Cursed with eyes colder than the Artic and a past he can’t escape.
His history is as tragic as a Dostoyevsky tale.
He’s been on the FBI’s radar for years but has managed to always stay a step ahead and just out of their grasp.
When I’m forced to work with him, fire ignites and things spiral out of control. Despite the desire felt from his mouthwatering body, covered in tattoos, distrust between us is deep. But unless we learn to work together and trust each other, we’re both as good as dead.
Eva Winners released her first novel Second Chance At Love in 2020 and has been writing vigorously ever since. She writes about everlasting romance for every century focusing on characters emotional development and always guarantees an HEA.
She loves yoga, wine and her kiddos. In her spare time, she seeks adventures either hiking through trails or exploring the beaches.
Writing books has always been her passion and she brings real life to the forefront in everything she writes about.
Deeply passionate characters and stories will draw you in and you’ll never want to leave.
Follow her on social media to stay up to date with all her new releases!
Title: Hitched Author: Lucy Lennox and May Archer Genre: M/M Contemporary Romance
Former Marine Percy “Champ” Champion has never encountered a problem he can’t handle. Flying bullets? Daring jungle rescues? Building Champion Security from the ground up? Making people seriously regret using his hated first name? No problem. He’s gotten the job done without a hitch each and every time.
But it turns out there are some situations Champ can’t handle alone, like:
• Going undercover as a wedding planner to retrieve some missing cartel data in time to avert an international crisis.
• Keeping his jerk of an ex from threatening his business.
• Preventing Quinn Taffet, Licking Thicket’s gorgeous, charming new wedding planner—and Champ’s fake fiancé—from getting into danger… or from getting the wrong idea about their relationship.
• Fighting the pull that lands him in Quinn’s bed night after night, despite his very best intentions.
• Stopping the pun-happy matchmakers of the Thicket from destroying the sane, well-ordered life he’s built for himself.
• And, most troubling of all, protecting his traitorous heart from all the romance in the air. In short, Champ needs an extraction plan ASAP before he finds himself well and truly… hitched.
May is an M/M author who lives in Boston. She spends her days raising three incredibly sarcastic children, finding inventive ways to drive her husband crazy, planning beach vacations, avoiding the gym, reading M/M romance, and occasionally writing it.
Inspired by her years working in corporate America, Sienna loves to serve up stories woven around confident and successful women who know what they want and how to get it, both in – and out – of the bedroom.
Her heroines are fresh, well-educated, and often find love and romance through atypical circumstances. Sienna treats her readers to enticing slices of hot romance infused with empowerment and indulgent satisfaction.
Sienna loves the life of travel and adventure. She plans to visit even the farthest corners of the world and delight in experiencing the variety of cultures along the way. When she isn’t writing or traveling, Sienna is working on her “happily ever after” with her husband and children.
For a rare moment in his life, newly promoted Det. Sergeant Michael Taylor is failing.
The same day he began supervising an all-star group of four detectives, Taylor and his partner Det. Alex Jamison, get the case of an 18-year-old young man, shot dead in a fellow classmates’ bed. The seemingly perfect victim has one problem: girls.
The case is made more challenging by the fact that the high schoolers involved are living secret lives and trying to save their own skin at every turn.
At the same time, Taylor is being emotionally destroyed by his love interest, Azlynn Matthews. In turn, he is aiming his vexation at the detectives on his team. Due to his domineering and forceful management style, the team is on the verge of breaking down. Taylor must now combat his personal failures in order to pull his team back together, prevent the woman he wants from leaving him, and catch a maddening killer.
Tiffany is the author of seven books and has been published more than a dozen times in anthologies and magazines. She is also a publisher at Rebellion LIT who works tirelessly to support other authors looking to bring their art to the world. She resides in Sacramento, CA with her family and Miniature Pinscher.
Andi Torres is B-U-R-N-E-D out. Getting called for jury duty seems like a vacation after being passed over for a promotion she desperately wanted. The outspoken boss babe wasn’t expecting Ty Sheldon to wade into her jury pool, but the sexy 911 dispatcher has his own reasons for not being excused from service.
Ty should be too self-disciplined to have impure thoughts about his friend’s sister. Pursuing Andi ought to be a no-go. Ty tried his best to ignore the attraction sizzling behind their trivia rivalry, but when their jury is sequestered during a high-profile case, will his good intentions yield to the temptation of her undeniable appeal? Or will he and Andi be able to keep their relationship strictly business?
Amelia Simone is a reader turned writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Along with caring for her young family and enjoying food and wine adventures with her husband, she spends a lot of time in the backyard gardening and reading during her free time. (If you plant enough stuff, no one notices if you accidentally kill off half.)
When the weather cooperates, you can find her on her deck sipping coffee and writing her next book. Amelia believes that everyone has a little frog in ‘em, and a little royalty too. She enjoys writing light, hopeful romance about everyday people with the banter and teasing that make life fun. When the real world gets to be too much, she moves on to the sci-fi world she created for a little paranormal relief.
As an affiliate at retail sites, I earn a small commission from qualifying purchases. See my disclosure for more details.
Three Reasons You Should Read This Science Fiction Football Novel:
The Rookie by Scott Sigler is fast-paced galactic-wide football season with far more than just human players.
Scott Sigler maintains the delicate balance between team, personal, and galactic rivalries quite brilliantly – each playing their own part in the larger story.
You don’t have to be a football expert to enjoy The Rookie! You may not be imagining every move on the field 100% correct, but that won’t take away from the overall enjoyment of the story.
Set in a lethal pro football league 700 years in the future, THE ROOKIE is a story that combines the intense gridiron action of “Any Given Sunday” with the space opera style of “Star Wars” and the criminal underworld of “The Godfather.” Aliens and humans alike play positions based on physiology, creating receivers that jump 25 feet into the air, linemen that bench-press 1,200 pounds, and linebackers that literally want to eat you. Organized crime runs every franchise, games are fixed and rival players are assassinated.
Follow the story of Quentin Barnes, a 19-year-old quarterback prodigy that has been raised all his life to hate, and kill, those aliens. Quentin must deal with his racism and learn to lead, or he’ll wind up just another stat in the column marked “killed on the field.”
The Rookie by Scott Sigler is a great mix of science fiction, mafia story, and football. And it all starts with Quentin Barnes, who plays better football than any human has a right to. When he finds himself playing for the Galactic Football League – but this isn’t football as we know it. The teams are a mix of alien races with extreme strengths and what appears to be no weaknesses. And while the story at first seems to revolve around the game of football, there’s a lot more to it. (And don’t worry if you don’t understand football – plays and tactics are explained quite well – enough detail for people unfamiliar to understand, and not so in-depth that football aficionados will be bored.)
The science-fiction aspects of the book are phenomenal. The universe is well-developed and diverse. You just have to take one look at the football teams to see a variety of alien species interacting together – although not everyone is happy about that. There are plenty of humans (and aliens) that have some serious species hang-ups, and those play into several of the underlying (and maybe overlying) plotlines that weave through the story.
So for those non-sports fans out there, we also have the mob in space. They are fixing games, placing bets, and generally causing a lot of mischief. The mob bosses are all out to get their own wins and money, and that causes some problems that lead to some interesting (if violent) solutions.
I really enjoyed this story – and it was far different than anything I have ever read before. I’m curious to see where it goes as the series continues.
Title: The Extra Myles Author: Melanie Munton Genre: Contemporary Romance
NOW HIRING… Fake boyfriend for 27-year-old desperate female. Must be able to deal with pretentious, New York City socialites. Attendance at family Christmas events required. Seasonal work only. Applicants not named Myles Colson need not apply.
The position has been filled. Granted, Myles is the only man in Blair McCauley’s life capable of looking her dragon mother in the eyes and not bursting into tears. Blair will need that steel whenever her mother helpfully reminds her over a glass of eggnog that a career is pointless when she could just marry rich. Thankfully, the barbecuing, beer swilling, football watching guy’s guy doesn’t even sort of fit in with her flashy New York lifestyle.
Which is exactly the point.
Although Myles is a lot more than a former jock with a pension for frosted mugs and Sweatpants Sundays. He also happens to be a gifted artist, and Blair is helping him carve out his space in the art world. Lucky for her, she’s the only one who gets to see the man behind the pottery wheel. Sans shirt.
But when Blair and Myles both come to the realization that they’ve just been pretending at pretending, they never see what’s coming for them next.
Every time she’s around, I get all antsy and excited for some reason. Like when my Clemson Tigers complete a sixty-three-yard pass and run it in for the touchdown to win the game.
I snicker.
Little Miss Blair here has probably never even watched a football game in her life.
The woman breezes into the back room with all the air of a European queen. And from what I’ve read, she practically is that up in NYC. Or at least, a princess. Either way, Blair McCauley is American royalty.
And I might as well be the guy who cleans horse shit out of her family’s stables.
“Are you ever going to fix that door?” she asks in the exasperated tone I recognize.
She sounds that exact same level of annoyed every time she stumbles through my studio door that, even I’ll admit is a bitch to open.
Damn, but she’s beautiful.
Like, the breathtaking kind of beautiful. The kind of woman who deserves to have a sultry theme song play every time she enters a room. My favorite is when she gets all huffy like this. Blowing her Marilyn Monroe-styled blond hair off her forehead, planting her dainty hands and manicured nails on her slim hips, and cocking said hip out. The whole move pushes out her full, rounded breasts beneath her silk top, her tight skirt stretching across those svelte legs.
Stunning she may be, but the woman is also the prissiest, most high-maintenance, spoiled city girl I’ve ever met.
Expensive.
And I don’t do that type. Sure, I’ve fantasized about having this woman beneath me—a shameful number of times—but I prefer my women to be a little more kickback. Someone who’s content to sit around with you on a Sunday afternoon in nothing but ratty sweatpants, watching football without complaint. A woman who’s okay with going out in public without makeup. Someone who doesn’t turn her nose up when I don’t wipe my mouth between each chicken wing and just wait until I’m done eating them altogether.
If Blair has never watched football, then she’s damn sure never eaten a chicken wing.
I don’t know jack shit about hair, makeup, or clothes, but I know that all of hers are top-of-the-line. The material of her blouse is high-quality. Every pair of shoes I’ve ever seen her in are high heels that you just know cost a small fortune. Her purses are all designer names I’ve at least heard of—Prada, Burberry, Dolce & Gabbana. I even caught a glimpse of one of her lace bras one day when she bent over, a move that about gave me a fucking aneurysm, and I definitely know that item was high-priced.
No. Blair McCauley definitely isn’t my type.
I could never afford her. The best I could do is a hot night between the sheets because a man’s bank account doesn’t matter then. When she saw my place in the daylight, that’s when she would surely saunter all the way back up to New York in her five-inch stiletto heels.
I lift an eyebrow. “Why do you presume I know how to fix it?”
She tilts her head to the side. “Don’t you work in a factory?”
I would be pissed off by the question if I knew she didn’t mean it condescendingly. For all of Blair’s quirks, she’s not a mean person. Perhaps a little naïve at times, but not rude.
I lean back on my stool, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes briefly flick down to my biceps before quickly averting to stare at the wall.
Now that’s something.
In all the months I’ve known this woman, in all the phone calls made and trips from New York to Charleston she’s taken, I haven’t seen much in the way of…awareness…from her. At least, not in the sexual sense. God knows I think she’s hot as hell, in the not-so-much-as-a-hair-out-of-place kind of way. But if she felt any attraction toward me whatsoever, you’d never know it.
“We don’t produce doors at a steel manufacturing plant.”
Her apple-shaped cheeks tinge pink. “I realize that. I just pegged you as a jack-of-all-trades type.”
“Because of the uniform? The dirt under the nails?”
She frowns and somehow looks cuter like that. “No. Because you don’t seem like the useless type.”
My ears perk up at something in her voice. Something almost…self-deprecating. Has someone actually told her that she’s useless?
Why does that piss me the fuck off?
She bites her lip in uncertainty, as if afraid she said something wrong. “Or maybe, you know, you can just buy a new door or something? They have those at Home Depot stores, right? I’ve personally never been inside one, but I hear they’ve got them around here.”
I chuckle because I think she’s being funny on purpose, but I can’t always tell with her. It’s almost as if she doesn’t recognize her own sense of humor and doesn’t understand why people might laugh at one of her jokes. Or sardonic quips. Either way, I aim to wipe that look of uncertainty off her face.
“No, you’re right. I can fix the door. I just haven’t had the time lately.”
Truthfully, I haven’t messed with the door because I like how it announces her entrance. And how it makes her angrily curse under her breath. And how she’s slightly out of sorts by the time she reaches me in the back room. I like seeing her hair falling across her forehead before she shoves it back into place. Like seeing the flush on her cheeks, rather than the porcelain doll look they usually have. In those brief seconds, I think I’m seeing the real Blair, rather than the polished, prim illusion she projects.
“I see.” She smooths her hands down her skirt, pushing her shoulders back. “So, how are the final pieces coming along?”
I take another swig of my beer to avoid staring at her legs in those tights that I know have that fucking seam up the back. “Firing up now. Should have them done by tomorrow afternoon.”
She excitedly starts tapping around on her phone. “Excellent. I can have them shipped up to New York before my flight back, and everything will still be on schedule for the exhibition on the twenty-ninth.”
“You don’t even want to look them over for approval before you ship them off?” I question. “You’re so sure these final pieces will be good?”
She peeks up at me through long, lowered lashes. “Not necessary. There’s no way I won’t like them.”
Scout’s honor, my dick turns to a full-blown erection at her compliment.
She actually likes my work.
Her eyes widen as her words finally sink in. “I-I mean, the others are all so fantastic, I doubt these will pale in comparison.”
If she’s trying to backtrack her apparent admiration for my work, she’s doing a piss-poor job, at least from my perspective.
And now my dick is hard as a fucking icicle.
Granted, if you stuck an icicle in my pants right now, it would melt in about two and half seconds. Even in December, it’s a scorcher down here in the South.
“Thank you,” I rasp, fighting to get all my bodily functions under control. “I hope they meet your expectations, then.”
Her eyes stay on me for silent moments, baffling me. She never holds eye contact with me for this long. It’s like she makes a point not to.
“Trust me.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “They’ll exceed them.”
Melanie grew up in the Midwest, but she loves living in the Southeast (where the beaches are!) now with her husband and daughter.
Melanie’s other passion is traveling and seeing the world. With anthropology degrees under their belts, she and her husband have made it their goal in life to see as many archaeological sites around the world as possible.
She has a horrible food addiction to pasta and candy (not together…ew). And she gets sad when her wine rack is empty. At the end of the day, she is a true romantic at heart. She loves writing the cheesy and corny of romantic comedies, and the sassy and sexy of suspense. She aims to make her readers swoon, laugh out loud, maybe sweat a little, and above all, fall in love.
Go visit Melanie’s website and sign up for her newsletter to stay updated on release dates, teasers, and other details for all of her projects!
A modern retelling of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.
Camille Kelly is in real danger of becoming an old maid—at least by Cherish, Montana, standards. She has all but given up on finding Mr. Right—until her broken laptop leads her to Aiden Peterson, a tall, dark, and handsome computer genius. Camille would never have believed her magic moment was right around the corner, but after two whirlwind weeks, she has a ring on her finger and has happily ever after in sight. However, she soon discovers Aiden is part of a daunting package deal . . .
As the eldest of seven brothers, Aiden has never had a problem living under the same roof as his rambunctious siblings. When he falls for Camille, he is confident she’ll fit right into his family’s already bursting home. He thought wrong. Aiden and Camille’s storybook romance comes to a screeching halt when she discovers her new living situation. Not willing to submit to a life mothering a bunch of grown men, Camille has only one option: she embarks on a campaign to improve her new brothers-in-law and marry them off. And what better candidates for wives than her own best friends?
No one should underestimate the influence of a woman. If Aiden Peterson had realized this a few years ago, it would’ve saved him a lot of grief in his efforts to parent his six younger brothers. Lost in his thoughts, Aiden leaned against the marble countertop in his kitchen while he waited for his dinner to finish cooking. It had been a week since he’d said goodbye at the airport to his baby brother, Grant, who had deployed to Iraq. Watching Grant hug his girlfriend, the woman who’d turned him into a well-behaved man almost overnight, had reminded Aiden of a promise he’d made ten years ago at his parents’ graveside—one he intended to keep.
The timer went off, and Aiden pulled the pan of fish sticks and fries out of the oven. He grimaced when he accidentally dropped the hot pad onto the heating element. Instantly, a corner of fabric disappeared in a small flame. He grabbed a spatula, scooped the burning hot pad onto the floor, and deftly pounded out the flames.
It didn’t bode well if thoughts of dating again had distracted him to the point of nearly burning down his house. While he loved living in a bachelor pad with his brothers, a guy could only live off frozen food for so many years before he cracked. If getting married could change this, dating might be worth it. With a sigh of disgust, he rinsed the charred hot pad under water. He let it drip dry before he opened the drawer next to the oven and threw it in.
“I saw that.” Benson drawled from the other side of the room. Aiden glanced at his brother just thirteen months younger than him, sitting in the family room just off the kitchen. He wished Benson didn’t have an inch on him in height and a broader chest. It had been so much easier to tell his brothers to mind their own business when they were smaller. “When are you going to learn how to cook?” Benson asked him.
“No need when I have you around,” Aiden said. Benson was the only one of the Peterson brothers who knew how to cook, and his meals consisted of potatoes and potatoes.
“What if I get married and leave?”
Aiden’s brow rose. It was ironic how casually Benson had brought up marriage, the topic that kept ringing in his own mind. “You have to learn how to talk to girls before you can get married.”
Benson had a lot going for him, but he was reserved and antisocial. He needed a woman to pull him out of his shell. In fact, all his brothers could benefit from the influence of a woman—a person who could bring light back into their lives, like Amy had done for Grant.
Benson picked at his teeth with a toothpick. “There isn’t a need to talk to girls. They talk enough for everyone.”
Benson’s hang-up with dating was part of the Peterson plague. They’d had to be independent and emotionally guarded for so long, but it didn’t have to be like that anymore. Once Aiden married, the pattern would cycle right down the alphabet. Next would be Benson, then the twins, Cade and Daegan, then Flynn, Easton, and Grant. In fact, Aiden didn’t see why he couldn’t get the older five married before Grant’s deployment ended in a year’s time.
No one else was home, so this was Aiden’s opening to confess his thoughts and gauge Benson’s reaction. “We can work on the talking-to-girls thing. I want you to start dating.” He had Benson’s full attention now. Aiden juggled a hot fish stick back and forth between his hands before setting it back down in the pan with resolve. “Seeing Grant and Amy together got me thinking about Mom and Dad. After the crash, I vowed I’d get us all married and settled down. More than anything, they wanted us to find happiness with our own families. It’s been ten years. It’s time.”
Anneka Walker is an award-winning author raised by a librarian and an English teacher turned judge. After being fed a steady diet of books, she decided to learn about writing. The result was a bachelor’s degree in English and history. When she isn’t dreaming up a happy ending for a story, she is busy living her own with her husband and adorable children.
Lady Jane Everard cannot abide the new Earl of Hadley. The unmannered Scot is a menace to genteel ladies everywhere, what with his booming laugh and swishing kilt and endless supply of ‘ochs’ and ‘ayes.’ Jane wishes Lord Hadley would behave as an earl should and adhere to English rules of polite conduct.
Andrew Langston, the new Earl of Hadley, knows that the English aristocracy think poorly of his lowly Scottish upbringing. This is hardly new. History is littered with the English assuming the worst about Scotland. By living up to their lowest expectations, he is simply fulfilling his civic duty as a Scotsman.
Jane sees Andrew as an unmannered eejit. Andrew considers Jane to be a haughty English lady. But, as the saying goes, . . . opposites attract.
And what if beneath his boisterous behavior and her chilly reserve, Andrew and Jane are not nearly as different as they suppose? Can Scotland and England reach a harmonious union at last?
Andrew spread his hands wide. “It’s a problem for all us Scottish men, tae be honest. Our cross tae bear.”
Lady Jane opened her mouth. Shut it. And then shook her head. “I am sure you are both quite delusional.”
“Nae, the lasses cannae help themselves,” Andrew said.
“Aye. A man strolls by in a kilt, and the lasses go all shoogly in the legs.” Kieran sagged in his chair, mimicking the motion of a lady swooning.
“That is simply ridiculous.” Lady Jane shook her head.
“’Tis the Lord’s own truth, Lady Jane.” Andrew pressed a hand over his heart.
“Aye,” Kieran chimed in. “They dinnae call a kilt the passion pleats for nothing.”
“Passion pleats?!” Peter hooted, slapping his knee.
“Dinnae mock a fine kilt, Peter. The kilt swish is no’ tae be underestimated.”
“The kilt swish?” Lady Jane’s tone dripped with scorn.
“It’s a well-known fact that the lasses appreciate watching a man’s passion pleats swish as he walks.”
“Particularly from the backside,” Kieran helpfully clarified.
“Aye, allow me to show ye.” Andrew stepped away from the table, walked to the door with extra swagger in his step, turned, and strode back to the table. His kilt swinging like a bell back and forth with every step.
He spread his hands wide. See what I mean.
She shook her head. I’m not convinced.
Andrew motioned to Kieran. He stood with a grin.
“Watch carefully,” Andrew said.
Side-by-side, he and Kieran walked to the door, shoulders back, head high. Andrew’s kilt bumped his knees as it swung. He could practically feel the intensity of Lady Jane’s eyes drilling him between the shoulder blades.
Turning around, Andrew held Lady Jane’s gaze as he walked back. She tried to maintain a demur posture, but Andrew knew she had been looking.
Rare was the woman who could resist a braw Scot in a kilt.
Lady Jane pressed her lips together, clearly not wishing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Andrew was having none of it.
He wanted Fiery Jane.
Folding his arms across his chest, he angled forward. “Now, I dinnae want to argue with ye, Lady Jane, but I have noticed ye eyeing the kilt swish a time or two. Not just tonight.”
“I have done no such thing, Lord Hadley.” Lady Jane’s brows drew down, while a hot flush crept up her neck, challenging her denial. “Precisely how much whisky have you imbibed this evening?”
“I willnae allow you tae change the subject, Lady Jane.”
“I am hardly changing the subject.” Lady Jane surged to her feet. “I am merely pointing out that you are wrong, my lord—”
“I’m no’ wrong.”
“—and furthermore, calling a kilt the passion pleats is the most absurd phrase—”
“Accurate. Ye mean the most accurate phrase.”
“I most certainly do not!” Lady Jane hurled the words at him.
As they spoke, Andrew found himself leaning toward her, fists pressed against the tabletop, his entire body angled. For her part, Lady Jane motioned widely, all pretense of decorum forgotten—gray eyes flashing, chest heaving, auburn curls framing her fine-boned face.
Fiery Jane, at last! Utterly freed and snapping with life.
She was magnificent.
It had taken nearly ten days of constant harassment, but Andrew had finally broken through her reserve.
Nichole Van is a writer, photographer, designer and generally disorganized crazy person. Though originally from Utah, she currently lives on the coast of Scotland with three similarly crazy children and one sane, very patient husband who puts up with all of them. In her free time, she enjoys long walks along the Scottish lochs and braes. She does not, however, enjoy haggis.
It’s been almost a decade since the end of the war, when the telegram first arrived at their house on Lennox Lane.
Four years since the apartment on Harker Street, where food was scarce and nights were long and their mother slept away her grief.
Three months since Janie was forced to leave her little brother, Brayden, and best friend, Leo, behind at Anthers Hall.
Two weeks since she stole a bicycle and ran away from the new children’s home on the other side of the state.
One day since she arrived in Montours City.
No one knows her secrets in this small town. If Janie is going to make it back to her brother and the only place she’s ever called home, she needs to keep it that way. But when a hard-hearted widow, a boy in a boxcar, and a dog named Panda weave their way into her life, Janie begins to wonder if what she’s searching for isn’t better off laid to rest.
The town was on fire. The four o’clock sunlight filtered through a tangle of skeletal branches, its leaves already tinged gold and red, burning the brick exteriors of the buildings so the whole world looked ablaze. It reflected off car mirrors and flecks of dust in the asphalt, paving a path of scattered light as she pedaled past houses with white-shingled siding and painted shutters and swings tied to trees in the side yards. Broken pieces of colored chalk rolled into cracks in the sidewalk, a red wagon crushed purple mums in a flower bed, and milk bottles rattled as a woman shooed away stray cats from the porch steps.
Janie turned the corner and lifted her feet from the pedals of her bicycle, allowing the tips of her tennis shoes to skim the pavement, their leather already blackened and cracked from wear. The front wheel wobbled from the decrease in speed, and she tightened her grip on the handlebars and leaned to the side before pushing off the pavement again with one foot, letting the momentum carry her further down a new street—past a man in denim overalls raking leaves and white-haired ladies sipping lukewarm tea on front porches, she herself a whisper of a vision of which no one could be certain.
She didn’t know what she expected when she turned off the main road along the river and coasted around the mountain bend. Maybe another small town like the one she’d left behind or some thoroughfare to an anonymous city. But when she paused at the green wooden sign, its words etched in scratched gold paint, she thought it would be as good a place as any to pause and sleep and see what road came next.
Color and light and sound whizzed by her as she veered down another street and followed the road until the sidewalks widened and turned to brick. Storefronts with hand-sewn awnings and faded chalkboard signs pressed against front windows boasting sales and specials. On her left, a row of tall, elegant townhomes with large oak doors filled most of the block until they, too, gave way to a beauty shop, a five-and-dime, and a small café announcing a full chicken dinner for $1.65 and a beer for a quarter.
Janie closed her eyes and raised her head, imagining she could smell roasting chicken with rosemary or thyme, perhaps, and garlic string beans, mashed potatoes on the side. Her stomach twisted, a sharp pain to the center of her gut, and she quickly steered her bicycle to the other side of the street. A small garage, its doors lowered, boasted a pile of discarded tires and a red gas pump out front. A savings bank and post office advertised postage for letters home while a small grocer stacked canned goods in the window, a drooping maroon flag above the door. There was a tailor, a drugstore, and a bakery—the last in a line of shops displaying loaves of French bread in a wicker basket, pound cakes set on lace doilies and fruit tarts placed on stands beside it.
She veered closer to the bakery, the soles of her shoes skidding along the sidewalk as she rolled to a stop and stared at the display. She could distract herself from the dinners and canned goods and produce hidden behind closed doors, but she couldn’t ignore the sight of warm butter rolls, the crumbling coffee cakes, the cinnamon raisin loaves that taunted her from behind the glass. Something burned in the pit of her stomach—something deep and raw and wailing, threatening to break through to the surface. Cream cheese fillings and honey glazes and flakey, crusted breads warped her senses. They blurred her vision and tugged her memory forward until she was back in the kitchen at Anthers Hall, unwrapping fresh loaves on the counters where they cooled before breaking off the ends to tuck in a cloth napkin and hide behind the flour canister for Leo.
Leo…
“Closed up for the night.”
Janie whirled around, her eyes darting to the few cars that sat outside the shops before wandering up and down the empty sidewalk until she spied a tall, thin man dressed in coveralls across the street. He stood on the front porch of a large, yellow stucco house, a paintbrush in his hand.
“Today’s Sunday. Nothin’ open Sundays. Everybody’s gone home for supper.” The man shook his head and turned back to the porch columns, carefully raising and lowering his hand with every pass of the paintbrush. “Y’ain’t from around here.” His voice carried across the street, though he didn’t pause from his work. “I know everyone in Montours City, and you ain’t one of them. Which can only mean one thing: you ain’t from around here.”
Susan Pogorzelski is the award-winning author of Gold in the Days of Summer and The Last Letter. When she’s not writing novels of nostalgia and the magic of everyday life, she works as a consultant and editor at Brown Beagle Books, is an intuitive energy practitioner at Susan Dawn Spiritual Connections, and is the founder of LymeBrave Foundation. She lives in South-Central Pennsylvania with her beloved family and pets.
