Spotlight: Don't Read the Comments by Eric Smith

Slay meets Eliza and Her Monsters in Eric Smith’s Don't Read the Comments, an #ownvoices story in which two teen gamers find their virtual worlds—and blossoming romance—invaded by the real-world issues of trolling and doxing in the gaming community.

Divya Sharma is a queen. Or she is when she’s playing Reclaim the Sun, the year’s hottest online game. Divya—better known as popular streaming gamer D1V—regularly leads her #AngstArmada on quests through the game’s vast and gorgeous virtual universe. But for Divya, this is more than just a game. Out in the real world, she’s trading her rising-star status for sponsorships to help her struggling single mom pay the rent.

Gaming is basically Aaron Jericho’s entire life. Much to his mother’s frustration, Aaron has zero interest in becoming a doctor like her, and spends his free time writing games for a local developer. At least he can escape into Reclaim the Sun—and with a trillion worlds to explore, disappearing should be easy. But to his surprise, he somehow ends up on the same remote planet as celebrity gamer D1V.

At home, Divya and Aaron grapple with their problems alone, but in the game, they have each other to face infinite new worlds…and the growing legion of trolls populating them. Soon the virtual harassment seeps into reality when a group called the Vox Populi begin launching real-world doxxing campaigns, threatening Aaron’s dreams and Divya’s actual life. The online trolls think they can drive her out of the game, but everything and everyone Divya cares about is on the line…

And she isn’t going down without a fight.

Excerpt

1 Divya

Mom. We’ve been over this. Don’t read the comments,” I say, sighing as my mother stares at me with her fretful deep-set eyes. They’re dark green, just like mine, and stand out against her soft brown skin. Wrinkle lines trail out from the corners like thin tree branches grown over a lifetime of worrying.

I wish I could wash away all of her worries, but I only seem to be causing her more lately.

“I’m just not comfortable with it anymore,” my mom counters. “I appreciate what you’re doing with…you know, your earnings or however that sponsor stuff works, but I can’t stand seeing what they’re saying about you on the Internet.”

“So don’t read the comments!” I exclaim, reaching out and taking her hands in mine. Her palms are weathered, like the pages of the books she moves around at the library, and I can feel the creases in her skin as my fingers run over them. Bundles of multicolored bangles dangle from both of her wrists, clinking about lightly.

“How am I supposed to do that?” she asks, giving my hands a squeeze. “You’re my daughter. And they say such awful things. They don’t even know you. Breaks my heart.”

“What did I just say?” I ask, letting go of her hands, trying to give her my warmest it’s-going-to-be-okay smile. I know she only reads the blogs, the articles covering this and that, so she just sees the replies there, the sprawling comments—and not what people say on social media. Not what the trolls say about her. Because moms are the easiest target for those online monsters.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that sign in your room with your slogan regarding comments,” Mom scoffs, shaking her head and getting to her feet. She groans a little as she pushes herself off the tiny sofa, which sinks in too much. Not in the comfortable way a squishy couch might, but in a this-piece-of-furniture-needs-to-be-thrown-away-because-it’s-probably-doing-irreversible-damage-to-my-back-and-internal-organs kind of way. She stretches her back, one hand on her waist, and I make a mental note to check online for furniture sales at Target or Ikea once she heads to work.

“Oof, I must have slept on it wrong,” Mom mutters, turning to look at me. But I know better. She’s saying that for my benefit. The air mattress on her bed frame—in lieu of an actual mattress—isn’t doing her back any favors.

I’d better add a cheap mattress to my list of things to search for later. Anything is better than her sleeping on what our family used to go camping with.

Still, I force myself to nod and say, “Probably.” If Mom knew how easily I saw through this dance of ours, the way we pretend that things are okay while everything is falling apart around us, she’d only worry more.

Maybe she does know. Maybe that’s part of the dance.

I avert my gaze from hers and glance down at my watch. It’s the latest in smartwatch tech from Samsung, a beautiful little thing that connects to my phone and computer, controls the streaming box on our television… Hell, if we could afford smart lights in our apartment, it could handle those, too. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m., which means my Glitch subscribers will be tuning in for my scheduled gaming stream of Reclaim the Sun at any minute. A couple social media notifications start lighting up the edges of the little screen, but it isn’t the unread messages or the time that taunt me.

It’s the date.

The end of June is only a few days away, which means the rent is due. How can my mom stand here and talk about me getting rid of my Glitch channel when it’s bringing in just enough revenue to help cover the rent? To pay for groceries? When the products I’m sent to review or sponsored to wear—and then consequently sell—have been keeping us afloat with at least a little money to walk around with?

“I’m going to start looking for a second job,” Mom says, her tone defeated.

“Wait, what?” I look away from my watch and feel my heartbeat quicken. “But if you do that—”

“I can finish these summer classes another time. Maybe next year—”

“No. No way.” I shake my head and suck air in through my gritted teeth. She’s worked so hard for this. We’ve worked so hard for this. “You only have a few more classes!”

“I can’t let you keep doing this.” She gestures toward my room, where my computer is.

“And I can’t let you work yourself to death for… What? This tiny apartment, while that asshole doesn’t do a damn thing to—”

“Divya. Language,” she scolds, but her tone is undermined by a soft grin peeking in at the corner of her mouth. “He’s still your fath—”

“I’ll do my part,” I say resolutely, stopping her from saying that word. “I can deal with it. I want to. You will not give up going to school. If you do that, he wins. Besides, I’ve…got some gadgets I can sell this month.”

“I just… I don’t want you giving up on your dreams, so I can keep chasing mine. I’m the parent. What does all this say about me?” My mom exhales, and I catch her lip quivering just a little. Then she inhales sharply, burying whatever was about to surface, and I almost smile, as weird as that sounds. It’s just our way, you know?

Take the pain in. Bury it down deep.

“We’re a team.” I reach out and grasp her hands again, and she inhales quickly once more.

It’s in these quiet moments we have together, wrestling with these challenges, that the anger I feel—the rage over this small apartment that’s replaced our home, the overdrafts in our bank accounts, all the time I’ve given up—is replaced with something else.

With how proud I am of her, for starting over the way she has.

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve you.”

Deserve.

I feel my chest cave in a little at the word as I look again at the date on the beautiful display of this watch. I know I need to sell it. I know I do. The couch. That crappy mattress. My dwindling bank account. The upcoming bills.

The required sponsorship agreement to wear this watch in all my videos for a month, in exchange for keeping the watch, would be over in just a few days. I could easily get $500 for it on an auction site or maybe a little less at the used-electronics shop downtown. One means more money, but it also means having my address out there, which is something I avoid like the plague—though having friends like Rebekah mail the gadgets for me has proved a relatively safe way to do it. The other means less money, but the return is immediate, at least. Several of the employees there watch my stream, however, and conversations with them are often pretty awkward.

I’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, I’d get to keep this one thing. Isn’t that something I deserve? Between helping Mom with the rent while she finishes up school and pitching in for groceries and trying to put a little money aside for my own tuition in the fall at the community college… God, I’d at least earned this much, right?

The watch buzzes against my wrist, a pleasant feeling. As a text message flashes across the screen, I feel a pang of wonder and regret over how a display so small can still have a better resolution than the television in our living room.

THE GALAXY WAITS FOR NO ONE,

YOU READY D1V?

—COMMANDER (RE)BEKAH

I smile at the note from my producer-slash-best-friend, then look up as my mom makes her way toward the front door of our apartment, tossing a bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back around ten or so,” Mom says, sounding tired. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I always am,” I promise, walking over to give her a hug. It’s sweet, her constant reminders to be careful, to check in, especially since all I generally do while she’s gone is hang out in front of the computer. But I get it. Even the Internet can be a dangerous place. The threats on social media and the emails that I get—all sent by anonymous trolls with untraceable accounts—are proof of that.

Still, as soon as the door closes, I bolt across the living room and into my small bedroom, which is basically just a bed, a tiny dresser, and my workstation. I’ve kept it simple since the move and my parents split.

The only thing that’s far from simple is my gaming rig.

When my Glitch stream hit critical mass at one hundred thousand subscribers about a year and a half ago, a gaming company was kind enough to sponsor my rig. It’s extravagant to the point of being comical, with bright neon-blue lighting pouring out the back of the system and a clear case that shows off the needless LED illumination. Like having shiny lights makes it go any faster. I never got it when dudes at my school put flashy lights on their cars, and I don’t get it any more on a computer.

But it was free, so I’m certainly not going to complain.

I shake the mouse to awaken the sleeping monster, and my widescreen LED monitor flashes to life. It’s one of those screens that bend toward the edges, the curves of the monitor bordering on sexy. I adjust my webcam, which—along with my beaten-up Ikea table that’s not even a desk—is one of the few non-sponsored things in my space. It’s an aging thing, but the resolution is still HD and flawless, so unless a free one is somehow going to drop into my lap—and it probably won’t, because you can’t show off a webcam in a digital stream or a recorded sponsored video when you’re filming with said camera—it’ll do the trick.

I navigate over to Glitch and open my streaming application. Almost immediately, Rebekah’s face pops up in a little window on the edge of my screen. I grin at the sight of her new hairstyle, her usually blond and spiky hair now dyed a brilliant shade of blood orange, a hue as vibrant as her personality. The sides of her head are buzzed, too, and the overall effect is awesome.

Rebekah smiles and waves at me. “You ready to explore the cosmos once more?” she asks, her voice bright in my computer’s speakers. I can hear her keys clicking loudly as she types, her hands making quick work of something on the other side of the screen. I open my mouth to say something, but she jumps in before I can. “Yes, yes, I’ll be on mute once we get in, shut up.”

I laugh and glance at myself in the mirror I’ve got attached to the side of my monitor with a long metal arm—an old bike mirror that I repurposed to make sure my makeup and hair are on point in these videos. Even though the streams are all about the games, there’s nothing wrong with looking a little cute, even if it’s just for myself. I run a finger over one of my eyebrows, smoothing it out, and make a note to tweeze them just a little bit later. I’ve got my mother’s strong brows, black and rebellious. We’re frequently in battle with one another, me armed with my tweezers, my eyebrows wielding their growing-faster-than-weeds genes.

“How much time do we have?” I ask, tilting my head back and forth.

“About five minutes. And you look fine, stop it,” she grumbles. I push the mirror away, the metal arm making a squeaking noise, and I see Rebekah roll her eyes. “You could just use a compact like a normal person, you know.”

“It’s vintage,” I say, leaning in toward my computer mic. “I’m being hip.”

“You. Hip.” She chuckles. “Please save the jokes for the stream. It’s good content.”

I flash her a scowl and load up my social feeds on the desktop, my watch still illuminating with notifications. I decide to leave them unchecked on the actual device and scope them out on the computer instead, so when people are watching, they can see the watch in action. That should score me some extra goodwill with sponsors, and maybe it’ll look like I’m more popular than people think I am.

Because that’s my life. Plenty of social notifications, but zero texts or missed calls.

The feeds are surprisingly calm this evening, a bundle of people posting about how excited they are for my upcoming stream, playing Reclaim the Sun on their own, curious to see what I’m finding… Not bad. There are a few dumpster-fire comments directed at the way I look and some racist remarks by people with no avatars, cowards who won’t show their faces, but nothing out of the usual.

Ah. Lovely. Someone wants me to wear less clothing in this stream. Blocked. A link to someone promoting my upcoming appearance at New York GamesCon, nice. Retweeted. A post suggesting I wear a skimpier top, and someone agreeing. Charming. Blocked and blocked.

Why is it that the people who always leave the grossest, rudest, and occasionally sexist, racist, or religiously intolerant comments never seem to have an avatar connected to their social profiles? Hiding behind a blank profile picture? How brave. How courageous.

And never mind all the messages that I assume are supposed to be flirtatious, but are actually anything but. Real original, saying “hey” and that’s it, then spewing a bunch of foul-mouthed nonsense when they don’t get a response. Hey, anonymous bro, I’m not here to be sexualized by strangers on the Internet. It’s creepy and disgusting. Can’t I just have fun without being objectified?

“Div!” Rebekah shouts, and I jump in my seat a little.

“Yeah, hey, I’m here,” I mumble, looking around for my Bluetooth earpiece, trying to force myself into a better mood.

This is why you don’t read the comments, Divya.

Excerpted from Don’t Read the Comments by Eric Smith, Copyright © 2020 by Eric Smith. Published by Inkyard Press. 

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About the Author

Eric Smith is an author, prolific book blogger, and literary agent from New Jersey, currently living in Philadelphia. Smith cohosts Book Riot’s newest podcast, HEY YA, with non-fiction YA author Kelly Jensen. He can regularly be found writing for Book Riot’s blog, as well as Barnes & Noble’s Teen Reads blog, Paste Magazine, and Publishing Crawl. Smith also has a growing Twitter platform of over 40,000 followers (@ericsmithrocks).

Connect:

Author website: https://www.ericsmithrocks.com/

Twitter: @ericsmithrocks 

Instagram: @ericsmithrocks

Facebook: @ericsmithwrites

Spotlight: Reign & Ruin by J.D. Evans

“All magic is beautiful,” she said, “and terrible. Do you not see the beauty in yours, or the terror in mine? You can stop a heart, and I can stop your breath.”

She is heir to a Sultanate that once ruled the world. He is an unwanted prince with the power to destroy.

She is order and intellect, a woman fit to rule in a man's place. He is chaos and violence and will stop at nothing to protect his people.

His magic answers hers with shadow for light. They need each other, but the cost of balance may be too high a price. Magic is dying and the only way to save it is to enlist mages who wield the forbidden power of death, mages cast out centuries ago in a brutal and bloody war.

Now, a new war is coming. Science and machines to replace magic and old religion.

They must find a way to save their people from annihilation and balance the sacred Wheel—but first, they will have to balance their own forbidden passion. His peace for her tempest, his restlessness for her calm… 

Night and day, dusk and dawn, the end, and the beginning.    

Exclusive Excerpt: 

“It’s subtle,” he said, “but I get the sense I’ve upset you.” His midnight eyes were bright and wild with energy from his fighting, his face flushed, his breath still quick. He was close enough to touch, and she clasped her hands in front of her. That was the extent of her self-control, and her gaze slid from his fierce expression to his bared torso. Naime had never been so close to a man who wasn’t fully clothed, outside of Ihsan while he was recovering from his burns. 

She had seen men without their caftans, in the fields, at the docks. But this was wholly different. He was different. A warrior, attested to by the hash-work of scars on his golden skin. Naime wondered at them, a thin one across his chest, a thicker, short line over his ribs, and a long, curved one that disappeared into his salvar. The entire expanse of her skin felt as if it were on fire. 

Naime cut her gaze away from his body and caught sight of the Viziers, huddled just outside the walkway that opened into the main courtyard. They were watching the two of them together, expressions pinched with suspicion.

“Do you have clothes?” Naime said, appalled that she’d been so preoccupied ogling him that she hadn’t considered the fact she was lurking in an archway with a half-naked man. 

“I am wearing clothes,” he said. Her gaze whipped to his, and her shame deepened to see the pleased expression on his face. Of course he was aware of her attention, she had been as obvious in her staring as her handmaids had. 

“More clothes.” Naime tried not to sound desperate, but the weak timbre of her voice gave her away.

“I do.” He reached up to swipe a hand across the back of his neck. A shower of sand fell to the stone floor between them and they both peered down. 

“In the future, wear them. And refrain from such inappropriate displays.” Naime managed to find some composure once she wasn’t looking at him.

“What exactly do you consider an inappropriate display, Sultana?” He almost laughed, but it came out as an impatient exhale instead.

“Tamar is a place of restraint and decorum, Agassi. You are more than welcome to spar with the guardsmen as long as Commander Ayan oversees it”—she pointed to Bashir—“and I would expect that you would not humiliate yourself by doing so half-clothed again. Certainly not in front of the Viziers. It will do you no favors in the Council Hall.”

“Humiliate myself,” the Agassi said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“It is offensive.” Naime gestured at him in a lame attempt to indicate his half-clothed state, then at the lingering Viziers. 

“Only in a place full of weak-bodied, self-important pacifists would sword practice count as humiliating. You find me offensive,” he said, “fine. There are few things I find more tiresome than someone who puts too much stock in pageantry and pretense. And you worship at the altar of pretense.” 

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About the Author

J.D. Evans writes science fiction and fantasy romance and is the author of the novel, Reign & Ruin. After earning her degree in linguistics, J.D. served a decade as an army officer. She once spent her hours putting together briefings for helicopter pilots and generals. Now she writes stories, tends to a tiny human, knits, sews badly, gardens, and cultivates Pinterest Fails. After a stint in Beirut, J.D. fell in love with the Levant, which inspired the setting for her debut series, Mages of the Wheel.

J.D. currently resides in Raleigh, North Carolina, though she will always be a Montana girl at heart.

Connect with J.D. Evans: Email | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Spotlight: Lucky Chance Cowboy by Teri Anne Stanley

Genre: Contemporary

Series: Big Chance Dog Rescue #2

At Big Chance Dog Rescue, everyone can find a forever home

Marcus Talbott is a soldier through and through, and he's not going to let an injury keep him from his Army unit. Sure, his last mission nearly broke his back, but that's nothing his positive attitude and work ethic can't fix, right? In the meantime, he's got a place on the board at the Big Chance Dog Rescue, and flirting with his friend's sassy sister, Emma, is a welcome distraction.

Emma Stern is barely scraping by while working and caring for her elderly grandfather, but she's running out of options—and hope. The last thing she has time for is Marcus and his flirting, sexy as he might be. But every time Emma thinks she's reached the end of her rope, Marcus is there to lend a hand. Maybe there's more to the handsome playboy after all…

Excerpt

Marcus’s ridiculous vintage muscle car was parked in its usual spot next to the barn, but he could have gone with Adam.

She thought about calling again, but what would she say? “Hey, I stopped out at the ranch to make sure you weren’t being held hostage by terrorists, but you’re not here”?

No thank you.

She decided she’d say hi to Jake, then head home and fume until it was time to fetch Granddad from day care. Day Club.

A quick movement from the other side of the frosted glass next to the door made her pause. She saw it again…a flash of something light passing by.

And then she heard it. A light thump, followed by more movement. One of the dogs was inside, jumping up and down by the window.

“Hey, who’s that?” Emma asked, squatting to look.

Another thump, and the flash—this time she realized it was a big, light-colored dog.

Adam’s D-Day was black. Lizzie’s dog, Loretta, was white, but would be in the kennels with her pups anyway. The only other option was Patton, Marcus’s big golden retriever, who never barked. Like, ever.

He was also trained to never leave Marcus’s side unless he were dismissed—or if Marcus was injured and in need of help.

All the paranoid fantasies she’d ever had about bad things happening to her family squeezed Emma’s heart and lungs.

“Marcus?” she called, pushing open the unlocked door and stepping into the dim interior of the house.

The dog stood panting and wagging at Emma.

There was no obnoxious eighties hair-band music blasting from the kitchen, no explosions and screams coming from the giant television and game console in the living room. No creaks and groans from an old house giving clues to the whereabouts of its inhabitants.

Patton wagged and nudged her with his head, so she petted him. “Good boy. What’s going on? Where’s Marcus?”

He turned and padded toward the stairs, stopping to make sure she paid attention. Was Marcus upstairs, somehow injured? The band around her chest tightened another notch. She followed Patton, but by the time she reached the top step, a thought occurred to her. What if Marcus wasn’t alone? What if he’d exiled Patton because he had company?

It was quiet in the house, but maybe Marcus and his guest were snuggled down, enjoying some postcoital z’s while everyone else was working their asses off.

Well, she was outside his door now, and she had to be sure he was safe.

On Patton’s heels, she pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom and saw Marcus laid out flat on his back, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly on his hard stomach, eyes closed. He was sacked out so hard he didn’t seem to be breathing.

But Marcus wasn’t dead. He was living, breathing, and very warm, which she knew because she’d somehow made her way to his side.

The room smelled of spicy man and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on…something dangerous.

Since he was sleeping and not winking, smiling, or flirting with her, she gave herself a moment to study him. He was beyond beautiful. His thick, black hair was twisted into little corkscrews that normally bounced and bobbed like an outward extension of his personality. Russet brown skin, large nose, square jaw, and soft-looking, sensual lips that seemed to smile, even in sleep.

Before she knew it, she’d reached out toward him, then stopped, feeling like a creeper.

“Hi.”

“Oh crap!” She jerked her hand back, but not before Marcus took her slim wrist in his big hand.

“It’s okay. I don’t bite,” he murmured, his gaze hooded. “Unless you ask me to.”

A pool of heat formed low in Emma’s belly, chasing away her reason for being there. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, though she didn’t even convince herself.

“I’m glad you did,” he said softly, slowly tugging the hand he held. She didn’t pull away, intoxicated by his scent, the heat in his eyes. When he tugged her hand again, she toppled onto his chest. To escape those half-mast eyes, she looked down at his full, luscious lips, which opened to say, “You can kiss me if you want.”

She wanted. Oh, how she wanted as his hands spanned her waist, then traveled to her hips. There was something unreal about this moment that made her believe she could kiss him, that it would be a good, good thing to kiss this man.

***

Excerpted from Lucky Chance Cowboy by Teri Anne Stanley. © 2020 by Teri Anne Stanley. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

When Teri Anne Stanley isn’t writing sassy, sexy, love stories from her home near Sugartit, Kentucky (which is between Beaver Lick and Rabbit Hash. Seriously), she’s probably doing some sort of arsty-crafsty thing and hanging with Mr. Stanley, her three favorite children, and the dogs. Sometimes she’s masquerading as a day job science geek. She’s definitely not cooking or cleaning.

Connect: http://www.teriannestanley.com/

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Spotlight: The Marseille Millionaire by Kaya Quinsey Holt

Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance

Release Date: January 24th 2020

Summary: Elise Laird has just sold the most expensive home in the history of Ashfield, USA, at $4.2 million dollars. The French multimillionaire whose home she sold is thrilled - so much so that he recommends her to a fellow French friend. And when Luc Dubonier steps off of his private jet with the intention of investing in some of Ashfield's best properties, Elise is shocked to find that the successful tycoon is single.

At least, until she gets to know him. In a series of blunders, Elise learns that Luc may be tough in business, but couldn't imagine anyone's personal life being more of a mess. After she impresses him with her sales pitches, Luc asks her to do one more sale for him - his $88 million home in Marseille, France.

When Elise arrives in France, she learns that there is more to the house, and Luc, than meets the eye. If she sells the house, the commission check will be more than her lifetime salaries combined. But after learning why he is selling it, Elise finds herself conflicted, wanting to convince Luc to keep it. Will Elise choose between her bank account or her heart? And while selling million dollar homes, will Elise cash in her chance at love?

Excerpt

“Welcome to Marseille,” Luc said as he walked over, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek. It would take her a while to get used to that custom, she thought, as she suppressed the urge to give him a big hug. 

            She beamed back at him in response, taking in his bright expression. “It’s good to be here,” she said, and she meant it. Their eyes locked and her legs felt like they were about to melt beneath her right there in that lobby. She looked away and pushed an errand stand of hair behind her ear.

            He stepped back a moment to survey her. “You look good here,” he declared.

            Elise felt herself flush and laughed. It came out more high pitched than she had intended. “Where? In this lobby? In Marseille?”

            He shook his head. “Both, I suppose.” Elise smiled and jutted out her hip with a playful wink. She couldn’t believe the confidence that had washed over her. She felt good. “Well, I suppose I wanted to come over and see that you arrived all right. You know, Marseille isn’t the safest city. So I wanted to make sure you were, you know, all right.”

            Elise’s heart thudded in her chest. Before she could reply, the concierge came over again. “And MadameLaird, would you like your birthday champagne sent up now or later?”

            Elise’s eyes widened. Birthday champagne? She opened her mouth to reply, before realizing this must be a gift from Joe and the team at Cotherington Realty. They were the only ones apart from Rose who knew where she was staying and her birthday. 

            “Later is fine,” she said, trying to brush it aside. “Merci.”

            Luc’s eyes widened. “Ah, it is your birthday?”

            Elise nodded, averting her gaze to a modern art piece nearby. She hated celebrating her birthday. Today had been perfect. Low-key, some shopping, the end.

            But Luc continued. “Well, we must celebrate. You have plans tonight, or non?”

            “No, but—”

            “Ah, ah, ah,” Luc held up his hands, as if to signal he had won. “I won’t take no for an answer. Luckily, you are staying at my favorite hotel in Marseille, which has one of the best restaurants. Three Michelin-stars, too,” he added with a wink.

            Elise flushed. Okay, so her arm wouldn’t need to be twisted too much to go out for a dinner with Luc Dubonier. Especially when the words ‘Michelin’ and ‘star’ were included.   “Okay,” she finally agreed with a smile. She and Rose had wanted to go to a three-star Michelin restaurant since, well, forever. 

            As Luc reserved a table for them later that evening, Elise’s entire body tingled. Was this it? A do-over to their disastrous-ending first and only date? If it had even been a date. She was still unclear where they stood with one another. 

            When Luc turned to her and announced he had made them reservations for seven o’clock that evening, his face was telling. “I’ll see you tonight,” he added with another wink. Elise smiled. Suddenly her birthday seemed like the best day in the world.

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About the Author

Kaya Quinsey Holt is the author of three romantic comedies. She holds her undergraduate and master’s degree in psychology. Her first novel, Paris Mends Broken Hearts, was released in April 2018. Since then, her books have sold in seven countries. They have been translated into multiple languages and been formatted into audiobooks. Kaya’s passion for culture, travel, and psychology intertwine for books that are romantic and full of surprises.

When she's not typing away, Kaya loves chatting with friends over a glass of wine, playing with her fluffy Pomeranian Shih Tzu puppy, spending time with her family, attempting to learn a new a new language, and indulging in one too many cups of coffee. Always planning her next trip and adventure, Kaya's favorite places are usually somewhere near a beach. She lives in Toronto with her husband.

Connect:

Website: http://www.kayaquinsey.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17925781.Kaya_Quinsey_Holt

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kayaquinseyholt

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kayaquinseyholt/

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Kaya-Quinsey/e/B07CBR7JJL/

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Spotlight: The Mail Order Bride's Secret by Linda Broday

Publication Date: 1/28/2020

Genre: Historical Western

Series: Outlaw Mail Order Brides #3

When the West was wild and man's law favored the few, these extraordinary women could be found…in the heart of an outlaw.

When three young children show up on outlaw Tait Trinity's doorstep, he knows he can't help them—a wanted man has no business raising kids. And yet he can't bring himself to turn them away. At a loss, he sends for the mail order bride he'd been writing to, hoping the demure dressmaker will be the answer to his prayers.

Melanie Dunbar is nothing like the bride Tait was expecting. She's rough and tumble…and hiding an ulterior motive. Dangerous men have taken her sister hostage, and if Melanie wants to see her alive, she'll have to betray her new husband. There's only one problem—the more time she spends with Tait, the more she comes to care for him. Yet as the noose begins to tighten, Melanie will have to make a terrible choice: save her sister…or the man she loves.

Excerpt:

Melanie took in the small town, awash in the dying, plum-colored light, and at first glance found it welcoming. Then she turned her attention to the man, this outlaw she’d corresponded with for the past month. Had manipulating Luke Legend been worth it? On the outside, Tait Trinity appeared every bit the lethal outlaw she’d once glimpsed aboard the train he was robbing. He’d had a bandana covering his face then, of course, but she’d never forget those eyes—hard and gray, like chips of ice.

What kind of a husband would he be? Only time would tell.

She took in his tall, lean figure, the long hair that touched his shoulders, and lingered a second longer than necessary on those gray eyes that now reminded her of quicksilver in the fading light. He was a squinter, as evidenced by the crinkles around the corners of his eyes, and at the moment his eyes lacked the hardness she saw too often in men living on the lawless frontier. Yet, like quicksilver, she thought they might change very abruptly under certain situations.

Tait Trinity could buy her ticket to freedom. She took in the heavy gun he wore in the holster strapped around his lean hips.

Suddenly her confidence slipped a notch. It had been one thing to talk about what she had to do. It was quite another coming face-to-face with the man whose life she meant to destroy. He wasn’t some dumb hayseed—he was a killer.

Her pulse raced and her palms sweated under Tait’s piercing gaze that seemed to notice every detail about her.

One of the boys jostled Tait’s elbow, and, shaking herself, she focused on the children. He hadn’t mentioned having children to raise. This would complicate things. She knew nothing about the care of children, and they were noisy and cried at the drop of a hat. Frankly, kids scared her, and she’d avoided any contact with youngsters as a grown woman.

Before she could open her mouth, Tait put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders, drew them forward, then lifted the small girl into his arms. “Miss Dunbar, meet my niece and nephews. The boys are Joe and Jesse, and this little one is Becky.”

Only his kin. Melanie relaxed. They must live in Hope’s Crossing with their parents.

She smiled. “Hello. It’s really nice to meet you.”

Tait captured her gaze and held it longer than was needed before he lifted the corner of his mouth in a sudden, crooked grin that almost vanished before she saw it. “I’m the children’s guardian. Their parents were killed, leaving them with no one. I should’ve let you know before you came all this way, but frankly I’ve been a tad busy adjusting to this arrangement myself.”

“I see. We need to talk, Mr. Trinity.”

Tait scowled and glanced around, motioning to two women. He spoke in a low voice to them, after which the women collected the children and moved off toward a row of houses. He picked up Melanie’s heavy bags as though they weighed nothing. “Come with me to the hotel, Miss Dunbar.”

She nodded and fell into step with him. They didn’t stop until they reached a comfortable office in the Diamond Bessie Hotel. “We can borrow this room.” Tait removed his hat, laid it on a table, and closed the door. Streaks of blond shot through his caramel hair. No one had told her how handsome he was.

Painfully aware of his scrutiny, she swung to glance at the room, admiring the blue velvet sofa, chairs, and pretty wallpaper. “It’s nice.”

“I didn’t mean to mislead you, and I’m sorry if you feel that way.” He paced in front of a large desk that had a painting of a snow-covered pasture behind it. “Have a seat.”

Melanie removed her bonnet, but instead of sitting, she wandered to the window and pushed the thin curtain aside. “I wish I had known before I made the trip. I didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid. This changes things.”

Tait dropped into the chair behind the desk and let out a heavy breath. “What’s the problem? Don’t you like kids?”

“It’s not that. I’ve never been around children and know nothing about their care.” She let the curtain fall back into place and got comfortable on the sofa. She stared directly at him and gave him a warm smile as though they were discussing the weather. “I will not be a nanny, a maid, a cook, or a laundress, although I’ll do my fair share.”

Confusion crossed his face. “So, what are you saying exactly?”

“I came to be your wife, not to have you pawn your niece and nephews off on me and go your merry way. I’ve heard stories of widowers who advertised for brides with nothing more in mind than to dump a bunch of kids on them and take off for good.” She removed her gloves. “If you intend that, then our business is concluded, and I’ll leave on the next stage.”

“Hold on a minute, missy. That was not my intention.” He paused, and the guilt in his expression told her that had been exactly why he’d sent for her. He straightened from his slouch. “Okay, maybe that might’ve been the reason I telegraphed you a week ago, but the situation has gotten better. What if the two of us work together as a team? We’d bear the load fifty-fifty.”

Melanie narrowed her gaze at him. “You won’t ride out at the first opportunity and stay gone for months at a time, leaving me stuck here with the children?”

“I give my word.” He rose and perched on the corner of the walnut desk, rolling his neck. There was something he still wasn’t saying. She waited. Tait cracked his knuckles. “What I have to tell you next may be the deal breaker.”

***

Excerpted from Mail Order Bride’s Secret by Linda Broday. © 2020 by Linda Broday. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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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.

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Cover Reveal: Once in a Blood Moon by Dorothea Hubble Bonneau

Heaven’s Hill Plantation, upriver from Georgetown, South Carolina,1807: Sixteen-year-old Alexandra Degambia is the daughter of a wealthy African-American planter and a social-climbing mother who can pass for white. Balancing on the tightrope between girlhood and the complicated adult world is a treacherous undertaking. One misstep could ruin a young woman’s prospects forever.

Alexandra yearns to establish her own place in the world as an accomplished violinist. She assumes her talent and her family’s wealth will pave her way to success—however, her life becomes a nightmare when her mother dies and her father is murdered by bigoted officials eager to seize the plantation for their own.

Alexandra and her little brother, Jimi, heirs to Heaven’s Hill, have targets on their backs. They are forced to flee for their lives.

What the future holds is uncertain. Sometimes fate has its own plans.

About the Author

Dorothea Hubble Bonneau is an award winning author, optioned screenwriter, and published playwright.

dorotheabonneau.com