Read an excerpt from Your Endless by Layla Hagen

An incurable romantic with a chronic case of bad luck with men...

Museum curator Summer Bennett knows that happily-ever-afters are not make-believe. After all, her siblings all found their soulmates, so she’s optimistic her prince charming will come along too...eventually. In the meantime, she focuses on her job and her volunteering—which brings her face to face with one of Hollywood’s hottest A-listers.  

When Alexander Westbrook flashes America’s favorite panty-melting smile, Summer's entire body responds. When she asks him to get involved in the community where she volunteers, Summer is shocked that the Hollywood heartthrob agrees right away. Two weeks working side by side with the world’s sexiest guy, and the game is on. 

Far from the public eye, Summer discovers she likes the real Alex even more than his on-screen persona. Secret kisses and whispered conversations spark a fire in her that nothing can extinguish. If only his life wasn’t splashed all over the tabloids…  

Alex can’t keep his eyes--or his hands--off of Summer. But she’s too sweet, and too damn lovely to be swept up in his Hollywood drama. His career is at risk, and an iron-clad clause in his contract with the studio makes a relationship impossible. But staying away from her is out of the question.

Excerpt

“Do you want to talk about today?” Summer asks as we lean back on the couch.

“Not tonight. I like that this place is drama-free. Thank you for making that happen.”

She widens her eyes, then groans. “You saw the magazines.”

“Yeah. I wanted to thank you yesterday but thought bringing the evening up would just make you uncomfortable again. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She takes a small sip of wine, sinking lower on the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just residual embarrassment for that night. I’ll get over it. Eventually.”

I turn to her, framing her jaw with my hand, leaning in. “Summer, we’ve been over this.”

A small sound escapes her, somewhere between a chuckle and a choke. “You probably forgot all about it already.”

The gentleman thing would be to tell her I did. But I don’t have the energy to act any longer tonight, and I don’t want to act around her. I want to be honest, and something in her body language tips me off that she needs that honesty.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. The sight of your beautiful body is branded in my brain.”

Her mouth pops open. “But... you said it wasn’t a big deal, that you’d seen plenty of actresses—”

“I was trying to put you at ease.” By the looks of it, I did just the opposite. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep my control, Summer. I wanted you so badly.”

She sucks in a breath. “You did?”

“I still do.”

She parts her lips, her eyes widening with surprise. I bring a hand to her face, caressing her cheek, resting my thumb at the corner of her mouth.

Her skin is so smooth, it spurs a need deep inside me, to touch more of her. To taste her. Would she taste as sweet as I remember? Have I idealized the kiss, the memory growing sweeter, more real the more time we spent together, the more I learned about her?

“I’ve missed you today,” I confess.

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“So did I. I arrived late at breakfast, and no one saved me muffins.”

“I brought you something.” I pull the small package out of my pocket and take out the necklace with a little key pendant. “I saw it at LAX. It made me think of you.”

“I love it.”

“Let me put it on.”

She turns around, baring her neck to me. I clasp the necklace, lingering with my fingers at the back of her neck. She lets out a little sigh. I trace the contour of her shoulder, needing to touch more of her. Summer tightens her grip on one of the couch cushions.

I move closer until my chest almost touches her back, rubbing my thumb gently in the crook of her neck and shoulder. When she tilts her head slightly to the other side, giving me access, I don’t hesitate. I lower my mouth, pressing kisses to her skin.

“Alex!”

The vibration in her voice is the sexiest sound. I bring one hand to her waist, spin her around, then capture her mouth with mine.

She parts her lips, granting me access, entwining her tongue with mine as soon as I request it. I deepen the kiss, moving my hand from her waist to her thigh, bunching up her dress. I want to feel her skin, taste it, because she tastes even better than I remember, and I want to explore all of her.

“Alex,” she whispers again when I trail my mouth down her neck. “One night. Just this one night.”

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About Layla Hagen

Layla Hagen is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance. 

She fell in love with books when she was nine years old, and her love affair with stories continues even now, many years later.

She writes steamy and romantic stories and can’t wait to share them with the world.

She is represented by fabulous Louise Fury (The Bent Agency)

Connect with Layla Hagen: Website | Facebook | Twitter

Spotlight: You Will Be Mine by Natasha Preston

Love turns deadly in a new, heart-pounding thriller from Natasha Preston, author of the runaway bestsellers The Cellar and The Cabin.

ROSES ARE RED

VIOLETS ARE BLUE

WATCH YOUR BACK

I’M COMING FOR YOU

Lylah and her friends can’t wait to spend a night out together. Partying is the perfect way to let loose from the stress of life and school, and Lylah hopes that hitting the dance floor with Chase, her best friend, will bring them closer together. She’s been crushing on him since they met. If only he thought of her the same way…

The girls are touching up their makeup and the guys are sliding on their coats when the doorbell rings. No one is there. An envelope sits on the doormat. It’s an anonymous note addressed to their friend Sonny. A secret admirer? Maybe. They all laugh it off.

Except Sonny never comes home. And a new note arrives:

YOUR TURN

Excerpt

I breathe in deep through my nose and out through my mouth—an exercise my therapist taught me when I started to feel like I was going to fall apart. I can slowly feel myself start to relax when the doorbell rings.

Sighing, I get up. My housemates must’ve forgotten their keys or be carrying too many bags to unlock the door.

I glance through the window, but no one is there.

Another doorbell ditch?

My blood runs cold as I open the door.

An envelope is sitting on our mat. The world turns mute as the blood rushes to my ears. Bending down, I scoop up the envelope. It’s addressed to Isaac. And it looks like exactly the one that came for Sonny.

No…

I turn it over and pull out the note. My hands are shaking as I read:

YOUR TURN

“Isaac!” rips from my throat.

“What?” he calls from his room down the hall. My voice is trapped in my throat as I look up and down the street. There are still a few folks leaving flowers, looking at the makeshift memorial in front of our house. Did one of them do this? Did one of them see who left the note? I feel so exposed. Vulnerable.

I draw back inside and shut the door, trembling.

Isaac’s footsteps thud from his bedroom into the foyer. “Lylah, what?” His face falls and his eyes widen as he sees what’s in my hand. “Is that another note?”

Nodding, I hand it to him.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Who was it addressed to?”

I look up at him, my vision blurring with tears. “You.”

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About the Author

UK native Natasha Preston grew up in small villages and towns. She discovered her love of writing when she stumbled across an amateur writing site and uploaded her first story and hasn’t looked back since.

She enjoys writing contemporary romance, gritty Young Adult thrillers and, of course, the occasional serial killer.

Connect: Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Wattpad

Spotlight: Midnight Valentine by J.T. Geissinger

True love never dies. 

Megan and Cassidy were childhood sweethearts who thought they would be together forever. Fate had other plans. Soon after they were married, Cass’s life was tragically cut short. Still grieving her soul mate five years later, Megan moves to the small town of Seaside, Oregon, hoping to rebuild her life. 

Her first night there, she meets the town recluse, Theo. Withdrawn, guarded, and mysteriously silent since a terrible accident left him scarred, Theo takes an instant and inexplicable dislike to Megan. But as their paths cross again and again, Megan becomes convinced there’s more to Theo than meets the eye. 

When she discovers the reason for his silence, his nightmares, and especially his pointed dislike, Megan becomes convinced of something far more astonishing. 

Is a second chance at a once-in-a-lifetime love possible, or is a broken heart the cruelest kind of liar?

Excerpt

I assumed Hillrise Construction would have an answering service who answered the phones, considering the owner’s general hostility and disinclination to speak, so I’m not surprised when a machine picks up. The outgoing message is one of those toneless, electronic voices you get when you neglect to customize it.

“Please. Leave. A message. After. The tone.” Beep.

“Hi. My name is Megan Dunn, and I was referred to you by Suzanne Martin. I bought the Buttercup Inn and need a quote for repairs.”

I leave my cell phone number and am about to hang up when the distinct click of the line being picked up stops me. Then I’m listening to silence.

“Hello?”

I could swear I hear a low exhalation, but no one speaks.

Holy shit. It must be him. No-talking Theo with the crazy eyes. “Um…is anyone there?” More silence, but someone is definitely there. I hear rustling and a faint creak in the background, as if whoever answered has sat down.

Why the hell would he pick up the phone if he doesn’t talk?

I start to get irritated, because I’ve got the patience of a four-year old who’s missed a nap. “Okay, well, look. I need to get a quote on repairs for the Buttercup Inn. Is that something you can help me with?”

I never knew silence could be so loud. It’s absolutely deafening.

I’m about to tell him to go jump off a bridge, but it occurs to me that I could have fun with this instead of let it aggravate me. “Hey, here’s an idea. I saw this on TV once, some dumb show I forget the name of where a guy had laryngitis but had to try to warn his girlfriend a killer was headed over to her house. I’ll ask a question, and you can answer by using the phone buttons. One beep for yes, two beeps for no. And three beeps for maybe, if you feel like you might need that option. Okay?”

The silence lasts so long I start to worry he already hung up and I’m listening to a dead line, but then I hear it. A single, sharp, electronic beep.

Son of a bitch.

“Good. Okay, so…is this Theo?”

A slight pause, then a beep that somehow sounds resigned.

“Hi, Theo, this is Megan Dunn. We’ve already met. Twice, actually. Once at Cal’s Diner, and once in the backyard at Sunday and Chris’s house party a few weeks back. Do you remember?”

Beeep.

The tone is longer. More emphatic. He remembers. For some strange reason, my pulse picks up and my armpits go damp.

“Right. So anyway, Suzanne says you’re the best contractor around and I’ve already been through five other guys—that sounded wrong, but you know what I mean—so I was wondering if you’d have time to come out this week and take a look at the place.”

Two sharp, successive beeps, and that’s an unequivocal No. But I have to confirm, just in case. “No? You won’t come out?”

Beep. Beep.

Jesus. How can someone sound like such a dick using only a single button on a telephone?

“Well, fine,” I say curtly, heat creeping into my cheeks. “Sorry to have wasted your time. Have a nice life.” I’m about to throw my cell phone across the room when over the line comes a rapid mess of electronic noises.

He’s pushing all the buttons at once.

When the cacophony stops, I’m livid. Through gritted teeth, I ask, “Were you trying to tell me something there, Sunshine?”

BEEEEEP!

I decide I need a drink if I’m going to continue this bizarre conversation, so I head into the kitchen and unscrew the top of the crappy bottle of wine I bought at the store the other night. I pour some into a glass, guzzle half of it down, swallow, then blow out a breath, all the while acutely aware of the throbbing silence on the other end of the line.

Then my mouth falls open, because I’m listening to a telephone rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” played by hitting the right keys to make the correct notes of the song.

Moody Theo has a sense of humor.

“That was interesting. Are you having fun?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Maybe.

I burst out laughing, because this is total insanity. “Can I just take a moment to say that this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my entire life? This even beats the time my I walked in on my dad wearing my mother’s underwear. I don’t expect an answer to that, by the way, I’m just thinking out loud here.”

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About J.T. Geissinger

A former headhunter, J.T. Geissinger is the author of more than a dozen novels in contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense. 

She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book, the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy, and is a two-time finalist for the RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America®. Her work has also finaled in the Booksellers’ Best, National Readers’ Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards.

Join her Facebook reader’s group, Geissinger’s Gang, to take part in weekly Wine Wednesday live chats and giveaways, find out more information about works in progress, have access to exclusive excerpts and contests, and get advance reader copies of her upcoming releases.

Connect with J.T. Geissinger: Website | Newsletter | Facebook | Gessinger's Gang | Twitter | Goodreads | Instagram | Pinterest

Spotlight: Fighter Pilot's Daughter by Mary Lawlor

FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER: GROWING UP IN THE SIXTIES AND THE COLD WAR tells the story of the author as a young woman coming of age in an Irish Catholic, military family during the Cold War.  Her father, an aviator in the Marines and later the Army, was transferred more than a dozen times to posts from Miami to California and Germany as the government’s Cold War policies demanded.  For the pilot’s wife and daughters, each move meant a complete upheaval of ordinary life.  The car was sold, bank accounts closed, and of course one school after another was left behind.  Friends and later boyfriends lined up in memory as a series of temporary attachments.  The book describes the dramas of this traveling household during the middle years of the Cold War.  In the process, FIGHTER PILOT’S DAUGHTER shows how the larger turmoil of American foreign policy and the effects of Cold War politics permeated the domestic universe. The climactic moment of the story takes place in the spring of 1968, when the author’s father was stationed in Vietnam and she was attending college in Paris.  Having left the family’s quarters in Heidelberg, Germany the previous fall, she was still an ingénue; but her strict upbringing had not gone deep enough to keep her anchored to her parents’ world.  When the May riots broke out in the Latin quarter, she attached myself to the student leftists and American draft resisters who were throwing cobblestones at the French police. Getting word of her activities via a Red Cross telegram delivered on the airfield in Da Nang, Vietnam, her father came to Paris to find her. The book narrates their dramatically contentious meeting and return to the American military community of Heidelberg.  The book concludes many years later, as the Cold War came to a close.  After decades of tension that made communication all but impossible, the author and her father reunited.  As the chill subsided in the world at large, so it did in the relationship between the pilot and his daughter. When he died a few years later, the hard edge between them, like the Cold War stand-off, had become a distant memory.

Book Excerpt

The pilot’s house where I grew up was mostly a women’s world.  There were five of us.  We had the place to ourselves most of the time.  My mother made the big decisions--where we went to school, which bank to keep our money in.  She had to decide these things often because we moved every couple of years.  The house is thus a figure of speech, a way of thinking about a long series of small, cement dwellings we occupied as one fictional home.

     It was my father, however, who turned the wheel, his job that rotated us to so many different places.  He was an aviator, first in the Marines, later in the Army.  When he came home from his extended absences--missions, they were called--the rooms shrank around him.  There wasn’t enough air.  We didn’t breathe as freely as we did when he was gone, not because he was mean or demanding but because we worshipped him.  Like satellites my sisters and I orbited him at a distance, waiting for the chance to come closer, to show him things we’d made, accept gifts, hear his stories.  My mother wasn’t at the center of things anymore.  She hovered, maneuvered, arranged, corrected.  She was first lady, the dame in waiting.  He was the center point of our circle, a flier, a winged sentry who spent most of his time far up over our heads.  When he was home, the house was definitely his.

     These were the early years of the Cold War.  It was a time of vivid fears, pictured nowadays in photos of kids hunkered under their school desks.  My sisters and I did that.  The phrase ‘air raid drill’ rang hard--the double-a sound a cold, metallic twang, ending with ill.  It meant rehearsal for a time when you might get burnt by the air you breathed. 

     Every day we heard practice rounds of artillery fire and ordinance on the near horizon.  We knew what all this training was for.  It was to keep the world from ending.  Our father was one of many Dads who sweat at soldierly labor, part of an arsenal kept at the ready to scare off nuclear annihilation of life on earth.  When we lived on post, my sisters and I saw uniformed men marching in straight lines everywhere.  This was readiness, the soldiers rehearsing against Armageddon.  The rectangular buildings where the commissary, the PX, the bowling alley and beauty shop were housed had fall out shelters in the basements, marked with black and yellow wheels, the civil defense insignia.  Our Dad would often leave home for several days on maneuvers, readiness exercises in which he and other men played war games designed to match the visions of big generals and political men.  Visions of how a Russian air and ground attack would happen.  They had to be ready for it.

     A clipped, nervous rhythm kept time on military bases.  It was as if you needed to move efficiently to keep up with things, to be ready yourself, even if you were just a kid.  We were chased by the feeling that life as we knew it could change in an hour.

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About the Author

Mary Lawlor grew up in an Army family during the Cold War.  Her father was a decorated fighter pilot who fought in the Pacific during World War II, flew missions in Korea, and did two combat tours in Vietnam. His family followed him from base to base and country to country during his years of service. Every two or three years, Mary, her three sisters, and her mother packed up their household and moved. By the time she graduated from high school, she had attended fourteen different schools. These displacements, plus her father?s frequent absences and brief, dramatic returns, were part of the fabric of her childhood, as were the rituals of base life and the adventures of life abroad.

As Mary came of age, tensions between the patriotic, Catholic culture of her upbringing and the values of the sixties counterculture set family life on fire.  While attending the American College in Paris, she became involved in the famous student uprisings of May 1968.  Facing her father, then posted in Vietnam, across a deep political divide, she fought as he had taught her to for a way of life completely different from his and her mother’s.

Years of turbulence followed.  After working in Germany, Spain and Japan, Mary went on to graduate school at NYU, earned a Ph.D. and became a professor of literature and American Studies at Muhlenberg College.  She has published three books, Recalling the Wild (Rutgers UP, 2000), Public Native America (Rutgers UP, 2006), and most recently Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War (Rowman and Littlefield, September 2013).

She and her husband spend part of each year on a small farm in the mountains of southern Spain.

Her latest book is the memoir, Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War.

Connect: WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK

Spotlight: The Cowboy Who Came Calling by Linda Broday

He’ll do what it takes

To win

Her heart

Glory Day may be losing her vision, but that doesn’t mean she’ll ever stop fighting. Determined to provide for her struggling family, she confronts an outlaw with a price on his head. But when a mysterious cowboy gets between her and her target, Glory accidentally shoots him instead. Flustered, she has no option but to take the handsome stranger home to treat his wounds.

Former Texas Ranger Luke McClain didn’t plan to fall in love, but there’s no denying the strength of Glory’s will or the sweetness of her heart. But Glory’s been burned before, and Luke will have to reach into the depths of his own battered soul to convince her to take a chance...

And trust that love is worth fighting for.

Excerpt

The wind shifted to a more southerly tack and hand-carried the scent of wild honeysuckle, bringing to mind the fresh smell of Glory’s hair. Did she miss him? Or did she breathe a sigh of relief to finally be rid of the bother? More likely the latter.

It surprised Luke to realize Glory Day had the power to make him forget Jessie. Or at least dull the memory.

Suddenly, a covey of quail took flight from a cluster of sumac and wild thistle. Soldier pricked his ears, stomping the ground nervously. The hair bristled on the nape of his neck.

Someone lurked out there. He’d faced danger too many times to ignore the warning. The Colt slid easily into the palm of his hand. Quickly, he rolled, stealing into the thick brush.

The fingernail sliver of moonlight suited his purpose fine. Hidden by dark shadows, he waited for the skulking varmint.

Coarse fabric rustled. Luke pivoted his attention back to the campsite in time to see a black figure creep into view. It was too dark to see the face. The extra light of a fire would have helped him. But he hadn’t wanted to announce his position with Perkins in the vicinity.

The intruder poked at the vacant bedroll with the tip of a rifle.

Luke crouched, biding his time.

At the right moment, when the culprit turned away, he jumped. They went down in a heap, jarred by the unforgiving ground. Off flew the intruder’s hat and a cloud of sweet-smelling hair blocked his view. No hard muscles—just soft, womanly curves.

“McClain!”

“Glory?” He blew away the tendrils of hair that swarmed up his nose. The fresh fragrance attacked his jangled nerves.

“What are you doing? Get off me.”

“Me? You’re the one who skulked in here like a common thief.”

No, he took that back. There was nothing common about Glory Day. Stretched out firmly atop her, he felt her racing heart. His toes curled from the sizzling current. Her heaving breasts cozied up against the hardness of his chest like a saloon girl looking to make a bit of change. Have mercy!

“Get off me, you lousy double-crosser!” She beat against his chest

Christmas could’ve come and gone in the length of time it took to pry his fingers loose and lift himself. He battled with the need to hold her close. The bold way her body fit against his made him long for her.

With the deepest regret, he rose, letting her up.

She brushed off her clothes in a huff. Her withering glare might’ve killed a less hardy soul. For him, it would take more than that. Nothing short of death could wipe the grin off his face.

The evil eye she shot him when he didn’t cower under the glare assured him she’d most certainly oblige if given half a chance.

He quickly plucked her Winchester from the dirt where it’d fallen in the scuffle. He wasn’t taking any chances.

“Miss me, huh? Couldn’t stand not having me around?”

“You’re a cheat and a low-down liar.”

“Whoa, there. I’m wounded.” He’d reckoned she’d be mad enough to swallow a horned toad backward, but to come chasing surprised the hell out of him. Didn’t she possess any sense to keep out of harm’s way?

“I don’t suppose you remember we had a deal? It simply slipped your mind that you agreed I’d come with you?”

The rise and fall of her shirt set his imagination ablaze. All that velvety skin lay beneath there. Soft swells he ached to touch. Nipples that begged for attention.

Damn! The honeysuckle still swimming up his nose must’ve pickled his brain.

How could a man fight against something he so desperately wanted? He struggled to pull his stare from her beckoning mouth and lost.

“If I recall, you promised you’d do anything I wanted if I brought you along.” He meant his softly spoken reminder as a warning. The lady trod on his territory now.

She crossed her arms, gifting him with more of those looks that could hard-boil an egg in nothing flat.

“Foolish drivel. Doesn’t matter now. You broke your word.”

He edged closer. He wanted to bother her as much as she did him. And fire and damnation, did she ever!

“Are you quite certain?”

“I’m not bound—”

“Ahhhh, but that’s where you’re mistaken.” His velvet words belied the havoc inside. The attraction between them was far more binding than any hastily spoken agreement.

Panic colored her stone-washed gaze. “I declare our agreement null and void.” She stepped back.

The rifle dropped from Luke’s hand. He barely heard the thump of it hitting the ground over the racket inside his head.

“Too late,” he murmured.

A soft gasp came when he brushed her arm with light fingertips. It didn’t take tugging or cajoling to pull her against him. Her surrender spoke of a need that equaled his.

Anything to oblige a pretty lady.

Tenderly, he caressed her lips with his tongue before he allowed himself to partake of all she gave. He paid no heed to the fact that however much that was, it would never be enough. He’d learned a long time ago to collect each drop of rain. Sooner or later, it’d fill your bucket.

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About the Author

At a young age, LINDA BRODAY discovered a love for storytelling, history, and anything pertaining to the Old West. After years of writing romance, it’s still tall rugged cowboys that spark her imagination. A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Linda has won many awards, including the prestigious National Readers’ Choice Award and the Texas Gold. She resides in the Texas Panhandle where she’s inspired every day.

Find Linda Online: Website | Facebook | Twitter: @LBroday | Goodreads

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Spotlight: Love Over Lattes by Diana A. Hicks

Love Over Lattes
Diana A. Hicks
(Desert Monsoon, #1)
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication date: February 7th 2018
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Single mom Valentina wants to provide a good life for her son, starting with the perfect home. When the deal on her dream house falls through, rather than move back in with her parents and disappoint them and her son once again, she accepts the help of the intimidating-as-hell stranger she’s admired from her coffee shop seat for the last six months. She’s afraid to fall for the wrong guy again, so she makes Cole promise to keep their relationship strictly professional.

Following his failed marriage, Cole can’t find a reason to care about anything or anyone. Saving his company from his ex-wife is the only thing that has kept him afloat for the past six months. As loneliness sets in and he begins to lose the fight over his company, Valentina becomes his lifeline. Cole wants to be more than her landlord, and he has a plan to get her to release him from his promise.

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—

EXCERPT:

The path next to the pool ushered us by the grand staircase and down more steps toward a courtyard. Tucked in the corner was the cottage. I hugged my belly to keep myself from squealing or jumping up and down. It was perfect. And too good to be true.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I need to rent the place, and you need a place to stay. I’m doing it for the money.”

“Because you obviously need more of that.”

“Everyone needs more money. That’s what money does.” He dug his hand in his back pocket. In the stark sunlight, he might as well be shirtless. The thin material of his T-shirt didn’t do much to cover his muscled torso, and I got lost counting the ridges on his abs. “Go ahead and take a look.”

“I’m sorry. What?” I cleared my throat.

He showed me a key. A knowing smile appeared on his face for a split second. “What are you here to see?”

Author Bio:

Diana became an avid reader when she found her first romance novel tucked away in a corner of her high school library. The more books she read, the more she wanted to be a writer. Diana has a Master’s degree in information systems and accountancy and for many years worked for a major Fortune 100 telecommunications company as an IT project manager (As one does when pursuing a career as a romance author.) These days, when she’s not writing, Diana enjoys running half marathons, traveling, and indulging in the simple joys of life like wine and chocolate. She lives in Atlanta and loves spending time with her two children and husband.

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