Synopsis

Novelist Bridget Stanton’s life needs a massive rewrite. Between the mortgage on her first home, and the cost of feeding her horse-sized dog—she’ll never be able to quit her day job. Until it quits her. Suspended for teaching A Wrinkle in Time, her childhood favorite, she is desperate for a book advance. So she throws herself at the mercy, literally, of her brand new, witty, suave, unflappably charming agent, who has reluctantly inherited her.

His advice: skip the Lit Fic and write steamy romance instead. Has he met her? Actually, no. But Bridget knows nothing about passionate sex. Ever ready with advice, he proposes a solution: research—she needs to get herself a satchel of Richards.

Enter Josh, a wildly successful romance cover model with Hollywood screenwriting dreams. His vivid descriptions have helped numerous authors navigate their spiciest scenes, but Bridget, it seems, needs a more hands-on approach.

As their “research” heats up, she offers him credit on the book—a big break that could help launch his wished-for career. But her publisher balks. The God of Abs cannot share the byline.
Now, Bridget must choose: do it their way and save her way of life or risk it all for a real life love story.

Amazon * Bookshop

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE: HUNTER’S MOON

I pick my way across what could best be described as a moor. Aren’t moors boggy? Shrubs pull at my long dress. Heather, I think, but honestly I haven’t a clue, having never been on a moor before. My gown—not the sleeping but the dancing kind—is soaked to the knees, and clings uncomfortably to my calves. From the empire waistline, I’m thinking Jane Austenish times.

Looking up to get my bearings, I stumble over a mound of grayish-purple grass to find everything languishing in varied shades of gray. I’m alone except for a giant moon that peeks in and out of wispy clouds that drift lazily past its sallow light.

I trudge on, as there is nothing else to do. A wolf calls mournfully in the distance.

The whole thing is Wuthering Heights meets The Hound of the Baskervilles, which is okay, I guess. I do love Brontë, but I’m on the fence about Doyle—great book, but didn’t he steal the manuscript and murder someone over it? No, thank you. If anyone’s going to join me on this boggy jaunt, I’ll take a dark, broody hero, not a bloodthirsty hound. I’m in no mood for a nightmare.

Wait.

A figure appears in the distance.

It’s coming closer.

And closer.

Closer still.

Shit!

I jerk back and almost fall into the mire, but he catches me. His hand is warm, and strong, and kinda beautiful, and definitely attached to a he. Unfortunately, a hoodie obscures his face, not really period appropriate, but what the hell, I like the shape of him—like an hourglass but sharply defined—two triangles meeting in the middle. There’s something so compelling about it. Wait, I know this shape.

Oh my god.

It’s Beach Runner.

Closer than he’s ever been before. So close I can smell the sweat on his skin, and it’s not a bad thing, not a bad thing at all. It’s a may I please lick it off you kind of thing.

Whew, pheromones in a dream. Pretty cool.

Now, if only my lucid dreaming came with agency, because I want to see what’s hidden in the dark—his face, likely chiseled—his eyes dark—his hair, darker. I want so bad to push back his hood because I’ve spent so many mornings imagining him as he runs the beach, but somehow I know he’ll outshine even my imagination. And still my impotent-ass hands remain stubbornly by my side.

Hold up.

Something’s happening.

He drops to one knee.

In a bog?

Slowly pushing up the sleeve of my dress his soft manicured fingers send a tingle dancing down my skin all the way to my ruined slippers. The moment is charged. Will he lean in, kiss my hand, pull me into the mire, lick my elbow?

Wait. What?

He’s licking my elbow. This is a new kink.

EARTH TO BRIDGET.

Like a voice-over, it breaks in to let me know something’s happening in the real world. And with that realization, the dream dissipates like a fog, and Beach Runner disappears, even as my actual hand reaches out for him.

Damn!

So close.

“Sally Girl,” I moan, opening my eyes to see my Irish wolfhound dancing by the edge of the bed, her tongue lapping at my arm. “It was just about to get good!”

About the Author

Lee Taylor lives and writes in one of the most bewitching forests in the Appalachians. You will find her most mornings before dawn in her “Yome Sweet Yome” (think “yurt” but better), loving all the tropes, particularly the ones she turns on their heads. When not writing or hiking, she travels for a day job she loves, always on the lookout for an indie bookstore. If said store is romance-only, all the better. A Satchel of Richards is her debut.

Website * Instagram * Threads