Spotlight: The Seaside Strategy by Elana Johnson

Genre: Contemporary Romance 

Release Date: August 16th 

Lauren Keller understands strategies. She adores them and never enters a marketing meeting without Strategy A, B, and C tucked away in the back of her mind. She's one of the top executives at her firm...until it all comes crashing down with the news that her boss has been stealing money from their clients for almost a decade.

After narrowly escaping indictments herself, Lauren finds herself, at age 43, standing in the parking lot of her office building, a box with a stapler, a sad plant, and a couple of photos as her only companions.

She needs a new strategy, and she decides she can map everything out from the beaches of Hilton Head.

It's not an exit strategy.

It's a seaside strategy.

Relax more. Worry less. Find out what she really wants in her life.

While trying to do that, all with the ocean breeze and her friends for support, Lauren meets Blake Williams. The man is movie-star gorgeous, witty, and looking for someone to help him run his successful financial planning business on the island.

But Lauren doesn't want to work for him, especially not in strategic investments. She's had enough of the high-profile, corporate life. Can she strategically insert herself into Blake's life without compromising her seaside strategy and finally get what she really wants...love and a lasting relationship?

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

A USA Today Bestselling and Amazon Kindle All-Star Author, Elana writes clean and wholesome contemporary romance. She is well-known for her young adult dystopian romance series Possession, Surrender, Abandon, and Regret, published by Simon Pulse (Simon & Schuster). She writes clean beach romance in the Hawthorne Harbor Second Chance Romance series, the Getaway Bay Romance series, the Getaway Bay Resort Romance series,the Forbidden Lake Romance series, the Stranded in Paradise Romance series, the Hope Eternal Ranch Romance series, the Sweet Water Falls Farm Romance series, and the Carter's Cove Romance series.

Elana also writes inspirational western romances under the USA Today bestselling pen name of Liz Isaacson. Learn more at Liz's website.

Elana is the force behind Indie Inspiration, and you can find her books for writers, Writing and Releasing Rapidly and Writing Killer Cover Copy among others, and join her group and page on Facebook.

She runs a personal blog on publishing and is a founding author of the QueryTracker blog, a co-founder of The League of Extraordinary Writers, and a co-organizer of WriteOnCon. She is a member of ALLi and NINC and a popular speaker for libraries, teens, and writer's conferences across the United States. To contact Elana to speak at your event, please see her contact page.

Connect with the Author:  Website | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | TikTok | Bookbub | Gmail

Spotlight: The Second Season by Emily Adrian

Ruth Devon starred for Georgetown Basketball back in college—until she injured her knee, married her coach, and found a new career calling games on the radio. Twenty years later, Ruth and her now-ex-husband, Lester, are two of the most famous faces in sports media. When Lester decides to retire from the announcers’ booth, Ruth goes after his job. If she gets it, she will be the first woman to call NBA games on national television.

For now, Ruth is reporting from the sideline of the NBA finals, immersed in the high-pressure spectacle of the post-season. But in a deserted locker room at halftime, Ruth makes a discovery that shatters her vision of her future. Instantly, she is torn between the two things she has always wanted most: the game and motherhood.

With warmth and incisive observation, Adrian brings to life the obsessions, emotions, and drama of fandom. The Second Season asks why, how, and whom we watch, while offering a rich and complicated account of motherhood, marriage, and ambition. Adrian’s character study of Ruth Devon illuminates a beautiful basketball mind—and the struggle of a woman who claims authority in a male-dominated world.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Ruth’s daughter fell, as children do, in slow motion. 

The baby had climbed up on her father’s weight bench and was pumping her legs back and forth as if to propel a swing at the playground. Ruth was supervising. She was also searching the garage for a particular set of eight-pound free weights, intent on working out during Ariana’s morning nap. Ruth threw a glance over her shoulder just as the baby leaned forward to admire her pink sneakers in action. Perched closer to the edge of the bench than Ruth had realized, the baby wobbled. Ruth lunged, expecting Ariana to regain her balance and underestimating her daughter’s commitment to the sippy cup clenched in her hands. Ari toppled. Her head hit the concrete first; the rest of her somersaulted with a sickening series of thuds. 

It was the ensuing silence, the absence of cries, that took Ruth’s breath away.

In the days, weeks, and years that followed, she replayed the incident in her mind until she lost the memory to the murky currents of guilt and anxiety and fear. For how long was Ariana quiet? Was she crying by the time Ruth scooped her into her arms, or did she release her first scream as Ruth, with a new mother’s panic, lurched into the kitchen and dialed 911? The baby’s blood, Ruth could have sworn, was a more vibrant red than her own had ever been—and there was so much of it! She couldn’t tell if the origin was Ariana’s mouth, nose, or a gash near the goose egg swelling fast on her forehead. Did the blood really mat the baby’s eyelashes, coat her teeth, and soak through Ruth’s shirt to the beige panels of the nursing bra she was still wearing, months after weaning? Did Ruth press an ice pack to the bump? Did she call Lester and ask him to meet her at the hospital—or did she stand in place, hold her child, and sob? 

The minutes before the fall are what Ruth remembers clearly. She can still conjure the desperation with which she worked to uncover the free weights from the tidal wave of sporting equipment that had swallowed the garage in the late nineties. They were hoarding the evidence of their preparenthood pastimes: golf clubs, tennis rackets, baseball mitts, ice skates, and balls for six or seven different sports, any one of which could reduce her and Lester to hot-cheeked rivals. She hadn’t laid a finger on any of it in sixteen months, and now that Ariana was sleeping through the night Ruth was eager to get back into shape. She still believed in her shape. That her adolescent frame was waiting, unscathed, beneath a shedable layer of maternal flab. All she needed was forty-five minutes, preferably an hour, long enough to get her heart pounding on the treadmill. To curl the weights toward her chest, reacquaint her body with the sensation of resistance. 

Ariana’s head had hit a crack in the cement, which tore open the flesh near her fuzzy hairline. She needed three stitches. She needed a hit of nitrous oxide to endure the suturing and another to tolerate the invasions of the pediatric dentist, who admitted there was nothing to do but wait for her adult teeth to fill in the gaps. Ruth wept when she realized her daughter’s top incisors were missing and again, later, when she could not find them among the blood on the garage floor. If the baby’s teeth were not in her mouth, Ruth wanted to secret them in a drawer as her own mother had done.

At home, they set Ariana up with a tape of Dumbo. Too young to say elephant, she was old enough to wave her arm in front of her face like a trunk. She fell asleep on the couch still holding a half-drunk bottle of milk to her lips, the nipple resting against her traumatized gums.

Ruth’s fingertips hovered over the bandage. She said to Lester, “That’s going to scar.” 

Lester shrugged. “So she won’t be a model.” It was a safe bet that, against all odds, they lost.

The phone rang in the kitchen. The phone was attached to the wall by the kind of corkscrew cord teenage girls used to twirl between their fingers. Lester got up to answer it. His casual “Hey, man” could have been addressed to anyone. 

In the doorway, Ruth’s husband turned and locked eyes with her. In her memory his face blanches, as if he comprehends the call’s full significance—the life about to unfurl from it. Hers. 

“Just a sec. Let me talk to her.” He cupped a hand over the receiver. His contrived neutrality made Ruth’s hair follicles tense. “It’s Benny Hoss. One of the announcers dropped out. Family emergency.” 

Hoss was the athletic director at Georgetown. 

“I can tell him we’re in the middle of one ourselves,” Lester said.

“In the middle of what?” 

“A family emergency.” 

Ruth’s hand was buried in Ariana’s curls. On the screen, Dumbo’s mother was in shackles, locked inside the truck for mad elephants. Thank God Ariana was already asleep; the film was darker than either Ruth or Lester had remembered.

“Don’t tell him that,” Ruth said. 

By most measures, the game was not important: Georgetown versus Oklahoma, the first round of an early-season tournament that would be largely forgotten by Selection Sunday. But it was Georgetown, Ruth’s alma mater. The game would be broadcast on a cable channel. If Ruth wanted the job she had ninety minutes to get herself to DC and to the new MCI Center. A goal that I-66 could easily grant or deny. 

Lester had been Ruth’s coach in college. Now, as they stared impassively at each other, she willed him to become her coach again. Tell me I can do this, she thought. Tell me I have to. That I won’t choke. But Lester remained her husband. A father worried about his daughter—or else worried about putting the baby to bed by himself. Where were the extra-absorbent diapers for sleepy time? Where was the beloved board book about hippos throwing a house party? What should he do if she cried out in the night? 

For the first quarter of Ariana’s first year, Ruth had never slept more than two hours at a time. The baby’s cries woke her constantly, and before her brain could assign a source to the sound it conjured another kind of chaos. The infant stirred, and Ruth heard Nikes squeaking against a waxed floor; she wailed, and Ruth heard the buzzer as the ball left her hands. 

“Tell him I’ll do it,” she said, scrambling from the couch, letting Ariana flop to her side on the cushions. 

As a player, Ruth’s career had ended in college. It was her senior season, a tough-luck landing that exploded her knee and left her writhing on the floor. (Even now, if an urge to laugh threatens an interview, she need only think of that pop, the sobering sound of her ligament rupturing.) The formation of the WNBA was still a few years off. Had Ruth known it was coming, she might have let them operate. The thing was, no surgeon could promise a full reconstruction would restore her talent. The other thing was, at least half her heart was already devoted to Lester and to the brown-eyed, bow-legged babies they would cook up together. 

Throughout the Big East, Ruth had been known as “that bitch from the District.” On the court she gave herself over to a delicious, guiltless aggression. She scratched and she clawed. She tripped and she hip-checked. When the refs weren’t looking she grabbed freely at jerseys and, once, at a rival’s preposterous pigtails. If a shorter girl dared defend her in the post, Ruth did nothing to prevent a sharp elbow from colliding with flimsy cartilage. Was the violence incongruous with her desire to be a stay-at-home mom? Ruth didn’t think so; Dumbo’s mother beat the shit out of those circus-going bullies teasing her baby for his oversized ears. Basketball and motherhood had something in common: each required your animal self. 

Young enough to believe she had made a choice, Ruth graduated and married Lester. The scandal of their marriage was mitigated by Lester receiving a well-timed offer: that same summer, he left Georgetown to become the assistant coach of the men’s team at American University. Eight minutes by car, yet worlds removed from Ruth and her reputation. Few of her husband’s new colleagues sustained any interest in the girls’ half of the NCAA. Ruth got pregnant and gave birth—precipitous labor, cinematic, she could take it—and sank into ruinous, mammalian love. She did her best to confine her basketball addiction to her alma mater’s radio station, whose producers let her call women’s games from the nosebleeds. Her audience was notional. Ruth liked to imagine former teammates swaying with colicky infants, listening for the score. For those games she did both play-by-play and color; she told you when a girl got a shot up, as well as the girl’s major, hometown, skill set, and career aspirations.

Television had not been Ruth’s goal. The red light of the camera held no appeal. Though the consensus was that she signed up for a certain amount of scrutiny, Ruth never anticipated the mob of men analyzing her hair, legs, glasses, voice, the shadows beneath her eyes, the way she stood, the way she gripped the microphone. What she wanted was to be there. On the floor, close enough to see the sweat beading, to feel the reverberations of the rim. Georgetown’s team that year included sophomore Jeremy Baines, a kid whose ability to dunk after a single dribble from half-court left announcers braying in shock. He would be drafted in June, maybe first overall. Ruth needed to be there. She was twenty-five—already someone’s wife and someone’s mom—and desperate for permission to care about the game as much as she did. 

She owned a single wine-colored blazer that she pulled over a vaguely catholic blouse. (Lester said, “Don’t wear that,” and Ruth vowed never to take it off.) These choices would come back to haunt her ten years later, in a video uploaded to YouTube by a Ruth Devon fan account, the audio and picture slightly out of sync. Ruth’s middle-school-age daughter would watch the opener muttering no-no-no beneath her breath and, from that day forward, forbid her mother from appearing on camera in any outfit she had not personally approved. For now, Ariana remained a toddler passed out on the couch. Ruth remained green enough to assume men would take a woman announcer more seriously if she looked plain, unattractive. She should have asked a man.

Or a woman.

Smooth sailing on 66. Ruth’s palms slipped against the steering wheel. How could she call a game when she’d never watched the team practice, never interviewed its coaches? Georgetown’s record last year was twenty-four and six—or it was twenty-six and four. Baines was a preseason all-American, but who were the less-heralded freshmen? Ruth had once known, since forgotten. And now she was paying to park in a lot near the stadium, having received no other instructions. She was filming the opener on the sideline, spooked in the glare of the red light. Her co-announcer elbowed her; she was looking in the wrong direction. Finally, Ruth was pulled to the analyst’s chair. Pep band. Tip-off. Engrossed in the action between the lines, Ruth resumed knowing everything. She would never remember what she said, only that her commentary filled the gaps in the play-by-play. She could have been watching at home, chattering to Lester through a mouthful of popcorn. It was that effortless. 

Late in the first half, Jeremy Baines came down hard on his ankle, his foot sideways underneath. For the second time that day, Ruth drew a sharp blast of air into her lungs. Jeremy recovered; he came back after halftime, and GU trimmed a nine-point deficit to one. With twenty seconds on the clock Baines was alone with the ball at the top of the key, waiting to be reborn. It was November; the madness was scheduled for March. But when Jeremy Baines hit a fadeaway at the buzzer, fifteen thousand people in Washington, DC forgot the month, the year, and their mothers’ maiden names.

“My goodness,” was all Ruth needed to say.

Jeremy Baines prostrated himself on the court like he’d won a national championship. His teammates piled on top of him. The Oklahoma players stood with hands on hips; and was their point guard crying? Something Ruth still misses about college basketball is how volatile, how prone to tears they all are. 

At home, well past midnight, she pulled the minivan into the garage and heard something plastic crunch beneath her tires. Instantly she remembered Ariana’s sippy cup flying from her hands, the startled O of her lips as she fell forward, frightened but certain her mother would catch her. Ruth would throw herself between the concrete floor and her daughter’s soft, new body. She would absorb the contact, cushion the blow, knock her own teeth out if she had to.

What choice did she have?

From The Second Season by Emily Adrian. Used with the permission of the publisher, Blackstone Publishing. Copyright © 2021 by Emily Adrian.

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Emily Adrian is the author of two critically acclaimed young adult novels, Like It Never Happened and The Foreseeable Future, and two adult novels, Everything Here Is under Control and The Second Season. She lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with her husband, her son, and their dog, Hank.

Spotlight: It Started with a Dance by Tinia Montford

(Pacific Grove University, #2)
Publication date: July 28th 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, New Adult, Romance

WILL THEY PULL OFF THE PERFECT PERFORMANCE?  

It’s double time for Cami Clinton…  

Dance is in Cami’s blood, but a bombshell diagnosis puts her on the sidelines. Now returning for her senior year of college, she’s determined to prove she is the dancer she once was. Each year, at the end of the semester, the campus hosts a dance festival. Cami knows this is her shot at redemption, but while at a party, things go horribly wrong and Cami suddenly has a new boyfriend: Marsh Lincoln.  

Marsh Lincoln has two left feet… 

He doesn’t dance. A nasty accident haunts Marsh and he’s just ready to graduate. Until he’s told he’s missing credits. The only class left to fill his missing credits? Ballroom dancing. To make matters worse, his girlfriend breaks-up with him in front of everyone at a party, leaving him with a new girlfriend he’s never met before…  

It takes two to tango… 

Acting like the perfect couple isn’t easy when you’ve just met. When the lines between what’s real and pretend blurs, they have to ask themselves: Can you catch feelings for something that’s all pretend?

Excerpt

Girl, don’t do it; it’s not worth it. Don’t do it... Don’t do it, Cami. Last time was supposed to be it! Don’t... 

Paper crinkled under Cami as she shifted on the exam table, facing the cabinet on the wall. It held a box of gloves, a thermometer, an otoscope, and the little disposable thingies that went with it. She exhaled shakily and squeezed her eyes shut. I swear I’m just thinking about stealing the doctor’s glove; I’m not gonna do it. Last time was it… They are good for cleaning. It would be awful if Devin had to bail me out of jail for stealing gloves in a doctor’s office. I’ll get expelled from school and be forced onto the mean streets of the Tenderloin. I’ll have to fight cats for chicken bones and steal cough syrup to stay high. 

Cami’s karma was shot to hell based on her last six months of existence. She didn’t want the big man upstairs to send a bolt of lightning down to obliterate her. 

She would be good…

Pushing herself up, she strained to hear any footsteps in the hall. The doctor wouldn’t notice a few missing gloves, would she? 

Her phone dinged twice with a text message. It was her best friend, Deja. Saved by the bell.

Where are you?? I thought we were getting lunch? Winter and I are in the restaurant.

Cami slapped her forehead. How could she forget? It was their annual back-to-school tradition. Lunch in Japantown and mochi ice cream afterward. A staple in their friendship since freshmen year and even more important since last semester.

I had to meet with my adviser. :( Let’s meet for dinner?

Deja’s reply was instant. 

Fine. Take a sneak pic of your adviser. Clark is foine.

Cami hung her head. Why did I lie? Deja and Winter, her best friends, knew about her hospital stint. They visited her every day until they had to go home for summer break, right before she finally received her diagnosis. Cami still couldn’t utter the words chronic disease... 

She told herself she would confess to them, but when the moment came, she found herself saying viral infection instead. Each time after that, the lie flowed easier and it became harder and harder for her to backpedal. She told herself lying was for a good reason. Cami was tired of being the one people needed to look after. She was reinventing herself after this setback, presenting herself as independent and poised. Even if it was a façade. 

Anxiety churned in her stomach, and she hoped her doctor would come back with the results she wanted. A glance at her phone let her know the time.

12:04 PM.

How long had she been sitting here? Twenty or thirty minutes? It was the first day of the semester, and Cami wasn’t letting it slip through her fingers. It was late August and freezing in San Francisco because of the coastal fog and wind. She tugged at the pink chunky sweater she’d paired with a skirt and combat boots. She pulled her knotless braids over her shoulder, biting her lip with a glance at the door before she pushed herself off the exam table.

“I’m just gonna take one. I’ve been through a lot,” she muttered, justifying the petty theft.

Cami plucked a glove from the box and held her breath as if alarms would sound. Once the coast was clear, she took another. Then another. Her hands were full as someone knocked at the door. She squealed, dropping some contraband as she darted across the room and shoved the gloves into her book bag, and plopped her butt back on the exam table, winded from that simple yet covert act. 

“Y-yes?” 

She tried placing a neutral expression on her face, hoping it didn’t reveal how fast her heart was beating, or her fear that a minor sprint consumed most of her energy.

The door opened, and her doctor’s head appeared. “Camille?”

“Dr. Aguilar.”

The last time Cami was in a hospital, besides her own illness, she found out her father had died. Of course, she didn’t remember this. She had been a toddler; her mother and brother recounted the story solemnly to her years later. It was a good enough excuse to avoid hospitals ever since. 

Dr. Aguilar almost changed her mind about hospitals. The older woman’s aura of calmness and matronly appearance never failed to put her at ease. Bracelets adorning both arms and rings on all fingers. Plump. Graying hair. She smiled and her eyes went to the blue glove lying on the floor.

“The gloves fell out of the box...” That was a lame excuse.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Tinia (TUH-NIA) Montford is a Pisces who’s a sap for romance, especially when there’s (tons of) kissing. Loves eighties sitcoms and will consume anything with chocolate. She graduated from the University of San Francisco with a degree in English and Graphic Design.

She is a world traveler having climbed a volcano in Nicaragua, scaled Angkor Wat in the blistering sun, and roamed the Acropolis of Athens. Oh, she also dabbles in short stories occasionally.

If you can’t catch her writing, you can bet she’s overindulging on poke bowls, listening to the same four songs, or chilling with her adorbs doggie. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Fiction.

Connect:

http://tiniamontford.com/

https://www.pinterest.ca/tiniawritesbooks/_created/

https://www.facebook.com/tiniawritesbooks/

https://www.instagram.com/tiniawritesbooks/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21958554.Tinia_Montford

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Spotlight: Ruthless by Gena Showalter

Publication Date: August 9, 2022

Publisher: HQN Books

Forbidden. Powerful. Ruthless.

Micah the Unwilling, fae King of the Forgotten, can tame even the most violent of beasts. Forged on the battlefield, this iron-willed warrior considers his soldiers his family, and he will stop at nothing to reclaim their dispossessed land. Gearing for war with a sadistic enemy, he is disciplined and focused—until a feral beauty he encountered long ago wanders into his camp.

Viori de Aoibheall wields a terrifying ability to sing monsters to life. Having spent her childhood in a forest, raising herself and her frightening creations—the only friends she’s ever known—she’s ill prepared for the scarred royal and his fearsome brutality. Not to mention the ferocity of their connection and the carnality of his touch. But the real problem? Her brother is Micah’s greatest foe. And though the sensual king makes her burn, she must stop him, whatever the cost.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Not quite present day

Fifteen-year-old Micah spun slowly, his jaw slack. What is this place? Spears of lightning forked across a dark sky heavy with darker clouds. Glowing silvery orbs hung from tree branches, illuminating a forest clearing he wished he hadn’t discovered. The eeriness of it all boggled the mind.

From the outside, thick white fog had enveloped the interlocking trees set in a wide circle. From the inside, however, he had an unobstructed view of the dried blood that stained the bark—and the faces carved within. Fierce expressions projected everything from dread to malice, and he shuddered.

Someone had gone to great trouble to make the gnarled giants resemble belua. Monsters of unimaginable strength, somehow birthed from the elements themselves. Able to live and breathe and walk among fae.

Micah tightened his grip on a makeshift dagger—a twig he’d sharpened with his teeth and what remained of his nails.

Beady eyes seemed to track his every movement as he trod deeper into the clearing. A large, moss-covered stone with a wide base and a flat top occupied the center of the ring. An altar?

A chilled breeze blustered past, rousing goose bumps on his skin. Scanning… The vibrant moss provided the only foliage here. There were no animals or insects. No other life whatsoever.

Death reigned here.

A crack of thunder boomed, punctuating his thought, and he almost jumped out of his skin. The next lightning bolt charged the atmosphere; electric currents pricked his spine. Micah dragged in the scent of ash and… What was that? Sweetness itself? A unique fragrance brimming with all the glories of the Summer Court. Sunshine, flowers and citrus.

His mouth watered, and his empty stomach protested. When had he last eaten?

Twig at the ready, he approached the stone and gathered a fistful of moss. The first bite proved bitter, the second more so. But as the greenery settled in his stomach, some of his pains faded; he only desired more.

He shoveled another fistful into his mouth, then another and another, unable to slow himself. For over a year, he’d wandered the wastelands of Astaria alone. Originally, he’d traveled with his guardian. A great warrior named Erwen. A great man, period. He’d found baby Micah inside a basket, and saved him from being eaten by trolls.

He bit his tongue, tasting blood. Erwen had died in battle with a belua. A massive snow beast in the Winterlands.

Micah had expected to perish alongside his guardian. A part of him had hoped to die. How he’d loved Erwen, his sole companion—the only person willing to be near him.

Like his guardian, Micah was a chimera. A rare fae born with dual glamaras that were constantly at odds. The clash created a negative force field around them. Unwanted by fae and humans alike. Feared by everyone. Known for scarring—outward evidence of weakness and a badge of shame.

Chilly wind rattled branches. Lightning peppered the sky, spotlighting— Micah froze, his breath hitched. Were their limbs untangling? Had the one to his left narrowed its eyes?

An illusion?

Genuine belua? Had he stumbled into a nest?

He dropped the newest handful of moss, preparing to bolt. But, from the corner of his eye, he perceived an array of color. Smooth gold. Vivid pink. Gleaming scarlet. He meant to glance, nothing more. A quick peek to ensure no one sneaked up on him. Instead, he stared and reared back, his eyes going wide.

Was he seeing what he thought he was seeing? Surely not. And yet…

Maybe.

Heart jumping, he lurched closer to the stone. Sucked in a breath. A girl. A fae. Exquisite. She slept upon the slab, seemingly growing from the surface. Or from the forest itself.

Lightning flashed, there and gone, showcasing a smattering of freckles, pink cheeks and cherry lips that were bowed in the center. Other details hit him, throwing him for loop after loop. They might be the same age. Flawless skin the color of sunlight, vibrant with life. Delicate features usually only found on royalty. A plain gown too short and tight to cover the abundance of shapely curves.

Who was she? Why was she here? What color were her eyes?

Excitement arced through Micah. Would she mind being friends with a chimera?

A rolling rumble precipitated the first splatter of rain. Cold droplets splashed his cheeks, and he grinned. Let the liquid soak him. What did he care? He’d uncovered a treasure of unsurpassed value.

The rain deluged her, too, her gown becoming transparent. Trembling suddenly more pronounced, he reached out to brush droplets from her cheek.

A rustle sounded behind him, and he wheeled around, ready to defend his prize. Too late. A tree loomed before him, and the truth hit, hard.

“Belua!” Hiding in plain sight.

A fat branch slammed into his head. He flew across the clearing, dropping his makeshift weapon when he crashed into another tree.

His lungs emptied. So dizzy. No time to recover. Another branch flung him in the opposite direction.

Ribs broke on impact, and agony seared him. Before he could rise, roots coiled around his ankle and attempted to eject him from the clearing. He clawed at the ground, determined to hold his position and shield the girl. Dirt and blood coated his tongue.

Bark scraped his spine. Limbs stabbed into different bones. Wheezing, fighting the urge to vomit, Micah rolled out of the way.

A limb pierced a vital organ, and an agonized scream burst from him. The pain! Then, suddenly, he was airborne, soaring across the expanse. When he landed, a world of darkness crackled open its jaw and swallowed him whole.

As Micah healed, he realized a startling truth. The monsters safeguarded the girl. They hadn’t attacked until he uncovered her. More than that, they hadn’t struck to kill him. Otherwise, he would be dead.

Why they guarded her—why they had shown him mercy—he didn’t know. But he wondered. Was little Red on that stone slab of her own volition or a captive?

There was one way to find out…

Micah returned to the clearing—to her—with a firm goal in mind. Befriend these belua. If he could join them, protect the girl until she awoke…

Was this a betrayal to Erwen and everything he’d stood for? Surely not. His guardian had lived by four rules.

Do no harm to the innocent. Protect what’s yours. Always do what’s right. Never be without a backup plan.

The sleeping beauty was vulnerable and in need of another fae. Just in case the trees held her against her will.

What better path to travel than keeping her safe?

Micah advanced on the creatures cautiously, both hands lifted. “You had every right to eject me,” he told them. In their minds, he’d committed a terrible offense. Touching a female without her willing consent. Or theirs. Now, he hoped to prove the innocence of his intentions. “I did your fair lady wrong. Allow me to present her with a gift of apology. And respect.” He revealed a red crystal he’d dug from the earth bright and early this morning. “So much respect.”

A prolonged hesitation followed his words, anticipation stealing his breath. Finally, the trees opened a doorway for him.

Giddy but remaining vigilant, he entered slowly, placed the present on a step leading to the altar and backed away. Rather than exit, he faced the largest of the bunch. “I mean her no harm, and I won’t touch her again. If you’ll let me, I’ll help you with her protection.”

He wasn’t immediately impaled, a good sign. Micah set up camp. As one week blended into another, the trees relaxed around him. As their tension faded, bright leaves budded, creating a vibrant paradise.

For the first time in Micah’s life, provision without price abounded. Various species of flowers, fruits and nuts flourished without cease, dropping from overburdened limbs.

Nourishment rained all hours. In offering or apology, he didn’t know which.

Morning and evening, he thanked his companions for the bounty. Never had Micah enjoyed such delicious meals. But…when will she awaken?

Fresh moss covered the girl, protecting her from sun, wind and rain. Her sweet scent magnified daily, coating the air; he considered every inhalation a precious gift.

How did she sleep so deeply? And why? For how long? Why did belua continue to protect her, no matter how much time passed?

Did she crave a friend? If the beautiful fae with freckles sought a fellow fae companion, shouldn’t he oblige her?

Longing gripped Micah. But you aren’t a fae, are you? Not exactly. He shifted in the bed he’d constructed with twigs and fallen hanks of moss. He just…he wanted to belong to someone. To be welcomed. Maybe even admired.

What did such affection even feel like? And what was the beauty’s name? Would she like his offerings? There were many.

Anytime a troll or centaur neared the clearing, Micah departed the ring to end the threat. He collected supplies left by the dead, amassing a treasure trove of weapons, dried meats, clothing, maps, coins and jewels. All for her. Well, mostly for her. He’d kept some of the clothing for himself, exchanging a filthy, tattered tunic and ripped leathers for higher quality garments. Even a cloak to help him hide the scars left by the tree attack.

Would she like him?

As he gathered an array of fruit for breakfast, he stole glances at her. For the first time, much of the moss withered, baring her fully. Morning sunlight lent her golden skin an otherworldly glow. Silken locks of auburn hair gleamed.

Curling black lashes cast spiky shadows over pinkened cheeks. Plump red lips with a bowed center and a stubborn chin added to her captivating allure.

The girl— Wait. Had that cherry mouth parted? Micah froze, every cell buzzing. Even the trees stilled, as if time suspended. Then…

A soft moan left her. The first sound she’d made since his arrival. Then she stretched her arms over her head.

He dropped the bundle in his arms, pink-and-red fruit thudding to the ground, rolling away. Startled by the noise, the girl jolted upright, auburn locks tumbling around her delicate shoulders. She blinked to orient herself.

His mind raced with a thousand thought fragments. Even more beautiful… jade eyes, brighter than the leaves…gown soon to tear apart at the seams…friend… Mine?

She turned, maneuvering her legs over the side of the bed. Standing. Stretching. As graceful as a swan he’d once spied in the Summer Court.

Micah stood in awe, utterly transfixed.

As if sensing him at last, she looked his way and gasped. Her mouth floundered open and closed, fright overtaking her expression.

He hurried to offer a reassurance. “I mean you no—”

A high-pierced scream burst from her. The most horrifying sound he’d ever heard. Sharp pains stabbed his brain, hot blood dripping from his ears. He slapped his palms over the blood-soaked shells, but it didn’t help.

The trees snapped to attention. In an instant, leaves wilted. Fruit dried up. The belua army lunged at him, and this time, they attacked to kill, stabbing and pummeling full force. Pain wracked him, each injury teaching him a new lesson in agony.

Deserve this. He’d foolishly shown favor to an enemy. Had thought to become friends with vessels of evil.

But the girl…

Will come back for her. The trees wouldn’t harm her. Even now, they kept her out of harm’s way. If she required freedom, Micah would free her. But first, he must survive.

He escaped the clearing, crawling out of range before collapsing in a beam of sunlight, eating dirt. Then the darkness came…

Excerpted from Ruthless by Gena Showalter. Copyright © 2022 by Gena Showalter. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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About the Author

Gena Showalter is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over seventy books, including the acclaimed Lords of the Underworld series, the Gods of War series, the White Rabbit Chronicles, and the Forest of Good and Evil series. She writes sizzling paranormal romance, heartwarming contemporary romance, and unputdownable young adult novels, and lives in Oklahoma City with her family and menagerie of dogs. Visit her at GenaShowalter.com.

Connect:

Author Website: https://genashowalter.com/

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Twitter: @genashowalter

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Goodreads

Spotlight: Double Dog Dare by Tracy Solheim

(Milwaukee Growlers, #2)
Publication date: July 25th 2022
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

They say he who dares wins…

Luke Kessler is known for his daring play on the field and his carefully scripted life off it. The Growlers’ wide receiver has a strict rule of dating one carefully chosen woman per season, then letting her down gently. After all, his game is football, not love. That is until his dopey mutt falls for a French bulldog owned by a hot mess of a woman whose sassy mouth and mind-blowing curves have him fumbling his best laid plans.

After a humiliating concert performance played out in front of the world on social media, cellist Summer Pearson has sworn off a career in music. Forever. She’s hiding out with her grandparents in Milwaukee, licking her wounds and preparing for a predictable, if not boring, law career. The last person she needs challenging her life choices is a sexy, dog-rescuing jock who loves his grandma as much as he loves a good dare.

Especially when that same guy is dating her perfect cousin.

This fun, flirty sports romance delivers a happily ever after that will have you laughing, crying, sighing, and cheering in the endzone. One-click it now for doggy hijinks, senior citizens bent on shenanigans, sexy ax-throwing, locker room bromance, steamy private cello performances, and all the feels as two people discover they are worthy of love.

Double Dog Dare is book 2 in the Milwaukee Growlers Football series but can be read as a standalone with no cliffhangers.

Excerpt

The doorbell rang.

“Oh no,” Lizzie cried. “I’m not ready yet.” She snatched the earrings from Summer’s hand. “You have to stall him. I still need to finish my hair.”

Summer looked down at the baggy flannel boxers she’d pulled on earlier when she got home from making the final preparations in her classroom. Had she even remembered to shave her legs today? Yesterday?  The T-shirt she wore was tied in a knot at her waist, revealing the Ben and Jerry’s induced swell of her belly. No way was she dressed to greet anyone, much less a hot jock.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’m locking myself in my bedroom until you leave.”

“I just agreed to your big ask,” Lizzie hissed. “This is mine in return.”

She slammed the bathroom door in Summer’s face and locked it. Milli was barking like a fiend in the living room when the doorbell rang again. Crap. There was no time to wrap herself in a Snuggie. 

Or refill her wine glass with liquid courage.

With a resigned sigh, Summer made her way to the front door. Milli’s toenails were tapdancing on the oak floors as the dog prepared to launch herself at whoever was on the front porch. Summer positioned her leg awkwardly to prevent Milli from escaping and opened the door, revealing an unexpected familiar sight—none other than Monty’s owner. She bit back a groan at the sight of the mouth she’d been having some serious dreams about last night. The eyes she’d been wondering about yesterday were hazel. And currently very bemused.

“You,” she said, sounding just as priggish as she had the day before. 

Monty’s owner shoved his hands into the pockets of his sharply pressed khakis. “Uh, I hope I’ve got the right address. I’m looking for Elizabeth Pearson.”

Of course, he was. 

Summer was suddenly appalled she’d been fantasizing about her cousin’s date.

“She’s expecting a football player.” In for a priggish penny, in for a priggish pound.

He rocked back on his heels. “Number eighty-one in your Growler’s program and number one in fans’ hearts. And the league’s leading receiver, two seasons in a row.”

“Wow.” That explained Papa Harry’s “big fan” comment from yesterday.

Milli whimpered as she clawed at Summer’s leg to escape. No doubt the silly dog wanted to roll over and expose her lady parts to her lover’s owner. 

“Asseyez-vous et comportez-vous, Milli,” Summer commanded. The dog neither sat nor behaved. Instead, the wee beast continued to struggle to get free.

Number Eighty-One chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the only French that dog understands is French fry.”

Summer bristled with indignation. How dare he fat-shame her grandmother’s adorably pudgy dog. “I’ll have you know that Milli Chanel understands French perfectly. She’s brilliant.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t say.” 

Crouching down on his haunches, he stared into Milli’s eyes. Summer swore the dog sighed.

“Voulez-vous manger vieilles chaussures, Milli?”

Mother of God. The man was fluent in the language of love, not to mention bread and chocolate. Summer was shocked her panties hadn’t spontaneously combusted as the perfectly accented words sensuously rolled off his tongue. 

Milli seemed to be having the same reaction. The dog’s eyes practically rolled back in her head as though he’d asked if she wanted cheese on her burger rather than if she wanted to eat old shoes.

Satisfied he had proved his point, he stood up with the lithe grace of a natural athlete and smirked at her. “I rest my case.”

Milli whimpered at the loss of Monty’s owner’s undivided attention.

“Oww!” Summer yelped when the dog’s claws broke the skin on her leg. 

She hopped on one foot to the kitchen, leaving the guy to fend for himself with the little hussy that was her grandmother’s dog. She snagged a paper towel and held it to her shin while pouring herself another glass of wine with her other hand. Who said she wasn’t talented?

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About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Tracy Solheim writes books with shirtless men on the cover. Some of them are actually best-sellers. The books, not the men. When she's not writing, she's practicing her curling. . . bottles of wine, that is. She's been known to cook dinner but no more than two nights in a row. Most days, she'd rather be reading, which to her is just necessary research. She lives in the suburbs of Atlanta with her husband and a neurotic Labrador retriever. Her two adult children visit but not often enough. (See the note above about cooking.) Check out her romantic suspense series featuring the Men of the Secret Service--shirtless, of course! See what she’s up to at www.tracysolheim.com

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Spotlight: Mr. Grier and the Governess by Sophie Barnes

The Brazen Beauties, Book 2

Regency Romance

Date Published: July 26th 2022

He’s the dutiful guardian…

She’s the breath of fresh air he needs…

Olivia Poole knows her time for marriage has passed, so she accepts the position of governess to Mr. Grier’s ward. However, she cannot reject the vow she once made her sister – that she would live her life to the fullest. Armed with a list they created together, she determines to honor her promise. But being a governess and an adventuress isn’t so easy. Least of all when the only man she would ever consider for her last challenge happens to be her employer.

Although Grayson Grier mourns the loss of his rakish days, he is determined to do right by his ward. But when he meets Miss Poole, the prim and proper governess seeking employment, something about her begs to be challenged. Ignoring his better judgment for once, Grayson hires her on the spot – a decision destined to tempt him at every turn. For what he did not anticipate was her list, or the fact that his name would be on it. Right next to kissing…

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About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes spent her youth traveling with her parents to wonderful places all around the world. She's lived in five different countries, on three different continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish, and Romanian with varying degrees of fluency. But, most impressive of all, she's been married to the same man three times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.

When she's not busy dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.

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Website: http://www.sophiebarnes.com

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