(Un)Loved by Katy Hunter

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 54,338
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 217

Genres:

CELEBRITIES
COMEDY AND HUMOUR
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE

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Book Description

Falling in love with Gil was never Sophie’s plan, but the French mountain air, the grumpiest llama ever and her boyfriend’s loving—if liberated—family might just change her mind.

Sophie Smith—actress, influencer, in a close personal relationship with her blender—finds herself on a French mountain with a grumpy llama, a boyfriend with a bad case of commitment phobia and his sexually liberated parents.

In between getting chased around the farm by angry goats, dealing with his beautiful ex-girlfriend and fending off a Frenchman, she’s also having an existential crisis.

All she needs to do is get her boyfriend to stop quivering in fear at the L word, teach that llama to snuggle and work out what she actually wants to do with her life, then everything will be fine. Right?

Excerpt

I throw the last of my stuff into my bag, check around to see if I’ve forgotten anything, and head for the door.

This film is done, and with it, my life here. Not my actual life—I’m not going to die or anything—just the person I’ve become over the last few months.

The lovesick teenager. The grown woman. The friend. The colleague.

All that gets packed up in a box and reinvented for the next shoot.

Time to get drunk, get my party on and maybe make a few terrible sexual decisions before going home.

I walk out of my work trailer—about to tick off the first thing on that to-do list—when my co-star, all-around hot guy and quencher of thirsts, Gil Carter, completely throws me by being on the other side of the door, stopping me dead in my tracks.

This is not part of the plan. Damn it, G.

“Shee.” He glances down at the bags in my hands. “Oh, you’re already leaving?”

“Yeah, I wanted to get a head start on packing up.” And moving on.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my regard, like he’s pissed at me. “I…uh…I got you something.” He reaches into the battered canvas messenger bag that he totes everywhere—the one which makes him look like a hot history professor, or at least how I imagine a hot history professor.

In my mind he’s wearing one of those tweed jackets with the elbow patches, tight button-up jeans and suede shoes. He’s rushing to a lecture, in the rain, holding that scruffy old bag over his head to protect his unruly curls. I open the door for him, my hair held up in a messy bun by a well-placed pencil, my glasses sliding off my nose. “Oh, Professor…”

Sigh.

That man does impeccably good hair. He has a mass of curls softer than a kitten’s belly. They tumble into this perfect crown that I, oh, I want to run my fingers through and maybe tug at a little when the need arises.

I’ve had dreams about that hair.

Anyway…I digress. After rummaging around for a couple of minutes, he pulls out the most beautiful brown leather journal.

“This is for your private thoughts, if you need to talk but there’s nobody around. And you can write shit about people, and they’ll never know.” He runs his fingers through that infamous head of hair, still avoiding my gaze.

“What if they read it, though?” I reply, earning me a smile.

“Promise I won’t. If you promise to only write nice stuff about me.” He glances up at me and ruffles those curls again, sending my lady-parts into meltdown.

I look down at the journal. The only things running through my mind right now are the really, really dirty things that I’m going to write about him in this thing.

“Thanks, G.” I smile, then, no word of a lie, I punch him in the fucking arm.

Not hard. Just enough to show that we’re only friends. Just good buddies. Pals.

“You’re welcome.” He shrugs and shuffles his feet again. The silence is painfully awkward as we stand there, avoiding each other’s gazes. My mind is racing. Why did I punch him in the arm? Who does that? It’s lucky he didn’t get down on one knee and offer me a diamond ring. I might have knocked some teeth out.

Ask him out to dinner. Offer to buy him a drink. Say something… Anything.

Reaching down to open my bag, I unzip it, pop the journal in and look up. “Would you—” But he’s already gone.

Why am I like this?

I should have said, “Maybe I’ll write about all the fun things we’re going to do together.” Then I could have batted my eyelashes flirtatiously, thrown back my head, giggling in a sexy way. He would have pulled me into his arms…

But no. I went in for the buddy punch.

It’s not my fault. No, really, I don’t do flirting. Dr. K calls it “intimacy issues”. She leans back into her brown leather armchair and says things like, “Did you bond? Are you connecting with people?” My fist connected with his arm. Does that count?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a virgin or anything. It’s just that I don’t like touching people, or, more to the point, I don’t like them touching me. Grandma was the only person who ever gave me hugs, and she’s gone now. They were earned when I did good at an audition or won a pageant.

There is one kind of flirty thing that we’ve done. Gil’s always loved that I call him G—pronounced ‘Jee’. Like it’s our little inside joke or something. He also gave me a nickname right off the bat.

It’s our thing—or it was. It’s over now.

When I call him G, he sort of lights up, like it makes him happy. That’s the kind of nice that counts, the kind that gives a girl that fuzzy feeling inside.

There’s something very intimate about nicknames. People call me Soph—as if they can’t even be bothered to say my whole name— but when someone you’re close to creates a new, private name for you, that’s another thing entirely.

Especially when the man in question is Gil Carter—the deep-thinker, the philosopher, the person who’s kept me sane since the beginning of production.

The object of my carnal desires.

Admittedly, if you were one to judge someone by their appearance, and you were unaware of the grubby bag, you might not know what to make of him—Italian leather shoes, tailored trousers and the crispest of shirts. Even on his days off, he looks more like he’s just stepped off a Parisian catwalk than a Canadian sound stage.

G’s clothes are a whole mood, and that mood is ‘best man at a wedding in The Hamptons’.

He always has his nose in a book, and when he doesn’t, he’s napping, more often than not in my trailer. I’ve lost count of the number of times he has nodded off on my shoulder while we’ve been going over our lines, his hair tickling my nose.

I don’t mind that kind of intimacy—pure and uncomplicated. He keeps me warm and smells like bergamot—or whatever they put in men’s fragrances these days. Manly and a little sweaty. It’s a good thing. Trust me.

Like me, he’s not a people person. Except the difference is that he’s totally okay with it. I’m out here trying to be friendly and ‘normal’, and he’s just doing his thing—and totally pulling it off. There’s nothing more attractive than a man who knows what he wants and doesn’t care what anybody else thinks. I’d give anything for a spoonful of that confidence.

Our nicknames mean more to me than just words. They’re a sign of our friendship, and I count on that far more than I’ve ever counted on us getting together.

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About the Author

Katherine E Hunt

Katy Hunter lives on a mountain in France with her husband, kids and two dogs.

When she’s not writing you can find her curled up in front of the fire, book in one hand and a glass of chardonnay in the other.

Follow Katy on Instagram and sign up to her Facebook reader’s group. You can also find her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter

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The Game by A.B. Wilson

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 82,950
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 316

GENRES:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
FAKE RELATIONSHIPS
SPORTS

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Book Description

He’s everything she hates, but exactly what she needs. What will it take to turn two rival players into teammates?

Recover. That’s Abby’s entire plan when she suffers a potentially career-ending injury. But she needs financial support for her rehab now that she’s been dropped by her pro soccer team.

Enter Matti, her unlikely, tatted-up savior with a man bun. The guy with everything she wants, a stellar career and the ability to get away with anything. When Matti’s fired by his team after yet another off-pitch scandal, he needs someone to help rehab his reputation.

After a gossip column goes viral with a piece about their supposed engagement, the plan falls into place. A fake engagement to save Matti’s career, and access to the best rehab center for her. A new city, no friends, the only person they have to rely on is each other, and Abby’s grumpy cat, of course.

As they play pretend day in and day out, their feelings start to shift from those of uncomfortable teammates to something a lot like love as the two find out each other’s deepest secrets. But when a new opportunity for Matti comes knocking, ready to pull them apart, will they take the risk of admitting the truth behind their feelings?

Reader advisory: This book contains mention of child neglect, mental health struggles, and injuries sustained in a car accident.

Excerpt

Air horns, club songs and pile-ons from teammates. Confetti raining down in the drizzle, sticking to our hair and rain-spattered, grass-stained jerseys. I would never forget the moment that the F.C. Chelsea women’s soccer team won the Championship. Never, ever in my life had I felt the level of exhilaration that the men’s team must feel after the average game, because that’s how many people had jammed into Stamford Bridge stadium to watch us win—a sold-out crowd.

All around me my teammates had torn off their jerseys to trade with our opponents and were battling tears with sloppy hugs. Something magical happens at the closing whistle of a hotly competitive match that the average person never feels. The way in which your direst enemy suddenly becomes your friend, happy for you in your happiness. There is that solidarity amongst female athletes where those congratulatory moments mean something, and I’d been dreaming of this one since I was five years old.

Up in the manager’s box the entire men’s team was cheering us on. And there. Right in the middle of the crowd, if I could be bothered to look, would be my nemesis with his dirty-blond hair trapped in a messy top knot. His nice dress clothes most likely all rumpled and his sleeves rolled up to show off his massive, tattooed forearms.

His electric-blue eyes would be crackling above his stubbly, chiseled cheekbones and jawline. He was probably waving his hands theatrically, acting the fool with everyone loving on him. If he were American instead of German, I’d have bet money on his tie being wrapped around his head. Matti Shellenberg, a man I’d wished a bad case of jock itch on more times than was probably healthy.

Knowing he was up there was enough to make my blood boil. My eyes shot straight to him—like there was a magnetic force between the two of us—even at this distance. To my complete shock, he wasn’t in the mix with his teammates. Instead he was sitting all alone in a corner of the box—him, the man who was never still, never at rest, never less than one hundred percent positively on. The center of attention and master instigator. Now he sat slumped in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut, head in hands.

He’s probably pissed we’re getting all the attention.

One year later, I could still feel the mashed potatoes crusting in my eyebrows and long auburn hair, which I’d curled so carefully the night of the fundraiser for pediatric cancer patients. Those hyper-realistic plastic spiders he’d stuck on my chair that made me scream and flip my plate, launching a shower of food down on top of me and my tablemates.

I could still see him in my mind’s eye, doubled over in laughter, wiping tears of hilarity off his flushed cheeks. Could still hear his delighted slow clap and taunt. “You gonna come after me with that steak knife, Stabby Abby?” I hated nicknames, but I had to admit that ‘Stabby Abby’ was one I could get behind. That clever jerk.

The confetti storm had finally settled in colorful, sodden clumps and the team’s owner and head of operations strode through the tunnel and out onto the pitch for the trophy ceremony. I winced as I wound my way through the crowd. My bad knee was twinging like a motherfucker after a tackle from Porto’s defender that had knocked me awkwardly onto my ass. Hopefully I’d only twisted it, nothing more serious.

My co-captain, Teresa, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started tugging me toward the hastily erected podium at midfield. The team song was still blaring through the stadium speakers and the emotions of the day were catching me. I’d won a gold medal with the U.S. Women’s National Team, but this was somehow bigger. Better, because it was unexpected. Times like this reminded me that every sacrifice I’d made to play professionally was worth it.

Tears pricked my eyes as Teresa hugged me close. “We did it, chica. Can you believe it?”

I hugged her back and we wiped each other’s tears and laughed. “You get up there first,” I encouraged. She hopped up on the stage and pulled me up behind her. Together, we walked to the podium to accept the trophy. The owner and manager were tag-teaming a self-congratulatory speech about how delightful and historic the moment was. Teresa and I exchanged a Look. This moment would have come a lot sooner if the club had bothered to invest in its women’s side the way it did in the men’s.

The owner handed us the trophy, almost bobbling it as he attempted to kiss our cheeks. The smell of whiskey flowed off of him as he leered at us. Teresa and I did our duty, ignoring the foul, smelly man as we smiled and raised that trophy high above our heads. Not even a lecher could rub the shine off of this one for us. I kissed the cool, damp metal that smelled like blood and fresh grass. That too-brief kiss was, without a doubt, the greatest in my entire history of kisses—not that that history was particularly long or interesting.

I jumped down with the Cup, wincing again as my knee protested the action, and passed it off to my teammates. Teresa and I stood back from them, arm-in-arm as we watched the celebration continue. The men’s team would be rushing the field soon because they could never handle the women’s team having the lion’s share of attention. I had no interest in being out there when Ratty Matti showed and turned to Teresa. “I’m going to the locker room, need to hit the ice baths before we have to get ready for the party. Cover for me?”

“You got it. Guess we all need some extra time to look our best tonight after this, huh?” She winked at me.

“Ugh, totally. But if I don’t get in an ice bath soon, I’m not going to be able to stand in high heels.” My tone was rueful and she slugged me in the shoulder, jerking her head in the direction of the locker room.

I took one last mental picture of my still-celebrating teammates, and the fans who hadn’t stopped singing our song, and started for the bench to scoop my kit. As I maneuvered around the celebrants and the men’s team clattering up from the tunnel, I glanced back at the owner’s box and got one hell of a shock. Matti was still there, not down with the rest of his team trying to steal our glory. No, he was still in his seat with his head in his hands. Curiouser and curiouser.

The locker room was empty, but the training staff were there and ready with congratulations and help getting the tape off from the brace around my knee. I’d suffered an ACL tear not too long ago and coming back had been an excruciating journey.

The physio helped me into the tub and one of his assistants started dumping in the ice. The cold burn of an ice bath was something that athletes supposedly got addicted to. Me, though, I was dreaming about tropical beaches and a solitary walk on white sand with the ocean curling in to tickle my toes as I shivered uncontrollably while buried in the tiny cubes.

“McKinnon, your mobile’s ringin’, darlin’! Says ‘Sylvie’. That’s your agent, right?” The head physio shook my shoulder as he showed me the screen of my phone.

I sank back into the tub and managed to get out through my chattering teeth, “It can wait till I’m done here, probably a congratulations.”

“I dunno, darlin’, this is the third time she’s called in five minutes. You’re about done, let’s get you out of there and you can take the call.” He hadn’t even really congratulated me. Nor had he asked me if I was okay, given the slight limp I knew he’d seen with his laser-like focus on all of our working extremities. My stomach hollowed out and my shivers got bigger and stronger as I accepted his hand and let him haul me out of the tub.

What does he know?

I grabbed my phone and headed back to the locker room with a newfound sense of foreboding and sent a quick text to Sylvie that I’d call when I was out of the shower. I resolutely ignored the immediate buzz of a reply and the repeated chimes that indicated an incoming call. All I needed was one more moment to bask in the feeling of winning, of being a winner, of finally, finally achieving my dream before the real world could intrude again.

The water speared into me and I could barely hear the shouts and laughter of my teammates finally coming off the pitch over its spray. Our ancient locker room was about to turn into a pre-party while we all got ready for the huge end-of-season shindig thrown by the club’s owners.

A bunch of us—me included—wanted nothing more than to go home, but one simply did not skip this event. No matter how tired, no matter how injured. You went, you gladhanded the shit out of everyone, and you pretended to have the best time. Every year, I dreaded it. This year, though, things would be different. We were winners and I was trying to shake my salty reputation—my contract was up for renewal in the off-season. I cranked the water to cold to rinse out the last of my conditioner and practiced my biggest, most pleasant smile. My cheeks hurt already.

With my team all around me, their chatter echoing off the cinderblocks that needed a new coat of paint, I felt like I was in my safe space. Safe enough, at any rate, to call Sylvie back. The insulation of their enthusiasm made a little bubble around me as I waited for her to pick up. I snorted when her voicemail kicked in. That was so Sylvie, harass me for hours, then pout when I finally did what she wanted—probably thought she was teaching me a lesson.

Joke was on her, though. I’d grown up in the most passively aggressive toxic home with a mother who knew how to wield silence as a weapon as easily as a backhanded compliment. In a small Midwestern town in southern Wisconsin where everyone knew you and your business.

Shoving thoughts of Sylvie aside, I forced my attention to making myself up to appear as photogenic and approachable as possible. Most of the other girls had completed their transition from sweaty athlete to debutante and were starting to file out to the hired cars that would take us to the Fairmont Hotel for the celebration while I was still winding a final section of hair around my curling iron.

“Want me to make sure there’s a car for you when you finally finish?” Teresa asked with a small smile as she appeared in the mirror behind me. She knew how much I hated the schmoozing that went along with our captain’s badges.

I waved my curling iron at her and pointed at my freshly made-up face. “Nah, no big deal. Just need to make sure Sam’s makeover wasn’t in vain. If I miss the last car, I’ll cab it.”

Teresa shrugged and gave me a tiny finger wave as she pushed through the swinging doors. “Your funeral if you miss it.”

“I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

After much overspraying, the last section of my stick-straight dark-auburn hair was obediently wrapped around the hot iron. The big pin curls were fantastic in contrast with my pale, freckled skin and gray eyes. I looked like a dolled-up gladiator in my dark green dress with the black lace overlay and admired the way it hugged the smooth muscles I’d sacrificed so much to build and hone. I was taking a last dab at a slightly overcolored spot on my top lip when my phone finally rang.

And like every time it rang without me immediately being able to see who was calling, my brain shouted hopefully, “Mom?” I castigated myself for still believing in the impossible. She hadn’t come around to my profession or my love for the game in twenty-three years. There was no starting now. I flipped my phone over and saw my agent’s face with her badass shark grin and tapped the screen.

“Sylvie,” I said without further greeting. Sylvie hated what she called “perfunctory nonsense.”

“Abigail Jean,” she returned grandly. Never mind that that wasn’t my middle name. First- and middle-naming me was the way she showed her affection and Sylvie changed it up every time.

I rolled my eyes. “What’s up?”

“Did I feel you rolling your eyes at me, young lady? Because I got a distinct vibe from that—”

“Sylvie, cut the crap. What’s going on that you had to blow me up like this tonight of all nights?” I asked impatiently.

“My dear, I know. I know. While I would love to let you rest on your laurels, I unfortunately can’t.” She sighed and my stomach knotted again as she continued, laying it out bluntly and with no sugary sweetness to cushion the blow. “The team has decided that they’d like to go a different direction next season. They have some kid from South Korea on scout who is basically you pre-ACL tear on performance-enhancing drugs.”

I couldn’t speak or breathe. Now? After six years and a championship. Had they seen me limp around after my knee got torqued to hell?

“I know, dear, this is a lot to take in and it feels like it’s out of nowhere,” she said with no small amount of sympathy. “I was shocked too. Completely taken by surprise. Between you and Matti, Chelsea is—”

“Matti? What happened to Matti?” I asked, my voice higher-pitched than I would have thought possible. Sylvie managed both of us and he was a recent sign for her after his last agent cut him loose. And that had gone down in a spectacular, flaming ball of shame when yet another of his infamous house parties had turned into a drug-and-alcohol-fueled orgy. Management hadn’t been fond of those photos when they appeared online.

“He’s being cut. Only the team had the grace to actually tell him in person, unlike this fiasco.”

“When did you find out about us?” I asked, wondering if they’d already decided they wanted someone else before they’d seen me win the game for the team, before they might have spotted the slight limp.

“Well,” she prevaricated. “Here’s the thing, they called me right at kick-off. Matti was told at your half-time. I don’t want you to worry. There are going to be a lot of teams interested in you after today’s win and Matti is always bankable. I’ve already had a few calls for each of you.”

She paused and I could tell she’d popped in a square of nicotine gum as I heard the aggressive chewing noise. “I know how you feel about him, but I need you to do me a favor and keep an eye on him tonight. He’s not answering his phone and when he drinks, bad things tend to follow. I need you two to be on your best behavior while I negotiate.”

“Sylvie, I’m not his keeper and tonight’s going to be crappy enough. You know how badly he embarrassed me back at that fundraiser,” I responded through a clenched jaw.

“You don’t have to talk to him—although maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if you could pull that stick out of your ass and drop the grudge. I’ve always thought the two of you would make such a cute couple.” She muttered the last part and sighed heavily, like I was the one who made her life difficult and not the eternal man-child. Who, yes, was super hot, but oh my god was he an awful person.

“Please, Abby, get him in a cab if he gets too unruly, I’ll text you his address,” she begged.

I groaned and felt a headache start to form behind my eyes. “Fine, but I want a cut from his signing bonus for doing you this favor.”

Sylvie ignored my sarcastic comment. “I’m flying out from La Guardia tonight, will be at Heathrow tomorrow morning. We’ll meet then and can start talking about your options.”

I sighed and slumped back onto the bench, feeling completely unmoored. My options. Six years, the peak of my career as an athlete, and they’d “decided to go a different direction.” The pendulum had swung back and the price I’d already paid to play the sport that I loved, the only thing that had ever mattered to me, now seemed indecently high. Fuck this beautiful fucking game.

Who even am I without soccer to define me?

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About the Author

A.B. Wilson

Amanda (A.B.) Wilson is the pen name for a heat-seeking librarian from the upper Midwest. Long after her sassy five year old and long-suffering husband go to bed, she writes steamy, escapist contemporary romances about celebrities, athletes, and billionaires—with a twist. Amanda loves connecting with readers, so hit her up on her website for newsletter sign-up, blog posts, general contacts, and social media.

You can also follow Amanda on Instagram.

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Call It Love by Kristian Parker

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 22,375
Book Length: NOVELLA
Pages: 98

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
HISTORICAL

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Book Description

Charlie didn’t believe in love…until he set himself free.

It’s 1922 and after his house guest Frank Harris ran away with the under-butler, Charlie Fitzwilliam has been summoned to face the music. With the vindictive butler Bennett now watching his every move and his father planning out his life for him, Charlie finally faces up to who he is and makes a bid for freedom.

Alone for the first time in his life, he meets Michael Leonard, a kind, caring bookseller. Convinced that sex with men is only for fun, Charlie experiences a summer of self-discovery that takes him to the English seaside, the doorstep of old friends and the arms of a lover who shakes his whole belief system.

But disowned by his parents and cut off from the life he knew, can Charlie make a future for himself…and will Michael be a part of it? Is this affair something that can be called love?

Reader advisory: This book contains instances of period-typical homophobia.

Excerpt

I threw the ball with the top spin that had sent our team to the top of the league last term. It flew past Mateus’ head and smashed into the wickets.

“Oh, well done, Charlie,” shouted my mother from the sidelines. Nothing would have persuaded her to roll up her sleeves and join in. I smiled across and waved.

“Time for a break,” said a breathless Tilly, my baby sister. She couldn’t have been any different from my mother if she’d tried and had instantly plumped for the back stop, tucking her skirts between her legs.

We wandered across to the table where mother held court to our host, Domingos Graça. He lapped up her brand of flirtation and would laugh uproariously every time she gave him a little bit of gossip from London.

I picked up a glass of whatever they had served and took in the view. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, rolling down the hill to the river. We were in the Douro Province in the north-east of Portugal—Port was big business in these parts, and the Graça family were the kings of their castle.

Their villa loomed behind us, proclaiming to all the rewards of their labour.

“She put you to work immediately? Hard luck, old chap.” Agnes had sidled up next to me without any noise. She had always been able to do that, even when we were small.

“It’s good to see you, sis.”

“You too.” She planted a firm kiss on my cheek. “At least I’ll have some fun now. Mummy and Daddy’s crusade for cash is getting embarrassing.”

I turned to see my mother and Tilly regaling the Graças with yet another story.

“Tilly is doing the work for all of us.”

“She thinks she’s getting the youngest boy, the one you nearly decapitated with your demon bowl just now. She isn’t. He hasn’t given her a second glance. Poor soul.”

Tilly had always been the odd one out. Two years separated me and Agnes, but Tilly was a surprise after my parents had taken a boat to India. We’d been sent away to school by the time she came along.

“Where’s Father?” Agnes asked.

I couldn’t even bear to think about it. “He’s locked away in his room with Bennett. They’ve been in there ever since Bennett and I arrived this morning.”

It had been two weeks since I had thrown my schoolfriend Frank Harris out of our house in England after one of our maids had caught him in a compromising position with an under-butler. I’d spent that time skulking around the house, ignoring the whispers from most of the staff.

“And how did you find travelling with Bennett? Naughty Charlie can’t be trusted on his own,” Agnes said, a twinkle in her eye.

Bennett hated anyone in this world who wasn’t my father, and my uneasiness at him being a part of this trip had built as each day passed. He had been smugness personified, attending to my every need but always with an undertone of insolence.

“A bloody bore.”

We strolled along the edge of the lawn. Agnes took my arm, and I realised I’d missed my sister.

“Come on, then. What the hell were you doing?”

I absentmindedly kicked the head off a wildflower that had dared to invade this garden of order.

“I didn’t do anything. I stupidly invited Frank Harris to stay, and he ends up buggering the help.”

Agnes laughed. “And I suppose you were in bed reading your Bible.”

“If you must know, I was entertaining Elsie.”

Agnes stopped and scowled. “That common little tart from the shop? Oh, Charlie, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

“Of course I can, but you know, any port in a storm.”

We carried on walking. The breeze was a blessed relief as the sun grew high in the sky. I hoped there were more sedate activities planned for the afternoon.

“Port.” Agnes growled. “I’m sick to death of hearing about it, drinking it, examining it. You’d think it was sent by God himself.”

It wasn’t like Agnes to be so cranky. Mother and Father had impressed upon us the importance of this trip. If we didn’t get our hands on a sizeable share of the Graças’ business, we would struggle to keep our house in the Oxfordshire countryside. Since the war had decimated the workforce, farms were struggling to pay rents, meaning big country houses were closing at a rate of knots.

“Has it been so bad?”

She scowled. “Worse. Three weeks of rattling around here. Tilly sucking up like her life depends on it, Daddy laughing at jokes that simply aren’t funny and Mummy attempting to flirt is hideous.”

I glanced at mother and Domingos. He was telling her some tale, and she was all a-quiver.

“She’s doing fine.”

Agnes’ gaze darted to the terrace in front of the house. Mine followed and there stood my father. All six foot four inches of him with a face like thunder.

“Charles,” he boomed. Every eye turned to me.

“Uh-oh. You’re for it now,” Agnes said through gritted teeth.

“Here. Now,” Father commanded.

It felt like the longest walk of my life. I trudged across the cricket pitch and up the ridiculously long flight of steps to the terrace. Bennett stood at the top with that look he’d worn for the entire journey here. I wanted to wipe it from his face.

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room.”

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room…sir.”

I had no idea what rubbish he had fed to my father, but I would not be disrespected by him. I stood waiting for a response.

“Of course, sir.” The smugness never left him.

I found my father pacing in the lounge. In his early fifties, he had an imposing presence. Hardly any grey ran through his dark hair and moustache. I will admit that my stomach churned when I walked in.

“Father?”

He stopped pacing and glowered at me. “Homosexuality in my house? What are you trying to do, boy?”

“I had no idea what Harris was up to, and I threw him out when I discovered, along with that good-for-nothing Tanner.”

Frank would never understand the position he had put me in. I could have spit in his eye.

“Of course I don’t expect you to know what your friends are getting up to when your back is turned.”

My body relaxed a little.

“But as for you creeping up to the woods with Albert Brown…”

The room had started to spin. How did he know about Albert? “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but that’s a lie.”

Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I whirled around to see Bennett.

“I brought your post, sir,” he said walking past me and placing a bunch of envelopes on the desk.

“How dare you come in here when I’m having a private conversation with my father?” I cried.

“I asked him to come in. Now, Bennett, tell my son what you’ve just told me.”

With an audacity I would pay him back for one day, Bennett put on his best pitying expression for me. “My apologies, young sir, but I had to bring it to the master’s attention. I happened to overhear Mr Harris and his terrible accusations.”

Always sneaking around, listening at doorways. I was shaking with fear and rage.

“Naturally I had to investigate this for myself. Poor Albert had no choice but to indulge you in your…unusual requests. He said you threatened to have his livelihood taken from him if he didn’t.”

“That is a lie. I would never do that. Albert and I—” I stopped.

“Albert and you what?” asked my father “That will be all, Bennett.”

“Yes, sir.” He left the room.

“I asked you a question. Albert and you what?”

I took a deep breath. “Albert and I enjoyed some mutual time together.”

Out of nowhere, my father slapped my face, so hard it threw my head to the side.

“How could you do this to us? Get up to your room. I don’t want to see your disgusting little face until dinner time.”

I started to walk away, my face still smarting.

“By then I will have decided what to do with you. You will not bring shame on this family.”

I pulled open the door and walked straight into Bennett. I grabbed hold of his shirt and pushed him against the wall. He let out a little yelp.

“You may think you’ve won some game, but you will regret this one day. You will never be anything other than a pathetic little man who listens to other people’s lives.”

I let go of him and started to walk away.

“I am taking care of the family. I do care.”

I spun on my heel. “I do care…sir. Know your place.”

I didn’t wait for the reply.

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About the Author

Kristian Parker

I have written for as long as I could write. In fact, before, when I would dictate to my auntie. I love to read, and I love to create worlds and characters.

I live in the English countryside. When I’m not writing, I like to get out there and think through the next scenario I’m going to throw my characters into.

Inspiration can be found anywhere, on a train, in a restaurant or in an office. I am always in search of the next character to find love in one of my stories. In a world of apps and online dating, it is important to remember love can be found when you least expect it.

Follow Kristian on Facebook.

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Finding Him by LM Somerton

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 59,668
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 230

Genres:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI

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Book Description

Sometimes, using a safe word gets you exactly what you want.

Canadian Zac Denman is young, rich and submissive. He’s also a kidnap risk who’s grown up in the shadow of bodyguards and security precautions. All he wants is to work out what kind of submissive he is in a safe environment and thanks to his very understanding father, he’s getting the chance to do exactly that. The Retreat in England is safe, discreet and willing to provide a selection of Doms for Zac to play with—a great way of discovering what he is, and isn’t, into.

Dale Gastrell is a friend of The Retreat’s owner, a member of The Underground BDSM club and a soldier turned landscape gardener thanks to an inconvenient bullet. Two weeks providing covert protection to a wealthy client who won’t even know he’s there seems like a perfect break from city life.

But life is never simple, and when Dale and Zac are thrown together, Dale has to fight his attraction. Zac is from a whole different world of wealth and privilege. He’s not for the likes of Dale who has to watch as Doms arrive at The Retreat to give Zac a taste of submission.

Excerpt

Carey Hoffman stepped out of the air-conditioned limousine into the burning heat of a Palm Springs summer’s day. The air shimmered, and he half-expected to see a mirage in the distance along with a camel train and a bunch of wandering nomads. The sun’s intensity made the greenery around him all the more astounding. Extensive, manicured lawns stretched to either side of the sweeping drive and in front of him stood the biggest, most palatial house he’d ever seen. He could only imagine how much watering all that lush grass would need.

“It’s enormous.” Pure white, the sun reflecting off the building’s curved walls was blinding. Carey slipped on his sunglasses to reduce the combined glare of the sun and the paintwork. He couldn’t decide whether he liked the property or not. There was no doubt that it was extravagant and no question it was unique. “Probably designed by some celebrity architect for an extortionate fee,” Carey muttered. “It must be worth a small fortune.”

“I kind of like the smooth lines, it’s all curves, no harsh edges.” Alistair, Carey’s partner and submissive, joined him, slipping his hand into Carey’s. “It doesn’t come across as ostentatious as the McMansions you see in California. It’s understated, restrained somehow.”

“That’s your artistic eye at work, love. There’s way too much white for my liking. What’s wrong with a bit of color? Or at the very least a shade of white that isn’t…misty cloud or curdled milk or something. There are whole pages of so-called whites on paint charts, though they mostly look the same to me.”

Alistair gave him a gentle smile. “The heat’s getting to you, isn’t it, Sir?”

“How do people around here not combust? This place is like a furnace—I feel like I’m desiccating just standing here. What I wouldn’t give for a dose of London drizzle right now and that’s not something I ever thought I’d say.”

“We’re English. Our bodies are not equipped for more than two hot days a year—and by hot, I mean low eighties, not high nineties. Everything here seems to be air-conditioned to the point of frigidity, and I’m sure the house will be, too, once we get inside. You’ll be much happier then.”

“It’s entirely your fault we’re here, you know that? Now you’re a famous photographer, everyone wants a piece of you. Even multimillionaires. A personal invite from Taylor Denman is not to be sniffed at.” Carey gave Alistair a kiss to demonstrate his pride. “I’m so proud of you love, even if I am being fried alive.”

“Do you wish I’d turned down the invitation?” Alistair gazed at him anxiously. “I would have if you’d asked me to.”

“Absolutely not! Ignore me, sweetheart. The heat’s making me fractious. I’m very glad you accepted the invitation and I’m intrigued to meet Mr. Denman since he sponsored your exhibition in San Francisco. It was an enormous success. I’ve never seen so many sold stickers at a show before and it wouldn’t surprise me if he bought some of the pictures himself. You worked really hard to get everything set up, the launch was wonderful but exhausting. Mr. Denman’s offer to spend a few days at one of his hotels was a perfect way to end our trip so you could hardly turn down an invitation to meet him in person. It’s a small price to pay for an all-expenses paid stay in the best hotel in Palm Springs.”

They walked toward the house, glittering quartz gravel crunching beneath their shoes.

“I have to confess I’m a little nervous.” Alistair gripped Carey’s hand tighter.

“There’s no need to be. I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.” Alistair smiled, and Carey’s breath hitched. Alistair was beautiful, the sun glinting on his blond hair, his skin showing a hint of tan from several weeks in the sun.

“And I always will.” There was no doubt about that in Carey’s mind. Taking care of Alistair was the single most fulfilling part of his existence.

As they approached the huge front door of the property, it swung open. Carey expected to see a butler or maybe a personal assistant, but it was Taylor Denman himself who stood waiting for them. Carey recognized him from pictures he’d seen in the press. Taylor was casually dressed in jeans and a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms and the curl of a tattoo. He was a striking man, about Carey’s age, his chestnut hair starting to silver at the temples. A trace of stubble shaded his jaw, and there were laughter lines around his eyes.

“Welcome, gentlemen. I’m so glad you were able to make the trip from San Francisco.” Taylor stepped forward with a welcoming smile.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mr. Denman,” Alistair said. “We’re so happy to meet you.”

“Call me Taylor. You’re Alistair of course, I know you from your catalog picture, so this must be Carey.” He shook hands with Carey first, then with Alistair. “Come inside, it’s hotter than the surface of the fucking sun out here, excuse my language.”

Alistair giggled. “You and Carey are going to get along really well.”

“I thought it was only us rain-soaked Brits who couldn’t handle it,” Carey said, following Taylor into the icy-cool interior of his home. “I’m melting.”

“I was born in Canada. Alberta. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the heat, but my business interests make having a home here convenient. I keep an apartment in New York but I thought you’d appreciate a few days here in Palm Springs after the bustle of San Francisco. It’s a lot more relaxing than The Big Apple.”

“We certainly appreciate it,” Carey said, gazing around the entrance hall. “It’s rare that we get to spend a few days alone together, and the exhibition was a little frantic. Thanks to you it drew a lot of attention.” He was impressed by the cool colors and sleek minimalist design. The area managed to be welcoming even though the cathedral-like ceiling height could have made it intimidating.

His eye was drawn to a wall displaying a single large picture. Carey smiled. It was one of Alistair’s photographs, blown up to huge proportions. The original was one of Carey’s favorites. It showed a vast, ancient oak, standing alone in a rural landscape at twilight, its gnarled limbs outlined against the sky. A silhouette of a fox was just visible at its base. Ironically, it hadn’t taken hours of patient waiting for an animal to appear. He and Alistair had driven out to the Chiltern hills one afternoon and had been taking a stroll after an early dinner at a nearby restaurant. Alistair, his photographer’s instinct always active, had lifted his camera and taken the snap after spotting movement. He hadn’t even known it was a fox until he’d looked at the digital image. It had been pure luck that the picture had come out so well. It had sold at a London gallery, but the buyer had remained anonymous.

Alistair edged a little closer to Carey’s side, blushing. “Now you know what happened to the picture,” Carey said with a chuckle.

“I was curious,” Alistair admitted. “Anonymous buyers are intriguing.

“The original is in my study,” Taylor said. “I had this print made specifically for this space, and you have no idea how many compliments it draws. I’m loath to praise your work in public, Alistair because it never fails to increase competition for the pictures I want to buy. I’m a covetous man—I want the best for myself.”

“I’m so flattered. The picture certainly suits this space. I’m glad it went to someone who appreciates it.”

“Well, I’ve added several more to my collection thanks to the San Francisco exhibition. Shameless self-interest got me involved and as sponsor I got first pick, which caused huge annoyance to several acquaintances. An added bonus, I admit.” He grinned, mischief glittering in his eyes. “But I have to confess that it’s not the reason I’ve invited you both here. I’m afraid I have been somewhat dishonest. Of course, I sponsored the exhibition for absolutely genuine reasons, but over the last year things have come to light that I think you may be able to help me with. A personal matter.”

“You have my attention,” Carey said. “Does this have something to do with Alistair’s photography skills?”

“No. Actually, Carey, it’s you that I think can help. Let’s go sit in the sun room. I have light snacks set out in there, and cold drinks. We can relax and you can hear me out.”

Carey exchanged a curious glance with Alastair who shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the mystery. They both followed Taylor through the house pausing to admire the pictures and sculptures that were displayed everywhere.

The sun room proved to be constructed entirely of glass but managed to remain ice-cold. Several comfortable loungers surrounded a low glass table and there was a magnificent view of the sweeping grounds. Carey guessed that the hint of glittering water in the distance must be a pool.

They settled into their seats, Carey and Alistair next to each other, Taylor opposite them. Taylor offered them a selection of drinks. Alistair opted for chilled mango juice while Carey accepted a light beer, mirroring Taylor’s choice. On the table sat several platters of cold finger food, which was tempting but Carey wanted to hear what Taylor had to say before switching his attention to snacks.

“How do I start?” Taylor leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“I find it’s always best to be direct,” Carey said.

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About the Author

L.M. Somerton

Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.

She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.

You can follow Lucinda on Facebook, Twitter and her Website.

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Finding Aloha By Jennifer Walker

General Release Date: 22nd February2022

Word Count: 80,011
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 289

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
MULTICULTURAL
ROMANCE
SWEET ROMANCE
YOUNG ADULT
YOUNGER READERS

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Book Description

Jess moves to Maui anticipating a world of beaches, boys and bikinis. Romance with a passionate local and the discovery that her presence puts his family at risk? Not in the tourist brochure.

Her mother is having a baby with a man who is not her father, and her best friend has been secretly dating her boyfriend. Seventeen-year-old Jess Kennedy desperately needs a new life.

When her father accepts a job offer in Maui, Jess feels like this could be the fresh start she craves. The island’s beauty and charm provide a stark contrast to her home back in Canada. But the elite social hierarchy of Maui Gardens Charter School proves to be a thorny world to navigate.

Then in swoops Kai Kamealoha, a surf-loving Maui local with a fierce loyalty to his family and a passion for preserving his home’s natural beauty. Kai shows Jess that Maui is much more than the sun, surf and sand of tourism brochures, and he introduces her to an authentic look at Hawaiian life.

Jess can’t help but fall in love with Maui—and maybe with Kai Kamealoha as well. So, when she discovers that a real estate developer is forcing Kai’s family to sell their ancestral farm, she’s determined to help him find a way to save it. But digging deeper exposes a duplicity within her own family. Her presence there may be putting Kai’s family in jeopardy. Leaving the island for good may be her only option.

Reader advisory: This book contains mention of divorce, infidelity, racism by a secondary character, and a brief scene of sexual assault.

Excerpt

The garlic from Dad’s Caesar salad clings to my breath and burns my eyes as I hide away under this stifling blanket.

Crap. I should’ve brushed my teeth. Why didn’t I think about brushing my teeth?

I rack my brain trying to remember where I might have put a pack of gum or a Tic Tac, or God, even one of those disgusting cough drops. But my mind comes up blank.

My chest burns, forcing me to do some of those short, panicky breaths dogs do when they first show up at the vet. It’s been forever since I’ve taken a fresh breath of air. All I want to do is toss these suffocating blankets off me and smooth the frizzy mane my hair has become. But I’m paralyzed, terrified someone will barge in without knocking and my nightly rendezvous with Marcus won’t be able to continue.

In one desperate move, I pop my face out of the covers and gulp in air like it’s water from an oasis.

Sweet, sweet oxygen!

My brain starts functioning again and has a chance to fantasize about what’s about to take place. How thrilling it’s going to be to see his face again…to kiss those lips, press my body against his. The deceit… The sneaking out… I’m not going to lie. It makes this all feel so…so…badass. And lately, well lately, I’ve enjoyed a bit of badass.

As if he knows right this second that I’m thinking about him, there’s a buzz in the pocket of my jeans, and it sends a deeper buzz through the rest of my body.

Without rustling the covers, I carefully slide my hand under my butt and pry my phone out without allowing my bed to creak and groan. The screen lights up and buzzes again, making me smile with what’s written. It’s from Marcus.

You coming? I’m already here. Can’t wait to see you. Brought a little treat for us too.

He sends an emoji of two people kissing, followed by a leaf emoji. Meaning he’s brought a joint, but I giggle because it looks like he’s brought us a salad. Is there a weed emoji? Probably better he didn’t use that anyway, just in case Mom and Dad ever creep on my phone. No one can get in trouble for sneaking out to eat a salad.

I expertly navigate the screen with my thumb as I text him back underneath the covers.

Yeah, I think they’re both asleep. Coming now. Can’t wait to see you too—and eat salad with you lol.

In one swift movement, I throw the covers off and roll over to sit up. As I stand, I reach around to return my phone to the back pocket of my jeans, but it slips through my hand and lands with a crash on the hardwood floor.

Shit.

I’m not sure whether it’s loud enough for my parents to hear. I still my body and hold my breath one more time, listening for any sign of footsteps through the hall.

I’m sleepwalking. That’s what I’ll tell them. Yeah, if they ask, I’ll just mumble something incoherent about algebra, then wander back to bed, pretending not to remember in the morning. I might have a tough time explaining why I’m sleeping in jeans and a T-shirt, but whatever. It’s not like I can get in trouble for sleepwalking. I mean, how could I get in trouble for something I don’t even remember?

I wait for a few more seconds, then exhale a slow and relieved breath, because all is silent other than the faint sh…sh…sh…of my dad’s CPAP machine in the other room. Alleluia for sleep apnea! It has made this whole sneaking out thing way easier. The only downside is that Mom has recently made the spare bedroom on the main floor her own personal refuge. She claimed Dad was just too noisy to sleep beside, which was weird at first. He used to snore louder than a train whistle before the machine, and she didn’t seem to have a problem with it then.

But when I started questioning why they were sleeping in separate rooms, it got me thinking about Tamara Lindsay. Poor Tamara Lindsay, who accidentally walked in on her parents in a very compromising position—position number 69 if we want to get real about it. And now Tamara is damaged for life. Seriously. The details Tamara gave? No one needs to see their parents doing that.

So, I figured whatever. If Mom and Dad no longer want to sleep together, it just means that at least I won’t ever have to worry about walking in on things Moms and Dads should not be allowed to do. What it does mean is that I have to be a little more careful about creeping past Mom’s bedroom downstairs.

I crane my head toward my bedroom door and don’t hear any footsteps coming up the stairs. I’m positive Mom is asleep by now.

I peer at the clock as I reach down to retrieve my phone.

Twelve-fourteen a.m.

Yeah, they’ve both got to be asleep for sure.

My jacket is draped over one arm, and I hold my pair of red Converse with my other hand as I inch my way across my room. I open the door soundlessly, grateful that I convinced Dad to fix the creak in it last weekend. After a quick glance across the hall and into the front room, I gently close the door behind me and tiptoe all the way down the stairs, making sure to skip the step third from the bottom because of the groan it makes. My heart gallops like a racehorse the whole way. I’m convinced Mom and Dad are going to barge out of their rooms any second to pounce on me.

But somehow I slide past Mom’s bedroom without incident and make it to the back patio door. I don’t dare creep out through the garage or the front door. That would basically be suicide. But the patio door is quiet, discreet and leads to a perfect escape route just left of the house. There’s a large pine tree there, wedged between the fence and the shed. It creates cover and forms a darkened shadow, despite the glare of the porch light that is always left on. All I need to do is inch my way down the length of the shadow, all the way to the far corner of the yard. The fence is old and needs to be rebuilt, and sharp slivers dig into my bare arms as I slide along it. But I’m eternally thankful for my parents’ procrastination in fixing it so my nightly escapades can continue.

Once I reach the end of the yard, I pry loose the third board from the left, the one I wedged back in last night. I lean it against the neighboring boards and squeeze myself through the ten-inch gap in the fence.

Crap, my T-shirt snags on a rough edge of wood as I squeeze through, and I swear under my breath. I just paid full price for it at H&M. Oh well, this is worth it—totally worth it.

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About the Author

Jennifer Walker

Jennifer Walker is a teacher and writer from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She lives with her husband Ian, her two children Everett and Kennedy, and her impossibly sweet Bernedoodle puppy Leo. When she’s not teaching, writing, or reading, you can most likely find her in a yoga studio, in the kitchen baking muffins, or running off the calories of the muffins she’s just baked. She’s famous for publicly embarrassing her family by singing terrible show-tunes and practicing 90’s dance moves, and if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, she’s pretty sure she could make it as the fifth Wiggle.

You can find out more about Jennifer at her website.

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First You Dream by Aliyah Burke

General Release Date: 22nd February2022

Word Count: 30,138
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 125

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
ENEMIES TO LOVERS
EROTIC ROMANCE
MULTICULTURAL

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Book Description

A rash decision can become the best ever.

Race car driver Cody Gamino has come from Europe to the United States for one thing—to race with the incredible Xin. Their one night together meant more to him than he expected and suddenly, it’s not just about racing together but being together. Forever.

Racer N’Jelle ‘Xin’ Marx turns to a handsome man she met outside a bar, just to forget for a night. Six weeks and two pink lines later, she is questioning the decision she made that night. When he shows up at her job, revealing to her who he truly is, and snatches her position out from under her, she doesn’t have the fight in her any longer. And Cody isn’t one to give up—when he learns of his unborn child, he digs in even more. Will these two, used to life in the fast lane, learn to slow down and see what’s before them? Will they recognize what they have to lose?

Reader advisory: This book contains a brief mention of violence/murder.

Excerpt

“What’ll it be, love?”

The man who asked stared at her as if she were familiar to him and she barely resisted tensing up. She didn’t need to be recognized.

N’Jelle ‘Xin’ Marx craved nothing more than a good hard drink. At least if I can have that I’ll be on my way to forgetting this shitstorm of a day.

“Whiskey. Neat. Leave the bottle.”

The bartender nodded and had her requested items before her in mere moments. Blessedly, he then left her alone.

The first shot went down smooth and potent. Before the burn had even evaporated, she was pouring another, and chasing it down.

Warning prickles popped up along the back of her neck. That awareness came in handy while she drove on the track. Right now? Not so much.

“At least you drink whiskey like a decent human, no froo-froo shit for you.”

The slender woman that parked herself on the stool beside Xin looked not all that different from how she’d been earlier that day. N’Jelle sighed, not bothering to keep it quiet either. The other two were there as well.

She didn’t owe them a damn thing and she was irritated as fuck that they’d tracked her down.

Ignoring all three of them, she remained sitting faced forward and poured more liquid into her glass.

“Does she think we’ll just vanish if she doesn’t talk to us?”

The tallest and roughest of them had spoken this time. Not rough in an ugly way but more of an ‘I can kick your ass and look good doing it’ sort of way.

“She’s,” N’Jelle sneered, “sitting right here and doesn’t give a damn what you think I may or may not think. I’ve had enough of you today.”

“Tough shit.” The middle-sized one spoke now. She was the one who actually shared a father with N’Jelle. Xandra was her name. “You’re my sister now and I don’t know what the fuck you were thinking, that you could just roll up at our event, drop that kind of bomb and walk off.”

Turning her gaze to the beauty beside her, Xin snarled. “You what, want me to apologize for not being invited to a family event and getting permission to show up? I don’t want anything from any of you. I had wanted to know why your father couldn’t be bothered with me, but I get it now. He has you and the other two he looks on as daughters—who gives a fuck about the one who was left behind and forgotten.”

Her shitty childhood was shoving at her, pushing for her to lose it and make a scene. Draw some blood.

This wasn’t smart—she had to get moving. Getting off the stool, she dug in her pocket for some bills. She tossed them on the bar top and nodded at the bartender. Then she spun to the door.

All three women stepped in front of her, and she snorted.

“Really? Grew up on the streets, bitches. Don’t push me. Get out of my way or you’re going to lose your weaves.”

Shoving through them, she walked out through the door and stepped into the night. Off in the distance, storm clouds rolled in, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. She requested a ride and kept an eye on the door as she waited. The three women walked out as her ride pulled up.

A leanly muscled man walked up to her from a different direction, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Where you off to, beautiful?”

Yeah, he’ll work. “Got any ideas?”

He held the car door for her and she got in, ignoring the calls from her half-sister and cousins. She wasn’t their concern. Hadn’t been before. Wasn’t now.

She needed to forget and this man, dressed in black jeans and a tight black shirt, with scruff on his face, seemed the perfect way to go about it.

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About the Author

Aliyah Burke

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Aliyah Burke is an avid reader and is never far from pen and paper (or the computer). She is happily married to a career military man. They are owned by six Borzoi. She spends her days at the day job, writing, and working with her dogs​. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached here. She can also be found on Facebook or Twitter: @AliyahBurke96. And Pinterest.

If you would like to be kept abreast of what’s going on in the world of Aliyah, you can sign up to her newsletter here.

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Till Death Do Us Wed By Jason Wrench

General Release Date: 22nd February 2022

Word Count: 81,783
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 347

Genres:

ACTION AND ADVENTURE
CONTEMPORARY
CRIME
CRIME AND MYSTERY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MEN IN UNIFORM
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Planning a wedding is hard enough without international politics, an assassin, your fiancé’s ex-boyfriend and your mother to deal with.

NYPD Detective Frank Schultt and his fiancé, FBI Agent Aaron Massey, have bought a new condo, adopted a dog and are planning their wedding. But when an international assassin starts killing people on the streets of New York City, Aaron and Frank must work together to find the killer before she strikes again.

Combine the assassin with the pressure of Frank’s jealousy when Aaron’s ex-boyfriend comes back to town, and can their relationship withstand the pressure? Will Aaron and Frank make it to the altar on time, or will the assassin and Frank’s destructive behavior stop their wedding before it ever heads down the aisle?

Publisher’s Note: This book is best read as the sequel to Twelve Days of Murder.

Excerpt

Frank stared around the pink office, wondering if a bottle of Pepto Bismol had accidentally spilled. He watched the perky blonde woman sitting in front of him, doing his best to pay attention. It wasn’t exactly how Frank liked to spend his Saturday mornings. But it was Aaron’s big day, so he’d promised to grin and bear it.

“With Central Park wedding locations, we are definitely somewhat limited. For example, the Bow Bridge only allows for ten guests and the Belvedere Castle Terrace only allows thirty. The North Garden, Southern Garden, Wisteria Pergola and Cherry Hill each allow for up to one hundred. What size are you two thinking?”

“Eloping,” Frank muttered.

“Twenty-five to fifty,” Aaron said, shooting Frank a sideways glance.

“I’m joking,” Frank reassured, patting Aaron’s leg and giving it a squeeze before turning to the woman. “Whatever Aaron wants, I want him to have.”

NYPD Detective Frank Schultt and FBI Special Agent Aaron Massey had met the previous year during a serial murder spree. The Twelve-Day Killer, as dubbed by the media, had terrorized NYC over the holidays. Aaron and Frank had put their lives and careers on the line hunting the bastard down. In the process, they had found each other.

Frank glanced over at the man he loved. God, where would I be without him? He reached up and rubbed the back of Aaron’s neck gently. From the top of Aaron’s head with his dark brown quaff haircut and his Caribbean ocean-blue eyes, to his lithe but fit body, Frank took in this man sitting beside him who was going to be his husband. Frank was still stunned at his good fortune in landing the affection of such an amazingly intelligent and gorgeous man.

Realizing his thoughts had drifted, Frank brought his attention back to the woman sitting in front of him, who was rattling on about Central Park weddings. He glanced down at her nameplate, ‘Amber Wethersfield’. The woman was in her late twenties. And judging by the giant diamond on her wedding ring, her husband was definitely wealthy. Frank glanced across the pink office looking for personal items and was surprised by the lack of photos. For a woman who sells marriage, where are the pictures of her happy day?

“So, do you have an officiant for your wedding lined up? If not, I have a list of great people who work with LGBTQIA+ people.”

“Huh?” Frank blurted before he could catch himself.

“Officiant…the person who will oversee the ceremony and the exchange of your vows,” Amber offered.

“No, you listed off a bunch of letters,” Frank said.

“Oh.” Amber perked up. “Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer-questioning, intersexed, asexual and others.”

Dear God, that sounds like a gay BLT. Frank was about to make the snide comment, but a quick glance from Aaron told him that he’d better hold his tongue. Instead, Frank just nodded his head and gave a thin-lipped smile.

“Actually, we have a few people in mind,” Aaron noted. “Frank knows a judge who volunteered her services, and we have a couple of other names in the hopper as well.”

“Oh, good,” Amber said. “You’d be amazed at how many people totally forget the officiant until the last minute. I even have a license I got from an online church because I’ve had to step in at the eleventh hour when something went horribly wrong. I just don’t enjoy being in the wedding party, because it makes it harder for me to run things behind the scenes.”

Frank leaned back in the chair and watched as Aaron and Amber discussed the wedding. This wasn’t Frank’s first. He’d been married, but his husband had been murdered in a liquor store robbery on Christmas Eve over six years ago. As much as Frank loved Aaron, there was still a vast hole in his heart that had been left by Adam’s death. But Frank loved Aaron and was going to make sure their wedding day was every bit of glitz and glamour that Aaron desired.

“Well, if you have questions,” Amber said, bringing Frank’s attention back once again, “just let me know. You have my email, cell phone, home phone and office phone numbers, so never hesitate to reach out. I look forward to working with both of you on your big day.”

Amber stood up from her desk to usher the couple out of her office. She pushed herself up, exposing her pregnant belly.

“When’s the due date?” Aaron asked.

“Mid-March. But I swear she’s ready to come out any day.”

Frank stared at her belly and just thought, Are you sure there’s only one in there? But once again, he held his tongue.

“Don’t worry. I won’t miss your big day. When I’m out on maternity leave, my assistant will take over the day-to-day preparations, and he’ll be in constant contact with me. When I had my first baby, we were texting right up until they told me to push.”

“Well, it was really was nice meeting you,” Frank said.

“Likewise. And I just have to say, you two make such a cute couple.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said. “I think he’s a keeper.” Aaron gave Amber a little wink before turning to leave.

As Frank followed suit, Aaron’s hand rested in the small of Frank’s back. Frank leaned into Aaron in response.

“Earth to Frank!” Aaron said as they exited onto the sidewalk. The February chill immediately caught Aaron off guard, and he lifted the collar on the trench coat to protect his neck.

“Huh, what?”

“I said, “Earth to Frank.” What’s going on inside that head of yours?”

“Overwhelmed, I guess.”

“How so?”

“The whole wedding planning is just bringing up some memories.”

Aaron squeezed Frank. “I hadn’t thought about that. I forget that you’ve done this before.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, scrunching his forehead. “It’s surreal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to be marrying you. I hope you know that. It’s just that it brings up memories of Adam.”

“I get it,” Aaron said. “I would be surprised if it didn’t, to be honest.” Aaron hesitated for a second before adding, “Just know…I will never try to replace Adam. I know what you two had was special—”

“What we have is special too.”

“I know,” Aaron acknowledged. “I just want you to know that I love you and would never try to change you…warts and all.”

“God, I hope I don’t have any warts.”

“We all have warts. Some have them physically and others have them metaphorically.”

“Sure thing, professor,” Frank teased.

After dealing with the Twelve-Day Killer, Aaron had taken a teaching position part-time with the John Jay School of Criminal Justice. He was technically still on the FBI’s payroll, but his utility as an undercover agent had taken a hit after the amount of press the Twelve-Day Killer had received. And with the forthcoming publication of his new book about the case, Aaron and Frank both knew a fresh round of press attention was right around the corner.

“So, we didn’t have breakfast after the gym this morning,” Aaron said. “Shall we have a quick brunch before heading back to the apartment to get ready?”

“Do we have time?” Frank asked, glancing down at his watch. “It’s already ten a.m. What time is the car picking us up for the reading?”

“The reading’s at two o’clock, so the car is scheduled to pick us up about one-fifteen.”

“I guess we have plenty of time. Any suggestions on where we should eat?”

“How about 9Ten?” Aaron asked, referring to one of their favorite diners.

“Lead the way.”

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About the Author

Jason Wrench

Jason Wrench is a professor in the Department of Communication at SUNY New Paltz and has authored/edited 15+ books and over 35 academic research articles. He is also an avid reader and regularly reviews books for publishers in a wide number of genres. This book marks his first full-length work of fiction.

Find out more about Jason at his website.

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