Spotlight: Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies by Evy Journey

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Evy Journey, writer, wannabe artist, and flâneuse (feminine of flâneur), wishes she lives in Paris where people have perfected the art of aimless roaming. Armed with a Ph.D., she used to research and help develop mental health programs.

She's a writer because beautiful prose seduces her and existential angst continues to plague her despite such preoccupations having gone out of fashion. She takes occasional refuge by invoking the spirit of Jane Austen to spin tales of love, loss, and finding one’s way—stories into which she weaves mystery or intrigue.

Connect with the Author here: 


Gina’s grandfather was a French chef whose life was cut short by a robber’s bullet. The only lasting legacy he could leave his family was his passion and talent for cooking.


Growing up poor but with a mother who is a gifted cook. Gina learns cooking a great meal is an act of love. An art that sustains and enhances life.

A world of new challenges, new friends, and new loves opens up for her when she’s chosen to cook for a Michelin-starred restaurant.

But danger lurks where one never expects it.
Can her passion for cooking help Gina survive and thrive in this world of privilege, pleasure and menace?


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Snippet:


At this restaurant, the second one I’ve worked for, the clientele comes from the moneyed class. Privileged with money to spare. Money to put aside for a full-course dinner costing hundreds for two people. And that’s without the wine. I could never dine here unless I gave up my apartment, banked all my earnings, and slept in my car or a homeless shelter for a whole week.

Our regular customers are often fifty years or older and established, and come twice, sometimes thrice a year for special occasions. Dining here twice a month? The guy at Table 29 must be worth diamonds to the restaurant.

I get shivers in my spine entering the dining room. I’ve only been in it when it’s empty, quiet, and bright from lights and white tablecloths. This evening, the lighting is subdued and—yes—romantic, warmed by candles and small vases of bright yellow chrysanthemums on tables. Nonintrusive, soft music plays against the hum of voices from every table.

Table 29 usually sits four, but tonight it holds only two people. I’m surprised to see that they’re quite young. Maybe about my age or a little older. And attractive. Now I’m even more curious. And intrigued. Mature and rich or nearly rich, I’ve seen a lot of. But filthy rich and young? Well, I must at least sneak a peek at what this priceless diamond looks like.

For now, though, I’m a willing peon, as grateful as strawberry blond is when I started learning the ropes in this exclusive eatery. So, I focus on the course I’m serving Table 29. How I perform at this restaurant decides whether my career goes haute cuisine or a la Burger King. But that last choice is really no choice at all. I’ll work my butt off to make sure it stays that way. It’s my future, after all, that I’m slaving for.

I recite to myself the script we’ve been trained to deliver. The script is quite simple, but this is my first foray into a dining room full of privileged clients. And hives are sprouting on my arms just thinking that I’m serving my creation to the restaurant’s most valued client. If this guy doesn’t like my dish and blabbers to Laure about it, I can kiss my future in haute cuisine goodbye. Laure is well-loved and well-known, and a word from her can make or break culinary dreams.

I quickly glance, first at his date then at him, vaguely taking in how they look. I take a deep breath, smile at neither one in particular and say, “Medallions of raw ahi, wasabi hollandaise, on a bed of diced cucumbers, vernissage cherry tomatoes, and capers, finished with a sprinkle of toasted nori. Bon appetit!”

Distractedly, my fixed smile still on, I wonder if “filthy rich” Table 29 guy holds my cooking future in his manicured hands—or, more likely, on his pampered taste buds. I take a couple of steps back, so they can start eating. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of whether he likes my dish or not before I go back to the kitchen. I’m also waiting for that “buzz” I’ve been made to expect. Nothing yet. Anything to say about my creation? Maybe that’s what it takes.


But I’m new in this game and still a coward, so I chicken out as he picks up his fork. I control the urge in my legs to run backward to the kitchen. Be at your best, Gina. Be cool. But my ego will be in tatters if Mr. Filthy Rich doesn’t like the dish.



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Spotlight: The Trail Rules (The Rules Series #2) by Melanie Hooyenga

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Junior year’s looking up for sixteen-year old Mike. Her new BFF isn’t a sadistic control freak, her boyfriend adores her, and she’s learning to bike in the mountains without decapitating herself on a tree. 

Well, almost.

When she meets a group of riders who welcome her into their pack, she feels like she’s finally found where she belongs. One particular rider—a boy with an amazing smile and an even more amazing ability to see what she’s truly capable of—gives her the confidence to go after what she wants: her own life with her own rules.

There’s only one problem—he’s not her boyfriend.

Just as things seem to be falling into place, her parents put on the pressure to figure out her future—one that doesn’t include riding. Mike soon realizes that having everything isn’t that great when she’s not the one choosing it. She needs to decide if she’s going to continue to be a follower or step out of the shadows and find her own trail.

Excerpt

I’ve always loved being outdoors—I think it’s a requirement when you live in Colorado—but I never imagined how much I’d come to crave being “one with the dirt,” as Evan likes to say. A lot of boarders and skiers ride when there’s no snow but with Brianna leading the way, I’d never gotten into this scene.

Now I’m grateful for it.

I flex my forearms as we crest the first incline, letting gravity pull me downhill. Evan’s far enough ahead that I won’t run him over if he crashes—another thing I’m still getting used to. When I ski, I never take chances so there’s no risk of falling, but careening through the woods while balanced on two rubber tubes kind of guarantees you’re gonna fall.

The wall of trees thickens. I squeeze the brakes to slow down but don’t sit. That’s another thing I’ve learned: the seat’s pretty much there to stop the bike from impaling you. It’s not for sitting—at least not on hills.

Sunlight streams through an opening far above, highlighting a gnarly root jutting from the side of the narrow trail. I pull up on the handlebars and smile when my front wheel safely clears the twisted wood.

“Hook left!” Evan’s voice carries up to me.

A wall of trees lies straight ahead. I’d probably slam into them without his warning. I test the brakes and ease into the turn, leaning left like he taught me. My stomach flutters like I’m on the big drop on a roller coaster. A tiny piece of me is still afraid I’m going to tip over if I lean too far, but I do it anyways. My arms shake as I bounce over the uneven trail, the vibrations rattling my teeth, but I don’t fall. When the path straightens, a smile spreads over my face. Evan could do this trail in his sleep but I’m still shocked any time I make it through a turn unscathed.

His bright green shirt flashes through the trees ahead of me. I pedal to gain speed and force myself to take slow, steady breaths. Being able to see him helps me navigate the turns because I know what to expect, but I still need to watch the ground. Riding requires split focus—way more than skiing—because the kind people at the ski resorts clear stumps and rocks from the runs.

When I see him stopped at the edge of the trail my whole body relaxes.

“Need a break?” he asks.

I don’t, but he’s already stopped so I rest a foot on the ground, the other still on the pedal, and grab my water bottle from the crossbar. “Just for a sec.”

“You’re doing great, Mike. I hope you know that—”

A whoop from up the trail where we just were makes us both turn. Flashes of orange and yellow fly through the trees and in seconds two bikers skid to a stop next to us. They both drop a foot to the ground, smiles plastered to their mud-streaked faces. There’s so much dirt it’s hard to tell skin or hair color. With the exception of their neon shirts, they’re brown from head to toe.

The guy in yellow nods at Evan. “Gorgeous day, huh?”

Mr. Orange nods at me. “Y’all okay?” A couple day’s worth of stubble peeks through the mud, making him look older than his friend.

Evan and I say, “Yeah,” in unison.

“Just taking a quick break,” Evan adds.

“I’m Topher,” says Yellow Guy.

“Evan.”

I lift a hand in a wave. “Mike.”

“No, shit?” Topher says.

I’m used to getting weird reactions about my name, so I just shrug.

Topher nudges Mr. Orange, who glances at the ground before saying, “Mica.”

Topher doubles over laughing, but the rest of us just smile. A name is a name. It’s not like I haven’t met fifty billion Mikes before.

But either Mica’s never met a girl named Mike or he doesn’t handle teasing well, because the tips of his ears turn red beneath his helmet.

I flick my thumb over the lever for my brake. Evan clears his throat. And poor Mica shifts his weight from one foot to the other as his friend slowly realizes no one else is laughing.

Topher pushes his shoulders back and nods up the trail. “Haven’t seen you before.”

Evan smiles at me. “It took me a while to convince her.”

There’s so much unsaid in that statement—me choosing him over Brianna, finally learning to ride—and the warmth that usually spreads through me when he says things like that turns to irritation. Like I’d never consider riding without his permission.

Topher doesn’t seem to notice my mood shift. He clicks his brake gear back and forth. “You enter the Pow Cross?”

The spell breaks and I whip my head at him. “Pow Cross?”

Mica finally finds his voice, and I’m startled at how it’s both smooth and rumbly at the same time, like it’s coming from deep in his chest. “It’s a big race at the end of the season. There’s categories for all levels so you”—his eyes meet mine for a millisecond, then flick to Evan—“can enter even if you’re a beginner.”

Evan’s face lights up. On the competitiveness scale, he’s below Cally but definitely above me, and I can already tell he wants to do it. “Where do we sign up?”

I hold up a hand and Topher quirks an eyebrow. “Why pow? Isn’t that snow?”

Topher grips his handlebars like that’s all that’s keeping him from bouncing out of his skin. “Technically, there’s pow—snow—and brown pow,” he points at the dirt beneath us, “but this race is so late in the season there’s usually snow.”

“Biking in snow?”

Mica grins. “It’s pretty rad.”

“It sounds cold.”

“You’ve got gear that’ll work.” Evan leans toward me and runs his hand down my arm. For a split second it feels like he’s marking his property, but Evan’s not like that. And besides, these guys are older. Mica practically has a beard. We’re just a couple kids and they’re being nice. He turns to Topher. “Thanks, man. We’ll check it out.”

Topher hops off his bike to fist bump Evan, then me. “Sweet.” Then he’s back on his bike and heading down the trail. “See ya!”

Mica rests a foot on his pedal. “It’s a cold race, but it’s awesome. Think about it.” He catches my eye and holds my gaze for a beat, then is back on his bike and pedaling away.

Evan faces me. “What do you think?”

My mind follows Mica and his piercing gaze down the trail. We barely made eye contact but it’s like he saw right through me. What’s that about? I shake the thought away.

“You’re not even gonna consider it?”

“What? Oh.” He took my head shake as a no to his question. I smile, but it feels forced. “Yeah, I’ll think about it. It sounds fun.”

He squeezes my arm. “That’s all it would be. Fun. No pressure.”

If Evan thinks I should, I probably will.

“You ready?” I nod, and he mounts his bike and takes off after Topher and Mica.

I feel unsteady, but for once it’s not because of my lack of riding skills. I’m not sure what just happened, and I don’t like the tiny part of me that hopes we catch up to them.

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About the Author

While not a fan of matching Day-Glo outfits, Melanie’s been skiing since she was five and always points her tips up while exiting the chairlift. She lives in the land of lake effect snow—also known as west Michigan—with her husband Jeremy and Miniature Schnauzer Owen, and is always looking for ways to enjoy the outdoors. This novel, her fourth, inspired her to purchase her first helmet.

Connect: Website│Goodreads│Twitter│Facebook│Instagram

Spotlight: The Firstborn Prince by Virginia Nelson

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Foster Boyd wants control of the family business before his brother’s escapades ruin their reputation. Since he can’t force his brother out, he needs to distract him--or reform him. Where can he find a woman willing to do anything to save his business?

Natalie Stolen was at the top of her game as image consultant to the stars. But when one of her client’s reveals a juicy secret, the media went on a feeding frenzy, taking down Natalie’s career faster than she could say “scandal.” Now in dire straits, she’s been given an offer she can’t refuse…

But what happens when the woman you hired to distract your brother is the only woman you can’t stop thinking about?

Excerpt

Once she got to the full-length mirror in the bathroom, she cringed. Yeah, nothing said sexy like pink and purple flannel pajama pants topped with a gray tank top that had a hole just under her left tit. If the outfit didn’t mark her as unfuckable, the fact that she wore a crusty black mask that pulled her skin taut under her hair... good god, my hair.

It was a mess. Her usually untamed mane of waves was pulled into a glob on top of her head that looked a lot like a bird’s nest and nothing like the sexy, messy look so many models accomplished online. The only way she could look less attractive would have been if she had…

Oh, yeah, look there. A little spaghetti sauce stain on the right breast. Complete unfuckability achieved.

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About Virginia Nelson

USA Today Bestselling Author Virginia Nelson is the hybrid author best known for The Penthouse Prince. Aside from that, she’s the mother of three wonderful biological children and tons of adopted kids and critters. Virginia is a graduate of Kent State University with an Associate of Science and a Bachelor of Arts in English and a current student at Seton Hill University where she’s pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction. Sometimes called the rainbow unicorn of romance, she’s also far from perfect and she knows it. You can find out more about her—including where to find her on social media—on her website.

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Connect: virg-nelson.com

Read an excerpt from We Own the Sky by Luke Allnutt

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“We looked down at the cliff jutting into the sea, a rubber boat full of kids going under the arch, and then you started running and jumping through the grass, dodging the rabbit holes, shouting at the top of your voice, so I started chasing you, trying to catch you, and we were laughing so hard as we ran and ran, kicking up rainbow showers in the leaves.”

Rob Coates feels like he’s won the lottery of life. There is Anna, his incredible wife, their London town house and, most precious of all, Jack, their son, who makes every day an extraordinary adventure. But when a devastating illness befalls his family, Rob’s world begins to unravel. Suddenly finding himself alone, Rob seeks solace in photographing the skyscrapers and clifftops he and his son Jack used to visit. And just when it seems that all hope is lost, Rob embarks on the most unforgettable of journeys to find his way back to life, and forgiveness.

We Own the Sky is a tender, heartrending, but ultimately life-affirming novel that will resonate deeply with anyone who has suffered loss or experienced great love. With stunning eloquence and acumen, Luke Allnutt has penned a soaring debut and a true testament to the power of love, showing how even the most thoroughly broken heart can learn to beat again.

Excerpt

I flick through Facebook, squinting my eyes so I can see the screen. My profile is barren, without pictures, just a silhouette of a man, and I never “liked” or commented or wished anyone happy birthday, but I was there every day, scrolling, judging, scrolling, judging, dank little windows into the lives of people I no longer knew, with all their sunrises and sunsets, their cycle trips through the Highlands, the endless stream of Instagrammed pad Thai and avocado toast, the unfathomable smugness of their sushi dinners.

I take a deep breath, then a swig each of beer and vodka. I pity them. All those tragedy whores, with their tricolors and rainbows, changing their profile pics to whatever we are supposed to care about today—the refugees, the latest victims of a terror attack in some godforsaken place. All their hashtags and heartfelt posts about “giving” because they once helped build a school in Africa on their gap year and kissed a beggar’s brown hand with their pearly white mouth.

I change my position at the table so I can see the girl at the bar. She has ordered another drink and is laughing, almost cackling, as she watches a video on her phone, pointing at it, trying to get the barmaid’s attention.

I go back to my phone. Sometimes I force myself to look at the photos of other people’s children. It is, I suppose, like the urge to pick at a newly formed scab, not letting up until there is a metallic blush of blood. The stomach-punches of new arrivals, gap-toothed kids starting school, with their satchels and oversize blazers; and then their beach holidays, with their sand castles and moats, and ice creams dropped in the sand. Big shoes and little shoes, lined up on the mat.

And then the mothers. Oh those Facebook mothers. The way they talked, as if they had invented motherhood, as if they had invented the womb, telling themselves they were different from their own mothers because they ate quinoa and had cornrows in their hair and ran a Pinterest board on craft ideas for the recalcitrant under-fives.


 

I walk back to the bar and stand close to the drunk woman. With enough drink inside me, I feel better now and my hands have stopped shaking. I smile and she stares back, wobbling on her stool, looking me up and down.

“Would you like a drink?” I say, cheerfully, as if we already know each other.

In her glazed eyes, there is a flicker of surprise. She forces herself to sit up straight, so she is no longer slumped over the bar.

“Rum and Coke,” she says, her swagger returning, and she turns away from me, tapping her fingers on the bar.

As I am ordering the drinks, she pretends to be doing something on her phone. I can see her screen, and she is just randomly flicking between applications and messages.

“It’s Rob, by the way,” I say.

“Charlie,” she says. “But everyone calls me Charls.”

“You’re local?” I ask.

“Camborne, born and bred,” she says, swiveling her body to face me. “But I’m staying with my sister up here now.” Her eyes are like lizard tongues, darting toward me when she thinks I’m not looking.

“You’ve probably never heard of Camborne, have you?”

“Mining, right?”

“Yeah. Not anymore though. My dad worked at South Crofty, till it were closed,” she says and I notice how Cornish she sounds. The fading inflection, the soft rolled r’s.

“And you?”

“London.”

“London. Very nice.”

“Do you know London?”

“Been there once or twice,” she says, looking away again to the other end of the bar, taking a deep drag of her cigarette.

She is younger than I thought, midtwenties, with red-brown hair and soft, childish features. There is something vaguely unhinged about her, something I can’t place, that goes beyond the drink, beyond the smudges around her eyes. She seems out of place in The Smugglers, as if she has ducked out of a wedding party and ended up here.

“Down here on your holidays then?”

“Something like that.”

“So you like Tintagel then?” she asks.

“I only arrived today. I’ll go to the castle tomorrow. I’m staying in the hotel next door.”

“First time here then?”

“Yes.”

It is a lie, but I cannot tell her about the time we were here before. The three of us, the end of a wet British summer, wrapped up against the wind, raincoats over shorts. I remember how Jack charged around on the grass next to the parking lot and how fearful Anna was— “hold hands, Jack, hold hands”—in case he got too close to the edge. I remember how we walked up the steep, winding path and came to the top of the cliff, and then, out of nowhere, there was a break in the weather, an almost biblical respite, as the rain stopped, the clouds parted and a rainbow appeared.

“Rainbow, rainbow,” Jack shouted, hopping from foot to foot, the leaves dancing around him like fire sprites. Then, it was as if something touched him, or someone whispered in his ear, and he stood still, looking up through the column of light that pierced the clouds, as the rainbow faded into the blue sky.

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About the Author

Luke Allnutt grew up in the U.K. and lives and works in Prague.

Connect: Website | Twitter

Read an excerpt from Permanent Marker by Aimee Ross

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Aimee Ross was living a perfectly normal life raising three kids, married to her high school sweetheart, and teaching at her high school alma mater.

Life was perfect—right until it wasn’t.

Unhappy in her marriage, Aimee asked for a divorce. Three days later, she suffered a heart attack at age forty-one. Five months after that, she survived a devastating car crash caused by an intoxicated driver.

Her physical recovery took months and left her body marked by scars. The emotional recovery, though, would take longer, as Aimee sought to forgive the man who almost killed her—and to forgive herself for tearing apart her family.

Aimee Ross writes with candor, wit, and humor as she finds the power in her story and chronicles her transformation into the woman she was always meant to be.

Permanent Marker takes readers on a journey of healing, proving that from darkness can come new light, new love, and a renewed purpose for life.

Excerpt

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About the Author

Aimee Ross is a nationally award-winning educator who has been a high school English teacher for the past twenty-five years and an aspiring writer for as long as she can remember. She completed her MFA in Creative Non-Fiction Writing at Ashland University in 2014, but she also dabbles in fiction and poetry. Her writing has been published on www.lifein10minutes.com, www.SixHens.Com, and in Scars: An Anthology (Et Alia Press, 2015); Today I Made a Difference: A Collection of Inspirational Stories from America’s Top Educators (Adams Media, 2009); and Teaching Tolerance magazine.

Spotlight: Limelight by Alyson Santos

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Limelight

by Alyson Santos Publication Date: March 12, 2018 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Standalone

Step into the limelight NOW. LIMELIGHT by Alyson Santos is AVAILABLE NOW FOR ONLY 99c! limited time only sale. FREE with #KindleUnlimited: Amazon
"Gah. This book. THIS BOOK. I can't remember the last time a book made me ugly cry like Limelight did. A truly incredible story!" - Jamie Schlosser, Author of the Good Guy Series "Alyson's writing is gorgeous: passionately poetic; brutally, yet delicately, descriptive; strikingly raw; and insanely sexy. I'm in awe of, and in love with, Limelight...and Alyson." - Kim Holden, Author of Bright Side I’m unpredictable. A genius, an underachiever. I’m the song, the voice, the passion, the pain. I am failure. I do music because it’s what I am, but sometimes that’s not enough. A slave to my nature, I wait for it to show mercy and drop a gift in my lap. Because the music chose me. I’m its victim not its gift. She destroyed my career. Ruined my life. Pushed me from the shadows and exposed my lies. She’s the fire that destroys lesser men, and now her flames are aimed at me. She loves to watch me burn, but the part we never saw coming? Sometimes it takes a fire to ignite a spark And slay the darkness. **THIS IS A CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE STANDALONE**

Start the series now! Amazon FREE with Kindle Unlimited

About Alyson Santos

I’m a writer, musician, and cat lover. I also have an alternative music obsession. Seriously, it’s a real problem. I write what needs to come out, whether it’s pain, tears, or laughter. I write people and relationships, about the beauty and horror of what we do to ourselves and each other. I write Love. Vengeance. Compassion. Cruelty. Trust. Betrayal. Forgiveness. Darkness, and the incredible way humans destroy and heal each other. I like to eradicate barriers, refusing to be confined by the laws of physics or limitations of reality. I will befriend a vast population of possibilities and introduce them in ways that might surprise you.

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