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To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Title: To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Series: Rossingley, Book Two

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78100

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, British, aristocracy, fashion model/celebrity, gardeners/gardening, ex-con, family drama, humorous, opposites attract, rich man/poor man, wedding

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Description

Take one shy French gardener, mix in a naughty aristocrat, add a splash of water, a dash of sunshine, and wait for love to grow. If only it were that easy. Reuben Costaud counts his blessings daily. His run-in with crime is firmly behind him. He has a wonderful job gardening on the Rossingley estate, a tiny cottage all to himself, an orphaned cat named Obélix, and a friendly bunch of workmates. The last thing he needs is a tall, blond aristocrat strolling across the manicured lawns towards him. Falling in love is not part of his plan. Viscount Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery, Freddie to his friends, is in big trouble with everyone, from his father and his modelling agency, to his controlling older boyfriend. Seeking solace and refuge, he escapes to Rossingley and his adored cousin Lucien, the sixteenth earl. To take his mind off his woes, Lucien finds him a job with the estate gardening team. Mutual attraction blossoms amongst the gardening tools, and Freddie charms his way through Reuben’s defences. But as spring turns to summer and Freddie’s London life collides with their Rossingley idyll, Reuben’s trust in him is ruptured. Will their love flourish or is it destined for the compost bin? To Catch a Fallen Leaf is a full-length MM contemporary romance, the second in the Rossingley trilogy.

Excerpt

To Catch a Fallen Leaf Fearne Hill © 2021 All Rights Reserved “Oh, baby doll, for goodness’ sake! Please, please, please. Could we ensure this be the last time I have to put up with all of your ridiculousness?” Disappointment is the inevitable result of a mismatch between expectation and reality. Vincent expects me to never get drunk, never embarrass him in public, and never, ever, ever vomit over his shoes outside a smart London restaurant. The reality, of course, is that I’m a twenty-five-year-old male model. I like booze, I like to occasionally snort coke, I say stupid things in front of people I shouldn’t, and sometimes, all of those combined, lead to unexpected chundering episodes outside smart London restaurants. So, I can’t be blamed if Vincent chooses to put his burgundy Lobb penny loafers in the path of the contents of my stomach. I am fully cognisant of the reasons Vincent endures these occasional mishaps. Being a minor member of the aristocracy helps. In addition, my father, a well-known and respected politician, is perfectly placed to further Vincent’s own eventual political ambitions. But, most importantly, Vincent is a sucker for eye-catching arm candy. I’m not the first pretty piece of fluff he’s moved into his Belgravia apartment, but I’ve stayed the longest. While I’m definitely pretty, I also have financial independence and a first-class degree from Cambridge. Thus, he finds my company tolerable. What’s in it for me is more complex. Despite occasional debauched one-night forgettables when I’m working abroad—to which Vincent turns a blind eye—I’m a sucker for a steady relationship. Unless I’m travelling for work, I prefer waking up in the same familiar bed each morning. I enjoy the finer things in life, such as sharing good food in decent restaurants and trips to the theatre with an educated partner. My adorable cousin, Lucien, believes my predilection for older men comes from a deep-seated desire to be cared for, seeing as Father left that responsibility entirely to my boarding school after Mother died. According to his theory, my monogamous tendencies are an unconscious rebellion against Father’s complete lack of fidelity towards my mother. He’s probably right on both accounts, explaining how I muster a coquettish smile as I watch forty-something Vincent, in his pristine white Y-fronts and sock garters, select a double-breasted Hawes & Curtis suit from his walk-in wardrobe. Even though the zipping of his fly and the clack of one wooden coat hanger against another is enough to make my head reel and my guts threaten a repeat performance. Rolling over in bed, I clamp a goose down pillow over my head in an attempt to shut out the morning sunlight. “Sorry about last night, Vincent,” I mumble from underneath the pillow. “I possibly overcooked things a little. The end of a busy week, I guess, and I probably didn’t eat enough dinner with my wine. I’m not sure I ate at all yesterday, now I think about it—it was a long photo shoot.” There’s a slithery sound as he selects a tie. Time stands still; I wish he’d bloody get on with it and clear off, so I can retch over the loo in peace. “Yes. Well, whatever, baby doll. I have to dash; I’m chairing a meeting of investors at nine, and I can’t have that derailed by your foolish antics.” He looms over me, all expensive sandalwood and minty freshness. In a bespoke suit, which hides the paunchy bit around his middle, Vincent is a good-looking guy. He still has a full head of dark hair; any flecks of grey only serve to accentuate his air of suave sophistication. Despite himself, he smiles as he pecks my cheek. “You are going to be the death of me, young man,” he murmurs. “Try to stay out of trouble. Drink plenty of fluids and take an aspirin. You can make it up to me tonight.” I recall that it’s Tuesday and manage to stifle my groan at least until the front door slams. Oh joy. Deep, deep joy. To say we have a regimented sex life would be affording the military a degree of precision they can only dream of emulating. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, at the stroke of twenty-two hundred hours, Vincent switches on the BBC News and swallows down 50 mg of Viagra with a small glass of San Pellegrino (one cube of ice). He doesn’t know that I know about the Viagra. The gravitas of the opening theme tune is my cue to go and “freshen up, baby doll,” which is Vincent doublespeak for reacquainting my arse with the nozzle of the shower hose. I am then expected to drape myself seductively across our enormous bed in the master suite, with a fresh towel under me, and await his presence. I used to like my sex spontaneous and messy. I still do. Because, occasionally, smelly, sweaty, imprecise, surprising, and even disappointing sex can unexpectedly turn into joyous, forgiving, funny, and tender sex. Not loving sex. I haven’t experienced that yet, although I remain optimistic. I’ll take all of the above over predictable any day. And—not to put too fine a point on it—I quite like topping. Turn and turnabout is okay if the mood takes me, but really? Always bottoming? Not so much. Some guys love it; for some of my friends it’s a race to the bottom, but I’m prepared to share the love around. Unfortunately, Vincent’s arse only opens once a day, around 6:45 a.m., as part of his shit, shower, shave routine. After that, it’s locked tight as an oyster shell, whereas I’m expected to roll over and take it, and take it, and bloody take it. I usually manage to reach orgasm (ejaculating carefully onto the towel, naturally), but only because I’m young, horny, and excellent at conjuring up visions of myself ploughing into some raven-haired, faceless beauty, while Vincent happily labours above me. The thing is, I could put up with being called baby doll. I could put up with the bad sex. I could even put up with being told what to wear and when to wear it. But there is one thing that really sticks in my craw: My boyfriend’s close friendship with my father. Around once a month, they share lunch at my father’s club, when I imagine, along with plotting world domination and very visible, showy acts of philanthropy, they enumerate my varied shortcomings, sighing wistfully at each other: “If only Aloysius could… If only he would…” etcetera, etcetera. (My real name is Aloysius; thank God, my second name is Frederick.) And then, after a manly handshake, they part ways; my father returns to pontificating in the House of Commons, and Vincent returns to whatever he does in that enormous office of his in Mayfair.

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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 anesthesiologist.

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Escape

Title: Escape

Series: Crossing Nuwa, Book One

Author: Sean Ian O’Meidhir, Connal Braginsky

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 62900

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, bears, shifters, alpha male, magic users, mage, virgin, action, technology

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Description

Rare male weresnake Robbie has had his whole life decided for him down to his meals. But when the time comes for him to perform an unspeakable duty to his clan, he runs. San Francisco Pride is in full swing when technomage Theo spots a scared-looking young man with brilliant emerald eyes. He’s only looking for a hookup, but before he knows why, he’s taking Robbie home and introducing him to champagne and enchiladas. He doesn’t have any intention of falling in love. Robbie doesn’t want to return to his clan, at least not without trying to fit a lifetime of experiences into a week, but every day he stays puts Theo in more danger. One week of freedom leads to sexual awakening and adventure… but they’re going to need all their wits and Theo’s magic to fight for their future.

Excerpt

Escape Connal Braginsky and Sean Ian O’Meidhir © 2021 All Rights Reserved Breathe. Just breathe. Well past midnight, I sat on the edge of my bed—fully dressed. If I do this and they catch me, they might kill me. But… How can I not? I can’t stay. I can’t do what they want… Every time I thought about it, my stomach began to churn, and I felt light-headed. What other options were there? “Come on,” I whispered, then laughed. Talking to myself? That’s what this had come to? I stood on wobbly knees and opened my large walk-in closet. Over the last month I had been stowing things I would need in a backpack I hadn’t used since I was thirteen. An extra pair of pants, four shirts, seven pairs of underwear, seven pairs of socks, three half-full deodorants (having convinced Mrs. Matlock, our housekeeper, that I go through them quickly), and two half-tubes of toothpaste earned with the same deception that caused spikes of guilt when I thought about it. No one had noticed these things slowly going missing, or if they had, they didn’t say anything. I stared at the backpack for a ridiculous amount of time. This is a bad idea. They’re going to kill me… I snatched the backpack before I could think about anything else, rushed to the bathroom where I grabbed my electric razor and toothbrush and shoved them in. I slipped my e-reader from the bedside table into the front of my pack and surveyed the room. My room since I was born. My prison… Of what few things were there, I could see no reason to take anything else. Opening the door slowly, I peeked out into the darkened hall. Shifting my eyes to my serpent’s, I double-checked the hall and sighed with relief that there were no heat signatures that would suggest anyone lurking. Except me. I was the only one who stayed in my wing unless there were guests, so the bath and two other bedrooms in the wing were usually empty. What was I going to say if they found me? I rolled my eyes at myself. What could I say? “Yes, Mother, just out for an evening run. Oh, the backpack? Well, you know how smelly I can get, thought I’d bring a change of clothes, or seven.” I snorted at the absurdity of the situation, and then at the fact that I had been hovering in my doorway for over a minute. A little voice in my head started the mantra, “Just go, go, go.” I nodded and hurried out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and paused. The house was silent. Of course it was; no one was awake at this hour. Food. What was I going to do for food? Good thinking… I tiptoed around the corner and through the formal dining room, which led into the kitchen. Ms. Matlock retired to her cottage at 9:00 p.m. sharp every night. She did not return to the main house until 6:00 a.m. every morning, and Mother and Aunt Edna never came into the kitchen. Except after midnight when there’s someone rummaging around in there, I chastised myself and worked harder to be quiet. I held my breath and listened again. Nothing. I grabbed three pieces of fruit from the large bowl at the end of the counter. If I take more, they’ll notice. Heck, they’ll notice I’m gone at 7:00 a.m. when I’m not down here for breakfast, so what will it matter if they notice more fruit is gone? I groaned and stuffed four more apples into my bag. The rest of the food in the house wasn’t prepared into meals, and I didn’t know how to cook. The thought came to mind of trying to teach myself how to cook one of Mrs. Matlock’s meat loaves so I could take it with me. But the smell would probably carry, and how long did it take to cook a meat loaf? What about salad? I could probably put together a salad… But how would I carry it? I was stalling. This was stalling. I shook my head and hurried back through the dining room toward the front door and stopped. Mother’s purse. She stored it in the entryway cupboard, but today it was sitting on the counter. I stopped breathing. Taking small gasps of air, I stood still. She was behind me. I could feel her. Her eyes boring into the back of my skull. Her breath tickling my ear. I whipped around to find the hall empty and shuddered with relief. A visceral thing. Gasping for breath, I bent over and rested my hands on my knees. I’m going to vomit. Deep breath. In through the nose.

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Meet the Author

Connal Braginsky is a software engineer who lives in San Diego, California. Diagnosed with high functioning autism, Connal sometimes struggles in social situations, but has an inner world that is always incredibly rich. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge about many esoteric things, Connal brings a lot of personal philosophies and interests to writing. Sean Ian O’Meidhir is a psychologist who lives in San Francisco, California. Sean is a hedonist who believes in living for today, living every day to the fullest, and enjoying as much as possible. They have been gaming since adolescence and have written about and played hundreds of lives, revelling in the chance to take on new personalities, dramas, even disorders.

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Bookends

Title: Bookends

Series: University Square, Book Three

Author: Brenda Murphy

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 64600

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Contemporary, romance, BDSM, interracial, plumber, blue-collar, autistic child, mother/daughter relationship

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Description

The life of university librarian, Amari Foster, life is neatly cataloged. Work, home, and securing a future for her daughter are her focus. Hard-edged and handsome, she manages her private life with ruthless precision, cutting ties, and maintaining distance to protect her battered heart. Plumber Thalia Makris has given up her dream of long-term love after a series of bad relationships. Desperate to have her own business, Thalia fills her days working overtime and her nights with fantasy novels. After a chance encounter leaves both women wanting more than a one-night stand, they find themselves on the precipice of love. Will they take the plunge?

Excerpt

Bookends Brenda Murphy © 2021 All Rights Reserved “Mama, why do you wear this?” Brianna perched on the end of the bed and turned the scratched dull gold wedding band in her hands. Amari adjusted her tie, tugging the knot in her bow tie into shape in the mirror. “Because it reminds me of your mommy.” She watched her daughter’s expression in the glass. “It makes you sad.” Brianna held the ring up between her fingers and looked through it. Amari turned to her daughter and held out her hand. “Sometimes.” Brianna deposited the ring in her mother’s palm. “You should flush it.” “What?” Amari pushed the ring over her knuckle before she slid her vest on. “That’s what we did in my class when the fish died. I wasn’t as sad when I couldn’t see it anymore.” Her gaze settled on Amari. “If you didn’t see it, maybe you wouldn’t be so sad.” Amari buttoned her vest from the bottom and held her daughter’s gaze. “I’m not sad.” Brianna frowned. “You said to always tell the truth.” “I am. And yes, sometimes it makes me sad. But other times it reminds me that your mommy and I were very much in love.” Amari lifted her suit coat from its hanger and folded it over her arm. She tilted her head at her daughter. “I don’t remember her.” Brianna drew her hand over the comforter, tracing the pattern of the design with her fingers. Amari swallowed on the dry ache in her throat and shifted her gaze to her shoes. “We need to go soon. We don’t want to come in after the bride.” Brianna slid off the bed and spun in a slow circle. “Does my dress sparkle? Like Poppy in Trolls World Tour?” Amari held the door open and nodded toward the hall. “It does.” Brianna walked ahead of Amari. “Do you think they’ll have the spring rolls Ms. Mai makes?” “I don’t know. I’m sure there’ll be something you want to eat at the reception.” Amari followed her daughter down the stairs to the living room. “Don’t you look sharp. And, Brianna, you look so pretty in your new dress. Come here, let me fix your hair.” Cora Foster’s voice, filled with love, washed over Amari and pushed back her melancholy. Brianna took a half step toward her grandmother and stopped. “I like it this way.” She squatted and rubbed her hand over their dog’s back. Lucy, their ever-patient Newfoundland, lifted her head and snuffled Brianna’s hand. Amari lifted her chin at her mother. “Mom, please, let her be. She’s settled and we don’t have time for a meltdown.” Cora pressed her mouth together in a thin line. “Fine.” Amari plucked her keys from the hook by the door. “We won’t be late.” Cora patted her lap. Lucy ambled over and rested her head on Cora’s knee. “We’ll be here.” She picked up the remote. “I’ve got a date with a Witcher.” She waggled her eyebrows. Amari snort-laughed. “All right, Mom.” Brianna crossed the floor, stopped short of her grandmother. She bent from the waist and leaned forward. “Hug?” Cora scooted forward and pressed her forehead to Brianna’s brow. “Have fun. Bring Grandma a spring roll if they have them.” “Okay.” Brianna straightened and walked to the door. Cora’s gaze settled on Amari’s face. “You going to be okay?” Amari looked away from her mother’s eyes. Her gaze settled on the faded photo of her wedding day on the wall behind the television. “Aren’t I always?” Cora pursed her lips. “If you say so.” Brianna shifted from one foot to the other by the door as she pulled her sweater on. “Mama, come on. The spring rolls will be gone.”

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Meet the Author

Brenda Murphy (she/her) writes erotic romance. Her most recent novel, Double Six, is the 2020 Golden Crown Literary Society winner for Erotic Novels, and Knotted Legacy, the third book in the Rowan House series, made the 2018 The Lesbian Review’s Top 100 Vacation Reads list. You can catch her musings on writing, books, and living with wicked ADHD on her blog Writing While Distracted. She loves sideshows and tattoos and yes, those are her monkeys. When she is not loitering at her local library, she wrangles twins, one dog, and an unrepentant parrot I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. For a free short story, information on book signings, appearances, work in progress snippets, previews and sneak-peeks, sign up for my email list.

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Arbor’s Descent

Title: Arbor’s Descent

Series: The Witches of Arbor, Book Two

Author: J.L. Brown

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female/Male (Female/Female interaction)

Length: 83900

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, fantasy, urban fantasy, paranormal, bisexual, polyamory, witches, dark, magic, fae, druid, naiad

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Description

The burning of Arbor, and the hate that fueled it, stole much from Evangeline Clarion, but the fiery artist and powerful elemental witch survived the flames of fanaticism and opened the art gallery of her dreams with the help of her familiar and coven. As Eva wades into life as the director of the Manor Arts and high priestess of the Witches of Arbor coven, her conflicted heart struggles to choose between two loves—the dashing mercurial Alexander and the alluring ethereal beauty Celeste. When Arbor’s affable new mayor hires an architecture firm run by a dangerously stunning mother-daughter duo with their own unique magic and an old score to settle to oversee the downtown’s reconstruction, chaos descends upon the vulnerable community, and the Witches of Arbor are once again called upon to protect those who spurn them. Yet jealousy, vengeance, and an unforeseen foe with a ravenous hunger for power brings Eva to her knees. With the aid of her familiar, coven, a few unexpected allies, and the magic within her, Eva must reconcile her heart and summon the power to rise again.

Excerpt

Arbor’s Descent J.L. Brown © 2021 All Rights Reserved SAMHAIN Most women would have felt like a queen. All the trappings were there–the castle on a hill, the regal gown, the morbid curiosity of the general populace. Not to mention the dashing gentleman of the castle wrapped around one arm, and my ethereal companion curled around the other. But I wasn’t “most women,” and I was no queen. I was a witch, a witch who had triumphed despite my Arbor neighbors’ best efforts to kill me. They said we were evil. They tried to burn me. They killed my friends. But I survived. And though I grieved for those who did not, I refused to defile their memories by enacting revenge, however tempting. Because I’m not evil, despite the prevailing notion in Arbor. A little wicked, possibly. Naughty, most definitely. But not evil. Instead of seeking vengeance, my coven and I chose a more diplomatic path and invited the residents of Arbor to the Samhain grand opening of the Manor Arts, our new gallery within Morgan Manor. This magnificent walled estate sat high atop Red Hill and overlooked the once bucolic village. I’d taken up residence due to my late nights in the gallery and the manor’s inordinate number of empty bedrooms. And of course, proximity to the master of the house. The estate belonged to Alexander Morgan, the man—the witch—whose fury and anguish had leveled half of downtown. Not that his involvement in the fire was common knowledge. The newspapers attributed the burning of Arbor to a severe summer lightning storm. They weren’t wrong. Ignorant of Alexander’s guilt, and relentlessly nosy, the people of Arbor accepted our invitation. My small-town neighbors arrived in jewels and formalwear, costumes and masks, on the most magical of nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the spirits of the dead laced the breeze. The very people who tried to stop me from opening a gallery in their town, joined the avant-garde and the elite of the arts community to celebrate the Manor Arts grand opening. They gathered for an event hosted by a witch they’d strapped to an elder tree pyre and set aflame only four months before. The witch who lived through it. The witch who saved them from Alexander’s magical retribution. Our newly enshrined coven, the Witches of Arbor, orchestrated every nuance of the evening to evoke wonder and trepidation. We had the perfect backdrop. The manor’s rough, gray stone battlements and turrets and bell tower loomed haunted and menacing. Torch-light and jack-o’-lanterns, carved with ancient Samhain symbols, cast the shadows of those assembled across the sprawling lawn. No matter where the eye landed, it fell upon the frightening, the seductive, the wildly unique. An army of black-clad servers, each with raven hair and candy apple lips, wove through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Jugglers with ghoulishly painted faces launched onyx orbs and flaming swords into the air. A buxom steampunk illusionist levitated six inches from the ground, beckoning the curious and brave to witness her other-worldly feats. Tattooed and pierced contortionists twisted themselves into impossible positions. A lone violinist conjured an eerily enthralling melody; her instrument tuned in nature’s pristine pitch. Like the pied piper, she lured our awed visitors through the manor’s gaping entrance. With nervous steps, they shuffled toward the alabaster hearth blazing beyond the iron doors. Many of our guests, particularly the artists and their ilk, appreciated our theatrical welcome. It was Halloween, after all. But the Arbor residents were terrified. Their anxious hearts beat against their chests as if they were passing through the gates of hell itself. Their dread swelled like static on my skin, and despite my repudiations of evil, I reveled in their fear. The entire town would have burnt if I hadn’t stepped in. Calling down the rain hadn’t been enough to extinguish Alexander’s flames. I drew water from the fucking Ausable River to put out the fire. These lemmings would have been scorched to the earth if I hadn’t summoned the water. I saved them, even after they tried to kill me. Even after they stoned Celeste and burned Adelaide. They should fall to their knees, thank me for sparing them, and beg my forgiveness! A strong, calming hand settled on my shoulder and halted my mental rant. I gazed up into dark eyes veiled by cascading chestnut waves. Clad in an impeccably cut tuxedo, Alexander towered over my left side, a mischievous twinge of humor playing on his lips. He leaned down close to my ear. “You’re right, streghetta mia—high priestess. The Arbor mundane should bow before you. You saved them from me, and in the process, you saved me from myself. I, too, bow before you. Evangeline Clarion, you are my queen.” He winked before bending deeply at the waist. Celeste, my elegant companion entwined around my right arm, snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Don’t tease me.” I pinched Alexander’s arm. Hard. “And stay out of my head, you ass. If I want you to know something, I’ll tell you myself.” I glared up at him. “I’ll tell you this,” I continued indignantly. “I wouldn’t want to be a queen. Being a queen isn’t any better than being a witch. We both have power and can influence matters great and small. Sure, queens bask in riches, but witches have ways of obtaining wealth too, and we aren’t bound to conform to society’s stringent rules. We’re free.” Celeste gave my arm an encouraging squeeze. “Queens get beheaded, but witches get burned,” Alexander countered, his jaw clenched tight. “Only the naughty ones.” A memory of the wise and brazen Adelaide Good, my late high priestess and mentor, passed through my mind. “And thanks to the Goddess, I don’t have to worry about their fire. While I may not be evil, I am the wickedest witch in town.” Celeste clapped her hand over her mouth to check her mirth. “Like you said, Alexander, she is the high priestess.” Ignoring Celeste, Alexander lifted himself up to his full height, pulled back his shoulders, and glowered down at me. “You’re not getting too big for those tiny britches, are you, Your Highness?” He couldn’t fully hide the smile that threatened his stern face. “Look who’s talking, Zeus,” I needled. “Or is it Hades?” “You’re hilarious, Persephone.” He teased me with his words, but there was nothing playful in the look he gave me as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. “But are you sure you’re okay? I know crowds make you anxious. It’s understandable, especially after…” He averted his eyes. “You mean, especially after a mob of my neighbors cheered for my death and set me and Adelaide on fire?” I snorted. “Yeh, I’m ok.” Alexander growled low in his throat and ran his thumb along my cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you ever again.” “Oh, please.” I waved the notion aside. “If you don’t let anything happen, nothing will ever happen. And that is fucking boring.” “I think I heard that in Finding Dory,” Celeste noted dryly. “I’m just saying I can cover for you if you want to duck out. Hell, I’ll shut the whole thing down. Say the word.” I shook my head with an indulgent smile and sighed. “Alexander, I’m fine. Great, actually.” I raised my hand and ran it along his stubbled jaw. I locked my eyes with his. “This is the biggest night of my life. This is all I’ve ever wanted, and it’s more spectacular than anything I ever imagined. I worked my ass off for this. We all have. And I’m glad Arbor is here to see it. I want them to know they didn’t stop me. I have no intention of hiding.” “Damn right.” Celeste nodded emphatically. “Then I’ll be right here to make sure you’re safe.” Alexander dropped a kiss on my head, then turned his attention to the festivities and their looming dangers. He still hadn’t learned. He didn’t have to be my great protector. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want it. What do I want? I asked myself the question for the millionth time. I turned instinctively to the other-worldly vision curled at my right side, the evening’s Mistress of Ceremonies, Celeste Galehorn.

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Meet the Author

I’ve always been a lover of words – reading them, writing them, singing them. And I’m known as a talker – especially about politics, usually at an abnormally loud volume. I was the kid who always got into trouble for staying up too late to read, and that habit has followed me into adulthood. Edgar Allen Poe, Anne Rice, J.K. Rowling, and Jane Austen are my greatest literary influences. Family is important to me, and I cherish the large Italian Catholic family that raised me. I’ve been married over 18 years. I’m a momma of two incredible boys. I have a small home in New Jersey, and enjoy listening to my husband’s music, camping, kayaking, and getting lost in the woods. I’m a coffee and wine drinker, and I believe chocolate can cure most ills.

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Dead Cat, Run by Annabelle Lewis

Dead Cat, Run
Annabelle Lewis
Publication date: February 21st 2021
Genres: Adult, Mystery, Thriller

Youre where youre meant to be. Run, if you can.

High school senior Jenny Gallaghers psychic abilities have made life in her small New England town rocky. Her premonitions and déjà vu have given her a reputation, one shes not happy with. Tragedy is about to strike, however, and oddly, this time, she doesnt see it coming. Is her gift betraying her?

Not far from Jenny, Wellesley Professor Maximus Dyer also has a gift—a painful and useless one. His ability to see the past has brought him insight into history, but otherwise, hes never known what to make of it. The psychic shocks he receives through his unprotected hands have made any genuine human relationships beyond his grasp. Then someone who doesnt trigger a vision enters his life—a dog?

Sidrah Keeling runs determinedly optimistic throughout her life, trying hard not to ask the big questions about why. Her foresight, her ability to see glimpses of the future in her dreams, often drives her to follow a path she doesnt understand. Alert and listening, with the guardrails of security shes erected in place, shes forced again to follow her dreams. This time to a man. Who is he?

Lurking deep in his sensory deprivation tank, Turner Black sees it all. Born out of the great chaos of time, he once again feels the forces of good gathering to move against him. Not in this life. This time, his darkness will reign supreme. The hunt for his antithesis will begin again now. He cant wait to feel his opponent in destiny bleed.

A fast-paced contemporary mystery thriller with a supernatural hierarchy, Dead Cat, Run will keep you up all night, glued to your seat.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Max humped his way through the Wellesley College campus center, yanking his backpack onto his shoulder when it began to slide. Hungry—no, scratch that, ravenous—he snarled in frustration that he couldnt jump in line at the pizza stand and grab a slice. Hed need to wait until he got home. He frowned, remembering he had no ready food there either. As he rounded past the heavenly smells from the greasy Chinese buffet, someone called his name, and he slowed.

Professor Dyer,” a girl said.

Inwardly, he rolled his eyes but stopped, forcing a look of tolerance onto his face. He didnt recognize the student, but then, he usually didnt. It was better to avoid eye contact with the nubile freshmen. Many young girls throughout his career had presumed there was something other than scholarly interest lurking there. He tried everything he could to discourage them.

Now, though, forced to a standstill in their territory, he could have almost predicted what would happen next. Once he stopped, not one, but several young, eager smiling faces peered up at him with their batting lashes and flirty looks. It was exhausting.

What is it?” he practically barked.

Oh, sorry,” the one whod spoken said.

Office hours are posted online,” he said roughly. Regrettably, he only saw looming interest and blushing cheeks. The heat rising around the group was practically tangible. He had to get out of there. He began walking away, but out of guilt, he turned his head back. Make an appointment. Ill speak to you then.”

Did he hear giggles? For Gods sake. Dont look back again. He wondered for the thousandth time if working at a womens liberal arts college was a bad idea.

He cleared the union without further intrusions and got out into the street. He put his head down as he walked across campus, then grabbed a beanie out of his coat pocket and shoved it on. No need to bother with the gloves. He wouldnt be touching anyone.

Looking forward to getting home, he rounded the corner of a busy street near his parking lot and ran into a group of men in suits. His backpack fell to the ground, which caused some of his items to spill out. He cursed softly as one of the men knelt to help him retrieve his gear. But then, out of nowhere, a large reddish dog shot between them, grabbed a pair of his gloves, and took off.

Hey!” Max stood and then ran after the dog. Not more than a few long strides later, the game of chase stopped. He stared with horror as the dog ran into the street, mindless of the oncoming traffic.

No!” He threw up his hand and yelled. His heart in his mouth, he watched in slow motion as a car slammed into the dog. He dropped his pack on the sidewalk, ran into the street, and screamed at the traffic. Everywhere cars came to a screeching halt.

His pulse raced, tears choking him as he reached the dog, hesitating only a second before he laid his hands—uncovered—without thinking, onto the soft fur. The gloves the dog had been carrying lay near her front leg, which was bent at an odd angle. Blood, too, was coming from somewhere.

My God,” Max cried. His hands, his uncovered hands, ran down the dogs body—without receiving a vision. Marveling at the empty sensation, he gently touched the dogs face. The beautiful beast looked at him and released a small, pitiful whimper. She licked Maxs hand softly and closed her eyes.

Max closed his eyes, and momentarily dropped his head back with the wonder of the moment before he regained his senses and began to scream at the driver, who had been hovering nearby. He gently stroked the dog, cooing to her with tender words. Where are her tags? Where had she come from?

The only answer he had was that no one nearby came running to claim her for their own. From that moment on, Max took charge, yelling instructions. Hed see that the dog got help. Nothing in the world was more important.

Author Bio:

Annabelle Lewis—a pseudonym for the author—lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Regrettably? Perhaps. She still believes shes a Texan even though the math no longer supports that. Nor her birthplace. Nor her residence. No offense, Minnesota. Youve got your good points too, but only about six months of the year.

In her youth, Annabelle was a complete failure. Ask anyone who knew her. Any of her teachers and family would tell you this. High school graduation was a sad day for all when Annabelle walked proudly off the high school stage, her thoughts consumed with boys, beer, and after-parties, and later into the arms of her parents. Her fathers laughter and singular remark? I didnt think youd make it. Get a job at the post office, they have a good retirement plan.”

A high bar and words to live by, but Annabelle wanted more. She needed to flunk out of college too. But damn, she sure did have a good time. Trivial arrest records not-withstanding, it was a growth period for our girl. And if you look closely, youll see a bit of what was to come when she majored in criminal justice. Her lifelong aspiration was to become a judge. Hmm.

For better or worse, Annabelle didnt graduate from college but did find gainful employment and a fulfilling career. This path ended when she became a mom. Married to her wonderful George, who to this day can hardly remember an actual proposal, Annabelle finally became a mother. She didnt have a clue how hard she would need to work to keep those self-imposed requirements of Downey-fresh, iron-pressed sheets, home-baked meals, and mom-of-the-year awards arriving. She composed a small self-affirmation song and made her children sing it to her for money. She was a very good mom.

After clearing the largest hurdles of motherhood and regrettably, begrudgingly, and not-without-tears, launching her children onto the world, she looked around and realized she had a lot to say. Picking up a laptop, she got to work.

Annabelle spends her days continuing to tackle the challenges of motherhood, for both her humans and canines. She also writes. And reads. And cleans. And cooks. And bakes. And cleans again. She also supports her husband, George, in an administrative capacity for their small business. Shes in charge of payroll and cuts Georges checks. This leads to no marital acrimony.

In the beginning, with the blank page staring at her and possibly in a hostile mood after being literally mauled by a dog and by the world in general, she had an idea. What if she could wield a force of good upon unsuspecting evil-doers? What if she had the resources to get the job done without dealing with committee and anyone elses whiney-ass opinions?

It was gold. It took off. Annabelle sat down and began to write and couldnt stop. To date, having written over a million words in the Carrows Family Chronicles and her second series on the Boston Clairvoyants, several items have become quite clear. Annabelle had a lot to say. Annabelle really enjoys writing. And although she hates all things technology, she begrudgingly pounds her head on her desk daily as obstacles are thrown in her path. Almost a hero.

Since entering her world of make-believe, she has rebelled against all intrusion of real-world responsibilities. Her house is a mess, but she tries. Her family is fed, but more often than not, on takeout. She vows to shower every day, but no, its a vow shell never keep. Her friends are neglected, but not in her heart.

Read her mordacious blog! Read her books! Follow her on social platforms! Sign up for her newsletter! These are all good things. What are you waiting for? Jump into bed with Annabelle. Shes having a swell time. You should join her.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram


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Ultraxenopia by M.A. Phipps

Ultraxenopia
M.A. Phipps
(Project W.A.R., #1)
Publication date: December 1st 2020
Genres: Dystopian, Young Adult

Betrayed by Family. Tortured by the Enemy. Destined to Destroy the World.

Wynter Reeves lives by three rules: Dont stand out. Blend in. Remain invisible. In a world where individuality is dangerous, being forgettable keeps her alive.

Until she begins showing signs of a rare disease, drawing the unwanted attention of the States sinister research facility, the DSD. Apprehended against her will for testing, Wynter becomes the subject of the mysterious Dr. Richter, who is determined to make sense of her condition.

However, Dr. Richters intentions are less than noble, and after months of horrifying experimentation, Wynter jumps at the chance to escape her captors. But freedom isnt what she expected, and as her symptoms worsen, she must make a choice. One that will determine not only her future…

But the fate of the world.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play

EXCERPT:

When I open my eyes, the exam room is gone.

I turn around in my seat. The pain that consumed me before has diminished, but its replaced by fear, confusion, and disbelief, which all attack me at once, overpowering the part of my brain that might actually be able to comprehend whats happening.

Is this a dream? A hallucination?

My legs quake as I push to my feet, my fingers clutching at the chair to hold me to the one real thing in this delusion. The air is thick with dust, but through the impairing fog, I recognize my surroundings. I glimpse the familiar sight of the Heart in the details crumbling around me. But there are no people crowding the streets. No lights. No sign of life at all. Theres only me, standing here all alone, as the world I once knew succumbs to destruction.

Panic boils beneath my skin, squeezing my lungs in a vise grip. My eyes close on instinct, but some unseen power wrenches them open again, forcing me to watch every second of this nightmare. To see what I can only assume must be the end of the world.

In the blink of an eye, the destruction explodes in a torrent of flame, devouring everything. A blinding flash burns across my vision, but when it clears, the desolate landscape is nowhere to be seen.

Did I just imagine that?

Sweat suctions the thin fabric of my clothes to my body, and I wince away from the horrible screaming that it takes me a moment to realize is coming from me. I clamp my mouth shut to silence my building distress and tighten my grasp on the chair. Wisps of darkness dance in front of my eyes, and as they fade, Im both relieved and terrified to find myself back in the exam room.

My chest constricts as I glance around at the other Examinees, every last one wearing the same wide-eyed expression. Despite the silence, I know what theyre thinking. Those words from the news broadcast earlier vibrate through my head like the pitchy whine of a bad frequency.

Enemy of the State, their faces all say to me.


Author Bio:

M. A. PHIPPS is an American author who resides near the ocean in picturesque Cornwall with her husband, daughter, and their Jack Russell, Milo. A lover of the written word, it has always been her dream to become a published author, and it is her hope to expand into multiple genres of fiction.

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Release Blitz

The Fallen

   

The Fallen

Book 4 in The Broderick Series

by Charlotte E Hart & Rachel De Lune

#BroderickSeries #TheFallen #NewSeries #HartDeLune

 

 

BUY THE FALLEN NOW: https://mybook.to/TheFallenHDL

 

Blurb

Vicious, unforgiving, and chasing me.

Maybe I deserve to be hunted for what I’ve done, but I got myself into this and I intend to find my way out. I have a target to hunt, and wrongs to right as best I can. But it doesn’t take me long to realise I’m out of my depth, and that perhaps an ally is what I need.

Noah Locke isn’t someone who’ll do you a favour, certainly not when he’s been sent to catch me, so that means a deal needs to be struck.

And there’s only one thing he wants that I can provide.

It was never meant to be anything more than a means to an end. I’m soft. He’s hard. I’m Neve Broderick. He’s nothing more than a criminal.

We’re from different worlds, and yet time might prove we’re more similar than I could ever imagine.

Especially when he risks everything to save me.

 

Meet the Broderick siblings in this brand new, thrilling Romantic Suspense series.

Four books – four drama laden love stories.

Families are complicated, especially when they’re built on scandals, secrets and lies.

BOOK 1: THE MUSE https://mybook.to/TheMuse

BOOK2: THE LAWYER https://mybook.to/TheLawyer

BOOK 3: THE WRITER https://mybook.to/TheWriter

BOOK 4: THE FALLEN: https://mybook.to/TheFallenHDL

Meet The Authors

Charlotte E. Hart

Charlotte is a Dark Erotic Suspense/Romance author living in the heart of the Shropshire countryside in Great Britain. She’s lived all over the UK, but finally settled in a small town that still reeks of old school England. Writing and poetry have become a revolution for the soul, and she cherishes every second that she’s sitting at the laptop tapping her way into a new character.

“Life is a torrent of differences, different needs and wants, and it doesn’t always end that well. Yet we strive …”

Most of Charlotte’s work is bdsm based and intended for mature audiences only.

Find Charlotte on Social Media!

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Rachel De Lune

Rachel writes emotionally driven contemporary romance.

She began scribbling her stories in the pages of a notebook several years ago and still can’t resist putting pen to real paper. What ifs are turned into heartfelt stories of love where there will always be a HEA.

Rachel lives in the South West of England and if she’s not writing HEAs, she’s probably reading them. She is a wife and has a beautiful daughter.

Find Rachel on Social Media!

https://linktr.ee/RachelDeLune

 
Book Blitz

You’re So Vain by Whitney Dineen

Youre So Vain: A Royal Haters to Lovers Romance
Whitney Dineen
Publication date: September 12th 2021
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance

Family drama is something Lutéce Choate struggles to avoid. With a mother whos an award-winning country western song writer, an aunt whos a Country Music Hall of Famer, and a brother whos a rock star, it hasnt exactly been a low-key kind of life, and shes ready for a break.

Then Lus younger sister, Claire, goes off and gets engaged to a prince from Malquar, bringing the dreaded spotlight back to shine on their family once again. Lu wants to go to the engagement party about as much as she wants to yodel the Star Spangled Banner at the Grand Ole Opry with her crazy relatives. Alas, not going, doesnt appear to be an option.

Alistair George Henry Bere Hale is not the heir, but the spare. Without the weight of the Crown in his future, hes managed to live the carefree life of a man about town. That is until his younger brother gets engaged before him and their mother starts pressuring him to settle down.

Alistair represents everything that Lutéce has come to despise–hes a rich, playboy, partier, whos always in the spotlight… But Alistair doesnt feel the same about Lu. In fact, hes quite drawn to his brothers future sister-in-law, prickles and all.

When Lu and Alistairs mothers witness the sparks between their children, they start to make plans of their own. Will Lu relax her prejudices long enough to get to know Alistair?

Find out in the fabulously funny fourth book in the Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Series.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Slipping my phone into my purse, I give myself one last look in the entryway mirror. Bens profile says hes five-ten, which I know means five-eight. As Im five-ten, Im wearing flats so as not to make him uncomfortable.

While driving over Laurel Canyon Boulevard to meet my date at Chows—the latest West Side hotspot—I think about how online dating is really performed in code. Men lie about their height, their weight, and their net worth. Women lie about their age, their desire to start a family (men dont want to hear the word baby” come up until theyve been married for five years), and how many boyfriends theyve had.

Men want a young woman with minimal baggage and no obvious desire to procreate. Women want a guy who isnt always looking for a better option. I almost turn my car around in the next driveway.

Instead, I flip on the sound system to distract myself from thoughts of bailing on tonight. My favorite Spotify playlist blasts vintage Enya through the speakers, causing my throat to fill with so much emotion I feel like Ive just swallowed a bowling ball.

I love Enya and her ethereal melodies about memories from past lives where she was a princess and love spanned multiple incarnations. Thank God for playlists. Ive already burned through five Shepherd Moons CDs.

By the time I pull up to the valet at Chows, Im full-on bawling—damn these hormone shots! Oh, Enya, I long for the love you sing of! I cant have always been the social pariah I am in this lifetime. Someone had to have loved me somewhere down the line.

Maam, Im going to need you to step out of the car.” Am I being arrested?

I look up and am jolted back to the present by a surfer-looking dude in a valet uniform. With a sigh worthy of a Disney Princess, I put my car in park and get out. Then I take my ticket and make my way to the front door.

Weaving through what can only be described as a throng of fashionable people—the extremes Angelinos will go to be seen at the latest, hippest, coolest place is legendary—I finally make my way inside and up to the hostesses stand. Hi there, Im meeting Benedict Solomon.”

The Baywatch babe wannabe looks up from her reservation book and excitedly declares, Are you Bennies mom?” Im either totally delusional about how old I look, or this girl is a cow.

His grandmother, actually,” I tell her with a smirk. Then I raise my left eyebrow with my most intense Im-gonna-shiv-you-in-a-dark-alley-if-you-dont-take-me-to-my-date-right-now look. She takes the hint and leads the way.

Bennie is waiting at a table by the window. From a distance, he looks a lot younger than his JDate profile pic. A lot younger. Like twelve.

The hostess says, Bennie, your grandmother is here. Remember, order whatever you want, and Jocko will comp the bill.”

Staring at my date, I announce, I think theres been a mistake.”

Author Bio:

USA Today Bestselling author Whitney Dineen is a rock star in her own head. While delusional about her singing abilities, theres been a plethora of validation that shes a fairly decent author (AMAZING!!!). After winning many writing awards and selling nearly a kabillion books (math may not be her forte, either), shes decided to let the voices in her head say whatever they want (sorry, Mom). She also won a fourth-place ribbon in a fifth-grade swim meet in backstroke. So, theres that.

Whitney loves to play with her kids (a.k.a. dazzle them with her amazing flossing abilities), bake stuff, eat stuff, and write books for people who “get” her. She thinks french fries are the perfect food and Mrs. Roper is her spirit animal.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram


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Pre Order

Rebel of Fire

 


Vigilant, Book 3

YA, Urban Fantasy

Date Published: 10-08-2021

Publisher: Phenomenal One Press



Who knew that taking a job at a High School Newspaper would weave Rei into an underground news operation? She’d stupidly sacrificed her family and was blackmailed into becoming a member of a Vigilant operation to save the unsuspecting human population in what most thought was Newport, RI. Rei was no longer living in ignorance, but knowledge came with a price. Love wasn’t an emotion she could give into when the ransom of her family’s life was at stake. Asher was sent to help her, but she felt he was sent to ensure she paid the debt owed in order to save her family. Rei didn’t relish being held hostage by Megan and her puppets or being thrust into interfering with a war instigated by magical beings, and their fight to control humanity. Rei had no idea how she could create a diversion that would save her, destroy an unimaginable evil, and teach her to love – again. Read other books in the Vigilant series: Insatiable Darkness, Caged Fire, Unbreakable Darkness, Scepter of Fire, Break the Darkness.




About The Author

L.M. Preston, a native of Washington, DC. An avid reader, she loved to create poetry and short-stories as a young girl. She is an author, an engineer, a professor, a mother and a wife. Her passion for writing and helping others to see their potential through her stories and encouragement has been her life’s greatest adventures.She loves to write while on the porch watching her kids play or when she is traveling, which is another passion that encouraged her writing.


Contact Links

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Purchase Link

Amazon



 

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