Spotlight: That Cowboy of Mine by Donna Grant

Another stunning cowboy novel from New York Times bestseller Donna Grant, That Cowboy of Mine!

Is he an enemy?

Dillon Young is proud that she inherited her aunt’s ranch. The problem: someone is trying to run her off and is willing to do whatever it takes. Strange, dangerous things keep happening. Dillion suspects her no-good neighbor and fellow wealthy rancher Hank Stephens. Never a man to get his hands dirty, he sends others to get the job done. So, when the irresistible Cal Bennett is found passed out drunk on her property, Dillion is on high alert. Until someone takes a shot at her and Cal springs to her rescue. When the hard-bodied, no-nonsense-talking cowboy points out that she may need some help, Dillion is inclined to reluctantly agree.

Or a lover?

Waking up on a stranger’s property with a shotgun in his face is not Cal Bennett’s idea of a good time. Never mind that the person on the other end of the barrel is one of the most fiercely beautiful women he has ever seen. Things get more interesting when he finds himself shielding her from flying bullets. It’s clear that this smart, savvy woman could use a hand and Cal is all too happy to lend any part of his body she requires. His proposal: pose as lovers until they find out who is after her ranch. As the danger rises and secrets are revealed, the passion explodes between them and there is no turning back.

Excerpt

Hill Country Texas June

The distinct sound of metal snapping loudly before cracking back into place jerked Cal awake. He knew that sound. Everyone knew that sound. His heart hammered in his chest with the knowledge that someone had just cocked a shotgun.

And he was pretty sure it was at him.

He blinked rapidly against the bright sunlight that pierced his eyes like laser beams. In the next second, he realized that he was lying on the ground. Cal raised his hand to block the sun. That’s when he saw someone standing five feet from him. His gaze moved from well-worn boots, up slim, jean-clad legs, to the red plaid button-down, unbuttoned to reveal the white tank top underneath. It wasn’t until Cal’s eyes locked on the woman’s face that his heart skipped a beat.

She was stunning. Utterly exquisite. Powder blue eyes that reminded him of a clear, summer sky glared at him with annoyance. Wavy brunette locks gently ruffled by a soft breeze fell from beneath the straw Stetson. Her delicate, heart-shaped face, pronounced cheekbones, and slim neck gave her a fragile, almost vulnerable appearance.

But there was nothing weak about the gun aimed at him.

He wanted to know her name and everything about her. He couldn’t wait to hear her voice. With one look, he was captivated. It was a good thing he was already on the ground. He was that struck by her. Cal couldn’t remember the last time a female had left him so dumbstruck. Then again, he had never encountered such a woman before.

He hadn’t known that someone could feel this way just by looking at another. Someone should’ve warned him.

“What are you doing on my land?” she demanded.

Damn. Her voice was just as sexy as he imagined it would be. If her voice was that good, how would her laugh be? He swallowed in an effort to collect his thoughts, but his mouth felt like cotton. What he wouldn’t do for some water. But he wasn’t stupid enough to ask. His head throbbed mercilessly, made worse by the sunlight. He held both hands up, palms out, showing her that he wasn’t a threat.

“I asked you a question.”

The way she held the shotgun told him that she knew how to use it—and she wouldn’t hesitate. Once again, he attempted to swallow before saying, “I … don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she repeated doubtfully. “You don’t know why you came onto my land and stole a horse?”

“What? I-I would never steal a horse. I swear. I don’t know how I got here,” he hastened to say as he searched his fuzzy memories. “I … well, I had a bad day yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday.” He tried to remember, but it was all a haze.

She blew out an irritated breath. “I suppose that bad day is why you reek of alcohol?”

He nodded, which was a mistake since the pain in his head doubled.

“My guess is that you were so inebriated, you were unsuccessful in stealing one horse, but you did open the gate to another.”

Cal glanced at the barrel of the gun she still had aimed at him with steady, sure hands. “I apologize, ma’am, for being on your property, but I’d never steal a horse. The last thing I remember is being in town at Ike’s.”

“That bar is not only in a seedy location, but the clientele is questionable, as well.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. My name is Cal Bennett. I’m a bull rider. Or, at least, I was. I didn’t qualify at the Bandera rodeo this past weekend to move on to the next round.”

“Forgive me if I don’t cry in my beer,” she replied as she lowered the gun so it pointed at the ground instead of at his chest. “Get on your feet and off my land. I’ve got a horse to find. And you can tell whoever sent you that my answer hasn’t changed.”

Cal sat up, the movement causing his head to feel as if hundreds of tiny jackhammers drilled into his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, though her last words confused him. To the point where he felt compelled to say, “No one sent me.”

“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard enough lies recently to last a lifetime.”

His stomach roiled violently. The last thing he wanted to do was get sick in front of this woman. As displeased as she was—with reason—he feared she just might shoot him. He swallowed, praying that his head stopped pounding, and his stomach would ease long enough for him to get to his vehicle. “I’ll be happy to leave. Just point me in the direction of my truck.”

She glanced away as she murmured, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Then her blue eyes locked on him. “I haven’t seen your truck.”

“Then … how did I get here?” he asked in confusion.

She glared at him for several tense seconds. “I. Don’t. Know. What I do know is that I want you gone. Immediately. If I see you on my land again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Understood,” he said as his stomach roiled again. He parted his lips, breathing through his mouth.

“You can’t even stand up, can you?”

He heard the frustration and exasperation in the sigh that followed her words. Cal had done several idiotic things in his life, but trespassing was a first. “I … just need a moment.”

When she didn’t demand that he get to his feet, Cal lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. His stomach eased enough that he wasn’t worried about getting sick, but he knew from past experience that his headache wouldn’t ease for hours. His mind drifted as he fought to sober up. The ground was hard, and the morning sun was already warm and rapidly headed toward sweltering—and the day would only get hotter.

How in the hell had he ended up on a ranch? The last memory he could dredge up in his hazy mind was sitting at the bar at Ike’s, doing his damnedest to drink his cares away. Apparently, he had succeeded. It didn’t bode well that he couldn’t remember anything. It had been ages since he’d drunk so much that he blacked out.

And given how he felt, this was likely the last time he’d do it. He was getting too old for such idiocy.

“Come on.”

Cal’s eyes jerked open for a second time when he realized that her voice was nearer. He found her squatting beside him.

“I’ve got work to do. Do you want help getting to your feet, or should I let you attempt it on your own?” she asked icily.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he replied. “You were just pointing a gun at me.”

“I could still shoot you.”

He found his lips curving into a smile, and damned if he didn’t see a grin pull at her mouth as well before she turned her head away. He took her outstretched hand. From his vantage point on the ground, she didn’t look that tall or strong enough to be able to do much. He soon discovered that he was wrong.

She not only got him to his feet in one movement, but she also steadied him by taking most of his weight. Her arm wrapped around his waist while her other hand held the shotgun. The top of her hat barely reached his chin. That was when he realized that his Stetson was missing.

He wanted to ask her name, but he wasn’t sure if he should push her if she weren’t willing to offer it up. Her comment about someone sending him was troubling. He hadn’t been sent.

Or had he?

Cal couldn’t recall how he had gotten to the ranch, much less why. Then there was the case of him supposedly trying to steal a horse. That in and of itself was enough for her to shoot him over. Horse stealing was never taken lightly. It didn’t matter what century it was.

He had to lean most of his weight on her as she began walking. The world tilted and swam before his eyes. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t want to fall. He’d already made a fool of himself. The least he could do was remain standing. It was by sheer will alone that he didn’t allow his wobbly legs to buckle. He desperately wanted to act proper and be a gentleman. Maybe because the last person who’d looked at him with such disapproval had been his grandmother, and she had demanded those things in him.

Cal wanted to rejoice when they finally reached her enclosed, six-seater Polaris Ranger 1000 UTV. Not only because he was able to get out of the sun to shade his eyes, but also because he could sit. She reached into the back and grabbed something.

“I suppose this is yours?”

He opened his eyes long enough to see his favorite black Stetson. It was dirty and covered in dust, but it was once more in his hands. “It is. Thanks.”

She said nothing as she started the UTV and put it in gear. He slumped in the seat and closed his eyes. The drive back to the ranch was bumpy as they headed up and down the hills. Cal had a few close calls where he feared he might vomit. Somehow, he managed to keep whatever remained of his battered dignity.

When the vehicle slowed, he cracked open his eyes. He expected to see a house or barns. But they were still in the middle of nowhere. The woman put the UTV in park before she got out. Cal watched through cracked eyelids as she walked to the nearby creek and squatted to inspect something.

Suddenly, the birds got quiet. Too quiet. The hairs on the back of Cal’s neck rose. He slowly sat up, fully alert while his gaze moved around the dense growth of trees and brush that surrounded them. He didn’t see anything, but he didn’t need to. The animals had warned him. Cal’s gaze returned to the woman as a soft gust of wind ruffled the foliage. She was out in the open with nothing to shield her.

No sooner had that thought gone through his head than he heard the pop. Without thinking, he jumped out of the vehicle and rushed up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and taking her to the ground as a second pop followed. As they fell, Cal looked to where she had been and saw the bullet ricochet off the rock.

“Are you hit?” he asked in a whisper.

She shook her head.

When he glanced at her, he saw that her face was pale, and she was shaking. His attention returned to the spot next to the creek to see what she had been investigating. He spotted a horse halter that looked as if someone had cut it.

“Do you have hunters on your property?”

She shook her head again.

Unease filled him. Was he still drunk, or had he just witnessed someone attempting a murder?

“We need to get back to the UTV,” he told her. “It’ll offer us some protection. Can you walk?”

“Of course,” she snapped.

He didn’t take her sharp words personally. He would probably do the same if someone had just tried to kill him. Cal released her. Together, they got to their feet and hurried to the vehicle. Her hands shook when she started the engine and put the UTV in drive. Cal searched the area where he thought the shooter had been as they sped away, but he didn’t see anything.

Whether he wanted it or not, he was now sober. His head still hurt, and his stomach needed food to soak up the alcohol, but he was well and truly clearheaded.

They rode in silence until he spotted roofs in the distance. When they reached the homestead, he noted how well-maintained the fences, corrals, and barns were. The house was older but impressive with its rustic beams and columns around the porch. The white limestone found so prevalently in the area gave the domicile a grand appearance. He particularly loved the wide porch that included rocking chairs and even a swing. Cal could imagine how nice it would be to sit on the porch as dusk settled over the land.

The UTV jerked to a halt. His head swung to the woman to find her blue eyes focused on him.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m glad I was there.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Dillon. Dillon Young.”

He shook with her, the feel of her skin against his like a punch to the gut. He blinked, trying to discern what had just happened, and gave her a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“I don’t know if you just happened to stumble onto my land, or if you were sent. Regardless, you saved me today, and I owe you.”

“I wasn’t sent,” he replied, holding her gaze so she knew he meant every word. “You owe me nothing. I did what anyone would do.”

She glanced away. “Hardly.”

“Has someone shot at you before?”

She shook her head and gripped the steering wheel tightly. “He did shoot at me, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, he did.”

“Dillon?”

Her head turned at the sound of her name. Cal spotted an older man striding toward them. He was bowlegged with wrinkled skin that looked like old leather from years out in the sun. The hair peeking out of his brown Stetson was solid white, matching his bushy eyebrows. His light brown eyes were clear and intense. He sported a handlebar mustache that matched his hair and completely covered his upper lip. Despite his obvious age, he moved like a young man, covering ground quickly.

“What happened?” he demanded as he reached Dillon. There was concern on his face as he looked her over. “You’re pale.”

Then the man’s gaze slid to Cal and lingered for a moment. When Dillon shook her head as if she wouldn’t answer, Cal took it upon himself to do so. “There was an incident. Someone shot at her.”

“Dillon,” the old man admonished and removed his hat as he shook his head in shock.

“I’m fine,” she answered woodenly.

But it was obvious she wasn’t.

Cal cleared his throat and held out his hand across Dillon to the man. “I’m Cal Bennett. Apparently, I got drunk last night and wandered onto the ranch. Dillon found me passed out this morning.”

“Emmett Perkins,” he replied as they shook. “I’ve worked at the Bar 4 Ranch since I was fourteen. Worked my way up to ranch manager,” he replied with a smile. “I’m honestly surprised Dillon didn’t shoot you.”

“It was close,” Cal said with a grin. He glanced at Dillon to find her staring off into the distance. His smile faded as he thought about what could have happened had he not pulled her out of the way.

Emmett cleared his throat as his gaze darted to Dillon. “How close was it?”

Cal didn’t need to ask for clarification. “There were two pops. I didn’t see where the first landed. Most likely, it went into the water. There was a shift in the wind, and I think that’s the only reason it missed. The second ricocheted off the rock where she had been.”

“Had been?” Emmett asked with his shaggy eyebrows raised.

Dillon replied. “Cal jerked me out of the way.”

“These things can’t keep happening,” Emmett said.

Cal frowned. Keep? Had Emmett just said keep? He didn’t want to ask since he was a trespasser on the ranch, but he couldn’t help but feel involved after witnessing things firsthand.

“I’m fine,” Dillon said and climbed out of the vehicle.

“You wouldn’t be,” Cal said as he followed suit and walked around the front of the UTV. “You were out there by yourself. If you had been shot, who’s to say you would’ve been able to get back? Who’s to say that whoever was there wouldn’t have stayed to finish the job?”

“He’s got a point,” Emmett said.

Dillon put her hands on her hips and faced Cal.

Before she could reply, he said, “You need someone to patrol.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Emmett said. “You up for the job?”

Cal blinked. He had no money, nowhere to go, and nothing to do. But did he want to get involved in whatever was going on? He looked into Dillon’s powder blue eyes and recalled how she had shaken in his arms after being shot at. How the mere touch of her had run through him like lightning. There was no way he would walk away. Not after finding someone like her.

“Yes,” Cal answered.

Copyright © 2022 by Donna Grant.

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Spotlight: Smile and Look Pretty by Amanda Pellegrino

ABOUT THE BOOK:

A juicy, fun yet piercing debut novel, Smile and Look Pretty tells the story of four assistants working in media who band together to take on their toxic office environments in the ultimate comeuppance—pitched as Sweetbitter meets Whisper Network.

Online they’re The Aggressive One, The Bossy One, The Bitchy One, and The Emotional One. In real life, best friends Cate, Lauren, Olivia and Max all have one thing in common—they’re overworked, overtired, and underpaid assistants to some of the most powerful men in the media and entertainment industries. When they secretly start an anonymous blog detailing their experiences, their posts go viral and hundreds of other women come forward with stories of their own. Confronted with the risks of newfound fame and the possibility of their identities being revealed, they have to contend with what happens when you try and change the world.

Gripping, razor-sharp, and scathingly funny, Smile and Look Pretty is a fast-paced millennial rallying cry about the consequences of whistleblowing for an entire generation, and a testament to the strength of female friendship and what can be accomplished when women come together.

Excerpt

1

The signs were always there. He was late to a few meetings. He started happy hour at 2:00 p.m. He promoted from within. 

The signs weren’t noticeable at first. Until they were. 

He was late to Marjorie’s meetings, not Ben’s. He offered scotch on the rocks to the guys. Most of his former male assistants were now editors. 

It took years of working with him for Cate to learn those things. To realize they were signs. 

But he had a reputation. That she knew from the beginning. 

“You’ll need a thick skin,” he’d said on her first day. A warning. 

She didn’t extend him the same courtesy.

Cate could tell you every book Larcey Publishing had ever released in its twenty-year history, and how old she had been when she first read it. The red LP stood out on all the spines in her dad’s “home office,” which was really the walk-in closet of her parents’ bedroom converted into a small library lined with bookshelves, the clothing rails outfitted with a plank of painted wood to form a desk. When she got home from school, she’d sneak into her parents’ room and read whatever book was on her dad’s nightstand that week—no matter how age inappropriate the title. By the time she was ten, she knew she wanted to spend her life helping people tell stories. Important stories that no one would hear otherwise.

Matthew Larcey was a literary prodigy, not just to her dad, but to the world. Before he was thirty, he was known as the next Maxwell Perkins and by thirty-five he used that acclaim to start his own publishing house. Jobs there were the only ones Cate applied to during her senior year of college. She started as a production assistant ten days after graduation, and when the position of Matt’s executive assistant opened a year later, she was the first to apply.

Matt’s assistant at the time was a lovely girl from Texas named Eleanor, who tried and failed to suppress her Southern accent. (Cate later learned Matt forbid y’all from conversations. Sign.) She interviewed Cate in a conference room with dull gray walls and two suicide-proof windows that looked out onto Sixth Avenue, forty-nine f lights below. Cate wore her go-to black dress with a leather trim and had prepped in the bathroom a few minutes before: whispering her elevator pitch while applying more mascara; detailing her current responsibilities as an assistant while running some Moroccan oil through her frizzy hair; listing her favorite books while swapping out f lats and a cardigan for heels and a blazer.

Twenty minutes into the interview, Matt Larcey walked in, wearing jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt with a small hole in the neck. Eyes wide, Cate and Eleanor watched him slowly sit down at the opposite side of the long conference table, typing on his phone. Despite having worked there for a year, Cate had never met the company’s founder. He wasn’t good-looking in the traditional sense—he was far too old for Cate anyway—but his salt-and-pepper hair paired with his tailored jeans emitted a kind of effortless power that Cate found enigmatic. She felt reassured knowing he had smile lines. Maybe it meant he wasn’t as difficult as his reputation implied.

Eleanor’s gaze darted to Matt and then back to Cate. “Um, as I was saying—”

“Did you tell her why you’re being replaced?” he interrupted, looking up at them. His phone buzzed against the table four times while Eleanor went as red as the LP on the company’s logo.

“I wasn’t available enough,” she said quietly. 

“Be specific.” 

Eleanor took a long breath and offered Cate a tight-lipped smile. “I was on vacation and missed an urgent email.” 

Cate wanted to crawl under the table and come back when the tension was gone.

“If I’m working, you’re working,” Matt said. “That’s the deal.” 

Seems logical, Cate thought. Sign

“I know why you’re here.” He looked at Cate with an arched brow. “You’re a reader. Right? That’s what your Twitter bio says? You want to publish something that matters. The next great American novel, a book that will change the course of literature forever.” 

Eleanor seemed to be shrinking in front of them, getting smaller and smaller with every word. 

“If that’s what gets you through the day, great,” Matt continued. “By all means, try to find the next Zadie Smith. If you play by the rules, maybe you will. But there are a lot of others out there who would kill for this job. So don’t think you’ll get any favors. If you earn the book, you’ll get the book. Otherwise it will be you here picking out your own successor.” 

When Eleanor appeared at Cate’s cubicle a few weeks later, offering her the job, Cate immediately accepted. Because she was a reader. She did want to find the next great American novel. And, despite its founder’s reputation, Larcey Publishing was the best place to do that.

Exactly two years later, Cate sat at her desk in the forty-ninth f loor bullpen, moving her eyes slowly across the f loor-to-ceiling color-coded bookshelves packed with LP titles, thinking about how she was officially the longest lasting assistant in Larcey’s history. When she had first started, each day she would look up from her desk at the wall of books in awe, like a tourist admiring the Chrysler Building, and dream about the day books she discovered and edited would join those shelves. Now, she had trouble remembering why she wanted to work there so badly in the first place. 

She let out a deep breath. A wall of color-coded bookshelves was pretty to look at until you realized how painful it was to put together. 

The executive assistants’ desks were located in the EAB, or Elusive Assistant Beau monde, as Cate called it before she got the job with Matt. It actually stood for Executive Assistant Bullpen, but hardly anyone knew that. To Finance they were Evil Annoying Babies; to editors, Eager Ass-kissing Brownnosers; and to Marketing, Expendable Agenda Builders. Whatever they were called, she was one of them. In the center of the rectangular room were two circular velvet couches around a glass coffee table with a bouquet of f lowers Cate was somehow in charge of buying and maintaining each week. Lining the perimeter of the room were seven desks, perfectly positioned outside each boss’s glass office so that each assistant was always being watched. Like fish in a bowl. 

Cate glanced over her shoulder toward the shadows behind the now-curtained glass wall of Matt’s office, listening to the mumbles of the third editor in two months getting fired, and wondered—as they all did at that point—when she should expect the email from HR inviting her to meet them in Matt’s office at 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday. 

Lucy, the CFO’s assistant, wheeled her chair toward Cate. “Maggie, huh?” she said, folding her long blond hair behind her ears as if that would help her gossip better. 

“Seems that way,” Cate responded. 

“Do you know what happened? I thought the self-help category was doing well.” 

Cate shrugged. “I’m not sure.” She tried to look busy, maximizing and minimizing documents, opening and closing her calendar. Lucy was a great work wife, but she only got the job because her third cousin twice removed was Stephen King’s neighbor or something. This made her a “must hire,” thus untouchable. And Lucy knew it. She was more often found scooting across the bullpen in her white wheelie chair spreading rumors than actually working. 

“Of course you know, Cate. You’re probably on the HR email.” 

As Matt’s assistant, Cate was on all his emails. About the rounds of golf he planned next week. About every book that each editor wanted to acquire this season. About all the firings. She knew that Maggie, a self-help editor, was being fired for considering a position at Peacock Press. Not only were they Larcey’s main competitor, but Cate once heard a rumor that Matt dated its publisher in college, and she broke up with him in favor of his rugby-playing roommate. Either way, the rivalry seemed personal. They had offered Maggie $10K more and a nearly unlimited budget to acquire all the self-help books she could get her hands on. Cate knew everything. And that power was not something she was about to give up for Lucy. It was all she had.

“I guess self-help isn’t doing as well as we thought,” Cate said. 

Before Lucy could reply, Maggie threw open Matt’s door. The entire room started furiously typing as Maggie stomped past the EAB, two suited HR reps scurrying behind her. Lucy picked up the first paper she could find on Cate’s desk and examined it so closely you’d think she’d just discovered the Rosetta Stone. 

As soon as Maggie was out of earshot, Lucy said, “God, that was awkward.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard she’s going to Peacock.” 

“Do you really think it’s Peacock?” Spencer Park whispered from his desk. “What, are they trying to poach everyone?” 

“Poaching the people you want is more cost-effective than buying a company and paying for all the people you don’t,” Lucy responded. Cate could have sworn Lucy’s head cocked toward Matt’s office for the latter part of that statement. 

Lucy returned to her desk and everyone went back to normal until a few moments later, when the heavy glass door behind her opened again. Cate didn’t need to turn around to know it was Matt leaving. Her back might be facing his office all day, but she knew his movements by heart. In the same way, she imagined, he probably knew hers. 

Matt moseyed to the front of her desk, moving his worn, expensive leather briefcase from his right hand to his left. He’d been kayaking that weekend, and he always got blisters on his dominant hand when he kayaked. Cate hated that she knew that. “Why are you still here?” he asked, as if his I’m working, you’re working, that’s the deal speech didn’t play on a loop in her head 24/7. As if that wasn’t why she kept her phone on loud all the time, why she woke up panicking in the middle of the night about missing an email, and why she was that girl who showed up to bars on Saturdays hiding her laptop in her purse. 

“Just finishing up some work.” Cate glanced at her nearly empty inbox. She was supposed to be on her way to The Shit List, a much-needed weekly vent session with her friends. Instead, she was going to be late. Not that that was unusual for her. If Matt was there, Cate was there, after all. 

He looked at Cate, then at the other assistants, all furiously typing again to seem occupied. “Looks like everyone else is working a lot harder than you are right now.” 

Well, I’m talking to you, Cate wanted to say. I stopped typing to talk to you. 

What actually came out of her mouth was, “Have a good night.” 

She watched him walk across the EAB and offer a wave and a smile to three executive assistants standing at the bookshelf, peeling some titles off the wall. “You all work too hard. This place would be in shambles without you,” he said to them before turning the corner toward the elevator bank. 

After answering a few more emails, Cate poured some whiskey into her Bitches Get Stuff Done mug, grabbed her Board Meeting Makeup Kit out of the bottom drawer of her desk and walked into the bathroom. She was already going to be fifteen minutes late to The Shit List; what was another fifteen to look presentable and rub some slightly off-colored concealer on the under-eye circles that seemed to grow darker throughout the day? 

She had discovered the necessity of a makeup kit on her second day as Matt’s assistant. He had a board meeting, which was one of the only times she saw him in a suit. 

“At exactly four fifteen, I need you to come into the meeting and bring me a cup of coffee,” he said. “Just put it in front of me and walk out. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at anyone. Just in and out. And, you know—” he looked her up and down “—look…presentable.” 

Cate could feel her cheeks flame as he walked away. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup, but she did always at least look presentable for work. 

“Here,” said the CMO’s assistant at the time. She dropped a small pink-and-white Lilly Pulitzer bag on Cate’s desk. “That’s code for put on some makeup.” 

“I have makeup on.” Cate rubbed her cheek as if the pressure from her fingers could force blush to suddenly appear. 

She nudged the bag forward. “Not the kind men notice.” 

Reluctantly, Cate unzipped it and inside found one of everything: powder foundation, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, blush, red lipstick. No variety. Bare minimum to look like the maximum. 

“Put it on my desk when you’re done. You should keep a board meeting kit here, too. This won’t be the only time you’ll need it.” 

After two years of board, author, and literary agent meetings, dropping things off at home for his kid, picking his wife up in the lobby, and countless other occasions for which Cate was told to “look presentable,” getting ready for margaritas with her friends was the only time she used the kit to show herself off, rather than be shown off. 

Happy two-year-work-aversary, Cate thought to herself as she put her makeup bag back in her desk. She took another look at the bookshelf on her way out. Two years too many. 

The weekly calendar invite for The Shit List pinged on Cate’s phone as she darted up the Union Square subway staircase. The late May humidity combined with 6-train rush hour crowd left small beads of sweat on her upper lip and made her curls wild and frizzy. She passed the produce market closing up shop for the night and the men playing chess under the streetlights. 

When Cate arrived at Sobremesa, she waved at the hostess and then at their favorite bartender as she beelined past the crowded bar to join everyone at their usual booth in the back. Sobremesa was a strange place: corporate but lowbrow. That was strategic. Find a bar where they were the only group under forty so no one around would recognize their bosses’ names when Lauren said Pete, an Emmy-winning screenwriter, had been avoiding her all day; or Max complained that Richard, a morning news anchor, had stared at her butt for the entire live shoot; or Olivia yelled about Nate, a washed-up actor who refused to realize he was no long relevant. They didn’t need their work gossip on Page Six. 

Cate stopped when she saw the three of them in their usual spot, laughing at something Olivia said, a half-empty pitcher of spicy margaritas moving between them. Lauren was squinting through her black-rimmed glasses, always refusing to consider a new prescription until she got promoted and could afford the co-pay. Olivia’s topknot bounced side to side on her head as she spoke enthusiastically with her hands, one of her dramatic tendencies as a budding actress. Max sat in the corner, plucking salt crystals off the rim of her glass and licking them off her pointer finger. 

“Wow,” Lauren said when she spotted Cate. 

“What?” Cate sank into the booth next to her. Lauren was making too much eye contact, the way she did when she was annoyed. Max poured the remainder of the pitcher into a fourth glass and pushed it toward Cate. 

Lauren took a long sip from the tiny straw before saying, “Nice shirt.” 

Shit. Cate was wearing Lauren’s top. The black T-shirt she told Lauren she’d wash and return to her closet three wears before. The one that now had semipermanent white deodorant circles under the armpits and was ever so slightly stretched out around the chest to fit Cate’s larger cup size. “Sorry,” she said to Lauren, who would hold a grudge until the freshly cleaned and folded shirt was back in her dresser. It would be at least a month before Cate could borrow anything from Lauren again, which was a bummer because she’d had her eye on a black pleated midiskirt for a date next week. 

“Whatever,” Lauren said with a sigh. “Should we just start?” She motioned toward the waitress and, when she arrived, ordered another pitcher of margaritas in Spanish. 

In the center of the table was a small stack of cash to which Cate added her five-dollar contribution. She ripped a napkin into quarters and handed them out, scribbling onto the thin paper, the words bleeding together. I booked Matt’s $37,000 first-class tickets for his family’s Kenyan safari an hour after realizing that unless I get a raise or my student loans disappear into the ether, I can’t afford to go home to Illinois for Thanksgiving for the fourth year in a row. Then she crossed out the latter half. No one she knew could ever afford to leave New York then, which was why the four of them always ended up doing Friendsgiving instead. It wasn’t the same as cooking with her mom and then watching her dad unbutton his pants to fall asleep in his La- Z-Boy in front of the football game, but it was something. 

After everyone finished scribbling on their napkins, the storytelling began. 

Lauren complained about wheeling an industrial printer covered in blue tarp from the writers’ trailer to Pete’s trailer parked four long city avenues away during a thunderstorm. Then, upon showing up to work drenched, was asked by one of the writers to get coffee for everyone since “she was already wet.” 

Olivia had spent an entire day this week trying to sneak into the W Hotel Residences by schmoozing a young security guard so that she could do Nate’s laundry there because he liked the smell of their detergent. “It’s The Laundress,” Olivia said, rubbing her temples as if the mere mention of the brand’s name gave her a headache. “It’s what he uses too. Bought it for him myself. But he insists it’s different.” 

Max had to pretend Sheena’s five-year-old son was hers so she could pick up his ADD medication before the anchor’s weekend getaway to a resort in New Mexico. The pharmacist had seemed skeptical, but Max couldn’t return to the newsroom without it. “I made a comment questioning how we still live in a world where young motherhood is challenged,” Max said. The pharmacist had stopped asking questions. 

The best part about their four-year friendship, Cate found, was the lack of explanations. They didn’t have to preface names in their stories with “my boss” or “my friend” or “the cashier at my bodega.” They never needed to fill anyone in on what they missed. Because they didn’t miss anything. They knew everything about each other’s lives. Cate knew that Lauren hadn’t brought a guy home in at least a year and hadn’t had sex in at least that long as well. She knew that Olivia rolled her eyes at her Southern Peachtree roots but would secretly perk up whenever a familiar accent was within earshot, reminding her of home. And Cate knew that Max’s parents wielded enough old money power and privilege to get her promoted anywhere, but Max insisted on earning it herself. 

Knowing everything about her friends also meant knowing everything about their bosses. Lauren’s boss kept bottles of tequila, whiskey, and gin underneath the couch in his trailer. Cate could tell by looking at a paparazzi photo of Olivia’s boss in People Magazine whether it was a coincidental shot or he had Olivia tip them off about his whereabouts. Cate could recognize by Max’s outfit whether she expected Richard, the handsy morning anchor, to be in the office that day. 

Once all the stories were told and the napkin scraps circled the tea light on the table like a strange sacrificial ceremony, Lauren said, “Can I make the executive decision that Olivia wins?” Everyone agreed; folding your boss’s stiff boxers, regardless of how good they apparently smelled afterward, should win you more than twenty dollars. 

Cate took the piece of napkin in her hand and looked down at her chicken scratch handwriting. This was her life. These were the things she spent her days doing. It was her two-year anniversary as Matt’s assistant, and the day went on just like any other. Cate wasn’t expecting a cake with her face on it or anything. But some kind of acknowledgment would have been appreciated. Something that said couldn’t do it without you or I hope these two years have been worth it or, at least, a simple thank you. 

What did Cate learn about the publishing industry from booking Matt’s vacations? What did she learn by organizing the papers on his desk in alphabetical order? What did she learn from spending a week every November opening up his cabin in Vermont for the season? She did learn that he spent $600 every year on a new Canada Goose coat; that the couch in their basement was incredibly uncomfortable to sleep on; and that his wife kept a dildo in the bottom drawer of her nightstand (but what did Matt expect, sending his poorly-paid assistant to his rich vacation house?). 

And what had happened while she’d been 340 miles north, spraying salt all over the cabin’s front walkway? Spencer filled in on Matt’s desk and was asked to “sit in on” three author meetings and one board meeting. She’d met only one author in two years, and the closest she came to board meetings was delivering coffee with strict instructions not to speak. Did anyone tell Spencer to “look presentable”? 

For the last two years, Cate had only focused on what was at stake: money, access to stamps for mailing rent checks, free food after author meetings, a foot in the door for her dream job. But it was starting to feel…fine. Uninspiring. Empty. What was she working toward? 

Cate took one last look at the napkin before dipping the bottom right corner into the tea light’s f lame. She held it between her fingers, watching Matt Larcey’s name burn in her hand as the text slowly turned to ashes and fell onto the wooden table. 

After she swept the ashes to the f loor, Cate held up her margarita. “Here’s to the day when we can make money without doing something degrading.” 

Their glasses met in the middle, and Cate looked at her friends, the assistants busting their asses, making the rules from behind the scenes. What if they all got together? What if they called bullshit? 

What if they all said no?

Excerpted from Smile and Look Pretty by Amanda Pellegrino, Copyright © 2021 by Amanda Pellegrino. Published by Park Row Books.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Amanda Pellegrino is a TV screenwriter and novelist living in New York City whose writing has appeared in Refinery29 and Bustle. Smile and Look Pretty is her debut novel.

Connect:

Author Website: https://www.amandapellegrino.com/

IG: https://www.instagram.com/amandagpellegrino/?hl=en

Twitter: https://twitter.com/amandapellss?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor 

Spotlight: Beach Wedding by Michael Ledwidge

Fiction / Thrillers / Crime

352 pages

A high-society wedding party stirs up new evidence in an unsolved murder in this thrilling stand-alone from the New York Times bestselling coauthor of James Patterson’s Now You See Her and The Quickie.

Hamptons sand… Hamptons money… Hamptons murder…

When Terry Rourke is invited to the spare-no-expense beach wedding of his hedge fund manager brother, he thinks that his biggest worry will be flubbing the champagne toast. But this isn’t the first time Terry has been to the Hamptons.

As the designer tuxedos are laid out and the flowers arranged along the glittering surf, Terry can’t help but take another look at a decades-old murder trial that rocked the very foundations of the town—and his family. He soon learns that digging up billion-dollar sand can be a very dangerous activity. The kind of danger that can very quickly turn even the most beautiful beach wedding into a wake.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

A gull circling in the sea breeze banked into a clumsy slide, then settled gently on the tallest of the beach mansion’s brick chimneys like it wanted to be the weather vane.

At the far end of the back lawn where the sod became beach grass, I stood with my brother Tom, looking up at the massive castle-like structure, taking it all in.

At least trying to.

Tom, playing tour guide, had just explained that the Southampton summer dream house he’d just rented was a proper traditional two-wing manor, built in the French Renaissance Revival style after a famous house of landed gentry outside of London. Past the sun terrace we’d just walked across, you could see the pool peeking out around the side of the thirty-thousand-square-foot house like a giant block of sapphire wrapped in travertine.

To say that Tom was a tour guide wasn’t even an exaggeration, as the place was literally about the size of a museum.

“So?” Tom said. “What do you think?”

I turned away from the white elephant of a house and took a sip of my drink, studying the private staircase of weathered teak that dropped down the windy bluff at our back. I looked south to where the wood slat fence wound along the dunes, and beyond it, the Atlantic’s infinite slate blue waves rose and curled and broke and crashed with a soft hiss as it washed up onto the private beach thirty steps below us.

Being from the poor man’s Hamptons, Hampton Bays across the Shinnecock Inlet, Tom and I had been more of the to-the-split-level-born class. The only exclusive club we’d ever been members of was that of the hustling townie contingent. Up until now, the only times I’d ever gotten within spitting distance of these Southampton eight-figure beach castles was by working events as a busboy or a bartender or a valet. I’d never even dreamed of actually staying in one.

“What do I think of this beer?” I finally said, holding up my bottle. “Exceptional, Tom, really. What is it? Craft stuff? Head and shoulders above the cans of Miller Genuine Draft in my beer drawer back in Philly.”

“Ha-ha, dummy,” Tom said, elbowing me. “C’mon, really. What do you think?”

I turned, studying my brother. Tom usually looked pretty pale and stressed from his 24/7 Wall Street pressure-cooker managerial duties at Emerald Crown Capital Partners, the hedge fund that he had started. But he’d already been out here for a couple of days, and it had done him a ton of good, I saw. My dark-haired brother looked actually sort of relaxed for once, tan and handsome and happy in his preppy red shorts and half-unbuttoned cream-colored linen shirt.

“What do I think?” I finally said. “What do you think I think? It’s impossible, Tom. That’s not a house. It looks like a Park Avenue apartment building. I mean, where is Zeus staying now that you rented his house? Summering in the South of France? No, wait. Visiting Poseidon?”

Tom slowly put an arm around my shoulders.

“Zeus is right here, Terry,” he said, winking at me with a wide grin. “I am Zeus, come down to stand here with you stupid mortals. Right here before your very eyes.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, shouldering him away. “I remember all those times Zeus clipped his divine toenails into my Captain Crunch at the kitchen table like it was yesterday. And all the birthday punches. With one for good luck, too. Every time. The gods are so benevolent.”

As my brother cracked up, I smiled and took another sip of my beer.

Because I felt happy too then. Or maybe suddenly at ease was a better way to describe it. Truth be told, I’d been a little reluctant to make the trip up from Philly and all the way back home after all these years.

Actually, more than a little.

Even with the fact that my oldest brother was finally tying the knot.

There are reasons why some people leave the place they were born and raised and never come back. Usually, they’re very good reasons.

But maybe, I thought as I took in Tom and the billion-dollar scenery some more.

Maybe this wasn’t such a big deal after all. Time had passed. Quite a bit of it. And didn’t they say that time heals all wounds?

At least it wasn’t a big deal as far as Tom was concerned, I realized.

Despite his new ginormous pockets, Tom was still just Tom. Tom, who used to let me ride back home on the handlebars of his ten-speed from Little League practice when I was a kid. Tom, who let me read his comic books as long as I kept them neatly in the plastic covers. Tom, who hit a kid who was bullying me in the head with a basketball from half-court in the schoolyard that time.

Just Tom, I thought, looking at him as the summer wind scattered some more expensive sand across the back of my pale neck and knees.

Only with a couple of specks of white in his black Irish hair now and more than a couple extra zeros in his bank account.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said then. “Only because I know you’re dying for me to ask. How much is it running you?”

“What? You mean with the staff and everything?” Tom said, comically wrinkling his brow.

Tom had already mentioned the chefs and the maids and the gardeners, and even the chauffeur and limo that the rental came with to heighten the full modern money-be-damned Great Gatsby experience.

“Yes, the whole kit and caboodle. Out with it, moneybags. How much?”

“Five,” Tom said, staring at me calmly.

“Five? What do you mean? Five what?”

He looked at me again silently for a beat before I got it. If I hadn’t already just swallowed my beer, I probably would have spit it all over him.

“That’s impossible! Five hundred grand? Half a million dollars for the season?” I said in shock.

“Oh, no,” my brother said, chuckling softly as he shook his head.

He gave me another wink as he brought his own beer to his lips.

“That’s just for July, Terry,” he said. “Just July.”

Excerpted from Beach Wedding @ 2022 by Michael Ledwidge, used with permission by Hanover Square Press.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Hardcover | Bookshop.org

About the Author

MICHAEL LEDWIDGE is the writer of seventeen novels, the last dozen being New York Times bestsellers cowritten with one of the world’s bestselling authors, James Patterson. With twenty million copies in print, their Michael Bennett series is the highest-selling New York City detective series of all time. One of their novels, Zoo, became a three-season CBS television series. He lives in Connecticut.

Connect:

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

Twitter: https://mobile.twitter.com/_mikeledwidge 

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Spotlight: The Wicked Wallflower by Tracy Sumner

The Duchess Society Series, Book Three

Historical Romance, Regency Romance, Steamy Romance

Release Date: April 21, 2022

Publisher: WOLF Publishing

In this sizzling Regency romance by award-winning author Tracy Sumner, an unconventional lady of the ton and an untitled businessman need to risk something in order to gain everything.

An Incorrigible Hellion

Independent, impulsive Lady Philippa Darlington guarantees her freedom by playing the role of wallflower for two miserable seasons in the ton. With the guidance of the most feared feminist enterprise in London—the Duchess Society—Pippa vows never to marry. But a madcap misadventure throws her plan off course and puts her face-to-face with the only man she’s ever wanted. A man who doesn’t want her.

A Rule-Breaking, Rookery Titan

Prince of the streets, Xander Macauley crawled from the slums to rule an empire. He has secrets—and fierce desires. One being that he’s smitten with his best friend’s little sister. Although reckless Little Darlington is the last woman in England he’d risk his heart over. When he has to rescue her from a masquerade ball gone awry, Xander finds he will go to lengths greater than he’d imagined to possess her.

The risks are undeniable.

But so is true, devastating love.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Hardcover | Paperback

About the Author

Award-winning author Tracy Sumner’s storytelling career began when she picked up a historical romance on a college beach trip, and she fondly blames LaVyrle Spencer for her obsession with the genre. She’s a recipient of the National Reader’s Choice, and her novels have been translated into Dutch, German, Portuguese and Spanish. She lived in New York, Paris and Taipei before finding her way back to the Lowcountry of South Carolina.

When not writing sizzling love stories about feisty heroines and their temperamental-but-entirely-lovable heroes, Tracy enjoys reading, snowboarding, college football (Go Tigers!), yoga, and travel. She loves to hear from romance readers!

Connect:

Website: http://www.tracy-sumner.com

Facebook: http://www.Facebook.com/Tracysumnerauthor

Twitter: http://www.Twitter.com/sumnertrac

Instagram: http://www.Instagram.com/tracysumnerromance

BookBub: http://www.bookbub.com/profile/tracy-sumner

Cover Reveal: Toeing the Line by Georgia Royce

Publication date: May 3rd 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

Faye is living her best life as a medical school student in Portland. The house she shares with her amazing roommates is walking distance to the best coffee in SE Portland; she gets to cheer on her best friend, Zeke, who is having the hockey season of his life with the Portland Ptarmigans; and her sister just got engaged.

Of course, it’s not all a bed of roses in the Rose City: Faye hates med school, the coffee shop barista hates Faye, and her little sister’s new sister-in-law is Faye’s high school nemesis—who just picked a bridesmaid dress that doesn’t come in Faye’s size.

Oh, and Faye’s in love with Zeke. And Zeke made it crystal clear that he’ll never see her as anything more than a friend. It’s a line in the sand that neither of them would dare cross because they mean so much to each other.

So, when she blows up her life and quits med school, she doesn’t think twice about calling Zeke to pick her up. She definitely doesn’t think twice about inviting him to a friend’s wedding as her date. But when her parents visit, wanting to concoct a lie to cover up the fact that their overweight daughter has no job and no boyfriend, Zeke shows up for her.

And tells them he’s her boyfriend. And that he’ll be coming to the wedding.

So much for toeing the line.

Spotlight: Comfort by Megan Matthews

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Cover Designer: Indie Sage

Editor: Amanda Brown

Publication Date: April 21st, 2022

Read a new funny, second-chance, romantic suspense set in Pelican Bay from USA TODAY Best-selling author Megan Matthews.

Could a chance run in with exboyfriend Riley Jefferson lead to my death?

Cassandra left in the middle of the night ten years ago without a single goodbye. Now she’s back, leaving me with the chance to solve the mystery of why she disappeared. My high school sweetheart didn’t come alone and has no idea what trouble she’s about to unleash in our quiet town.

I’m not the same man she once loved. Working with a group of former Navy SEALs has shown me the horrors of the world. They’ve also taught me well. When her choices catch up to her, I’ll need every one of my new skills to win Cassandra’s heart and keep her alive.

If you love second chance love stories with humor, action, and a bossy hero, this story is for you.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author
Megan Matthews loves writing humorous romantic suspense featuring heroes with unbelievable abs, billionaire bosses, and heroines with attitude for days. She lives in Michigan with her techie husband, homeschooled son, their cat, and two guinea pigs.

When she’s not writing, you can find her on Instagram posting about reading, home life, half-dead plants, her ridiculous notebook and fancy pen collections, plus the occasional crochet project.

Connect:

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