Spotlight: The Weekend Retreat by Tara Laskowski

Publication Date: December 26, 2023

Publisher: Graydon House

Every year, the illustrious Van Ness siblings, heirs to a copper fortune, gather at their lush winery estate for a joint birthday celebration. It's a tradition they've followed nearly all their lives, and now they are back with their significant others for a much-needed weekend of rest and relaxation, away from the public spotlight.

With lavish comforts, gorgeous scenery, and indulgent drinking, the trip should be the perfect escape. But it soon becomes clear that even a remote idyllic getaway can’t keep out the problems simmering in each of their lives. As old tensions are reignited, the three couples are pushed to the edge. Will their secrets destroy them, or will they destroy each other first? And who’s been watching them from beyond the vineyard gates?

When a torrential rainstorm hits, plunging them into darkness, the answers prove all too deadly…

Excerpt

W-JKA BREAKING NEWS

Tragedy strikes at Van Ness Winery

SUNDAY, October 15—Multiple people have been reported dead at the Van Ness Winery after an altercation late Saturday night, our Eyewitness Team reports. Police were dispatched around 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning after a 9-1-1 call from the estate’s main house, but they were delayed hours getting to the scene because of the torrential rainstorm that flooded Rte. 8 and many of the small roads leading up to the winery.

Our news team is on-site but has not been able to verify details with officials, who are still investigating the scene. It appears the damaged substation in Parnell affected power to the estate as well as a number of neighboring homes and businesses in the Finger Lakes area.

This tragedy is the latest to befall the Van Ness family, whose matriarch, investor and philanthropist Katrina Van Ness, died earlier this year of pancreatic cancer at the age of sixty-eight.

The Van Ness winery, known for producing high-quality, award-winning wines, has been owned by the Van Ness family for several generations. The family started the business in the 1950s, after selling their Arizona-based copper mining company founded by Benson Van Ness. The 985- acre winery and estate is now managed by the Van Ness siblings, who live full-time in New York City. Their family investment office owns interests in multiple different real estate holdings and industrial and manufacturing enterprises. The siblings are believed to have been visiting the estate for the weekend for a family celebration.

We will report more as details are confirmed.

THURSDAY

Two Days before the Party

LAUREN

Ever since Zach told me about The Weekend, it’s all I’ve been able to focus on. Most people would naturally be at least a little nervous to meet their significant other’s family for the first time.

But most people aren’t dating a Van Ness.

“Earth to Lauren.” Zach snaps his fingers, grinning over at me. He left work early to get on the road sooner and didn’t have time to change, so he’s still wearing his suit, purple tie slightly askew but knotted even after hours of driving.

“Sorry,” I say, tugging the ends of my hair. “Zoning out.”

“You look like I’m driving you to your death,” he says, then grabs my hand and squeezes. “Don’t worry. I promise it’ll be fun. Even if my family’s there.”

All I can see out my window are trees and fields and cows, my cell phone bars ticking steadily down. We must be close. Zach is taking care on the steep, curvy roads. One bad turn could send our car into a deep ditch or crashing into a thick tree trunk.

It’s so beautiful up there, my best friend Maisie said when I told her about the invitation. She had that wicked look in her eye. All the rolling hills. A vineyard. Starry sky. Super romantic. Perfect place to propose. My stomach flips at the thought, and I breathe in deep. This weekend is not about us. It’s a birthday party for Zach’s older siblings, Harper and Richard, the twins, an annual tradition to celebrate at the family’s winery. I can’t get ahead of myself.

We drive up a winding gravel road, through patches of dense trees. Taller ones have already gone barren for the winter, but some of the smaller trees arch over the road, their branches meeting and entangling like fingers, blotting out the remaining light.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching the famous Van Ness estate,” Zach says in a booming voice as the car’s headlights flick on. “Please, no photographs, and keep all hands and feet inside the moving vehicle at all times.”

Zach had told me the estate was large—a thousand acres— but I didn’t grasp what that meant until the tunnel of trees ends and the view opens to a sprawling expanse of green fields and rolling hills, stretching endlessly against the purple-hued sky. We cross a small stone bridge that extends over a stream, then bump along a rocky road. The vineyards creep closer to us now, eerie in their precise organization, each plant in a perfect row. We’re inching toward winter, and all the grapes must have already been picked for the season, pressed and bottled, because the vines are bare and withered.

When I first moved to New York and waited tables at an Italian restaurant, we served the Van Ness wine. I remember those dark purple labels, the name stamped big and bold on the front. A brand that said, We are too good for you. But Zach is nothing like that, like the Van Nesses you read about online. Sometimes I forget he’s part of that family in the day-to-day rhythm of our lives. He doesn’t talk about them much, offers the scantest of information, or cracks a joke, or completely changes the subject when I bring them up. All I know of them is from the press, fleeting and superficial, like the pages of a glossy magazine, but hazy enough that I can imagine slicing open my finger on the sharp edges if I’m not careful.

“Tell me about them,” I say now, when there’s no evading the topic.

He glances over at me. “My family? What more do you need to know?”

“I don’t know. How can I win them over so they all love me forever and ever?” I say, trying to hide my nerves.

He laughs. “They’re impossible to win over.”

“Oh perfect,” I say. “That makes it easy then.”

“Nah, they aren’t that bad. They’re…particular is all.”

We head up a slight incline. To the right, there’s a gravel path marked Private—Staff Only. We pass it and stop in front of a large metal gate. Zach rolls down his window, fetches a key card from the glove compartment. “We had this installed years ago for extra security,” he says. Once the machine reads his card, the gates swing open soundlessly. I turn to watch them rotate back and slam into place.

As we round a corner, I finally catch a glimpse of the house, a stone mansion, stoic on the hill. The long driveway curves up to an overhang in front, flanked by a series of round potted trees.

“Here we are,” says Zach as we pull up. He shuts off the car, taps the digital clock on the dashboard. “And on time for dinner, too. Elle will be pleased.”

My stomach does another flip.

Breathe deep.

Project confidence.

They’re going to love you.

I get out. The air is chilly—it’s dropped at least ten degrees since we left the city. I wrap my arms across my body.

The massive wooden front door opens, and an older man walks out, gray hair and beard, a deep purple polo shirt with the Van Ness logo stitched on the pocket, two flutes of sparkling wine in his hands.

“Bill! You are the man.” Zach trades him the keys to the car for the glasses. “Lauren, Bill and his wife Linnet have been taking care of the estate—and us—since I was a snotty-nosed kid.”

As Bill heads for the trunk to unload our baggage, I survey the house. My eyes follow the three short steps up to a wide entryway with pillars, to the archway above the door, and then outward to the wings on either side. Greenery climbs up the stonework between the windows, and I imagine Bill must trim it often to keep it so nice. I touch a pillar next to me and feel its cool smoothness.

“Where’s everyone else?” Zach asks Bill. For him, this is business as usual. I doubt he even notices the grandness anymore.

“Oh, they’re around,” he says. “Miss Elle says dinner at 6:30, and you can all meet in the library.”

I smooth down the gold silk top Zach picked out for me, hugging and hiding in all the right places, like expensive clothes do. What would my parents say if they saw me? They would never guess I’d be weekending with a famous family like this. They never thought I’d make it in New York, thought I’d come crawling back begging to return to my night shift writing obituaries at our small-town paper.

But I’m never going back.

I take a sip of the sparkling wine. The bubbles pop, cold and hard against the back of my throat.

Excerpted from The Weekend Retreat by Tara Laskowski, Copyright © 2023 by Tara Laskowski. Published by Graydon House

Buy on Amazon | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

TARA LASKOWSKI is the author of The Mother Next Door and One Night Gone, which won an Agatha Award, Macavity Award, and Anthony Award, and was a finalist for the Mary Higgins Clark Award, Left Coast Crime Award, Strand Critics' Award, and Library of Virginia Literary Award. She is also the author of two short story collections, Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons and Bystanders, has published stories in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and Mid-American Review, among others, and is the former editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. Tara earned a BA in English from Susquehanna University and an MFA from George Mason University and currently lives in Virginia. Find her on Twitter and Instagram, @TaraLWrites.

Connect:

Author website: https://taralaskowski.com/

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

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tara.laskowski.9

Spotlight: Two Dead Wives: A British Psychological Thriller by Adele Parks

Publication Date: December 26, 2023

Publisher: MIRA

Lost. Missing. Murdered? How do you find a woman who didn’t exist?

It's a case that has gripped a nation: A woman with a shocking secret is missing, presumed dead. And her two husbands are suspects in her murder.

DCI Clements knows the dark side of human nature and that love can make people do treacherous things. You can’t presume anything when it comes to crimes of the heart. Until a body is found, this scandalous and sad case remains wide open.

Stacie Jones lives a quiet life in a small village, nursed by her father as she recovers from illness, and shielded from any news of the outside world. But their reclusive life is about to be shattered.

How are these families linked, and can any of them ever rebuild their lives in the wake of tragedy?

Excerpt

1

DC CLEMENTS

There is no body. A fact DC Clements finds both a problem and a tremulous, tantalizing possibility. She’s not a woman in­clined to irrational hope, or even excessive hope. Any damned hope, really. At least, not usually.

Kylie Gillingham is probably dead.

The forty-three-year-old woman has been missing nearly two weeks. Ninety-seven percent of the 180,000 people a year who are reported missing are found within a week, dead or alive. She hasn’t been spotted by members of the public, or picked up on CCTV; her bank, phone and email accounts haven’t been touched. She has social media registered under her married name, Kai Janssen; they’ve lain dormant. No perky pictures of carefully arranged books, lattes, Negronis or peo­nies. Kylie Gillingham hasn’t returned to either of her homes. Statistically, it’s looking very bad.

Experience would also suggest this sort of situation has to end terribly. When a wife disappears, all eyes turn on the husband. In this case, there is not one but two raging husbands left behind. Both men once loved the missing woman very much. Love is just a shiver away from hate.

The evidence does not conclusively indicate murder. There is no body. But a violent abduction is a reasonable proposition—police-speak, disciplined by protocol. Kidnap and abuse, possi­ble torture is likely—woman-speak, fired by indignation. They know Kylie Gillingham was kept in a room in an uninhabited apartment just floors below the one she lived in with husband number two, Daan Janssen. That’s not a coincidence. There is a hole in the wall of that room; most likely Kylie punched or kicked it. The debris created was flung through a window into the street, probably in order to attract attention. Her efforts failed. Fingerprints place her in the room; it’s unlikely she was simply hanging out or even hiding out, as there is evidence to suggest she was chained to the radiator.

Yet despite all this, the usually clear, logical, reasonable Cle­ments wants to ignore statistics, experience and even evidence that suggests the abduction ended in fatal violence. She wants to hope.

There just might be some way, somehow, that Kylie—enigma, bigamist—escaped from that sordid room and is alive. She might be in hiding. She is technically a criminal, after all; she might be hiding from the law. She can hardly go home. She will know by now that her life of duplicity is exposed. She will know her husbands are incensed. Baying for blood. She has three largely uninterested half brothers on her father’s side, and a mother who lives in Australia. None of them give Clements a sense that they are helping or protecting Kylie. She will know who abducted her. If alive, she must be terrified.

Clements’ junior partner, Constable Tanner, burly and blunt as usual, scoffs at the idea that she escaped. He’s waiting for a body; he’d settle for a confession. It’s been four days now since Daan Janssen left the country. “Skipped justice,” as Tanner in­sists on saying. But the constable is wet behind the ears. He still thinks murder is glamorous and career-enhancing. Clements tries to remember: did she ever think that way? She’s been a po­lice officer for nearly fifteen years; she joined the force straight out of university, a few years younger than Tanner is now, but no, she can’t remember a time when she thought murder was glamorous.

“He hasn’t skipped justice. We’re talking to him and his lawyers,” she points out with what feels like the last bit of her taut patience.

“You’re being pedantic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

“But you’re talking to him through bloody Microsoft Teams,” says Tanner dismissively. “What the hell is that?”

“The future.” Clements sighs. She ought to be offended by the uppity tone of the junior police officer. It’s disrespect­ful. She’s the detective constable. She would be offended if she had the energy, but she doesn’t have any to spare. It’s all fo­cused on the case. On Kylie Gillingham. She needs to remain clear-sighted, analytical. They need to examine the facts, the evidence, over and over again. To be fair, Constable Tanner is focused too, but his focus manifests in frenetic frustration. She tries to keep him on track. “Look, lockdown means Daan Janssen isn’t coming back to the UK for questioning any time soon. Even if there wasn’t a strange new world to negotiate, we couldn’t force him to come to us, not without arresting him, and I can’t do that yet.”

Tanner knocks his knuckles against her desk as though he is rapping on a door, asking to be let in, demanding attention. “But all the evidence—”

“Is circumstantial.” Tanner knows this; he just can’t quite ac­cept it. He feels the finish line is in sight, but he can’t cross it, and it frustrates him. Disappoints him. He wants the world to be clear-cut. He wants crimes to be punished, bad men behind bars, a safer realm. He doesn’t want some posh twat flashing his passport and wallet, hopping on a plane to his family man­sion in the Netherlands and getting away with it. Daan Janssen’s good looks and air of entitlement offend Tanner. Clements un­derstands all that. She understands it but has never allowed per­sonal bias and preferences to cloud her investigating procedures.

“We found her phones in his flat!” Tanner insists.

“Kylie could have put them there herself,” counters Clem­ents. “She did live there with him as his wife.”

“And we found the receipt for the cable ties and the bucket from the room she was held in.”

“We found a receipt. The annual number of cable ties pro­duced is about a hundred billion. A lot of people buy cable ties. Very few of them to bind their wives to radiators. Janssen might have wanted to neaten up his computer and charger cords. He lives in a minimalist house. That’s what any lawyer worth their salt will argue.” Clements rolls her head from left to right; her neck clicks like castanets.

“His fingerprints are on the food packets.”

“Which means he touched those protein bars. That’s all they prove. Not that he took them into the room. Not that he was ever in the room.”

Exasperated, Tanner demands, “Well how else did they get there? They didn’t fly in through the bloody window, did they?” Clements understands he’s not just excitable, he cares. He wants this resolved. She likes him for it, even if he’s clumsy in his declarations. It makes her want to soothe him; offer him guarantees and reassurances that she doesn’t even believe in. She doesn’t soothe or reassure, because she has to stay professional, focused. The devil is in the detail. She just has to stay sharp, be smarter than the criminal. That’s what she believes. “She might have brought them in from their home. He might have touched them in their flat. That’s what a lawyer will argue.”

“He did it all right, no doubt about it,” asserts Tanner with a steely certainty.

Clements knows that there is always doubt. A flicker, like a wick almost lit, then instantly snuffed. Nothing is certain in this world. That’s why people like her are so important; people who know about ambiguity yet carry on regardless, carry on asking questions, finding answers. Dig, push, probe. That is her job. For a conviction to be secured in a court of law, things must be proven beyond reasonable doubt. It isn’t easy to do. Barris­ters are brilliant, wily. Jurors can be insecure, overwhelmed. Defendants might lie, cheat. The evidence so far is essentially fragile and hypothetical.

“I said, didn’t I. Right at the beginning, I said it’s always the husband that’s done it,” Tanner continues excitedly. He did say as much, yes. However, he was talking about Husband Num­ber 1, Mark Fletcher, at that point, if Clements’ memory serves her correctly, which it always does. And even if her memory one day fails to be the reliable machine that it currently is, she takes notes—meticulous notes—so she always has those to rely on. Yes, Tanner said it was the husband, but this case has been about which husband. Daan Janssen, married to Kai: dedicated daughter to a sick mother, classy dresser and sexy wife. Or Mark Fletcher, husband to Leigh: devoted stepmother, consci­entious management consultant and happy wife? Kai. Leigh. Kylie. Kylie Gillingham, the bigamist, had been hiding in plain sight. But now she is gone. Vanished.

“The case against Janssen is gathering momentum,” says Clements, carefully.

“Because Kylie was held captive in his apartment block.”

“Yes.”

“Which is right on the river, easy way to lose a body.”

She winces at this thought but stays on track. “Obviously Mark Fletcher has motive too. A good lawyer trying to cast doubt on Janssen’s guilt might argue that Fletcher knew about the other husband and followed his wife to her second home.”

Tanner is bright, fast; he chases her line of thought. He knows the way defense lawyers create murky waters. “Fletcher could have confronted Kylie somewhere in the apartment block.”

“A row. A violent moment of fury,” adds Clements. “He knocks her out cold. Then finds an uninhabited apartment and impetuously stashes her there.”

Tanner is determined to stick to his theory that Janssen is the guilty man. “Sounds far-fetched. How did he break in? This thing seems more planned.”

“I agree, but the point is, either husband could have discov­ered the infidelity, then, furious, humiliated and ruthless, im­prisoned her. They’d have wanted to scare and punish, reassert control, show her who was boss.” They know this much, but they do not know what happened next. Was she killed in that room? If so, where is the body hidden? “And you know we can’t limit this investigation to just the two husbands. There are other suspects,” she adds.

Tanner flops into his chair, holds up a hand and starts to count off the suspects on his fingers. “Oli, Kylie’s teen stepson. He has the body and strength of a man…”

Clements finishes his thought. “But the emotions and irra­tionality of a child. He didn’t know his stepmum was a biga­mist, but he did know she was having an affair. It’s possible he did something rash. Something extreme that is hard to come back from.”

“Then there’s the creepy concierge in the swanky apart­ment block.”

“Alfonzo.”

“Yeah, he might be our culprit.”

Clements considers it. “He has access to all the flats, the back stairs, the CCTV.”

“He’s already admitted that he deleted the CCTV from the day Kylie was abducted. He said that footage isn’t kept more than twenty-four hours unless an incident of some kind is re­ported. Apparently the residents insist on this for privacy. It might be true. It might be just convenient.”

Clements nods. “And then there’s Fiona Phillipson. The best friend.”

“Bloody hell. We have more suspects than an Agatha Chris­tie novel,” says Tanner with a laugh that is designed to hide how overwhelmed and irritated he feels. His nose squashed up against shadowy injustice, cruel violence and deception.

“Right.”

“I still think the husband did it.”

“Which one?”

“Crap. Round and round in circles we go.” He scratches his head aggressively. “Do you want me to order in pizza? It’s going to be a long night.”

“Is anyone still doing deliveries? I don’t think they are,” points out Clements. “You know, lockdown.”

“Crap,” he says again, and then rallies. “Crisps and choco­late from the vending machine then. We’ll need something to sustain us while we work out where Kylie is.”

Clements smiles to herself. It’s the first time in a long time that Tanner has referred to Kylie by name, not as “her” or “the bigamist” or, worse, “the body.” It feels like an acceptance of a possibility that she might be somewhere. Somewhere other than dead and gone.

Did she somehow, against the odds, escape? Is Kylie Gilling­ham—the woman who dared to defy convention, the woman who would not accept limits and laughed in the face of con­formity—still out there, somehow just being?

God, Clements hopes so.

Excerpted from Two Dead Wives by Adele Parks. Copyright © 2023 by Adele Parks. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Buy on Amazon | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Adele Parks was born in North Yorkshire. She is the author of twenty-one bestselling novels. Over four million UK copies of her work have been sold, and her books have been translated into thirty-one different languages. Adele’s recent Sunday Times number one bestsellers Lies, Lies, Lies and Just My Luck were short-listed for the British Book Awards and have been optioned for development for TV. She is an ambassador of the National Literacy Trust and The Reading Agency, two charities that promote literacy in the UK. She is a judge for the Costa Book Awards. Adele has lived in Botswana, Italy and London and is now settled in Guildford, Surrey. In 2022 she was awarded an MBE for services to literature.

Connect:

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

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/adeleparks 

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

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/45427.Adele_Parks

Spotlight: An Heir Made in Hawaii by Emmy Grayson

Published by: Harlequin Presents

Publication date: December 26t 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

Tough negotiations turn to tempestuous nights in this surprise-baby romance by Emmy Grayson.

Claiming his baby…

after one hot Hawaiian night!

Anika Pierce refuses to have her family hotel swallowed into tycoon Nicholas Lassard’s property portfolio, despite his offers. Their heated negotiations in Hawaii lead them to his penthouse. One electrifying encounter won’t change Anika’s mind…but discovering she’s pregnant might!

Nicholas never planned to be a father. Yet, on hearing Anika’s bombshell, he vows to give his child the happy upbringing he never had—which means winning over the woman who challenges him at every turn. Except to do that, he must admit that their connection runs far deeper than their scorching passion…

From Harlequin Presents: Escape to exotic locations where passion knows no bounds.

Excerpt

She missed home, missed the crispness of fall sliding into winter as snow danced down from the Alps and dusted the town and the adjoining lake. Lake Bled was becoming better known as a travel destination, although it had held on to its small-town European charm.

But Hawaii had rekindled a wanderlust she hadn’t felt in years. She hadn’t even known she’d needed to get away from Slovenia until she had stepped out of Kauai’s airport into tropical heat that had slid across her skin like a lover’s caress. Palm trees had provided shade, mountains covered in velvety green instead of snow had stood proudly against a turquoise sky and, perhaps her favorite part of all, were the chickens that had run about with carefree glee.

Determined to relax before she walked back up for the conference’s opening session, she lay back on her towel. Slowly, she focused on relaxing her body, tension seeping out of her muscles as the sun gently wiped away her worries and lulled her into a dreamlike state. Schedules and overdue bills and marketing plans slipped away. For once her mind was completely, blissfully clear of everything except where she was.

The word drifted through her mind again—heaven—and she let out a sigh of contentment.

“Be a shame to burn that beautiful skin.”

She froze as the deep, gravelly voice rolled over her, each of the words pronounced with emphasis and tinted with his rasping accent. The rigidity returned, invading her body and tensing her limbs into tightly coiled springs as her pulse kicked up a notch.

Because he’s annoying as hell, she reassured herself.

A shadow fell over her, blocking the sun. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and blinked.

“I was wrong.”

Nicholas loomed over her, white smile flashing against tan skin that said he had recently been traveling, or more likely partying, abroad.

“About what?”

“I’m not in heaven. I’m in hell.”

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Emmy's interest in romance can be traced back to her love of Nancy Drew books, when she tried to solve the mysteries of her favorite detective while rereading the romantic chapters with Ned Nickerson. Fast-forward a few years when she discovered a worn copy of "A Rose in Winter" by Kathleen Woodiwiss on her mother's bookshelf, and she was hooked. Over 20 years later, Harlequin Presents made her dream come true by offering her a contract for her first book. 

Connect:

https://www.emmygrayson.com/

https://www.instagram.com/emmygrayson_scarlettclarke/

https://www.facebook.com/GraysonRomance

https://twitter.com/graysonromance

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20860230.Emmy_Grayson

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Spotlight: The Sweetest Obsession by Nicole Snow

Publication date: December 19th 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

Falling for the best thing that never happened brings sweet mayhem in this steamy, gripping, and heartfelt small-town grumpy-sunshine standalone romance by Wall Street Journal bestseller Nicole Snow.

My brother’s best friend owned my heart until the day he drenched it in kerosene and burned it down.

Grant flipping Faircross is so not the reason I’m coming home.

I don’t care if he’s gotten bigger, meaner, and grumpy enough to flash freeze the sun.

So what if he’s up in my business the second I arrive?

I’m smarter now.

I’m only back in Redhaven for my sick mother and to talk some sense into my sister before she marries a toad.

Grant ran me off once and I’m not running back.

I can handle the drama, the messy secrets, and an unexpected stalker just fine.

…or maybe not so fine.

When Prince Anti-Charming charges in to protect me, it’s kinda hard to say no.

When I find out he’s a single dad with a heart bigger than a prune, it gets harder.

And when his lips storm mine with a growl that says “stay,” oh God.

Are we really doing this again?

Especially when an old tragedy resurfaces with hard truths, stinging tears, and one brutal question.

Will our sweetest obsession finally deliver us or destroy us forever?

The perfect blend of small-town romance, furious spice, and jaw-dropping thrills that will keep you guessing. Batten down your heart as a stone-hearted giant wakes up and fights to keep the girl who got away—if she’ll ever admit she wants to be chased.

Excerpt

All of me freezes as I meet his eyes, stare at him, stare into Grant, into that quiet solemness and raging gruffness that hides a heart so true.

He never stopped.

He really never stopped looking for my brother all this time.

He still thinks there’s a chance he’s alive, even if deep down, that seems completely ludicrous. The hope was starved out of me without anyone finding a single clue.

“You... you asshole,” I strangle out. My mouth moves automatically. I don’t know what I’m saying, why I’m saying it, or why my eyes are welling up and I just can’t take anymore. “You overly loyal giant donkey. You... you...”

There’s a moment.

A crack in reality when those hard eyes soften.

All those years I spent when we were young, wishing he’d show some emotion.

Something plain and simple and honest.

Something easy, without having to turn myself into a human Grant decoder to understand his growls and loud silences.

Now, he finally gives me what I’m aching for with real concern flashing across his face, the way he leans into me, staring down like he’s afraid he’s broken me somehow.

“Ophelia, fuck,” he says softly. “I won’t see you hurt.”

No, but he will see me speechless tonight.

If I ever speak again, I’ll tell him how wonderfully dumb he’s being.

But right now, he’s just a giant blur past the tears.

Scalding, stupid, overwhelmed tears I don’t want to cry, but I just can’t take another bee sting to the heart.

I can’t take more confusion, more things to fear.

Holy hell, I don’t want to think about it anymore.

Because if I’m thinking, that means I won’t do what I’m doing right now.

I won’t be laying my fingers on Grant’s face, my fingers weaving through the thick, grey-shot bristle of his bearish brown beard.

Pulling him closer, even as his eyes widen.

I definitely won’t be kissing him.

Kissing. Him.

I don’t know what comes over me.

It’s too instant, too impulsive, too reckless.

Too impossible to be denied.

And now that I’ve started I can’t stop, and I can taste years of pent-up emotion in the salt between our lips as I crush my mouth to his and beg.

Don’t hurt me right now, Grant. I can’t stand another ounce of pain and disappointment.

Just give.

Give me the fire in that growl, the nip of your teeth, the sweet, sweet rush that makes me tingle.

I’m actually shaking for my longest obsession.

No surprise, the man is a human earthquake when his lips attack mine.

Or maybe it’s just the vibration, the shock and awe steaming out of him, tangled up in this sudden hunger I can feel.

Grant goes still for just a second.

The shock radiates through both of us in hot waves so intense they leave me dizzy.

I brace, wait for it, fully expecting the imminent stab of hurt where he sternly pushes me away and reminds me I’ll always be the kid sister.

Nothing but Butterfly.

Not anyone he could ever see as romantic or sexy or remotely desirable.

...only he doesn’t.

Instead, he wraps his huge arm tight around my waist, possessively jerking me forward, almost off the chair.

My stomach leaps and twists.

Instead of tearing his mouth off mine, he goes all in.

Grant Faircross ravages me with the sudden intensity of a kiss that crashes over me like lightning splitting the night.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found her love of writing by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her great escape from boardrooms. Her work roared onto the indie romance scene in 2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.

Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes, unbelievable suspense, and swoon storms aplenty. With over a million books sold, she lives for the joy of making two people fight with every bit of their soul for a Happily Ever After.

Current fan favorites include her Enguard Protectors series, accidental love novels, plus long beloved MC romance thrillers like the Grizzlies and Deadly Pistols.

Connect:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7192004.Nicole_Snow
http://nicolesnowbooks.com/
https://twitter.com/Nicolesnowbooks
https://www.instagram.com/nicolesnowbooks/
https://www.facebook.com/nicolesnowbooks/
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/nicole-snow

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Spotlight: My Life in Stitches by Darla A. Calvet

Date Published: December 12, 2023

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Darla Calvet is a thirty-nine-year-old working mom whose life turns upside down when she is diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Suddenly, fear threatens her dreams for the future as doctors’ appointments replace her daily routines and she realizes she may not live to see her daughters grow up. After dying twice while waiting for a new heart, Darla begins to understand her own resiliency—her heart may be weak, but her mind refuses to give up.

My Life in Stitches: A Heart Transplant Survivor Story is a candid, witty account of one woman's determination to transform a devastating prognosis into an inspiring fight for survival. Darla’s story offers insight into the complex world of medicine with a dose of humor about her challenges and victories as a heart transplant patient. In this sensitive, thorough, and informative debut, Calvet brings compassion and gentle wisdom to a difficult subject in hopes of demystifying the uncertainties that inevitably accompany long-term, life-threatening medical decisions.

Excerpt

EXACTLY SIXTY-TWO DAYS after I had fainted in the Scripps Green hospital room, I woke up in complete darkness. My heart raced. I had no idea where I was or what happened to me since I passed out on the day I was admitted. I was unable to see without my contacts or glasses and tried to speak but could not emit a sound. For those first few moments, I thought perhaps maybe I was in some kind of purgatory and that this was my eternal bus stop. I felt a distinct heaviness as I tried to move my legs. I reached down around my abdomen and detected the LVAD unit, with a drive line going through my abdomen and its two large lithium batteries attached to my body. The LVAD surgery had occurred. But when, why, and how had it happened? I sat in darkness, vainly searching for the remote control and the button to call the night shift nurse.

I felt a weird combination of relief and confusion. I could decipher from the blurry digits on the clock that it was about 4:00 a.m. I had no idea what day, month, or year it was. I knew from the LVAD installation that some time must have passed, but how much? I must have woken up during a skeletal night shift with very few nurses in the hospital unit. I swung my head as far around as I could, only to see the outlines and lights of seventeen machines in the room, all helping to keep me alive. I immediately started to panic. I seemed to be more machine than human with all of the leads and tubes running in and out of my body. I was also intubated and unable to speak, which was terrifying. I could discern from the many machines attached to me that I was also in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, known as the CICU. This was where the gravely ill cardiac patients were sent by their teams.

“Stay calm,” I told myself. Someone had to be around . . . somewhere. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn around my glass cube room, making me feel claustrophobic. After a long wait, the curtains were flung open by Patricia, my morning nurse, who was starting her shift. She smiled sweetly, saying, “Oh, good. You are awake. We have been waiting for you to wake up.” I was confused and had no idea how I had arrived at my current state in the hospital bed. At that time, the CICU was located in the basement of the Scripps Green Hospital Facility, next to the morgue. It was not exactly a cheery place. I heard some orderlies joking to each other that it was “death’s waiting room.”

Realizing that I could not speak, Patricia took my hand and spoke softly, “You are okay. You have been in a medically induced coma for over two months. During that time, we needed to perform emergency open heart surgery and save your life by installing the LVAD, which you have probably noticed is attached to your body.” I shuddered and pulled the sheets up around my neck. God only knew how close I had come to death. I was about to find out.

While I was very grateful and relieved to be alive, I thought of my family. How had my husband coped during my absence with our two young adult girls? How had they dealt with this horrible situation? My eldest, Claire, was a high school senior. My youngest, Annie, was now a high school freshman. It made me sad to think about missing the important events that were going on in their young lives.

My next thought was my job. What had happened to it? Had someone finally disclosed how sick I had been while continuing to work? It gave me pause to consider that this had happened during my absence. I did not know that my husband had requested a one-year leave of absence after I fainted at the hospital. I was grateful he did this on my behalf. During my last days at my job, my ego kept me from seeking support even as I struggled to walk a few hundred feet from the parking lot to the elevator up to my office.

A few moments later, Nurse Patricia returned with my “breakfast.” It was a peach colored container of liquid protein that looked like cement. I watched in awe as she said, “Down the hatch” and poured it into my feeding tube. “Can you taste anything?” she asked. I shook my head “no.” The only sensation I felt was the cold sludge making its way down the feeding tube in the back of my throat. I had lost quite a bit of weight during my two-month nap. Thirty-four pounds to be exact. My body, which had always been very muscular, was now atrophied and weak.

The LVAD was the third device to be surgically placed into my body after the AICD defibrillator and pacemaker. It cost over a million dollars to install. Now, my job of learning to live with it began. There would be no swimming in the near future. The eight pounds of life-saving state-of-the-art medical equipment that was now part of my body would require ongoing care. I had no idea at that time the battles that had taken place to get the LVAD device installed. I would have certainly died without it.

The next lesson I learned as a transplant patient is: Your medical team must fight to save your life. Even with your insurance company. You do not have the luxury of time on your side.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

A heart transplant survivor, Dr. Darla Calvet won a gold medal for ballroom dance in the 2022 Transplant Games of America. Currently, she serves as the vice president of the board of directors for the Southern California Transplant Games of America team. She is also the CEO of Blue Tiger, Inc., a strategic planning consultancy. A doctor of education, Calvet holds degrees from Claremont Graduate University, San Diego State University, and the University of California, Berkeley. She lives in San Diego, California, with her husband Pat and their French bulldog Quinn, and she is the proud mom of two adult daughters, Claire and Annie.

Website: www.DarlaCalvetAuthor.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61550631040393 

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

Spotlight: The Hanging Night by Sasha Hibbs & Christina Hooker

(The Threads of Fate, #1)

Published by: Evernight Teen

Publication date: December 15th 2023

Genres: Romance, Young Adult

Synopsis:

When a sad turn of fate takes Josephine Blair to the small town of Bridgeport, West Virginia, she meets and falls for the devious and cunning Caius Duke. Her life blooms in both wonderful and terrifying ways.

Together, Josephine and Caius discover they have something deeper and more intense than true love. While theirs is a love spanning centuries, what they don’t realize is the stronger their relationship becomes, the more some unknown evil is trying to tear them apart.

A captivating tale of eternal love, vengeful curses, and a power that can make or break them all, The Hanging Night will pull you in, making you wonder how we are all tied together, and if the ties that bind are truly meant to last.

Excerpt

You know you can’t see the air, and you don’t have to see it to know it’s there—it just fills the space, and you’re grateful (whether you realize it or not) because if it didn’t fill the space, you’d suffocate.

That’s how I knew she was in the room.

I had my head down, searching through magazines, when what I can only describe as a heat chill rippled in me, causing me to shiver and the skin on the back of my neck to tingle. When I heard the cooler door pop open, I stopped breathing and stayed perfectly still, hoping this wasn’t the day I got arrested for shoplifting … for stealing stale food and one lousy, domestic beer, no less. If I had to go to jail, I wanted it to at least be for something worth it—money, jewelry, a car. FYI: I’ve never stolen any of those things or anything like that—only necessary or completely useless items, which I know is paradoxical. Let me explain: I’d take a plastic bobble-head of an off-brand, generic Batman or a sandwich before I’d take something sentimental or valuable to an individual—it’s just how I roll, ya know? And only from stores. Like, I don’t want your shit, but if it’s some dumbass thing on a shelf in a Dollar General, it’s fair game, and of course, like I said, I learned to be my own chef at a very young age. And can I really be held responsible for what I do when I am hungry? Isn’t that a famous candy commercial these days?

I wasn’t startled when she spoke, but expectant, and resigning myself to the fact that I was busted, I turned to face the girl. When I looked at her, all I saw was sadness. There wasn’t a stitch of makeup on her face, but she didn’t need any because even in sadness, she was striking. The circles under her eyes were so dark and deep, they almost echoed, but her brown irises were flat, like something was missing in them—a spark, maybe, and at the very end of her left eyebrow, there was a tiny, pink crystal. I immediately loved it—it gave her an edge no girl I’d seen in this boring ass town had. Her espresso-colored hair was knotted up in a bun with frizzy strands sticking out everywhere, which, though messy, was somehow endearing. Overall, she looked defeated, though, like all the air had been let out of her balloon. So, despite the circumstances, despite me being caught, red-handed, stealing my dinner, I immediately wanted to make her smile. So, I made jokes, trying to be cool. I’m not really into labels.

“Put those back!”

“C’mon. They’re five-day old pepperoni rolls. You’re going to pitch them anyway. I’m hungry.”

She seemed to contemplate for a moment, tilting her head and looking at me, taking me all in, trying to figure me out. Her shoulders relaxed a little, and she let out a quick breath, seeming to judge that I wasn’t a threat. “And cigarettes? I know old people do, but what teenager smokes these days? News flash. They’re bad for you. And if you’re only hungry, what about the beer and the magazine?”

“Uh … after dinner entertainment?” I asked, trying to justify myself.

She reached out and grabbed for the 40oz beer I had, and as her hand brushed mine, my brain short-circuited. Ice formed around each of my ribs, cracking then melting, and in that moment, I felt the color red splash through me. She paused, momentarily looking dead into my eyes, and somehow, I knew she felt it too. Our hands had to have only touched for a nanosecond, but it passed in an eternity. The intensity—our brains somehow sharing the same image, as if connected by some weird fiber optic cable—was overwhelming, and I gasped, but the rest of my body was paralyzed as I got stuck in this strange moment with her. But for as quickly as it came and as long as it lingered, the cable snapped, and the moment broke, and the world spun in real time again. My body jerked at the sharp snap back to reality, causing me to yank my hand back, and when I did, the beer exploded in foam and glass shards at our feet, a kind of drunken mosaic.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Christina: I’ve always been captivated by stories and words, but not with the speaking of them (as I'm little more than a foul mouth with appendages), just with the reading and writing of them. 

In 2020, I made my dream of writing a book a reality, and in 2023, my first collaborative novel is releasing!

Connect:

https://www.christinahooker.com/

https://www.instagram.com/christinahookerbooks/

https://www.facebook.com/christinahookerbooks/

By age 5, Sasha Hibbs' favorite movie was Gone With the Wind. By age 12, she completed her 7th grade book report on the sequel, Scarlett. By 18, she met and married her very own Mr. Rhett Butler and as it turns out, she never had to worry about going back to Tara to win the love of her life back. Fortunately, he stuck with her. 

With a love of all things paranormal, the ambiance of the South with its gigantic antebellum mansions and canopies of Spanish moss, and a love for her husband's rich storytelling of blacksmiths and the mythology surrounding their origins, it wasn't long until the world of her debut novel, Black Amaranth, was born. 

When not working her day job as a nurse, you can find Sasha dreaming of her next beach trip, reading the latest YA novel, and drinking more white chocolate mocha than she should. 

Sasha lives in mountainous West Virginia with her husband, Tim, and their two daughters. She is currently hard at work on her next novel.

Connect:

https://sashahibbs.blogspot.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7233732.Sasha_Hibbs

https://www.instagram.com/sashahibbs/

https://www.facebook.com/SashaHibbsauthor/

https://twitter.com/SashaHibbs

a Rafflecopter giveaway