Puppy Christmas

By Lucy Gilmore

Publication Date 9/24/2019

 

Synopsis

These adorable service puppies

are matchmakers in the making…

Lila Vasquez might not be the “fun one” at Puppy Promise—the service puppy training school she runs with her sisters—but she can always be counted on to get things done. So when her latest client shows an interest in princess gowns over power suits, Lila puts aside her scruples, straps on the glittery heels, and gets to work.

If only the adorable six-year-old’s father wasn’t such an appealing Prince Charming.

Ford’s whole life revolves around his daughter…until he meets Lila. Smart, capable, and amazing at helping Emily gain confidence with her new service puppy at her side, Lila is everything he ever wanted—but she’s way out of his league. Good thing Emily and her new pup are up to the matchmaking task. This Christmas, it’s all hands (and paws) on deck!

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Service Puppies Series:

Puppy Love (Book 1)

Puppy Christmas (Book 2)

Puppy Kisses (Book 3)

 

Review

Dogs and hot men…what more could a book need?! And why am I reading a holiday book in September?!

This is the second in a series about 3 sisters that run a dog training facility. In this one, we meet Lila who is a bit hard around the edges but has a good heart. Enter Ford Ford (honestly that is his name, what were his parents thinking?!) and his daughter Emily that has been granted a service dog for her hearing disability. Emily thinks that Lila is a princess in her pink dress and sometimes with 6 year olds it is best to engage a little fantasy. The story winds its way around this little group with strong supporting characters that round out the story nicely.

This story had me laughing throughout at the witty banter between Ford and Leila, the fact that he spelled dirty words so Emily wouldn’t know what he was saying, and the way that they both learned how to be more open and honest helped bring them closer together. And of course, Jeeves, the service dog Emily chooses from Lila’s company.

This book also teaches the reader a little bit about a hearing disorder and I liked how Emily still had to lip read and use sign language to communicate despite cochlear implants.

I enjoyed this book and can’t wait to read the last one about the last sister.  We give it 4 paws up.

 

Excerpt

“We’re going to the symphony. We’re visiting art galleries and sipping overpriced white wine. Oh, I’ve got it! You’re taking me to the fanciest store in the city and buying me a new dress. I’ll be like Pretty Woman, except you won’t have to pay me for s-e-x later.”

Ford cast a sidelong look at Lila. She’d caught her lower lip between her teeth, but she didn’t look up from the phone in her lap.

“I like to make the first one free to get the ladies hooked,” he explained. “Then I ratchet up the price accordingly.”

That didn’t get her to take the bait, either. “Turn right at the next intersection,” she instructed him. “Parking should be in the big lot on the right. And for the record, I don’t think that’s a very good way to run your gigolo business. Why would the cow pay for milk after the fact?”

“The cow isn’t the one paying for the milk. The cow is the one providing it.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

That got her to glance up, her gaze sharp. “I never said that.”

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed cheerfully as he pulled his minivan into the last of a row of cars. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

She had no response to this, which was just as well since they’d arrived at their mystery destination. He had no idea where they were or why, but he didn’t care. The fact that he was on an actual date with Lila was enough.

It wasn’t just any date, either. He’d had to lift nary a finger to make it happen. Apparently, Lila took her role as invitee very seriously. From dropping Emily off at her mom’s house to planning the evening from start to finish, she’d handled everything on her own. All Ford had to do was doll himself up and wait to be whisked away for an evening of romantic bliss.

It was a new experience for him—and a delightful one. Lila was wooing him. Lila was wooing him hard.

He, too, was hard just thinking about it.

Although that wasn’t really fair. He’d been in the same state of agonized anticipation for days. No number of cold showers or hot showers or short, frantic showers with his cock in his hand had helped. Nor had Lila’s constant presence in his home. How she managed to sit with his daughter and Jeeves, cool and collected as she went through the steps of puppy training, was a mystery.

“Here. We’re going to need this.” Lila reached into the pocket of the white wool coat she wore and handed him a flask. “It’s like fifteen degrees outside. It’s straight bourbon, in case you’re wondering.”

“You remembered,” he said as he accepted the flask and took a long pull. “My vice of choice.”

It wasn’t the cheap stuff, either. The woodsy-sweet taste coated his tongue and throat, the warm burn making him feel almost giddy.

“I have my occasional value,” she admitted. “Remembering things in painstaking detail doesn’t make me a very endearing person, but it does make me a useful one.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that her value lay primarily in her ability to make him feel relaxed and happy and like a hot-blooded man again, but he didn’t have a chance to get the words out before she pulled a white knit cap over her head and secured her gloves onto her hands.

Lila was a stunning woman almost all the time, her poise and grace so ingrained that he doubted she was aware of them, but there was something about the way the cap framed her face that almost undid him. She looked absurdly youthful, her cheeks flushed from the bourbon and the cold and—he hoped—the company.

Unable to help himself, he leaned across the console and dropped a kiss onto her slightly parted lips. Surprise rendered her delightfully malleable, her mouth giving way to his for a full ten seconds before she realized what was happening and kissed him back. That was delightful, too, but for entirely different reasons—most of which had to do with the fact that she wasn’t about to let him have his wicked way with her without giving him his own back again. In fact, that was a thing she’d done since the day they’d first met. He could, on occasion, catch her off guard, but it rarely lasted for long.

She proved it by deepening the kiss. The assault of her tongue and the warm press of her mouth against his invoked every sense he had—taste and smell and glorious touch. She even released a soft moan into his mouth that made his head whir with possibilities.

And then she ended it as quickly as it began.

“Let’s skip the date,” he said before he’d even managed to open his eyes again. “I don’t care if we’re flying to the Eiffel Tower on a private jet run entirely on champagne. Let’s stay in this van and make out instead.”

She didn’t move. “You don’t want to see what I have planned?”

He’d opened his eyes by this time, but the parking lot lighting was dim, and what little vision he did have was obscured by the stars dazzling his vision. Actual g-o-d-d-a-m-n stars.

***

Excerpted from Puppy Christmas by Lucy Gilmore. © 2019 by Lucy Gilmore. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

Lucy Gilmore is a contemporary romance author with a love of puppies, rainbows, and happily ever afters. She began her reading (and writing) career as an English literature major and ended as a die-hard fan of romance in all forms. When she’s not rolling around with her two Akitas, she can be found hiking, biking, or with her nose buried in a book.

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Synopsis

 A world-recognized authority and acclaimed mind-body medicine pioneer presents the first evidenced-based program to reverse the psychological and biological damage caused by trauma.

In his role as the founder and director of The Center for Mind-Body Medicine (CMBM), the worlds largest and most effective program for healing population-wide trauma, Harvard-trained psychiatrist James Gordon has taught a curriculum that has alleviated trauma to populations as diverse as refugees and survivors of war in Bosnia, Kosovo, Israel, Gaza, and Syria, as well as Native Americans on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, New York city firefighters and their families, and members of the U. S. military. Dr. Gordon and his team have also used their work to help middle class professionals, stay-at-home mothers, inner city children of color, White House officials, medical students, and people struggling with severe emotional and physical illnesses.

Transforming Trauma represents the culmination of Dr. Gordon’s fifty years as a mind-body medicine pioneer and an advocate of integrative approaches to overcoming psychological trauma and stress. Offering inspirational stories, eye-opening research, and innovative prescriptive support, Transforming Trauma makes accessible for the first time the methods that Dr. Gordon—with the help of his faculty of 160, and 6,000 trained clinicians, educators, and community leaders—has developed and used to relieve the suffering of hundreds of thousands of adults and children around the world.

 

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Excerpt

Laughter Breaks Trauma’s Grim Spell

James S. Gordon, MD

Reader’s Digest used to tell us each month that “laughter is the best medicine.” Drawing on folk wisdom, the Digest was reminding us that laughter could help us through the ordinary, daily unhappiness that might come into our lives.

In 1976, Norman Cousins, the revered editor of the Saturday Review, wrote a piece that signaled the arrival of laughter in the precincts of science. It was called “Anatomy of an Illness (as Perceived by the Patient)” and appeared in the New England Journal of Medicine, the United States’ most prestigious medical publication.

When the best conventional care failed to improve his ankylosing spondylitis—a crippling autoimmune spinal arthritis—Cousins took matters into his own hands. He checked himself out of the hospital and into a hotel, took megadoses of anti-inflammatory vitamin C, and watched long hours of Marx Brothers movies and TV sitcoms. He laughed and kept on laughing. He noticed that as he did, his pain diminished. He felt stronger and better. As good an observer as any of his first-rate doctors, he developed his own dose-response curve: ten minutes of belly laughter gave him two hours of pain-free sleep. Soon enough, he became more mobile.

Once the healing power of laughter was on the medical map, researchers began to systematically explore its stress-reducing, health-promoting, pain-relieving potential. Laughter has now been shown to decrease stress levels and improve mood in cancer patients receiving chemotherapy, to decrease hostility in patients in mental hospitals, and to lower heart rate and blood pressure and enhance mood and performance in generally healthy IT professionals. In numerous experiments, people with every imaginable diagnosis have reduced their pain by laughing.

Laughter stimulates the dome-shaped diaphragmatic muscle that separates our chest from our abdomen, as well as our abdominal, back, leg, and facial muscles. After we laugh for a few minutes, these muscles relax. Then our blood pressure and stress hormone levels decrease; pain-relieving and mood-elevating endorphins increase, as do levels of calming serotonin and energizing dopamine. Our immune functioning—probably a factor in Cousins’s eventual recovery—improves. If we are diabetic, our blood sugar goes down. Laughter is good exercise. It’s definitely healthy. And it’s first-rate for relieving stress.

Laughter also has a transforming power that transcends physiological enhancement and stress reduction. Laughter can break the spell of the fixed, counterproductive, self-condemning thinking that is so pervasive and so devastating to us after we’ve been traumatized. It can free us from the feelings of victimization that may shadow our lives and blind us to each moment’s pleasures and the future’s possibilities.

The wisdom traditions of the East extend laughter’s lessons. Zen Buddhism surprises us with thunderclaps of laughter to wake us from mental habits that have brought unnecessary, self-inflicted suffering. Sufi stories do the same job but more slyly. Over the years, I watched as my acupuncture and meditation teacher Shyam, himself a consummate joker, punctured the self-protectiveness, pomposities, and posturing that kept his patients and students—including, of course, me—from being at ease and natural, joyous in each moment of our lives. The stories he told from India, China, and the Middle East brought the point home: seriousness is a disease. Sorrow is real and to be honored, but obsessively dwelling on losses and pain only adds to our sickness. Laughter at ourselves and all our circumstances is our healing birthright.

A story I first heard from Shyam about the Three Laughing Monks is apropos. It is said that long ago, there were three monks who walked the length and breadth of China, laughing great, belly-shaking laughs as they went. They brought joy to each village they visited, laughing as they entered, laughing for the hours or days they stayed, and laughing as they left. No words. And it’s said that after a while everyone in the villages—the poorest and most put-upon and also the most privileged and pompous—got the message. They, too, lost their pained seriousness, laughed with the monks, and found relief and joy.

One day, after many years, one of the monks died. The two remaining monks continued to laugh. This time when villagers asked why, they responded, “We are laughing because we have always wondered who would die first, and he did and therefore he won. We’re laughing at his victory and our defeat, and with memories of all the good times we have had together.” Still, the villagers were sad for their loss.

Then came the funeral. The dead monk had asked that he not be bathed, as was customary, or have his clothes changed. He had told his brother monks that he was never unclean, because laughter had kept all impurities from him. They respected his wishes, put his still-clothed, unwashed body on a pile of wood, and lit it.

As the flames rose, there were sudden loud, banging noises. The living monks realized that their brother, knowing he was going to die, had hidden fireworks in his clothes. They laughed and laughed and laughed. “You have defeated us a second time and made a joke even of death.” Now they laughed even louder. And it is said that the whole village began to laugh with them.

This is the laughter that shakes off all concerns, all worries, all holding on to anything that troubles our mind or heart, anything that keeps us from fully living in the present moment.

Researchers and clinicians may lack the total commitment to laughter of the three monks, but they are beginning to explore and make use of its power. Working together in various institutions, they’ve developed a variety of therapeutic protocols that may include interactions with clowns and instruction in performing stand-up comedy.

“Laughter yoga,” which has most often been studied, combines inspirational talks, hand clapping, arm swinging, chanting “ho, ho” and “ha, ha,” deep breathing, and brief periods of intentional laughter; it often concludes with positive statements about happiness.

I agree that funny movies and jokes and games of all kinds can be useful tools to pry us loose from crippling seriousness. Still, I prefer to begin with a simple, direct approach: three to five minutes of straight-out,straight-ahead, intentional belly laughter. It’s very easy to learn and easy to practice. I’ll teach it to you.

I do it with patients individually or in groups, when the atmosphere is thick with smothering self-importance or self-defeating, progress-impeding self-pity. It’s not a panacea, a cure-all. But, again and again, I’ve seen it get energetic juices flowing, rebalance agitation-driven minds, melt trauma-frozen bodies, dispel clouds of doubt and doom, and let in the light of Hope. This laughter needs to begin with effort. It must force its way through forests of self-consciousness and self-pity, crack physical and emotional walls erected by remembered hurt and present pain.

Once you decide to do it, the process is simple. You stand with your knees slightly bent, arms loose, and begin, forcing the laughter up from your belly, feeling it contract, pushing out the sounds—barks, chuckles, giggles. You keep going, summoning the will and energy to churn sound up and out. Start with three or four minutes and increase when you feel more is needed.

You can laugh anytime you feel yourself tightening up with tension, pumping yourself up with self-importance, or freezing with fear. And the more intense those feelings are, the more shut-down and self-righteous, the more pained and lost and hopeless you are, the more important laughter is. Then laughter may even be lifesaving. After a few minutes of forced laughter, effort may dissolve, and the laughter itself may take charge. Now each unwilled, involuntary, body-shaking, belly-aching jolt provokes the next in a waterfall of laughter.

Laughter can be contagious. Other people will want to laugh with you.

And after laughing, as you become relaxed and less serious, you may find that people relate to you differently. Sensing the change in you, they may greet you or smile at you on the street. And you may find that you’re happy to see them and that you enjoy the warmth of this new connection.

Don’t take my word for any of this. Do the experiment with daily laughter and see.

 

Excerpted from THE TRANSFORMATION by James S. Gordon, MD. Reprinted with permission of HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2019

 

 

About the Author

Dr. James Gordon is the author of The Transformation: Discovering Wholeness and Healing After Trauma (HarperOne; September 2019). He is the founder and executive director of the nonprofit Center for Mind-Body Medicine in Washington, D.C. Dr. Gordon is a Harvard-trained psychiatrist, former researcher at the National Institute of Mental Health and, Chair of the White House Commission on Complementary and Alternative Medicine Policy, and a clinical professor of Psychiatry and Family Medicine at Georgetown Medical School.

He authored or edited ten previous books, including Unstuck: Your Guide to the Seven-stage Journey Out of Depression. He has written often for numerous popular publications including The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, and The Guardian, as well as in professional journals. He has served as an expert for such outlets as 60 Minutes, the Today show, Good Morning America, CBS Sunday Morning, Nightline, CNN, MSNBC, NPR and many others.

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Title: Say it Again

Author: Catherine Bybee

Release Date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Montlake

 

Synopsis

Protector-for-hire Sasha Budanov is accustomed to life as a loner. Always on the move, she’s now reached a crossroad. Looking for answers about her shadowy youth, she’s returned to the strict boarding school in Germany where she was raised. It’s also where she was trained in the stealthy, militarized art of survival. But behind its gleaming gates, Richter is a fortress of secrets, including those buried in Sasha’s mysterious past. To uncover them, she’s clinging to her first rule of defense: stay guarded.

If anyone can challenge Sasha’s rules, it’s devilishly sexy stranger AJ Hofmann. He wants answers, too. And he needs Sasha’s help. The recent deaths of several of Richter’s former students—including AJ’s own sister—have aroused his suspicions. He’s arousing something more in Sasha. Never one to surrender to her emotions, she senses something tempting in AJ. She trusts him. He’s fearless. And he kisses like a demon. Sasha’s found her match.

But treading Richter’s dark halls—and following their hearts—has its risks. As the decades-old secrets of the past are mined, Sasha and AJ are falling deeper in love . . . and into danger.

 

 

Author Interview: Catherine Bybee

1) Sasha, from your newest novel Say it Again, is unlike any character that most readers will have encountered. Can you give us a rundown of your heroine?

Sasha is a female James Bond with all the skills that kick ass and the sexy that opens doors. She’s a master of disguises, speaks more languages than anyone should…and has a razor-sharp mind that doesn’t sleep. In all her badassery, (pretty sure I just made up that word) Sasha has a soft spot—a vulnerability that makes her want to protect the innocent. She’s a true to life superhero who walks the fence between right and wrong. She really doesn’t have any issues breaking laws to get what she wants. And that’s what makes her so fun to read, and for me to write.

2) Fans have been following Sasha throughout your First Wives series. Did you always know you wanted to write her story?

No! Not at all. The first four books in the series were going to be it. However, Sasha commanded attention the first moment she walked on the page and I couldn’t get enough of her once I dreamed her up. I was almost finished writing the first book when I decided that Sasha was not going to be a bad guy. Yes, I’m a pantser, and have no real outline before I sit down to write. I think the fact that I didn’t know she was one of the good guys made her all that more believable. I don’t even think she knew she was going to be on the side of right and justice until the end of Fool Me Once.

3) While many of your novels have a mystery or suspense element, you dive head first into action and spy-games in this book. How easy was this transition for you?

It was super easy and tons of fun. In fact… I think I may have a spin off of a spin off rolling in my head with all the fun characters I played with while writing this book. Neil was one of my very first book boyfriends from the Weekday Brides. And having him come back in this book just reminded me how much fun it is to write all the action and intrigue. I hope my fans love it enough for me to continue the theme with new books.

4) When AJ is first introduced he seems pretty average—just a guy looking for answers about his sister’s death. But in reality, there is nothing average about AJ. How would you describe him?

The best picture in my mine that I can describe with all clarity is Brian O’Connor, Paul Walker (RIP), from Fast and Furious. Innocent until he isn’t.

I would say that AJ is exactly what Sasha needed to open up and accept that she too can be loved. I wanted AJ to come off as average until he wasn’t. Sasha is such a strong character that she needed someone who wasn’t going to try and overpower or overshadow her badassery (love that word). AJ does that. Yet he has some badass moments himself and that is what makes her fall for him even more. He is in no way perfect and neither is she.

5) AJ and Sasha have something in common—they are both characters with lots and lots of secrets. What makes them open up to each other? What else do they have in common?

Trust through time. That’s the best way for me to describe how they evolved in my head. There is a common respect the moment they “acquire” the other’s phone. A moment where they take notice and begin to respect the other. Honor among thieves as they say. I think the common ground that isn’t apparent until the story evolves is how they want the love of a family. AJ is much more open to it than Sasha, but they both have to fight for it in the end.

6) While you have written books with scenes in foreign countries, this story takes place internationally. Have you visited the same places as your characters? Where do you hope to take readers around the world in the future?

Yes, I have been to all the places I have written about. I was in Berlin a couple of years ago at a book signing and managed to get their by taking the train from London, through Amsterdam etc. So yes, I’m blessed to have visited these places which makes the story that much richer in my opinion. Richter, the school in the story, is from my imagination. I did some fact checking and learned that post Hitler’s Germany, military boarding schools were not welcome in the country. So I made one up and made it as great and awful as I could while still making it believable.

I have placed most of my travels, or experiences from them, in my books. And as I travel the world, I will bring my readers along…eventually.

7) Say it Again wraps up your First Wives series. What have you learned while writing these books? Will these lessons affect your writing in the future?

On a personal level, I will say that I’ve leaned to write with a great deal of personal turmoil. There have been times I’ve doubted my process and this final book in the series has told me to never do that again. I would like to always keep the door open for more books because of characters like Sasha. I love writing fast moving romantic suspense and intrigue and can see Claire, Cooper and the whole of Neil’s team as a great setting for future books. Yeah… I’m liking that idea more and more. I hope my readers do, too.

***

Say it Again Excerpt

AJ was being stood up.

It was half past noon and Sasha wasn’t there.

The Brandenburg Gate was one of the busiest tourist attractions in Berlin. The square was filled with families and walking tours led by someone holding a colored flag on a stick and talking into a microphone while a line of dazed, zombie-like visitors followed behind. Aside from those in the square learning about the history of the place, there were a dozen police officers and security guards moving around. Considering the American, British, and French embassies were all within a stone’s throw of each other, AJ was surprised there wasn’t a stronger military presence.

AJ kept scanning the crowd in search of Sex on a Stick in black leather pants and a bad attitude.

Nothing.

Left without options, AJ dialed his phone number on her phone and waited. It rang twice.

Behind him, the riff of “Bad to the Bone,” his ringtone, shot through him. He dropped his hand from his ear and saw a blonde standing three feet away, her back to him.

Slowly she turned.

“Whoa.”

Sasha stared back at him, wearing white capri pants and a bright floral top. The blonde wig overdid it but completely camouflaged her in broad daylight. She took a step closer, reached out her hand holding his cell. “Hello, AJ.”

They switched phones. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Half an hour, give or take.”

He looked her up and down. She looked like a typical American housewife, minus the kid in the stroller. “Impressive.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alone.”

AJ glanced around at the passing tourists. “Is there a reason behind the cloak-and-dagger?”

She moved closer, lowered her voice. “You’ve come here to look for your sister’s killer. You think there is some connection to Richter. Went so far as to go there asking questions. You’re stalking the local pub and hitting on, not to mention stealing from, the patrons . . .” Sasha waved her phone in the air before tucking it into her back pocket.

“I’m calling pot to kettle on that last accusation.” Although all the rest she pointed out was spot-on.

“I like to go unnoticed. If someone followed me here, they lost me the second I made the city limits and went clothes shopping.”

“What if someone followed me?”

“Then I would have seen them watching in the thirty minutes you’ve been standing around looking like a lost child without a parent.” She turned and started walking toward the gate.

AJ had no choice but to follow.

“What makes you think anyone is following either of us?”

She smiled, didn’t answer his question. “I used to help your sister on her agility training,” she told him.

The mention of his sister brought his attention back to what he should be focused on. “She wasn’t the most athletic woman.” Amelia took after their mother, who didn’t grow more than five feet five inches tall and had a sweet tooth that always kept her rounder than she’d liked. At least that’s what she’d blame when she went on one of her many diets.

“No. But she held her own most of the time. Everyone at Richter was pushed to do at least that.”

“Her coworkers said she had recently started taking morning walks before work,” AJ said.

“Which explains the police report about her being murdered in the park and tossed in the river.”

AJ stopped walking. “You looked her up.”

“Only because I knew her.”

He jumped in front of her, stopped her from moving. “Then you’ll help me.”

“There is nothing to suggest that Amelia’s death is at all linked to Richter.”

AJ looked over Sasha’s shoulder and noticed a man eating an ice cream cone and staring at Sasha. The middle-aged guy turned his attention away and took a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Maybe she . . .”

AJ felt eyes, turned to his left.

No one.

“What is it?” Sasha asked.

“The guy with the ice cream, over your left shoulder.”

She grinned, cocked her head to the side. “We did this last night.”

“Yeah, only I’m not asking you to lay a lip lock on me. Tempting as that might be.” Truth was, he’d thought about that kiss more times than he wanted to admit. “If how you’re dressed is any indication, you’re the expert on all things undercover. You tell me if you feel the weight of someone’s stare.”

Sasha paused, then looked over her shoulder. “That him?” she asked, thumbing toward the guy with the ice cream.

“Yeah.”

She grabbed AJ’s hand and walked directly toward the guy he thought for sure was watching them.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. “Excuse me?” Her voice rose a full octave, her smile was sickeningly sweet. Any accent he’d detected from her voice was gone . . . or changed.

The man with the cone turned toward them. “Yes?”

“Are you American? You look American.”

“I’m, ah . . . yeah.” The guy looked directly at AJ.

Sasha kept going. “Good. Would you mind taking our picture? I can’t get the gate behind us with a selfie.”

Again the guy offered AJ unblinking eyes. “Ah, sure.” He reached for the phone Sasha was handing him.

Next thing AJ realized, he was standing beside Sasha, her arm slipped around his waist, and he was smiling like all of the other tourists surrounding them while the man he thought was spying on them took their picture.

The stranger holding Sasha’s phone, while trying to balance his ice cream cone, looked completely out of place.

“Take a second one, just in case.” Sasha giggled.

The sound of her voice didn’t suit her. The hand on his waist, however, suited him just fine. The feel of her there, the warmth, the softness he knew she would hate if he pointed it out, felt a little too right.

“Thank you so much.”

The stranger handed her phone back with a nod. “Have fun.”

She waved. “We will . . . thanks.”

And he was gone.

AJ watched the man slip away as Sasha removed herself from AJ’s side.

He missed her warmth, instantly.

“Any self-preserving spy wouldn’t have made contact,” Sasha told him.

The two of them walked toward the center of the square. “Okay,” AJ started. “Maybe I’m a little paranoid.”

“You’re a lot paranoid.”

AJ paused in the middle of the plaza and stared at the massive horses that sat atop the gate. The image of his sister at Christmas the previous year surfaced. It was the last time he’d seen her alive. “I know Amelia’s death wasn’t random, Sasha. I feel it with every breath I take.”

She sighed. “I know you do.”

He looked at her. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you believe.”

He lowered his head, studied the salt-and-pepper colored stones beneath his feet. “You’re not going to help.” Damn it . . . he was back to ground zero.

Another heavy sigh from the woman at his side. “I will help you.”

AJ snapped his head up. “What?”

She placed a hand in the air as in warning. “Not because I think you have anything other than grief inside you. The not knowing, or never accepting the facts, can eat you alive.”

Not ground zero. He wanted to kiss her. Not that she would be receptive to that kind of thing. “Why are you doing this?” There wasn’t anything in it for her. Sasha turned away from him and focused her attention on the Brandenburg Gate.

“Because I’m not bored.”

 

About the Author

New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee has written thirty books that collectively have sold more than five million copies and been translated into more than eighteen languages. Raised in Washington State, Bybee moved to Southern California in the hope of becoming a movie star. After growing bored with waiting tables, she returned to school and became a registered nurse, spending most of her career in urban emergency rooms. She now writes full-time and has penned the Not Quite Series, the Weekday Brides Series, the Most Likely To Series, and the First Wives Series.

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One Dark Wish

By Sharon Wray

Publication Date 9/24/2019

 

Synopsis

Her life must be forfeit for his to be redeemed

Historian Sarah Munro is not used to being shot at, but that’s just what happens while she’s poking around cemeteries on Georgia’s Isle of Grace, searching for the key to a centuries-old cipher. Her quest has unwittingly drawn the attention of two deadly enemies intent on destroying each other—and anyone who gets in their way.

Ex–Green Beret Major Nate Walker is on a mission of his own: to restore the honor of his men. To do that, he is required to stop Sarah—or one of his own men will die. Caught in the middle of a deadly rivalry, Nate can’t afford to trust the woman standing in his way. But his heart says he can’t afford not to…

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Deadly Force series

Every Deep Desire (Book 1)

One Dark Wish (Book 2)

 

Praise for Every Deep Desire

“Everything I love in romantic suspense…Twisty plots, fantastic characters, and pitch-perfect pacing. Fabulous!”—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author

“Excellent…darkly compelling.”—RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars

“Phenomenal!… Filled with action and passion that will leave you breathless.”—Joyfully Reviewed

“Intriguing, with steamy romance and forbidden love… You will not be able to turn the pages fast enough!”—Fresh Fiction

 

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

“The man bowed.” Sarah Munro hiked her straw bag higher on her shoulder and followed the officer down the Savannah Police Department’s hallway. He held a cell phone to his ear, and she yanked his arm. “And a woman died tonight.”

He nodded, but his deep frown, as well as his dismissive wave, told her he wasn’t too concerned about the murder. Or the fact that Sarah had found the body in the Savannah Preservation Office’s courtyard fountain.

Was a death in the historic district so commonplace that it didn’t warrant its own investigator? Frustrated, she followed him around the corner toward the second-floor landing when her cell phone buzzed. A text from her father. Where are you?

She halted near the stairs, her fingers hovering over the phone’s keyboard. She debated how much to tell him. Then again, he probably already knew.

She texted, I’ll be home soon. 

Someone bumped her as they passed, and she moved closer to the vending machine that carried only rows of Coke cans. Her officer stood nearby, talking on the phone, while federal, state, and local LEOs congregated in groups around the open area. Her father had told her that the city had numerous task forces, all trying to combat the rising crime rate. She and her dad had returned to Savannah nine months ago, and in that short time, they’d both noticed the uptick in drug use and violence.

It’s dark. I’ll come get you, her father texted back.

                No. Not only did she not want her father worrying about her, he wasn’t supposed to drive. I’m leaving soon. Drink your tea. 

I hate that tea. It tastes like sh*t.

Despite the ache in her chest, she smiled. Yes, he hated the tea. Yet it was the only thing that helped with his recurring seizures. And if he thought that being even more cranky than usual meant she’d ease up on the herbal leaves, he was wrong. I don’t care. Drink it. 

She glanced at her officer—who was still on his phone—and debated leaving. If the cops wanted her statement, they knew where she worked. The same place where a woman had been murdered. “I’m leaving, Officer. But I know what I saw.”

He ignored her, and she turned toward the stairs.

“Sarah?” A male voice cut through the station’s din, ringing phones, and metal chairs scraping along seventy-year-old linoleum.

She blinked one man into focus. Tall, broad shoulders, long blond hair tied at the base of his neck, angular face, and deep, ocean-green eyes. The kind a girl could lose herself in. “Nate?”

Was that her breathy voice? She swallowed, and a warm flush rose from her neck to her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why, but since meeting Nate Walker yesterday, she’d felt shaky and incoherent and…restless.

            Does he know what I did to his map? 

“I heard what happened.” He touched her arm before shoving both hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His biker jacket stretched across his shoulders, the black leather rustling with the movement. “Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t hurt.” She stared at the red-and-white vending machine and blinked. Daughters of cops didn’t cry. They endured. “This is my fault, Nate. I’d asked my assistant to do some research for me. I had no idea she was staying late.”

“This isn’t your fault.” He leaned in closer, the scar on his cheek appearing deeper and more ragged. His pine-scented aftershave tickled her nose. “I’m sorry.”

She wiped her palms on her chiffon skirt, relieved he didn’t seem to realize she’d secretly photographed the seventeenth-century map he’d brought to the preservation office for her to look at. The map included the only layout she’d ever seen of the remote, colonial-era Cemetery of Lost Children on the Isle of Grace. Even though the property’s owner—and Nate himself—had both told her to stay away, she was determined to visit as soon as possible.

She was a terrible person. “My dad was a police chief in Boston, so unfortunately I’m used to things like this. I’d just hoped Savannah was safer.”

“Nate?” A man built like a wrestler with long, black, braided hair yelled from the lobby on the first floor. “We gotta go, man.”

Nate ignored him and kept his attention on her mouth. “I couldn’t help but overhear. What did you see?”

She licked her lips. “You’d never believe me.” She wasn’t sure she believed it herself. Loud voices downstairs distracted her. Two military policemen in full uniform and carrying weapons had entered the station. “That’s odd. What do you think they want?”

Nate took her hand and led her into a nearby alcove. “What did you see?”

She pressed her hands against his chest. His heart pounded, and he radiated heat like an engine revving. “What are you doing?”

“Nate?” The man with the braid ran up the stairs. “Time to go. Now.”

“Please, Sarah. Tell me.”

The MPs were right behind Nate’s buddy.

“In the shadows, I saw a man bow.”

She heard Nate’s sharp inhale right before he kissed her, his gentle hands on her shoulders at odds with his demanding lips. His warmth wrapped her in an erotic haze and he tasted like mint and summer breezes.

Had she moaned? Good golly Moses. 

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Nate broke off the kiss because the man with the braid had taken his arm and dragged him down the hallway to the emergency exit, the MPs on their heels. Chills scurried along her arms, and she wrapped her sweater around herself. She touched her swollen lips, still stunned. Still tasting his peppermint mouthwash. Still inhaling his scent that reminded her of freshly cut grass and pine trees.

Nate glanced at her before he hit the metal exit and disappeared. The door slammed shut with a loud reverb. Apparently, he’d locked it as well. When the MPs couldn’t force it open, they turned and ran past her, one of them brushing her skirt as they headed toward the stairs.

            What do MPs want with Nate Walker? 

“Miss Munro?” The officer who’d been ignoring her touched her elbow. “I’m ready for your statement.”

She pulled away, her attention on the MPs racing out the front doors. She was a woman who sought the truth in both her professional and personal life. But tonight’s revelation was more than a cheap magazine tell-all. It was an earth-shattering event that stripped away the delusions she’d been carrying her entire adult life. One delusion in particular: when Nate’s lips had touched hers, she discovered she’d never truly understood what it meant to be kissed.

“Ma’am?”

She nodded. She’d give her statement. Then go home to her father. But as she followed the officer into an interrogation room, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever see Nate again. No. If she was being honest with herself, which she always tried to be, she wondered if she’d ever kiss Nate again.

***

Excerpted from One Dark Wish by Sharon Wray. © 2019 by Sharon Wray. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

Sharon Wray is a librarian/archivist who studied dress design in the couture houses of Paris and now writes stories of adventure, suspense, and love. She’s a three-time Daphne du Maurier® winner and an eight-time RWA Golden Heart® Finalist. Visit her online at sharonwray.com. Sharon lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, teenage twins, and Donut the Family Dog.

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Cowboy Christmas Homecoming

By June Faver

Publication Date 9/24/2019

 

Synopsis

This cowboy’s finally coming home for Christmas

Zach Garrett is home from war, haunted by PTSD, trying to fit in to what has become an alien world. With the holidays fast approaching, his uncle Big Jim Garrett offers him a place on the family ranch. Zach isn’t sure he’s up for a noisy, boisterous Garrett Christmas…until he meets beautiful Stephanie Gale, and all his protests go up in flames.

Firefighter and EMT Stephanie Gale is ready for anything. She’s got her life under control…until she locks eyes with Zack and realizes her heart’s in a whole new kind of danger. But with a little help from Zack’s long-lost army dog, maybe he and Stephanie will be able to make this a Christmas of new beginnings after all.

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Dark Horse Cowboys series

Do or Die Cowboy (Book 1)

Hot Target Cowboy (Book 2)

When to Call a Cowboy (Book 3)

Cowboy Christmas Gold (Book 4)

 

Praise for Do or Die Cowboy

“Guaranteed melt-your-heart romance.”—Romancing the Book

“Heartwarming…a very entertaining story with some surprises.”—Harlequin Junkie

 

Excerpt

 

Stephanie Gayle looked at the check. “Oh, Big Jim. This is so generous. You’re going to make sure the children have a nice Christmas.”

Big Jim shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for those poor kids.” He looked around the room, his gaze falling on a little red-haired girl and a blonde girl, maybe a little older. “I think all children need to be loved.”

“I feel the same way.”

Big Jim’s face morphed from sentimental to grim. “How are those two kids you saved? The ones whose mother got killed.”

Stephanie tried to control the tremor in her voice. “They—they’re still at the children’s center. They don’t have any family members willing to take them in.”

“Well, that’s a damned shame.”

She nodded. “Rafe Neeley, the step-father…He’s been arraigned and bound over for trial.” The image of Rafe’s angry face as he screamed threats made her shudder.

“Good,” Big Jim pronounced. “I hope that sumbitch gets what’s coming to him. I can’t imagine a man hurting a woman or a child…much less murdering the woman you’re married to.”

Stephanie’s throat tightened. “Hope they put him away for a hundred years. The children…they witnessed their mother being murdered. They—they were so traumatized.”

Big Jim let out a snort and reached in the back pocket of his Wranglers. He produced a worn leather billfold, and pulled out a couple of hundred dollar bills.

“Here ya’ go. Buy them two angels a little something special…and let me know what happens to them. I hope they wind up with some good family.”

She swallowed hard. “Thanks, Big Jim. I’ll find something special for them.” The words ‘some good family’ were stuck in her craw.

“Come have a cup of coffee, Stephanie.” Big Jim motioned her into the kitchen.

Stephanie took a seat at the counter while Big Jim filled two cups with coffee. He set one in front of her and leaned on the other side of the counter.

This was where Colt’s voice could be heard from the front of the house. “Hello! Where is everyone? I brought my brother from another mother.”

“Back here,” Big Jim called.

Misty and Mark led the way, both grinning. “We got him,” Mark announced.

Colton came next, followed by a tall, muscular man wearing camouflage gear. This guy appeared to be on edge, like he’d just been plucked from a battle ground.

His gaze took in the entire interior and everyone in the large kitchen. When he locked eyes with Stephanie, she felt a jolt like an electric shock. He was a Garrett.

It was the Garrett eyes. Those amazing, smokey turquoise eyes, ringed with black lashes. They held her in thrall for a moment before releasing her.

Big Jim let out a yelp. “Zachery Garrett! Come here, boy!” Big Jim held out a hand, and when the newcomer reached for it, Big Jim dragged him closer and clasped him in a man hug. “Dang! It’s been a long time…and look how you’ve grown.”

“Yes, sir. It’s been forever.”

Big Jim pounded him on the back, and then pulled back to look at him. “I’m glad you’re here, son. We all are. Just in time for Christmas.”

“Glad to be here, sir.” His gaze flicked back to Stephanie.

“Where are my manners?” Big Jim asked. “This fine young man is my nephew, Zach Garrett. He’s just been discharged from the US Army.”

Stephanie smiled. Nephew, huh? Garrett through and through.

Big Jim gestured toward her. “And this lovely young lady is Stephanie Gayle. Believe it or not, she’s a firefighter.”

Stephanie gave a one-sided grin and rolled her eyes. “Why do people always find it difficult to think of me as a firefighter?”

“Because we always think of firefighters as big burly men,” Misty said. “One has to see you in action to know what a bad ass you are.”

This caused a round of laughter, all except this Zach guy. He just continued to stare at her as though he was committing her to memory, molecule-by-molecule. It was unsettling, to say the least, but there was something else…something simmering just below the surface.

Stephanie swallowed hard, something that felt like a roll of razor wire at the back of her throat. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated by his scrutiny. Who is this guy, anyway?

“Good to meet you, ma’am,” Zach said.

Ma’am? She nodded and offered a hand, which he wrapped with a large, baseball mitt size paw that was warm and very rough.

Colton slapped Zach on the shoulder. “C’mon, bro. Let’s get you settled in.” Colt shouldered the huge duffle bag and headed off toward the room he planned to settle Zach into.

Zach hit her with his laser beam eyes again, gave a little nod, before turning to follow his cousin. Misty and Mark trailed after them.

“He’s had a rough time,” Big Jim said. “My brother died while Zach was deployed so he never got to say goodbye to his father.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Stephanie said.

“He’s a good boy. He’s going to be just fine.”

Stephanie agreed. Fine. That pretty much summed up the hottest guy she had laid eyes on in a long time…and she worked with the hottest men in the county.

***
Excerpted from Cowboy Christmas Homecoming by June Faver. © 2019 by June Faver. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

About the Author

June Faver loves Texas, from the Gulf coast to the panhandle, from the Mexican border to the Piney Woods. Her novels embrace the heart and soul of the state and the larger-than-life Texans who romp across her pages. A former teacher and healthcare professional, she lives and writes in the Texas Hill Country.

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Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Synopsis

Mikala Daly has visions.

Years before she was born, her father, detective Jack Daly, married into a family rumored to have a powerful sixth sense. Jack didn’t believe in their abilities until that gift—curse—befell his daughter.

Now their normal, mundane lives spiral into mayhem as Mikala relays her dreams to him about three missing boys. Before Mikala, before Jack was a detective, Mikala’s aunt Rachel partook in a government program for children who had a sixth sense. Now, years later, the participants of that program seem to have a connection to the missing boys. Who’s taken them and—

Why?

 

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Excerpt

Chapter 1 Jack

He felt her eyes on him before she spoke.

“Daddy?”

Her breath warmed his cheek. She stood so close remnants of last night’s snack—her mom’s favorite, watermelon gumdrops—mingled with mint toothpaste and reminded him she was a little Lisa, only fearless.

He lie still. Held the sweet smell for a moment and waited for the familiar poke. The prod came. One miniature finger pecking three times, knocking at his shoulder.

“Daddy? Are you in there?”

He loved that she pictured him inside his own head. Yet, he hated it, too.

“Yes, Mikala.” He stretched his legs, careful not to wake Lisa. “I’m in here.”

“Marky is close now.”

His eyes snapped open.

“How close, sweet pea?”

“In my room.”

Jack Daly sat up and swung his legs over the bed, feeling for his shorts on the floor with his toes. He placed his feet in the leg holes, stood, and pulled them over his boxers.

“I can see the movie better,” she said lowly, shuffling her pink, puppy slippers backward to give him room.

“Quiet, darling, let’s not wake Mommy,” he whispered, but the request was in vain. The covers rustled as Lisa rolled over. She tugged a pillow over her head to muffle their words. She didn’t approve of their morning chats.

“Okay,” Mikala whispered softly from the doorway. A ray of moonlight cheated its way through the corner of a window blind and fell faintly on her eager form.

She stood hands raised, fingers wiggling.

He whisked her up in his arms, her one-size-too-big flannelled pajamas bunching over wiry arms and legs, and her long blond locks cascading over tiny shoulders. He turned and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. When he released his hand, the doorknob clunked to the floor, and the door drifted ajar.

“Damn it,” he whispered, tucking Mikala close as he leant to look for the handle. “Oops, sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

Normally, he refrained from swearing around the kids, but his procrastination had thrust him into a parental slip of the tongue. Shirking home-upkeep chores naturally accompanied tough work cases. Plus he hated odd jobs. Twirling a screwdriver and dipping a paint brush had never been his forte. He hoped the knob-less door didn’t remind Lisa he hadn’t patched the wall in the boy’s bedroom or touched up the kitchen backsplash. Their homey little tri-level needed a makeover.

For lack of vision, he swirled one foot over the hall carpeting until he felt the knob against his foot, and then he kicked the nuisance to the side and glanced down the hall toward the fluorescent yellow lights of the cartoon clock in Mikala’s bedroom. 4:44. The time was always about the same when the dreams called her from the night. His fingers found the hall light switch, and their world lit up.

“Let’s go downstairs, so we don’t wake your brothers.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“We don’t have time for coffee.”

He smiled. She knew the routine. Milk and coffee in their favorite mugs at the kitchen counter. He shouldn’t be amused. He knew what was coming, but despite all, her youthful wisdom still grabbed him.

“Okay, sweetie.” He sat down at the top of the staircase, and her little frame collapsed into his lap. One of her arms landed squarely around his shoulder. “You said Marky is in your room?”

“Yes, he played the movie, bigger.”

Her voice tickled his eardrums. He loved its young, high-pitched tone that hadn’t kept time with her six years. He savored the youthful shrill, knowing when she grew older, like Lisa, the years would age her sweet voice, and life would cloud her innocent interpretation of the dreams.

He yawned and thread the thick, caramel-colored hair garnishing his forehead with his fingers, smoothing an annoying clump to the side. The tuft bounced back defiantly. He frowned. “Can you see the other little boy, yet?”

“Yes, but I didn’t look at his face. I wanted to wait. So I am safe with you.”

“You’re safe, sweet pea.”

“I’m scared.” Her fingernails pressed into the skin on his shoulder.

“Scared?”

Her dreams seldom frightened her. He could lead her away from the bad parts, talk her around the murder, so she didn’t experience the horror. He wasn’t completely sure about all this. Her psychologist said she didn’t seem damaged in the least from her nightmares, but then they hadn’t been completely truthful about everything. These weren’t really nightmares. “Why? You aren’t normally afraid.”

“Because I recognize the room in the movie.”

He turned to face her. “It’s familiar?” He scratched an itch at the back of his neck with his free hand.

She nodded.

“What do you recognize about it?”

“It’s Danny’s room.”

He stopped breathing.

Doubting his daughter’s words had long escaped him. Since she first explained about the movies—dreaming wide awake, she called the phenomena—their accuracy had dissolved any disbelief. But this couldn’t be. She must be wrong this time. Marky, the boy in her dreams, relayed movies of strangers. Visions that remarkably resembled abductions in their hometown.

Years before, he merely suspected she inherited her mother’s gift. Now, he knew. She was Lisa’s replica. The one difference? Mikala was strong willed like her aunt Rachel, grounded at age six. Lisa couldn’t handle the dreams. Mikala could more than handle them. Like a miniature newscaster, she announced each scene to him until she came too close to the scary parts, and he nudged her by them.

An investigator promoted from the police force three years ago, the fact his own daughter had a sixth sense was anything but coincidental. After all, his occupation and this curse of a trait so alive in his in-law’s family is what had led him to Lisa.

But this was different. Now the gift—curse—befell his daughter.

“Danny? As in your cousin Danny?”

“Yes. Can I close my eyes now?” She poked her chin out and shut her eyes before he responded.

“Sure, sweetie, but I think you’re confused.”

“No, I’m not confused.” She scrunched her lids tighter. “I can see Danny’s Superman bed.”

“There are lots of Superman beds.” He kept his arms around her still while she concentrated. As if absence of movement could clarify her vision, erase his nephew from her mind’s view.

“No, it’s Danny’s. I can see the three Batman stickers. The ones Aunt Janice yelled at him for putting on his bed.”

This wasn’t normal. Typically, she described streets, houses, faces of strangers, never people or places she knew. Two months ago, after Marky Blakley turned up missing, she’d described the boy’s lisp to perfection. Said he came to her. Showed her the scar on his finger where the spokes of a neighbor boy’s tricycle had cut a piece off—a bit of information never released by the department. Then Marky began showing her movies of other little boys. In her head. Scenes of an abductor targeting children of single mothers flooded her mind.

But this couldn’t be. This was Danny, his sister’s son.

“The bad man broke the glass of Danny’s window and then held up the white washcloth—the sleepy cloth.”

Chloroform.

“Mikala, look at the boy in the bed, his face. You’re confused.”

She was quiet, still, her expression soft. Lip relaxed against lip. Then her eyes opened.

“He can see me.”

At first, because of her casualness, he thought he’d surely heard her wrong.

“Who can see you?”

“The bad man.”

His calmness faded to confusion. He tightened his eyebrows. Premonitions, they called these episodes. His wife experienced them, now his daughter. But they were never interactive.

“What do you mean he can see you?”

“He said my name. He has a guide.”

“A guide?”

“You know, Daddy, someone who shows him movies. He knows who I am.”

“No, Mikala, the bad man does not know who you are.”

“Yes, he does, Daddy.” For the first time, he heard panic in her voice. “That’s the reason he is at Danny’s house.”

A creak in the floor behind him grabbed his attention, and he turned his head. Lisa darted from the bedroom, ripped Mikala from his arms, and handed him something in her place.

“I told you not to allow this. I said you were playing with fire.”

“Lisa, she’s wrong. He can’t see her.”

“Yes, he can, Daddy.”

“No, he can’t, Mikala.” He lowered his voice to sound stern.

“Yes—yes he can. He’s with Danny right now. Run Daddy. Get Danny!”

“Go.” Lisa screamed so loud one of the boys in the next room woke crying.

Jack looked down at his lap—at the ratty sneakers Lisa had placed there. For the moment it took him to put them on, he wondered if he should run or drive the block and a half to his sister’s house. He decided, descended the stairs, and bounded out the front door bare-chested, leaving Lisa behind switching on lights and talking into the scanner. She would call for a cruiser to go to Janice’s house, to her own house. But Mikala was wrong about Danny. She had to be. He was going to be in a heap of trouble with the chief later.

He ran down the driveway and disappeared into the black night within seconds. His legs turned over like an Olympic sprinter’s, his breath labored, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. He rounded Third Street and nearly slipped in the wet grass on Nevada Drive but caught himself. He saw her house in the distance. Janice, four months separated from her husband, was alone there with her son. Alone like the others. Three single mothers of three abducted little boys.

His mind raced. The police would be at his house in two minutes. At Janice’s in three. They protected each other’s families.

When he was four houses away, he began screaming his sister’s name. Trying to scare anyone off. Make the bad man drop the child? Leave without the child? He didn’t know why he screamed. By the time his feet hit her driveway her light had turned on. The front bedroom window opened.

“Jack?” Janice’s voice slithered through the screen.

He passed her window and ran toward the back of the house, toward Danny’s room. He could see broken glass on the ground shimmering with the reflection of a street light.

Dear God, no, he thought. It couldn’t be. These abductions could not have hit his family.

“Danny,” he yelled.

When he reached his nephew’s window, the whites of Danny’s two little eyes glowed in the dark room. He was there. Standing. Looking out the bare, open window back at him. Waiting.

“Hi, Uncle Jack,” Danny said, his little face peeking over the window ledge, his stuffed bear, Tony, nudged under his chin.

Jack leaned hands on house and huffed, trying to catch his breath. Trying to decipher Danny was okay. Alive. Mikala was wrong.

“Thank God, thank God,” he uttered out loud. When he caught his breath, he gazed up at his nephew.

That’s when horror seized him. Above Danny’s little face, secured on the broken glass, a scribbling on Christian stationary paralyzed him. It was the abductor’s fourth message, but the first to make Jack’s blood circulate like an electrical current. The words he read flowed over his lips in a whisper, expelled with terrifying breath.

“One mulligan for Mikala.”

 

Interview with CJ Zahner

About the Author

CJ Zahner is a digital-book hoarder, lover of can’t-put-down books, and the author of The Suicide Gene (Wild Rose Press) and Dream Wide Awake (Kindle Direct). She has two more novels, Within the Setting Sun and The Dream Snatchers, to be released in 2019.  In 2015 after her only sibling was diagnosed with early-onset dementia, Zahner walked away from a full-time grant writing and part-time freelance writing job to become a novelist. She hopes to read, write novels, and run happily ever after…

CJ Zahner is a digital-book hoarder, lover of can’t-put-down books, and the author of Dream Wide Awake and The Suicide Gene. She has three more novels pending, Project Dream, Within the Setting Sun, and The Dream Snatchers.  Writing novels since 2015, that year her only sibling was diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and Zahner walked away from her full-time grant writing and part-time freelance writing job to follow her dream of becoming a novelist. She hopes to read, write, and run happily ever after…

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Synopsis

What happened to the kids in the desert?

In 2002, the CIA forced several teenagers out of detention centers and into a National Security Test Program called Project Dream. Teens selected had two characteristics: physical superiority and a sixth sense.

When the awkward, unpopular, and destitute Izzy Jimenez is caught stealing clothes, authorities enroll her in the program for two reasons: Izzy swims like a fish—and she sees angels.

There she studies and works hard to perfect her clairvoyance hoping authorities will allow her to go home. But when she and the other students master remote viewing and produce results that stun White House officials, additional children—good kids from normal American families—are recruited. Izzy’s hope of going home dwindles.

Not until the striking, charismatic Rachel Callahan arrives and befriends Izzy does her life become bearable.

Project Dream is a coming-of-age story of teenagers thrown into the most unusual circumstances. Each struggle to survive their time in the desert with the goal of getting out and going home, but—can any of them really go home?

 

 

 

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Excerpt

Izzy slid back onto the pew, wondering how she would approach the sad woman.
Revealing the messages the white people relayed always perplexed her. How did she tell someone a ghost followed them around? And more importantly, how did she do that without alarming Mama? She wished her Belo Jimenez had given his gift—curse—of seeing angels to Enrique, not her.

“The gift skipped a generation and fell to you, Izzy,” he once said.

“But Belo, I don’t want your darn-blasted gift.”

Her grandfather had set one long finger against her lips to quiet her. “Listen to the angels, but be careful who you tell. They’ll come for you.”

“Who will come for me?”

Belo had scared the daylights out of her.

“Who?” she asked over and over, but Belo would never respond, which made her worry until hives forced their way out of her skin. Every time she asked, he set a finger against his lips, closed his eyes, and shook his head. So Izzy was darn careful who she told.

She gazed toward the sad woman wearing the simple clothes. The lady had no jewelry and wore no makeup. She looked harmless. Was it safe to tell her?

The woman made the sign of the cross, kissed her rosary beads, and slid back onto the pew to gather her things. The spirit above her clasped her hands and begged.

Izzy sprung onto the kneeler again.

“Mama, may I get a drink of water?”

Her mother leaned toward her, whispering, “Yes, but quickly.”

Izzy darted toward the door; the woman was coming. She stepped into the hall and rushed to the drinking fountain. She sipped water, listening for footsteps.

When the woman neared, Izzy turned. “Hello.”

“Hello.” The woman nodded and walked by.

Izzy closed her eyes and scratched her forehead. If only she had been born with a flowing tongue like Belo said of Enrique.

“Ma’am.” She couldn’t open her eyes when she heard the lady turn. “Did your mother die?”

Oh, that sounded horrible. Why had she asked such a thing? She wasn’t even sure the white spirit was her mother.

“Of lung cancer?” Izzy opened her eyes. “She smoked, right?”

The lady stared but didn’t say a word.

“She says you shouldn’t go to New York City.”

The lady’s face wrinkled. “What?” She sounded cross.

“I’m sorry. It’s—well.” Izzy scratched her nose. She might be breaking into hives. “I saw this lady by you and she kept slashing the letters NYC like you shouldn’t go there and she wouldn’t stop, so I thought I better tell you. She kept doing it over and over and, well, I know she doesn’t want you to go to New York City.”

The woman took a step toward Izzy. The wrinkles melted from her face. “I do have a trip scheduled to New York. Next week. For a conference.”

Goosebumps crawled over Izzy’s skin. Whenever people, real human beings, confirmed what the white people told her, chills spread through her.

The lady stood still, waiting for Izzy to say more.

Izzy scratched and the lady stared.

“What was her name?”

“What?”

“My mother. What was my mother’s name?”

The woman appeared hopeful. She held her breath, waiting. But Izzy didn’t know the woman’s name. She had difficulty hearing the white people. Usually, they simply gave signs.

Yes, signs.

“Oh.” Izzy held a finger up. She remembered the sign. “Rose? Is your mother’s name Rose?”

The chapel door opened behind Izzy, and she heard her mother’s voice. “Izzy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Mama.” Izzy sidled down the hall toward her mother.

“I hope she wasn’t bothering you.”

The woman said nothing. She stared at the two of them, a perplexed expression tainting her face. After a time, she left the building without saying more.

“Izzy,” Mama barked. “What were you talking to that woman about?”

“I only said hello to her, Mama.”

Her mother gazed at her skeptically. “Remember what Belo said. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“I didn’t, Mama. I promise.”

“Go collect your things. Your brother called. It’s time to pick him up.”

Izzy hurried back into the chapel and grabbed her coat, missal, and satchel. She smiled and waved goodbye to Jean as she exited.

Eight days later, the World Trade Centers collapsed. Izzy prayed the woman from the chapel had not been inside. She watched for her in church on Sunday and at the chapel during the week when she and Mama went to pray for the people who had died, but Izzy didn’t see the woman.

Three weeks after September 11th, Izzy and her mother visited the chapel on a Sunday evening once again. The lady was sitting in the pew next to the woman named Jean. When Izzy walked in, she heard the lady say, “That’s her. That’s the girl.”

“That’s Isabelle Jimenez,” Jean said.

The woman stood and rushed toward Izzy. Jean followed.

“Mrs. Jimenez?” The lady glanced at Izzy’s mother.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Jimenez, your daughter saved my life.”

Izzy’s mother made her spend the next two Saturday afternoons praying in church. But it was too late. Saving that woman’s life would prove Belo right.

They would come for her.

 

About the Author

CJ Zahner is a digital-book hoarder, lover of can’t-put-down books, and the author of The Suicide Gene (Wild Rose Press) and Dream Wide Awake (Kindle Direct). She has two more novels, Within the Setting Sun and The Dream Snatchers, to be released in 2019.  In 2015 after her only sibling was diagnosed with early-onset dementia, Zahner walked away from a full-time grant writing and part-time freelance writing job to become a novelist. She hopes to read, write novels, and run happily ever after…

CJ Zahner is a digital-book hoarder, lover of can’t-put-down books, and the author of Dream Wide Awake and The Suicide Gene. She has three more novels pending, Project Dream, Within the Setting Sun, and The Dream Snatchers.  Writing novels since 2015, that year her only sibling was diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and Zahner walked away from her full-time grant writing and part-time freelance writing job to follow her dream of becoming a novelist. She hopes to read, write, and run happily ever after…

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Title: Liars & Lunatics in Goose Pimple Junction
Author: Amy Metz
Genre: Cozy mystery
Series: Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries, book 5
Publisher: Southern Ink Press
September 1, 2019 (paperback)
September 19, 2019 (Kindle)

 

Synopsis

It’s election season, and there’s a new candidate in town. Virgil Pepper is determined to take the job from Goose Pimple Junction’s long-time mayor. Virgil is a charming and charismatic candidate but someone who will say anything (and mean none of it) to get what he wants. Three things top his list: to become mayor, to acquire Jackson Wright’s land, and to make Caledonia Culpepper one of his many conquests.

Wynona Baxter is back, and she’s a new woman. Now Daisy has a new identity, new life, and new business-ironically named Killer Cupcakes. But the town soon finds out that isn’t the only kind of killer in town. Book five of the Goose Pimple Junction mystery series combines political hijinks, delicious cupcakes, Goose Juice moonshine, the ups and downs of finding true love, and, of course, murder.

It is said that “It’s a basic truth of the human condition that everybody lies. The only variable is about what.” Lying in politics, lying for personal and professional gain, lying about an identity . . . What are the folks of Goose Pimple Junction willing to lie for . . . and what are they willing to die for?

 

Excerpt

Prologue

He entered the territory of lies without a passport for return.

 –Graham Greene

 

Caledonia was resplendent in a hot pink sweater and black slacks as she walked into Slick & Junebug’s Diner after getting her boys, Pickle—a high school senior—off to work and Peanut—a sixth grader—off to a friend’s house. It was her habit to stop in every morning before she went to open up the dress shop she owned. Her day didn’t really get started until she’d had her morning gossip and cup of coffee. This morning, the place was buzzing. With a smile and a wave, she scooted past the regulars­—two old men, Clive and Earl—at their usual place at the counter and joined her best friend, Paprika Parker, in a window booth. They liked that spot so they could see what was going on in the town square while they drank their coffee and talked about town happenings.

Paprika could read Caledonia like a book. “What’s wrong?”

“No good morning? You’re just gonna jump right in?” Caledonia uprighted her coffee cup on its saucer.

“Might as well. I can see something’s up.”

“Is it that obvious?” Caledonia’s brow furrowed.

“Stop frowning. You’ll form wrinkles. And yes, to me it’s that obvious. Now for the last time, out with it.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. All right.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Virgil made another play for me last night.”

“After all you’ve done to make it clear there will never be anything between you again? Why doesn’t the man ever give up?”

Caledonia’s hand went up to stop her friend. “It’s a power play. He wants to be the dump-er instead of the dump-ee. Don’t worry. I didn’t give in. What I did give him was what for. You woulda been proud of me, Spice Girl.” Caledonia had long ago given the nickname to her friend, even though she was always tempted to call her Pippi because she resembled an adult Pippi Longstocking. Caledonia hunched her shoulders and leaned in, slightly sheepish but a touch defiant. She cupped her hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “I hauled off and whacked him over the head with a tennis racket.”

Paprika sat up straight, her eyes bugging out behind her glasses. “You did not.”

“I most certainly did. Admittedly, it was a reflexive action, but upon reflection I’m glad I did it. Say, it didn’t by any chance rain last night, did it?” Caledonia wound some of her long blonde hair around a finger.

“Not that I’m aware. What do you mean a reflexive action?”

“I’d told him to take a hike and walked away from him. When he came up behind me and grabbed my left arm, my right arm reacted. I tell you what, he dropped like a bag of flour.”

Paprika broke out in a huge grin. “I wish I’d been there to see that.”

The women were laughing when owner, waitress, and half namesake of the diner, Junebug Calloway, came to the table. She had a crease in her septuagenarian forehead.

“Junebug, don’t do that. It’ll make your forehead permanently wrinkled.” Caledonia held out her coffee cup.

“I just thought you’d be a might subdued this morning, Caledonia, what with the news and all. I know that man did you wrong, but laughing at a time like this? I’m a might surprised is all.” She finished filling the cup and set the pot on the table, hands on her hips.

The two women exchanged bewildered looks before directing their confusion toward Junebug. “What news?” they asked simultaneously.

Junebug’s mouth dropped open, and she got a gleam in her eye. She loved to be the first one to pass on a bit of gossip. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

Again, both women were in sync. “Heard what?”

“‘Bout Virgil.”

The women stared at her blankly.

“He got stamped ‘return to sender.’”

“Return to sender?” Caledonia’s hand went to her throat. “You don’t mean . . . ”

Junebug nodded. “I do mean. He’s picking turnips with a stepladder now.”

Caledonia’s head bobbed from side to side. “That’s ridiculous. I just saw him yesterday afternoon.”

“You didn’t conk him over the head, did you?” Junebug chuckled but stopped when she saw the look that passed between the women.

“What do you mean, Junebug?” Caledonia’s mouth had gone dry.

“Well, somebody did. Bopped him on that thick noggin of his. Now they’re basting that turkey in formaldehyde.” As an afterthought, she added, “May he rest in peace.”

Junebug’s eyes went from woman to woman. “Listen, I hate to deliver bad news and run, but I’m in the weeds. Look at this crowd. Nothing like a good murder to bring out the townsfolk.” She held up a finger to a man two booths away. “Be right there, Chet.” Returning her eyes to Caledonia, she said, “Anything besides coffee today, ladies?”

Caledonia shook her head with a vacant expression on her face.

“Bring us two chocolate iced donuts, Junebug,” Paprika said.

Junebug nodded. “It looks like y’all could use a pick-me-up. Two life preservers, coming up.”

When Junebug left, the women stared at each other, both instinctively closing their mouths when they saw the other’s wide open. Caledonia swallowed hard. Paprika covered her mouth with her hand.

Finally, Caledonia leaned in and whispered, “You don’t think I killed him, do you?” Sitting back, she answered her own question, “I killed him. I sent the man to be with Jesus.”

“Now, Caledonia, don’t go getting ahead of yourself. And I doubt it’s Jesus he’s keeping company with if you ask me.”

“You heard her. Someone conked him over the head. That someone was me.” Caledonia poked her chest with a finger. “I offed a man. I’m a stone-cold killer. What will happen to the children?”

Paprika grabbed her friend’s hand. “Hush it. Not another word until we find out more. And talk to a lawyer.”

“I don’t know if a lawyer will talk to me. After all, I just killed my last one.”

“Caledonia Culpepper, get ahold of yourself.”

Caledonia stared blankly and muttered, “You take care of the boys until Mother can get here.”

“Take care of the boys? What are you talking about?”

Caledonia slid out of the booth.

“Where are you going?”

“I reckon to jail.” She walked to the counter where Johnny Butterfield, the chief of police, sat. Offering him her wrists, she said, “Lock me up, Chief. I’m a murderer.”

 

About the Author

Amy Metz is the author of the Goose Pimple Junction mystery series. She is a former first grade teacher and the mother of two grown sons. When not writing, enjoying her family, or surfing Pinterest and Facebook, Amy can usually be found with a mixing spoon, camera, or book in one hand and a glass of sweet tea in the other. Amy loves unique Southern phrases, cupcakes, and a good mystery. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky.

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The Price of Grace

By Diana Muñoz Stewart

Publication Date 9/24/2019

 

Synopsis

Who can you trust

When family, truth, and love are all on the line?

 Gracie Parish knows the true cost of trust. Rescued as a child by the infamous Parish family, she became a member of their covert sisterhood of vigilantes. Gracie saw her most precious relationships destroyed by secrecy. She learned long ago to protect her heart as well as her family’s secrets.

Special Agent Leif “Dusty” McAllister will do anything to uncover the truth about the Parish family’s covert operations. Dusty knows Gracie is his ticket in. He’ll use everything he’s got—fair, unfair, and just plain wrong—to break through her defenses. But the more he gets to know Gracie and her family’s mission, the harder he starts to fall. Neither one is sure they’ll get out of this with their lives—or their hearts—intact.

 

 

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Black Ops Confidential series

I Am Justice (Book 1)

The Price of Grace (Book 2)

The Cost of Honor (Book 3)

 

Readers are raving about the Black Ops Confidential series

“Witty, dangerous, fun, and smoking hot.”  — CINDY DEES, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author for I Am Justice

“A high-octane…satisfying roller-coaster ride. Stewart’s talent shines.”—Publishers Weekly for The Price of Grace

“Spellbinding, sizzling. Unsurpassed romantic suspense.”—Patricia Gussin, New York Times bestselling author for I Am Justice

 

Excerpt

Dusty entered the packed club. Not an empty seat at the bar. Or an empty space around it. People pushed in hard.

Behind the bar, the club’s owner, little Miss Gracie Parish was overrun, making multiple drinks simultaneously, while she nodded to acknowledge people and instruct servers.

Only one other person helped Gracie behind the bar. A brunette in the server’s white shirt and black pants. He pulled beers and gave shots, but Dusty didn’t see him making any mixed drinks.

Never say he wasn’t a man to help a friend in distress. Even if he had orchestrated that distress in order to get close to her, use her to get to her family and uncover their vigilante activities.

He navigated his way through the crowd with care. Being as big as he was, he was well aware of his ability to intimidate without trying, so he tapped shoulders, nodded politely, and made his way behind the bar as graciously as he could.

Upon seeing him, Gracie jerked her head in surprise then smiled. Hadn’t expected that. Kind of warmed his heart.

He put up a single digit, a give me a second before you kick me out. He leaned closer. She was a good foot shorter. “Stopped by to check on you and have that drink.” He gazed around. “Looks like you’re slammed. Okay if I help? Worked as a bartender in college.”

Gracie’s face walked the line between yes please and stay the hell away, then tipped over. “I could use the help.”

She sent the obviously relieved server back into the club, opened a couple of beers and handed them to a guy across the bar. She took his cash and smiled when he told her to keep the change.

When she turned back to Dusty, her eyes ran down him like it was involuntary. That kind of warmed him too. Warm enough to start a fire.

She pointed to a notepad. “There are two parties that have a tab, try to handle those. You can just write the drinks down. We have the credit cards, so we can tally them later.”

She began making a mixed drink, efficient and calm and sexy as anything he’d ever seen. “Cash is king for you. Drink prices are there.” She pointed to a laminated document held together at a punch-holed corner with a silver hoop. She winged a slice of lemon around the drink she’d made and handed it to a woman, who handed Gracie a credit card. Running the card, she gave Dusty a quick overview of the cash register.

Basically, he had to push three buttons. He could handle that and the math. “What about credit/debit cards?”

She pulled out the receipt that had just spit from the credit card machine. “I’ll handle all people with cards.”

“Got it, boss lady.”

She smiled, and as she walked away, tossed back, “Thanks. Really.”

Lady had a great backside. “Happy to help.”

Quick to learn where everything was, Dusty hit his stride. It wasn’t hard to find people with cash or on account, so he didn’t hurt for business. For the next few hours, he and Gracie worked, brushing hotly against each other as they buzzed here and there.

But, much to his disappointment, not standing in one place long enough to talk or explore that heat. The crowd kept them hopping. A few people got handsy with him and her, trying to get attention. Nothing they couldn’t handle, until the big guy.

Dusty watched him. Impatient as hell, using his size to insert himself at the bar as if the crowd were an insult. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud to get Gracie’s attention. She turned.

If it had been him, Dusty would’ve ignored the guy. But he saw Gracie’s eyes evaluate the guy and the situation. A smile on her face, she went right over. They exchanged a few words. She tapped the bar as if asking for his patience and began to turn.

Guy’s big hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Gracie looked at where he held her, said something, smiled like it was the only warning she’d give.

The guy’s knuckles whitened on her wrist. A few people at the bar were paying attention now. Someone had taken out a cell. Gracie Parish on camera. Which meant she wasn’t likely to pull any self-defense. She surely wouldn’t want that all over the internet.

Dusty would’ve moved to help, but he was also sure the lady didn’t need it and wouldn’t appreciate him butting in. Plus, he wanted to see what she’d do.

Still smiling at the guy, she reached under the bar, pulled out a nozzle for the fountain drinks, and blasted the guy, not in the face, but directly up his nose.

Shock and the sting of it had him reeling back. The people lining the bar sprang away. Gracie backed up too but kept hold of the nozzle.

That second was all that was needed for one of the bouncers to move in for the kill. He wrestled the dude, got him under control, grabbed him by the neck. Forcing the guy’s head down, he marched the soaked idiot out.

By the time the bouncer reached the front door, Gracie was already getting bar towels and handing them to customers, apologizing for the mess and offering free drinks.

Maybe feeling his gaze, she looked over at him. He’d thought he’d see condemnation, like why hadn’t he hotfooted it over there and given her a hand, but she smiled. She smiled and mouthed, “That was fun.”

Lady was going to break his heart.

***

Excerpted from The Price of Grace by Diana Muñoz Stewart. © 2019 by Diana Muñoz Stewart. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

Having earned her MFA in Creative Writing, Diana Munoz Stewart went on to write several novels that garnered awards and recognition in the paranormal, science fiction, and contemporary romance genres. A believer in the power of words to heal and connect, she blogs and provides web-content on health, writing, and social issues. She resides in Pennsylvania.

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Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Synopsis

Finally, life is good for reluctant family law attorney, Jamie Quinn–her father may get his visa soon, her boyfriend is the bomb, and her law practice is growing like crazy–but when she agrees to take on a high-profile divorce case, everything falls apart. What looked like an opportunity to work with her friend Grace and make some serious bucks has turned into a deadly game, one that could destroy their friendship and tear their town apart. Why couldn’t Jamie just leave well enough alone?

 

Excerpt

Chapter One

“What do you mean you’re going to Australia for three months? If this is a joke, Kip, I don’t think it’s funny.” I pointed my chopsticks at my boyfriend for emphasis.

When I’m upset I get loud, which could explain why everyone in the restaurant was looking at us. For them, it was dinner and a show, but, for me, it was like being in a sit-com with a live studio audience–minus the laugh track. We had been enjoying a romantic dinner at Heart Rock Sushi (the one in Fort Lauderdale) and drinking enough sake to feel warm and fuzzy when Kip dropped this bombshell on me.

“I thought you’d be happy for me, Jamie.” Kip looked puzzled. His warm brown eyes held my gaze and I couldn’t turn away. “I have this incredible opportunity to work with an environmental scientist and save a species from extinction, all expenses paid. And I need a change of scenery–you know better than anyone that being Director of Broward County Parks hasn’t been my dream job.”

I smiled. “Oh, right, just because you had to deal with three hundred disgruntled employees, a smart-ass vandal, and a psychopath, it’s not your dream job? Anyway, that was six months ago, it’s been quiet since then.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, wedging a piece of tuna roll in his mouth. The wasabi made his eyes water but he didn’t seem to notice. “It’s too quiet. It’s dull, monotonous and predictable. In a word, bo-ring! I can’t stand doing budgets and employee reviews–I want to be outside, doing something real. Know what I mean?”

I’d suddenly lost my appetite. I knew I was being selfish, but I had my reasons. What if Kip loved Australia so much he never came back? Or what if he came back hating his job more than ever? It was a no-win situation, but I could see I’d lost this battle before it began. I resigned myself to the inevitable.

“The County’s okay with you leaving for three months?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“Hell, yeah,” Kip said with a grin. “They’re so glad I didn’t sue them after all I went through that they would’ve given me anything. They even offered me paid leave but I turned it down. It didn’t feel right.”

I shook my head in amazement. “That’s a nice chunk of change you’re walking away from, buddy, and I’d say you earned it–like combat pay. Look, I know Florida is flat and overdeveloped and could never be mistaken for the great outdoors, but we have endangered species, too. In fact, I was just reading about some creeps who were turtle-poaching. Why don’t you stay here and save the turtles? They need you, Kip! I don’t think the turtles can survive without you.”

He laughed and reached across the table to take my hand, “I’m sorry, Jamie, I can’t pass this up, but I promise that the three months will fly by. We’ll talk and Skype every day and you can come visit me. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”

I refused to look at him, afraid I’d cry. I picked up a chopstick and poked listlessly at the stir-fry congealing on my plate.

“Babe?”

I had to stop fighting this and do the right thing. I’d lost Kip once before, when we were dating in high school and he’d gone off to college. We did wind up back together, eventually, but it had taken fifteen years. This time, I’d just have to have faith. Then there was the other problem…

“I can’t visit you, Kip,” I said. “I’m going to Nicaragua next month to see my dad–finally–and since I’m the one sponsoring him I can’t go to Australia and risk missing the immigration interview.”

No matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, tears were starting to leak out. One was hanging off my nose and I didn’t even care. Kip came around the table and sat down next to me. After gently wiping my tears, he put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I leaned into his chest, my wet face staining his shirt.

“It’ll be fine, Jamie, and who knows? Maybe your dad’s situation will straighten out early and you can come over. That might happen, right?”

I couldn’t resist that teasing half-smile, those laugh lines on his tan face. I squeezed his hand.

“Sure it could,” I said, sitting up straight, trying to shake it off. “Now, tell me what you’ll be doing out there. What poor creature needs your help so desperately? And I’m not talking about me this time.” I mustered a genuine smile and then polished off the last of the sake. It was stone cold, but still burned all the way down.

Kip’s eyes lit up and he became more animated than I’d seen him in a long time. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he showed me photos of a strange-looking animal with gray fur and a short stubby tail. It looked like a combination Koala Bear, housecat, and pig .I had to admit it was very cute. It reminded me of a stuffed animal I’d won at a carnival years ago that I still kept on my bed because my cat liked to snuggle with it. Okay, I’ll admit it, I liked to snuggle with it.

‘What do you think this little critter is?” Kip asked, playing teacher.

“No clue.”

“Meet the endangered Northern Hairy-Nosed Wombat,” he said. “There are only a hundred and sixty-three of them left.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “There’s also a Southern Hairy-Nosed Wombat?”

“Yup, and there’s a third one called the Common Wombat. The Northern is the largest and can weigh up to eighty pounds. I’ll be tracking them and exploring locations to start a new population. It has to be somewhere safe because they breed slowly and are preyed on by dingoes and Tasmanian devils.”

“Now if I only knew what a dingo and a Tasmanian devil looked like, I’d have the big picture,” I joked.

Kip spent the next twenty minutes describing the project and the Epping Forest in Queensland where he’d be spending most of his time. I tried to look excited for Kip’s sake, but all I could think about was how he’d be gone so long, making friends and having adventures, all without me. Right in the middle of my pity party I thought of something that made me laugh. Other girls might worry about losing their guy to another woman, but not me. I’d already lost mine–to a Hairy-Nosed Wombat. Excuse me, a Northern Hairy-Nosed wombat.

 

About the Author

Barbara Venkataraman is an attorney and mediator specializing in family law and debt collection.

She is the author of the award-winning Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery series, as well as “Teatime with Mrs. Grammar Person”, and three books of humorous essays: “I’m Not Talking about You, Of Course”; “A Trip to the Hardware Store & Other Calamities”; and “A Smidge of Crazy”, from her Quirky Essays for Quirky People series. Her books have won numerous awards including three-time winner of the “Indie Book of the Day” Award, First Place in the 2016 Chanticleer Murder & Mayhem Mystery Writing Competition, Honorable Mention in the Readers’ Favorite Contest for Non-Fiction Humor, and Finalist, 2017 Kindle Book Awards.

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