Release Blitz

The Last of the Moussakas

Title: The Last of the Moussakas

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/08/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 74900

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, Greek island setting, Greek culture, celebrity Friends to lovers, In-the-closet/coming out, soulmates, humorous, chefs, musician, chef, second cousins, family drama

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Description

Max Bergmann is Europe’s hottest drum and bass DJ. From the outside, his life is a whirl of glamorous vodka-fueled parties and casual hook-ups, whilst inside he craves the one thing he can’t have – his Greek childhood friend, Georgios Manolas.

Following a disastrous PR stunt and one drunken hook-up too many, Max realises the time has come to reassess his life choices. Returning to his childhood home on the Greek island of Aegina, if he wants any chance of having Georgios permanently in his life, he has to delve into the mystery of the longstanding hatred of the Bergmann’s by Georgios’s family.

Georgios is a chef and has spent his whole life on the tiny Greek island of Aegina. He has held the family restaurant together since he left school, with very little reward, and dreams of one day running a restaurant of his own on the island. Yet if he acknowledges his feelings for Max, he runs the risk of losing not just his traditional Greek family but also his livelihood.

As Max slowly uncovers the secrets of the past, he is left wondering whether a little Greek girl’s heart-breaking wartime diary could not only hold the key to his family’s history, but could it also unlock his and Georgios’s future together?

The Last of the Moussaka’s is a light-hearted, warm romance about two men’s quest for the truth about the past and unlocking a path to a future together.

Excerpt

The Last of the Moussakas
Fearne Hill © 2021
All Rights Reserved

GEORGIOS, AEGINA TOWN, GREECE. SIX WEEKS LATER

“I’d heard you were back,” I say neutrally, eyeing the lean, blond man slouched at one of the outside tables. His pale-blue shirt is rumpled and half undone, although he has clearly tried to rebutton it at some point and failed to align the buttons correctly. In one hand, he nurses a bottle of Fix lager and in the other a thin roll-up from which he takes a long drag before attempting to focus his blue gaze on me. I fold my arms across my apron.

“And if Papa Marcos sees you, he’ll tell you to get on your way; you’re not welcome here after what happened last time.”

Papa Marcos is actually my uncle, not my father, but that’s what everyone has called him for as long as I can remember. And this is his restaurant.

“Christ, that was ages ago, Georgios,” slurs the young man, shaking his head in mild protest. A wave of that thick yellow hair falls over his face with the movement, and he lazily pushes it aside before taking another swig from the bottle. He misjudges the precise location of his mouth and some of the amber liquid dribbles down his chin unnoticed. Ash from his cigarette falls unimpeded onto his jeans.

“Well, Papa Marcos has the memory of an elephant, and frankly, I don’t blame him if he tells you to bugger off. You’re lucky you’re even allowed back on the island, to be honest.”

The blond man regards me for a long second, his heavy-lidded gaze momentarily focussed. I feel a familiar lurch in my stomach, somewhere between pleasure and pain, and deliberately push it aside. Not tonight and not like this. Not ever again, in fact, I tell myself. I can’t continue tormenting myself like this, I just can’t. Picking up a tray, I gather empties from the table next to the man, aware of those blue eyes blearily following my every move as I cross to and fro around the outside restaurant area, clearing up the debris from departed diners.

We’ve reached midsummer, and the night has been as busy as any so far this season. I’ve cooked for eight hours non-stop, catering for well over a hundred covers. Day trippers and weekenders from the mainland pack into Aegina, joined by a smattering of rich yachting types and locals enjoying a hot Saturday night. It’s after one in the morning; the last table of guests has finally paid up and left. The town still buzzes with families and groups of friends at the neighbouring bars. Having wiped down the last of the outside tables, I disappear back inside.

After another half hour I’m done in the kitchen. Papa Marcos has long gone, as have the rest of the kitchen staff, leaving me to cash up and lock up. I’m the only person he trusts to do this reliably, not that he gives me any credit for it. I get paid just as little as everyone else, despite doing the bulk of the prep work, cooking, and having to manage a disparate bunch of occasional chefs, porters, pot washers and waiters. I can be sure as hell my lazy cousin and my brother won’t go the extra mile. I try to spend the time thinking happy thoughts about Agnes, my girlfriend of a couple of months. She’s nice, really nice, and pretty too. Shame I hardly have time to see her.

I extinguish the outside lights and, in the gloom, almost miss the body now sprawled across the table in the far corner, the empty green beer bottle dangling loosely from one elegant tanned hand. I detect gentle snoring as I approach and watch for a few moments as the man sleeps on, head cradled on his arm, his fair lashes resting on his cheeks, shoulder-length golden curls fanning around his face. A snail trail of saliva dribbles across his sleeve. And yet, despite his dishevelled and drunken state, I know without a shadow of doubt that Maximillian Bergmann is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

“Max,” I begin, nudging him gently. Too gently, it would seem, as the snoring rhythm remains unaltered. “Maxi!” I shout a little louder, gripping his upper arm and shaking him with more force. “It’s home time, Maxi!”

Max gradually stirs and looks around hazily until his bloodshot eyes alight on my familiar face. He smiles tipsily. “Always here to save me, my Georgie boy.”

I ignore him; I’m tired and hot, my feet are aching, and I’m desperate for my bed. I can’t recall the last time I was allowed a day off. “Right, come on Max, just stand up. I’m not messing about. You need to go home.”

The harsher tone of voice and the tug on his arm bring Max to a more alert state, and he lurches to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“And I’m not a boy!” I add, pulling Max along with me. “I’m twenty-five, Max. Almost a year older than you!”

Max pushes me away. “I need a piss.”

He steps back from the table and turns towards the beach. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you’re cross, Georgios Manolas?” he mumbles over his shoulder.

He weaves his way through the tables and steps down off the restaurant decking, onto the narrow strip of pebbly sand which makes up the town beach. After only a couple of paces, Max reaches the water’s edge, swaying slightly as his fountain of pee arcs into the shallow foam at his feet.

“And you wonder why the good folk around here don’t like you very much,” I mutter under my breath and glance around to check we are still alone.

Max buttons himself up then totters back to where I’m waiting for him. He smiles his perfect easy white smile at me as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He probably doesn’t, I think uncharitably and check my watch. Possibly too late for taxis, and one look at Max makes it unlikely any drivers will agree to have him so inebriated in the back of their cabs anyway, particularly if they recognise him from previous trips. And even though the sensible half of my brain tells me to let Max find his own way home, the other half warns me that I won’t sleep easily knowing he’ll end up crashing somewhere on the beach for the night.

“Come on then, Max,” I sigh wearily. “I’ll give you a lift. The scooter’s parked over here.”

My Vespa has seen better days, having belonged not only to Dion, my older brother, but also to my older cousin Nico before him. Neither of them treated it with the care it deserves. Yet, although it may resemble a rust bucket, the 150cc engine is solidly reliable, even with the extra weight of a second adult. As Max clambers behind me, I warn him to hold on tight. “And don’t fall asleep! Stay awake! I haven’t got a helmet for you!”

Max’s arms obediently snake around my waist, and my oldest friend nestles the warmth of his body into me, resting his head comfortably against my back. We have shared scooter rides many, many times over the years, and as I head up away from the main street and along the coast road, it seems that Max snuggles in even closer. There had been a time when I lived for moments like this, alone with Max’s lean torso warm along the length of my back, but not now. I’m not going to let futile dreams of what could be with Max fill my head again, even if my heart demands that I push my foot to the pedal and just keep on going. I fail miserably to conjure up a mental image of my new girlfriend Agnes’s pretty face.

Aegina is not a big island, only about fifteen kilometres across and ten kilometres north to south, so it doesn’t take very long on the empty roads to get to Max’s parents’ place, cloistered in the hills above Kypseli village. Once we leave the coast road and wind our way up the narrow lanes, we encounter not a single soul.

His parents’ house is a newish villa but built in traditional old Greek style. With lush bougainvillea creeping up the walls, the two-storey elegant limestone sprawl contrasts sharply with the plainer, shabbier village dwellings on either side. Situated in an enviable spot; the views from the terraces stretch all the way to mainland Piraeus, with olive and lemon groves dropping away from the main house and providing acres of much-needed shade in the heat of the day. His parents had demolished the previous villa several years earlier and built this even grander place in its stead. At the time, my mum and I couldn’t see why they had bothered, it’s not as if they frequently visit the place. In fact, Max and his shifting collection of hangers-on are the only regular visitors these days. We negotiate the security gates, and as we head up the long private drive, I can see all the lights in all the rooms blazing, the empty swimming pool lit up like an airstrip for small aircraft. I shake my head; my dad would have said they’ve got more money than sense.

I kill the engine, and with my foot resting on the ground for balance, I wait for Max to move. He doesn’t budge an inch, his arms remain firmly wrapped around me, his front pressed cosily into my back. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep after all.

“Hey, Maxi, time to let go.”

“What if I don’t want to let go?”

His drowsy words are muffled against my neck. His fingertips find their way into the gap between the buttons on my shirt, and I can’t help an involuntary hitch in my breath nor ignore Max’s murmur of contentment as his smooth palm caresses the skin of my flat belly. “You like that, don’t you, Georgie boy?” he croons throatily into my ear.

That sweet accent, mostly Greek, but betraying a hint of foreignness at intense moments like this. I let my head drop back, losing myself in the sensation of the leisurely circular massaging of my belly and the feel of that hot breath and soft lips grazing my ear. God, it would be so easy to say yes, to climb off the scooter and allow Max to lead me by the hand into the house.

Pushing his hand away, I force myself to stay firm. “Stop it, Max,” I plead, closing my eyes. “Come on; please get off the bike. I’ve got work again in the morning, and I’m knackered. Just get off now. Please.”

The warm press of body against mine vanishes. The seat rises slightly as Max’s weight lifts, and I look up, sensing him standing next to me. “I do love you, Georgie boy, you know that, don’t you?”

I turn away from him, fiddling with the wing mirror. “Whatever. Go to bed and sleep it off.”

I head back to our little house hidden amongst the backstreets of Aegina town. A dwelling ideally suited to a family of four, ours accommodates an extended family of eight. Privacy and solitude are rare commodities, and the gulf between my modest home and the one I’ve just ridden away from feels as vast as the Saronic sea, the stretch of water separating Aegina from the mainland.

The whine of my scooter engine sets off a cacophony of local dogs, ours included. I give him a cursory pat as I pass him chained up in his usual spot under the eaves at the side of the house. God knows what all these territorial dogs, so beloved of us islanders, are actually guarding; none of us has anything of value worth stealing, but perhaps we just like to know who might be dropping in on us anyway.

The house is quiet, and I efficiently remove the sweat and grime of my working day under a dribble of a lukewarm shower before creeping into my room. I share the tiny space with Dion, and in the half-light, I can make out his lumpy body under the covers, flat on his back, dead to the world. His ugly snores are such a familiar soundtrack to my nights that they hardly register. I undress silently and slip into the narrow bed, separated from his by only a foot, and close my eyes.

Sleep eludes me as I knew it would; it is always the same whenever Max Bergmann strolls back into my life without warning. In between his visits, I can sometimes manage to forget about him for days at a time, and then just when I’m back on track, he turns up out of the blue, shaking me to the core, flipping my ordered existence upside down. I have a bloody girlfriend now, for God’s sake!

Giving up on sleep, I flick on my phone and indulge in a guilty pleasure: tracking his movements online via his company’s Instagram page. His last gig was headlining a drum and bass festival in Berlin, and before that, he’d done a stint at a big club in Manchester. Globetrotting—well, Europe-trotting as usual. And what had I done while Max had been lapping up the adoration of thousands of fans? Cooking approximately a gazillion moussakas and preparing my entire family’s body weight in tzatziki.

Truthfully, I had been expecting Max to appear again sooner or later. He rarely leaves it longer than a couple of months between visits to the island. He’s half Greek, after all, and spent much of his childhood here. His roots are on this island, and that drags him back, but his presence always unsettles me now. So different from when we were kids, when I counted down the days on the calendar until his boarding school holidays with growing excitement, knowing he would be back with me, and I’d have weeks and weeks with him all to myself. But lately, his presence feels like an open sore I can’t resist picking.

There is a familiar pull as my mind helplessly replays the feel of him riding pillion on the bike, pressed up against me, his soft palm flat against my belly, those maddening stroking circles, his breath and his low seductive voice warm against my throat. What if I don’t want to let go? My hand has strayed to my dick, achingly aroused against the well-worn duvet, and I’m working myself, imagining those circles moving lower and lower until it is Max’s hand on me, Max who is stroking me, Max who is loving me. My own fist is a poor substitute, but my balls tighten nonetheless, and I roll over onto my stomach as I start to come, rubbing myself hard against the friction of the sweaty sheet, stifling my frustrated groans against the pillow.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel. When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anaesthesiologist.

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Rise

Title: Rise

Series: Sequel to Stray

Author: Nancy J. Hedin

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/08/2021

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 61200

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, family-drama, lesbian, gay, trans, veterinary student, election, homophobia, illness/death, funeral, therapy, reunited

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Description

Lorraine Tyler is finally at veterinarian school with her best friend and roommate, Frankie. She’s also got a girlfriend who likes to play naked hide-and-seek. Life in Bend is pretty great for Lorraine until she hears the voice of her dead sister Becky in her head, pointing out Lorraine’s failures past and present. Her problems don’t end there. Her dad is hospitalized, leaving her heartsick at the thought of losing him, and there has been no justice for the hate crime perpetrated against Lorraine’s friend Ricky the year before. As if those things weren’t worry enough Lorraine’s former and present girlfriends are in town seeking her undivided attention. No wonder Lorraine’s wacky therapist has her eating bean soup and counting up the traumas of her life. Lorraine and Frankie juggle their own personal crises while they try to navigate family relations and work for a more just and LGBTQ friendly community for everyone who calls Bend home.

Excerpt

Rise Nancy J. Hedin © 2021 All Rights Reserved Chapter One The Voice It was the middle of the night and I wanted my momma. I don’t think I’ve ever said those words as an adult, but I was really scared. The voice was back. It had abated during finals and I thought perhaps my sister had stopped haunting me. No such luck. Becky had been stubborn and relentless in her life. I suppose it should have been no surprise that she was the same in death. My twin sister Becky had died the spring before we both would have turned nineteen. Until recently, when I made twenty years old, I had only been plagued by the memories of her violent death. During the end of my first summer session of vet school something new had started happening. I was hearing Becky’s voice and a running commentary on what I should have done to save her life and what I was presently doing to mess up my life. I had two weeks off from school to get this latest disaster managed. I could but wasn’t allowed to call Momma. It was too late at night. She said phone calls in the middle of the night should only contain extraordinary news like a birth or death. Even car trouble was not a permitted excuse to call home after 10:00 p.m. or before 6:00 a.m. Momma said, “Call AAA. Don’t call our farm.” I watched the clock as Becky yammered in my head. “Lorraine, you’re on a brief summer break starting today, but don’t think you don’t have to study. Wouldn’t it be ironic if after all this time waiting for the right moment to leave home and the money to go to vet school you flunk out?” Becky cackled at her joke. “I’m not going to flunk out,” I said into the room and regretted it immediately. My roommate Frankie roused from her drunken sleep. “What? What’s going on?” Frankie raised her head and looked in my direction. Her five-o’clock shadow was already showing even though she had given herself a very close shave before going out the night before. She was in the early stages of transitioning male to female—living her truth. For Frankie that meant coming out to friends and family, hair removal, and saving, saving, saving. If Frankie chose to pursue the surgical route the expenses were astronomical. Frankie joked she would be at the craps table in Vegas rolling the dice and shouting, “Come on, Momma needs a vagina and new pair of breasts.” “I’m sorry, Frankie. I was talking to Becky.” “Her again? God, the dead are chatty.” She put her head down and then lifted it again and said, “Did I tell you? I heard voices yesterday. They said, ‘Freak, faggot, failure!’ Oh, wait that wasn’t psychotic voices. That was my father talking to me.” She put the pillow back over her head to sleep. Frankie had been disowned by her family, but her father still called every single day. I’d heard Frankie’s side of that conversation for months. To me it seemed like every call and every periodic visit devolved into harsh words and blaming, not from Frankie. She always kept her cool and reminded her parents that she loved them and always would. I sympathized with Frankie but had my own critic to manage. Becky spoke up again, “Frankie will never, surgery or no surgery, be as beautiful as I was my senior year. Let’s talk about me some more, Lorraine. You know what’s funny? I can remember the feel of the gasoline on my skin, the sting of it, its odor in my nose; and I can recall the force of the knife as it entered my surprisingly flat belly, but I can’t for the life of me remember the feel of the fire.” I bolted into the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. No, I didn’t find it humorous or oddly interesting that she couldn’t remember the feel of the fire on her skin. I couldn’t forget the image; the smell of her burning hair and flesh. Those odors were tendrils that wrapped around the little hairs in my nose and kept the sensory experience always at the ready to accompany the soundtrack of Becky’s screams. I didn’t say anything to her about the screams I heard. I didn’t want to make her memory worse. I just wanted her to shut up. “You know, Lorraine, if you’d been quicker and more planful you could have saved me. I suppose you were preoccupied with your own queer drama as usual.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but every syllable condemned me just the same. She was right of course. During the time of her illness, I was licking my wounds because I’d lost the scholarship, and there was never enough time for me and Charity. I wasn’t thinking about Becky every minute when I should have been. It wasn’t that I hadn’t already told myself the same thing—every day, every hour, but to hear her say it felt like more of an indictment and final verdict. I slammed the bathroom door. No matter, she was in my head, not the bedroom area of the apartment I shared with Frankie. Becky sighed loudly, “Now, Little Man is growing up without his mother. I know Kenny got married again. He probably had to do that. He wouldn’t have gone without sex for very long. Still, it should be noted that sociologists have concluded it’s best for a child to be with his mother.” Mentioning Little Man, Becky’s son and my nephew, only made me feel worse. I wanted to argue the point, but I couldn’t. I was of the opinion that it wasn’t so great that Becky and I were with our momma? It wasn’t for me. That was certain. But our situation was different than Little Man’s. He wasn’t a twin. He needn’t compete for limited resources or audition for the favored position like Becky and I did. “Back to my original question. You’re the medical expert. Why didn’t I feel the fire?” Becky persisted. My phone read 6:02 a.m. Finally, I could call Momma. I called the landline first, hoping she was there at the kitchen table of our farmhouse pestering Dad with some complaint or request, but still feeding him a heart attack breakfast. I pictured her rising, the legs of her chair scraping against the tired linoleum floor, her bunny slipper clad, size nine feet padding across the kitchen, and her reaching for the yellow wall phone by the cereal cabinet and just above Dad’s junk drawer. Dad was closer, but Momma knew he hated the phone and wouldn’t answer it unless he had to. No answer. I pictured my dad readying himself for a day working at the lumber yard. Had he drunk his first or second cup of coffee? Had he snuck to the barn for his first filterless Camel cigarette? Had he slumped forward with his usual and now more frequent coughing jag? Had he spit into his red or blue bandana handkerchief? Maybe he fended off Momma’s criticism with one of his blessed animal stories. They were blessed unless you were the one who had to do the research at the library and figure out the lesson to be learned from screwworm 1960 or big breasted chickens or bonobos. It wasn’t really so bad. I loved reading about animals. I just didn’t like hearing I had so much to learn about how to treat people. I suppose my dad is one of the reasons I love animals so much. He taught me so much from his animal stories. Back in the living room Frankie stirred and mumbled something in her sleep. I called Momma’s cell. It went straight to voice mail, which was a torture in and of itself. Her cheerful voice followed by obvious information that she hadn’t taken the call, an Old Testament Bible verse about the Godly and ungodly—I knew where I’d been sorted in that scenario—and a command to leave a message. I didn’t leave a message. What was I supposed to say? “Hi, Momma, should I be worried that your dead, perfect daughter Becky is a voice in the head of your living and always disappointing queer daughter, me?” I didn’t leave a message. I’d call someone else. I almost called Twitch next. Twitch is my friend, mentor, my dad’s best friend, and recently I’d found out he was Becky’s and my biological father. Momma had a brief encounter with Twitch when she first came to town, before she met and fell in love with my dad. Becky and I were Benjamin Twitchell’s blood, but Joseph Tyler’s children. I clicked off the phone. “Screw it, I’m driving to Bend.” Becky sneered, “Lorraine, you finally got away from Bend and what do you do? You go right back there. You seem destined to repeat all your mistakes.” “Shut up.” Frankie roused again. “What, was I snoring?” “No, go back to sleep. I’m going home for a while.” Besides, the last time I talked with Marin England she had promised me a game of hide-and-seek at her house. That was a PG-13 euphemism for her hiding naked in her king-size bed and me finding her before the covers settled. Yep, I was going home to Bend. I stuffed some clothes and toiletries in a duffel bag, grabbed my phone charger and a couple of textbooks. Just before I made it out of the door I glanced at the tumble of limbs, hair, and blankets that was Frankie. We’d planned to do something with the big empty wall in our living room during break. Becky said, “You might as well bring Frankie along. She’ll fit right in. Pay attention, Lorraine, you might learn something from her.” I nudged Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie, Frankie, I’m going home to Bend. Do you want to come with me?” Frankie launched out of bed, hurled razors, chemical hair remover, curling iron, beauty products, and her loosest-fitting clothes into a gym bag, a blanket and pillow in another duffel, and charged to the door. For some reason Frankie liked visiting Bend. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bend and planned to have a vet business and live there for the rest of my life. Still, it surprised me when others who hadn’t grown up there found an emotional connection with the place. She said she could be herself in Bend. She didn’t mind the looks or questions. I’d warned her I knew a gay man who had been beaten in Bend. I’d introduced Frankie to my good friend Ricky and his lover Russ. Frankie stopped packing and searched for her phone. “I better call Mom and Dad and tell them I’m going. The cell reception in Bend is for shit. I don’t want them calling me to tell me how disappointed they are in me and not being able to reach me. They’ll worry I’m in a clinic somewhere losing my Johnson.” “You don’t have to babysit me when I do this. I know you’re tired from the first summer session.” I touched her arm. “Of course, I don’t, cis, but I want to do this. Maybe I can be of help or at least amusement.” She found her phone, kissed my cheek, and launched her bag of clothes at me. “I better pee.” She exited to the bathroom and closed the door. “God, you smell like margaritas,” I called after her. “Did I mention I’m learning Spanish?” “Spanish? Right. Does that just mean you drank all night at a Mexican restaurant and flirted?” I didn’t say it, but I worried she teased men who possibly would have beat her for being herself. I thought of my friend Ricky and what had happened to him along a field not far from our farm. Frankie stuck her head out from the bathroom and talked around her toothbrush, “No, it was a meeting of LGBTQIA for civil rights. It just happened to be at an authentic Mexican restaurant with fabulous enchiladas and very spicy men.” Frankie joined every configuration of queer or transitioning group she could find, whether it was local or national. She attended meetings in person when she could manage, and scads of online meetings and internet chatrooms to organize protests and get out the vote efforts. Mostly she pasted and posted encouragement to others. As far as I could tell, community mobilization involved a lot of meetings that seemed more like raucous parties. Despite her many invites I had not joined any of the groups. I felt like my sexuality was a private thing. I didn’t want to be legislated but I also didn’t see myself as the poster child for any particular cause. I heard Frankie’s conversation with her parents from the bathroom. “Yep, tell Dad that I still have my willie. I know you worry. I’ll be with Lorraine in Bend. I just didn’t want you to worry if you called and didn’t get me right away. No, I’m not sleeping with Lorraine. I’m glad you’d be okay with that but it’s not going to happen. Love you both. Goodbye.” Frankie came out of the bathroom. I grinned. “You heard all that?” Frankie said. “Yes. Do your parents really think we’re sleeping together?” I asked. “That was my mom. Dad was at the gym. I’m sure he’ll be calling me before we make it out of town. Mom’s so desperate that I keep all my nuts and bolts she’d pair me up with you.” Her face turned sour before she kissed me on the cheek again.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Nancy Hedin, a Minnesota writer, has been a pastor and bartender (at the same time). She has been a stand-up comic and a mental health crisis worker (at the same time). She wants readers to know that every story she writes begins with her hearing voices. In 2018 Nancy’s debut novel, Bend was named one of twenty-five books to read for Pride Month Barnes and Noble, and was named Debut Novel of the Year by Golden Crown Literary Society and Foreword Indies Honorable Mention for GLBT Adult Novel of the Year.

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Of Fire & Water

  

Title: Of Fire and Water
Author: Cameo Renae
Genre: YA Dark Fantasy
Cover Designer: Jay Villalobos – Covers by Juan
Publication Date: November 14th, 2020
Hosted by: Lady Amber’s PR


Blurb:
Calla escaped Morbeth only to find herself fighting for her life once more. Incendia seemed the perfect sanctuary of escape. The stories told of the mystical island claim all inhabitants were annihilated. Those tragic tales . . . were lies.
Desperate to keep their truth hidden, the islanders take Calla and her friends prisoner. Despite her dire situation, something about that beautiful—yet deadly—paradise speaks to Calla’s soul, whispering the powerful secrets pulsing through her veins. As Roehl hunts for her, eager to claim his murderous vengeance, Calla searches for answers she believes only Incendia can offer.
Can Calla harness the power surging within her in time to protect herself, and those she loves, from Roehl? Or, no matter where she runs, will the twisted royal continue to chase her to the farthest reaches of any realm?




Cameo Renae, was born in San Francisco, raised in Maui, Hawaii, and now resides with her husband and children in Las Vegas.

She’s a daydreamer, caffeine and peppermint addict, who loves to laugh, and loves to read to escape reality.
One of her greatest joys is creating fantasy worlds filled with adventure and romance and sharing it with others. It is the love of her family and amazing support of her fans that keeps her going.
One day she hopes to find her own magic wardrobe and ride away on her magical unicorn. Until then…she’ll keep writing!

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