Spotlight: Bottom of the Sky by Shae Ross

Genre: New Adult, Romantic Suspense
Release Date: March 21, 2017
Format: Digital, Paperback

Synopsis

Tragedy set his course for revenge. One woman stands in his way.

John

The last thing I need is to be saddled with the on-the-run niece of the family I’m about to take down. Gianna Silva wants me to help her find her missing mother. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry—namely, her cousins Stefano and Santos Silva. I’m working on the inside, feeding information to the FBI, and I'm about to drop the net on their ring of counterfeiters. To keep Gianna out of my way, I’ve agreed to help her but under one condition: What I say goes. No questions. No pushback. I make the rules.

The problem is Gianna Silva doesn’t know the meaning of the word “rule” and she’s on to me. For two years, I’ve hidden my true identity behind a wall built from stone-cold revenge. I thought it was indestructible—especially against someone with the last name of Silva—the family I’ve vowed to destroy…

 Gianna

If I could find my missing mom by myself I would, but the only enemies she’s ever had are my dead father and his powerful family. Confronting the Silvas alone is too dangerous. I need an insider who knows how to play their game. John Rossi, with his cool, bad-boy confidence and access to the family is my best hope. I’ve bargained away the last dollar in my savings account in exchange for his help, but I’m beginning to think I made a deal with the devil.

I didn’t expect his rules to include sharing a cabin—and a bedroom with him—northwest of Nowheresville. I don’t trust him, or my attraction to him. But to find my mom, I’ll break every one of his damn rules, regardless of the consequences… 

Excerpt

He stops and flips upright in the middle of the moonlit river. His hands hold my waist as our feet cycle. “Why are we stopping?” I ask.

“So you can kiss me.”

His hands catch my ribcage lifting me as he tows me in.

My palms flatten against his slick, hard chest. “I make the rules, right?”

He shakes his head, and a wicked smile sprouts from the perfectly shaped lips. “This is no man’s land…the river is ruled by nature.”

His grin widens, ripping something open in my heart, and I think maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. He obviously needs the distraction and so do I.

I meet his kiss. His head slants over mine, and I open for him, sucking him in. Our bodies bob from the force of his treading feet, keeping both of us afloat. His hand slides to my back, slinging me in flush to his body. My breath jams in my throat when I feel him, thick and hard against my stomach, teasing the nerves gathered low in my belly.  

“John…” I break the kiss and gasp a short breath. “I need to conserve some energy if I’m going to make it to the other side.”

He chuckles softly, twirling our bodies until we’re in the current again, but when I stroke to swim beside him, he glides underneath me, looping one of my hands over his shoulder and the other under his chest. I surf his back as he swims, resting my cheek on the wet strands of his hair, feeling the muscles of his chest moving under my fingertips with each stroke. Weightless and languid, water floods my limbs, caressing my bones. I’m floating through the Sky as if I’m on my way to heaven..   

After several moments, John’s body shifts and his arm contracts. He’s caught the ladder to his dock, supporting our weight with one hand. He dips a shoulder and swings me in front of him. I point my toe and find a slippery rung. The ladder sinks as he steps onto the rung below mine, brushing my back with wet skin, gripping the rails and cocooning me with warmth.

Everything about this moment makes me want to stop and take it in.

I sway into him feeling his cheek brush my temple. He curves around me, dropping a hand to my stomach. I arch as it travels up and his knuckles graze my cleavage, prickling the sensitive skin. A voice inside echoes this isn’t me as his fingers continue upward, sliding to the side of my neck, but this is me with John.

“If you don’t want this, Gianna…” his voice sounds almost tortured. “Climb up.”

My toes curl, standing firm on the rung, submerged like anchors. His mouth lowers to the side of my neck, and I tilt giving him full access.

“If you don’t climb up now, I’ll keep touching you…”

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About the Author

Shae Ross grew up in Ferndale, Michigan. She attended Michigan State University and continued her education at Detroit College of Law. Prior to 2014, she spent the majority of her career practicing corporate law and engaged in entrepreneurial ventures.

After having too many stressful days at the office, she decided to pursue her dream of writing and published her first romance novel in January of 2015. She loves strong heroines and sexy, alpha heroes who deliver stories filled with sass, smarts and sizzle.

Connect:  Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon

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Read an excerpt from The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley by Hannah Tinti

About the Book

A coming-of-age novel and a literary thrill ride about the price we pay to protect the people we love most.

“A father-daughter road trip you won’t soon forget.”—Richard Russo

Samuel Hawley isn’t like the other fathers in Olympus, Massachusetts. A loner who spent years living on the run, he raised his beloved daughter, Loo, on the road, moving from motel to motel, always watching his back. Now that Loo’s a teenager, Hawley wants only to give her a normal life. In his late wife’s hometown, he finds work as a fisherman, while Loo struggles to fit in at the local high school.

Growing more and more curious about the mother she never knew, Loo begins to investigate. Soon, everywhere she turns, she encounters the mysteries of her parents’ lives before she was born. This hidden past is made all the more real by the twelve scars her father carries on his body. Each scar is from a bullet Hawley took over the course of his criminal career. Each is a memory: of another place on the map, another thrilling close call, another moment of love lost and found. As Loo uncovers a history that’s darker than she could have known, the demons of her father’s past spill over into the present—and together both Hawley and Loo must face a reckoning yet to come.

Excerpt

Hawley

When Loo was twelve years old her father taught her how to shoot a gun. He had a case full of them in his room, others hidden in boxes around the house. Loo had seen them at night, when he took the guns apart and cleaned them at the kitchen table, oiling and polishing and brushing for hours. She was forbidden to touch them and so she watched from a distance, learning what she could about their secrets, until the day when she blew out birthday candles on twelve chocolate Ring Dings, arranged on a plate in the shape of a star, and Hawley opened the wooden chest in their living room and put the gift she had been waiting for—­her grandfather’s rifle—­into her arms.

Now Loo waited in the hallway as her father pulled down a box of ammunition from the front closet. He took out some .22 rimfires—­long-­rifle and Magnum—­as well as nine-­millimeter Hornady 115-­grain. The bullets rattled inside their cardboard containers as he slid them into a bag. Loo took note of every detail, as if her father’s choices were part of a test she would later have to pass. Hawley grabbed a bolt-­action Model 5 Remington, a Winchester Model 52 and his Colt Python.
Whenever he left the house, Loo’s father carried a gun with him. Each of these guns had a story. There was the rifle that Loo’s grandfather had carried in the war, notched with kills, that now belonged to her. There was the twenty-­gauge shotgun from a ranch in Wyoming where Hawley worked for a time running horses. There was a set of silver dueling pistols in a polished wooden case, won in a poker game in Arizona. The snub-­nosed Ruger he kept in a bag at the back of his closet. The collection of derringers with pearl handles that he hid in the bottom drawer of his bureau. And the Colt with a stamp from Hartford, Connecticut, on the side.

The Colt had no particular resting place. Loo had found it underneath her father’s mattress and sitting openly on the kitchen table, on top of the refrigerator and once on the edge of the bathtub. The gun was her father’s shadow. Resting in the places he had passed through. If Hawley was out of the room, sometimes she would touch the handle. The grip was made of rosewood, and felt smooth beneath her fingers, but she never picked it up or moved it from whatever place he had set it down.

Hawley grabbed the Colt now and tucked it under his belt, then strung the rifles across his shoulder. He said, “Come on, troublemaker.” Then he held open the door for them both. He led his daughter into the woods behind their house and down into the ravine, where a stream rushed over mossy rocks before emptying out into the ocean.

It was a clear day. The leaves had abandoned their branches for the forest floor, a carpet of crimson, yellow and orange; crisp and rustling. Loo’s father marked a pine tree at two hundred yards with a small spot of white paint, then set the bucket down and walked back to his daughter and the guns.

Hawley was in his forties but looked younger, his hips still narrow, his legs strong. He was as tall as a longboat, with wide shoulders that sloped from the years of driving his truck back and forth across the country with Loo in the passenger seat. His hands were callused from the day jobs he’d work from time to time—­fixing cars or painting houses. His fingernails were lined with grease and his dark hair was always overgrown and tangled. But his eyes were a deep blue and he had a face that was rough and broken in a way that came out handsome. Wherever they had stopped on the road, whether it was for breakfast at some diner on the highway, or in a small town where they’d set up for a while, Loo would notice women drifting toward him. But her father would make his mouth go still and set his jaw and it kept anyone from getting too close.

These days his truck wasn’t going anywhere except down to the water, where they dug clams and hauled buckets of shells. Quahogs, Hawley called them. But also littlenecks, topnecks, steamers and cherrystones, depending on their size and color. He used a rake to hunt but Loo preferred a long, thin spade that could pierce the surface before the creatures began to burrow. Early each morning father and daughter rolled their pants above their knees and slipped on rubber boots. The shells were pulled from the salt marshes and mudflats, from the sandy bay and at low tide along the shore.

Hawley took the Remington off his shoulder and showed Loo how to load the clip. Five bullets slid inside, one by one. Then the magazine clicked into place.

“This is for starters. A practice gun. It won’t do much damage. But still,” he said. “Keep the safety on. Check your target and what’s behind your target. Don’t point it at anything you don’t want to shoot.”

He opened the bolt, retracted, then closed it again, pulling the first live round into the chamber. Then he handed his daughter the rifle. “Plant your feet,” he said. “Loosen your knees. Take a breath. Let half of it out. That’s when you want to squeeze the trigger. On the exhale. Don’t pull—­just squeeze.”

The Remington was cool and heavy in Loo’s hands, and her arms shook a little as she raised the stock to her shoulder. She had dreamed of holding one of her father’s guns for so many years that it was as if she were dreaming now. She tried to level the sight as she took aim, pulled the handle in close, lifted her elbow and last, last of all, flipped off the safety.

“What are you going to shoot?” her father asked.

“That tree,” said Loo.

“Right.”

In her mind she imagined the trajectory of the bullet, saw it going for miles, creating its own history. She knew every part of this gun, every gear and bolt, and she could sense each piece now—­the spring and the carrier and the chamber and the pin—­working together and sliding into place as she touched the trigger.

The explosion that followed was more of a pop than a blast. The butt of the rifle barely moved against her shoulder. She expected a thrill, some kind of corresponding shudder in her body, but all she felt was a tiny bubble of relief.

“Look,” her father said.

Loo lowered the barrel. She could just make out the white mark in the distance, untouched. “I missed.”

“Everyone misses.” Hawley scratched his nose. “Your mother missed.”

“She did?”

“The first time,” he said. “Now slide the bolt.”

“Did she use this gun?”

“No,” said Hawley. “She liked the Ruger.”

Loo pulled back on the lever and the casing flung through the air and onto the forest floor. She locked the bolt back into place, and the next bullet slid into the chamber. Her mother, Lily, had died before the girl could remember. A drowning accident in a lake. Hawley had shown Loo the exact spot where it had happened, on a map of Wisconsin. A small blue circle she could hide with the tip of her finger.

Hawley did not like to speak about it. Because of this the air shimmered a bit whenever he did, as if Lily’s name were conjuring something dangerous. Most of what Loo knew about her mother was contained in a box full of mementos, a traveling shrine that her father re-­created in the bathroom of each place they lived. Motel rooms and temporary apartments, walk-­ups and cabins in the woods, and now this house on the hill, this place that Hawley said would be their home.

The photographs went up first, around the bathtub and sink. Her father affixed each carefully so they wouldn’t rip—­shots of Loo’s mother and her long black hair, pale skin and green eyes. Next he arranged half-­used bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a compact and a tube of red lipstick, a bent toothbrush, a silk bathrobe with dragons sewn on the back and cans of Lily’s favorite foods—­pineapple and garbanzo beans—­along with bits of handwriting, scraps of paper discovered after her death, things she had needed from the grocery store, lists of activities she had hoped to finish by the following Saturday and a parking ticket with fragments of a dream scribbled on the back. Old car with hinges folds down into a suitcase. Every time Loo used the toilet or took a bath, she faced her mother’s words, watching the letters bleed together over the years and the ink fade from the steam of the shower.

The dead woman was an ever-­present part of their lives. When Loo did something well, her father said: Just like your mother, and when she did something bad, her father said: Your mother would never approve.

Loo squeezed the trigger. She did it again and again, reloading for over an hour, occasionally nicking bark from the tree but missing the target every time, until there was a pile of brass shells at her feet and her arm ached from the weight of the gun.

“The mark’s too small,” said Loo. “I’ll never hit it.”

Hawley pulled a wallet of tobacco from his pocket and shook it back and forth at her. Loo put down the gun. She walked over and took the pouch from him, as well as a package of rolling papers. She slid one thin piece of paper away from the rest, folded it in half with her finger and then tucked some of the tobacco along the crease. Then she placed the filter and began rolling, pinching the ends, licking the edge to seal the fold. She handed the cigarette to her father, and he lit it and settled onto a rock nearby, leaning into the sun. He had started a beard, as he did whenever the weather turned cold, and he scratched it now, his fingers catching in the wiry brown hair.

“You’re thinking too much.”

Loo tossed the pouch at him, then picked up the rifle again. Her father had hardly spoken during the lesson, as if he expected her to already know how to shoot. She’d been excited when they started, but now she was losing her nerve—­in the same way she did in the bathroom surrounded by scraps of her mother’s words and cans of her mother’s favorite foods and pictures of her mother’s effortless beauty.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

The tide was coming in. Loo could hear the ocean beyond the ravine, gathering strength. One wave after another advancing upon the shore. Hawley tucked the roll of tobacco back into his pocket.

“There’s nothing between you and that tree.”

“I’m between it.”

“Then get out of the way.”

Loo flipped the safety on and put the rifle down again. She dug a rock out of the dirt with her fingers and threw it into the woods as far as she could. The rock sailed halfway toward the white mark and then crashed into some bushes. Birds scattered. The sound of a plane passed overhead. Loo looked through the branches at the flash of aluminum in the sky. Thirty thousand feet away and it seemed like an easier target.

Hawley’s cigarette had gone out as he watched her and now he relit the end, striking a match, the ember glowing once, twice, as he brought it to his lips. Then he crushed the cigarette against the rock. He blew smoke out of his mouth.

“You need a mask.” Hawley lifted his giant hands and covered his own face. Then he opened his fingers, framing his eyes and forming a bridge across his nose. It made him look like a stranger. Then Hawley dropped the mask and he was her father again.

“Try it,” he said.

Loo’s hands were not as big but they did the job, closing her off from the woods and her own disappointment. It was like blinders on a horse. Things got blurry or disappeared when she turned her eyes left or right.

“How am I supposed to shoot like this?”

“Use it to focus, then pick up the gun,” said Hawley.

Loo turned back toward the target. The sun was beginning to set. The white spot of paint caught the light and was glowing. What surrounded the tree—­the earth, the sky, its own branches—­fell away. This was how her father must see things, she thought. A whole world of bull’s-­eyes.

Just then, beyond the mark, there was a shuffling of leaves. Some kind of movement in the woods. Loo dropped her hands from her face. She held her breath. She heard only the sound of the wind. The rattle of birch leaves flipping back and forth. The distant echo of the plane in the clouds. The scratch of a squirrel’s claws as it scrambled up the bark of a tree. But her father was listening for something else. His chin was down, his eyes cutting left. His face tensed and ready.

Hawley was always watching. Always waiting. He got the same look when they went into town for supplies, when the mailman came to their door, when a car pulled alongside them on the road. She heard him late at night, walking the living room floor, checking the locks on the windows. Digging on the beach for clams, he kept his back to the sea. These were small things, but she noticed. And she noticed now, as his whole body became still. He reached behind to his belt, and his hand came back with the Colt.

Excerpted from The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley by Hannah Tinti. Copyright © 2017 by Hannah Tinti. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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About the Author

Hannah Tinti grew up in Salem, Massachusetts. Her short story collection Animal Crackers was a runner-up for the PEN/Hemingway Award. Her bestselling novel The Good Thief won the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and an American Library Association Alex Award, and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. Tinti is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the award-winning literary magazine One Story.

Excerpt: Secrets in Summer by Nancy Thayer

About the Book

“The queen of beach books” (The Star-Ledger) returns to the shores of Nantucket in a novel about one memorable summer when flirtations flourish, family dramas play out, and scandalous secrets surface.

Memorial Day weekend means that seasonal visitors have descended on the glamorous island of Nantucket. For year-round resident Darcy Cotterill, it means late-night stargazing in the backyard of the beautiful house she grew up in and inherited from her beloved grandmother. It’s also Darcy’s chance to hit the beach and meet her new summertime neighbors. But the last person the thirty-year-old librarian expects to see staying next door is her ex-husband, Boyz, along with his wife, Autumn, and stepdaughter, Willow.

Darcy must also navigate the highs and lows of a new romantic relationship with local carpenter Nash Forester even as she becomes smitten with handsome vacationer Clive Rush, a musicologist in town to write a book and visit family. And she finds herself pulled into the concerns of Boyz, Autumn, a charming elderly neighbor, and an at-risk teen.

As the season nears its end, Darcy must decide her next move: retreating to the comforts of her steady and secure island life, or risking it all for a chance at true happiness.

Excerpt

1

It was completely by accident that Darcy Cotterill spied on her ex-­husband. She didn’t want to see down into his backyard, or the yards of any of her neighbors, for that matter.

Really, it was the fault of the men who built these houses on Nantucket Island in the 1840s. Almost all the houses in the historic district, within walking distance to town, were built with an English basement, meaning the space was partly below ground but had large windows and its own door on the side of the house.
So, in order to walk in and out the front or back door of the main floor of the house, you had to climb a set of stairs at both the front and back doors.

That put the first floor, the main floor, ten feet above ground level, the perfect height for casually glancing into her neighbors’ yards as Darcy went about her day.

And how was she to know her ex-­husband and his new family would rent the house behind hers for the summer? She had no warning. One moment she was relaxing in her garden, and the next moment, heart attack!

Darcy owned this gorgeous house in the center of the town because her beloved, if slightly eccentric, grandmother had left it to her in her will. From the age of ten, Darcy had lived here with Penny, who was the only person in Darcy’s dysfunctional family who stayed in one place long enough to take care of her. Darcy had adored Penny, and even now, every morning, she sent a prayer of gratitude to her grandmother.

Years ago, her grandmother had planted a hedge of spruce around the perimeter of the yard to form three tall thick walls with arched arbors on both sides of the house so friends could enter from the street. The backyard was private, and Darcy liked that. A narrow lane cut through on one side of her house, and she was glad the hedge concealed her yard. She had a public job, and she knew it wouldn’t be appropriate if people passing down the narrow lane saw her as she was on this hot summer day, wearing only her briefest bikini.

And she wanted to keep this job forever. It was the job she had always dreamed of. She was a librarian! Specifically, she was the assistant director of the children’s library of the Nantucket Atheneum. Her work was meaningful and pleasurable and involved lots of people. Still, she was glad when Sunday and Monday rolled around. These were her days off, her own special time to be alone to read and dream, especially in July and August when the island’s population exploded from sixteen thousand vigorous year-­rounders to sixty thousand summer people.

On Sundays, Darcy joined a group of friends—­some married, some with children, some single—­for a lazy day of swimming and boating and cooking out. Monday was her day to run necessary errands and work in the garden or, on a rainy day, lie in bed reading, with her cat, Muffler, beside her.

Because July 4th was next Monday, work schedules were scrambled, so Darcy had today off from work. She had time to relax. She lay on a thick cushioned lounger, surrounded by flowers and birdsong, a wrought iron table nearby for her phone and iced tea.

She tilted her head back so the rays could touch her neck. Her face was protected with sunblock, and she felt as pale as a parsnip. Too many days working. Although, she remembered with a satisfied grin, during the nights she’d spent in bed with Nash Forester, he had liked her skin just fine.

Next Sunday, when the gang met at Fat Ladies Beach, she’d wear something with more coverage, but she enjoyed the thought of Nash seeing her with new tan lines. And that was the kind of thought she hadn’t had for a long while, if ever.

The sun beat down on her closed eyelids. Sweat began to bead up behind her neck, trickling down her shoulders. She remembered last Sunday with Nash, when she was in his arms and the waves rocked their bodies together while they floated in the blue Atlantic and—­

Her thoughts were interrupted by the quiet growl of a car as it pulled into the driveway of the house behind her.

Of course. It was almost July. Her summer neighbors were coming—­cue music from Jaws—­to occupy the houses around her. Some were pleasant, some were loud hard-­drinking partiers—­as the joke went, “Summer people—­some are not.” Some said hello when they saw her on the sidewalk in front of her house. Most ignored her. For them, she existed outside their summer fantasy bubble. It was all good with her. She was glad people could live here for a summer month or two. She had when she was younger, and she’d thought it was paradise.

It still was, even as, on the other side of the hedges, car doors opened and slammed shut. Her new backyard neighbors spilled out into the sun, all talking at once.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely here! And the house looks as pretty as the pictures!” A woman, probably a wife and mother.

“Mom. All the houses are gray.” An adolescent girl, her tone a mix of sarcasm and tenderness.

“Come on, gang, grab a bag and let’s see what this old place is like on the inside.”

A man. Obviously the father. And something more, something impossible—­it had been so long since Darcy had spoken with her ex-­husband—­surely it couldn’t be Boyz. But this particular male voice made her eyes snap open and the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

It couldn’t be Boyz. His family always went to Lake George for the summer. It was an unforgiveable sin not to go to Lake George for the summer.

“Willow, you can carry more than that. Take another bag of groceries.” The woman’s voice. The mother’s.

The woman Boyz had left her for had a daughter named Willow.

Could it be Boyz?

“Here, Willow, take the keys and unlock the front door. I’ll get the suitcases.”

The man’s voice had the same tone as Boyz’s, and Darcy was certain she heard just the slightest fake European accent all the Szwedas had. Their family had been American for generations, but they liked to claim an exiled Polish count as a relative, to explain their aristocratic (Darcy thought snotty) attitude.

The family headed toward the back door. Everyone talked at once. The voices receded as the group entered the house, but any minute now they’d be checking out the second floor, choosing bedrooms—­looking out the window at the view.

She knew she could see all the adjoining backyards from her windows, which meant they could see her from their windows. She couldn’t lie here like a strip of undercooked bacon, yet she recoiled from the thought of running into the house like a frightened heroine from a Gothic romance.

But Darcy knew she wouldn’t be able to relax in the garden until she was certain that the man on the other side of the hedge was not Boyz Szweda. Even though it was impossible that it was Boyz, this was a pretty desperate case of seeing is believing.

She stood, picked up her book and her water bottle, and slowly, humming, she strolled through the garden to her house. Boyz wouldn’t recognize her from the back, after all, especially since she’d grown out her once-­chic asymmetrically cut hair so long it fell in dark waves below her shoulders. She didn’t hurry. She even paused to check her Knock Out rosebush before climbing the steps to the back porch and stepping inside.

She shut the door gently, quietly. She put her gardening tools in their rack. She leaned against the door and drew in a few deep breaths.

This was ridiculous. This was so not her kind of behavior. She was no longer a divorced and lonely female sniveling herself to sleep at night. She held an important position in the town’s library. She had friends—­she had a boyfriend, a carpenter, big and handsome and very good with his hands.

She should have Nash over for dinner tonight! She could throw something on the grill and they could open some beer and eat outdoors. She could change out of her gardening clothes and slip into a pretty sundress. . . .

Really? Were these thoughts really coming from her own mind? Clearly, she wasn’t plotting to seduce Nash. All she had to do was open the front door to seduce Nash. Obviously, she wanted to show off for Boyz who might not even be there.

Maddening. Here she was, an accomplished woman thinking like a love-­scorned teenager.

The important thing was that Darcy was only thinking that way. Not acting that way. Yet.

She needed a distraction. She needed to get out of the house and away from this mood buzzing around her like a swarm of wasps.

So: Where was her cellphone? On the kitchen counter. Good. She hit Jordan’s number. Darcy had known Jordan for only three years, but with some people a friendship fit perfectly and immediately, like the rare times when the first dress you tried on was instant magic. She had first met Jordan at the library—­always a good omen. Darcy had taken her bag lunch out to the garden to eat on a bench by the crab apple trees, and she’d heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Expecting to find some inexperienced drunken teenager, she discovered a pretty blond woman on her knees near the tulips.

“Are you okay?” Darcy asked. “How can I help you?”

Without looking up, the woman croaked, “My tote’s over there. I’ve got some saltines in a plastic bag and a can of 7Up. If you could bring it to me . . .”

“Of course. And I’ll get you some wet paper towels from the bathroom, so you can wipe your hands and face.”

“Oh, thank you. But please don’t tell the librarians that I barfed in their garden.”

“We’ll shovel some dirt over it. No one will know.”

By the time Darcy returned with the paper towels, the other woman had managed to move to a bench, where she sat very slowly chewing a tiny corner of a saltine.

“Thanks,” she said to Darcy. She carefully wiped her hands and face and a few strands of sticky hair. “I’m not drunk,” she announced. “I’m pregnant.”

“And I’m a librarian,” Darcy told her.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’m so sorry I barfed in your garden.”

“Better than if you’d barfed on the books,” Darcy said wryly.

The other woman managed a weak chuckle.

They sat on the bench for an hour, talking. For more than an hour, actually; Darcy went fifteen minutes over her lunch break, but she often came in early, so she figured she was allowed. She learned that Jordan was newly married to Lyle Morris, an island guy she’d known and adored all her life. They’d started kissing and making out when they were fourteen. They lost their virginity to each other when they were both sixteen, but it had been so quick and weird and they’d been so guilt ridden and afraid she’d gotten pregnant—­she hadn’t—­that they never dated after that. After high school, Lyle went into the army. Jordan had worked at her parents’ liquor store and tried going out with other guys, but it never worked. She missed Lyle. She started writing Lyle, cheerful, sex-­free, letters. Four years later, when Lyle got out of the army, he walked into her parents’ store on Main Street, picked Jordan up in his powerful arms, carried her to his car, and drove to his apartment out on Surfside Road.

“I know how to do it right this time,” he’d told her.

And he did.

Excerpted from Secrets in Summer by Nancy Thayer. Copyright © 2017 by Nancy Thayer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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About the Author

Nancy Thayer is the New York Times bestselling author of The Island House, The Guest Cottage, An Island Christmas, Nantucket Sisters, A Nantucket Christmas, Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, and The Hot Flash Club. She lives on Nantucket.

Spotlight: Playing House by Laura Chapman

About the Book

She's a work in progress . . .

Bailey Meredith has had it. As an assistant at a prestigious interior design firm, she’s tired of making coffee and filing invoices. She’ll do just about anything to get out from under the paperwork and into the field for real experience. Then she sees an ad for a job that seems too good to be true.

He's a fixer upper . . .

Wilder Aldrich knew she would be perfect for the crew the moment he saw her. His hit home improvement show only hired the best, and Bailey had potential written all over her. It isn’t just her imaginative creativity and unmatched work ethic that grabs his attention. There’s just something about her.

With chemistry on screen, it’s only a matter of time before sparks fly behind the scenes as well. But with Bailey’s jaded views on romance and a big secret that could destroy Wilder and everyone he cares about, are either of them willing to risk it all for love?

Excerpt

Keeping a close distance, she followed Waverly up the cracked path to the house. Bailey took quick mental notes of her surroundings. The exterior needed a lot of work. The sagging roof missing gutters made her think they’d find the inside in similar disarray. They stepped through the front door, nearly tripping over Wilder Aldrich, who was measuring the entryway.

“Hey!” He sprang to his feet and out of their way. “What did I tell you about waiting until I gave you the all clear?”

“You were taking for-frickin’-ever, and some of us were freezing our tits off.” She pursed her lips and took on a warrior stance, seemingly daring him to say something else.

Conceding victory to her, Wilder turned and flashed an apologetic grin at Bailey. “Hey.” He offered a hand. Warmth permeated through the thin material of her glove. “Welcome to Casa de Waverly.”

Giving him a smug grin, Waverly sipped her coffee and faced Bailey. “Do you have a smart phone?”

Bailey stared blankly for a second, still dazzled by seeing Wilder up close. But she quickly snapped to attention and dug her phone out of her coat pocket.

“Good,” Waverly said after inspecting it. “While you’re on the job, I’d like you to snap some photos for our social media accounts. I’ll want to vet everything before we post it, but we need to start building the buzz for the next season while we’re filming. In exchange, we’ll cover your phone payments to take care of your data usage. Understood?”

“I can do that.”

“Good. Now . . .” She pulled out her own phone. It was the latest model that had come out on the market a month ago. With all of its reported bells and whistles, it put Bailey’s poor phone to shame. “I’m going to make a quick call. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we can get started on,” she gestured around her, “this mess.”

She spun on her heel and waltzed out of the room, cooing into the phone.

Wilder cleared his throat, and Bailey turned to give him her full attention. She estimated he was only a couple of years older than herself—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He looked younger in real life than he did on TV. He was leaner and a little shorter—though she still had to crane her neck a little to meet his gaze.

He was also more handsome. Not the GQ model, your tongue-sticks-to-the-top-of-your-mouth kind of sexy. But he was hot in the same way the guy you sat next to in Chemistry was. It was enough to distract you from formulas and Bunsen burners every so often, but not enough that you’d ever set the lab on fire or forget to finish your final exam.

So far, he seemed much more serious. Where was the guy who scared Waverly with a stuffed dummy in a closet in the last episode she’d watched before calling an end to the marathon?

He was, she realized, studying her every bit as closely, with those hazel eyes speckled with green. Noting that, she didn’t feel quite as rude taking mental notes on the man in front of him.

At least she looked good. She’d laid out three outfits that morning in the hotel room. The first was a long, silky turquoise tunic that she’d paired with a pair of black leggings and knee-high boots. It was similar to the clothes Waverly favored on screen—only hers weren’t name-brand knockoffs. Then she had the casual jeans, a gray T-shirt that she could dress-up with a navy blue blazer. And there was option three: dark-wash, fit jeans, a chambray shirt, and a scarf. It was an ensemble that fell somewhere in the middle. It was the one that looked the most like her when she inspected herself in the mirror.

It was the one that felt most like her now in the middle of the foyer.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he see a confident young woman ready to tackle major projects adeptly? Or did he see someone who was desperate to create, no matter what happened? Both were correct, but which one shone through right now?

Like a light switch, that triggered something in her. She offered her hand again. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Bailey Meredith.”

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About the Author

Laura Chapman is the author of First & Goal, Going for Two, Three & Out, and The Marrying Type. A native Nebraskan, she loves football, Netflix marathons, and her cats, Jane and Bingley. Connect with her online on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and her website.

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Excerpt: Operation Prom Date by Cindi Madsen

Publication Date: March 13, 2017
Publisher: Entangled Teen Crush

About the Book

Kate ships tons of fictional couples, but IRL her OTP is her and Mick, the hot quarterback she’s crushed on since, like, forever. With only one semester left of senior year, it’s now or never if she wants to land him in time for prom. Since she’s flirtationally challenged, she enlists Cooper Callihan, the guy who turned popular seemingly overnight but who used to be a good friend.

Cooper lives and breathes rowing, but his partner just broke his wrist. When he remembers Kate’s good with a set of oars, he strikes a deal: help him train, and he’ll make sure her crush notices her. Only he didn’t know how addicting spending time with her would be. Or how the more successful the Operation is, the more jealousy he experiences.

The mission has been set. The troops have their marching orders. But what if the target is the wrong guy all along?

Disclaimer: This Entangled Teen Crush book contains stargazing, accidental swimming, and poker swindling. This kissing practice will melt your ereader…and give you a new couple to ship.   

Excerpt

“That’s Klaus,” Kate said. “Don’t worry, he’s got a much better temperament than his namesake.”

“Oh? And who is he named after?”

“An original vampire. From the show The Originals? Technically he was on The Vampire Diaries first, but they did a spin off, and anyway…” She scooped up the creature as she sat on her bed. “Klaus kills for fun—the vampire. This Klaus is too lazy to do much of anything.”

I sat next to her on the bed, still taking in her collection of figurines.

“That’s my Funko Pop collection. I paired them up the way they should be on the shows.” She gestured at one in a green hood and the blonde figure next to him with the glasses. I realized it was from Arrow.

“I ship Olicity the hardest.”

“‘Ship’ them?”

“I want them in a relationship. Like I’d put them in a ship together so they’d be forced to see they’re perfect for each other, bribe the writers to get them together, ship them. Partnership, friendship, please-God-put-them-in-a-relationship-already ship them.”

“Oh-kay.”

“It’s a common phrase. Oliver and Felicity are totally my OTP, which means one true pairing, if you haven’t somehow heard of that, either. I also ship Alexa and Clarke on The 100 a crazy amount, and I was pretty mad at the writers for a while, but something happened and…well, I won’t spoil it, but I might’ve teared up. Then of course there’s Stydia and Captain Swan”—she pointed at a blond figure wearing a red jacket and a goateed dude with a hook for a hand—“I used to be all about Damon and Elena, but there toward the end, I shipped her and a coffin. Which sounds mean, I know, but vampires don’t technically die, so a bit nicer?”

“I’m still judging you too much for saying ‘ship them the hardest’ to judge you for the vampire stuff.”

She smacked my arm and I laughed. Honestly, I was also trying to keep up with all the words she’d spouted, trying to make sense of them. We’d spent the past few afternoons on the boat, and the more time I spent with her, the more amused I was by her, even though I only understood about half of what she said.

Klaus crawled higher on her lap and she rubbed his chin. I never knew a lizard could smile, but damned if the thing didn’t grin. Kate caught my eye. “Just call me Khaleesi, mother of dragons. Or dragon, as it were. Please tell me you at least get that reference.”

“Game of Thrones. I’ve only read the first book, though. Okay, half of the first book, but I meant to pick it back up. But then I sort of just watched the show instead.”

She glanced around like someone might be listening and then leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never read the books.”

I leaned a few inches closer, until I could see the different shades of green in her eyes. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“You’re starting to have a lot of my secrets, so I certainly hope so.”

Unexpected warmth swirled through my chest. I’d never thought I would want to be a secret keeper, but there was something about having Kate’s trust that made me proud to be one.

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About the Author

Cindi Madsen is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance and young adult novels. She sits at her computer every chance she gets, plotting revising, and falling in love with her characters. Sometimes it makes her a crazy person. Without it, she’d be even crazier. She has way too many shoes, but can always find a reason to buy a new pretty pair, especially if they’re sparkly, colorful, or super tall. She loves music, dancing, and wishes summer lasted all year long. She lives in Colorado (where summer is most definitely NOT all year long) with her husband and three children.

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Spotlight: Fire On Ice Series by Brenda Rothert

BOUND (Fire on Ice, #1)

College senior Kate Camden has learned to adapt - to her last year of school, to the promise of motherhood, to the fact that she’s doing it all alone. But just when she’s learned to adjust, heartache threatens to break her apart.

Pro hockey player Jason “Ryke” Ryker has it all: adoring fans, a promising career, and a beautiful wife. But when his seemingly perfect life is shaken by tragedy, he’s left questioning whether having it all is ever more than an illusion.

When circumstance brings Kate and Ryke together, they discover they don’t have to hurt alone. Bound by a grief that haunts them both, they must rely on one another to survive heartbreak. But that grief is more powerful than they realize, and the tie that binds them together may ultimately tear them apart.

Excerpt

Dec. 2012 —Kate

Sex When You’re Expecting: Is it Safe?

I rolled my eyes and sighed at the headline in the waiting room’s Modern Pregnancy magazine.

Hmm. One less thing to worry about. When the guy you’ve been dating for a couple weeks knocks you up, then freaks out and disappears when you tell him, abstinence becomes an easy choice.

“Did you take your vitamin?” My mom Lynn looked over, her forehead crinkled.

“Took it this morning, like always,” I said, my voice tinged with annoyance. “I’m 22, and I’m going to have a kid of my own in … 22 weeks and five days.”

Mom smiled and reached for my hand. “I hope they get a clear view on the sono today. I can’t stand not knowing if I’m having a granddaughter or a grandson.”

“I think I changed my mind on that,” I said. “It might be more fun to not find out.”

Mom’s mouth fell open and her eyes bulged. “Really?”

“No, I’m kidding. Of course we’re finding out!”

A middle-aged couple sat across from us in the waiting room chairs. The man rubbed his palm in rhythmic circles over the Buddha belly of the woman while she smiled happily. His silver Rolex glistened as he bent closer to say something to the gestating baby.

My bump was much smaller, and I pressed my own palm to it protectively.

Sorry, kid. No doting father for you, I’m afraid.

Quinn Barlow had seemed like a good guy. Back in August, he let me buy the last used copy of a Sociology book in the college bookstore right out of his hand. Sure, I’d flirted for it. I needed it; new textbooks cost a mint. Besides, he was totally flirtworthy — tall and lean, with dark blond curls and sexy reading glasses. When I thanked him for letting me have the book, he asked me out for coffee.

Wham-Bam. One thing led to another – more than once – and though I’d been on the pill since high school, here I was in an OB’s office, waiting for my 18-week sonogram.

A tall, round Christmas tree in the corner of the doctor’s waiting room was adorned with rattles and ribbon-trimmed baby photos secured by large diaper pins. I smiled just thinking that next Christmas, my baby’s face might be on this tree.

I hadn’t planned on being a single mom at age 22, but over the past three months I’d gotten over my initial flat-out panic. I’d be graduating right after the baby was born, and I’d have to make it work.

The shrill wail of a baby caught my attention. “Shh,” the mom cooed, rocking her bundled infant from side to side. There was no way I’d be able to do that. I’d just have a kid who cried constantly, unless Mom knew how to do that rocking stuff. Shit, that lady looked exhausted. Hopefully I’d get through finals before this baby came.

CAPTIVE (Fire on Ice, #2)

Two years ago, Jason and Kate Ryker were brought together by grief and bound to one another by love. Now married, they’re confronting their fears together.

But heartbreak finds them again, and the ties that bind Kate and Ryke are tested as she struggles against fear and sadness. As a grief counselor, Kate understands all too well the pain of her clients. And while her husband’s career as an NHL forward is at an all-time high, he’s coping with the frustration of feeling powerless as his wife's hopes slip away.

Kate’s unexpected journey sheds light on the fear that imprisons her, and reveals that she is the only one who can set herself free.

EDGE (Fire on Ice, #3)

One bad hit has left the career of young NHL Center Luke Hudson in question. When he arrives for rehab with a minor league team, his injury has robbed him of the edge that made him great.

Team trainer Adella Price’s job is to help Luke get back in peak condition. But their one on one sessions shake her resolve to remain unattached. Dell is hands-off to all hockey players, even one as charming and successful as Luke.

As Luke starts to get ahold of his game again, he loses his grip on his heart. Helping Luke get his edge back brings to light what Dell is missing from her life. But those who want them apart are relentless, and with their careers on the line, Luke and Dell must decide if their love is worth risking it all.

DRIVE (Fire on Ice, #4)

Years of training are about to pay off for hockey player Nikola Vereshkova. A call to play in the big league means he can finally come through for those who need him. His relocation to Chicago comes with built-in friends – and one gorgeous enemy who was less than impressed with him after their first encounter.
Sadie Alexander knows all about the drastic measures men will take just to get laid. She’s not only experienced it first-hand, but lived to tell about it in her online column, Sadie Says. And even though she’s a die-hard independent woman on the outside, the recent marriage of her best friend has her secretly feeling more alone than ever.
Getting close to a foul-mouthed Russian hockey heartthrob was the last thing Sadie expected. And the timing couldn’t be worse since she’s sworn off of men for a writing assignment. The line between love and hate is eroding, and Niko and Sadie find themselves in deeper than they ever expected. Could something that started out wrong end up being just right?

RELEASE (Fire on Ice, #5)

NHL player Orion Caldwell protects his own. He’s an enforcer to his core, but he was the one left defenseless when his longtime girlfriend broke his heart. Now he’s all about his game, but spending the offseason in his hometown forces him to confront painful issues –both old and new.

Samara Cross just wants to be invisible. After living a nightmare, she came back to her hometown seeking solace. But her quiet new life is upturned by the hot, charismatic hockey player who’s taken a sudden interest in her.

Orion and Samara find something unexpected in each other, but when the hockey offseason ends, so does their time together. They struggle with their separation, confronted by ghosts of the past and an uncertain future, discovering that sometimes the only way to hold on to something precious is to let go.

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About the Author

Brenda Rothert is an Illinois native who was a print journalist for nine years. She made the jump from fact to fiction in 2013 and never looked back. From new adult to steamy contemporary romance, Brenda creates fresh characters in every story she tells. She’s a lover of Diet Coke, chocolate, lazy weekends and happily ever afters.

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