

website & Social Links

Website  → www.elstrife.com

Twitter  → http://twitter.com/ElysiaLStrife

Facebook  → http://www.facebook.comauthorelstrife

 

 

Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off: Harlequin's 12 Books of Christmas Winter 2019 #harlequin #romance

Today we kick off Harlequin's 12 Books of Christmas Winter 2019 Virtual Book Tour! Pick up a few books (links below), sit back in front of a cozy fire and immerse yourself in the moment! Happy Holidays!

A wEDDING IN DECEMBER

SARAH MORGAN

This funny, charming and heartwarming new Christmas novel is USA TODAY bestselling author Sarah Morgan at her festive best!

In the snowy perfection of Aspen, the White family gathers for youngest daughter Rosie’s whirlwind Christmas wedding. First to arrive are the bride’s parents, Maggie and Nick. Their daughter’s marriage is a milestone they are determined to celebrate wholeheartedly, but they are hiding a huge secret of their own: they are on the brink of divorce. After living apart for the last six months, the last thing they need is to be trapped together in an irresistibly romantic winter wonderland.

Rosie’s older sister, Katie, is also dreading the wedding. Worried that impulsive, sweet-hearted Rosie is making a mistake, Katie is determined to save her sister from herself! If only the irritatingly good-looking best man, Jordan, would stop interfering with her plans…

Bride-to-be Rosie loves her fiancé but is having serious second thoughts. Except everyone has arrived—how can she tell them she’s not sure? As the big day gets closer, and emotions run even higher, this is one White family Christmas none of them will ever forget!

Excerpt:

The road curved through a narrow valley. Huge walls of granite and limestone rose steeply, silver gray and stark, mostly too steep to hold the snow. Patches of white clung to the less vertiginous sections, and coated the trees.

“This is an impressive place.”

“Welcome to Glenwood Canyon.”

“I can’t imagine how they built this road through the moun­tains.”

“It was a compromise between the engineers and the envi­ronmentalists. It’s one of the main routes through the Rocky Mountains. That’s the Colorado River right there.”

It was spectacular.

She gazed out of the window at the soaring walls of the can­yon. There was something soothing about being in a warm car, looking out at the snowy mountains outside. Her life felt distant, too far away to be more than a niggle of anxiety. For once she had no responsibility, no one relying on her judgment. Jordan was a good driver, confident, not flashy. Not that she had any intention of telling him that. She was a feeling he was a man who already had the true measure of his worth.

“Does this road ever get blocked in winter?”

“It can have its tricky moments. There’s a rest area up ahead at Grizzly Creek. We’ll stop there for a short time. Are you hungry?”

She discovered that she was.

After a hastily eaten snack she headed down to the water with him, her hands wrapped around the drink he’d bought her. The air was fresh and cold, the mountains rising straight up from the river. Snow clung to boulders and the water bubbled past patches of ice.

“I bet that water is cold.”

“Icy.” He stood, legs spread, hands thrust into his pockets. “Dan and I used to spend our summers rafting on this river. Further downriver you have the Shoshone rapids—Tombstone, The Wall and Maneater.”

“Funny, none of those names are tempting me to ask you to take me white-water rafting. I can’t think why.”

“Come back in the summer and I’ll take you. I think you’d enjoy it.”

“What makes you think that? Do I look sporty?”

“No, you look tense. And clinging to the side of a raft while you’re being thrown around in wild water surrounded by breath­taking scenery is a good way of making you forget everything except the moment.”

“I’m going to have to take your word for it.”

“You’re missing out on a real adrenaline rush. It’s pretty thrill­ing.”

She took a sip of coffee, feeling the warmth spread from the cup to her fingers. London, with its gray skies and rain, seemed like a long way away. For the first time in a while she felt half-human. “Thanks but I think I’d prefer to get my thrills else­where.”

He finished his coffee. “You shouldn’t be afraid of adventure.”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2QjfwJe

 Harlequin → https://www.harlequin.com/shop/pages/christmas.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Morgan is a USA Today and Sunday Times bestselling author of romance and women’s fiction. She has sold over 18 million copies of her books and her work has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Library Journal and Booklist.

Sarah lives near London, England with her family and when she isn’t writing or reading, she likes to spend time outdoors hiking or riding her mountain bike.

Join Sarah’s mailing list at www.sarahmorgan.com for all book news. For more insight into her writing life follow her on Facebook at www.facebook/AuthorSarahMorgan and on Instagram at @sarahmorganwrites Contact Sarah at sarah@sarahmorgan.com.

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COMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

RAEANNE THAYNE

Hearts are lighter and wishes burn a little brighter at Christmas…

Elizabeth Hamilton has been lost. Trapped in a tangle of postpartum depression and grief after the death of her beloved parents, she couldn’t quite see the way back to her husband and their two beautiful kids…until a car accident stole away her memories and changed her life. And when she finally remembered the sound of little Cassie’s laugh, the baby powder smell of Bridger and the feel of her husband’s hand in hers, Elizabeth worried that they’d moved on without her. That she’d missed too much. That perhaps she wasn’t the right mother for her kids or wife for Luke, no matter how much she loved them.

But now, seven years later, Luke finds her in a nearby town and brings Elizabeth back home to the family she loves, just in time for Christmas. And being reunited with Luke and her children is better than anything Elizabeth could have imagined. As they all trim the tree and bake cookies, making new holiday memories, Elizabeth and Luke are drawn ever closer. Can the hurt of the past seven years be healed over the course of one Christmas season and bring the Hamiltons the gift of a new beginning.

Excerpt:

Her throat closed with emotions, regret and sorrow and guilt. She had to clear them away to speak. “Why…why didn’t you try to have me legally declared dead?”

“Because I didn’t want to.” The raw emotion in his voice seared through her.

“Luke.”

His name. That was all she could manage through the tangle of emotions.

He gazed down at her, his expression almost…tortured.

One moment he was skewering her with his furious ex­pression; the next he threw his arms around her, yanked her toward him and lowered his mouth to hers.

Shock held her motionless for only a moment. Then the sheer delicious glory of being in his arms again overwhelmed her. She wrapped her arms around him and returned his kiss with all the pent-up longing she had held inside her these long years of being alone.

The heat that had always been between them flared, wild and unrestrained. His mouth was hard on hers, fierce, de­manding. Delicious. There was no trace of tenderness, only anger and loss, betrayal and sorrow and desire, all twisted together.

When he finally yanked his mouth away and released her as if she had scorched him, she stumbled backward, her knees drained of all strength. Her soul felt drained, too.

“Does that answer your question?” he asked, his voice raspy and low. “I never stopped hoping you would come back. Even when I was ninety-nine percent certain you were dead, that tiny one percent of hope wanted desperately to be wrong.”

He released a heavy breath and she watched in fascination as he tucked away any trace of emotion, becoming self-contained and expressionless once more.

“Do what you want to the house. Paint or don’t paint. I don’t care. This place means nothing to me anymore. The kids and I have moved on and are happy in our new house. I just want this one sold and out of my life.”

Like her. She meant nothing to him either, that wild, heated kiss notwithstanding. She did her best to blink back tears but was afraid he still saw them.

“I don’t know how much I can do in only one day but I’ll…I’ll try.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue but finally gave her one more long look and headed out the door.

After he left, Elizabeth touched her lips, the long-familiar taste lingering there. Oh, how she had missed him.

She still loved him.

Had never stopped.

She collapsed onto the sagging sofa, unable to contain all the emotions raging through her. She loved Luke and wanted what was best for him. That could never be her. Not then and especially not now, with all her baggage.

She might not be able to be part of his life or their children’s lives, but she could do one small thing for them. She could freshen up this house a little bit, make it more attractive to pro­spective buyers.

It was a small gift, but one she wanted desperately to give them.

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/33OudrF

 Harlequin → https://www.harlequin.com/shop/pages/christmas.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

#1 Publishers Weekly, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne finds inspiration in the beautiful northern Utah mountains where she lives with her family. Her books have won numerous honors, including seven RITA Award nominations from Romance Writers of America and a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews magazine. RaeAnne loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.raeannethayne.com.

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STEALING KISSES IN THE SNOw

JO MCNALLY

It’s Christmas in Rendezvous Falls and love’s waiting to be unwrapped…

Single mom Piper Montgomery’s plate is full. Between her two adorable kids, two jobs and a fixer-upper house, she’s so busy she can hardly see straight. But when rugged biker Logan Taggart strolls into the inn where she’s working, she can’t help but stare. He has bad boy written all over him. And with two kids relying on her, that’s the last thing she needs this Christmas.

Rendezvous Falls is nothing but a pit stop for Logan. Once his grandmother is back on her feet and ready to reclaim the inn, Logan can get back on the road. It’s where he belongs, even if his grandmother’s matchmaking book club try to convince him otherwise. Still, there’s something about beautiful spitfire Piper that makes him wonder if family and forever might just be what he needs after all.

But as the holidays draw ever closer, so do Piper and Logan. Could these polar opposites find that all they want this Christmas is each other?

Excerpt:

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

Piper’s heart hammered as they left the attic, and all those holiday boxes, behind. What was she doing? How could she do this? She couldn’t really do this, could she? Even if was her idea? No, she couldn’t do it. Use a room at the inn for sex with Logan Taggart? There were so many things wrong with this idea. So. Many. Things. It was foolish. It was unprofessional. It was dangerous. She turned to him when they got to the base of the attic stairs.

“Logan…” She met his heavy gaze and her breath hitched. He didn’t move as she searched his face. She had a feeling he’d be fine if she said “forget it” and walked away. And he’d be fine if she didn’t. He was heading for South America right after Christmas. She probably wouldn’t leave a ripple in his life either way. But here in this silent, empty inn, he wanted her. And she couldn’t deny how much she needed to feel wanted. She tried her damnedest to remember again why this was a bad idea, but when she opened her mouth, there were no arguments to be found.

“Do you have a lucky number?” she asked.

His brows rose on his forehead. “I’m sorry?”

“Your lucky number? To pick a room?”

He chuckled low and soft. “Babe, whatever room you pick will be my new lucky number.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay. Uh…probably the first floor. It won’t be suspicious if someone sees us on the main floor, and we can hear the bell if someone comes in the lobby. And if we decide to…you know…do it again…the first-floor rooms don’t rent out as quickly as the upper floors, so…”

“Piper.” He shook his head, bemused. “Do you al­ways think out your decisions this carefully? Even the ones about booty calls?”

“Booty calls?” She exclaimed it so loudly the words echoed in the hallway. She slapped her hand over her mouth, then lowered her voice to a hiss. “I’ve never had a booty call in my life!”

Logan’s eyes went dark and hot. “You won’t be able to say that after today. Let’s go.” His smile faded just a bit. “Unless you’ve changed your mind? Is that what all this babbling is about?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m…anxious. Nervous. But no, I haven’t changed my mind. But…maybe we should set some parameters?”

He rolled his eyes. “Look, I know you like to have all your little ducks in a row, but we don’t need param­eters around sex. I got this, trust me.”

“Not about the sex. About…after.” She laid her hand on his forearm. “You’ve literally been around the world, so you’ve probably done this sort of thing a million times.”

Logan barked out a laugh. “A million might be a stretch.”

“You know what I mean.” She waited for him to nod in acknowledgment before continuing. “I haven’t. I want you to know that I won’t try to talk you into being my boyfriend. I know this is just…”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “A shag in the af­ternoon?”

She tried not to smile, but finally gave in. “I don’t know if that sounds any better than a booty call. I want us to be on the same page. It’s just sex…”

Logan put his hand over his heart and pretended to be pained. “I’m hoping it will be a hell of a lot more than ‘just sex.’ Look…” He reached for her hips, pull­ing her closer. He smelled like outdoors and spice and sweat and it was all a bit overwhelming. She focused on his words again. “I get it. No strings. You’ve got the kids and they come first and you don’t want a boyfriend. It’s all good. Whatever you decide is good, babe, but you’re killing me right now. I want you so bad I can’t think straight.”

There was a beat of silence before she pulled away from him. His expression fell until she pulled her mas­ter key from her pocket and waved it at him.

“Let’s see how Room Three feels.”

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2QgkeYe

Harlequin → https://www.harlequin.com/shop/pages/christmas.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I write the same kind of romances I like to read – stories about people facing real-life challenges with real-life consequences. The stories are emotional and character-driven.

I live in coastal North Carolina with 100 pounds of dog and 200 pounds of husband – my slice of the bed is very small. When I’m not writing or reading romance novels (or clinging to the edge of the bed…), I can often be found on the back porch sipping wine with friends while listening to great music. If the weather is absolutely perfect, I might join my husband on the golf course, where I always feel far more competitive than my actual skill-level would suggest.

Jo McNally – Writing Stories of Forever Love

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AN ALASKAN CHRISTMAS

JENNIFER SNOw

In Alaska, it’s always a white Christmas—but the sparks flying between two reunited friends could turn it red-hot…

If there’s one gift Erika Sheraton does not want for Christmas, it’s a vacation. Ordered to take time off, the workaholic surgeon reluctantly trades in her scrubs for a ski suit and heads to Wild River, Alaska. Her friend Cassie owns a tour company that offers adventures to fit every visitor. But nothing compares to the adrenaline rush Erika feels on being reunited with Cassie’s brother, Reed Reynolds.
Gone is the buttoned-up girl Reed remembers. His sister’s best friend has blossomed into a strong, skilled, confident woman. She’s exactly what his search-and-rescue team needs—and everything he didn’t know he craved. The gulf between his life in Wild River and her big-city career is wide. But it’s no match for a desire powerful enough to melt two stubborn hearts…

Excerpt:

A fuzzy memory of being the one Reed put to bed flashed in Erika’s mind and her cheeks flamed. He’d carried her inside…had she cuddled into him? Yep.

Just focus on the dog. “What happened?”

“She’s narcoleptic. She could be out for a minute or an hour.”

Was he kidding? “A narcoleptic dog?”

“Yep.”

Okay then…

“I brought you coffee and breakfast,” he said, open­ing the paper bag.

“Why?” Glancing down, she saw her nipples point­ing through the fabric of her thin tank top. She folded her arms across her body. Her bra was draped over the back of the couch. She hadn’t expected visitors.

Reed picked up a coffee and closed the gap between them in two easy strides. “Because, I told you last night that I’m not the kind of guy who has sex with a woman and then doesn’t call.”

Her mouth gaped. No freaking way. It had just been a dream. “We…no…there’s no way…” She shook her head, but a flashback of him laying her down on Cassie’s couch the night before had her panicking slightly.

Nope. There was no way. She was sticking with that. “We didn’t.”

But her confidence wavered as he grabbed her hips and pulled her closer. “Final answer?” The intensity in his blue eyes made her shiver. His soft, manly smell­ing cologne made her mouth water slightly as her body stiffened. Shit, if they had, she just might not regret it…

Reed grinned. “You’re right, we didn’t.”

She pushed him away and reached for the coffee. “I knew that.” She took a desperate sip, the hot liquid scorching her tongue and the back of her throat as she forced it down.

“You kissed me, that’s all,” he said with a shrug, opening the bag and taking out a plastic-covered con­tainer.

She scoffed. “You’re so full of sh…” Oh crap, she had kissed him. Reality had somehow blended with her dream, but she was starting to distinguish between the two. She had kissed him. And it was a fantastic kiss… “Oh, that was nothing… And so completely out of char­acter for me.” Damn, she’d really let her guard down the night before.

“Why? Because I’m just a bartender and you’re a brilliant, beautiful surgeon?”

Her cheeks flamed, her mind still caught on beauti­ful. Ignoring the question, she reached for the plate of food piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages and toast, but he pulled it back out of reach.

“This is mine.” He took out a small container of what looked like oatmeal and handed it to her. “You said last night you only ate ‘clean’.”

She’d said that? Man, she must have sounded like a complete holier-than-thou asshole. His breakfast looked so good and the greasy food was exactly what she was craving that morning, but she squared her shoulders and accepted her fate. She could always head out for a second breakfast once he left. “The oatmeal’s per­fect.” She opened it and, grabbing the plastic spoon, she forced herself not to gag on it. She normally skipped breakfast and sometimes lunch with her busy sched­ule. But she was on vacation and she planned to eat. A lot. And the faster she could get rid of him, the faster she could get to the breakfast diner on Main Street.

Reed grinned, watching her put another spoonful of the thick, tasteless gunk in her mouth. “Good?”

“Delicious.”

ORDER YOUR COPY

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2pi2zUO

 Harlequin → https://www.harlequin.com/shop/pages/christmas.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jennifer Snow writes contemporary romance fiction for Grand Central Publishing and Harlequin. Her stories range in heat level from sweet to sexy and are set everywhere from big cities to small towns. Her books are light and humorous, but also full of heart, featuring families and communities readers love to visit over and over again.

Originally from Newfoundland, Canada, she now resides in Alberta with her husband and son and three mischievous cats. She is a member of RWA and the Alberta Writers Guild.

She currently publishes psychological thrillers under her pen name J.M. Winchester and writes screenplays and TV shows in her ‘spare’ time.

More information can be found on her website at www.jennifersnowauthor.com
You can also find her at http://www.twitter.com/@jennifersnow18 and http://www.facebook.com/jennifersnowbooks/.

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COwBOY CHRISTMAS REDEMPTION

MAISEY YATES

He didn’t want to come home for the holidays—but can an unexpected reunion with a woman from his past make this cowboy’s Christmas merry and bright in this sweet and sizzling novella? 

When Cooper Mason left Gold Valley, Oregon behind him eight years ago, he told himself he wouldn’t be back. But when a Christmas promise sends him home to face his demons, he’ll find that not everything is as he remembers—especially family friend Annabelle Preston, who’s somehow morphed from childhood pest to full-grown, hot-blooded and oh-so-tempting woman.

Growing up, Annabelle had built a lot of dreams around the ruggedly gorgeous Cooper—dreams she’s long ago learned to put behind her. Until a chance encounter with Cooper leads to a night neither can forget, and all the old feelings come blazing back to life. Now, Annabelle has a week to prove there’s more between them than a no-strings holiday fling…and with a little Christmas luck, she just might convince Gold Valley’s favorite cowboy to come home for good.

Excerpt:

“Caleb!” Amelia flung herself off his parents’ front porch and into his arms. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around him, clinging tightly to him. And then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She smacked her hand against his jaw. “Prickly,” she com­plained.

Something in his chest tugged. “Well, you caught me at the end of the day, squirt. I need to shave.”

She looked at him and wrinkled her nose. “Am I going to need to shave someday?”

He laughed. And he was surprised how genuinely light he felt in that moment. “Not likely. Your mom doesn’t have a beard, does she?”

“No,” she said, frowning. “My mom says that you have Christmas trees.”

“I do,” he said. “At least, they’re about to be mine. It’s going to be a whole farm of them.”

“I didn’t know you had Christmas trees on a farm,” she said.

“Well, you can. It’s where most of the Christmas trees from the lots come from.”

“I want to see them.”

He hesitated because he knew that if he took Amelia to see the trees, in all likelihood he would have to take Ellie with him. And really, spending time with Ellie and Amelia in the same space right now was strange and loaded.

“All right,” he said. “But only if your mom’s okay with that.”

“She will be,” Amelia said, full of confidence.

He set her down, and she scampered into the house.

“What am I going to be okay with?”

He turned around and saw Ellie. The sight of her just about set him back on his heels. She looked the same as she always did.

But that was the problem.

“Amelia wants to go out and see the Christmas trees,” he said. “I didn’t figure you would mind. I don’t mind taking her by myself, if you need to go home.”

She lifted her shoulder. “No. I don’t mind going up.”

She started to take a step toward him, and his gut tightened. Then the door opened again, and Amelia re­appeared with her backpack from preschool, and an­other stack of old printer paper that his mother had given her to scribble on.

“Can we ride in Caleb’s truck?”

“Yes,” Ellie said.

“I’m sitting in the middle.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ellie’s lips, and she narrowed her eyes slightly. The impish expression mak­ing his gut feel hollow, and effortlessly conveying that she had been hoping for the middle seat.

She was flirting with him.

Now, that, he hadn’t expected.

So maybe this whole making her wait thing was re­ally going to work in his favor.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Maisey Yates lives in rural Oregon with her three children and her husband, whose chiseled jaw and arresting features continue to make her swoon. She feels the epic trek she takes several times a day from her office to her coffee maker is a true example of her pioneer spirit.

In 2009, at the age of twenty-three Maisey sold her first book. Since then it’s been a whirlwind of sexy alpha males and happily ever afters, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Maisey divides her writing time between dark, passionate category romances set just about everywhere on earth and light sexy contemporary romances set practically in her back yard. She believes that she clearly has the best job in the world.

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A COLDwATER CHRISTMAS

DELORES FOSSEN

Sometimes a little Christmas magic can rekindle the most unexpected romances…

Sheriff Kace Laramie and his brothers found long-awaited happiness when they moved to Coldwater, Texas, as foster children. But the feel-good story has one bittersweet twist—his brief marriage to local rich girl Jana Parker. When that blew up, Kace vowed never to marry again and has kept Jana mostly off his mind…until she comes back to town, needing his help.

Recently divorced for a second time, Jana just wants to create a good life for her young daughter—and keep her mother from marrying Kace’s gold-digging father. Asking him for help may be wrong given their history. But as the stakes—and their chemistry—make the Christmas season sizzle, Jana knows how much more wrong it would be to let a love this magical slip away again…

Excerpt:

Wincing and rubbing her knee, Jana motioned for Kace to follow her. He did—while rubbing his shoulder.

“I need to tell you I’m sorry,” she said the mo­ment they reached the front door, “and don’t wave that off until you hear what I have to say.” He had indeed been about to wave that off, but Jana just rolled over him and kept talking. “Since I’ve come back to Coldwater, I’ve thrown your life into chaos, and I want you to know that I’ll fix that.”

“Chaos?” he repeated. That seemed to put way too much importance on her return. “I’m just doing my job,” Kace said, opening the door.

Since she frowned and huffed, that obviously wasn’t the response she wanted. “I’m talking about the whole package. You having to see me because of the Smelly Bobs and Peter. You having to see my mother. And now me being your neighbor. But I swear once things settle down, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. I won’t even come into town unless it’s necessary.”

Hell. It made him feel crappy that she would have to rearrange her life. Especially with a baby. After all, there’d be times when she needed stuff for Mar­ley, and he didn’t want her postponing her errands just because she was worried about running into him.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. The cold air was start­ing to seep in, a reminder that he should finish this conversation and head out. “What happened between us was a long time ago. We’ve both moved on with our lives, and it won’t bother me to run into you.”

Kace was proud of himself. That actually sounded good. A “water under the bridge” outlook.

“Oh,” she muttered.

That put a halt to his heading out plan. For such a little word, it seemed to mean a whole lot. But what?

Kace was trying to figure that out when Jana took a deep breath. One of those soft, silky sounds that took him back to another time, another place. When there was no bridge over the water.

Kace made the mistake of looking at her face, and their gazes practically collided. This time, he was the one who took a deep breath when her attention lowered to his mouth.

His attention lowered to hers, too.

He couldn’t have told anyone how it happened, but suddenly there was no space between Jana and him. One or both of them had closed the distance, and Kace found his hand on the back of her neck. All in all, it wasn’t a bad place for his hand to be because he used it to haul Jana to him. And then he broke every rule in the frickin’ book.

Kace kissed her.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today bestselling author Delores Fossen is a former Air Force officer who’s sold over 100 novels. She’s received the Booksellers’ Best Award for romantic suspense, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award and was a finalist for the Rita ®. You can contact the author through her webpage at: www.deloresfossen.com

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LOW COUNTRY CHRISTMAS

LEE TOBIN MCCLAIN

Come home to Safe Haven, where the best Christmas surprises aren’t the ones under the tree.

Holly Gibson has one wish this Christmas season: to find her young niece’s father. And she’s traveled hundreds of miles to the small town of Safe Haven to make that wish come true. But the mysterious Cash O’Dwyer is nothing like she expected. Strong and kind, he makes her heart beat faster. And suddenly that little secret she’s keeping about her sister stirs up all kinds of guilt…

Cash is stunned—and more than a little wary—to discover he’s a father. Having a family of his own was never part of his plan…until sweet baby Penny and her fiercely independent aunt Holly arrive in town. Now he’s trimming trees and stuffing stockings for three. But when the ghosts of Cash’s past threaten the future of his fragile new family, he’ll do whatever it takes to be the father Penny needs—and the man Holly deserves—for more than just the holidays.

Excerpt:

Later that evening, Cash joined with his family talking and laughing as they waited for the giant, ancient oak tree to be lit, as it was every year in mid-November. It was the town’s traditional kickoff to the holiday season.

Holly seemed to be having an okay time, but they’d never gotten the chance to talk because his nieces and nephew wouldn’t leave him alone. And he had to admit, he loved it. He’d shut down the whining of his CFO for the night. What good was owning the company if you couldn’t take a night off to hand out candy to a bunch of kids you loved?

He knew he was too work-focused and impatient, could never be a good father, but he was determined to excel as an uncle. You didn’t have to be the biologi­cal parent to help and influence a kid. He was living proof of that.

He glanced over at Holly now and noticed that she was shifting the baby to her other shoulder. He’d brought her here and he hated to see her looking so tired. Typical thoughtlessness on his part. “Let me hold her for a while,” he said. “You’ve got to be worn out.”

She tilted her head to one side and studied him as if evaluating his worth as a baby-holder. “Okay,” she said, “if she’ll let you. She’s picky.”

“As a lady should be.” Gently, he lifted the baby out of Holly’s arms.

The weight of the child settled something in him, felt good. Little Penny studied him with round blue eyes and then yawned, and when he patted her back, she leaned her head against his shoulder and sucked her hand.

Cash’s heart expanded about three sizes.

Holly looked surprised. “She doesn’t go to ev­eryone.”

He refocused on the here and now. “I’m a baby whisperer,” he said casually, brushing off the often-paid compliment. “Listen, they’ll light the tree any minute now. After that, we can have our talk and I’ll take you back to your hotel. Where are you staying?”

She named a small inland town, not exactly known for tourism, and a motel he’d never heard of.

“How’d you land there?” Cash mostly met women who wanted luxury. Holly was different. Or maybe desperate.

“Cheaper,” she said. “I don’t know how long we’ll need to stay.”

Aha, desperate. But he didn’t have time to think about it because the tree lit up in a blaze of white lights. Gasps and oohs and aahs went through the crowd, and then as more and more lights came on, kids started shouting.

“So pretty,” Holly said, leaning closer. “Look, Penny—pretty!”

The baby stared and waved chubby arms. And for just a moment, he felt like he and this woman and this baby were a little family, doing a holiday tra­dition together, and his chest tightened with crazy longing. It must be the Christmas season that was making him soft and emotional.

He had to toughen up. The crowd was dispers­ing, all the little ones needing home and bed, and he handed the baby back to Holly and hugged ev­eryone goodbye.

“Don’t stay away so long next time,” Yasmin, Liam’s wife, said sternly.

Anna, Sean’s wife, nodded. “The girls miss you when you’re gone,” she said.

They made it sound like he lived here, but he didn’t. He lived in Atlanta. It was just that, with all the weddings and babies and family events in the past two years, he’d spent more and more time here.

Finally, he broke away and ushered Holly toward the car, hitching her diaper bag over his shoulder to lighten her burden a little. Funny how she’d seemed to become part of the group in just this one evening. He was a little reluctant to spoil the sweet, holiday family feeling with a conversation about whatever she wanted from him.

But that was ridiculous; best to get things out into the open right away. “So what did you want to talk to me about?” he asked. “Sorry it took so long, took up your evening.”

“It’s okay,” she said as she shifted the baby from one arm to the other. “I’m glad to find out a little more about you and your family.”

A strange uneasiness gripped him. “Why’s that?” he asked.

She nodded down at Penny. “Because she’s part of the family, too,” she said. “She’s your daughter.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today bestselling author Lee Tobin McClain read Gone with the Wind in the third grade and has been an incurable romantic ever since. When she’s not writing small-town, heartwarming love stories with happy endings, she’s probably snapchatting with her college-student daughter, mediating battles between her goofy goldendoodle and her rescue cat, or teaching aspiring writers in Seton Hill University’s MFA program. She is probably not cleaning her house. For more about Lee, visit her website at www.leetobinmcclain.com.

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CHRISTMAS IN wINTER VALLEY

JODI THOMAS

Ransom Canyon welcomes you back for a Christmas that has everything you’re looking for: romance, family and a whole lot of Texas.

Cooper Holloway would take nature over people any day—especially visiting relatives. That’s why he’s headed for a rustic cabin in remote Winter Valley, where he’ll care for a herd of wild mustangs. But Cooper’s plans are quickly thwarted by the arrival of two unexpected guests: one, a stranger in desperate need of his help, and the other, a very attractive young veterinarian.

Elliott is busy trying to keep Maverick Ranch running smoothly with Cooper gone, which is no easy task with family visiting. And when a long-lost love suddenly reappears in his life, Elliott knows he’ll have more than just books to balance this season.

With a big, chaotic family Christmas around the corner and love blooming in surprising ways, the Holloway men will have to make big choices about the future—just in time for the holidays.

Excerpt:

Finally, he kissed her more gently than any man had ever kissed her. Both knew they were turning down an untraveled road. Having an adventure. Changing their lives, if only by adding one memory.

When he moved his hand beneath her shirt, he whispered, “I like the way you feel, Danielle. It takes a strong woman to do all you’ve done, but there is a softness to you that I sense.”

His fingers brushed just below her bra and hesi­tated.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. She felt suddenly young and shy and hungry for life.

“Which one, the touching or the talking?” he asked with laughter in his tone. “I want to get this right.”

“The touching. We’ve talked enough.”

He nodded in agreement and continued with the touching.

Silently, each knew they were feeling alive for the first time in a long while. She’d seen that his hands were scarred and rough, but they slid over her like silk. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, but the way he touched her made her believe she was to him. She’d had passion a few times and sex she didn’t want more than once, but she’d never had caring. He touched her as if she was a rare treasure.

Gentle on the eyes whispered through her mind like a melody. It might not be beauty, but it was enough.

Long after midnight, when he kissed her one last time at the back door, she whispered, “I’ll put an extra biscuit on your plate at breakfast as an invi­tation to come back some night when I know the house will be quiet.”

His hair was wild, making him seem younger, and his voice was low and rusty. “I hope to be fat by the New Year.”

They were both laughing as he disappeared into the night.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times and USA Today’s bestselling author Jodi Thomas has published over 30 books in both the historical romance and contemporary genres, the majority of which are set in her home state of Texas. Publishers Weekly calls her novels “Distinctive…Memorable,” and that in her stories “[tension] rides high, mixed with humor and kisses more passionate than most full-on love scenes.” In 2006, Romance Writers of America (RITA) inducted Thomas into the RWA Hall of Fame for winning her third RITA for THE TEXAN’S REWARD. She also received the National Readers’ Choice Award in 2009 for TWISTED CREEK (2008) and TALL, DARK, AND TEXAN (2008). While continuing to work as a novelist, Thomas also functions as Writer in Residence at the West Texas A&M University campus, where she inspires students and alumni in their own writing pursuits.

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THE GIVING HEART

TONI BLAKE

Spend a white Christmas on Summer Island, where the fires are warm and the romance is hotter

Lila Sloan wonders why she ever thought house-sitting for her sister Meg on the remote Summer Island was a good idea. And to make matters worse, local real estate developer Beck Grainger is trying to cut down the beautiful trees that line the property. Lila can’t let this happen; Meg will never forgive her.

Beck can understand Lila’s anger—sort of. The trees are actually on the neighboring property, and the land was zoned for development months ago, so his plans were no secret. But he dislikes being at odds with his friend’s sister, especially because Lila is appealing in every way: loyal, quick-witted and completely stunning.

Lila hates that she’s so attracted to Beck, who seems like a genuinely good man, despite his tree-murdering tendencies. And their chemistry is off the charts. She just wishes he’d let this development go. As Summer Island counts down to a snowy Christmas, Lila and Beck will have to strike a compromise that seems impossible for them both—or risk losing the best thing either of them has ever had.

Excerpt:

THE KISS WAS small, light, warm—a test kiss. And damn—for a kiss so small and tentative, it was the best thing Beck had felt in a long while. Despite the weather outside, it moved through him like heat lightning on a Kentucky summer night.

Given that she kept trying to dislike him so much, though, he had to make sure he wasn’t the only one welcoming that heat—so he drew back a little, met her pretty gaze. Her hazel eyes shone on him, big and round, maybe a little stunned, her rosy lips parted. Surprised—but wanting. Just like him.

So he bent, leaned, lowered another soft kiss to her waiting lips. Heard her quick intake of breath. Maybe at first she’d been surprised it was happening, but now she was clearly only surprised at how good it felt, and how fast.

When she drew her hand away from beneath his on the ornament, he’d thought maybe she was stopping this—but no. Instead, she lifted the same hand to touch his cheek. And the next kiss was deeper, longer, more consuming. No more test kissing—this was turning into the real deal. His hands went to her waist—slender beneath the big sweater she wore—and she released a little gasp as he pulled her closer.

She kissed him back now with all the passion rising up inside him, as well. The kind that slowly makes you stop thinking, measuring, until you just give yourself over to it.

It was the kind of kissing Beck hadn’t had the opportunity to indulge in for longer than he cared to admit. Summer Island had been isolating, and on the few occasions last summer when he’d almost connected with attractive female tourists looking for vacation fun, he’d realized that at thirty-nine, he’d apparently moved past wanting a meaningless, one-night connection—no matter how the rigid part of his anatomy between his legs had protested the decisions.

This, now, seemed like it had all the ingredients to be exactly that—a quick, nonlasting connection. Except for one thing. He liked her. And one more thing. Nothing was telling him to stop. Even if it seemed like an awful idea in ways. She was angry with him. She seemed angry in general. She was Meg’s little sister. Maybe it would spell even more drama.

But she felt too good in his arms. Her lips too soft beneath his hungry mouth. Every little sigh and gasp that left her made him harder. And soon that hardness pressed hotly against the sweet crux of her thighs through their blue jeans as they made out next to the Christmas tree, her palms now at his chest, beginning to knead him through his T-shirt same as if she were a cat, his own hands molded around her hips, learning her curves.

“This changes nothing,” she told him breathlessly between kisses.

His reply came in a rasp. “What do you mean?”

She peered up at him, bit her lip, looking sensual and defiant all at once. “If you think sex is going to make me give you back the key to that bulldozer, or just look the other way about the whole situation, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I’m not barking up that tree,” he assured her, voice deep and low.

“What tree are you barking up?” More kneading fingers at his chest. The slight scrape of feminine nails. He liked it.

And he tried to think of an answer, but it was difficult. Due to the fingernails, and the way their bodies pressed together below. “Pretty much just the this-feels-good-and-I-want-to-be-inside-you tree.”

Another little gasp. This one she tried to squelch, he could tell—but what he’d just said had excited her even more. “That’s…a good tree.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Toni Blake’s love of writing began when she won an essay contest in the fifth grade. Soon after, she penned her first novel, nineteen notebook pages long. Since then, Toni has become a RITA™-nominated author of more than twenty contemporary romance novels, her books have received the National Readers Choice Award and Bookseller’s Best Award, and her work has been excerpted in Cosmo. Toni lives in the Midwest and enjoys traveling, crafts, and spending time outdoors. Learn more about Toni and her books at http://www.toniblake.com.

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**********

CHRISTMAS FROM THE HEART

SHEILA ROBERTS

USA TODAY bestselling author Sheila Roberts takes readers to the charming, snowbound town of Pine River in this irresistible holiday romance.

Sometimes you need to look beyond the big picture to see what really matters

Olivia Berg’s charity, Christmas from the Heart, has helped generations of families in need in Pine River, Washington, but this year might be the end of the road. Hightower Enterprises, one of their biggest donors since way back when Olivia’s grandmother ran the charity, has been taken over by Ebenezer Scrooge the Second, aka CFO Guy Hightower, and he’s declared there will be no more money coming to Christmas from the Heart.

Guy is simply being practical. Hightower Enterprises needs to tighten its belt, and when you don’t have money to spare, you don’t have money to share. You’d think even the pushy Olivia Berg could understand that.

With charitable donations dwindling, Olivia’s Christmas budget depends on Hightower’s contribution. She’s focused her whole life on helping this small town, even putting her love life on hold to support her mission.

When Guy’s Maserati breaks down at the edge of the Cascade foothills, he’s relieved to be rescued by a pretty young woman who drives him to the nearby town of Pine River. Until he realizes his rescuer is none other than Olivia Berg. What’s a Scrooge to do? Plug his nose and eat fruitcake and hope she doesn’t learn his true identity before he can get out of town. What could go wrong?

Excerpt:

He didn’t want to go too far into the future, either. Except maybe he could change it. Maybe he could change her opin­ion of him. His was changing toward her. Olivia Berg, he was coming to realize, was something special.

They played out a few hands, the score remaining close. Until the last hand. Oh yeah, luck was being a lady tonight. He stuck Livi with thirty points and that won the game for him.

She looked stunned. “I can’t believe you beat me.”

“Well, you know what they say. Pride goes before a fall,” he teased.

She stuck out her lower lip. Oh yeah, he was ready for that kiss. “Hey now, no pouting just because I’m not mak­ing breakfast.”

“You got lucky.”

Oh, how he’d like to get lucky. “Okay, time to pay up.”

Her cheeks turned pink again.

“I promise I’ll make it painless,” he murmured with a smile.

He leaned across the table and she did the same. Then he slipped a hand behind her neck and drew her to him. He could smell that peppermint perfume. Her hair was so soft. So were her lips and they tasted like hot chocolate. She sighed into the kiss and he let the moment stretch out, threading his fingers through her hair. Her hands slipped up to the nape of his neck, her fingers soft and warm against his skin.

He could have gone on like that all night, moving them away from the table and out onto that living room couch, deepening their kiss, pulling her close, enjoying the feel of her curves, inhaling her scent. But that wouldn’t have been right. Even what he was doing was sure to put him on Santa’s naughty list for life.

It had been worth it though. He pulled back. “You’re a good loser. And a good kisser,” he added, making her cheeks turn pink. “Now, you have to have had other men tell you that,” he said.

She shrugged.

“There’s been no one special?”

“In college. And Morris and I once, when we were younger. But…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I’m waiting for.”

“The right one?” Someone who deserved her. Which in­stantly disqualified him.

“I guess. How about you?”

“I thought I was in love once. Turned out I was wrong.”

Okay, they were wandering into chick territory. Next they’d be sharing their every heartbreak. He stood. “I’ve had enough sitting. How about a walk?”

She smiled up at him. “I love walking in the snow.”

Of course she did. He sensed a holiday movie scene com­ing up.

Sure enough. The scene came to life when she turned on the Christmas lights and they stepped outside. Between her house and the neighbors, the street looked like a set on the Universal back lot. A light snow was falling to add to the al­ready-thick white coat frosting yards and houses. Rooflines, bushes and trees all dripped with colored lights like jewels on a woman’s neck.

The woman he was with needed no jewels. Her smile spar­kled more than any diamond ever could.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today best-selling author Sheila Roberts lives in the Pacific Northwest and has three children and one long-suffering husband. Her books have been printed in a many different languages. Her Christmas perrenial “On Strike for Christmas” was made into a movie for the Lifetime Channel and her novel “The Nine Lives of Christmas” was made into a movie for Hallmark. When she’s not playing with girlfriends or on the tennis court Sheila can be found writing about those things dear to women’s hearts:family, friends, and chocolate.

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CHRISTMAS IN SILVER SPRINGS

BRENDA NOVAK

Come home to Silver Springs for the holidays, where broken hearts learn to love again…together. 

So much for forever. When Harper Devlin’s rock star husband ditches her on his way to the top, she takes her two daughters to her sister’s place in Silver Springs for the holidays, hoping family can heal her broken heart. But comfort comes in unexpected places when she crosses paths with local Tobias Richardson.

The moment Tobias spots Harper, he recognizes a sadness he knows all too well. After spending thirteen years in prison paying for his regretful past, Tobias is ready to make amends, and maybe helping Harper is the way to do it. But offering her a shoulder to cry on ignites a powerful attraction and a desire neither saw coming.

Fearing her reaction, Tobias doesn’t reveal his checkered past. He’s falling hard, and if Harper finds out, he’ll lose her for good, especially because her famous ex is now trying to win her back. Secrets have a way of coming out, but maybe this Christmas will bring Tobias the forgiveness—and the love—he deserves.

Excerpt:

When Tobias woke up, light was streaming through the kitchen window, the only window without a blind, and the TV was off. He couldn’t remember turning it off, but he figured he must have—until he grew alert enough to realize he wasn’t alone. Harper hadn’t gone into the bedroom after the movie ended. She was right there, snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder.

He needed to change his position. His foot had gone to sleep. But he was reluctant to move. Her hand rested on his bare chest and her leg was slung over his.

There wasn’t any other way for them to fit on the narrow couch, so he told himself not to get too excited. It probably didn’t mean a whole lot. But her openness and trust were even more intoxicating than the weight of her pressing him into the cushions.

His arm tightened around her as the desire to kiss her rose inside him. He’d kissed quite a few girls when he was a kid. Since he’d had little adult super­vision, and he’d seen his mother making out so many times and with so many different men, he’d become sexually aware early. But he hadn’t been with many women since being released from prison. He’d decided he needed to heal first, get on his feet so he’d have something to offer a partner. And if he ever wanted to be liked in this place, he had to be careful. Otherwise, his actions would reflect poorly on his brother—and Aiyana Turner, since she’d been kind enough to give him a job. So there was that, too.

Besides, he’d known that getting involved too soon, or with the wrong person, could destroy his peace of mind quicker than anything else. He’d seen it happen with his mother far too many times. So after breaking things off with Tonya, he’d been with only one other woman in the past five months—a one-night stand he’d later regretted. After calling him incessantly for three weeks, the woman had shown up out of the blue, despite what he’d already told her on the phone, and wound up sobbing on his front doorstep when he had to reiterate that he wasn’t interested in continuing the relationship.

Harper stirred and raised her head. As soon as she saw that he was awake, their eyes met, and when she moved her leg, he knew she could feel his erection.

He held his breath, waiting to see how she’d react. He thought she should get off him and move away in a hurry. Being so close to her, and in this particular position, he wasn’t feeling much self-control.

But she didn’t.

That was sort of an invitation, wasn’t it?

He lowered his gaze to her lips. Surely one kiss couldn’t hurt.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Join Brenda Novak’s Online Book Group on Facebook–http://www.facebook.com/groups/brendanovaksbookgroup/. They’re currently reading CHRISTMAS IN SILVER SPRINGS, the next book in the Silver Springs series. Get an autographed copy in one of Brenda’s popular Brenda Novak Book Boxes: http://www.brendanovak.com/store/

It was a shocking experience that jump-started Brenda Novak’s career as a bestselling author–she caught her day-care provider drugging her children with cough syrup to get them to sleep all day. That was when Brenda decided she needed to quit her job as a loan officer and help make a living from home.

“When I first got the idea to become a novelist, it took me five years to teach myself the craft and finish my first book,” Brenda says. But she sold that book, and the rest is history. Her novels have made the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists and won many awards, including eight Rita nominations, the Book Buyer’s Best, the Book Seller’s Best, the Silver Bullet and the National Reader’s Choice Award.

Brenda and her husband, Ted, live in Sacramento and are proud parents of five children–three girls and two boys. When she’s not spending time with her family or writing, Brenda is usually raising funds for diabetes research (her youngest son has this disease). So far, Brenda has raised $2.6 million!

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ONE CHRISTMAS EVE

SHANNON STACEY

They couldn’t be more different. Or more perfect for each other. 

New York Times bestselling author Shannon Stacey returns with a warm and cozy opposites-attract Christmas story.

Zoe Randall is busy living her life as she damn well pleases. She’s back in her favorite town, her divorce in her rearview mirror, and living out her childhood dream of running a bookstore with her cousin. She has no interest in the uptight nerd who opened his boring-ass business next to her shop…until he complains about one of her sexy window displays.

Then it’s game on.

Preston Wheeler knows he takes life a little too seriously. But when the saucy bookseller next door starts pushing his buttons, he can feel that changing. Beautiful, vivacious Zoe challenges him in all the best ways, and soon he’s pushing her buttons right back: teasing and flirting all the way through the holiday season.

As Preston loosens up and Zoe is treated to the man behind the suit (particularly his forearms), she realizes she’s more interested than she cares to admit. And Preston comes to see the beauty—the absolute delight—in adding Zoe’s bright splashes of color to his once very black-and-white existence.
This book is approximately 34,000 words

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Excerpt:

Don’t be disgusting, Zoe.

Preston still couldn’t get those words out of his head. And the reason for that varied depending on the time of day it was.

During daylight hours—even when he’d been handling meetings and finalizing some real estate things in Boston—he’d mull over the statement because it might help explain why Zoe had been so prickly when he reacted badly to the sexy window display. His disapproval had been strictly for the actual display, but she’d obviously been deeply hurt by a man who’d been judgmental about her sexuality.

At night, when he should be sleeping, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what exactly Zoe Randall wanted to do that could be classified as disgusting.

If anybody ever asked him, he would say he’d never had an overly active imagination. But when it came to Zoe and sex and picturing doing all manner of things with her, he’d found out his imagination was capable of being not only overly active, but extremely creative.

It made sitting around the small living room with her family on Thanksgiving Day pretty awkward for him, and the discomfort wasn’t just from the third helping of macaroni and cheese and sampling four different pies, or not having an idea what was happening in the football game on TV. He tried to focus on the sports, to get his mind off her, but he was so lost he couldn’t invest in either team. During a break in the play, everybody got up to refill their drinks and pick at the desserts, and Preston used the guest bathroom off the back hall. When he came back to the kitchen, Zoe was alone, covering the desserts with plastic wrap.

“Need some help?” he asked, walking over to the table to stand next to her.

“I’m about done.” She licked apple filling off her finger, which made every muscle in his body tense in response, and then turned to face him. They were so close, she had to tip her head up to look up at him and everything but the urge to kiss her faded away.

She reached up and tucked her finger into the opening at his shirt collar, so her fingertip touched his throat, making him swallow hard. “No tie. Top button unbuttoned. Is this your casual look?”

He nodded, not sure he could actually speak until he cleared this throat. “I figured the suit was a bit much for Thanksgiving.”

When she tugged a little at the button her finger was hooked over, he closed the gap between them, putting his hands on her hips. His brain was short-circuiting and he wanted to make sure they were on the same page. “What are we doing right now?”

“Surrendering to the inevitable?”

“Yes.” He barely had time to whisper the word before their lips met and the world shifted under his feet.

As his mouth devoured hers, his hands skimmed over her back and pressed her even closer before he went back to the delicious curve of her hips. She tasted like sweet apple pie and he dipped his tongue between her lips, needing more.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Shannon Stacey lives with her husband and two sons in New England, where her two favorite activities are writing stories of happily ever after and riding her four-wheeler. From May to November, the Stacey family spends their weekends on their ATVs, making loads of muddy laundry to keep Shannon busy when she’s not at her computer. She prefers writing to laundry, however, and considers herself lucky she got to be an author when she grew up.

You can contact Shannon through her website, http://shannonstacey.com, where she has maintains an almost daily blog, or visit her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/shannonstacey, her Facebook page, http://facebook.com/shannonstacey.authorpage, or email her at shannon@shannonstacey.com.