Category Archives: Spotlight / Blog Tour
BLOG TOUR – Fake (a West Hollywood novel) by Kylie Scott
“Such an easy, sexy read! You’ll fall for Patrick Walsh, just like I did. I guarantee it.”
— Monica Murphy, New York Times bestselling author
Fake, an all new witty and sexy fake relationship, grumpy hero standalone from New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott, is available now!
He walks the red carpet. She’s more familiar with vacuuming one.
When a scandal tarnishes the reputation of hot as hell A-lister, Patrick Walsh, he needs a reputation rescue, pronto.
Enter waitress Norah Peers–a nobody who’s average with a capital A. She’s available, dependable, and has sworn off men for the rest of her natural born life. In other words: the perfect match for a no-strings fake romance.
For the right amount of money, she can avoid waitressing and play the part of his dependable down-to-earth girlfriend. What she can’t avoid–dammit–is the growing steam between them.
But being hounded by the paparazzi and having her life dissected on social media is a panic attack in the making. And while Patrick might be a charming rogue on screen, in real life he’s a six-foot-two confusing, gorgeous, brooding grump, who keeps her at a distance . . . but also makes her feel like this bond between them might be more than just an act.
Being dumped on cue should be no big deal. Except being fake with Patrick is the realist relationship Norah has ever had. What’s a girl to do, but flip the script, and ask for a re-match made in Hollywood?
Read today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2P2liAJ
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/Fake
Kobo: https://bit.ly/2QfG54j
Nook: https://bit.ly/32pTdWT
Apple Books: https://apple.co/3v5gzh8
Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3egt0j3
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
He slunk into the restaurant mid-afternoon wearing his usual scowl. Ignoring the closed sign, he took a booth near the back. No one else was allowed to do this. Just him. Today’s wardrobe consisted of black jeans, Converse, and a button-down shirt. Doubtless designer. And the way those sleeves hugged his biceps . . . why, they should have been ashamed of themselves. I was this close to yelling “get a room.”
Instead, I asked, “The usual?”
Slumped down in the corner of the booth, he tipped his chin in reply. For such a tall guy, he sure went out of his way to try to hide.
I said no more. Words were neither welcomed nor wanted. Which was fine since (A) I was tired and (B) he tipped well for the peace and quiet.
Out back, Vinnie the cook was busy prepping for tonight, his knife making quick work of an onion.
“He’s here,” I said.
A smile split Vinnie’s face. He was a huge fan of the man’s action films. The ones he’d made before hitting it big time and taking on more serious dramatic roles. Him choosing to visit the restaurant every month or so made Vinnie’s life complete. Especially since the restaurant, Little Italy, was the very definition of a hole in the wall. Not somewhere generally frequented by the Hollywood elite. Meanwhile, I was less of a fan, but still a fan. You know.
“Get him his beer,” Vinnie ordered.
Like I didn’t know my job. Sheesh.
He was busy with his cell by the time I placed the Peroni in front of him. No glass. He drank straight from the bottle like an animal. Just then, a woman in a red sweater dress and tan five-inch-heel booties strode in through the front door.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I said.
“I’m with him.” She headed straight for his booth and slid into the other side, giving the man a dour look. “You can’t just walk out, Patrick. You’re going to have to choose one of them.”
“Nope.” He took a pull from his beer. “They all sucked.”
“There had to be at least one that would do.”
“Not even a little.”
She sighed. “Keep this up and you’ll be obsolete by next week. Beyond help. Forgotten.”
“Go away, Angie.”
“Just another talented but trash male in Hollywood. That’s what they’re saying on social media.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Liar,” she drawled.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Obviously they knew each other, but he did not seem to want her here. And she really wasn’t supposed to be here. Vinnie had okayed after-hours entry to only one person. On the other hand, if I asked her to leave, she’d probably sic her lawyers on me. She looked the type.
The woman spied me hovering. “Get me a glass of red.”
“She’s not staying,” countermanded Patrick.
Angie didn’t move an inch. “They were all viable options. Pliant. Young. Pretty. Discreet. Nothing weird or kinky in their backgrounds.”
“That might have made them more interesting.”
“Interesting women is what got you into this mess.” The woman frowned, taking me in. Still hovering. One perfectly shaped brow rose in question. “Yes? Is there a problem?”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to sigh and give me a nod. He was so dreamy with his jaw and cheekbones and his everything. Real classic Hollywood handsome. Especially with his short light brown hair in artful disarray and a hint of stubble. Sometimes it was hard not to stare. Which is probably why his personality tended to scream “leave me alone.”
I headed for the small bar area at the back of the restaurant to fetch the wine like a good little waitress.
“We shouldn’t be discussing this here,” said Angie, giving the room a disdainful sniff. Talk about judgy. I thought the raw brick walls and chunky wood tables were cool. Give or take Vinnie’s collection of old black-and-white photos of Los Angeles freeways. Who knew what that was about?
Patrick slumped down even further. “I’m not going back there. I’m done with it.”
“This isn’t safe.” Angie looked around nervously. “Let’s—”
“We’re fine. I’ve been coming here for years.”
“You just got dropped from a big-budget film, Patrick,” she said, exasperation in her tone. “The industry may not find you bankable right now, but I’m sure gossip about you is still selling just fine. This week at least.”
About Kylie Scott
Kylie is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She was voted Australian Romance Writer of the year, 2013, 2014 & 2018, by the Australian Romance Writer’s Association and her books have been translated into eleven different languages. She is a long time fan of romance, rock music, and B-grade horror films. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two children and husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around on the internet.
Connect with Kylie
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2XujcZh
Bookbub: http://bit.ly/2GngiQq
Facebook: http://bit.ly/2OiXx3I
Twitter: http://bit.ly/391pjJM
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Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2S7cc32
Book+Main Bites: http://bit.ly/2ETz5RQ
Stay up to date with Kylie by joining her mailing list:
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Website: https://kyliescott.com/
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BLOG TOUR – Wild North (North Brothers #1) by JB Salsbury
Wild North, an all-new angsty romance with a bossy hero and a woman who was born to survive from New York Times bestselling author JB Salsbury is out now!
To me, he was Grizzly.
To the world, I would learn, he’s someone else completely.
I should have died on that mountain.
But he rescued me.
More animal than man, he’s cold, distant, and fiercely territorial. He seems to hate me for simply breathing, and yet, he brought me back to life.
After my return to the city, I can’t stop thinking about him. His rough hands, intense glare, and the way he cared for me as if I meant something to him.
He tells me he’s dangerous. That I’m not safe around him. I would eventually understand why he warned me away. But by then it’s too late. My heart is his.
Grab your copy now!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3a4T53v
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/WildNorth
Kobo: https://bit.ly/3s9EkCB
Nook: https://bit.ly/3eazOip
Add Wild North to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3tu4Sjn
Excerpt
“Do you plan to kill me?”
I drop my spoon into the bowl and bite back a fierce response. Are you out of your mind, you stupid, stupid girl! “Why would I save you if I’d planned to kill you?” I’m unsuccessful at keeping the anger from my voice. When she doesn’t immediately respond, I slowly turn around to see that she hasn’t touched her food. Her gaze darts to the wall where I store my weapons—buck knives, machetes, multiple hatchets, and a hunting rifle.
“Those are for hunting.” I eye her untouched food. She must be hungry. Upon further inspection, I see that her face shines with perspiration, and her lips, which had regained their pink color last night, look pale once again. The abrasion on her head has scabbed over and doesn’t look puffy or red. “Are you sick?” I stand and cross to her.
“No, I’m in pain. What are you doing?”
Having dropped to a squat, I peel back the animal pelts to see if she has any other injuries. She tries to bend her knees, make herself into a protective ball, but she winces in pain, and her legs flop out in front of her. That’s when I notice the dark stain on her gray long johns. “Are you bleeding?”
“What?” She follows my line of sight to her midsection. “I don’t think so.”
I grasp the hem of her shirt and wrench the fabric up.
“Hey, don’t touch me!” She bats at my hands but stops when her gaze lands on the bloody scratches carved into her torso. “I didn’t—”
“Fuck,” I growl and drop her shirt. “Anything else?”
Her eyes turn to slits, and her pale lips thin. “Like I meant for this to happen?”
I leave her to grab my first aid kit and throw a shit ton more wood into the woodstove. “Take these.” I hand her an antibiotic and a pain reliever.
“What are they?”
“Do you want to die? Because I’d be happy to drag you back out where I found you. If you want to live, take the fucking pills.” I rip clean gauze from its packaging, and once she’s swallowed the pills, I direct her to lie down.
She keeps a cautious eye on me when I pull up her shirt. The wounds on her stomach and ribcage are mostly superficial. I pull her shirt higher, and she fights me without success. She moans in pain as she lifts her other hand to cover her exposed breast. Where the swell of that breast meets her ribs is an angry red and bloody wound.
“Lift your arm.”
Slowly she lifts her arm above her head. “My shoulder is sore. It might be broken.”
“Dislocated.” I go about cleaning away the old blood around the wound to get a better idea of what I’m dealing with.
Her gaze snaps to mine. “How do you… You fixed it?” She flinches, and air escapes her clenched teeth when I hit a sensitive area. “I think I remember. The pain, at least.”
I grab the flashlight in the first aid kit and click it on. “Take this. Hold it right here.”
She’s a horrible help, the beam of light shines just about everywhere except where I need it. I do my best to clean the area, and that’s when I see something dark protruding from the wound. It can’t be one of her broken ribs, it’s not the right size or color.
“You’ve been impaled.”
“Impaled? Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious.” I hop up and grab a wooden spoon and a pair of needle-nose pliers. I pour boiling water over the pliers and hold the wooden spoon handle to her mouth.
“What are you doi—”
I shove the wooden spoon between her molars, and her eyes grow wide and panicked. “Bite. This’ll hurt.”
She makes some unintelligible noise that is easy enough to translate. Something like, “Oh, God, no. Please, wait. Give me one more second—”
I rip a piece of wood the size of her pinkie from her body, and she screams behind the wooden spoon. Tears streak down her face, and her breathing is so quick I think she’s going to pass out. Good. She’s easier to work on when she’s out cold. She manages to stay conscious as I stuff the wound with sterile gauze and cover it with medical tape. Her cheeks are wet with tears and sweat, but she doesn’t make a sound when I remove the spoon from her teeth. “Now eat.”
I reclaim my breakfast seat with my back to her.
“Thank you,” she pants, probably fighting through residual pain.
My jaw locks down on lukewarm oatmeal. I nod and blow out a tense breath.
Stuck with a random woman in my space is bad enough.
Stuck with a dying woman in my space would be worse.
About the Author
JB Salsbury, New York Times Best Selling author of The Fighting Series, lives in Phoenix, Arizona, with her husband and two kids. She spends the majority of her day lost in a world of battling alphas, budding romance, and impossible obstacles as stories claw away at her subconscious, begging to be released to the page.
Her love of good storytelling led her to earn a degree in Media Communications. With her journalistic background, writing has always been at the forefront, and her love of romance prompted her to write her first novel.
Since 2013 she has published six bestselling novels in The Fighting Series and won a RONE Award.
Connect with JB
Facebook: https://bit.ly/3stLCRV
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3mZRQaR
Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3stsCms
Twitter: https://bit.ly/3dtpF0X
Instagram: https://bit.ly/3x7WCbh
Website: http://jbsalsbury.com/
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BLOG TOUR – While You Were Texting by Delancey Stewart and Marika Ray
While You Were Texting, an all-new laugh out loud rom com from USA Today bestselling authors Delancey Stewart and Marika Ray, is available now!
Lincoln Cunningham doesn’t do relationships. Mostly because he learned in college that he doesn’t do them well. Translation: book smart guys focused on learning the art and science of vineyard tending aren’t always girl smart, and the humiliation that comes from being the only one invested in the relationship, well, that’s enough for him.
Lincoln’s mother, however, isn’t so sure. Her oldest son found his match, and now her sights are set on Linc. Why she insists on setting him up at the Paint it Pal pottery shop is beyond anyone’s grasp.
Hannah Delacourt never dreamed of a life spent handing customers ceramic monkeys and pots of paint and explaining the inner workings of a kiln. But she also never intended to spend a year trying to figure out whether the vineyard she inherited should be sold or might actually produce wine.
When the same cute guy comes in to paint on date after miserable date, she figures out what’s going on pretty quickly. He slips her an SOS and she texts him to help him out of the latest painful date. When he texts later to thank her, they hatch the perfect scheme.
She’ll pretend to be his girlfriend while he helps her figure out if her grapes are worth keeping. Everyone wins, right? But what happens when you fall in love when you’re texting with your fake boyfriend? Worse yet, what do you do when he’s clueless?
From two USA Today bestselling authors, a RomCom so sweet you’ll want to hug your kindle and never look at texting the same way.
Grab your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3aqAiQf
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/WhileYouWereText
Add While You Were Texting to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3szvL4h
Excerpt
HANNAH
Not twenty minutes after opening for the day, the bell above the door jangled and in walked the cute guy I’d been daydreaming about this morning. Today he had a long, dark Henley on with jeans that had seen better days. Probably for the best, given the nature of painting crafts. But it was the way his brown eyes drooped at the corners that got to me.
“Morning!” I trilled as he approached the counter.
His lips quirked up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey. Can I get a frog please?”
It must have been the knock to the head by the shower curtain, but I just couldn’t let this guy paint another frog without poking my nose in his business.
“Are you sure you don’t want to move up the food chain and try a bird? We have a pretty good parrot, if I do say so myself.”
The guy leaned his hip on the counter and folded his arms across his chest. Up close, he was less lanky and more broad than I gave him credit for. His eyes held humor now and I gave myself a mental gold star for putting it there.
“But then I’d have to use more than one color of paint,” he replied, the rumble of his voice making me think of the rare rainy morning when I could burrow under the covers and sleep in.
I leaned my forearms on the counter, angling in and shamelessly inhaling his scent. He smelled like he rolled around in a pile of fall leaves before stepping foot inside my shop. “That’s generally the idea.”
He full-out grinned and my heart stopped. “I prefer a monochromatic masterpiece.”
I tossed a look over my shoulder at the shelf with his monochromatic frogs before looking back at him. “Is that what those are? Your masterpieces?”
He clutched his chest and I straightened in alarm. “Your harsh criticism wounds me.”
I didn’t get the chance to reply before the bell above the door rang. A piercing voice called out, “There you are!”
Nails on a chalkboard would have been preferable to that squawk. The guy cringed, as if expecting a physical blow. His eyes widened comically at me before he smoothed out his face and turned around.
“You must be Jessica,” he mumbled, his voice sounding far less deliciously rumbly and more grumpy grumbly.
“I am, you handsome devil. Your mama said you’d be the rugged tall one and she wasn’t kidding, was she? What are you? Let me guess! Six-foot-five? No, no. That’s a bit much. Six-foot-four?”
The woman kept talking, words just dribbling out her mouth like a fire hydrant wrenched open by kids on a city street corner. There was a hint of a southern twang, but I couldn’t tell if that was natural or an affected thing she did because she thought it was cute. Her hair matched her mouth: over the top and jaw-dropping. For a morning date, she dressed like she was going to prom, complete with the huge curls, inch-thick makeup, and a dress that put it all out there.
Seeing her thread her arm through the cute guy’s and pull him to a table made my stomach churn. Not out of jealousy, of course, but just concern for his general well-being. That woman was going to eat him alive.
LINCOLN
I focused on painting. This frog was going to be the most carefully painted of them all. I glanced over at the girl up front, feeling desperate to escape, but she was busy moving things around on shelves below the counter. I could see her dark head popping up now and then. I fought back a wild urge to join her, to get out of the laser-vision stare of my current date.
“So, uh, how do you know my mom again?” I asked the woman who’d dropped one hand across the table to trace lines across my frog-holding fingers with a long talon.
“Oh, I just met her,” she said, the sharp blood-red dagger still on my hand.
A little blossom of fear opened up inside me and I tried very hard not to think about that Glenn Close movie I’d seen as a kid, the one where the slighted woman ended up boiling a bunny. I didn’t have a bunny, though I’d been contemplating a kitten actually. Now I thought better of it.
“Where was that?” I asked, desperate to stop my mother ever setting me up like this again.
“At the grocery store,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, which was even harder to bear than the high-pitched squeak it had contained before. “She saw me crying over the artichokes, and she was just so sweet and asked me what was wrong, bless her heart.”
I knew I shouldn’t, but the words just skittered out of my mouth. “And what was wrong?”
Her nail dug painfully into the top of my hand as she answered. “Rex. My ex. He dumped me, and he wasn’t even kind about it. He said the most horrible things to me, Lincoln. Things I know you’d never say. He didn’t like my hair!” This last part was shrieked, and the sudden outburst made me pull my hand away from her violently, overturning the tiny tub of blue paint and spilling a tiny puddle on the table.
“Um, I’d better go get some more paint.” I stood, the wild animalistic need to escape a predator pounding through me. I spun and practically sprinted to the counter, where the kind dark-haired girl who worked there practically shone like a beacon of safety.
“How’s it going?” she asked brightly, but I could see in her face that she knew it was going in the most terrifying manner possible.
I looked around the countertop frantically, spotting a pen and a little pile of scratch paper notes and grabbing for one. As I scrawled across the paper, I forced myself to try to act normal. “Yeah,” I said, writing at the same time. “Going super well. This frog, well, this one is really going to be a good one. But I need more blue paint.”
I babbled on, my hand scribbling my cell phone number and the words:
“Plz txt me with fake emergency. Will die if I don’t get away.”
About Delancey Stewart
I’m USA Today Bestselling author Delancey Stewart. My contemporary romances run the gamut of settings and setups, but they always deliver humor, heart and heat. It’s a guarantee.
I write from my home in Denver, CO, where I manage a household full of boys and men. Okay, only one man. The hubs. But two boys. I mean, three if you count the hubs. (You see why I do words and not numbers. I was told there’d be no math in this bio. Someone lied.)
I grew up in California and have had more jobs than anyone on earth (personal trainer, pharmaceutical rep, copywriter, tech writer, marketing director, wine seller, elementary school teacher… I’m not kidding. The list. It goes on.) But the one I love the most is writing, in part because I get to meet people who love books and stories as much as I do! Please don’t hesitate to get in touch to say hello, and don’t forget to join my newsletter!
Connect with Delancey
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3vzxpVv
Facebook: https://bit.ly/3t6G0gF
Instagram: https://bit.ly/3nAZAka
Subscribe to Delancey’s newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/FancyForm
Website: https://delanceystewart.com/
About Marika Ray
Marika Ray is a USA Today bestselling author, writing steamy RomComs to brighten your day. All her books come with a money-back guarantee that you’ll laugh at least once with every book.
Marika Ray spends her time behind a computer crafting stories, walking the beaches of southern California scoping out the lifeguards, and making healthy food for her kids and husband whether they like it or not. Prior to writing novels, Marika held various jobs in the finance industry, with private start-up companies, and then in health & fitness. Cats may have nine lives, but Marika believes everyone should have nine careers to keep things spicy.
Connect with Marika
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3gUjxBa
Facebook: https://bit.ly/333u1WP
Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3t7VjFV
Instagram: https://bit.ly/3aTuyPs
Website: https://marikaray.com/
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BLOG TOUR – Dating the Player (The Legends) by Erin McCarthy
Dating the Player, an all-new sweet and sexy sports romance from New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy is available now!
Dak
I’ve got a big pro football contract, a big appetite for women, and a big mouth. It gets me into trouble more often than not… but this time it lands me with a nerdy little PR gatekeeper who is supposed to control me. But good luck with that.
Eloise and her kitten sweaters and adorable glasses have me thinking about her in a whole different way…
Eloise
I’m not your typical nerd girl. Instead of video games, I love football. I’ve landed my dream job managing social media for my favorite team, but with Dakota North as quarterback it’s a 24/7 job. When I’m told I have to spend a week making sure Dak doesn’t tweet, he seems determined to use that time to flirt with me.
I have to ask myself, what is more important- losing my virginity to a bad boy quarterback or keeping my perfect job?
Read today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/38W3oX4
Apple Books: https://apple.co/2P6S8js
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/datingtheplayer
Nook: https://bit.ly/3xvFpIK
Kobo: https://bit.ly/3xzCOOi
Add DATING THE PLAYER to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/3cQqz6j
Excerpt
As Dak sauntered through, big and cocky, it was like watching the viral video of fainting goats. First all the women sat up straight, tits out, eyelashes fluttering madly, then as soon as he passed them, they collapsed back, drained and dreamy.
Even though I knew for a fact that he’d had sex with at least two of the women at headquarters, he never spoke to anyone in particular.
Except me.
In the cruelest of all damn ironies, he spoke to me on a regular basis.
Wearing track pants that did nothing to hide a huge cock moving freely beneath the cotton, Dak came toward me. And yes, even as a virgin, I had enough experience with penises in general to know that his was nothing short of impressive. He had on a team logo sweatshirt, which also didn’t disguise his broad shoulders and ripped arms. His hands were huge, and I imagined if he spread one across my face, it would block out the sun entirely. Recently he’d seemed to have forgotten to see a barber, his sandy hair veering into Jason Momoa territory. Football warrior. Maybe that was the look he was going for. It was working and then some.
Studying my laptop screen studiously, I pushed up my cherry red glasses and ignored him.
“Hey, Kitty.”
Dak didn’t know my name. He’d never asked. Even if he had, I doubt he would have remembered it.
I turned and gave him a weak smile, my heart rate kicking into overtime. The highlight of my day was when he acknowledged me, but it also threatened to send me into shock every time. Or spontaneous orgasm. My nipples hardened beneath my sweater and I shifted a little on my seat.
“Hi, Dak, how are you today?”
“Living the dream, Kitty.”
In his case, that was hugely accurate.
He gestured to me. “Turn around and let me see you.”
Obediently, I swiveled my chair so I was facing him. This was our routine. I’d say I didn’t know how to break it, but the truth was I didn’t want to.
His eyes raked over me slowly, amusement and mischief in them. “Now that. That right there is the sweetest pussy you’ve given me yet.”
“It’s Siamese,” I told him.
“Kinky.”
I glanced down at my breasts and the cat on my sweater. “I don’t think so. Cute more so than kinky.”
Dak shook his head slowly. “Then clearly our thoughts aren’t running in the same direction.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Apparently not.” I didn’t take anything he said seriously because Dak was a wicked flirt. He flirted on social media with random women who commented on his posts. He flirted with the team cheerleaders. He flirted with female sports reporters. But he had a type when it came to women he actually had sex with or dated.
They were always what my grandfather would call “hot to trot.”
They were women who oozed sexuality in every look, every gesture. In the way they dressed and moved and spoke.
That wasn’t me. Not by a long shot.
Nope. I was the virgin intellect who dressed her pets in team jerseys.
So, I knew that Dak just found me a kooky cat girl and that I was entertaining for five minutes whenever he was in the office. But he’d never date me or want to have sex with me.
Which sometimes was devastatingly disappointing.
Because, hello, sexy alpha male with a charming smile, muscles on muscles, and a confidence that made him a powerhouse on the field.
Other times I realized that if Dak ever got tired of supermodels and decided he wanted to take a dip in the nerd-girl pool, I probably couldn’t handle it.
He would break me, in all ways imaginable.
I may have had intelligence, but it didn’t mean a damn thing when hormones were involved.
Survival of the fittest and all that.
“Well, if you ever want me to explain it to you, let me know.” Dak gave me a wink.
About Erin
USA Today and New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy sold her first book in 2002 and has since written over seventy-five novels and novellas in the romance and mystery genres. Erin has a special weakness for high-heeled boots, martinis, and Frank Sinatra. She lives with her renovation-addicted husband (he built her a bar, so it’s all good!) and their blended family of kids and rescue dogs.
Connect with Erin
Facebook: http://bit.ly/39K0yDk
Instagram: http://bit.ly/37EuvCQ
Twitter: http://bit.ly/2ZWtdQT
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QtYjMD
BookBub: http://bit.ly/2uqW6Jx
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2FrgL2d
Stay up to date with Erin by joining her mailing list: http://bit.ly/2tYmOsP
Website: https://erinmccarthy.net
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BLOG TOUR – Talk Hockey to Me by Kelly Jamieson
Talk Hockey to Me, an all-new swoon-worthy, hockey romance from USA Today bestselling author Kelly Jamieson is available now!
They can resist their attraction…until their hearts rocket them across the blue line.
Hunter
Timing. Hockey careers are made or broken on it, and mine has taken an exceptionally broken road. I’m not a star. I’m a grinder, I work hard, and I’m finally at the point I can put the past behind me and get the fat, long-term contract I deserve.
But my agent—the man who stuck by me through every crash and burn—has had a heart attack. I need another agent now, or my one chance for the good money will slip through my fingers. Kate’s a rookie, but she loves the game like I do, so I pick up the phone. And I wonder if she remembers that one night in Cancun as vividly as I do.
Kate
Hockey. All my life I’ve lived it, breathed it, played it. Now it’s my business. As an agent, I’m tied to my phone at all hours, but nothing prepared me to hear Hunter’s voice. The last time I saw him—three years ago—there was a lot of bare skin and horny hormones involved.
I’ve handled it all in my short career—sexism, harassment, being broke, being laughed at. Resisting the attraction between us should be easy. Until it isn’t. And Hunter’s past shakes his confidence hard enough that he could make the worst decision at the worst possible time…
Read today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3tpglAn
Apple: http://apple.co/3lmYtn0
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/talkhockey
Nook: http://bit.ly/2OU12AO
Kobo: http://bit.ly/30NniPp
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Excerpt
We walk into the bright and sunny apartment. Being a corner unit, it has lots of windows, and the décor is light and airy, all pale gray and white. “Cute place,” I say.
“Thanks. It’s tiny but I love the neighborhood.”
“It looks like you.”
Kate gives me a skeptical look.
“Organized. Tidy. Modern.”
She gives me a long, impassive look. “That’s me, huh? Tidy?”
Shit. There I go again. I called her tough that night and I think she was insulted. Now I’ve done it again.
“Well, not right now,” I admit, eyeing her sweaty hair and face.
That probably didn’t make it better.
“You’re not wrong.” She sighs and sets the bear head on the small island. “Okay, help me get this off. I really need to pee now.”
We wrestle her out of the costume, and I try not to notice that I’m touching her. Under the getup, she’s wearing a thin tank top and a pair of tiny, tight black shorts. I swallow hard.
One hand grazes her bare arm. Then her thigh. I hear her sharp intake of breath and my gaze lands on her nipples, now hard and poking against her bra and tank top. Christ.
I kneel to help her step out of the costume. She sets a hand on my shoulder for balance and lifts one long, sleek leg. I want to run my hands up and down her leg so badly my palms tingle. My dick is pushing aggressively against the fly of my jeans.
I look up at her. She’s watching me, her lips parted, her eyes pupils dilated. A flush stains her cheeks and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth.
Daringly, I set my hands on her calf and she pulls the other foot free of the fur garment. I slide my hands around the back of her firmly muscled calves, and then up to the backs of her knees. She shivers. “Hunter…”
She’s not stopping me. I glide my hands up the backs of her thighs, then over the little shorts to cup her ass. I straighten my legs and stand, pulling her closer. Bending my head, we’re nearly nose to nose. Her eyelashes flutter. Our mouths are so close… “Kate.”
She pulls back, her eyes full of regret. “Hunter. We can’t do this.”
I close my eyes at the stab of disappointment. “Right. Right. Sorry.”
“Also, I still have to go to the bathroom.” She darts away from me and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
I lean against her kitchen island, sweating, breathing hard. My heart is galloping. Jesus. I fucked up. Why did I touch her like that? What the fuck is wrong with me?
About Kelly Jamieson
Kelly Jamieson is a USA Today bestselling author of over fifty romance novels and novellas. She writes the kind of books she loves to read–sexy romance with heat, humor and emotion. Her writing has been described as “emotionally complex”, “sweet and satisfying” and “blisteringly sexy”. She likes coffee (black), wine (mostly white) and shoes (high!). She also loves watching hockey. She is the author of the popular Heller Brothers Hockey series, Aces Hockey series, and the Rule of Three trilogy.
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Website: https://www.kellyjamieson.com
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BLOG TOUR – From The Embers by Aly Martinez
I may have carried her out of that fire, but the truth was, Bree saved me.
From The Embers, an all-new not-to-be-missed, standalone catastrophic romance from USA Today bestselling author Aly Martinez is available now!
In the aftermath of tragedy, it’s strange the things you remember.
The deafening boom as the house exploded.
The paralyzing fear as I searched for my wife.
The blinding smoke burning my eyes as I carried her out.
But carved into my soul for the rest of my days would be the earth-shattering realization that the woman in my arms wasn’t my wife.
Bree and I were the only survivors—not that either of us were truly living after that night. As a single dad with nowhere else to go, I moved into her guest house. And somehow, through the guilt and grief, we forged an unlikely team.
It took years, but I watched the gradual return of her smile—slow and life-altering.
The two of us could sit outside for hours, talking about nothing, and it filled the massive hole in my chest with new life.
I may have carried her out of that fire, but the truth was, Bree saved me.
As we healed, the secrets and lies of the past smoldered in the ashes, threatening to ignite again.
Our love was born from the embers, and together we would go up in flames.
Be consumed by the fire, today!
Exclusively on Kindle Unlimited.
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Excerpt
Using my arm to block my face, I carried her lifeless body to the door. The knob seared my palm as I yanked it open, but the pain didn’t even register through the adrenaline. The sound of my feet pounding down the driveway echoed in my ears as the fire crackled behind me. Our closest neighbor was over half a mile away, but there was no way they hadn’t heard the explosion. The fire department would be there soon.
Once I got Jessica safe, I’d go back for Bree. They’d find Rob. Everyone would be okay.
“Eason,” she croaked in my arms.
My feet were still moving as I sprinted away, but time stopped as her voice permeated my senses.
It wasn’t possible.
She was covered in soot, and my eyes were caked with ash and what I would later learn to be blood, but I could still make out the large flowers on her yellow—
“Uh, no. It’s my dress that your wife borrowed and I had to do an entire Tom Cruise Mission Impossible thing to get it back last week.”
Oh, God.
I kept running until the wind changed direction, clearing the smoke. With my heart in my throat, I prayed that my still ringing ears had deceived me. I set her down and used the inside of my shirt to clear my face.
“Eason,” she croaked.
But once again, she wasn’t my wife.
“Oh, God,” I breathed, watching as she rose on unsteady legs. Tears carved twin riverbeds through the ash on her cheeks.
“What happened?” Bree asked, her green eyes focused on the blazing inferno behind me.
Acrid guilt devoured me. “I…”
I saved the wrong woman.
I left the mother of my child in a burning building.
My final broken promise to the woman I’d vowed forever to was, “I’ll be right back.”
Bile crawled up my throat. “I don’t know.”
I glanced back at the house, the heat of the roaring fire scorching me even from yards away. Overwhelming grief hit me as I realized there was no way I could get back through those flames.
Oh, God. Jessica.
In the middle of tragedy, it’s strange the things that become engrained into your memories. Years later, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how long it took the firetrucks to get there. I couldn’t tell you what time it was or what I had been wearing. But I would never be able to forget the absolute devastation on Bree’s face when she realized we were the only two standing outside the burning house.
“Where’s Rob?” she rasped, her voice sounding like it had traveled over a mile of gravel before exiting her throat. “And Jessica. Where are they?” She took an urgent stride toward me.
“I tried…” I doubled over into a fit of coughing. It was probably for the best. There was no way I could have finished that thought.
About the Author
Originally from Savannah, Georgia, USA Today bestselling author Aly Martinez now lives in South Carolina with her husband and four young children.
Never one to take herself too seriously, she enjoys cheap wine, mystery leggings, and olives. It should be known, however, that she hates pizza and ice cream, almost as much as writing her bio in the third person.
She passes what little free time she has reading anything and everything she can get her hands on, preferably with a super-sized tumbler of wine by her side.
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Facebook: http://bit.ly/2RvbjCA
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Website: https://alymartinez.com/
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