Marcella gave Maddox the impossible choice, and he chose her.
Still, she wonders if Maddox is ready to commit to a relationship, or if he’s scared of losing the uninhibited freedom his biker lifestyle offered him.
All his life Maddox knew who his enemies were, but suddenly he’s at a loss whom to trust. Will he ever find a place in Marcella’s life and family, or will old companions give him a new home and purpose?
Can enemies ever truly become lovers if the odds are against them?
Cora Reilly is the author of the Born in Blood Mafia Series, The Camorra Chronicles and many other books, most of them featuring dangerously sexy bad boys. Before she found her passion in romance books, she was a traditionally published author of young adult literature.
Cora lives in Germany with a cute but crazy Bearded Collie, as well as the cute but crazy man at her side. When she doesn’t spend her days dreaming up sexy books, she plans her next travel adventure or cooks too spicy dishes from all over the world.
Despite her law degree, Cora prefers to talk books to laws any day.
“Then one of them is, ‘Would you mind it very much if we talked about Kellan for a few minutes?’”
“Ha. Ha,” she deadpanned, but I wasn’t laughing. “Go. Away.”
The grunting behind me intensified. I never took the subway, and now I remembered why. Other than the fact that it smelled like a public toilet, BO, and clinical depression, it was also a hostile environment.
“Not until you give me some answers after the bomb you dropped in my office yesterday.”
A guy in a hoodie tapped my shoulder. “Hey, can you hit on this fine ass standing on the right side of the escalator like a goddamn New Yorker? People are trying to pass through.”
I shifted to the right side, two steps below Miss Richards. Which reminded me…
“What’s your name, anyway?”
My nose was level with her head. She smelled like sugar cookies and cypress. Maybe even coconut. More importantly—not like stale piss.
“None of your business.”
“Cute name. Artsy parents?”
“Dead parents,” she gritted out. “You’re bothering me.”
I told myself her parents were not really dead, so I could keep pestering her with a clear conscience. “Give me what I want, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Her head snapped in my direction, her dramatic eyebrows pinched together in anger. “Kellan was right.”
It hit like a bullet to the gut, but I smiled through the pain. Cocky and unaffected and everything I was known for. The aloof, charming ob-gyn with the bronze heart.
She stormed to the platform. I tailed her. My patience, already a rare commodity, evaporated. Her train arrived, and Miss Richards stepped in. I did the same. I had no idea where we were headed. Hopefully Hell, so I could have the home-field advantage.
I realized on the train that, excluding the month after Kellan’s death, I hadn’t done anything out of character or off my schedule for at least a decade. Yet, I took the seat next to her. She tugged a stack of papers from her leather briefcase. A manuscript. She uncapped a yellow highlighter with her teeth and struck a line on the page in her lap.
“If I were you, I would cooperate,” I said through a tight-lipped smile, aware of the fact that people were watching us. Getting arrested for harassment would be the kiss of death to my career. Living without answers, however, seemed like a bigger punishment.
She flipped a page in the manuscript, forcing me to switch to the not-so-nice method. Clearly, I should have gone that route the minute I’d found her. There were not a lot of opportunities to salvage a relationship that began with you staring into a woman’s eyes while coming deep inside another.
“I guess you leave me no choice but to tell your boss you flung my door open yesterday, caught me having sex, and decided to make yourself comfortable and watch.” I took out my phone and began texting Reagan Rothschild.
Miss Richards snapped her head up in horror. “Wait.”
Bingo.
My thumbs kept flying across my iPhone. She should have knocked on my door as soon as I’d lost him. No one had come to talk to me and Terry, other than Principal Brooks and a couple of guilt-ridden teachers who’d hardly even remembered anything significant about my brother.
Kellan had died, and not one of his peers came to offer their condolences.
She slapped her hand over my phone. I dragged my eyes up to meet hers. She averted her gaze.
Guilty.
“Where can we talk?” I demanded.
She flinched. I wanted to shake the answers out of her. I didn’t even know why I cared so much. Finding out what made him do this wouldn’t bring him back. A part of me just wanted to punish her for not offering her condolences.
Her forehead crumpled. “About Kellan?”
“No, about your fabulous beret. Your fashion choices charm me.” I bared my teeth like a beast. “Of course, it’s about Kellan.” The way she stared at me, with enough hatred to freeze the sun, made me want to laugh in her face.
She thought I cared about her opinion of me. She thought I cared, period. I’d stopped caring the day he died. Threw myself into my work, not bothering to build a life outside of it.
“Well?” I popped an eyebrow.
“Fine. But not today.”
“Why not?”
“I have plans.”
What could be more important than Kellan?
“Elaborate.”
She tipped her chin up. “I don’t want to.”
I fished my phone out and resumed my text to Reagan. Miss Richards slapped it away. It fell in my lap, and the lock screen image—of Kellan hiding behind a book, grinning—flashed. I flipped the phone on its screen. She sucked in a breath.
She saw.
“I’m taking my sister to the dermatologist,” she answered, more softly. Which didn’t make sense. Most dermatologists in my building closed by five. Six, at the latest. But I didn’t press on account of the fact that I didn’t want to give her any reason to change her mind.
“Then when?”
“Tomorrow. There’s a little café right across from my office—”
“I know the place,” I shot out. “Time?”
I noticed her right leg was jumpy, rocking up and down. A nervous tick.
“Six.”
“Now let’s start over. Do you have a name, Miss Richards?”
“Charlotte. My name is Charlotte.” She licked her lips. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but we both know that’s not the case.”
I got up and off the train without looking back at Charlotte.
“Wait,” she called. “Shouldn’t we exchange numbers or something?” I could practically hear her blush. Rather than turning around, I exited the doors as I answered her. “No. I don’t want anything to do with you after tomorrow.”
Parker S. Huntington is a USA Today bestselling author from Orange County, California. She has a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside and a Master’s in Liberal Arts in Literature and Creative Writing from Harvard University.
When Niamh Macdonald’s world crumbles, her roots call her home.
A feel-good holiday romance set in the Scottish Highlands at Christmas.
When artist Niamh Macdonald uncovers her boyfriend’s affair, she leaves her job and city life behind and flees home to the sleepy hamlet of Arden in the Scottish Highlands. Having inherited her late grandmother’s cottage, she vows to make a fresh start and pursue her dream of a career as an artist.
Love is the furthest thing on her mind until she bumps into her old friend, Alex Mackenzie, heir to Arden Castle. Sparks fly between the pair but swiftly wane when Alex inadvertently scuppers Niamh’s business plans. Niamh retreats to consider her options.
Can she make her home in Arden and can she ever forgive Alex?
Niamh was glad of the wellies she’d dragged on before embarking on this trek, camera in hand, but had skimped on the socks, and the icy chill seeped easily through the single woollen pair she wore, freezing her toes. She wondered if this was a bad idea, a woman alone in the wilderness. She tugged the red thermal beanie hat down over her ears and zipped her padded jacket up to the neck. An uneasy vibe surfaced in her gut, but she swallowed and pushed on through the snow-covered ground. The rough track wound around the bottom of the hillside, with an idyllic view of the loch to the east. The blue sky barely held a wisp of cloud and the snow sparkled beneath the sunlight.
She was on a quest, having recently spotted a herd of red deer in the area. A magnificent stag. If she could get a few photographs of him, she’d be happy. She ploughed on, her breath a silver vapour curling like a ribbon in the crisp air. A cluster of fir trees dressed in a sprinkling of snow cloaked the hillside. The perfect winter wonderland. How she’d missed all of this, suddenly realising she never wished to leave it behind.
She stopped crunching through the snow and listened. Niamh left the track and ventured into the forest, searching for deer tracks. A shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by a dog’s bark. A deep woof from up ahead, and a chocolate Labrador trotted through the pine trees, and there, close behind, sauntered Alex, dressed in black jeans, green wellies, a black padded jacket, and a black woollen beanie. Niamh froze for a second, hoping he hadn’t seen her, quickly realising how futile that was seeing as he was now heading towards her. Great! It was, of course, his forest up ahead, so it was perfectly reasonable that he should walk through it. It seemed as if some invisible force insisted on throwing the two of them together, sometimes. The mysteries of the great universe, she mused.
‘Hey, Niamh. Out for a stroll?’ He cast that lop-sided grin of his, a dimple springing into his left cheek.
Heart racing, she smiled, held up the DSLR camera. ‘I’m hoping to spot the deer. I want some pictures.’ He was most forgiving, considering her recent rudeness, giving him the brush off.
He nodded. ‘Ah, you’ll not be finding them down here during the day. They’re all up on the tops.’ He signalled with his hand further along the lane, where dense forests lay on either side, with sprawling steep banks. ‘But if you like, I can take you to the hide after dark and you might get lucky.’
‘The hide?’
‘Yes, did I not say before? We have one on the estate, on the other side of this forest here. Felix said he spotted the stag the other day, so we know they’re about.’
Niamh had no wish to be a bother. Besides, she felt a little awkward around him now. She tugged the navy woollen scarf further up over her chin.
The dog started trotting away, and Alex called him to heel, and he double-backed, tongue lolling, tail wagging double-quick. ‘I’ll let you get on. Bye.’ Niamh walked on past him, leaving him open-mouthed.
‘Watch the track up ahead by the forest entrance. There’s a wee drop on one side, which is hard to see because of the snow. You wouldn’t want to slide down the embankment,’ he called after her.
Niamh put her hand up to gesture she’d heard but pressed on. She didn’t need guidance or his help. She was perfectly fine on her own. Indeed, she was. This was her life, and she’d resigned herself to being single. It was easier that way. So why then did she seem so empty inside? She dismissed the question as she trudged up the slight incline from the lane that led into the forest. She wondered if she ought to bother at all, given that it was Alex’s land, but the idea of bagging herself a great shot of that stag spurred her onward. As she glanced to her left, she saw the drop he’d mentioned. She strode deeper in through tall pines and listened. No bird song, nothing at all. Not even the snap of a twig, only the muffled trudge of her footsteps crunching through the snow. She glanced behind her, saw her tracks, a wave of relief. Niamh pushed on a little further. She looked ahead to the slight incline of an embankment that rose with the trees, peaking at a ridge. Perhaps if she made it to that point, she’d have a good view of the area. There might be something over that ridge. As she cut through the trees, her legs plunged deeper into the snow with each step.
Suzy Henderson is the author of The Beauty Shop, Madame Fiocca, and SPITFIRE, novels which are set during the turbulent times of World War Two.
Her debut novel, The Beauty Shop, was awarded the B.R.A.G. Medallion. It is based on the true story of pioneering plastic surgeon, Sir Archibald McIndoe, and the Guinea Pig Club – an exclusive club for RAF pilots and airmen who required plastic surgery as a result of their war injuries and were under the care of this enigmatic New Zealander.
Madame Fiocca is also based on a true story. This gripping adventure follows the tempestuous life of SOE heroine, Nancy Wake before and during the Second World War.
Suzy lives with her family on the edge of the Lake District, where she can be found rambling around lakes, country lanes or roaming the fells. Armed with a pen, a love of reading and a growing obsession with military and aviation history, she is often lost in the 1940s, writing historical fiction.
Hiding poignant heartbreak behind garish clothing and outlandish fashion, Eva hopes to never marry. Oscar is happy to never propose, but the two of them find a casual friendship growing into a strength of feeling that challenges even the most deeply rooted stubborn intentions or fears.
When her presence is requested at a house party of a distant relative, she does what any outlandish woman who has stopped caring about her reputation would do: She invites Oscar to go with her.
Oscar is ready to live on his own, but he needs the means to do so. When Edward has stretched his last ounce of patience, Oscar decides to spend as much time from home as possible. In that moment, he receives an invitation from his most outlandish and garish friend inviting him to attend a house party.
Enjoy a sweet regency romance full of charm and lovely holiday traditions. The other books in An Easton Family Christmas include:
Snow and Mistletoe
A Christmas Kiss
Wishing on a Christmas Star
Can also be found as a Vella story told in episodes called, A Regency Christmas Snow.
Evaline carefully wrapped a black band around her arm. “Remy, could you help me tie it tight enough that it will stay?”
“Certainly, my lady.” Her loyal lady’s maid cinched it and applied a pin at the back for good measure.
“Excellent. Mother deserves longer than the small three hundred and sixty five days of mourning no matter what Father or Aunt say.”
“Yes, my lady.” Remy seemed to have sympathy. It was so difficult to tell what went through the woman’s mind. But Eva chose to interpret her most uttered three words, “yes, my lady,” with whichever emotion Eva desired to hear at the moment, and that is precisely why she and Remy got on so well.
The rest of her clothing flowed around her in anything but mourning colors. Mother forgive her, but she must forge ahead. Her gown of bright canary yellow would glow even in the darker lighting of Almack’s. Her hair was tall and wrapped in a turban adorned with a full array of peacock feathers. Her gloves were a bright purple. Her slippers green. She applied rouge, enough that people would know she’d done it, and though she hoped to take further steps outside of acceptable fashion in the future, her current dress seemed garish enough for her first party out of mourning.
She determined never to ever attract another man again.
An award winning author, including the GOLD in Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards and LDSPMA Praiseworthy’s top award for Romance, Jen Geigle Johnson has more stories circulating in her brain than can possibly be told. She discovered her passion for England while kayaking on the Thames near London as a young teenager. History is her main jam. Her literary heroes include the greats: Jane Austen and Charles Dickens. But she has modern sensibilities as well. Six children and an inspiring husband keep her going and make certain she doesn’t stay glued to a keyboard or lost in obscure fascinating details of old castles. She once greeted an ancient turtle under the water by grabbing her fin. She waterskis like a boss and hits the powder, falling down steep moguls with grace. During a study break date in college, she sat on top of a jeep’s roll bars up in the mountains and fell in love with the man who would become her everything. Now, she loves to share bits of history that might otherwise be forgotten. Whether in Regency England, the French Revolution, or Colonial America, her romance novels are much like life is supposed to be: full of adventure.
Knives Out meets One of Us is Lying with a hint of the Inheritance Games. Like the original whodunnit, Clue, this suspenseful mystery also has three possible endings explaining what could have happened.
They all have secrets. They all have motives. They all tell lies.
Every year, at a prestigious boarding school, Professor Groff hosts the Midnight Masquerade. But this year, before the festivities, he’s discovered dead in his office. Yet six students still receive invitations. The same six students who’re questioned about his murder.
The show must go on. At the Masquerade, two additional students claim to know the truth. The lights go out and when they come back on, one of them is dead. Anyone could’ve been at fault.
Francisca blind in one eye and deadly on the rugby field. Toshi a number ninja and the campus punching bag. Taz who struggles with anxiety and lingers in the shadows. Fish the golden boy hiding wounds and not only in his heart. Caroline the heiress and the image of perfection. Gorgeous George the resident Greek God with nothing to lose.
The six receive anonymous notes, making them question themselves and the assumptions they’ve made about each other. Brought back together, they must prove their innocence before the all-school meeting the next morning, otherwise, they risk humiliation if their secrets are exposed exposed—and worse, if they’re found guilty.
It’s a long night of theft, danger, and threats by a secret society that shows Professor Groff was right during his final lecture.
Deirdre Riordan Hall is the author of the contemporary young adult bestsellers Sugar and Pearl as well as the High School Murder Mystery series. She’s in an ongoing pursuit of words, waves, and wonder. Her love language involves a basket of chips, salsa, and guacamole, preferably when shared with her family.
Title: Glory Unbound Author: Deborah L. King Genre: Contemporary Women’s Fiction
N THIS SECOND BOOK of the series, Glory Bishop has finally broken free of her mother’s oppressive grasp and is offered a new life by a seemingly altruistic Chicago socialite, but there may be more than good intentions at play. Against the advice of trusted friends and family, Glory chooses the protection of Malcom Porter, her adoring, much older, bad-boy-turned-minister fiancé.
Thrust into a gilded world of wealth, society and privilege, Glory struggles to overcome the guilt of loving her new life. The whirlwind of 1980s designer clothing, penthouse views, and first-class travel is a far cry from her former existence.
With this new reality, comes unexpected complications and temptations. As she struggles to remain true to herself and her fiancé, Glory wonders if she will ever truly feel at home in this new world. Follow Glory Bishop in her continuing search for freedom and independence, as she once again strives to be her own savior.
Each step she took, she prayed the cuts and welts wouldn’t start bleeding again. Fighting against the biting winds of the frigid February night, with her bracelets jingling softly, Glory tried to pick up her pace, but the moist bandages on her legs rubbed against her long skirt and loosened. Her head ached from that fall against the metal bed frame, and the gauze covering the gash was barely enough to staunch the blood flow. The purging shouldn’t have been a surprise. She must have been possessed by demons to say the things she’d said to her mother. Did demons of doubt make me question God’s will?
“What if God sent somebody else for me?”
Did demons of disrespect loosen my tongue and cause me to speak against Malcolm?
“Mama, he’s too old for me! I’m only seventeen! I don’t wanna marry him!”
Did demons of worldliness make me forget my place, make me ungrateful, make me argue?
“Why can’t I be normal? I hate this!”
Pulling her collar tighter, Glory walked the two blocks up Seventy-Fifth Street to the store with the pay phone. She had no idea who she’d call. She wished she could call her friends Tressa and Christy, but having no phone at home, she hadn’t bothered to learn their numbers. She could call the salon, but her boss and best friend, Herschel, was not likely to be there on a Monday night, and what would she tell him? He’d want her to go to the hospital, but that was out of the question. And what would I tell a doctor? They might lock her up if she said she was injured in a demon purge. Glory shivered. The small movement sent lightning bolts through her aching head and caused her undershirt to rub against the open wounds on her back that she hadn’t been able to reach. That old extension cord, cracked and jagged in places, had scraped across her skin, raising welts and opening cuts, digging into the flesh on her left side, arm, and leg and on her back. Her mother wielded the weapon, shouting prayers to bind Glory’s demons, and Glory sobbed and screamed for Jesus and begged for mercy. And when she could scream and cry no more, when she had no energy left to fight, when the pain was so much that she could no longer feel it, Glory drifted off to sleep while her mother pressed a pillow over her face to see if God would take her this time.
Deborah King has been a writer and storyteller her whole life. She published her first short story when she was seven years old. When she’s not writing, Deborah enjoys cartoons, cooking, photography, and Star Trek. Born and raised in Chicago, Deborah has managed to achieve all of her childhood dreams and still lives in the area with her husband and two youngest children. According to her daughter, she has “literally aced her life!”
When Riley Madigan moves to the sleepy mountain town of Miracle Creek, she hopes her new job as a high school art teacher will help her mend her recently broken heart. A little peace and quiet would be a gift this Christmas season. The last thing on her mind is love.
Former firefighter Mark Rivers has spent the last year recovering from burns sustained during a rescue operation. He’s been trying to piece his life back together but still struggles both emotionally and psychologically. When he meets Riley, he finally sees something that might bring some light back into his life.
When Mark asks Riley to work on a special nativity project, he finds himself falling for her quirky, unaffected ways. Riley doesn’t seem bothered by his scars, but is her affection for him real, or is this just another act of charity? One thing’s for certain, in a small town that views Mark as a fragile hero, it’s hard to pursue a relationship without everyone in his business. And although Riley has sincere feelings for Mark, is she ready to risk her heart?
Broken hearts and lives are mended as the town of Miracle Creek comes together to celebrate a Christmas to remember.
Ten Behind-the-scenes Peeks at Creating Miracle Creek Christmas
1) Miracle Creek is a fictional town based on the factual town of Cashmere, Washington and its nearby Icicle Creek and Icicle Creek Bridge. Check it out!
2) I was in bed for most of the duration of writing Miracle Creek Christmas, through two back surgeries leapfrogged by two shoulder surgeries over a 3-year span. So although I live within two hours of Wenatchee Valley, I couldn’t visit to research it myself for some details. Fortunately, I’ve visited the area multiple times since I was a little girl, and I had a couple of friends who live there that I reached out to. And I used Google Maps a lot. And Miracle Creek was born!
3) The Aplets & Cotlets fruit candy factory is a landmark in Cashmere, and the scene where Riley and Mark consider taking the factory tour was edited out. The factory is now closed due to COVID-era economics. 🙁
4) I began writing Miracle Creek Christmas after the 2015 wildfires that raged across Washington State, spreading firefighters so thinly, fighters from neighboring states were called on to help. The Chelan Complex Fire was an actual event, though Mark and Jay’s experience with the boys was fictional.
5) Riley is named after my beautiful niece, Riley Anglesey, who is a freshman this year at BYU.
6) Miracle Creek Christmas was originally titled, “Hold on Forever” after the song by Rob Thomas, who I adore. The song so perfectly expresses the way Riley and Mark come to feel about each other–“Lay down all your troubles end to end, they could reach up to the stars. So many roads, you don’t know where you’ve been, but you still know who you are . . . Just fall apart if you need to. I’m here and I won’t leave you now. Don’t look down. Hold on forever…” Such a great song for these two.
7) I fashioned Cal Rivers after the iconic Mr. Paul Newman. I had so much fun writing the scenes between Mark and his dad! The sass from those boys!
8) The alpine town of Leavenworth is indeed one of my favorite places to visit and the depiction was no exaggeration! I love every painted mural, lederhosen, oom-pah band, bratwurst, and felt cap. And don’t forget the bollen!
9) The character of Gus was fashioned after one of my husband’s best friends. Everyone needs a Gus.
10) Thirty years ago, my husband and I were given an antique Gustav Stickley Craftsman-style rocking chair as a wedding present. And a star was born. I have rocked all my babies in it. Rock on.
BONUS) For several weeks I volunteered to pick up a sweet woman I barely knew from her dialysis appointment because her husband would often travel for work. Her name is Carmen, and she’s become very dear to me. Sometimes authors take a few bits and pieces from people we know or observe to create a new character–like Gus and Cal. But with Carmen, I wrote Carmen. She is her. And I couldn’t even change her name. She is a wonder and an inspiration to me. And fortunately, she was overjoyed and humbled to play a part in this story! A few months before Miracle Creek Christmas was released, Carmen received a successful kidney transplant and no longer has to endure dialysis! She remains a dear angel in my life.
Award-winning author Krista Jensen works and plays in the Pacific Northwest with her little black dog and anyone else who wants to tag along. When she’s not exploring the outdoors, she can likely be found with her laptop, a pretty spiral notebook and Pilot Precise V7, writing about love, triumph, and really great kisses.
Either that or she’s switching laundry wondering who keeps wearing all these clothes.
(It’s her.)
For book info and other good things, follow Krista on Instagram @kristajensenbooks.
I’ve just placed a tray of my favorite go-to cookies in the oven when the alarm on the metal staircase outside my building is tripped.
Screw this day.
I don’t get visitors. Ever. And I’m too old to believe a fat man in a red coat is coming to see me with gifts aplenty today. Whoever isoutside is probably not friendly.
And definitely not wanted.
I lift the purple hat that serves as the lid on my oversized Dopey the Dwarf cookie jar and remove my gun before moving to check the security monitors set up in the second bedroom of my apartment.
What the heck is Sam Beneventi doing here, and why is he knocking on my door?
When I don’t answer the door fast enough for him, he knocks again.
Louder this time and with more force than necessary.
With a shake of my head, I call out, “Hold your damn horses,” and take my time. Once I get to the door, I leave the chain in place, and crack it partially open. A cold burst of wind whips through the opening, and I wrap my favorite comfy sweater tighter around myself. “Why are you here?”
“Well, hello to you too, Snow White.” Sam attempts to reach through the cracked opening and release the chain, but I smack him away. “Let me in, Snow.”
“My name is not Snow White, Beneventi.” I push on the door, trying to shut it when he blocks me with a foot in the opening. “Move it or lose it.”
Sam’s foot stays firmly planted between the door and the jam. “Open the door. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
My eyes trail from his feet to his face. “I’d let you in if you’d move your foot, genius. I can’t unlatch the chain unless the door’s closed.”
Sam huffs out a sound of annoyance in a puff of cold air before pulling his foot back.
Of course, I take the opportunity to slam the door in his face, and for a hot second, I contemplate not reopening it. This door is reinforced steel. You’re not breaking it down with Italian leather boots on your feet.
But I decide to be a big girl instead, and after I put my gun in the waistband of my jeans under my sweatshirt, I let the mafia prince in.
Suddenly I’m feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood opening the door for the big bad wolf.
Or maybe just the idiot who opened Pandora’s box.
Either way, this feels like a bad move at the end of a bad day.
The timer goes off in the kitchen as Sam walks through my door, looking around and taking it all in. From a stranger’s perspective, my apartment probably doesn’t look like much. It’s small and above a bakery. But I own the bakery and the building, allowing me the privacy I needed and the ability to modify it however I wanted.
No questions asked. No nosey neighbors.
It’s my safe space. I can breathe here.
Until Sam walked through my door. His enormous presence sucks all the oxygen from the room, taking up all the space and leaving me crowded where I’m usually lonely.
“What is that incredible smell?” The look of hunger on his face tells me he may eat me if I don’t feed him a cookie immediately.
Maybe he is the big bad wolf disguised as a tall, dark, and annoyingly handsome hitman.
You’d think I’d be afraid right now.
You’d be wrong.
Stupidly, I’m intrigued. George would be so disappointed.
I pull the hot tray of gooey chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and place them on the stove top to cool before turning back to Bash’s brother. “Why are you here, Sam? You don’t know me, and today’s events don’t change that.”
I amend my earlier statement.
This exquisite man smiles at me, and I realize there’s no maybe about it. He is the big bad wolf. And a lesser woman would have given anything to be his Little Red Riding Hood for the night. But I need to get him out of here.
“You’re a prickly little princess, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. Prickly what?” I level him with a glare. “Listen to me carefully. I’m no princess. So whatever fantasy you’re rocking on that chiseled jaw of yours has got to go.” His smile grows obnoxiously wide.
Oh no. “That panty-melting smile isn’t working on me. Not even a tiny singe. So put it away and sit down.” I point to the saucer-sized chocolate chip cookies. “You have to wait for them to cool a little. So talk. Tell me what you’re doing in my apartment on Christmas night, instead of at the hospital with Bash and Belle.”
I may not be at all interested in getting involved with any man, let alone this one, but I certainly can appreciate how scorchingly hot he is. Movie star hot. I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt a real attraction to a man, so being attracted to Sam is irritating the hell out of me. Which means instead of allowing him to study my face after that little tirade, I move across the room and grab a spatula from the drawer to take the cookies off the tray.
I may call myself a coward as I turn away, but at least I’m a coward whose emotions won’t be on display.
“Panty-melting smile, huh?” Plump lips pull back, framing bright white, perfectly straight teeth. A strong jaw and the most beautifully blue eyes I’ve ever seen that are framed by long black lashes are topped off by a head of gorgeous thick brown hair. I mean seriously . . . it’s just not fair.
“Shut up.” I push the plate of cookies in front of him. “Do you want some milk with them?”
Sam looks around my apartment again, then raises his hands. “Hold on. Time-out. Why are you feeding me cookies and milk? And how the fuck did you have time to bake anything?”
I pour us two glasses of milk and pass one to Sam before leaning against the counter and picking up a cookie. “I’m a pastry chef, Sam. It takes me less than five minutes to mix a half batch of cookies and eleven minutes to cook them. Not a biggie.”
I watch that mouth bite into the cookie and hold my breath until he moans.
Actually moans. “Oh my God. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Not gonna lie. That reaction never gets old. “Thank you. Now would you like to tell me why you’re here?”
Cobalt blue eyes look up at me, assessing. “I think you know why I’m here, Amelia.”
“I really don’t.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “I’ve spent the last few hours at the police station, and I’ve already answered enough questions meant to throw me off my guard to last me a lifetime. I told them everything I knew. So, if you have something to ask, ask it.” I steel my spine and cross my arms, ready to be pissed off. To throw him out of my apartment, and go the hell to bed, ending an unusually awful Christmas. But an image of Belle flashes in front of me, and I soften. “Wait. Before you ask me anything, how are Belle and Bash? Are they both okay? I mean, the cops at the station said they were fine, but I still should have asked you that as soon as you barged in here.”
Sam dunks his cookie in his glass of milk, and I resist the urge to gag.
Why do people do that?
It ruins a perfectly perfect cookie.
And leaves cookie bits in an otherwise perfectly good glass of milk.
I am not a fan of cookie floaties.
Why would anyone want to drink chunky milk?
“Sebastian is fine. A few stitches. A few pain meds. He’ll have a great story to go with a good scar to use to get himself laid. Ballerina is still in the hospital, but she’s going to be fine. The babies are fine. You should call her. She was asking about you earlier.”
I give him a curt nod, appreciative of his answer, but still annoyed by his presence. “Thank you. Now what do you want?”
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” he mumbles around a mouth full of cookie.
I scrunch my face up, disgusted. “Seriously? Chew before you speak next time.”
Sam makes a big show of chewing, and exaggeratedly swallowing. “Don’t deflect, Amelia.” Another dunk.
“I’m not deflecting, Samuel. I’m refusing to answer your question when you haven’t answered mine.” I pull the plate of cookies out of reach as punishment.
“Sebastian asked me to check on you. He wanted to know that you’re alright. He was worried.”
Huh. Of all the things he could have said, that was not what I was expecting. And it makes me strangely uneasy. “I’m fine. You did your good deed. Now it’s time for you to go.”
“Not how this is gonna work, Snow White. I answered yours, now you answer mine. Where did you learn to shoot like that?” His long arm reaches forward as his fingers pull the plate back to within an easy reach. “And don’t tell me it’s a long story ’cause I’ve got all night.” A chocolate morsel falls from his lips as he asks, “Got any more milk?”
I spin around, annoyed, and grab the jug of milk from the fridge. “A good friend of my mother’s taught me. He was a big believer in being able to protect yourself. I own the shop downstairs and sometimes have big bank deposits on me. I carry my gun everywhere I go.” I’ve learned out of necessity that the best way to lie is to cover it in a truth. A partial truth never feels as bad leaving my lips as an all-out lie.
I top off his glass of milk and slam the fridge door. “Happy?”
Sam sips the milk as he eyes me over the glass. “Okay, listen. I’m tired and not in the mood to beat around the bush. It’s been a long fucking day. So how about you tell me the real story, Anastasia?” My gun is out of my waistband and trained on Sam before he takes his next breath.
Bella Matthews is a Jersey girl at heart. She is married to her very own Alpha Male and raising three little ones. You can typically find her running from one sporting event to another. When she is home, she is usually hiding in her home office with the only other female in her house, her rescue dog Tinker Bell by her side. She likes to write swoon-worthy heroes and sassy, smart heroines with a healthy dose of laughter thrown in.
Disagreeing from the first time they meet, Noah and Niko know exactly how to push each other’s buttons while they fight the intense pull between them. But when they’re forced to work together, they might realise that their connection runs deeper than frustration and lust.
Niko is driven and ambitious, even when it’s misconceived as cold and measured. Her latest project is her great-grandmother’s nature organisation. Niko is determined to see it thrive again and hopefully understand herself and her broken family better in the process. Getting a handle on her inconvenient feelings is a must too.
Noah has made a promise to set things right and honour his eccentric grandfather’s hard work. Even when that means taking on an active role in a small nature organisation, while hiding his true identity. He is busy enough as it is with university, work, and late nights of writing. Still, he can’t help but care about the organisation. Or the fierce woman who always seems to make his life harder.
Only Sometimes is a new adult frenemies to lovers romance set in Copenhagen, Denmark (with a getaway to a gorgeous Swedish forest). It’s book three in the Without Filter Series, but it can be read as a complete standalone. Only Sometimes is a steamy slow-burn romance, and it contains spicier content than the previous two books in the series.
When he returns a moment later, he wastes no time pulling me close again. He smiles shyly and says, “I also made dessert if you want some. I made tiramisu.”
“Darn it, Noah, you sure know the way to a girl’s heart.” The words are out before I can stop them, but my usual ability to shrug off embarrassment and appear unaffected is broken around him. Instead, my eyes are wide, and I’m at a loss for words.
Noah grins, delighted, and I flick his chest. I’m cranky because I said something that could be misunderstood, especially since it’s not a lie… Noah cooking dinner, remembering my love for dessert, opening up to me… fucking me with so much passion and care. I just can’t help but feel affected. If I’m not supposed to run away from vulnerability and sincerity, why does it have to feel so bloody horrible?
Noah gives me the slowest and softest kiss yet, then says, “I like you, too.”
I huff out a laugh to hide my happy smile and push him off me. “Come on then, feed me tiramisu, please.” I make sure he gets a full view of my body as I get up to retrieve my knickers and his t-shirt. I’m glad we have the house to ourselves, since I’m tall and his t-shirt only covers the top of my bum. Based on the lust in his eyes, he might have to eat tiramisu with a hard-on, and I can’t help but smirk.
Then our eyes meet, and something happens. Despite the heat in his gaze and my desire to get right back into bed with him, we share a smile that isn’t sexual. It’s warm, a little careful, a lot happy. We smile like lovesick fools, and it’s like my stomach is doing somersaults. My eyes feel hot, my emotions running raw and free. I turn around when it becomes too much, blinking rapidly as I walk down the stairs. I like him. So much.
Felicia writes quirky, heartfelt, and steamy romance with real, flawed characters.
Felicia’s books have themes about being true to yourself, and she is passionate about mental health and authenticity. As an adult, Felicia received professional confirmation that she is actually autistic.
Felicia hangs out (too much) on Instagram where she posts about her author journey, mum-life, flowers, dinosaurs, musings about autism and anxiety, book recommendations, and much more. She would love it if you came by and said hello. @feliciablaedel
Make sure to follow Felicia on Goodreads and Amazon so you don’t miss a new release.
She’ll do anything to escape an arranged marriage. He’ll do anything to help her.
Honora Crauford relishes her life in India. So when her father informs her of his latest business transaction—marrying her off to a bankrupt nobleman in England—her only hope for returning home is to convince her betrothed, by whatever antics necessary, that a marriage to her comes at a cost that not even the greatest fortune can justify.
Graham Whitworth can hardly believe his wretched luck. It seems the only way to save his family’s insolvent estate is to comply with his father’s demands and marry the extremely wealthy, but utterly ridiculous, nabob’s daughter. But when Honora missteps, Graham discerns her farce and begins to see who she truly is—a most impressive lady. A lady likely capable of fixing his family’s financial troubles.
Realizing they both desire freedom, Graham and Honora join forces to restore the Whitworth estate and return Honora to her beloved India. But sometimes love has its own agenda, and the revoking of a once undesirable arrangement may just prove to be the greatest sacrifice of all.
“Miss Crauford?” The servant, whose blue livery matched the opulent cloth on the coach’s driving box, approached me.
My palms were clammy within my gloves, and I mindlessly rubbed them against my middle. Did I truly have the tenacity to enact such a preposterous scheme? It wasn’t too late to simply comply with Papa’s demands and marry Lord Denhurst’s son. I wavered between two seemingly detestable options. Then an image of India filled my mind’s eye. If I abandoned my plan now, I would likely never see my home again. Once Papa was in England, he would see me married, just as he said he would. That would not do. No, I needed to convince Lord Denhurst to revoke his offer, thus adhering to Papa’s admonition that I would not make him break his word, and to be on my way home before Papa arrived.
The man stopped when he was still a little way off. “You are Miss Crauford?”
“I will do anything to get home,” I whispered under my breath, rousing my courage. It was now or never, and never was not an acceptable option.
“I should certainly hope so.” I lifted my chin to an arrogant level, acting in complete opposition to Mrs. Purcell’s lessons. “Otherwise I have made a very tedious voyage for nothing.” The man’s dumbfounded expression was proof I had chosen the correct vocal timbre to use—obnoxiously loud and fast with a grating quality that had been perfected in the privacy of my cabin over the last several months. “Have you come to take me to my soon-to-be husband?” I scanned his figure in a blatant appraisal, refusing to consider my own mortification so as not to risk a blush. “Or are you him?”
“Yes, miss,” he said, before realizing his error. “I mean, no.”
“Which is it?” I asked, swiftly closing the distance between us. “I would not mind the latter, for you appear to be a man worth crossing an ocean for, despite your obvious oversight of fashion.”
His gaze whipped to the coachman stationed atop the carriage before he returned it to the ground between us. “No. I’m only the footman. I’ve been sent from Grandview to collect you.” There was utter desperation in his voice.
“Collect me?” I scoffed in feigned offense. “As though I am your master’s possession? What an absurd and utterly infuriating notion. Pray tell me, do all men in England think so little of the female sex or is that a particular view of Lord Denhurst and his son?”
In kindergarten, Jess won a first prize ribbon for her original creation Pigs in Wigs. It was a solid storyline: there was this pig that wore a wig—and it rhymed. Not impressed? Neither were her children when shown the very masterpiece that influenced her to become an author. “You won a ribbon for that?” Yes. Yes, she did. Thankfully, life has since exposed her to a thorough education with its share of awards and accolades—and, more importantly, to the trials and human experiences that form the heart of a storyteller and the substance of great stories. Besides her love of writing, Jess is an avid reader, shameless people observer, international café loiterer, and partially retired photographer. She loves being a mother to five amazing humans and a wife to the greatest man she knows.
