Spotlight: One-of-a-Kind Bride by Charlene Sands

It's a promise she plans to keep at all costs.

Taylor Preston never breaks a promise, especially to her dying mother about following her dreams to become a successful New York bridal gown designer. But when Taylor unexpectedly loses her high-profile job, she returns early to Last Stand, Texas where she happily spent childhood summers, to help with her cousin’s wedding. On Taylor’s first day back, the boy she left behind twelve years ago comes to her rescue and her sleeping heart inconveniently reawakens.          

All during their youth, Ryan “Coop” Cooper played Taylor’s “promise game,” and they never once broke a promise to each other, but that was years ago, and Coop, now an established contractor, isn’t the same person. Building a wedding gift she-shed brings Coop closer to Taylor. They recall their promises – silly and solemn – and realize the spark could easily once again flame.

But Taylor’s life is in New York, and Coop, a single father, won’t risk his heart or his daughter’s again…

Excerpt

A Kiss from the past…

His charming grin disabled her and she sat down beside him. She placed a coffee cup in front of him and took one for herself.  “Well then, I have confession to make too,” he said. “I saw Julie leave just a minute ago. I came in here…to see you.”

She didn’t know how she felt about that, but her heart began to pound.  And not just a little bit.  “Well, that’s honest.”

“I always try to be.”

 “And why all this honesty?”

“Maybe because I smelled the muffins baking and it sort of lured me in.”

“Good try.  But I baked these yesterday.  Last I checked, you can’t smell day old muffins.”

He gave her an innocent look. “No?”

She shook her head and smiled.  

“So maybe, I came in here to check on you.”  He leaned in real close, until she could see the ocean blue rim around his eyes. He braced his elbow on the table and with two fingers, brushed several strands of hair away from her face.  He did this ever so gently, his touch careful and precise. As he took in her bruise, his eyes narrowed to fine slits as if he were in pain.  “Nasty.”

“It looks awful, but it’s healing.”

“Does it still hurt?” 

“No.  Not really.”  

He released a breath. “That’s good.” 

He gazed into her eyes and lingered there. He held her mesmerized, so much emotion passing between them, so much desire.  It was raw and scary and unexpected.  And when he leaned in closer, his fingers in her hair, and glanced at her mouth she couldn’t move away, couldn’t stop what was happening. He held her face carefully, his thumb circling her cheek.  And then, his lips were on hers, softly, gently, the scent of sugar and coffee mingling between them.  

It was a kiss from the past, a kiss with no future, but yet she didn’t have the willpower to stop it, to put a halt to this craziness.  

But Coop did.  He ended the kiss and backed away, holding her gaze. “I…I shouldn’t have done that.” 

His remorse put an ache in her heart.  Was he remembering his dead wife?  Was it guilt that pulled him away?  And if she was so against letting him in again, why was she disappointed?  “And yet you did.”

He shrugged. “I was worried about you.”

“Is that all it was?”

“Isn’t that enough, Taylor?”  His voice elevated. 

“What do you mean?”

He scratched his head, his face twisting. “Oh wait, I almost forgot, this place was never enough for you.  I was never enough for you, was I?  Never mind. Don’t answer that, I already know.”

His chair scrapped back, the noise echoing against the kitchen walls and then he was up, grabbing the tray for his crew.  “Don’t get up, I’ll bring this to the guys.” 

She rose in spite of his command.  “Coop?  Exactly who are you mad at?  Me or yourself?” 

 He opened his mouth ready to let her have it, but then he clamped it shut and appeared thrown off a bit, as if he was confused.  He shut his eyes for a second, shook his head and then walked off, leaving her standing there, stung by his kiss and his parting words.  

She’d broken his heart, and he still resented her.  And to add insult to injury, he probably felt terrible pangs of guilt about his wife. 

Maybe he was mad at both of them. 

And maybe, just maybe, she was mad at herself as well.  

For enjoying that kiss a little too much.  

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About the Author

Charlene Sands is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary and western romance. She's been honored with the National Readers Choice Award, twice recipient of the Booksellers Best Award and RT Magazine's Best Harlequin Desire of 2014!    Charlene knows a little something about romance. After daydreaming about the cute boy with the long blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes two lockers down from her in high school, to her amazement he asked her out on a date. And he's been continually amazing her for the past forty years. Charlene's perfect day includes reading, drinking mocha Cappuccinos over ice, walking the Pacific beaches with her hubby or playing with her four adorable granddaughters.  She loves hearing from her readers. You can reach her at www.charlenesands.com or at www.facebook.com/charlenesandsbooks or Twitter. 

Connect:

Site: www.charlenesands.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/charlenesandsbooks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CharleneSands

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Giveaway

One-of-a-Kind Bride Prize Pack including the following items:

• Brighton Bangle

• Brighton Jewelry Bag

• Tule Bookbag

• Body Lotion

• Notepad

• $10 Amazon Gift Card 

Open to US shipping ONLY.

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Spotlight: Flowers on her Grave by Jennifer Chase

On the floor, amongst the piles of freshly pressed laundry, lay the woman’s lifeless body, her pale yellow nightdress soaked in blood. “I didn’t do it…” came a whisper from the corner of the room.

Detective Katie Scott has never seen two people more in love than her aunt and uncle as they danced on the decking the night of their wedding anniversary party. But the next morning, when Katie finds her aunt’s body sprawled across the floor, that perfect image is shattered forever. All fingers point to Katie’s uncle, Pine Valley’s beloved sheriff and protector – after all, his prints are all over the antique knife found at the scene. Grieving, but certain of her uncle’s innocence, Katie is consigned to the cold case division after she’s discovered searching the house for clues. Does someone want to keep her as far away from this investigation as possible?

Ignoring warnings from her team, Katie digs into her uncle’s old case files and discovers photographs of the body of a young girl found tied to a tree after a hike in search of a rare flower. Her body is covered with the same unusual lacerations her aunt suffered. Katie knows it can’t be a coincidence, but every lead she follows takes her to a dead end.

Moments before the sheriff is arrested, Katie realizes that a single piece of thread she found at the crime scene could be the missing link that will stitch old crimes to new. But how can she prove her uncle’s innocence without throwing herself directly into the line of fire? She doesn’t have a choice, he’s the only family she has left…

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Stepping from the main hiking trail, the park ranger took a moment in the shade to catch his breath and stomp the caked dirt from his hiking boots before beginning his search of the camping ground. Just as he was finishing the last dregs of his water, the static from his walkie-talkie interrupted the quiet of the forest around him.

“Rob, are you there yet? Over.”

Pressing the button, he replied. “Just got here. Over.”

“See anything? Over.”

Looking around the campsite, he saw a pot with remnants of soup, two bottles of water, and a blue tent. Everything looked normal, until he saw some blue shreds of fabric tangled in the low-lying bushes. Curious, he walked over to them, leaned down, and pulled one of the long pieces of fabric out of the brush between his fingers. Something dark spattered the end of the fabric.

“Rob? You there? Over,” headquarters asked again.

“I’ll get back to you. Over,” he said securing the walkie-talkie to his belt.

“10-4. Over and out.” And then the radio went quiet.

Rob turned, searching the nearby area. “Hello?” he called out. “Hello?” he said again—this time louder. “Cynthia? Cynthia Andrews?”

No response.

Rob scanned every tree and bush within the vicinity, but there was no sign of the missing grad student. Perhaps the girl’s family was right to be concerned that she hadn’t contacted them in several days.

He let out a sigh and watched as a light breeze swirled dust clouds on the dry earth in the distance. And that’s when he saw it. The shredded remains of a tent. His first thought was a bear attack, but few inhabited this area. His hand twitched at the gun in his holster, readying himself for what, or who, he was about to encounter as he approached.

Camping gear was scattered around the area: a large canteen lying on its side; two extra gallons of water; several packets of freeze-dried foods; a small skillet and a boiling pot. Ten feet away there was an open journal lying next to a pink hoodie. He pulled out a small digital camera and took several photos to see if Cynthia’s family recognized anything as hers—if it came to that. He’d watched enough forensic shows to understand documentation was extremely important for any type of search or investigation.

Reaching for the sweatshirt he flipped it over to find one of the sleeves stained with dark blood, almost brown in color. He dropped the garment on the ground in horror as the forest closed in and a flock of birds burst from the trees above him.

Eyes darting, he noticed large heavy footprints moving north accompanied by a set of smaller, barefoot prints heading in the same direction, as one followed the other—or chased.

He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and down his arms as he followed the trail through clustered pine trees. Deep into the woodland the footprints disappeared, replaced by divots and drag marks, the obvious signs of a struggle in the dirt.

Where did they go?

The wind, picking up, whipped and whispered through the trees forcing a shower of pine needles and cones to drop around him. He spied an area where small branches had been broken and followed the trail into a clearing where he was surprised to find ropes tied around a large tree trunk in unusual knots.

Slowly, filled with dread, he walked around the tree.

What he saw on the other side would be burned into his memory forever, he thought. The excessive violence. The horrifying, gaping wounds. The terror in her glassy eyes. It took every ounce of strength he had to take in the devastating scene before him.

The young woman, barely clothed in a workout t-shirt that read “No Pain, No Gain” and a pair of panties, had been bound to the tree with ropes across her chest, hips, and thighs. Her arms were fixed above her head, which now flopped forward limply. In between the restraints were wounds, huge slices down each side of her stomach, allowing her intestines to spill out. It was unclear if the wounds were caused by her killer or wild animals. Chunks of her thighs and calves were missing.

Rob stepped back as her hair stirred in the wind and stuck against her face, caught in her slightly open mouth. He ran back to the original base camp and fumbled for his radio. “Dispatch, we need the police up at the first camp area from Dodge Ridge as soon as possible. We have… there’s a…” he couldn’t find the words. He cleared his throat and tried it again, “Dispatch, we have a dead body.”

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About the Author

Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning and best-selling crime fiction author, as well as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master's degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent psychopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling.  She is an affiliate member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists, and member of the International Thriller Writers. 

Connect:

Website: https://authorjenniferchase.com/ 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JChaseNovelist 

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Spotlight: Who Will Save Your Soul by Skye Warren

Who Will Save Your Soul: And Other Dangerous Bedtime Stories
Skye Warren
Publication date: April 14th 2020
Genres: Adult, Romance

Features four novellas by New York Times bestselling author Skye Warren. Each standalone story ends in a happily ever after.

WHO WILL SAVE YOUR SOUL
Emily’s a pathological liar. When her life is at stake, will anyone believe her?

MAFIA CINDERELLA
One dress. One dance. Lucia has one chance to change her life—and the lives of her family.

BEDTIME STORY
Jessica is on the run when her car breaks down. A small town sheriff can’t be her knight in shining armor.

HEAVY EQUIPMENT
Cold. Rough. Merciless. The foreman of the construction crew is going to make her pay every last cent.

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—

EXCERPT:

“What are you doing here?” I sputter.

He lifts a crystal tumbler, one finger of some no-doubt expense liquor at the bottom. “Having a drink. You said the kitchen was off limits, but I was thirsty. Hope this is okay.”

His twinkling dark eyes tell me he knows it’s not okay.

Challenge lights the air between us, electric and hot. Part of me wants to pick up the phone on the side table and call mother. The second she knows he’s stomped all over her oriental rugs with his muddy work boots, he’s fired.

That would be a cheap win, though. Too easy. Too banal. Besides, I like the thought of him stomping all over her oriental rugs with his muddy work boots.

“Of course,” I say, sarcasm sharpening my words. “We always offer gardeners top shelf vodka.”

He merely lifts a dark eyebrow. How is it possible for eyebrows to look low class? His do. They’re a mess, broad and unruly. I want to run my tongue over them, smooth them out.

“Do you always show up half-dressed for them, too?” he asks in a musing tone. “Because that’s a real perk. They should put that in their classified ad.”

My cheeks burn hot as I realize how little I’m wearing. The bath towel covers from the slope of my breasts to the tops of my thighs. It’s held together by so little—only the tuck of terry cloth. If it came undone right now I’d be naked in front of him.

“Tell me your name,” I demand, lifting my chin.

“So you can tell your mother about me?”

“Maybe I will.”

“And if I tell her that you came downstairs in only a towel? That you tried to have sex with me? That you were the one who drank half the bottle of scotch?”

My mouth drops open. “That’s a lie.”

“Does that surprise you? That other people lie, too?” He must see the shock on my face; his smile is smile and smug. “Yes, I know about you. Poor little Emily Coulter, can’t tell the truth to save her life.”

A knot around my throat, pulled taut by thick dirt-stained fingers. “How would you know that?” That’s my family’s dirty little secret, but not the worst one. Not by far.

“I know lots of things.”

“And anyway, why are you back already? It’s only been three days. The hedges don’t need to be trimmed every damn day.”

His smile comes slow. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”

There’s something strange about him, something a little dangerous.

Unfortunately that only makes me like him more.

Author Bio:

Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance. Her books have sold over one million copies. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.

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Cover Reveal: The Silent Daughter by Claire Amarti

The Silent Daughter
Claire Amarti
Publication date: May 7th 2020
Genres: Adult, Psychological, Suspense

Schoolgirl missing, the ticker reads, and the camera cuts to a girl’s face. Blonde hair waterfalling over her shoulders, serious eyes, lips a little parted like she’s about to speak. That’s when I realize I’ve been holding my breath, because the gasp when I inhale almost chokes me.

Sadie Kelly has lost her job. Until last month, she was a teacher at Horton College – the same high school she went to ten years ago along with her best friend, Fiona. But Fiona died in an accident on their graduation night, in circumstances Sadie’s spent the last ten years trying to forget, and since then nothing’s been the same.

Now Sadie’s back where she grew up, jobless, and living temporarily with Fiona’s mother. But when she hears that Devon Hundley, a Horton schoolgirl, has gone missing, everything changes. Devon’s the daughter of Philip Hundley, a man Sadie knows all too well, and Sadie can’t stop thinking about the last time she saw Devon. It was the day Sadie left Horton for good, and heard Devon murmur four little words as she walked away. Four words Sadie prayed she had misheard:

I know your secret.

A gripping page-turner for fans of Kerry Lonsdale, Diane Chamberlain, and Liane Moriarty.

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Author Bio:

I’m an author who writes suspense stories about ordinary women – women like the ones we all know and love – who find out that their ordinary lives may not be quite so ordinary after all! My hope is that you will root for them, fear for them, and find yourself holding your breath when the action starts to get a little hairy!

When I’m not doing writing, I can be found strolling the streets of Brooklyn, New York City, my adopted home, dodging pigeons and traffic. I moved here a little over eight years ago – I hail from Ireland originally – and never looked back. To me there’s nothing more wonderful than that feeling of finding – or making! – a new home, that mixture of excitement at finding a place in the world, and the comfort of being able to come back to it time and again. That’s what reading feels like for me… and for you too I suspect! It’s also the same joy I get from writing. I hope my books can become a kind of home for you too: a place where you can trust that you’ll find a wonderful adventure, and then land safe and sound at the end of it all, ready to do it all again another day!

Website

Spotlight: Attraction by Ruby Porter

Genre: Women’s Fiction 

The present reckons with the past in Attraction, Ruby Porter’s atmospheric debut novel.

Three women are on a road trip, navigating the motorways of the North Island, their relationships with one another and New Zealand’s colonial history. Our narrator doesn’t know where she stands with Ilana, her not-quite girlfriend. She has a complex history with her best friend, Ashi. She’s haunted by the memory of her emotionally abusive ex-boyfriend. And her period’s now weeks late.

Attraction is a meditative novel of connection, inheritance and the stories we tell ourselves. In lyrical fragments, Porter explores what it means to be and to belong, to create and to destroy.

Excerpt

That kind of drowning feeling. The air is all around your face, if you could only breathe it. Ilana said, —The first breath you take again always hurts.

She is an experienced drowner and I am just starting out.

—This wave, she says. Yelling, —Come, no, here by me.

She gets it right. Knows exactly where to stand for the wave to pick her up and throw her. Carry her. She can surf some right back to the shallows. I keep getting hurled below. See the Gisborne sun rippling through all that green. And I’m not sure whether I’ve opened my eyes underwater, or if I never had a chance to shut them.

Ilana grabs my arm but I duck when the wave comes.

Then she tells me about the first time, when she was seven.

Her mum’s dinghy capsized and whenever she came up for breath she hit the hull instead. She says the sea was holding her down, not ready to let her go. And then it turned and it pushed her up, shot her face first, full of air. She’s the one who keeps pulling me up today.

When I look at her, I think: the ocean will never again be so in place. It shudders and slurps and turns—no two molecules will be together for long. No two molecules will find each other again. Or at least, it’s unlikely.

Then Ashi joins us.

Ashi doesn’t catch as many waves as Ilana, but she catches some. I keep surfacing to see them tumbling into the spray together. Sometimes, Ilana puts her hand on Ashi’s arm as they wade back out deep.

—What is it? Ilana says to me.

Water is furling itself on the horizon, creeping forward.

—Stay here, she says. —It’s a big one.

I’m sucked in before it’s even broken. This time I can hardly see. The ocean floor has been tossed into the wave—I blend with the sand and the seaweed and the dappled sun. Then I feel the break, and know I’m being pushed deeper.

For me it isn’t slowed down, like Ilana said, but sped up. A flash of light, greeny brown, something above the surface. The whir. The spin. The sea gasping, in and out, one giant lung that expands and compresses. When you’re beneath it, the ocean is the only thing that breathes.

Get Your Copy Today: 

Amazon | B&N | Kobo | Text Publishing | Mightyape | The Nile | Fishpond | Book Depository | Booktopia 

About Ruby Porter: 

Ruby Porter is a prose-writer, poet and artist. She tutors creative writing at universities and high schools. Ruby was the winner of the Wallace Foundation Short Fiction Award in 2017, and the inaugural winner of the Michael Gifkins Prize in 2018, with her debut novel Attraction. Attraction was written during her Masters of Creative Writing at the University of Auckland under supervisor Paula Morris, and published in May by Melbourne-based Text Publishing. It is distributed throughout Australia and New Zealand.

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Spotlight: Someone To Kiss My Scars by Brooke Skipstone

Publication date: October 17th 2019
Genres: Thriller, Young Adult

Synopsis:

Hunter needs to remember. Jazz needs to forget. They need each other to heal in this teen thriller of survivor love.

Hunter’s past is a mystery to him, erased by a doctor at the direction of his father. But memories of the secret trauma begin to surface when Hunter sees other people’s memories–visions invading his mind with stories of abuse, teen self-mutilation, rape, and forbidden sex.

His best friend Jazz has dark and disturbing memories of her own that she hides behind her sass and wit. Hunter discovers he can rescue the victims, even though he risks adding their suffering to his own.

Hunter and Jazz kiss each other’s scars and form a bond of empathy no two teens should ever need.

Excerpt

Chapter Four

Jazz waited for Hunter inside the front doors of the K - 12 school, home to 150 students from the small town of Clear Creek and ten miles in either direction on the nearby highway. Her big boots stomped on the metal grating just inside the door as she paced, wondering what was keeping him. Her flatworms had regenerated their heads and tails and still remembered what she had taught them prior to decapitation. Memory can exist outside the brain! How cool was that? She couldn’t wait to tell him.

“Girl, you need to get to class,” said Patty, the secretary, in her loud, thick drawl. She was a large woman with a big smile, born in Texas, who lined her eyes in dark blue, wore big hoop earrings and gaudy silver necklaces. Today she wore jeans, boots, and a bright yellow top with white fringe and turquoise pieces sewn into the fabric. She loved the kids, and most loved her back, including Jazz.

“I need to show something to Hunter. It’s so cool!”

“Mr. Roberts approved you being out of his class?”

“He knows. He said it was OK.” 

She had advanced to the state science fair a month ago and now wanted desperately to go to the international fair next year, her last chance before graduation. Maybe she could win a scholarship or some money for college. Mr. Roberts, her science teacher, had given her a corner of the school lab to run her experiments even through the summer. She’d been hired as extra maintenance help at the school, so she would have access to the building through August.

Jazz straightened up and put her hands on the glass door as she saw his truck roll into the parking lot.

Jazz watched Hunter park his truck and run toward the front door. As usual he looked flustered and a little clumsy when he ran, but God was he cute! She loved his long, floppy hair, his thick eyebrows over his dark brown eyes. And his mouth was gorgeous—so full and soft. He was the only guy in school who didn’t think she was weird for loving science and who smiled at her like he meant it. He was her only real friend. Before he came in August, the only people who cared about her were the teachers and Patty.

Just as he reached for the entry bell, Jazz pushed the front door open.

“Hey, Hunter!” She knew from the heat she felt in her cheeks she was blushing behind her big smile.

“Hey, Jazz. Sorry I’m late. I know you wanted me here early.”

“It’s OK. I have something to show you.” She grabbed his arm.

“I’ve got to get to class,” he said, panting.

“Patty said she’d give you a pass. C’mon!” Jazz pulled him down the hallway.

“I said no such thing!” yelled Patty as the two kids ran past her.

“You know you will!” shouted Jazz over her shoulder.

Jazz dragged him down the hall to the science wing, opened the lab door, and walked to the far side of the room near the fume hood and a short lab table against the wall—her domain. One of the fluorescent tubes flickered on the ceiling. She looked up and shook her head. “That won’t do. Can’t have another variable in here. I’ll talk to Mr. Roberts later to have this fixed.”

She carefully removed a cover from a small shelving unit to reveal a series of petri dishes containing small brown worms. “Ta da!” said Jazz.

Each dish lay inside colored tape strips, labeled with names and dates. A clipboard with the color-code key hung from a hook.

Hunter bent closer. “Worms? Did you make them?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Kinda. I trained them with food and bright lights until they remembered what to do in different environments to find their food. So if those memories were stored in their brain, which is similar to ours, you would think that if their heads were amputated, the new regenerated brain wouldn’t remember their training. But they did!” She threw out her hands in excitement.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! As a group they didn’t do quite as well as the trained, uncut controls, which were not decapitated, but the ones that regrew their heads did as well as those which regrew their tails. And both groups of regenerated worms found their food faster than an untrained group. ”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning memory is not confined to their brains!” She lifted up onto her toes and felt warmth radiating throughout her body. “If it were, the ones that grew new brains wouldn’t remember the training. Don’t you see? So many people think memories are stored in the brain, but they may be stored in other parts of the body or outside it.” 

“At least in worms. What about in humans?”

“Could be the same. I haven’t figured out an experiment for them yet.” She moved closer and straightened the collar on his shirt. “But I’m looking for volunteers to help me.” She touched his nose with her finger. “How about you?”

“Sure. Unless you plan to chop something off me.”

She moved closer, enjoying the tease, locking her eyes onto his. “First, I train you, then I chop.” She picked up a ruler off a table next to her and slapped it into her hand. “Do you respond better to punishment or reward?” She walked toward him, shaking the ruler. “I used bright lights and raw liver on the worms.”

He backed away, chuckling. “So which one of those is the reward?”

“The liver, obviously. But for you . . .” She thought of so many things she wouldn’t dare say to him. “How about fresh chocolate chip cookies after school? I could come by your place.”

“Cool. I’d like that.”

He was so much fun. “When are you going to show me more stories about the Tremarians? I haven’t read any for a while.”

A pained look crossed his face. “I had to start writing something else.”

“You had  to? Why?”

“I’ll explain later. How about when you bring the cookies?”

“OK.” She noticed his frown and felt a chill. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Well, not really.”

“What’s wrong?” She almost reached out for his hand, but pulled back and clasped her hands against her chest.

“I realized this morning I never asked you about the things you didn’t want to remember. When we first talked. In the gym months ago. I told you I wanted to remember my past, and you said there were things you wanted to forget. What are they? And I’m sorry for not asking you before now.”

She felt her eyes widen and her heart race. How could you remember that?  “So many things, Hunter, but none of them involve you.” 

His shoulders slumped. 

Jazz felt a rush of fear. Had she offended him? “What made you think of that now? I mean, I love that you care enough to ask, but what brought that up?”

Hunter bit his lip and frowned. “I haven’t had much sleep. I tried to find something from my past in my dad’s room, but the few things I found meant nothing to me. And I think he’s lying to me about . . . why we came here.” His chin quivered.

She moved closer to him, unable this time to resist, and reached for his hands. He tensed, causing her to pause. “Do you mind?”

“No.”

She held both of his hands and felt them quivering within her own. “I’m your friend, Hunter. Something’s going on with you, and I want to help.” She looked into his brown eyes and saw them twitch. “Why don’t you come to my house for lunch today? I’ve got some leftover spaghetti and meatballs.”

He looked at their hands touching and smiled slightly. “That would be great. I forgot to bring anything to eat today. Lucky this school allows us to go home for lunch.”

“Good.” She squeezed his hands then let them go. “You better get to class.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He turned to leave and opened the door then looked back. “So what’s the brain for if not to store memories?”

“It’s a receiver and transmitter, like a TV set. A signal comes in, and a movie memory plays in your head.”

His eyes widened as he just stared at her with his mouth open. 

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah. Gotta go.” He left the room.

She thought he would be excited or awed about her conclusion, but he seemed terrified. Why did he have  to write something else? Something was going on inside Hunter’s head. She’d sensed it since they first met. He said he couldn’t remember his past, yet he often seemed haunted.

She knew what nightmares the past could bring.

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About the Author

Brooke Skipstone lives in Alaska, where she watches the mountains change colors with the seasons from her balcony. Where she feels the constant rush toward winter as the sunlight wanes for six months of the year, seven minutes each day, bringing crushing cold that lingers even as the sun climbs again. Where the burst of life during summer is urgent under twenty-four-hour daylight, lush and decadent. Where fish swim hundreds of miles up rivers past bear claws and nets and wheels and lines of rubber-clad combat fishers, arriving humped and ragged, dying as they spawn. Where danger from the land and its animals exhilarates the senses, forcing her to appreciate the difference between life and death. Where the edge between is sometimes too alluring. Visit www.brookeskipstone.com

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