Spotlight: Want Me Always by Lea Nolan

Genre: Contemporary Romance 

Her mind says no…

Wren Donovan’s done with love. Betrayed and humiliated by her ex-fiancé, she retreats to her family’s beach house on Heron Harbor Island to lick her wounds and gorge herself on ice cream, spray cheese, and a box of glazed donuts. Wren vows to devote herself to her law career and swears off men forever, but she isn’t prepared for what being reunited with her oldest friend makes her feel…

His heart says yes, please…

Smith Connors can’t believe his eyes when Wren walks into his restaurant. He’s loved her since they were kids, when summertime found them inseparable best friends. As a boy, he’d never felt good enough for Wren. But now he’s a rising-star chef with a thriving business who knows what he wants—which means he’s not letting beautiful, brilliant Wren get away again. 

Smith determines to show Wren how good they could be together, and soon neither of them can resist the heat growing between them. He’d do anything to earn her faith—and her heart, if only she could learn to trust again.

Exclusive Excerpt: 

He was trying to tease her. And dammit, it was working.

It wasn't fair. Wren had admitted her attraction and Smith was using it against her. It was time to turn the tables.

They put the finishing touches on the last wall, then turned to face each other.

"You've got a little paint." Smith pointed to a small white dot on her T-shirt that she already knew was there.

"Well, you've got a lot of paint." Wren swiped her still wet brush across his broad chest.

His eyelids stretched wide. "Did you really just do that?"

She nodded. "Uh huh. And guess what? I'm going to do it again." Wren swung the brush in the opposite direction, drawing a giant white X across his black T-shirt.

Smith's jaw dropped as he stared at his chest. "This is one of my favorite shirts."

Oops. That might have been a mistake. Nervous laughter bubbled up her throat. "Sorry?"

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Oh, it's on now." With a devilish glint in his eyes, he bent and scooped a handful of paint from the tray, then hurled it at her. It splattered her T-shirt and leggings.

"Aaah!" Wren squealed, then ran across the tarp and ducked behind the covered furniture in the center of the room.

"You think you can hide from me?" Smith laughed as he stalked toward her.

"Um...maybe?" she giggled, crouched behind the dresser.

He loomed over her, his hand filled with another pool of white paint. "Uh uh. You started this war, you've got to fight in it."

Wren stood, wearing her best sweet-and-innocent smile, the one she used when facing a particularly harsh judge in court.

"Truce?" she asked, her right hand tucked behind her back.

His lids narrowed. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't dump this on your head?"

"Because it would be really hard to wash out."

Smith exhaled. "That's fair." He slapped the paint on the tarp, then wiped his hand on the only dry spot left on his T-shirt.

Shaking her head, Wren clucked her tongue. "It isn't smart to disarm yourself before your opponent does." Rising on tiptoes, she pulled out the paintbrush she'd kept hidden behind her back and wiped it across his forehead.

Surprise flashed in his eyes. "You fight dirty."

She shrugged. "I am a lawyer."

"I'll show you dirty." In one smooth movement, Smith hoisted her up in his arms, and deposited her on the dresser top. Spreading her knees wide, he wedged himself between her legs and leaned in so far, she was nearly lying flat, propped on her elbows. A mischievous smile played on his lips. "That wasn't very nice."

"But it was funny."

Smith's eyes sparkled. "True, but you still deserve to be punished. What should your punishment be?" His hard length pressed against her. It was hot and hard and made her insides coil with need.

Wren swallowed. "It's never a good idea to ask the accused to set their own punishment. They always go too light. I'll leave it to you to decide."

Kiss me. Hard and rough. Then rip off my clothes and do whatever you want.

"Hmm, what do you deserve?" His gaze bore into her.

Her breath raged as electric energy sparked between them.

Smith's own fierce desire was written on his face. So what was he waiting for? All he had to do was dip his mouth to hers, then do all the things he'd promised last night.

Finally, his lips curled at the ends. "I've got it. But you're not going to like it."

Wren smirked. "Try me."

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About the Author: 

Lea Nolan is a USA Today bestselling author who writes smart, witty contemporary stories filled with head-swooning, heart-throbbing, sweep-you-off your feet romance. She also pens books for young adults featuring bright heroines, crazy-hot heroes, diabolical plot twists, plus a dose of magic, a draft of romance, and a sprinkle of history. 

Born and raised on Long Island, New York she loves the water far too much to live inland. With her heroically supportive husband and three brilliant children, she resides in Maryland where she cracks crabs and bakes ugly birthday cakes. 

Connect with Lea Nolan: Website | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter | Newsletter

Spotlight: Prospects of a Woman: A Novel by Wendy Voorsanger

Elisabeth Parker comes to California from Massachusetts in 1849 with her new husband, Nate, to reunite with her father, who’s struck gold on the American River. She soon realizes her husband is not the man she thought—and neither is her father, who abandons them shortly after they arrive. As Nate struggles with his sexuality, Elisabeth is forced to confront her preconceived notions of family, love, and opportunity.

She finds comfort in corresponding with her childhood friend back home, writer Louisa May Alcott, and spending time in the company of a mysterious Californio Don. Armed with Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance, she sets out to determine her role in building the West, even as she comes to terms with the sacrifices she must make to achieve independence and happiness.

Prospects of a Woman is a fresh, authentic retelling of the West that explores women’s contributions in California and shatters the stereotypes of the typical hard-boiled novel of the West that has captured the American imagination for over a century.

 Excerpt

Upon hearing a circus had come to town, an excited farmer set out in his wagon. Along the way he met up with the circus parade, led by an elephant, which so terrified his horses that they bolted and pitched the wagon over on its side, scattering his vegetables and eggs across the roadway. “I don’t give a hang,” exulted the jubilant farmer as he picked himself up. “I have seen the elephant.” 

—NINETEENTH-CENTURY AMERICAN FOLKTALE —NINETEENTH-CENTURY AMERICAN FOLKTALE 

1 

“The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried.” —RALPH WALDO EMERSON, “SELF-RELIANCE

Elisabeth counted the stitches holding together their dingy canvas tent. Twice. She got 946 both times. Cooped up in the midday heat, she seethed at Nate for leaving her alone. They'd lost too much time already. Refusing to wait another goddamn minute on his frittering and scheming, she untied the tent flaps and crawled out, stretching her arms long overhead. A soft air of relief touched her cheeks. Aching with hunger, she stumbled downriver, in the direction of Culoma Town. She hadn’t eaten since a bite of beans for breakfast the day before. 

Nate had left early that morning, again. Gone digging for gold in the river, refusing to let her join. Telling her to stay put. Warning about unsavory men roaming around, men with a mind to take what they will. Elisabeth was done waiting on him to bring her something decent to eat. She grabbed her satchel and headed for the river trail, thinking on how she’d get food in her belly with no money left. 

She wasn’t thinking about the roaming men but about the blisters on her feet still burning something awful from that long journey getting to the river. Elisabeth walked all afternoon alongside the American River roiling loud, cutting through the valley, tempting her. Tempting Nate. Her eyes burned with the honest light shining lush and vibrant through the narrow valley. The grass glowed golden along the river trail, and the rich green pines marched up the steep sides of the canyon, swaying alive and standing taller and fuller than the scraggly pitch pines at home in Concord. Warm air whooshed through the branches, spreading a sweet smell around. 

Arriving in Culoma Town, Elisabeth picked her way through a mess of empty tents strewn haphazard. Plopping down on a log in the center of town, she unlaced her boots to let her stockinged feet breathe and witnessed new beginnings. Industrious fellas buzzed around, hammering up buildings with fresh-hewn boards and siding and plank floors and shingle roofs. Jabbering and rushing. Heaving pails and shovels and pans and timber. Haggling for food and supplies. No women milled about, and she wondered if they were all hiding away too. 

Some of the fellas in town noticed her sitting alone on the log. One man dropped his hammer and walked over, stammering and stuttering as if he hadn’t seen a woman in years. She smiled polite, introducing herself as Mrs. Nathaniel Parker. More men came. And more. Until over a dozen stood around gawking at the only woman in Culoma Town. She pulled at her dress collar. Shifted her bottom on the log. Cleared her throat. When a few of the men sat down in the crisped-up grass like they had all the time to waste, she wondered why but didn’t dare ask. A fella with a long curly beard dripping down his chin offered her a cup of cool river water. She took it, gulping. Wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, she reddened with shame. When one man tossed two bits into her empty cup she looked at him coolly, thinking him daft. When another coin clinked into the cup, then another, she didn’t give them back. Didn’t look at the coins either. She simply stared up at the clear sky, fanning herself with her shabby straw hat, acting like she couldn’t care less if those foolish men wanted to waste good money just to sit near a woman looking not exactly pretty. 

“I’m not out here to beg,” she said. “Of course not,” said the long-beard fella. She shuffled her unlaced boots, tamping down the dry grass. “I’m simply out getting some air,” she said. “We all see that,” he said. An older man, wrinkled up like a prune, scooted up to her left knee. She caught him looking her up and down, leering, and she wanted to slap him for the lack of manners but held back. Letting men stare for money was unseemly, no matter the circumstances, but she knew each clink of a coin meant she and Nate would eat tonight. Oh, he’d be furious, of course. He’d probably even accuse her of flirting. Maybe she was. Flirting. Encouraging. She didn’t care. She needed a proper supper and a hot bath. Besides, the men seemed harmless. 

She considered how many coins those fools had given her, but was too afraid to count for fear they’d wise up to this absurd payment-for-gawking scheme and demand all those coins back. The men stared at her wide-eyed while a pecker pounded on a nearby trunk, knocking and knocking for grubs, matching the thud in her head. 

“Any of you know a Henry Goodwin?” Elisabeth asked. “That your husband?” “My father. He settled a claim up the North Fork,” she said. It’d been nearly a month since he’d run off with that Indian girl, and she still stung sore and angry at his leaving. She convinced herself he’d change his mind. Convinced he’d return to the claim eventually. 

“Sing us a song?” A prune-face fella asked. “Not hardly,” she said. “Can’t? Or won’t?” Not exactly delicate, Elisabeth lacked the finer qualities admired in most ladies. Her singing sounded more feeble frog than melodious finch, and she had no patience for sitting still for parlor conversations, finding the feminine topics of curtain colors and canning peaches dreadfully dull. Nate said she walked too heavy, but she knew he’d appreciated her strong back when they’d taken turns pushing their cart loaded down with his case of books through the foothills and into the river basin. 

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About the Author

Born and raised on the American River in Sacramento, Wendy Voorsanger has long held an intense interest in the historical women of California. She started her career in the Silicon Valley, writing about technology trends and innovations for newspapers, magazines, and Fortune 100 companies. 

She currently manages SheIsCalifornia.net, a blog dedicated to chronicling the accomplishments of California women through history. Her debut historical novel, Prospects of a Woman will be published in October 2020 (She Writes Press); an excerpt entitled "Shifting in California" won 1st place in the California Writers Club short story contest and is published in the Fault Zone: Shift: An Anthology of Stories.

She earned a B.A. in Journalism from California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo and an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is a member of the Castro Writers' Cooperative, the Lit Camp Advisory Board, and the San Mateo Public Library Literary Society.

In addition to being an author, Wendy has worked as a lifeguard, ski instructor, and radio disc jockey. Wendy lives in Northern California with her husband and two sons.

Connect:

Author website: www.wendyvoorsanger.net

Additional website: Sheiscalifornia.com

Facebook: Author Wendy Voorsanger

Instagram: @authorwendyvoorsanger

Cover Reveal: Stuck With You by Moni Boyce

Release Date: 11/13/2020

Series: Holiday Springs Resort, #4

Tropes/Genres: Enemies to Lovers, Contemporary Romance, Holiday Romance

Can enemies turn into lovers over the course of a week?

Maddie

When I decided to attend my high school reunion, I knew I’d run the risk of running into Jack Carter. Mr. Big Time Country Music Star. The same guy that broke my heart in high school. What I didn’t expect was that the resort would mess up our reservations, and we’d end up roommates. 

 Now I’m stuck sharing a cabin with him for the next week, and I don’t know whether I want to kill him or kiss him.

Jack

What are the odds I would end up sharing a cabin with my ex-high school sweetheart, Maddie Grace? The woman was a sweet tomboy back then, now she’s a knockout, uptight lawyer, who loves to argue. Even though we fight like cats and dogs, I’m feeling that familiar old spark and the more time I spend with her, the more I’m beginning to think letting her go was my biggest mistake. 

Thanks to a little mix-up at the resort, I’ve now got a week to prove to her that we belong together and you can bet I’m going to give it my best shot. 

Escape to the romantic paradise of Holiday Springs and warm up with your next happily ever after.

Amazon

About Author

Moni Boyce is a writer, filmmaker, poet and Award-winning author of contemporary and paranormal romance. After working in the film industry for fifteen years, helping others bring their visions to life, she now creates characters and worlds of her own. She considers herself a bookworm, film buff, foodie, music lover and an avid world traveler having visited 33 countries and counting. She lives a bit of a nomadic life, but considers Los Angeles her hometown.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MoniBoyceWrites

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/moniboyce

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/moniboyce

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/moni-boyce

Spotlight: The Proposal by Kitty Thomas

Publication date: October 14th 2020
Genres: Adult, Dark Romance, Romance

I got in over my head.

I bit off more than I could chew. 

And now my fate is sealed to the most ruthless man I know.

Two hundred and fifty guests. They think they know what's happening today. But they don't have a clue.

My wedding day. But it's so much more than that.

NOTE: This is a standalone contemporary dark romance with NO cliffhanger!

Excerpt

Chapter One from: The Proposal

(c)2020 Kitty Thomas. All rights reserved. Used with permission from the author.

I stand at the back of the enormous church. The stained glass windows mute the over bright sun outside on this unassuming summer Saturday at half past four. The string quartet begins to play Pachelbel's Canon in D. Two hundred and fifty guests stand. I take a deep breath and walk down the aisle clutching the bouquet of pale pink roses which hide my shaking hands. I'm wearing a stunning white Valentino gown which I'm convinced has seven thousand buttons down the back. It's a true white, but it's a soft, elegant white.

You don't realize the variety of white until you shop for your wedding gown. The color palette of white goes all the way from the harsh tacky bright white of office supply copy paper to off-white, into beige and blush barely-there pinks and lavender. Occasionally there is the most subtle mint green which you are sure must be a trick of the light. 

And even though they aren't all really the same color, lined up on the racks they seem like they all belong together. Like family. I'd considered going a little less traditional with a pale lavender or pink gown, or even that daring pale fairy green, but in the end I went with tradition—anything else feels like half measures with a man who doesn't know the meaning of that word.  

I chose to walk down the aisle by myself. I've never liked the idea of giving the bride away or what it represents. Besides, I don't want to bring my father into this; it feels wrong. He's here, on my side with the rest of my family and friends who admittedly take up a much smaller portion of the guest count than the groom's side and business associates. His business associates are seated on my side, so everything looks more even and normal for the pictures.

I am twenty-nine, and to everyone here my story is the story of Disney Princesses—the story every seven-year-old girl fantasizes about until she's long grown out of such fantasies. But I'm not walking down this aisle to my prince. I'm walking down this aisle to the most ruthless man I know.

I feel as though I'm being kidnapped in the middle of a crowded room, but I can't scream. It's like a dream where everyone acts as though everything is fine even though an evil killer clown is sawing my hand off. But still, everyone smiles politely and makes small talk—or in this case, everyone stands and murmurs complimentary things they don't think I can hear as I drift down the aisle like a fairy tale princess.

They think this is the part of the story where the princess gets the prince, where they get married and live happily ever after. But this is the part where she gets locked in the tower.

When I reach the altar, he takes my hand in his, helping me up the two small steps to stand in front of him. The collective sitting of two hundred and fifty people is the last thing I consciously hear as his intense, searing gaze holds mine hostage. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, and I don't even know anymore if the gesture is meant to comfort or control me.

We stand there, staring at each other. Words fall over me like gentle rain. Vows are spoken. Rings are exchanged. The announcement that we are now husband and wife moves through the air like a cool breeze.

His hand snakes behind my neck pulling me possessively toward him as he claims my mouth as his property. Later he will claim everything else. 

I've never had sex with this man. I'm not an innocent. I'm not a virgin, but right now I feel like one—off balance and unsure of what's in store for me behind the closed doors of our suite in only a few short hours. I want to run as far and as fast as I can, but I know he would catch me. Right now the reception is the only thing that buffers me from his dark intentions.

We take what feels like a thousand wedding photos, each one more intimate and romantic than the last. His hands and mouth suddenly feel foreign on me as though he's a stranger and not a man I've been seeing for the past year. The reception is being held at a swank nearby 5-star hotel called The Fremont, where we'll spend the night before taking his jet to our honeymoon in Costa Rica. Our jet. Is it jet now? Or am I merely an indefinite extra on his stage? I'm not really sure anymore.

We don't speak during the limo ride to the reception. I don't know what to say to him. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I have no words. All I can think about is what will happen later when there are no longer hordes of unassuming guests to protect me from his attentions. I feel more and more uncertain about this devil's bargain I've made—like I ever had a choice.

He would have destroyed me. At least this way there is a veneer of love and respectability. At least this way it looks like he is giving me the world instead of taking it all away.

I glance up to find his triumphant gaze locked on mine. It scares me as much as it thrills me, and then his thumb is stroking the back of my hand again. I find the courage to speak, but the words fly out of my mind as soon as they appear as the limo comes to a stop in front of the hotel.

The door is opened for us and my husband guides me out, helping me so that my dress doesn't get dirty. Husband. That word feels so strange to me. So wrong and somehow scandalous. This can't be real.

His grip on my hand tightens as he leads me up the stairs and through the hotel lobby back to where our reception is starting. The guests are already seated and being served their dinner. We're led to our own private table at the front of everything. Some people come by and talk to him. He's so polite to everyone, so normal, so different from the man I've come to know.

As we eat, silverware clinks against glasses, and each time we kiss as expected. Before the first dance, he rises from his chair, takes the microphone that is handed to him, and addresses our crowd of guests. And he is so charming. So smooth. The perfect beautiful lie.

“Livia and I would like to thank you all so much for coming to share this special day with us and supporting us as we start our life together. Don't get too creeped out, but I filmed the proposal. If she'd said no, I would have burned the evidence.”

Obligatory laughter. He continues.

“But it occurred to me that probably many women wish they had a video of the proposal. And so now she does. With Livia's permission I'd like to share that video with you now.”

Our guests are very excited about this prospect. No one knew they'd be seeing this. A large projector is rolled out along with a screen and a few minutes later a video begins to play.

He and I are on his boat in the middle of the ocean. I'm lying in the sun in a red bikini and oversized dark sunglasses. He approaches with a wrapped gift. It's large—about the size of a Labrador puppy.

“Livia, I have something for you.”

My eyes light up on the screen. “A present? Is it a pony?”

He chuckles. “Not a pony.”

“A Ferrari?” 

“Nope.”

Our guests laugh at my antics, their anticipation growing, knowing somehow inside that giant box is a ring.

“Open it,” he says.

I dutifully open it, only to find another gift wrapped box, then another, then another as I go through about five boxes, each time the gift getting smaller and smaller. 

“Is it an empty box?”

He chuckles again. “No. There's something in there.”

I open the final box to find a blue box. Yes, blue box. A box from Tiffany in just the right size.

The me on the video screen looks up at him and says playfully, “Is it a clown pin?”

He laughs again. “No.”

I open it and start to cry when I see the ring.

He gets down on one knee and says, “Livia Fairchild, will you be my person?”

I'm blubbering and crying and say, “Yes, I will be your person.” We kiss. He puts the ring on me. It's all so perfect.

Our guests say a collective, “Awwww” as the screen goes black. Then they're back to clinking their silverware against their glasses, and he leans over and kisses me again. 

Before he pulls away, his mouth brushes my ear. “Time's up. You're mine tonight.” His words are a growl so different from the version of himself that everyone else in this ballroom sees. It's jarring the way he can go from this charming façade to something so dark and menacing in an eye blink—the way he can transform only feet from our guests. Yet only I can see the monster. Everyone else sees the man.

I swallow hard at this proclamation and twist the wedding band on my finger. There are three words engraved on the inside of the band. Those three words seal my fate.

The rest of the reception goes by in a blur. The first dance. The dances with the parents. The cake. The bouquet. The garter. All the well wishes that come from guests as they each take turns wishing us a long and happy marriage. We go through a tunnel of sparklers created by our guests, riding off in the limo with the just married sign on the back and the cans dragging along the road behind us, only to circle back into the parking garage so we can go up to our suite for the night.

My hand is trembling as he takes it in his, leading me back inside the hotel and up the elevator to our room. He carries me over the threshold. Inside are candles and champagne and fancy chocolate and rose petals everywhere.

Two men in tuxedos step out of the shadows, looking me up and down with an appreciative once-over.

“It's about time,” one of them says.

My husband guides me over to the other two men, and then all three of them are touching me.

The words inscribed on the inside of my wedding band are their names:

Griffin. Dayne. Soren.

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About the Author

KITTY THOMAS writes dark stories that play with power and have unconventional HEAs. She began publishing in early 2010 with her bestselling COMFORT FOOD and is considered one of the original authors of the dark romance subgenre.

To find out FIRST when a new book comes out, subscribe to Kitty's New Release List: KITTYTHOMAS.COM

Connect:

https://kittythomas.com/

https://twitter.com/kitty_thomas

https://bookandmainbites.com/KittyThomas

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kitty-thomas

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2654606.Kitty_Thomas

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Spotlight: The Boy King by Janet Wertman

Series: The Seymour Saga, Book 3
Genre: Historical Fiction/Biographical

The Unsuspecting Reign of Edward Tudor

Motherless since birth and newly bereft of his father, Henry VIII, nine-year-old Edward Tudor ascends to the throne of England and quickly learns that he cannot trust anyone, even himself.

Edward is at first relieved that his uncle, the new Duke of Somerset, will act on his behalf as Lord Protector, but this consolation evaporates as jealousy spreads through the court. Challengers arise on all sides to wrest control of the child king, and through him, England.

While Edward can bring frustratingly little direction to the Council’s policies, he refuses to abandon his one firm conviction: that Catholicism has no place in England. When Edward falls ill, this steadfast belief threatens England’s best hope for a smooth succession: the transfer of the throne to Edward’s very Catholic half-sister, Mary Tudor, whose heart’s desire is to return the realm to the way it worshipped in her mother’s day.

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About the Author

Janet Ambrosi Wertman grew up within walking distance of three bookstores and a library on Manhattan’s Upper West Side – and she visited all of them regularly. Her grandfather was an antiquarian bookdealer who taught her that there would always be a market for quirky, interesting books. He was the one who persuaded Janet’s parents to send her to the French school where she was taught to aspire to long (grammatically correct) sentences as the hallmark of a skillful writer. She lived that lesson until she got to Barnard College. Short sentences were the rule there. She complied. She reached a happy medium when she got to law school – complicated sentences alternating with short ones in a happy mix.

Janet spent fifteen years as a corporate lawyer in New York, she even got to do a little writing on the side (she co-authored The Executive Compensation Answer Book, which was published by Panel Publishers back in 1991). But when her first and second children were born, she decided to change her lifestyle. She and her husband transformed their lives in 1997, moving to Los Angeles and changing careers. Janet became a grantwriter (and will tell anyone who will listen that the grants she’s written have resulted in more than $30 million for the amazing non-profits she is proud to represent) and took up writing fiction.

There was never any question about the topic of the fiction: Janet has harbored a passion for the Tudor Kings and Queens since her parents let her stay up late to watch the televised Masterpiece Theatre series (both The Six Wives of Henry VIII and Elizabeth R) when she was *cough* eight years old. One of the highlights of Janet’s youth was being allowed to visit the Pierpont Morgan Library on a day when it was closed to the public and examine (though not touch!) books from Queen Elizabeth’s personal library and actual letters that the young Princess Elizabeth (technically Lady Elizabeth…) had written.

The Boy King is third book in the Seymour Saga, the story of the unlikely dynasty that shaped the Tudor era. The first book, Jane the Quene, tells the story of Jane Seymour’s marriage to Henry VIII; and The Path to Somerset, chronicles Edward Seymour’s rise after Jane’s death to become Lord Protector of England and Duke of Somerset (taking us right through Henry’s crazy years). Janet is currently working on a new trilogy about Elizabeth, and preparing to publish her translation of a nineteenth century biography of Henry. And because you can never have too much Tudors in your life, Janet also attends book club meetings and participates in panels and discussions through History Talks!, a group of historical novelists from Southern California who work with libraries around the state.

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The Boy King

Spotlight: Just a Little Bet by Tawna Fenske

Genre:  Contemporary Romance

 After a night of too many drinks, smokejumper Tony Warren and his best friend, photographer Kayla Gladney, come to the realization that they’re both bad at love. They even tried dating each other, but that crashed and burned, too. Now he’s got the hangover from hell and the certain conclusion he’s just a shit boyfriend. But Kayla thinks he’s a straight-up commitment-phobe. 

So they make a bet—they’re going to hunt down his exes and decide once and for all why he’s so unlucky in love. Terrible boyfriend or commitment-phobe. Why does either answer feel like he’s still losing? 

But between roadside burgers and late night detours, they discover some fires never burn out—like the one slowly smoldering between them. And suddenly losing feels a whole lot like winning again. 

Exclusive Excerpt

She was still talking with the bartender as he approached.

“I really don’t need all these,” she was saying. “It was just a joke. A silly bet.”

Tony slid onto the barstool beside her, none too graceful in his movements. His shoulder jarred hers, sending a strange jolt of electricity down his arm. “What’s a silly bet?”

Kayla gestured to the glasses. “I bet a bunch of the guys you and Becca had split. Sorry.”

He shrugged, not too concerned about it. “I’d bet against me, too.”

“I wasn’t betting against you, exactly—”

“Are you going to drink these?” He picked up one of the shots, which smelled vaguely like cinnamon.

A memory rippled through him—the cinnamon pine cones his mom tucked in baskets around the house at Christmas. His dad used to bitch about it, complaining the house smelled like a damn cinnamon bun, but five-year-old Tony had loved it.

He set the glass down quick, feeling his stomach pitch.

Kayla was studying him. “Wow, multiple beers and a shot? Since when do you get your drink on like this?”

“Since when is everyone my mom?”

There was some irony. His mom would be the last person to give a shit what he did, but Kayla didn’t need to know that. 

No one did.

Kayla nudged one of the glasses in front of him. “I suppose you earned it.”

“By getting dumped, or by adding another notch to my shitty-boyfriend belt?” Which was probably the same thing.

“You’re not a shitty boyfriend.” She cocked her head, considering him. “I mean, yeah, you’ve got issues. Not that I have any room to talk on the relationship front.” Something dark flittered over her face, but it was gone before he could comment. “Anyway,” she said. “You’re a dude with serious commitment issues. Can’t fault a girl for not wanting to sit around indefinitely twiddling her thumbs.”

“I don’t.” He didn’t blame a single woman who’d dumped his sorry ass. Hell, he’d dump himself if he could. 

He picked up the shot glass and knocked it back. The liquid burned hot and viscous down his throat, and he swallowed to make the feeling go away.

When he set the glass down, Kayla was watching him. “You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” 

“You want the rest? I can drive you home.”

He looked at the shot glasses. Three more, each teeming with spicy liquid. He really shouldn’t have any more.

But the date on the calendar behind the bar had his heart wadding itself up in a tight ball. “How about a drinking game?” he heard himself say.

Kayla cocked an eyebrow. “A drinking game? Do you want to pretend we still have fake IDs, too?”

“Humor me. I need to earn those shots fair and square.”

She laughed, and Tony’s chest warmed at the sound. That was…different.

But it didn’t mean anything. Just some laughs with his best friend, plus the beers and cinnamon whisky he’d had already. What was that rhyme from college—beer to liquor, never sicker? Maybe the Fireball was a bad idea.

“Sure,” Kayla was saying. “What did you have in mind?”

“One of the rookies told me about this new one—did you ever play Flip, Sip, or Strip in college?”

Kayla surveyed the bar, and Tony noticed how blue her eyes were. Bright, like the sky as he pitched himself through the door of the aircraft. He thought about that breathless free fall and felt dizzy.

“Not that I’m opposed to public stripping,” she said, “but let’s not get kicked out of this place.”

“No, that’s not it—the clean version is called Flip, Sip, or Post.”

Kayla sipped something that looked suspiciously like water. “How does that go?”

Tony combed his brain to remember. “You start by flipping a coin. You can go first, since you’re a lady and all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Such a gentleman.”

He grinned, pretty sure she was kidding. “I call heads or tails, and if I’m right, it’s my turn to flip. If I’m wrong, you flip again. This time, if I get it wrong, I have to answer any question you ask me.”

“Any question?” Kayla lifted a brow. What did that mean? It’s not like they hadn’t bared all their secrets to each other.

Okay, not all his secrets. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Wait, no,” he corrected himself. “You answer the question if I get it right.” Or something like that. He was definitely messing this up. “Anyway, on the third flip, if I guess right, I take a shot.”

“And if you guess wrong?” she asked.

“You get to pick any social media platform or person and choose what I have to post or text.” Yeah, definitely a bad idea. But he trusted Kayla and knew she wouldn’t have him do anything too mortifying. “Like you tell me I have to text the third name in my contacts and say, ‘I like the smell of my own armpit.’ Or post to Facebook about how Mariah Carey is my favorite recording artist. That sort of thing.”

Kayla laughed, blue eyes flashing. “Take the booze out and the clean version sounds like a middle school game. This should be interesting.”

He’d been starting to think this was dumb, but that spark in her eyes had him thinking twice. Damn, she was pretty. No, not pretty—fun. Fun to be around. That’s what he’d always loved about her. 

Kayla rummaged in her purse and pulled out a quarter. “You ready?” 

“Yep.”

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About Tawna Fenske

 When Tawna Fenske finished her English lit degree at 22, she celebrated by filling a giant trash bag full of romance novels and dragging it everywhere until she’d read them all. Now she’s a RITA Award finalist, USA Today bestselling author who writes humorous fiction, risqué romance, and heartwarming love stories with a quirky twist. Publishers Weekly has praised Tawna’s offbeat romances with multiple starred reviews and noted, “There’s something wonderfully relaxing about being immersed in a story filled with over-the-top characters in undeniably relatable situations. Heartache and humor go hand in hand.”

Tawna lives in Bend, Oregon, with her husband, stepkids, and a menagerie of ill-behaved pets. She loves hiking, snowshoeing, standup paddleboarding, and inventing excuses to sip wine on her back porch. She can peel a banana with her toes and loses an average of twenty pairs of eyeglasses per year. To find out more about Tawna and her books, visit www.tawnafenske.com.

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