Spotlight: Amber Sky by Claire Warner

"You thought I did this out of the goodness of my heart?" He gave a short mirthless laugh. "Not a bit of it, this is going to be dangerous for me. What are you offering for my help?"

Beneath the Amber Sky, the nobility control the food, education, and the mysterious C.O.I.L.S of Copper and Brass. To Tay, struggling to keep her siblings alive, the ideas of rebellion and freedom are distant and unreachable. 

But when her father is arrested, she begs Darius James, the son of the Overseer, to save his life. Darius agrees, but his help costs her a favour, one he can call in at any time. 

Darius' favour will bring her to the Palace, and the perfect position to help the growing rebellion. But the court has games beyond anything she has seen before, and Darius' secrets will add to the danger.

Tay is now able to make a difference, to join the rebellion, find the C.O.I.L.S and discover the secrets of the Amber Sky. All she has to do is survive. 

Excerpt

Within the coils of copper and brass, there is a chance of freedom:

Anonymous writer (date unknown)

Chapter 1:

It was November, and soot-laden fog obscured her progress as Tay strode along the busy street. A chill wind kept the smog moving and nipped at her exposed skin. She was grateful for the shifting whiteness: it kept away curious eyes, and gave her a sense of freedom. The Factory was ahead, belching clouds of smoke and steam into the air, choking the lines of workers that queued outside. She averted her eyes and kept going. Thoughts of the Factory led to thoughts of the Mine, and she could not allow that. The work site fell behind her as she began to move uphill, away from the choking smog of the Factory District, and towards the Mercantile District. The traffic thinned out as her feet carried her through the cold, whispering quiet. The crowds were lighter here and better dressed. In contrast to their well-heeled fashions, Tay looked like an old sack. Several threadbare garments covered her body, and a moth-eaten, woollen hat was jammed down on her chestnut-coloured hair. Her boots were held together with twine, and stuffed with rags to keep the cold at bay. Despite her efforts to layer her ragged clothing, the wind still found its way to her skin, making her shiver. As she headed into the district, the fog shielded her from prying eyes and made her progress easier. Moving along the well-paved roads of the Merchant District with the elusiveness of a wild thing, she avoided the few traders that braved the cold, speeding up as she approached her destination.

The house was built from white stone, now discoloured from the ubiquitous soot. On the faded, cherry-coloured door, a brass knocker in the shape of a lion warned her off with what she fancied was a contemptuous gaze. For a long moment, she stared at the wood, wondering at the wisdom of what she was attempting. Lars and Cody could have been wrong, and this trip could easily land her in the cells. As the ever-present wind chapped her lips, she mustered her resolve. All other options had been exhausted, and this was all she had left. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the knocker with one shaking hand before letting it fall. For several moments, she waited on the doorstep, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, nervous beyond thought.

The door creaked open, and a maid stared down at her with unconcealed distaste. Tay nervously wet her lips and opened her mouth to speak.

“No beggars.” The maid spoke first, her voice shrill with strident condemnation, as she took in Tay’s attire. Confident in her dismissal, she moved to close the door.

“No, wait.” Tay placed her foot in the hall, and leant forward. The maid stopped moving, distaste morphing into shock. “I need to speak to Darius…” Despite her best efforts, Tay’s voice still shook. “Please.” The woman stared down at her with disbelief, incredulous at her audacity to ask to see the Master’s son.

“I don’t think so.” The woman began pushing the door shut, shoving Tay’s fragile frame off the doorstep with its weight. Tay held her ground, trying to keep the door open.

“Please…” She pleaded once more, her voice echoing loudly in the hallway. Panic thrummed through her as she became aware of the spectacle she was creating. One complaint from any of the people on the street behind her and the guards would come. “I need to see him.” It was a desperate, yearning plea, yet the maid was having none of it. The door jammed against her toes, and she winced. The maid was winning the battle, her far stronger, well-fed, bulky frame inching Tay closer to the street.

“What’s going on?” A male voice echoed across the hall, and the maid stopped.

“It’s this beggar, Sir.” The woman held the door steady as she turned to face the speaker. “She wishes to talk to you.” Her voice was sneering, only slightly mollified by deference to her master.

“Let me see.” The man walked forward, and the maid reluctantly released her hold on the door. Tay's eyes roved across the man before her as he came into view, starting at his well-shod feet, and travelling upward. A well-tailored, dark blue suit framed a lean body, and a cane of some dark wood lay carelessly in his hands. Casting her gaze upwards, she stared directly into a pair of deep-blue eyes, which were alight with interest.

“I need to see you, Darius,” She appealed directly to him, holding his gaze with silent entreaty. She ignored the scandalised tut of the maid as she took a step forward. “It’s important.”

Darius thought for a moment before he nodded. “Let her in,” He said to the maid, stepping back along the hall. With a look of shock on her features, the woman stepped away from the door and let Tay into the house.

Heat enveloped her as she stepped off the street, and followed Darius’ beckoning finger. The maid closed the door behind her as she slowly crossed the hall towards a door on the left. Her eyes drifted across the panelled space, awed by the luxury she saw. Dominated by a sweeping staircase, the hallway was decorated in shades of gold and blue. A heavy chandelier, festooned with lights, swung from the ceiling, and it was blissfully, wonderfully warm.

“Come on girl,” Tay's head snapped back to the doorway, and she almost tripped over her own feet, as she hastened towards the sitting room. A fire blazed in a large hearth, filling the room with a cosy light. Above the mantel, a gilt-framed mirror reflected her scared and lost face. Several comfortable-looking couches lay about the room, and a variety of expensive knick-knacks were arranged on a wooden cabinet against the left wall. Intimidated, she looked around at the luxuriant surroundings and swallowed nervously.

“Warm yourself up.” Darius indicated the roaring fire, and she stepped before it gratefully, feeling the heat radiate across her cold skin. “Emma.” He turned to the maid. “Can you find me some old clothes?” With a sour look on her face, Emma nodded. As soon as she had left, Darius turned back to the room. “Now that she’s gone,” He said as he walked forward. “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Taya bit her lip and fidgeted. What had seemed like a good idea in the safety of her home, now felt like insanity. She glanced at him, noticing the arrogant cast to his features and the surety of his gaze. He was handsome, she realised with a jolt. Beneath a shock of black hair, deep blue eyes stared out at her with disconcerting directness.

“My name’s Taya, and…” She stopped, wondering how she could continue with her request.

“And?” He encouraged, noticing her hesitation. “I can’t help you if you don’t ask.”

“My father has just been sent to the mines,” She said quickly, watching the realisation cross his face.

“I see,” He noted softly, staring at her with interest. “And?”

“He already has a weak heart,” She found herself saying. “The mines will kill him.”

“I fancy that’s the idea,” He uttered, reaching for a glass of amber liquid that lay on the mantel, and took a sip. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

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Amber Sky by Claire  Warner

Amber Sky

by Claire Warner

Giveaway ends July 04, 2017.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

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Read an excerpt 50 Hours by Loree Lough

Franco Allessi is a broken, lonely man who wants nothing more than to outrun the ghosts of his past. For years, he tries to numb the pain of his wife's death with cheap beer and whiskey. When he's convicted of drunk driving, the judge revokes his license for six months and orders him to serve fifty hours of community service. Franco chooses Savannah Falls Hospice for no reason other than it's walking distance from his dilapidated house trailer.
 
On his first day on the job, he meets Aubrey Brewer, a woman whose time on earth is quickly ticking to a stop. Their unusual connection teaches powerful, life-changing lessons about friendship, acceptance, and the importance of appreciating that precious treasure called Life.

Excerpt

Meet Gilbert the blue jay!
 
Halfway down the drive, Franco passed two nurses’ aides helping patients maneuver the path that zigzagged through the trees. A blue jay dive-bombed his head, and as it flew to the treetops, he saw a dead limb hanging precariously from a high crotch in a towering Yellow Buckeye. Industry pros called branches like that widow-makers, with good reason. The hydrangeas and roses would have to wait, he decided.  
 
First chance he got, he’d call his AA sponsor to say thanks, because this might not be such a horrible way to work off his fifty hours, after all. 

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About the Author

Bestselling author LOREE LOUGH once sang for her supper, performing across the U.S. and Canada. Now and then, she blows the dust from her 6-string to croon a tune or two, but mostly, she writes novels that have earned hundreds of industry and "Readers' Choice" awards, 4- and 5-star reviews, and 7 book-to-movie options. Her 115th book, 50 Hours, is her most personal to date. Recently released, The Man She Knew, book #1 in her “By Way of the Lighthouse” series from Harlequin Heartwarming.
 
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Spotlight: The Wicked Heir by Elizabeth Michels

The Spare Heirs Society Cordially Invites You to Meet Fallon St. James: The Mastermind

When the love of Lady Isabelle Fairlyn’s life is betrothed to her twin sister, Isabelle vows to find a suitable replacement before the end of the season. He must be a talented dancer, have a keen fashion sense, and be perfectly dashing in every way.

Fallon St. James is the farthest thing from perfectly anything. As head of the secretive Spare Heirs Society, he must stick to the shadows…even as Isabelle’s friendship pulls him reluctantly into the light.  But when Isabelle gets involved with the one man who could destroy Spares, Fallon must decide between protecting his life’s work—or risking everything to save the woman whose warm smile leaves him breathless.

Excerpt

 “Am I dead?” Isabelle’s voice croaked as if she’d never used it before.

“No. Thankfully not,” came a male voice from the far side of the room.

She gasped and pulled herself up a bit against the pillows. Why was there a man with her in a strange bedchamber? Had he hit her on the head and brought her here? Isabelle’s mind reeled with questions, each punctuated by the pain in her skull.

Coals from a near-dead fire sprang to life in the grate across the room, lighting a tall silhouette. The man dusted his hands off and turned toward her. “You did have me worried there for a bit though.”

Blinking into the haziness that was the other side of the room, she forced her eyes to adjust to the light. There was something familiar about his deep voice, the confidence in his movements, but she couldn’t make sense of any of this. “Whose bedchamber am I in?”

“Mine.” St. James came into focus as he moved to her side, but his answer was no answer at all.

This room couldn’t belong to St. James, and she couldn’t be lying within it. None of this was real. It was all a dream caused by the bump on her head. She must have hit it quite hard to envision herself in such a place, with St. James of all people. It was rather amusing, really, aside from her throbbing head. That part wasn’t amusing at all. But the setting she’d placed St. James in did bring a smile to her face.

A large bedchamber filled with plush furnishings and covered in busy floral patterns—ha! And in her mind she’d made her most stern—and only male—friend claim he lived there. Dreams were entertaining at times. St. James’s chosen place to sleep would be on a cot beside a desk. Or perhaps he never reclined at all; he only caught a quick nap in a chair between meetings. She giggled, which only drew him closer. A look of concern made him look more serious than ever as he stood surrounded in flowers.

She scowled back at him and laughed. “St. James, I’m in your bed—your overly feminine bed,” she whispered up to him. “Are we married in this dream? Don’t you want to kiss me, have your way with me here on our wedding night?”

“Devil take it, you’re delusional. I’ll have the doctor return,” he muttered. He leaned against the bed, next to her, and lifted a hand to check something on her forehead.

“Oh, a doctor! Yes, I’ll need one of those. I am injured. Horribly injured! Save me, St. James. The only way I’ll live is if you kiss me.” She reached up and grabbed the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him closer. He braced a hand on the bed on the other side of her body, smoothed her hair back from her face, and watched her. The fabric of his waistcoat was textured by the pattern of gray threads stitched into it and was rough under her fingers, drawing her attention from the intense look in his eyes. How odd to have such detail in a dream.

“Your clothing feels so real.”

He’d removed his coat and cravat. His waistcoat hung open, and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. She’d never seen him in such a state of undress. She moved her hand to his shirt and splayed her hand across his chest. The heat of his skin warmed her fingers as his heart beat beneath her palm. Dream St. James had a broad chest and muscles that twitched at her touch. She lifted her hand to his shoulder, her other hand skimming up his side. His breath hitched in his chest. It was odd that she’d never noticed the real man’s fit form, never before caught the look in his eyes that was one part caring concern, one part intense desire.

He moved his hand over her hair, the pad of his thumb caressing her cheek. St. James was her friend, only a friend. She wouldn’t be able to face him for a week once she woke from this scene, him sitting so close, her touching him. “This dream…”

“Isn’t a dream,” he said, not breaking the contact he had with her.  Instead he searched her eyes and continued to touch her cheek, her temple, in soothing, gentle caresses, as if she might break.

It took a moment for his words to sink into her aching skull. “It isn’t…” She froze in her exploration of his body, her gaze dropping to her hands that had been roaming over his chest for well over a minute. “What?”

“You aren’t dreaming. I found you on the floor of the museum earlier today.”

“And you brought me here? Why? Wait… Earlier today?”  She had to leave. She had to find her family. She tried to push St. James away to sit up, but he didn’t budge.

“You were unconscious. I know you’re confused, but you’re safe now…in my home, my bed.”

“Your… No, truly. Where am I?” She ripped her gaze from his to scan the room beyond him, looking for anything that made sense of the past few minutes. This room could not be Mr. St. James’s private quarters. It didn’t fit what she knew of the man. And why was she in his private anything? She couldn’t be. Her reputation. Victoria’s wedding. She needed to gather her things and leave this place, wherever it was.

“You’re in my bedchamber—truly.”

“What?” She stared up at him, taking in the sympathy and, unfortunately for her, honesty in his expression.

“You need to rest,” he said in a tone that would command armies but not Isabelle on her sister’s wedding day.

“I need to leave,” she stated as she pushed against his unyielding chest in an effort to sit up…

“No.”

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About the Author

Elizabeth Michels is the award-winning author of the Tricks of the Ton series and the new Spare Heirs series. She attended Park University where she graduated Magna Cum Laude with a BA in Interior Design.  This Historical Romance author enjoys living in a lake-side town in North Carolina with her husband and son. Elizabeth is a lover of happily-ever-afters, laughter, and things that are sparkly. Tiara optional while reading, but highly recommended. 

Connect: Website | Facebook | Twitter: @SouthernTart | Goodreads

Spotlight: The Librarian by Christy Sloat

He’s from 1892 England, she’s in a small library in 2017. And that's just the start of their troubles.

Emme never meant to stay in Maine. She'd come only to find a librarian for her Gram's library, a custodian for the collection of mysterious books she'd promised to protect. On a dark, wintery night, alone in the library, she takes her first glance into one of the antique novels and finds herself transported to 1892 England staring into the eyes of handsome and dashing hero Jack Ridgewell. As each chapter passes she learns you can truly fall in love with a character in a book, that book boyfriends are real and Emme must choose between the real world, and his.

When the last page is read he's gone and Emme feels the cold loneliness of lost love. Will she find Jack again, or will their love be forever lost?

The answer lies within the pages…

Excerpt

I spent the rest of the day filing paperwork for the funding process and preparing to open the library doors on Monday morning. I told Rose and Becca to spread the word. Tarryn had decided to move her smaller items in already, and she was asleep by nine the same night. It didn’t seem strange to me that I had a roommate; instead it made me feel comfortable. I never lived alone before, and I would feel lonely otherwise. Tarryn was quiet, but I knew in time she’d get used to me and I’d get used to her. We just needed to get to know each other first.

Once I was done with the paperwork, I filed the books that were left on the shelf from when Gram was still here. As I placed the classic books on the correct shelves, I felt a longing to finish reading my mysterious book in my nook.

So, instead of going to bed at a decent hour, I climbed into my cozy space and picked the book back up. I didn’t open it right away. Instead I inspected the outside for any sort of title. I found nothing of the sort. I flipped to the title page once more, trying to find my place, and that’s when I saw the word on the page. It was just a simple “The” typed out on the once blank title page. I ran my finger across it and realized it was printed in ink as if the press had done it. I was sure the night before it was blank, but then again, I was sure my dream about being with a man was real. So I wasn’t really a reliable source at the moment.

I found the spot where I ended with a dog-eared page. I absolutely hated doing this to the book and didn’t remember it at all. I usually had a nice bookmark, but this seemed to be the only thing to mark the page before I had fallen asleep. Running my fingers across the crease at the corner of the page, I settled back and started reading.

I woke up once again face down, this time I was in grass. I blinked my eyes and felt the blades of grass tickling my nose and lips. I pulled myself up and took a deep breath. I looked around and saw the fields upon which I had dreamt of the night before. I was back in England. I was dreaming the same dream. How odd.

 There were times when I had thought I had the same dream over and over again, to only find out that it was my mind playing tricks on me. This was no mistake. I was, once again, in the same place.

“Emmeline, are you all right?” I looked up and blocked the sun from my eyes. The man from before was standing in front of me. “You … you disappeared. It happened so fast that I fear I cannot explain to you how it happened. Now you’re here once again.” He sounded really confused and, to put it lightly, so was I.

This dream felt way too real. It was exactly like before. So real and tangible that I couldn’t explain it even if I tried.

“I … I don’t know how I’m here again,” I mumbled.

He reached out to steady me as I swayed to the side. “You’ve been gone for days. I worried I was going mad, that your presence was one of my imaginings. I dared not to speak a word to anyone about it. I have to admit, Emmeline, I’ve been going slightly crazed since I saw you last.”

His hair was disheveled and he had grown a slight beard that only enhanced the sexiness of his strong jawline. His deep set blue-green eyes looked weary, and for that I felt awful.

My sudden disappearance had made him fall apart, that was apparent.

“I’ll tell you, I feel like I’m going crazy too. Trust me,” I admitted. “Can we sit somewhere? Out of the sun?”

“Of course.”

He held my arm and led me to a tree in the center of the field. Once underneath the large tree, I felt instantly better. I looked down at my clothes and saw that I was, once again, in my own clothes. This time a little better than before. I was wearing yoga pants and an old T-shirt.

“I can’t explain how or why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know your name, but I’m here again and I’m beginning to think that this isn’t a dream. That I’m really here, with you,” I said as I touched his arm. “I’m not from … here.”

I didn’t know how to explain it to him, but I did the best any girl who was somehow traveling through time could. I didn’t have answers or explanations, but I had a gut feeling.

“I’m from a different time as you. As you can tell by my lovely clothing, I’m not from 1893.”

 He placed his fingers on my lips, stopping me, while shaking his head.

“This isn’t right, Emmeline. Trickery at a time like this isn’t fair,” he said as he stood up fast. “I am leaving soon. I shall not have you doing this to me.”

My mouth fell open in shock and I stood. “Do something to you? Listen here, buddy, I didn’t ask for this. I sat down to read a book and then boom, I’m stuck in England with a stranger.”

I pointed at myself. “Look at me. Do I really look like I belong here?”

He looked at my clothing and up to my hair, and I could see his cheeks redden.

“You are dressed very indecent, I suppose. No woman I’ve ever met wears trousers. Nor do they wear clothing that fitting.”

I laughed. He thought this was indecent, he should see some of the dresses I had worn to parties. They were nothing like the dresses he was used to seeing on a woman. We absolutely didn’t dress ladylike anymore. My sexy little black dress that currently hung in my closet would definitely shock some of the people of this era for sure.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I’m absolutely not trying to, I don’t know, hurt you or anything. I don’t know how to go home.” I slumped back against the tree. “I wish that I could prove to you that I’m not lying to you, but I cannot. You’ll have to just believe me, I guess.” It was as simple as that. He could either believe this bat-shit crazy explanation or not. One way or another, I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home.

“I don’t know why, Emmeline, but I feel as if I should say that I do believe you.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, mussing it up. “I just don’t know how else to explain your abrupt presence. One minute you are here and the next you’re disappearing into thin air. I read many books on fiction, so I suppose it could be true.”

“Well, I may know someone who knows something. She works for the lucky bastard that owns that house,” I told him pointing to the house where Nancy was the last time I saw her. She was probably cooking something again for her master.

He smiled. “That house?”

“Yes. Her name is Nancy.”

“Ah. Nancy. And who is this Nancy woman you speak of?” He continued to smile as if this was a joke, but I ignored it.

“She’s a cook. I met her on my last visit here,” I explained. “She’s not the nicest person I’ve ever met, but I think she has some answers.”

“I must argue that Miss Nancy is more than a cook. She’s also the lady upon with which I trust my household while I’m gone. She’s more of an aunt than a housekeeper,” he said as he took my hand in his. “It’s very nice to finally introduce myself to you, Emmeline Bailey. I’m Jack Ridgewell or you may just call me the lucky bastard.”

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About the Author

Christy Sloat is a SoCal born girl who resides in New Jersey currently with her husband, two daughters and Sophie her Chihuahua. Christy has embraced the love of reading and writing since her youth and was inspired by her grandmother's loving support. Christy passes that love of reading, writing, and creativity to her daughters, family, and friends. When you do not find Christy within the pages of a book you can find her being mommy, wife, crafter, and dear friend. She loves adventurous journeys with her friends and can be known to get lost inside a bookstore. Be sure to venture into her Past Lives Series, The Visitor's Series, and watch for many more exciting things to come.

Connect: Website | Instagram | Blog | Facebook | Twitter: @ChristySloat

Read an excerpt from Moments of Clarity by J.B. Heller

Blessed.

That was me.

In every way that mattered anyway. I had a close, loving relationship with my parents, my older brother was my hero, and with graduation right around the corner, I was on the verge of turning my love of photography into a career.

Then there was Carter, surprisingly he turned out to be the yin to my yang. Where I was alternative, slightly nerdy and a whole lot awkward, Carter was smooth, popular and confidant. Yet somehow, we fit. Or so I thought.

With the events of one night, the clarity with which I once saw my life vanished. Leaving me completely unprepared for the reality I would now have to face and the choices that accompanied it.

Excerpt

Moving his face down in front of mine he looks me right in the eyes, “It’s not Chance, football isn’t my life like it is for most of the guys. I have,” he pauses, deciding how he should finish his sentence, “other interests, too.”

Looking away from his mesmerising whisky coloured eyes isn’t even an option. I can see the truth of his words in them, but that’s not all I see, he really is attracted to me. I mean, I’m not ugly or anything, but we don’t run in the same crowds. I’m vintage, retro, alternative, and he’s preppy, superior, elite.

When I don’t say anything, he continues, “You’ve been one of those interests for a while now,” he breathes against my parted lips, “When I saw you in the locker room this morning I couldn’t believe my luck.”

I swallow, “I’m not really sure what to say to that,” I tell him honestly. I’m flattered and all, but what the hell is happening right now? It doesn’t make an ounce of sense.

“Say you won’t pull away when I kiss you this time,” he says softly.

My pulse is beating out of control, and my body is humming with need, “Okay,” I agree.

No sooner has the word left my mouth and he’s pressing his soft lips against mine, swiping my bottom lips with his tongue and my hands are clinging to his neck, pulling him closer still. Carter takes my hips and lifts me, putting my butt on the edge of the bench I was backed against, then he’s stepping between my parted thighs.

It’s different from this morning, he’s not trying to devour me. He’s taking his time, his tongue sliding against mine in slow, sensual glides. When he slowly pulls back, his teeth catch my bottom lip and he gently sucks before releasing it.

I’m a panting, turned on, mess, trying to catch my breath after the hottest kiss of my life. And Carter is his usual composed self, grinning at me.

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About the Author

J B Heller is an Aussie Indie Author of Steamy Contemporary and Comedic Romance. She has three wildling children, two giant Great Danes, one permanently terrified cat, five birds of various species (One of whom thinks she’s helping by running across the keyboard repeatedly while JB tries to work. Lucky she’s tiny.), and a gazillion fish. Oh, and we can’t forget the man child she calls her husband.

After years of working in assorted fields including a Butchery, Remedial Therapist Receptionist, Hairdressing, and Checkout Chick Extraordinaire, she finally found her place amongst likeminded people in the writing community.

She published her first book in 2013 under the pen name Eliza Brown, and has since evolved into J B Heller with more than 10 titles to her name.

On her limited downtime you’ll find her reading, trolling Pinterest for her next muse or online stationery shopping (she has a mild addiction to stationery and she refuses to seek help.).

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Spotlight: Full Count by Lynn Stevens

Anyone who says they’re having the worst day hasn’t met me. My girlfriend cheated, I blew out my knee, and probably trashed my chance of going pro. All in one day. Then my jerk professor tells I’m almost on academic probation.
 
Awesome. Now I get to find a tutor. 
 
Enter Mallory Fine, quiet, a little intense, and my kind of gorgeous. Who also happens to hate baseball and any guy who plays it. 
 
Hello, curiosity. 
 
I tell myself this will be nothing more than a tutoring relationship. I’m a liar. I want this girl. How hard can her secrets be to unravel? It might be a challenge, but so is getting back on the ball field and I’m determined to make that happen—no matter the cost.

 Excerpt

“Hey,” I said, drawing her attention back to me. 
She tried to soften her expression, but her eyes darted back to the game. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. One of the freshmen had a meltdown that would rival Three Mile Island.” 
“Three mile what?” I asked, searching my brain and coming up empty. “Wait isn’t that an Eminem song?”
“Dr. Monroe was right, you didn’t pay attention in class today.” She shook her head as a grin lifted her cheeks.
--
Mallory: What makes you think I’m reading anything?
I chuckled quietly. 
Me: Just a hunch. 
Mallory: Don’t judge me, but it’s a romance.
Me: A romance? Let me guess, a hot teacher falls for a sexy baseball player?
Mallory: It’s not a book of advice. 
---
Shaking off the feeling of disappointing my father again, I took my computer out of my bag and powered up. The first email I saw was from MFine. I laughed at Mallory’s last name. She was pretty fine with that pixie face and hair a guy could get lost in. I opened it and smiled.
 
Dear Mr. Betts,
I hope you made it back to campus without any problems. We will meet in the library on the third floor by the microfiche. Nobody uses those except history majors and the area is always quiet. I’d like to meet on Mondays at three, Wednesdays at five, and Fridays at three. Our sessions will go no longer than an hour and a half; although I doubt we will need that entire time. Most of my tutoring sessions only last an hour, but I always schedule in extra time in case we hit a particularly difficult stretch. If these times are not going to work for you, please let me know immediately. 
Sincerely,
M. Fine

 
I hit respond, amused by her formality. It was like talking to a character out of one of Chelsea’s silly historical romances. Not that I would know anything about that. Okay, not that I’d ever admit to reading one. Once. 
 
Dear Ms. Fine,
Those times are acceptable. For now. In a few weeks, I’ll start physical therapy so we may need to make adjustments depending on the doctor. Is there anything you want me to bring to the sessions?
Sincerely,
Aaron #4

 
I waited less than a minute for a response. 
 
Dear Mr. #4,
Bring your books and your brain. 
Leave your brain, and we may need the entire hour and a half.
Mallory
Maybe this girl wasn’t as stiff as she pretended to be. 

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About the Author

Lynn Stevens flunked out of college writing her first novel. Yes, she still has it and no, you can't read it. Surprisingly, she graduated with honors at her third school. A former farm girl turned city slicker, Lynn lives in the Midwest where she drinks coffee she can't pronounce and sips tea when she's out of coffee. When she's out of both, just stay away. 
 
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