Chapter Reveal: HANDLE WITH CARE by Helena Hunting

Handle With Care, an all-new romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting is coming August 27th, and we have a sneak peek!

HE WANTS TO LOSE CONTROL.

Between his parents’ messed up marriage and his narcissistic younger brother, Lincoln Moorehead has spent the majority of his life avoiding his family. After the death of his father, Lincoln finds himself in the middle of the drama. To top it all off, he’s been named CEO of Moorehead Media, much to his brother’s chagrin. But Lincoln’s bad attitude softens when he meets the no-nonsense, gorgeous woman who has been given the task of transforming him from the gruff, wilderness guy to a suave businessman

SHE’S TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.

Wren Sterling has been working double time to keep the indiscretions at Moorehead Media at bay, so when she’s presented with a new contract, with new responsibilities and additional incentives, she agrees. Working with the reclusive oldest son of a ridiculously entitled family is worth the hassle if it means she’s that much closer to pursuing her own dreams. What Wren doesn’t expect is to find herself attracted to him, or for it to be mutual. And she certainly doesn’t expect to fall for Lincoln. But when a shocking new Moorehead scandal comes to light, she’s forced to choose between her own family and the broody, cynical CEO.

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Excerpt from Chapter One

Chapter One

What Have I Gotten Myself into?

Wren

I slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack mountain man who looks like he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes too small. He’s intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been pulled up into a haphazard man bun thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl, however, makes him about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet, here I am, sidling up next to him.

He glances at me, eyes bleary and not really tracking. He quickly focuses on his half-empty glass again. Based on the slump of his shoulders and the uncoordinated way he picks up his glass and tips it toward his mouth, I’m guessing he’s pretty hammered. I order a sparkling water with a dash of cranberry juice and a lime.

What I could really use is a cup of lavender-mint tea and my bed, but instead, I’m sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous, obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals are on the same kind of slippery slope.

“Rough day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its contents. It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been watching him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move. While he’s been sitting here, he’s turned down two women, one in a dress that could’ve doubled as a disco ball and the other in a top so low-cut, I could almost see her navel.

“You could say that,” he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost slits. I can still make out the vibrant blue hue despite them being nearly closed. They move over me, assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress with a high neckline and a hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not nearly as provocative as Disco Ball or Navel Lady.

“That solving your problems?” I give him a wry grin and tip my chin in the direction of his bottle of Johnnie.

His gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at him. Or what I can see of his face under his beard, anyway.

“Nah, but it helps quiet down all the noise up here.” He taps his temple and blurts, “My dad died.”

I put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy on my part since its half-genuine, half-contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

He glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim is off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a handful of napkins to mop up the mess.

“I’m drunk,” he mumbles.

“Well, I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, considering the way you’re sucking that bottle back. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask for a straw in the first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer [CD3] in there if you want tomorrow morning to suck less.” I push my drink toward him, hoping he doesn’t send me packing like he did the other women who approached him earlier.

He narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?”

“Cranberry and soda.”

“No booze?”

“No booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

He picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his mouth. His eyes crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake up with you beside me?”

I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Shit, sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m so wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed tonight. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then motions to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.”

I’m not sure how to respond. I go with semi-affronted, since it seems like somewhat of an insult. “Good to know.”

“Dammit. I mean, I think you might be hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I think you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times. “You have nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.”

This time I laugh—for real—and point to the bottle. “I think you might want to tell your date you’re done for the night.”

He blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.” He makes an attempt to stand, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he stumbles into me and grabs my shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa. Sorry. Yup, I’m definitely drunk.” His face is inches from mine, breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Beyond that, I get a whiff of fresh soap and a hint of aftershave. He lets go of my shoulders and takes an unsteady step back. “I don’t usually do this.” He motions sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a three drink max guy.”

“I think losing your father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool. Despite being tall for a woman, and wearing heels, he still manages to be close to a head taller than me.

“Yeah, maybe, but I still think I might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly unsteady, swaying while standing in place. I take the opportunity for what it is and thread my arm through his, leading him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s get you to the elevator before you pass out right here.”

He nods, then wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the two stairs leading to the foyer. There’s no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down, but I drape one of his huge arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own around his waist, guiding him in a mostly straight line to the elevators.

“Which floor are you on?” I ask.

“Penthouse.” He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to the black doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.”

“It’s probably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated penthouse elevator.

He stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into a furrow. “I can’t remember the code. It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles forward and presses his forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his thumb with the sensor, but his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing.

I settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank. Or a superhero. For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems pretty harmless and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m also trained in self-defense, which would fall under the by any means necessary umbrella. “Can I help?”

Read the rest of Chapter One: http://bit.ly/2ZBt0RL

About the Author:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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Chapter Reveal: When You Were Mine by Jordan Marie

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I loved a boy.




Gavin Lodge.




He was sweet, gentle, kind and he made me feel alive.




Letting him go was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life.




A hundred times I wished I had done things differently.




A thousand times I wished I had gone with him.




A million times I wished he had chosen me.




I didn’t. Neither did he.




Now he’s back.




No longer a boy, but a man.




I can’t love him.




It almost destroyed me once and I won’t let that happen again.




That should be the end of it.




And maybe it would have been…




If someone wasn’t trying to kill me…

Gavin


I can see her standing there. I’m maybe ten yards in front of her, but it might as well be a million miles.

Luna Marshall.

The woman that has haunted me for years. The woman I left behind to start over. I’m sure she hated me back then. Hell, even now, thirteen years later, she probably still hates me. I can’t blame her. I hate myself for leaving her.

I don’t want to, but I take a step toward her.

And then another.

It actually becomes automatic, my body moving without me telling it to. Of course, whenever I got near Luna, gravity seemed to pull me to her. That apparently hasn’t changed through the years.

She’s maybe ten feet in front of me now, and I can see her so clearly that it’s a little painful.

Luna hasn’t changed much over the years. Her body has filled out more, matured, rounded from girl to woman. Her golden blonde hair is shorter, falling just to her shoulders. Some things always remain the same though. Even over the crowd, I can hear her voice. It’s as soft and sweet as I’ve always remembered.

“Gavin Lodge! Is that you?”

I see the exact moment that Luna hears my name. She looks up and it’s all written there on her face.

Shock.

Fear.

Anger.

Hurt.

Thirteen years and still every bit of that is written on her face. Thirteen years is not enough to make her forget.

To make either one of us forget.

“That’s me, Wally. How in the hell are you?” I ask, pulling my gaze from Luna to look at the man I once considered my best friend.

“Doing good,” he says, stepping back and his arm loosely goes around Luna. Her body language reads stiff, but after a moment she relaxes. “Just had my second child,” he says.

That feels like a fucking sucker punch. Wally and Luna? I never saw that coming. I would have never guessed it and it feels bitter in my gut.

“Luna, how are you?” I ask.

I’ve been alternately dreading this moment and looking forward to it. I’ve definitely been dreaming about it, but those dreams have turned into nightmares on more than one occasion.

“Gavin. We heard you were coming back into town.”

“Yeah. I go where the case takes me,” I tell her and it’s not a lie, I do. I just never planned on it bringing me full circle—never planned on it bringing me to Luna’s doorstep.

“It’s still hard to believe you’re an FBI man,” Wally laughs.

“Been one for a lot of years,” I tell him. “I hate like hell that I have to be in Stone Lake for work, though.”

That’s the truth.

The God’s honest truth.

“I heard that. I hope you manage to get them, before they strike again.”

I say nothing. There’s not much to say to that. Everyone knows why I’m here. This serial killer has garnered national attention for months. He’s created havoc in three states and we still haven’t caught him. I never dreamed he’d end up in Stone Lake, but then I’ve never had the best of luck.

“You’re looking good, Luna,” I tell her. It’s a stupid thing to say, but I can’t not say it.

Her body jolts. I see it before she takes a second to lock it down.

“I’ll see you around, Wally,” she says not bothering to reply to me. “Tell Meghan to call me.”

“Will do, honey. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she says. Then, she surprises me by turning around to look at me. “Goodbye, Gavin.”

She walks away like that, with her head held high and I let her go, because I fucking lost the right to ask her to stay thirteen years ago… when I was the one to walk away.

“You two aren’t married?” I ask Wally, because that’s the one thing my brain latches onto during their exchange.

“What? Oh hell. Not at all. Luna would get a kick out of you saying that though. Her and my Meghan are close though.”

“Meghan?”

“My wife, you probably don’t remember her. She went to school with us, but didn’t hang around with the same crowd. Her and Luna have grown close, especially since our kids are in school together.”

The hits just keep coming. This one harder, more intense, and the burn nearly cripples me.

Luna has a child.

I knew it would be a possibility, but I didn’t want it. Years of experience keeps my voice steady and my face void of any reaction.

“Luna has a kid now. Hard to believe,” I rub my face, wishing I didn’t know. That will be another small piece of knowledge that will haunt me long after I leave Stone Lake in the dust.

“Yeah, Josh is a good kid, too. Luna and Attie did good.”

“Attie?” I ask, the name squeezing something inside of me that I thought was frozen a long time ago.

“Yeah. Fuck. You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Attie… Shit, man.”

My brother. Atticus. Luna and my brother. I thought the other blows were bad, but this one is harder than all of those combined and they don’t hit me…

They rip through me.

“I didn’t know,” I tell Wally and I don’t think I keep emotion out of my voice this time. I can’t.

“Her and Atticus were living together when he died. I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Wally says, not realizing he just lodged the punch that has enough power to bring me to my knees.

“You remember my brother and I didn’t get along. I didn’t bother to stay in touch with him once I left,” I tell him, leaving it at that.

“That’s tough, man. I guess I just assumed that changed with age. Though, I knew you didn’t come to Atticus’s funeral, but we all heard how you were in the hospital. They said you almost died.”

“Over exaggeration,” I answer, completely lying. I touch the scar on my side—the one that almost killed me. The one that I was glad was there, if only because it gave me an excuse to stay away from Stone Lake back then. It’s also the one delivered by the very serial killer I’m here to catch. Life, it seems, is big on irony.

“I better get, Wally. I need to report to the local police department in the morning and introduce myself. Then, I need to start hunting this asshole and see where the clues take me.”

“Yeah. Uh… Gavin, there’s something you might should know, man.”

“What’s that?”

“Luna Marshall is the Mayor of Stone Lake,” he says.

The hits just keep coming…

I should have known. I read briefly through the file and there were press clippings released by the local mayor. For some reason, Mayor Marshall and Luna Marshall didn’t click together.

This is not good news. I don’t deal well with bureaucracy and I knew just reading through the file I’d be expected to work with the Mayor closely.

My plan had been to avoid Luna while I was here.

So much for planning….

A QUIRKY WRITER GOING WHERE THE VOICES TAKE HER.
USA Today Best Selling Author Jordan Marie, is just a simple small town country girl who is haunted by Alpha Men who talk in her head 24 hours a day.

She currently has 14 books out including 2 that she wrote under the pen name Baylee Rose.

She likes to create a book that takes you on an emotional journey whether tears, laughter (or both) or just steamy hot fun (or all 3). She loves to connect with readers and interacting with them through social media, signings or even old fashioned email.

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Chapter Reveal: For Lila Forever by Winter Renshaw

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The words “For Lila, forever” adorned the front of the envelope in blue ink, the handwriting all too familiar. But it didn’t matter what it said. I didn’t have the heart to open it.

We couldn’t be together.

Not after everything ...

Leaving Rose Crossing, Maine was one of the most painful moments of my life—or at least it was until the day I came face-to-face with Thayer Ainsworth again.

After a decade of searching, he’s found me, and he wants to know why I quit my housemaid job and left his family’s island estate without so much as a goodbye. But I’m bound by a devastating secret much bigger than the two of us, and telling him the truth has consequences.

Looking into the eyes of the only man I’ve ever loved, I tell him the only thing I’m allowed to: never contact me again. And when he’s gone, I sit down and finally open his letter.

Only it isn’t a letter at all.

It changes everything.

PROLOGUE

Thayer

“Where … are … they?” My lungs burn after sprinting from The Lila Cottage to my grandfather’s house where I stormed into his study, a man on a mission.
“Thayer.” He rises from his leather chair, a cordial smile on his face as he dog-ears his Architectural Digest magazine and rests it on a coffee table. “What a pleasant surprise. Wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Come on in. Have a seat.”
He waves me over, but I remain planted. I won’t rest, I won’t make myself at home until I know why the Hilliards are nowhere to be found.
The boat dropped me off at the dock a half hour ago, and as I made my way to the main house, I couldn’t help but notice from a distance that The Hilliard Cottage looked … off. And then I realized there were no flowers. Junie always plants flowers at the end of April, and it’s the middle of May. Also there were weeds growing out of the old flower beds. Ed never would’ve allowed that to happen. Curious—and concerned—I made my way to their cottage, only to find the front door unlocked and the place looking different from the last time I was there.
I made my way from room to room, and it only took me a minute to realize all the family photos that Ed and Junie had were gone. In their place were the faces of smiling and posing strangers. I went to the main bedroom next, only to find the closet half-filled with women’s clothes, not so much as a hint of anything a man would wear. When I went to Lila’s old room next, I found it stripped to the bones. Not a picture. Not a book. Not a single article of clothing on the dresser.
The Hilliards were gone.
I left their cottage and sprinted to the abandoned cottage. I know Lila—she wouldn’t have left without an explanation. I was positive I’d find a note somewhere in the house, and I tore the place up looking for it only to come up empty handed—except for the notes I’d written and hidden for her before I left.
She didn’t find a single one, never had a chance to read them.
Granddad rises from his chair, the corners of his lips turning down. “I’m not sure why that’s any of your business.” And then he chuckles. “Or why you’re so visibly upset.” Walking toward me, he places a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s head to the kitchen. I’ll have Bernice prepare a snack for you. I’m sure you’re hungry after your travels.”
“Bernice?”
He ushers me out of his study. “The new help.”
“Where are the Hilliards?” I ask as we walk.
He chuffs through his nose, taking his time answering. “They retired, Thayer. That’s what people do when they reach a certain age.”
I exhale, the tension in my shoulders dissipating in small increments. Retirement makes sense. They were in their early sixties last I knew, and they’d been caring for the family’s island off the coast of Maine since before I was born. Junie did the cooking and the cleaning and Ed tended the garden, maintained the landscaping, combed the private beaches, and kept up the boats and three main houses all twelve months of the year.
“They moved to the mainland then?” I ask.
“I haven’t the slightest. I sent them on their way last fall and haven’t heard from them since. For all I know they’re living their golden years in sunny Florida, or perhaps they made their way to Arizona. I believe Junie has a sister there. Either way, they’re having themselves a time, I’m sure of it.”
His nonchalance is nothing short of concerning.
Ed and Junie were like family. They’d been around for decades. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t stay in touch—or that my know-it-all grandfather wouldn’t have so much as a clue as to where they went. That coupled with the fact that Lila didn't so much as leave a goodbye letter tells me that he’s not giving me all the facts.
I follow him to the kitchen where a middle-aged woman with gray-brown hair stands at the sink, washing dishes by hand. She’s shorter and thinner than Junie, her hair straight and cut blunt at her shoulders. There’s a permanent scowl etched on her face. She doesn’t light the room like Junie did.
“Bernice, this is my eldest grandson, Thayer,” Grandfather says.
The woman glances over her shoulder, offering a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it half-smile and a nod, her yellow-gloved hands still deep in the dirty dishwater.
“Very nice to meet you,” she says, her back toward us. “I’ve heard so much about you. Your grandfather tells me you’re pre-law at Yale?”
"Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Just finished his second year.” Grandfather beams from ear to ear. It thrills him to no end that I’ve chosen to follow in his collegiate footsteps. “Anyway, he’s made quite the jaunt today and my boy is starving. Would you mind preparing him a sandwich?”
“It’s fine. I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He puffs his chest and follows with a pompous chuff. “You just drove several hours and then you ferried in.”
He’s right.
I drove four straight hours from New Haven, not stopping once, because all I could think about was getting here—to Lila, Ed and Junie’s granddaughter. And then I waited two hours for a ferry that took three hours to get me here because of all the other island stops we made.
Mile after mile, the thought of seeing Lila kept me going. The sheer excitement and anticipation of being together again was all the distraction I needed.
I daydreamed about sneaking up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist.
I pictured her sweet smile and her sparkling amber-green eyes.
I felt her hands on my face and her hair between my fingers as I stole her away and claimed her pink lips with a kiss behind the boathouse.
“How can I find them?” I ask my grandfather.
His thick brows knit. “Who, Thayer? I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
He’s playing dumb. I know better than to buy into his act.
“The Hilliards,” I say, without naming Lila specifically.
“And what reason on God’s green earth would you have to contact them?” my grandfather asks. “They’re retired. I’m sure we’re the last people they want to hear from.”
“They were a big part of my childhood. I considered them family,” I say. “It’d just be nice to be able to keep in touch is all. Would’ve been nice to know the last time I saw them was going to be ... the last time.”
Granddad hooks a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“You’re too sentimental, boy. Just like your mother. Speaking of which, she’ll be here in two days. The rest of the crew should be here by the weekend. Say, I was going to get the ol’ ketch out and go for a sail this afternoon. You’ll join me.” In true Howard Bertram fashion, he isn’t asking.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to pass. Not in a sailing mood today.”
His cheery disposition fades and he studies me for a moment. “This isn’t about the Hilliards, is it? If you’d like to write them a letter, I’d be happy to have my attorney work on locating them and sending it on.”
I consider his offer. “And how long do you think that would take?”
He squints. “Is this an urgent matter? I was under the assumption you were simply wanting to keep in touch.”
Yes, it’s urgent.
The woman I love—the only woman I’ve ever loved and will ever love—is out there somewhere and I haven’t the slightest idea as to where she is, how to contact her …
… or why she would’ve left without saying goodbye.
Lila had my address at school—before I left, I gave it to her for emergency purposes as well as my number and email address. She could’ve written me a letter. The Hilliards didn’t own a personal computer of any kind, but there was a lab at the public library in Rose Crossing—she could’ve easily looked me up and emailed me.
The last thing I told Lila when I left here last August was that I loved her more than anything in the world. She kissed me hard as the ocean breeze played with her sun-bleached waves, and then she whispered, “Two hundred and sixty-three days...”
We didn’t do the long-distance relationship thing. Not in the traditional sense. During the school year I focused on studies and extra-curriculars, and she planned to stick around Rose Crossing Island and help her grandparents whittle away at their never-ending To-Do List. When I left, we agreed that we didn’t have to spend hours on the phone talking about nothing to keep that flame flickering. We agreed we didn’t have to wait by mailboxes for handwritten letters every week as proof that our unwavering devotion was still received and reciprocated. Not that either of those things were options, but we both just knew. We knew that the other was always going to be there no matter what.
Waiting.
Trusting.
Missing.
Loving.
I believe that the Hilliards retired, but I don’t believe that Lila would have left here without so much as leaving a letter in the cottage.
Something isn't adding up here.
“Thayer.” My grandfather clears his throat. “I’m speaking to you. Are you all right?”
I realize now that I’m sitting at the base of the grand staircase in my grandfather’s foyer. I don’t remember walking here. I don’t remember sitting down and placing my hands in my hair, tugging until my scalp throbs.
Coming to, I pull in a deep breath and force myself to stand. “I’m fine. Think I just need to lie down for a bit.”
His mouth flattens. He’s disappointed I won’t be sailing with him this afternoon, but he’s not going to push it. The summer is young, I’m sure he’s thinking.
“All right. I’ll have Bernice get you the key to Ainsworth,” he says. “We weren’t expecting you home this early, but everything should be in order. If it isn’t, let me know. This is her first time opening the island for the summer.”
Opening the island …
He opened the island the way other people open their pools for the summer: with checklists and procedures and quiet fanfare. “Opening the island” was always his expression for this time of year, when our entire extended family would abandon their modern lives, their work and school in favor of sun, sand, and sailing off the coast of a New England island hideaway. It was always Ed and Junie who would prepare for our arrivals. All the linens would be freshly washed, beds made. Junie used to fold our towels into little animal shapes, like we were at some resort, and Ed would shine up the boats and hose off the dock. Junie would place freshly picked and trimmed flowers in vases in every living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom—that alone must have taken her hours if not days considering each home had at least five bedrooms and six baths. But she always loved to go the extra mile to make our annual homecoming a splendid affair.
My grandfather disappears into the kitchen, returning with a set of keys to my family’s designated house just a few hundred yards down the drive.
“Dinner will be at six,” he says, dropping the key ring in my hand. “Get some rest, but don’t be late. We have much catching up to do.”
As soon as he’s gone, I realize I’m squeezing the set so hard, the metal teeth are leaving indentations in my palm. Relaxing, I show myself out and head down the path to Ainsworth, gaze locked on the cedar shake siding that covers the backside. Last summer, I stole a kiss from Lila next to the white peony bushes on the north side of the house.
The bushes are lackluster now, appearing as if they hardly intend to bloom this year.
Once I get to the house, I unlock a side door and head in. My lungs fill with stuffy, slightly damp air. Apparently Bernice didn’t air out the house the way Junie always did in anticipation of our arrival, but I know she’s new so I won’t fault her for it.
Passing down the hall, I make my way to the living room before cutting through the foyer to get to the kitchen. There’s no bowl of fresh fruit waiting on the counter. Not a single vase filled with picked hydrangeas or lilacs as per tradition.
A moment later, I climb the stairs to the second floor and find my room at the end of the hall.
No folded swan towels.
No welcome note in Junie’s whimsical handwriting.
No secret welcome note from Lila tucked into my pillowcase.
I head to the windows first, sliding up the sashes and letting some much needed fresh air fill the space.
Collapsing on the bed next, I slide my hands under my neck and stare at the lifeless ceiling fan above. Everything … and I mean everything … has taken on an empty quality.
The island.
The house.
Me.
It’s like a substantial part of me is missing—and that part of me is her.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to rest despite knowing damn well my head isn’t going to stop spinning long enough to make that possible. But I need to calm down so I can come up with a game plan.
There’s no internet access on the island—my grandfather contacted the local phone company once, and they were told there was not enough infrastructure to support running cable or DSL lines to Rose Crossing at the time, and then they said that running those lines to the island would’ve been humanly impossible. The only options he was given were satellite or dial up. My grandfather made the executive decision to forgo both—deciding that the island was better off with as minimal technology as possible because family time was too priceless to sacrifice for “computers and video games and the like.”
I grab my cell from my pocket and check the service. It’s always been spotty out here, even at the highest point, which happens to be the attic of my grandparents’ house, so I don’t hold my breath.
One bar.
One bar is enough to make phone calls if you’re okay with the sound cutting in and out, but it makes any internet capabilities virtually useless.
I try to refresh my email inbox as a test … my point proven in under two minutes when the app times out before it has a chance to load.
I’ll have to try and sneak away to town in the next day and use the computers at the library.
I’m sure a quick online search will tell me exactly where she is …
Placing my phone aside, I close my eyes once more and listen to the crash of the ocean outside my windows.
It doesn’t sound the same without her here.
And it sure as hell doesn’t feel the same.
I close my eyes and try to get some rest.
I’ll look for Lila forever if I have to.
I’ll start first thing tomorrow, and I won’t stop until I find her.

Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.




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Chapter Reveal: Letting You Go by Jordan Marie

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I met Luna Marshall when I was seventeen.
She was a force of nature that I wasn’t ready for.
She was gravity and I was caught in her pull—
Powerless while she held me in a world I was desperate to escape.

They say you never forget your first love.
I believe they’re right.
I’ll always remember the sound of her laughter.
The way she whispered my name when I touched her, and the taste of her on my lips.
I’ll remember everything.

Including the look of pain as I walked away.

Gavin


Luna Marshall.
The girl haunts me.
Has for years.
I watch as she stands over by the football bleachers laughing with her friends. Her voice is fucking… musical. It’s soft and sweet and it has a melody in it that somehow brings me peace.
We’re complete opposites.
She comes from one of the wealthiest families in Stone Lake. Her dad drives a fucking Caddy and her mom has a Lexus SUV. Her clothes are designer and last month she was voted homecoming queen. Krissy Hanes was pissed because she thought the title belonged to her. Normally seniors are always the queen, but Stone Lake allows juniors to run too. Luna is that popular.
Way out of my fucking league.
She is destined to marry the football quarterback or some shit. It’s a small town and that’s the way these things go.
Except, Luna doesn’t date.
She’s been asked out a lot. She’s been asked out by the football jock, the captain of the debate team, the basketball jock, the swim team—the entire male swim team. She’s been asked out and turned them all down.
She’s developed the nickname Icebox. The entire male population of our school jokes that if you can ever get your dick inside of her that she’ll freeze it off.
They’re idiots.
I don’t get that from her at all. I think she could burn you alive with her fire and there’s a big part of me that craves that heat, wants to tempt fate and take it from her.
She’s got long golden blonde hair—the complete opposite of what you would think given her name. It falls in these soft waves all the way down—the tips resting on the small of her back. Her eyes are green with flecks of brown in them and they sparkle when she laughs. Her lips are full and thick and I’d be a lying mo-fo if I said I didn’t fantasize about having them wrapped around my cock.
I’m seventeen. It’s a given that sex is pretty much all I think about and for me… sex is all about Luna Marshall. It’s just my bad luck that it’s the same for every damned male in our high school.
Even my own brother.
Atticus is standing near her even now. Sniffing around her, desperate for her attention and she gives it to him—at least more than she has any other male. Maybe that’s the one reason I haven’t made my move with her. The thing is, when she touches Atticus—like she’s doing right now—it’s not sexual, it’s not any different than she does with her friend Jules. Jules is hot too—also blonde and a rocking body—but, not in the same league as Luna.
Not even close.
Still, she laughs and talks with Atticus but there’s no sexual vibe there at all, at least coming from her. I know without a shadow of a doubt he’s got his eye on her.
Atticus and I have our own problems, which is fucked. When you have a family like we do, it’d be good to be close, to rely on one another.
We don’t.
Our mother hit the road when I was eight and Atticus was seven. My father is a bastard who holds down a day job—although a shitty one—and then comes home and burns his gut with whiskey every night. By the time he’s done he barely knows his own name, let alone ours.
I’m a junior in high school. I failed my freshman year and had to repeat it. I’m barely passing now. I hate school and Stone Lake, for that matter. I have plans to get out of this hellhole the minute I graduate. I’m doing it and not looking back. I have nothing holding me here, not even my brother. I wish we were close, but that’s not going to happen. He blames me for the way our father is. I blame our mother and that pisses him off even more.
Atticus and I are night and day and I don’t see that ever changing. It’s Friday and I haven’t spoken to him all week. I don’t figure that will change either.
Family means nothing. It’s not blood that binds you to someone. I don’t know much, but I’m smart enough to know it’s not blood. My father’s blood is running through my veins, for that matter, so is my mother’s. That definitely didn’t bind them to me in any lasting way.
Not one damn bit.
I’m getting out of here and I’m leaving Stone Lake completely behind.
When I do, I’ll have no regrets…
Except maybe that I didn’t get a taste of Luna Marshall before I left. Then again, that’s probably a good thing.
For both of us.

A QUIRKY WRITER GOING WHERE THE VOICES TAKE HER.
USA Today Best Selling Author Jordan Marie, is just a simple small town country girl who is haunted by Alpha Men who talk in her head 24 hours a day.

She currently has 14 books out including 2 that she wrote under the pen name Baylee Rose.

She likes to create a book that takes you on an emotional journey whether tears, laughter (or both) or just steamy hot fun (or all 3). She loves to connect with readers and interacting with them through social media, signings or even old fashioned email.

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Chapter Reveal, Pre-order Blitz and Giveaway: Mr. Fantasy by Cambria Hebert

Title: Mr. Fantasy

Author: Cambria Hebert

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Release Date: April 2, 2019

Blurb

Better than your reality…

A Caribbean island.

A rich CEO.

A woman thrown overboard.

A delicious one-night stand.

Want to know what happens next?

Find all the answers and more between the pages

of this sizzling standalone romance—Mr. Fantasy.

Mr. Fantasy is a standalone contemporary romance novel and contains an HEA.

ADD TO GOODREADS

Pre-order Links

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
B&N / KOBO / APPLE BOOKS

CHAPTER 1 + 2 of MR. FANTASY

1

Nora

“I can’t believe the week is almost over.” Val groaned, then consoled herself with a large gulp of the fruity cocktail sitting in front of her.

I sighed sadly, silently agreeing with her. Spring break needed to be a lot longer than a week. Pretty soon, it would be back to work, back to classes… back to reality.

Reality sucked.

Especially when I gazed around this tropical resort and realized some people lived like this all the time.

“One week in paradise just isn’t enough,” I said out loud, playing with the pink umbrella perched in the coconut drink I held. Rotating the barstool, I spun to face the turquoise water of the ocean and pure-white sand beneath it.

Grass umbrellas dotted the beach, and under them, people lounged and played. Beyond the beach, people also played in the water, running around in skimpy bikinis and golden tans.

The breeze off the ocean blew through the tangled strands of my blond hair, and sand clung between my toes. Focusing past the shoreline, I gazed across the water, past the floating cabanas, and out to a small island filled with palm trees.

“I’d like to see the guy who owns that island just once while we’re here.” My voice was wistful as I plucked the cherry out of my drink and popped it into my mouth.

Sweet juice from the fruit burst over my tongue as I stared.

Val made a sound and slapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t even tell me that’s the reason you haven’t had a fling yet!” she practically yelled.

Swiftly, I swung in her direction. “Shh! God, Valerie, don’t announce our sex life to the entire resort.”

“At least I have a sex life,” she muttered, fitting her straw into her mouth. “That’s what spring break is for. Letting loose, having fun… no regrets.”

“Hey, I’ve done that, too.”

She made a rude sound. “You’ve turned down three guys since we got here.”

I shrugged and looked back at the ocean. “I’m picky.”

“You have to let him go, Nor,” Valerie said gently. Leaning in, she rested her cheek on my shoulder. “I know you loved him, but Alan wasn’t good enough. And he hurt you.”

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

I sucked on the straw until it made that annoying slurping sound because my alcohol had officially run out.

“Having a fling is the best way to get him out of your system. Let someone rock your world for a night, and forget about him completely.”

I smirked. “You think a one-night stand will erase a guy I dated for nearly a year?”

Val sat up and wagged her eyebrows at me. “The right guy will.”

I laughed, and she snagged the empty coconut out of my hand and held it over her head. “Bartender, another!”

“Now, about that.” My best friend pointed out toward the distant island. “Please tell me you haven’t been holding out to see if Mr. Island shows up to rock your world.”

I scoffed at her assumption.

“I knew it!” she yelled.

People around us turned to look at her.

I smiled at them, “Sorry. She’s a bit extra.”

“You’re still hung up on your cheating, scumbag ex, and now you’re hung up on some faceless guy who might not even exist?” Val dropped her forehead into her hand. “I’ve failed as a best friend.”

I slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You have not.”

A tap on my shoulder made me turn, my eyes colliding with a set of piercing green ones. “Oh,” I said, a little breathless.

“Your drink is ready,” the bartender said, leaning over the bar, holding out my refill.

“Oh!” I glanced down at the drink. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, gorgeous,” he quipped and winked.

I nearly spilled the drink in my lap right there. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he had the bronze tan of a local with an accent to match.

“You need anything else, just wave.”

I nodded, unable to reply.

“See!” Val said, putting her arm around me, bringing me back around. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re gorgeous. You could have any guy here you wanted. Even the bartender. Yet you’re busy mooning over some guy who’s probably old enough to be your grandpa.”

“I am not mooning!” I insisted. Then I grimaced. “And ew… grandpa.”

“You really expect some young, hot single to own that island over there?”

I shook my head. “Not just the island… this entire resort.”

Valerie moaned. “That’s just a sexy rumor the staff here likes to tell women like us. It makes us even more excited about this place.”

“It could be true,” I murmured, staring out to sea. “He really could be some young, rich computer genius who sold off an app and bought this place.”

“Uh-huh. And he has a hot body and the stamina to make you forget all about Awful Alan.”

“Hey,” I accused, salty. “I didn’t judge you when your fantasy was to sleep with a yoga instructor to see if they really were more flexible than other guys.”

Valerie giggled. “They are. They totally are.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Hey, I’m young, single, and being safe. What’s wrong with a little fun?”

I drank some of my cocktail.

“Besides, at least my fantasy was attainable. Yours is practically from the pages of some cheesy romance novel.”

“Whatever.” I sighed. This conversation was bringing down my buzz. “Finish your drink so we can go lay on the beach.”

“Your time is running out.” She reminded me. “We’re going home tomorrow night. If you don’t have a fling soon, you’re never going to get over Alan.”

I’d had enough of this conversation, and if she said my ex-boyfriend’s name one more time, I was going to scream. I jumped down off the barstool and tripped on my flip-flop, stumbling.

“Whoa,” I stammered as I fumbled forward. Seconds later, I collided into the back of a chair, falling over the shoulder of whoever was sitting there and dumping my drink down their chest.

The shoulder under my waist stiffened, and I scrambled to leap back.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” I exclaimed. Dumbly, I looked down at the drink in my hand. It was empty.

Horrified, I skittered around the chair as the person sitting in it stood, pushing it out from beneath him.

Our bodies collided and I tumbled back, but he caught my arm to keep me from falling. Another apology formed on my lips, but the second I looked up, it dissipated.

He was tall. So tall I had to crane my neck back to look up at him. His shoulders were wide, and his jaw was chiseled. His skin had the same deep bronzed look as all the locals, and his hair was the color of midnight.

I didn’t know if his mouth was just sexy as hell or if the way he pursed his lips as he regarded me made them look pouty, but the effect was still the same.

Everything inside me tightened and then went liquid, as though he’d melted me with just one glance.

My mouth moved, but no sounds came out. I was exceptionally aware of his large hand wrapped around my upper arm. Even though we were sitting in the shade, his hand felt warm like he’d been in the sun. Goose bumps erupted along my bare arms and legs, and my scalp prickled with awareness.

Glancing down to where he held me, I couldn’t help but notice how his hand was so big it wrapped around my arm completely. Involuntarily, I shivered as I thought about what else his hands would completely cover.

Embarrassed, I jerked away from his touch. His hand dropped beside him, and then I realized the entire front of his shirt was completely soaked with my drink.

Gasping, I tossed aside the empty coconut and let my hands hover near him. “This is all my fault,” I exclaimed. “Can I get some napkins over here?” I yelled. “Valerie!”

My best friend, who was standing there just as speechless as I was, burst into action and turned toward the bar.

“I’m so clumsy,” I told the guy. “I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new shirt,” I offered. “And whatever you’re drinking today.”

“No need,” he said. His voice was quiet but so commanding it didn’t need to be loud. “It’s just a shirt.”

Glancing down at the ruined garment, I groaned again. It was blue silk. Probably cost more than I made in an entire week. And because of the material and the fact that it was soaked, it was plastered to his chest as if he’d been caught in the rain.

He was thin… but imposing. Everything about him was.

Val shoved a towel in front of my face, and I snatched it quickly. Rushing forward, I didn’t even think twice about reaching out to try and dry the shirt.

The thin material was saturated, and it seemed no matter how much I patted and wiped, nothing helped.

Above me, a throat cleared. “Are you done?”

I froze, towel still pressed against his shirt, and looked up. His chin tilted down, and our eyes met, pure desire sliding through me.

I jolted back, flushing. “Sorry, I was trying to…” What was I trying to do?

He smiled, reached up, and unbuttoned the shirt to peel it off his body and drop it in the sand. “I’m pretty sure it’s not savable.”

My mouth ran dry. I couldn’t look up from his tan, smooth chest.

A second later, he snapped in front of my face, making me lift my eyes. “You might want to lay off the alcohol the rest of the day. I think you’ve had enough.”

Dumbly, I nodded and held out the towel for him to take.

He glanced between me and the offered towel, then smiled. “I’m good,” he replied, then turned around and walked away.

I stared after him long after he was gone, still holding out the towel like a moron.

Val jumped in front of me, eyes wide. “Oh my God!” she whispered. “That guy was hot!”

The towel fell out of my hands, landing beside his forgotten shirt.

“Hey!” Val yelled toward the bar. “Who was that guy?”

“Never seen him before,” one of the bartenders called back.

“Sucks,” she muttered, then grabbed my hand. “C’mon, let’s go get some vitamin sea.”

“Wait!” I exclaimed, pulling back before she could drag me away. Bending down, I picked up the wet, sandy shirt he’d just discarded from his body.

Val tsked and dragged me toward the beach. “First the island guy, and now this.” She sighed. “You’re completely hopeless, Nora. Hopeless.”

As I stared down at the shirt clutched in my hand, I couldn’t help thinking she might be right.

2

Carter

I sat there listening to quite an amusing conversation going on behind me.

One bad girl and one good… The bad trying to corrupt the good. I guess I could understand the appeal. The good ones were always the best at being bad.

I never got involved in guest affairs, even though all these scantily clad women were ripe for the picking. It was too easy. Too boring.

I liked a challenge.

Like being able to erase a man from the mind of a woman who couldn’t let go.

I wondered if the good girl behind me was as open to that kind of fling as she pretended to be or if she clung to the rumors about a man on an island because she knew he probably didn’t even exist.

Sometimes holding on was easier than letting go because at least the pain of holding on was familiar.

The second her drink spilled over my shoulder and across my chest, I wondered if it was my karma for listening to their conversation or if there was something else here at work.

The sparks between us were practically visible, and the way she shivered beneath my touch excited me. Still, I pulled away, because sometimes being a mystery was better than being real.

I felt her eyes against my back the entire time I walked away. I pondered if I would ever see her again, if I would be able to rise to her challenge.

The way my life had turned out so far was all because of fate. So I decided to leave this up to fate, too.

Author Bio

Cambria Hebert is an award-winning, bestselling novelist of more than forty books. She went to college for a bachelor’s degree, couldn’t pick a major, and ended up with a degree in cosmetology. So rest assured her characters will always have good hair.

Besides writing, Cambria loves a caramel latte, staying up late, sleeping in, and watching movies. She considers math human torture and has an irrational fear of birds (including chickens). You can often find her painting her toenails (because she bites her fingernails) or walking her Chihuahuas (the real rulers of the house).

Cambria has written within the young adult and new adult genres, penning many paranormal and contemporary titles. She has also written romantic suspense, science fiction, and male/male romance. Her favorite genre to read and write is contemporary romance. A few of her most recognized titles are: The Hashtag Series, GearShark Series, Text, Amnesia, and Butterfly.

Recent awards include: Author of the Year, Best Contemporary Series (The Hashtag Series), Best Contemporary Book of the Year, Best Book Trailer of the Year, Best Contemporary Lead, Best Contemporary Book Cover of the Year. In addition, her most recognized title, #Nerd, was listed at Buzzfeed.com as a top fifty summer romance read.

Cambria Hebert owns and operates Cambria Hebert Books, LLC.

You can find out more about Cambria and her titles by visiting her website: http://www.cambriahebert.com.

Please sign up for her newsletter to stay in the know about all her cover reveals, releases, and more: http://eepurl.com/bUL5_5.

Text ‘Cambria’ to 7606703130 to sign up for new release alerts

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