Spotlight: Dear Stranger by Winter Renshaw

Online lovers … offline rivals.  

Ambitious and career-driven, I have zero time for dating until Blind Love—an app designed for those seeking genuine romantic connections without the hassle of awkward first dates—hooks me in. The only catch? Ninety days of anonymous messaging are required before identities are revealed. 

I connect with Stranger88 immediately, and before long our flirty banter becomes a welcome escape from my demanding schedule.  

Soon I’m desperate to know his true identity, so I go digging—only to discover that Stranger88 … is no stranger at all.  

In a cruel twist of fate, it turns out the mystery man consuming my every thought is fellow attorney Brooks Abbott—a sharp-tongued devil in a three-piece suit, my biggest office rival, and the one obstacle standing between me and the promotion of my dreams: a job Brooks has every intention of landing. 

Behind the screens, there’s no denying our electric chemistry, but at work, our rivalry grows stronger than ever.  

But when passion meets profession, will we redefine the Law of Attraction … or will our hearts face a ruthless cross-examination with no chance of appeal? 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a standalone romance. You do not need to read HATE MAIL or YOURS CRUELLY first.

*Uncorrected Excerpt 

Tenley

I sip my tepid coffee at my desk and attempt to concentrate on the endless stream of unread emails in front of me. 

It’s only a quarter past nine and I’m yawning already and finding it impossible to focus. I usually come to work, ready and raring to go. Today I can’t keep my eyes open to save my life. 

I was able to put Stranger88 out of my head at around twoAM, when I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to be woken by my alarm three hours later. I pride myself on being the first person into the office every day, turning on the lights and watching everyone step off the elevator exactly at nine. It shows pluck. Drive. Ambition. Motivation. Self-discipline. All the things an up-and-coming attorney should possess. 

I’d never dream of sneaking off into a dark corner of the office to have fun with a delivery person. That’s not me. I actually have respect for myself, for the law, and for this institution. I’m here to work and only to work. 

But apparently not today, which is concerning with that promotion on the table. 

In an attempt to keep my eyes open, I decide to get up, stretch, and refill my coffee. Only the second I rise from my chair, the elevator across the hall dings, the doors part, and out steps Brooks Gentry, swagger, arrogant smile, and all. 

The sight of him makes most women wet. He has thick, dark hair that tumbles over his forehead in a devil-may-care way, ice-blue eyes, a strong jaw that always has a five o’clock shadow, even early in the morning. I’ve never seen him in anything other than a suit, though he rarely wears the jacket and always seems to have his sleeves rolled up in a let’s get to work kind of way. 

Not that I’ve ever seen him do much actual work. 

Everything comes so easy to him—especially the women around here. 

I’m not sure what bothers me more … the fact that highly intelligent women in this place act like groupies at a concert the second he walks by—or the fact that he’s my number one competitor for this promotion. 

I pride myself on never showing a ripple, but it’s impossible with him. The mere sight of him makes it nearly impossible to control my facial expressions. Then there’s the fact that he’s an Ivy League snob, from Yale or Harvard or some law school that wouldn’t even look at me. Secondly, he’s infuriatingly gorgeous, tall and athletic and easy on the eyes—and he knows it. He has the entire office wrapped around his charming little pinky finger. If the man had a single pore on his perfect face, it’d be oozing confidence. 

Brooks gets want he wants almost as easily as he breathes. It all comes naturally, effortlessly. The wins, the adoration, the accolades. He’s the practice darling, the superhero in an office full of overworked women desperate for male attention. 

What makes this entire thing all the more maddening is that because of him, I have to work twice as hard to get noticed. 

At the end of the day, Brooks Gentry is the reason I’m here from seven in the morning until ten at night. Whenever I think I might want to pack it in, all I need to do is picture his smug, gorgeous, annoying face. 

Good thing I love my job. 

Brooks glances at me for a moment before striding toward his office. 

“Morning, Ms. Bayliss,” he says almost off-handedly as he passes by. 

I nod. “Mr. Gentry.”

We separate as quickly as possible, like two rockets shooting in opposite directions. A second later, as I’m heading into the break room, I happen to glance over and spot Mr. Popular hanging over one of the pretty interns’ desks, his hand on his hip and a schmaltzy grin on his face. 

He thinks he’s so smooth. 

His ploys would never work on me. 

I see through them like cheap cellophane.  

Rolling my eyes, I go to myself a coffee. When I return, he’s still there, remarking on some photo on the blonde intern’s desk. She giggles, too loud, and then fusses with her hair. 

Shaking my head, I return to my office and shut the door. 

A minute later, my inbox dings with a meeting request from Lisa Hamilton, one of the four main partners at the firm. She, Ed Foster, and his younger brother Tom Foster, are the cornerstones of Foster and Foster, along with Bill Lindsey, who’s retiring this summer and the sole reason there’s an open partnership positionand corner office on the horizon. 

The meeting subject is: FUTURE PLANS.

My breath hitches. Ed handles the day-to-day business of the firm, Tom is the face of the firm, so he’s always travelling. But Lisa primarily works from home and when she’s here, she handles the HR and staffing concerns. Because of that, I’ve rarely met with her. The last time I did, it was when I’d beenpromoted from Junior Associate to Senior Associate a year ago. 

Is this about the promotion? Is it finally happening? Surely I’ve done nothing that would warrant disciplinary action of any kind. Certainly not a termination. 

My fingers tremble as I click on it. It was set up by Shelly, Lisa’s executive assistant, as all important meetings are, and there’s an exclamation point on it, indicating it’s urgent. 

Of course it is. 

Lisa wants to meet this afternoon.

I can’t click the ACCEPT button fast enough. 

After several minutes of analyzing this urgent, last minute request, I decide this has to be about the partnership. Bill Lindsey is leaving in less than two months. He made the announcement last year, which was when I kicked my campaign to be his replacement into overdrive. They’re going to have to select someone soon so the candidate can get up to speed before we cut the cake at his retirement party.  

My excitement reaches a fever pitch—until I glance at the top of the invitation, which names other meeting invitees. I expect to see Ed. Tom if he’s between trips. Maybe Bill if he hasn’t checked out yet. They’d want to congratulate me. 

But it’s not the partners’ names I see. 

Other than Lisa and me, there’s only one other name.

Brooks Gentry.

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About Winter Renshaw 

Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi. 

And if you'd like to be the first to know when a new book is coming out, please sign up for her private mailing list here ---> http://eepurl.com/bfQU2j

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Spotlight: The Roaring Days of Zora Lily by Noelle Salazar

MIRA Paperback Original

Publication Date: October 3, 2023

Set during a period of rapid social and technological change, The Roaring Days of Zora Lily follows a struggling young seamstress from her long nights sewing costumes in the smoke-filled speakeasies of Seattle to designing gowns for Hollywood’s biggest starlets.

2023, The Smithsonian's National Museum of American History: A costume conservator is preparing an exhibition featuring movie costumes from the 1920s to present day. As she gingerly places a gown once worn by Greta Garbo on a mannequin, she discovers another name hidden beneath the designer's label, leaving her to wonder—who is Zora Lily?

1924, Seattle: Poverty-stricken Zora Hough spends her days looking after her younger siblings while sewing up holes and fixing hems for clients to bring in extra money, working her fingers to the bone just to survive. But at night, as she lies in the bed she shares with one of her three sisters, she secretly dreams of becoming a designer like Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin.

When her best friend gets a job dancing in a club downtown, Zora is lured in by her stories of music, glittering dresses and boys. She follows her friend to the underground speakeasies that are at once exciting and frightening—with smoke hanging in the air, alcohol flowing despite Prohibition, couples dancing in a way that makes Zora blush and a handsome businessman named Harley. It’s a world she has only ever imagined, and one with connections that could lead her to the life she's always dreamed of. But as Zora's ambition is challenged by tragedy and duty to her family, she'll learn that dreams come with a cost.

Excerpt

Washington, DC, 2023

The fluorescent lights blinked on in a domino effect, one after the other, a faint buzzing sound filling the room as I stood squinting in the unnatural light.

I inhaled, taking in my small slice of heaven within the storied walls of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The long room with its high ceiling, soothing taupe walls, and wood floors—weathered in spots from years of conservators standing and pacing as they labored over the works of great minds—brought a sense of peace as soon as I stepped inside.

The museum had been my happy place since I was a little girl, when my mother would walk with me from our baby blue–painted row house on Capitol Hill, her slender fingers wrapped around my pudgy ones. We’d wander past sprawling parks, melancholy monuments documenting history, to the austere but magical facade housing wonders my six-year-old eyes could barely comprehend. By the age of eight I knew all the regular exhibits like the back of my hand, and waited anxiously for the monthly newsletter that arrived in our mailbox, telling us what traveling exhibits we could expect next. It was one such exhibit, a gallery of gowns worn by British royalty, that had burrowed itself inside me in such a way that a dream was born.

“I’m going to work here one day,” I’d told my mother, pushing back a strand of dirty-blond hair as I stared up at a jewel-colored gown once worn by Queen Elizabeth the Second.

I was twelve.

I wanted to exist within these walls. It was my church, and I believed in its teachings wholeheartedly. I had drunk the water. Read the great books. And prayed to the gods of knowledge and creativity. I wanted to be part of whatever it took to bring history to life for others. And for the past nine years…that’s exactly what I’d done.

I stared at the scene sprawled out before me.

“Sanctuary,” I whispered, tucking a blond-highlighted strand of hair behind my ear.

Gleaming table after gleaming table sat covered in silk, satin, lace, and velvet. Gowns and dresses and blouses previously only seen on movie screens and in photographs now lay delicately in wait of tending to, their sparkle and sinew in contrast to the stark lights and tepid surroundings. Mannequins, my constant companions, stood at the ready, waiting for their moment.

Thread in every color imaginable, like a rainbow of rotund spool soldiers on a rolling rack, waited to be chosen. Needles in pincushions, strips of bias tape, shimmering appliqués, ribbons, seam rippers, clear drawers filled with buttons and clasps and snaps, and boxes upon boxes of straight pins, their colorful heads a happy bouquet of tiny plastic globes, were scattered across every surface, peeking from where they’d fallen to the f loor, rolled beneath furniture, and stuck—I bent to pull a pink-headed pin from the rug beneath my feet—in a variety of inconvenient places.

The door clicked open behind me and I smiled.

“Good morning, Sylvia,” a familiar voice said.

“Morning, Lu,” I said to the one member of my team who, like me, couldn’t wait to get to work.

Every day, my friend and fellow fashion-obsessed cohort, Lu Huang, and I arrived within minutes of one another, and a full half hour before anyone else. Working as conservators for the museum was a coveted get for us. A dream job that every morning caused us to rush from our respective homes, grabbing an insufficient breakfast on our way out the door, and wondering hours later why we were so hungry. We lost track of time constantly, surviving on coffee and bags of chips from the vending machine, and leaving friends and family waiting on us as we turned up late to holiday parties, dinners, and events we’d implored others to attend but couldn’t possibly get to on time, and having forgotten to blend the concealer we’d hurriedly dotted on in the train, with paint under our nails and bits of thread or glue on our jacket cuffs.

In Lu I’d found not only the perfect work companion, but a kindred spirit. Over the nine years we’d worked together, we’d enjoyed laughing over our shared love of no-nonsense ponytails, and waxing poetic about old films and vintage fashion. We sat in her living room or mine, rewatching the movies that had shaped us and sharing stories of our schoolgirl walls plastered with images of iconic women of the silver screen, while our schoolmates favored posters of half-clothed men. So, when the idea for the newest exhibit started floating around our superiors’ offices upstairs, we’d spent many a night poring over which films we’d choose if asked, and then deliberated, scrapped, and chose again until we had the perfect array.

Out of curiosity, we began to inquire with movie studios about the costumes we’d be interested in displaying, running into new obstacles with each call we made. Several times we chose a beloved film only to find half the costumes had been lost in a fire, were part of a decades-long legal battle, or were just plain lost—a travesty over which we consoled ourselves with a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas. Eventually, the decisions about which movies to include boiled down to three simple things: Where were the costumes we’d need? Would they be available to us for the time required? And what kind of shape were they in?

Once we’d gotten the green light that the exhibit was on, we finalized our list, made the calls, gathered confirmations, and began the design for the wing the costumes would be shown in. And then we waited, barely able to contain ourselves as one by one the garments that would be featured in The Hollywood Glamour Exhibition arrived.

We chose two movies per decade, going back one hundred years to the 1920s. Every piece that had been worn by the female lead was sent to us from studios, museums, or estates. Once in our possession, my job as costume curator, along with my staff of seven, was to remove each gown or outfit from its protective garment bags or boxes, and go over it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for tears, stains, missing buttons, and the like. We’d been working for months. Some of the more intricate gowns needed extensive rebeading or sequin replacement, and many of the older pieces needing patching inside to hold the outside fabric together. In two cases we’d had to sew exact replicas of the linings, and then carefully fit them inside the original, giving it something to cling to, extending its life.

A pantsuit from the forties had lost an outside pocket and matching the fabric had been hell. The brim of an iconic straw hat that belonged to another outfit had been scorched by a cigarette and needed to be patched. Each garment presented its own set of unique problems, and we were giddy as we worked to solve each puzzle.

With our intention for each item to be viewed from all sides, it was crucial they looked as flawless as possible. Thankfully, my team were experts in their field, and excited at the opportunity to handle costumes worn by some of the most famous women in film history.

“Can’t believe we’re down to the final film,” Lu said, running a finger over a strip of fringe hanging from a black evening gown. “I think this batch is my favorite.”

I nodded, taking in the room of costumes from the 1928 film The Star. Each piece had been worn by the iconic Greta Garbo and was the epitome of elegance and class. And a notable diversion from the designer’s usual style.

“It’s so odd Cleménte changed her MO for this one film,” I said, tilting my head as I took in the distinct wide neckline featured in each of the eight pieces. Even a blouse and jacket had been designed to show off the actress’s collarbones. The pieces were alluring, but Cleménte had always been known for a more modest style.

Michele Cleménte had been a well-known designer in the ’20s and ’30s, her signature style demure, with higher necklines and longer hems. But for this movie, she’d completely diverged.

“It is strange,” Lu said, frowning. “The studio must’ve wanted something exact.”

“Then why hire her?” I asked. “Not that she didn’t do a lovely job. The clothing is exquisite. I’d wear them all now.”

“And look fab doing it.”

I felt myself blush with pleasure at the compliment. Being tall and willowy had its advantages. Unfortunately for me, I had neither the opportunity nor the bank account to wear clothes as fine as the ones before us.

“Thanks, Lu,” I said, bending to peer closer at the large white beaded star on the white satin gown that was to be the centerpiece for the entire show.

Aside from the star, the rest of the fabric had been left unadorned, letting the beaded element shine before one’s eye went to the skirt, which fell in soft overlapping layers to the floor. It was a stunning piece of art. But a confusing one. Because it

had no resemblance to any piece ever sewn before by Cleménte. At least not any piece I’d seen in my years of studying the different famous designers. It didn’t have her specific way of hand sewing or her distinctive technique of tying off a knot, or even her tendency toward geometric shapes. But it was the neckline that really threw me off. Cleménte had preferred to leave a lot to the imagination. It was her calling card during a time when everyone else was showing more skin. And yet for these, she’d completely gone off-script.

The rest of the crew arrived at nine on the dot and the quiet of the room rose to a dull roar as individual desk lights were turned on, loupes donned to scrutinize the tiniest details, and we all began to sew, glue, and chat our way through the day.

“Syl?”

I glanced up and winced as my back protested from having been bent over a table for the past hour. Lu stood, her coat over her arm, by the door. Everyone else had vanished.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Nearly seven.”

“Shit. How does that always happen?” I pulled the loupes from my head.

“You happen to be in love with a dress,” Lu said. “That’s how.”

“Story of my life.”

“Explains so much.”

“Does it?”

“I mean, it definitely explains why you haven’t had a date with a real live human in a while. Only—” She gestured to the mannequin beside me.

We laughed. She wasn’t wrong.

Lu was the only person who truly understood me. The only person besides my sister who I’d ever allowed to see inside my guest room closet where dozens of scavenged vintage dresses, trousers, jackets, and hats hung, waiting to be delicately cared for like the ones I lovingly handled at work.

“You gonna stay?” Lu asked, watching me as I looked back at the dress spread out before me.

I rubbed my eyes and stared at the tiny white beads I’d been replacing. We’d named the dress The Diaphanous Star, and I’d been carefully sewing on one bead at a time for the past two hours. It was a delicate task as the fabric they clung to was nearly one hundred years old. I had to work slowly and thoughtfully to keep from shredding it.

“Yeah,” I said, rotating my head. “I want to get this star done. How’d you do today?”

I glanced over at the black evening gown she was working on.

“I’m close,” she said. “You can barely see the snag in the back now, and I should be able to replace the bit of fringe that’s missing tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” I said, reaching over to wake my laptop and clicking on the calendar. “We are ahead of schedule, which bodes well should we have any catastrophes.”

Lu knocked a small wooden box holding scissors inside it.

“Don’t jinx us,” she said and then waved. “See you B and E.”

“See you B and E,” I said.

B and E. Bright and early. We’d made it up one day after the youngest woman in our group rattled off a bunch of acronyms as if the rest of us should know what they mean. We used it constantly. She didn’t think it was amusing. This of course made it that much funnier.

I pulled my loupes back down and resumed placing the beads that formed the shimmering star. Thirty minutes later I sat up, set the magnifying glasses on the table, and arched my back in a well-deserved stretch.

“Okay, you,” I said to the dress. “Time to get you on a mannequin.”

Sliding my arms beneath the gown, I lifted it carefully and carried it to the far end of the table where a mannequin with roughly Greta Garbo’s 1927 torso measurements stood in wait,

minus its arms which would be attached once I got the dress on it.

Unfortunately, the wide neckline made it hard to secure.

“You’re pretty,” I muttered, trying to keep the dress from slipping to the floor while I reached for one of the arms. “But a pain in my ass.”

I clicked an arm into place, moving the capped sleeve over the seam where the appendage attached to the shoulder, and making sure the hand was resting just right on the mannequin’s hip. Satisfied, I reached for the other arm and did the same on the other side.

“Not bad, headless Garbo,” I said, straightening the gown and smiling at the beaded star glimmering under the lights.

I grabbed my notepad and made my way around the dress, writing down problems that still needed to be addressed. Loose threads, the unraveling second tier of the skirt, and a bit of fabric that looked like it had rubbed against something and was scuffed. There was a stain on the hem in back, and one of the capped sleeves sagged, leading me to investigate and find a spot inside where the elastic was stretched out of shape.

My eyes moved along every inch of fabric, bead, and thread, my fingers scribbling notes as I took in what was easier to see with the dress hanging rather than sprawled on a tabletop. As I scrutinized the neckline in back, I noticed the tag was exposed and reached up to tuck it in. But as I pulled the material back, the tag fluttered to the floor.

With a sigh, I bent to pick it up. I could leave the fix until morning, but as I had nothing but an empty apartment waiting for me, I began the task of detaching the arms of the mannequin and sliding the dress back off and onto the table.

“Always something with you ladies,” I said, grabbing a needle and thread. “Can’t complain, I guess. Hottest date I’ve had in a while.”

But as I turned my attention to the spot the tag had fallen

from, I frowned and pulled the dress closer, peering at a small, elegant stitch no longer than the length of the tag that had covered it.

“Is that…”

I grabbed my loupes and looked again, the stitching now magnified and leaving zero doubt that beneath the tag, in white thread and a beautiful freehand stitch, was a name—and it wasn’t Cleménte’s.

Sitting back, I removed my glasses and stared at the gorgeous dress with its beautiful wide neckline and capped sleeves, the beaded star, the tiered skirt that was so unlike Cleménte in style, and wondered aloud to the empty room—

“Who the hell is Zora Lily?”

From THE ROARING DAYS OF ZORA LILY by Noelle Salazar. Copyright © 2023 by Noelle Salazar. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.

Buy on Amazon | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Noelle Salazar was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, where she's been a Navy recruit, a medical assistant, an NFL cheerleader, and always a storyteller. As a novelist, she has done extensive research into the Women Airforce Service Pilots, interviewing vets and visiting the training facility—now a museum dedicated to the WASP—in Sweetwater, Texas. When she’s not writing, she can be found dodging raindrops and daydreaming of her next book. Her debut The Flight Girls, was an instant bestseller, a Forbes Hypable book of the month, and a BookBub Top Recommended book from readers. Her second novel, Angels of the Resistance: A Novel of Sisterhood and Courage in WWII was also published to wide praise including an Amazon Editors’ Fiction Pick of the Month. Noelle lives in Bothell, Washington with her family.

Connect:

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

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

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

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Spotlight: Flirting with the CEO by Layla Hagen

Release Date: October 4

FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED

I wanted to hate her. Instead, I desperately need her.

I didn't get to be CEO by playing nice. I'm driven and ruthless—and yes, occasionally rude. But it gets the job done, and that's all I care about. My business partners disagree. They insist I need to improve my communication skills. That's how I end up with Zoey Thomas shadowing me.

From the moment she steps into my office, I have one goal: ignore her until she quits. I don't need anyone telling me how to conduct my business. I call the shots. Always.

But the more I push Zoey away, the more she persists. And she’s starting to piss me off. She's too chirpy, too sassy, and far too sexy. When we finally sit down to discuss how I could communicate better, I barely manage to pay attention. Instead, I fantasize about exploring her body all night long, and that won't do.

I manage to keep my distance, right until she shows up at the boxing ring where I blow off steam. Outside the confines of the office, instinct takes over, and I kiss her.

She wants me and I want her, and we explore each other in all the ways I imagined.

But Zoey Thomas should be completely off-limits. She's fun and walks around with her heart on her sleeve. I'm the exact opposite. Worse, I'm married to my work. Always have been and always will be. I can't offer her what she wants.

But how am I supposed to let her walk away when all I want is to keep her?

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

My name is Layla Hagen and I am a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance.

I fell in love with books when I was nine years old, and my love affair with stories continues even now, many years later.

I write romantic stories and can’t wait to share them with the world.

And I drink coffee.

Keep up with Layla Hagen and subscribe to her newsletter: http://laylahagen.com/mailing-list-sign-up/

To learn more about Layla Hagen & her books, visit here!

Connect with Layla Hagen: https://laylahagen.com/contact-layla/

Spotlight: Delta by Sybil Bartel

(The Alpha Elite, #8)

Publication date: October 3rd

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

Synopsis:

Dominant.

Mercenary.

Navy SEAL

I had one job on the Teams. Predict the unpredictable. See what no one else saw. Analyze, assess, anticipate. Then execute with deadly force.

Calculating the enemy’s moves, including the ones they hadn’t thought of yet was my specialty. I did it for the Navy and now I was private sector, utilizing my skills at Alpha Elite Security. I had a hundred percent mission success rate…until her.

Make no mistake, I saw the blonde coming. I predicted her every move. But this time, I wasn’t going to stop it. I was going to do something much worse.

Code name: Delta.

Mission: Dominate.

DELTA is a standalone book in the exciting Alpha Elite Series by USA Today Bestselling author, Sybil Bartel. Come meet Delta and the dominant, alpha heroes who work for AES!

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About the Author

Sybil Bartel is a USA Today Bestselling author of unapologetic alpha heroes. Whether you're reading her deliciously dominant mercenaries, bodyguards or military heroes, all of her heart-stopping, page-turning romantic suspense novels have sexy-as-sin alpha heroes!

Sybil resides in South Florida and she is forever Oliver’s mom.

To find out more about Sybil Bartel or her books, please visit her at:
Website: http://sybilbartel.com/
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/sybilbartelauthor
Facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1065006266850790/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sybil.bartel/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SybilBartel
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sybil-bartel
Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/bRSE2T

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Spotlight: The House on Sun Street by Mojgan Ghazirad

A young girl grows up in a family uprooted by the terror of an Islamic Revolution, where her culture, her gender, and her education are in peril.

For the curious and imaginative Moji, there is no better place to grow up than the lush garden of her grandparents in Tehran. However, as she sits with her sister underneath the grapevines, listening to their grandfather recount the enchanting stories of One Thousand and One Nights, revolution is brewing in her homeland. Soon, the last monarch of Iran will leave the country, and her home and her family will never be the same.

From Moji’s house on Sun Street, readers experience the 1979 Iranian revolution through the eyes of a young girl and her family members during a time of concussive political and social change. Moji must endure the harrowing first days of the violent revolution, a fraught passage to the US where there is only hostility from her classmates during the Iranian hostage crisis, her father’s detainment by the Islamic Revolutionary Army, and finally, the massive change in the status of women in post-revolution Iran.

Along with these seismic shifts, for Moji, there are also the universal perils of love, sexuality, and adolescence. However, since Moji’s school is centered on political indoctrination, even a young girl’s innocent crush can mean catastrophe. Is Moji able to pull through? Will her family come to her rescue? And just like Scheherazade, will the power of stories help her prevail?

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Mojgan Ghazirad is a medical doctor and currently works as an assistant professor of pediatrics at The George Washington University. She holds an MFA in creative writing and has published three collections of short stories in Farsi. Her essays have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Idaho Review, Longreads, The Common, Bombay Review, and Assignment. She lives with her family in Great Falls, Virginia.

Sneak Peak: Don't Forget Me Tomorrow by A.L. Jackson

🖤 Don’t Forget Me Tomorrow First Chapters Sneak Peek 🖤

NYT Bestselling Author A.L. Jackson has the prologue AND first chapter of her upcoming brother’s best friend, single mom, small town romance, Don’t Forget Me Tomorrow, available to read now before release day on October 5th! 

Prologue

I stared at her from across the room.

I could feel the walls closing in, and the need I’d had for her for my entire life growing stronger than it ever had. As if the two of us were hinged on this moment.

 “Tell me I’m not too late. Tell me you still love me.” There was no stopping the plea.

Pain and desperation twisted through her expression. “Do you think I could ever stop loving you?”

The second she said it, I snapped, and I was across the room.

I crashed into her in a landslide of greed.

One hand dove into her hair and the other curled around the side of her neck as I crushed my mouth against hers.

Really kissing her for the first time.

Nothing had ever felt quite like kissing Dakota Cooper.

It was flames and heat and pure relief.

I sucked it in, imbibing the feeling as I devoured her mouth.

My chest nearly blew with the power of it. With the way my heart thrashed violently at my ribs. With the devotion that surged from the sacred place that had always been meant for her.

Except I’d always known why I couldn’t touch her. The reasons I’d built the walls between us.

Why she was only supposed to be my best friend’s little sister.

I’d crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to cross.

And I should have known I’d have to pay the penalty…

Chapter One - Ryder

What the fuck was she doing out here?

I slowed my motorcycle as I came upon a small white Volvo SUV pulled off to the side of the road, its hazards flashing through the dusky light as the summer day faded into grays.

My guts tangled in a knot of worry.

We were twenty miles outside of town, and the two-lane road was basically desolate except for a random car that whizzed by.

There was no mistaking that car. The rear window was a fucking billboard for the country market and café Dakota Cooper owned. It wasn’t like I blamed her for wanting to advertise, but I didn’t love that every fucking person in this town knew her name, either.

Where she worked and where she lived.

Not that there was a ton of privacy in a small town the size of Time River.

Everyone knew everyone.

And even if she lived in the middle of a bustling city, I was pretty sure she would have made a name for herself, anyway.

Hell, I figured every time she smiled at some unknowing fool, she carved herself into their memory.

Made her mark.

Unforgettable.

Protectiveness lined my insides in a sheet of steel.

It was nearing dark, and she was out here in the middle of nowhere.

By herself.

Any monster could roll up and catch her unaware.

Just like me.

My bike came to a rumbling stop ten feet behind her, and I killed the engine, tossed the kickstand, and swung off as I took stock of the situation.

Dakota was more than capable, but it still made me itch that she was on her knees in front of the back-passenger side tire, cranking at a handle on the jack to lift the rear-end of her car.

Looking like a goddamn vision beneath the rays of the setting sun.

I tamped the bolt of lust that stirred my dick, something I’d gotten really fucking good at over the years, and I edged toward her, my boots crunching on the loose gravel.

Awareness rippled through the twilight with my approach.

A flash of tension before it settled into something familiar and right.

“Funny, I didn’t see a call or text from you,” I said, words rough and carrying over a big truck that blew by, sending a flurry of debris scattering through the air.

Dakota glanced my way. The hint of a smile played through the shiny gloss coating her lush lips.

“That’s because I didn’t call you.” Her voice was a tease as she continued to crank the handle, though her breaths were coming hard with her exertion as the back-end of her Volvo slowly hoisted.

At least she had a blanket spread on the ground to protect her bare knees since she had on one of those sundresses she always chose to wear. Black fabric dotted with pink flowers that hugged every lush curve of her body.

I thought she might have been prescribed specific attire with the sole purpose of driving me out of my mind.

“You should have.”

“What, you think I’m not capable of fixing a flat tire?” Eyes the color of cinnamon and fire glinted back. “I seem to remember someone who insisted on making sure I knew where the jack and spare were when I bought this car.”

She arched a brow. Her cheeks were full and high, and the threat of that tiny dimple on the left side of her chin flickered and danced like temptation.

“Yeah, that was so you would know how to do it for when I’m not around, and here I am.” I lifted my tatted arms out to the sides.

Except if she had called an hour before, I wouldn’t have answered. I’d have been too wrapped up in the bullshit dragging me under. A millstone around my neck.

One day it would be the reason I drowned.

The thousand shades of brown in her eyes danced as she peered up at me, and she chuckled a low, throaty sound that shivered over my skin. “Of course, you are. Tell me you’re not stalking me?”

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I let a smirk ride to my face. “You know it. It’s my job to know where you are at all times.”

“Is that so?” Her expression twisted in playful disbelief.

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

“Friends? Hardly. It sounds to me you’re acting more like my overbearing brother. I swear, if it was up to the two of you, I’d never step foot outside by myself.”

Sounded like a solid plan.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I asked.

“I had to pop over to Costco in Poplar to grab some things for the café. What are you doing out here?” She tossed it back at me like she figured I’d been up to no good.

I had been, but I doubted it was what she was thinking.

Shame locked down my throat. As close as I was to Dakota, there would always be a wall. A place I couldn’t let her see. The fucking last thing in the world I wanted her to know about me.

My jaw clenched as I forced out the lie. “Just felt like feeling the wind on my face. My bike was calling to me.”

“A little hot for that, isn’t it?”

“Never too hot for me.” The smirk was back in full force.

With the history around us, I was thankful we’d gotten to this place.

Where we could be easy together.

Friends, even though it was fucking painful being this close to her most of the time.

But I would take her any way I could have her.

She scoffed and turned her attention back to the jack, clearly picking up on the innuendo I couldn’t help but slide into the conversation. Before I could let my brain spiral into depravity, I strode the rest of the way up to her.

It cast her in my shadow where I towered over her.

“Are you going to get up off your knees and let me help you, or are you just going to leave me standing here staring at you like a lazy prick?”

Leaning back, she swiped a bead of sweat that trickled from her hairline with her bare shoulder.

My fingers itched with the urge to reach out and trace the spot. But touching her was the last thing I could do. I wouldn’t taint her goodness with the sickness of me.

“Haven’t you learned yet that you don’t need to ride in like the cavalry, Ryder?”

“I already rode in, Cookie, so you might as well let me.”

I’d started calling her that years ago.

Now there was no way I could stop.

Pushing to standing, she waved at the flat tire. “Fine, if it makes you feel more like a man, then go for it.”

I shook my head at her. “Are you trying to bust my balls?”

“Someone needs to.” She punted me a grin.

I started to move to take her place, but she bent over to straighten the skirt of her dress.

It speared me to the spot.

Her tits were heavy and spilling out of the scooped neckline.

Her hips full and wide and perfectly hugged by the fabric.

Hair a warm brown that was streaked with honey, and she wore it in a high ponytail, the same way as she did most days, the lush locks wavy and draping over one shoulder.

I couldn’t help but envision wrapping my hand around it, tugging her head back, and devouring that lush mouth.

I swallowed hard, doing my best not to ogle my best friend’s baby sister.

Dude would fucking gut me if he had an inkling of an idea about the thoughts I had of her.

Too bad he was the least of my worries.

She moved a foot to the side, and I took her spot, reining that bullshit in.

I knew better.

Dakota was a friend. Like a sister to me. And I’d do well to remember it. Because I would never fucking drag her into the mess that was my life.

I cranked through the lug bolts, removed the tire, then was quick to replace it with the spare.

The whole time, I could feel her attention on me. Eyes tracing.

“You enjoying yourself, Cookie?” I canted a glance up at her. The last of the light caught her in its hazy rays.

Brown hair and mesmerizing eyes.

So goddamn pretty my stomach clutched.

Raking her teeth over her bottom lip, she tried to contain her laughter. “Guess I like you on your knees for me.”

A snort left my nose. I’d been for years, and she didn’t have a clue.

Giving a final tug at the lug nuts to make sure they were tight, I shifted to fully look up at her. “You need to make sure you’re not driving on this for long and take it in to get the original tire repaired or replaced.”

The cock of her head was nothing but a razzing challenge. “I am a capable adult, Ryder. I even own my own business.”

“Know that, Dakota.” The words were low.

“Then you can stop treating me like a little girl.” The barest flash of annoyance hit her expression.

If only that was the way I saw her.

“Go ahead and tell my brother while you’re at it,” she tacked on, rolling her eyes though there was affection woven through. “The two of you are ridiculous.”

“I just care about you, Dakota. About Kayden.” The admission came rough, and the sweat that suddenly slicked my skin didn’t have anything to do with the summer heat.

Thinking of Dakota’s son always got me that way. He was two, and the cutest fucking thing I’d ever seen.

I didn’t know if it was loyalty or jealousy that hit me hardest, not that I had any right to the last.

Softness radiated from her as she gazed down at me, that sweetness that was always lingering beneath the surface riding from her tongue. “You know I can’t call you every time some little thing goes wrong in my life and expect you to come running, Ryder. You’ve already done enough for me. Too much.”

Gratitude tinged with unease infiltrated her tone, her eyes dropping for a beat. I knew exactly where her mind had gone.

The money I’d given her to help start her business.

I released the jack and stood. There was nothing I could do but take her by the chin. More tender than I should. I towered over her, searching her face like there was a way I could get her to understand.

“That’s where you have it wrong, Dakota. You can. I expect you to call me. Whatever you need. And there is no such thing as too much when it comes to you. Do you understand?” The words left me like a tumble of stones. A plea and a demand.

Because I’d wanted to give her everything I had, but the only thing I had been able to do was give her the one gift that I could.

She viewed it as a debt. Like something she needed to repay.

She could never understand that what I’d given her was my heart.

Those pink lips parted, and fuck, greed twisted through me like a hurricane, cock pushing at my jeans like I might be able to possess the one woman I could never have.

“I don’t want you to waste your time on me,” she whispered. “I know you have your own life. Things you need to take care of.”

A puff of disbelief escaped between my lips. “You could never be a waste, Dakota Cooper.”

The air thickened. Growing dense and pushing in. Heavy and hot. A dragging pull between us.

My phone pinged in my pocket, and both of us jumped back like it was a warning going off that we were about to cross a line we couldn’t cross.

Blowing out a steadying sigh, I dug into my pocket and thumbed into my phone like it was the most important thing in the world, then my chest clutched with the reminder of why I could never get too close to Dakota.

Why she’d hate me if she knew.

Dare: Where the fuck are you? You’re late.

Swallowing around the barbs in my throat, I looked up at the woman who stood three feet away shifting on her feet.

Innocent and right and every good thing in this life.

I roughed a hand over the back of my neck, attention on my boots when I said, “I need to get going.”

I felt the weight of her nod. “Yeah, I need to get to my mom’s and pick up Kayden before they get worried.”

I hoisted up her flat tire, opened her trunk, and tossed it in. Dakota came to my side, her presence close to overwhelming as she placed the blanket she’d had on the ground on top of it.

For a second, we hovered in each other’s space. So close but where we could never belong.

Lost to a beat of greed.

The kind I could never give into.

I pushed the button to close the hatch then took a step toward my bike. “Be safe, Dakota.”

Cinnamon eyes watched me like they could see through to my sins. “You, too.”

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A.L. Jackson is the New York Times & USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance. She writes emotional, sexy, heart-filled stories about boys who usually like to be a little bit bad.

Her bestselling series include THE REGRET SERIES, CLOSER TO YOU, BLEEDING STARS, FIGHT FOR ME, CONFESSIONS OF THE HEART, FALLING STARS, and REDEMPTION HILLS novels. Watch out for her upcoming stand-alone,DON'T FORGET ME TOMORROW, releasing October 5th!

If she’s not writing, you can find her hanging out by the pool with her family, sipping cocktails with her friends, or of course with her nose buried in a book.

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