Spotlight: Viscount Overboard by Misty Urban

(Ladies Least Likely, #1)

Published by: Oliver Heber Books

Publication date: December 5th 2023

Genres: Adult, Historical Romance, Romance

Synopsis:

When the war-scarred Viscount Penrydd washes up in 1799 Newport minus his memory, Gwenllian ap Ewyas decides not to tell him he owns, and threatened to sell, the property she’s made a refuge for her and other lost souls.

Gwen found healing from her haunted past by making St. Sefin’s into a sanctuary for the hurt and abandoned, and she’ll do anything to preserve the place—including lie to the English lord who owns it until she can win him to her cause. But making Penrydd her stableboy is a dangerous game, especially when he’s a target for an outside menace moving into Newport. Even more unsettling for Gwen, under the scars and arrogance is a man she can admire and possibly love. But as shadows from both their pasts appear at St. Sefin’s, Gwen risks losing her livelihood, her home, and her heart when Penrydd learns just how far she’s gone to deceive him.

Excerpt

Chapter 3.

In which Gwen approaches the viscount to offer to buy his property, and he thinks she’s soliciting something else.

“Lord Penrydd?”

Pen’s boots hit the floor as he sat up. Speaking of pleasure. His capricious God had consented to smile on him for once. The most exquisite female-shaped creature he had ever beheld stood at the parlor door.

She wasn’t dressed like a lady of the night. Her petticoat was clean and white, over it a gown of buttermilk muslin trailing vines of red flowers. It was a quaint style, quite outdated, but one that followed a woman’s curves. A delicate lace crossed her bodice, tied at her back. He wanted to unwrap her, like a present.

An absurd cap of lace and silk roses covered curls of a dusty brown, the color of the paths at his favorite hunting property when they had baked in the sunlight on a summer afternoon. Her face was extraordinary. She didn’t have the pasty complexion of a woman who never went about in the sun, rather a healthy glow and the tiniest dusting of freckles along a nose that suggested a personality both strong and pert. Independently the wide thick-lashed eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips, and arrowed jaw were pleasing yet unremarkable, but put together, the effect was mesmerizing.

“Fifty pounds,” Pen blurted.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. They were some shifting, undefined color, the grey-green of the sea on a cloudy morning. Was she worth more? “A night,” he added. He’d pay anything. He wasn’t even going to pretend to negotiate.

His secretary, Ross, raised his thick brows. Pen ignored him, as usual.

“A night?” Her voice rang clear and fine, trained, the voice of a singer. But her tone held dismay. The lace over her bosom fluttered as she put a hand there. Long, delicate fingers, a fine-boned wrist with an elegant turn. He stared at her hands and imagined them trailing over his skin.

His rough, scarred, contemptible skin. “Not enough? Name your price.”

“I hadn’t arrived at a number, actually. I suppose I ought to have asked Mr. Barlow.”

Who was Barlow? Her flesh broker? Her go between? Pen envied the man who had any hold over her. But she had a proud tilt to her head, that of an independent woman who answered to no one. He’d make her forget Barlow. He’d make her forget everything but her name. What was her name?

“In truth, I’m not certain what the going rate for such things is,” she said.

Pen’s head reeled with a grand, desperate notion. She wasn’t a hedge whore or a public ledger, open to all comers. But a lady of easy virtue nonetheless, perhaps a high flyer or a quality courtesan. Pen wiped his sweating palms on his breeches. He couldn’t afford her. Look at her skin; she wasn’t starving or diseased, nor beaten into submission. Her eyes were clear and steady, if her expression was somewhat baffled, and she smelled like spring. A field of bluebells filled his mind, kissed by a warm sun.

Ah, God. For the first time he understood why a man would go to the trouble of keeping a mistress. So he could have sole access whenever he wished and keep her hidden from the outside world. He swallowed. How could he manage to keep her? Most of the letters on Ross’s blasted table were bills and accounts of some sort, reminders of funds his rotter of a brother had died owing.

“I’m certain we can come to an agreement.” Pen’s voice scratched his throat. Where was the boy with the rum? The tremor was starting again, but the need this time was not for alcohol. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted anything that had to do with another person. Wanted closeness. Affection. Approval.

Ah, yes. He’d wanted affection from his mother, approval from his father, company and camaraderie from his brother. And the evil-minded universe had laughed in his face and stretched him out upon the rack. Pen sweated underneath his neckcloth and worked with a finger to loosen it. This woman wouldn’t be withholding, mocking, or cruel. She was warm and soft all over, inside and out.

She blew out a stream of air and Pen stared, arrested by the shape of her anemone-red lips. They would purse in exactly that fashion when he kissed her.

“I don’t suppose you would consider simply giving it to me,” she said. “Out of charity, you know.”

Giving her—oh, he’d any number of notions of what he could give her. Starting with certain attentive parts of his body. Then the rest, all of him, for eternity.

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who likes to write stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. She holds an MFA and Ph.D. from Cornell University and lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river.

Connect:

https://mistyurban.com/

https://www.instagram.com/authormistyurban/

https://www.facebook.com/authormistyurban/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3169900.Misty_Urban

Spotlight: Slightly Delayed and Somewhat Haphazard by Amber Laura

Publication date: November 16th 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

Miranda Monroe’s world just imploded. Not only did she just get dumped by her long-time boyfriend, but she got dumped in the most humiliatingly painful way imaginable. Very suddenly single, homeless, and heartbroken, she runs to the only person she knows will always be there for her.

Sam Church. Her best friend (and the man she’d once secretly been madly in love with).

Which is how she finds herself, emotionally spent and financially crippled, somehow agreeing to his outrageous offer: that she move into his guest bedroom. Temporarily, of course. Just until she gets back on her feet.

There’s only one problem. In the midst of mending her shattered heart, in the process of trying to find herself again (just who is Miranda Monroe?), her thoughts keep getting distracted, wandering in the most confusing and forbidden of ways…just down the hall from her.

Which is ludicrous. The most commitment-phobic person she’s ever met, Sam is off-limits to Miranda for all kinds of reasons. But mostly, because he’s her best friend—and she loves him too much to lose him. So why, suddenly, can’t she seem to stop fantasizing about him? Why can’t she stop hoping for something more?

Slightly Delayed and Somewhat Haphazard is a best-friends-to-lovers romantic comedy underscored with notes of healing fiction and the echoing sentiments of an adult coming-of-age novel.

Excerpt

“You know, maybe it was a good thing that I kissed you. Getting that old crush out of my system. Once and for all.”

“You had a crush on me?”

“Yeah. Sure. A long time ago,” Miranda stressed. Judging by the incredulity emblazoned upon his person, Sam had never once, not even in the most remote region of his mind, considered the possibility of them. Which meant he’d most certainly never once, not even in the slightest way, considered Miranda in that light.

Which was doing excellent things for her ego.

“When?”

“I don’t know. College, probably.”

Sam laughed. “You must have been really bad at flirting.”

Miranda gave him a look. “Cute.”

Sam laughed harder. But all he said, this time more to himself than anyone else was: “Well, well.”

Though her face felt too hot, Miranda doubled-down, playing her part to the hilt. “Hard to be so studly, huh?” She refused to be baited into talking seriously about this. She refused to let the conversation spiral any more out of control than it already had.

Sam scoffed. He picked up his fork, turned back to his breakfast. “Something like that.”

“You poor thing.”

Sam took another bite of his eggs. Miranda followed suit, picking up a piece of bacon. She was in the act of swallowing when he said: “Okay, but what happened on Friday? Don’t kid yourself. That’s not what it’s like to kiss me.”

Miranda was thankful she didn’t choke. She offered him a nervous flick of her eyes. Humor was etched across Sam’s lips and eyes but still… Miranda couldn’t shake the feeling that, underneath the shiny veneer of it, there was a shimmer of truth, of invitation embedded inside his words.

She gulped. From the moment she’d woken up the morning before, Miranda had lived in terror that she and Sam wouldn’t be able to bounce back from The Kiss; ten minutes ago, she’d been scared that she’d pushed it too fast and hard, trying to make an inside joke out of it too soon. What she hadn’t expected was that she’d tempt him.

Miranda wasn’t sure how to respond, what to say. The ground felt shaky and unfamiliar. So, she settled on something noncommittal. “Cocky.”

“Which showed impressive restraint on my part—”

“You’re a true gentleman.”

“Because you aren’t the only one who’s wondered.”

That stopped Miranda cold. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. Suddenly, she couldn’t seem to keep the façade going. “Huh?”

Impulsively, nervously, Miranda’s tongue flicked out of her mouth, running across her bottom lip. Her stomach seized when his eyes caught the action, when his mouth kicked out to one side in reaction. Something was happening between them. She could feel it crackling in the air around them.

“Sam?”

His eyes contracted at the quiver in her question, at the panic lining the letters of his name. A nerve ticked in his jaw, the veins in his neck stretching taut—alive with some unknowable emotion—but otherwise, his body remained perfectly still, seemingly frozen. And then, in a flash—a flash so quick Miranda would later have cause to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing—his features smoothed out, Sam’s body relaxing in his seat. A low laugh floated out of his mouth. “I mean, sure. The thought probably crossed my mind once or twice. Then again, when we met, I was something of a horndog.”

Miranda blinked. Cleared her throat. Clung to the joke he’d set up for her. “Past tense?”

Sam grinned. Still there was something off in the way he spoke. In the way he wouldn’t look at Miranda. “Past tense.”

For the second time, she wasn’t sure how to respond—she wasn’t sure what, exactly, he meant by past tense? His horndoging ways or his thoughts about her? For the first time in memory, she found it difficult to verbally spar with him.

“Right, right,” Miranda murmured emptily. She wasn’t sure what else to say. Though she was the person who’d started this whole thing, nothing was going according to plan. She’d been trying to tease her way back into a sense of renewed normalcy between them but it’d backfired.

Sam had wondered about her? That wasn’t a renewed sense of anything.

He’d been flirting with her, too. She was almost sure of it. Not just friendly banter, either, but flirting with intent.

Miranda had never encountered that Sam before—the one who made women practically throw their panties at him. Yeah, sure, she’d seen the effects of his charm in action, of his singular attention on other girls, but she’d never been caught in the web herself.

Which is exactly what happens when you play with fire. You get burned.

(For clarity, this excerpt has been edited/modified from what appears in the book.)

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About the Author

7 Fun Facts about Amber Laura: 

1. If there’s creamer, I’m drinking coffee. And when I edit, there’s always creamer. 

2. I do my best daydreaming on long car rides. 

3. Some of my favorite stories came as follow-up answers to the question: “What if…?”

4. I’m the mother of a darling (if slightly overweight), 16-year-old cat. She’s kind of my mascot. 

5. One of my favorite parts of writing is inventing new places—or traveling to spaces where I’ve not actually been. It’s magical and never disappointing. 

6. Writing may be a solitary process, but then the characters always keep me company. 

7. I’ve never quite figured out if I like to write by plot or the seat of my pants. 

8. (Because I write, I don’t math.) When a scene isn’t coming together on a piece of writing, or a string of dialogue is falling flat, I like to close my eyes and picture the whole thing as though it were being acted out on a movie screen—and forty minutes later, I usually wake up!

Connect:

https://litliber.com/

https://www.instagram.com/amberlaura_author/

https://www.facebook.com/AmberLauraAuthor/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16552522.Amber_Laura

Spotlight: The Friendship Club by Robyn Carr

Four women who work on a popular cooking show band together when they discover the youngest member of their group has an abusive boyfriend. The Barefoot Contessa meets Big Little Lies in this drama-filled novel about the power of female friendships.

Marni McGuire is the host of a popular television cooking show and leads a very happy life. Twice married, she has been widowed and divorced and now, in her mid-fifties, she enjoys being a successful single woman. But Marni's daughter Bella, who is pregnant with her first child, is convinced that Marni is lonely and she is determined to find a new man for her mother. To humor her daughter, Marni goes on a series of terrible dates. Marni's best-friend and colleague from the cooking show, Ellen, is a widow who has no interest in meeting anyone new and the two women have discussed the challenges of marriage and the joys of being single. But, while Ellen is adamant she wants nothing to do with men, Marni has to admit to herself that she would like to be with someone but only if he is the right fit.

As Bella's pregnancy progresses she admits to her mother that she has some concerns about the state of her own marriage, and all three women are concerned that the young intern on the cooking show is caught in a toxic relationship.

Marni and Ellen are determined to guide the two younger women to have the strength, confidence and support to improve their situations and the women gather regularly to talk about the important issues in their lives.

When Marni and Ellen each unexpectedly find themselves falling for new men in their lives the younger women help them navigate the dating world.

Together these four women form a strong bond of family and friendship that will anchor all of them as they navigate the challenges and celebrate the joys of life.

Excerpt

ONE

“And that’s a wrap,” the director said. “I think I have everything I need. I’ll do some editing and you can review it.”

“Thanks, Kevin,” Marni said. “My sister and my daughter are coming by for a glass of wine. Would you like to join us for a drink to celebrate finishing another season?”

“Thanks, no. I’m on the timer. New baby on the way,” he said.

“Of course! How’s Sonja feeling?”

“Huge,” he said with a laugh. “But the baby’s still cooking. The midwife says she has a few more weeks. Sonja cried for an hour after hearing that.”

“I remember that feeling,” Marni said. “Like it was yesterday. You better stay close to her. Thanks for everything this season. I think we got some good stuff.” Then Marni turned to her intern, Sophia Garner. “But you’ll stay, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “It’s going to be an intervention, I think.”

“Oh, fabulous, I love those,” Marni said with a hint of panic. “If you and Ellen clean up, I’ll put out some hors d’oeuvres.”

Of course she was prepared; just a little fixing up and presentation required. Marni Jean McGuire worked every day and took very few breaks from cooking, writing, studying, traveling and experimenting with new recipes but they only filmed the segments of her show sixty days a year. But filming was intense. Twice a year they’d film for thirty days over six weeks—enough for two seasons. She hosted one of the most popular cooking shows on a cable network. Today marked the last day of filming and they always celebrated.

Marni’s kitchen was essentially a set; all their filming was done in her home as opposed to a studio. She smiled as she watched her producer, Ellen, who was busy cleaning up with Sophia. Ellen was a bona fide chef but she had no interest being in front of the camera. Sophia loved the camera and the camera loved her; after being caught on camera accidentally a few times, she had become beloved by the viewers for her quick wit and delicious accent.

Marni Cooks was very popular but hosting a TV show had never been her lifelong goal. Far from it. It fell into her lap like a glorious miracle. When she was a young widowed mother, she did whatever she could to make a dollar and raise her little Bella. She took a job handing out food samples for a chain of grocery stores. With her baby in a carrier on her back, she turned out to be a hit. She sold out her product day after day, probably because Bella was so funny and flirtatious and Marni, despite the fact that life hadn’t been easy, was personable and approachable. Almost immediately after she began, shoppers came looking for her, engaging her in conversation. They gave her good reviews and told store managers how much they liked her.

Once she filled in for a product demonstrator for the same grocery chain, showing interested patrons how to slice, dice, shred, spiral and chop vegetables. Again, Bella rode along; childcare was impossibly expensive. Her sense of humor and ease with being in front of a small audience charmed people—including the producer from a television station. Marni was hired to demonstrate a couple recipes every week on a local morning show. Along with that she did cooking demonstrations at fairs or exhibits, published a couple of small cookbooks, helped out at catering services, began writing a short cooking column for the newspaper and filled in when other chefs were unavailable as a guest on various cooking shows. Then she landed a full-time job as the on-air chef for a cable cooking show. She had been thirty-two. Her viewing audience grew quickly and soon after she hired Ellen, who was an expert in her own right. Marni was syndicated to a handful of affiliates and her popularity continued to grow. She knew she owed as much of her success to Ellen as to her own hard work. Ellen had a knack for delectable creation but she was such an introvert she would never agree to join Marni in front of the camera.

But in Ellen’s hands the food became a living, breathing wonder and she had become the associate producer over time, thanks to Marni. She knew what a gift she had in Ellen and took very good care of her. And Ellen knew what a great opportunity she had with Marni; no one else in the business would let her just cook without taking on any management responsibilities and yet pay her so well. But every time Marni’s fortunes improved, Ellen benefited as well.

A little over twenty years ago Marni had met Jeff, a news anchor for the local affiliate. Since she lost her young husband when Bella was only nine months old, she hadn’t been optimistic she’d ever find another forever man but fate shocked her by delivering up Jeff. It was a great love, filled with promise and passion. They were a team from the start, both of them being in TV and very visible in the community. They worked together, shoring each other up and urging each other on. Jeff was a fantastic stepfather for Bella and proudly walked her down the aisle six years ago.

Shortly after that something changed. Marni was concerned that a woman Jeff worked with had ulterior motives. She’d been stalking him for years, texting him, asking his advice, professing to be his friend and protégé and constant supporter. Marni had warned Jeff many times that he needed to be careful not to encourage this woman and he always said he could handle things. But his behavior changed and Marni grew suspicious. She caught them making out in Jeff’s car in the parking lot of a local park that sat in the shadow of the beautiful Sierras.

When she realized what she was witnessing, she drove very slowly up close to Jeff’s car and laid on the horn. They jumped apart like two heart attacks. It was divine.

She knew in that moment that her marriage, which she had enjoyed a great deal, was over. Clearly Jeff had been lying and leading a double life for years. The pain of that was excruciating. She also instinctively knew that Jeff and the woman had both gotten what they deserved—each other. Neither was honest nor faithful. In an instant she knew, she would not go a second further with a man who could look her in the eye and deceive her. She told him to leave. He didn’t argue or try to save their marriage, but he did hire a good lawyer and fought for a healthy settlement. At that time they both had solid careers, but Marni was edging ahead. Jeff went after a big slice of that success; indeed, he took credit, as he’d given her so much wonderful advice. At least that was his perspective.

At Marni’s insistence, they settled and divorced quickly. Marni had asked herself if she should pause and think it over, maybe try marriage counseling, but a gut instinct said end it fast. When he asked for a percentage of her future earnings, she knew she’d been right. It had to be over as swiftly as possible. She gave him half, though he hadn’t earned half. Since there were no minor children or businesses involved, he couldn’t possibly do better. She cut him a big check, waved goodbye and ran for her life. She learned you can still sprint pretty well with a broken heart.

After a couple of years of hating him, things settled down. Marni had handed over more money than seemed fair to her, certainly more than Jeff deserved, and that angered her but the relationship was over in her heart. And Karma being a vicious soul, Jeff was demoted in his job while Marni’s popularity soared.

Jeff had used his settlement to open a restaurant, hoping to capitalize on Marni’s notoriety as a television chef. But Gretchen, the other woman, was his business partner and Marni refused to endorse the restaurant. While he was busy trying to cash in on her success, Marni just put her head down, worked hard and became even more popular.

Then there was a sea change. Jeff had not married Gretchen, but he had spent a lot of money on her, found her cheating, and she unceremoniously dumped him, leaving Jeff a broken, much poorer man…with a struggling restaurant. Of course he brought his tons of regret to Marni, begging her forgiveness. Telling her that letting her go was the biggest mistake of his life!

“No doubt about it,” Ellen had said.

“Too little, too late,” Bella said. Bella was, if possible, angrier than Marni about Jeff’s betrayal.

“Men are so stupid,” said Sophia when she heard the story.

Marni had long since stopped complaining to her friends. To Jeff she said, “You broke my heart and tore my family to pieces. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

“You don’t understand, Marni,” he said. “I think she used me and turned me against you, the only woman who truly loved me.”

“Oh, I believe I understand completely,” she had said. The story was as old as time. He’d succumbed to flattery and been thinking with his dick. No amount of his regret would change the fact that she’d be an idiot to ever trust him again. She was no idiot.

But she did soften her anger slightly and they were now cordial. Every now and then Jeff would call her or text her or stop by, though the locks on the house had long since been changed. Over the past couple of years he had suggested a few times that they go out for dinner and she always declined. He clumsily proposed she might cook something for him. “One of your favorite new recipes… I would love that.”

“Not in your wildest dreams,” she had replied.

Marni heard the dishwasher start and snapped out of her thoughts of the past. She pulled her pesto canapés from the oven, the artichoke dip from the refrigerator and heard Kevin depart.

The door opened again. “Mama?” Bella called.

“Right in here,” Marni said. “How is the bump?” Bella was five months pregnant and cute as a button. It was a pregnancy hard won through wildly expensive in vitro fertilization.

“A little feisty,” she said with a very proud smile.

The door opened again and Marni’s sister, Nettie, came in from the garage.

Marni put down her hors d’oeuvres and transferred the centerpiece from the kitchen island to the long rectangular coffee table in the great room just as Ellen was bringing in a tray of wineglasses. Sophia followed with a large oval-shaped bucket filled with ice and two opened bottles of white wine. She went back for a chilled bottle of sparkling cider in an ice bucket on a tripod stand for Bella since she was off alcohol.

Marni loved watching them enter the room, her colleagues and loved ones. Ellen came into a room with shy demeanor, standing nearly six feet tall, lithe and graceful. She wore her her once blond and now white-gray hair in a simple pageboy. She always bent her head slightly and Marni wasn’t sure if her height made her uncomfortable or if it was her shy nature.

Nettie, ten years younger than Marni and the mother of two sons, was an English professor at the university in Reno.

Marni brought out a couple more plates of hors d’oeuvres, Sophia placed napkins all around, Ellen pushed over an ottoman for Bella to rest her feet upon, and they settled in. First was a toast. “A very good season, I think,” Marni said. “One of our best. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”

Glasses were clinked in agreement, small plates were filled, napkins unfolded. And Marni looked around with a feeling of warm satisfaction. This was her happy place. This great room with her closest friends and family. And outside, through the patio doors, reflected in the backyard infinity pool was the sight of the Sierra Nevada mountains, still covered with snow, though it was May. They all lived in Breckenridge, Nevada, a picturesque little town nestled into the base of the mountain range just south of Reno and Lake Tahoe. There was a winding road, not exactly a secret but little known, that went switchback up over the mountains and then down into Lake Tahoe. People who grew up in Breckenridge knew it well.

This was an agricultural and ski town, with the mountains so close, and it was beautiful with its million-dollar views of nature at her best. To Marni, it looked similar to Austria.

Marni had overseen every aspect of the construction of this house, the kitchen being the focal point. She and Jeff were married at the time and while he helped by sharing advice and supervising construction, it was her house. She approved the plans and made it part of her business. And she loved it. Knowing it would be caught on camera, it was beautifully decorated in beiges, browns, pinks and mauves. It was redecorated almost annually for the same reason—updating for the viewers. But the most important thing to Marni was that the house felt like a hug to her, making her feel safe and protected.

When Jeff moved out, she filled the empty space he left in no time at all. Filling the empty space in her heart had taken longer. Even though she had stopped loving him and stopped hating him, there was still a hole there. A black cold hole. It frequently reminded her that she had no talent for love.

Excerpted from The Friendship Club by Robyn Carr. Copyright © 2024 by Robyn Carr. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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

About the Author

Robyn Carr is an award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including highly praised women's fiction such as Four Friends and The View From Alameda Island and the critically acclaimed Virgin River, Thunder Point and Sullivan's Crossing series. Virgin River is now a Netflix Original series. Robyn lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Visit her website at www.RobynCarr.com.

Connect:

Author website: https://www.robyncarr.com/ 

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/rcarrwriter

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Robyn-Carr-134368309920956/ 

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@robyncarrwriter

Spotlight: Pity Pact by Whitney Dineen

Release Date: January 24

Paige Holland here—lifetime resident of Elk Lake, Wisconsin, and dedicated seventh-grade math teacher.

Have you ever wondered if those reality shows, where people find their soul mates, are real? Yeah, me too. And while I’m totally addicted to those programs, I’m also a world-class skeptic.

Thirty-two single years have either opened my mind to new possibilities or totally caused some undiagnosed mental illness, like pie-in-the-sky-dreameritis.

I’m about to find out which it is, and I’m scared to death. And maybe a little excited too …

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling author Whitney Dineen is a rock star in her own head. While delusional about her singing abilities, there’s been a plethora of validation that she’s a fairly decent author (AMAZING!!!). After winning many writing awards and selling nearly a kabillion books (math may not be her forte, either), she’s decided to let the voices in her head say whatever they want (sorry, Mom). She also won a fourth-place ribbon in a fifth-grade swim meet in backstroke. So, there’s that.

Whitney loves to hang with her kids (a.k.a. dazzle them with her amazing 80's dance moves, serenading them to Bohemian Rhapsody, and binge watch Ted Lasso ), bake stuff, eat stuff, and write books for people who "get" her. She thinks french fries are the perfect food and Mrs. Roper is her spirit animal.

To find out about Whitney Dineen’s upcoming releases and giveaways, sign up for her newsletter here

For more information on Whitney Dineen and her books visit: https://www.whitneydineen.com/

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Spotlight: Head Over Heels by Karla Sorensen

Release Date: January 24

There’s only one course of action when your dad wants you to marry a clammy-handed wimp to make one of his board members happy—you get yourself stuck in an elevator with a hot stranger and have the steamiest make-out session of your life. Years of etiquette lessons went out the window thanks to Cameron Wilder, who managed to unleash my hidden bad girl with naught but his talented mouth and deliciously rough hands.

Afterwards, he went back to his small-town life, and I marched home to inform my dad there would be no business-centric nuptials. As punishment, he shipped me off to Sisters, Oregon and demanded I turn a healthy profit on a not-so-healthy property.

You see where I’m going with this—the buttoned-up city girl stuck in a small town hires a local builder to help her … and he’s the hot stranger from the elevator. Turns out, I have a weakness for the broad-shouldered nice guy who’s not so nice behind closed doors. Keeping things professional gets harder the longer I’m in town, until the only lesson I have left to learn is how to keep both our hearts from getting broken.

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About the Author

Karla Sorensen is an Amazon top 20 bestselling author who refuses to read or write anything without a happily ever after. When she's not devouring historical romance or avoiding the laundry, you can find her watching football (British AND American), HGTV or listening to Enneagram podcasts so she can psychoanalyze everyone in her life, in no particular order of importance. With a degree in Advertising and Public Relations from Grand Valley State University, she made her living in senior healthcare prior to writing full-time. Karla lives in Michigan with her husband, two boys and a big, shaggy rescue dog named Bear.

Keep up with Karla Sorensen and subscribe to her newsletter: http://www.karlasorensen.com/newsletter

To learn more about Karla Sorensen & her books, visit here!

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Spotlight: The Missing Witness by Allison Brennan

Series: A Quinn & Costa Thriller (#5)

Fiction / Thrillers / Crime

When Kara Quinn is framed for the murder of an FBI agent, she'll have to go rogue to clear her name without putting her partner, Matt Costa, in danger in this latest thriller in the USA Today bestselling Quinn & Costa series.

A fast-paced, race-against-time thriller to wrap-up Kara Quinn’s back story…

Kara Quinn is ordered back to Los Angeles to testify in the case against David Chen & his illegal businesses. Chen is out on bail, and there is still a threat to Kara because of it. The FBI doesn’t want to provide federal protection for Kara (they believe that the LAPD should be responsible for her safety) but Matt Costa and Michael Harris accompany her to LA, knowing that Chen’s got people inside the LAPD on his payroll.

Shortly after Kara gives her deposition, someone tries to kill her. When that fails, Kara is then framed for the murder of an FBI agent—which means, if it’s discovered Matt is protecting her, it’ll be the end of his FBI career (he could be accused of harboring a fugitive). Knowing this, Kara flees, determined to cure the mess herself, but she puts her life in jeopardy. Ultimately the book reveals layers of conspiracy and corruption in Los Angeles that enabled David Chen, and others, to operate their illegal sweat shops. This book will resolve the murder of Kara’s former partner—and will leave Kara at a critical crossroads: return to her old life, or sign on officially with the MRT.

Excerpt

1

My parking garage off Fifth was nearly a mile from where I worked at city hall. I could have paid twice as much to park two blocks from my building and avoid the rows of homeless people: the worn tents, the used needles, the stinking garbage, the aura of hopelessness and distrust that filled a corner park and bled down the streets.

I was listening to my favorite podcast, LA with A&I. Amy and Ian started the podcast two years ago to talk about computer gaming, technology, entertainment and Los Angeles. It had blossomed into a quasi news show and they live streamed every morning at seven. They’d riff on tech and local news as if sitting down with friends over coffee. Like me, they were nerds, born and bred in the City of Angels. I’d never met Amy or Ian in real life, but felt like I’d known them forever.

We’d chatted over Discord, teamed up to play League of Legends, and I often sent them interesting clips about gaming or tech that they talked about on their podcast, crediting my gaming handle. Twice, we’d tried to set up coffee dates, but I always chickened out. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I thought they wouldn’t like me if they met me. Maybe because I was socially awkward. Maybe because I didn’t like people knowing too much about my life.

Today while I drove to work, they’d discussed the disaster that was city hall: all the digital files had been wiped out. The news story lasted for about five minutes, but it would be my life for the next month or more as my division rebuilt the data from backups and archives. It was a mess. They laughed over it; I tried to, but I was beginning to suspect the error was on purpose, not by mistake.

Now they were talking about a sweatshop that had been shut down last week.

“We don’t know much,” Amy said. “You’d think after eight days there’d be some big press conference, or at least a frontpage story. The only thing we found was two news clips—less than ninety seconds each—and an article on LA Crime Beat.”

“David Chen,” Ian said, “a Chinese American who allegedly trafficked hundreds of women and children to run his factory in Chinatown, was arraigned on Monday, but according to Crime Beat, the FBI is also investigating the crime. And—get this— the guy is already out on bail.”

“It’s fucked,” Amy said. “Look, I’m all for bail reform. I don’t think some guy with weed in his pocket should have to pay thousands of bucks to stay out of jail while the justice system churns. But human trafficking is a serious crime—literally not two miles from city hall, over three hundred people were forced to work at a sweatshop for no money. They had no freedom, lived in a hovel next door to the warehouse. Crime Beat reported that the workers used an underground tunnel to avoid being seen—something I haven’t read in the news except for one brief mention. And Chen allegedly killed one of the women as he fled from police. How did this guy get away with it? He kills someone and spends no more than a weekend behind bars?”

“According to Crime Beat, LAPD investigated the business for months before they raided the place,” Ian said. “But Chen has been operating for years. How could something like this happen and no one said a word?”

I knew how. People didn’t see things they didn’t want to.

Case in point: the homeless encampment I now walked by.

I paused the podcast and popped my earbuds back into their charging case.

“Hello, Johnny,” I said to the heroin addict with stringy hair that might be blond, if washed. I knew he was thirty-three, though he looked much older. His hair had fallen out in clumps, his teeth were rotted, and his face scarred from sores that came and went. He sat on a crusty sleeping bag, leaned against the stone wall of a DWP substation, his hollow eyes staring at nothing. As usual, he didn’t acknowledge me. I knew his name because I had asked when he wasn’t too far gone. Johnny, born in Minnesota. He hadn’t talked to his family in years. Thought his father was dead, but didn’t remember. He once talked about a sister and beamed with pride. She’s really smart. She’s a teacher in…then his face dropped because he couldn’t remember where his sister lived.

Four years ago, I left a job working for a tech start-up company to work in IT for city hall. It was barely a step up from entry-level and I couldn’t afford nearby parking garages. If I took a combination of buses and the metro, it would take me over ninety minutes to get to work from Burbank, so factoring the combination of time and money, driving was my best bet and I picked the cheapest garage less than a mile from work.

I used to cringe when I walked by the park. Four years ago, only a dozen homeless tents dotted the corner; the numbers had more than quadrupled. Now that I could afford a more expensive garage, I didn’t want it. I knew most of the people here by name.

“Hey, Toby,” I greeted the old black man wearing three coats, his long, dirty gray beard falling to his stomach. He had tied a rope around his waist and attached it to his shopping cart to avoid anyone stealing his worldly possessions when he slept off his alcohol.

“Mizvi,” he said, running my name together in a slur. He called me “Miss Violet” when he was sober. He must have still been coming down off whatever he’d drank last night.

I smiled. Four years ago I never smiled at these people, fearing something undefinable. Now I did, even when I wanted to cry. I reached into my purse and pulled out a bite-size Hershey Bar. Toby loved chocolate. I handed it to him. He took it with a wide grin, revealing stained teeth.

One of the biggest myths about the homeless is that they’re hungry. They have more food than they can eat. That doesn’t mean many aren’t malnourished. Drug and alcohol abuse can do that to a person.

A couple weeks ago a church group had thought they would bring in sandwiches and water as part of community service. It was a nice gesture, sure, but they could have asked what was needed instead of assuming that these people were starving. Most of the food went uneaten, left outside tents to become rat food. The plastic water bottles were collected to return for the deposit, which was used to buy drugs and alcohol.

But no one gave Toby chocolate, he once told me when he was half-sober. Now, whenever I saw him—once, twice a week—I gave him a Hershey Bar. He would die sooner than he should, so why couldn’t I give him a small pleasure that I could afford? Toby was one of the chronics, a man who’d been on the street for years. He had no desire to be anywhere else, trusted no one, though I thought he trusted me a little. I wished I knew his story, how he came to be here, how I could reach him to show him a different path. His liver had to be slush with the amount of alcohol he consumed. Alcohol he bought because people, thinking they were helping—or just to make themselves feel better—handed him money.

As I passed the entrance to the small park, the stench of unwashed humans assaulted me. The city had put four porta-potties on the edge of the park but they emptied them once a month, if that. They were used more for getting high and prostitution than as bathrooms. The city had also put up fencing, but didn’t always come around to lock the gate. Wouldn’t matter; someone would cut it open and no one would stop them. Trespassing was the least of the crimes in the area.

I dared to look inside the park, though I didn’t expect to see her. I hadn’t seen her for over a week. I found myself clutching my messenger bag that was strapped across my chest. Not because I thought someone would steal it, but because I needed to hold something, as if my bag was a security blanket.

I didn’t see her among the tents or the people sitting on the ground, on the dirt and cushions, broken couches and sleeping bags, among the needles and small, tin foils used to smoke fentanyl. I kicked aside a vial that had once held Narcan, the drug to counteract opioid overdoses. The clear and plastic vials littered the ground, remnants of addiction.

There was nothing humane about allowing people to get so wasted they were on the verge of death, reviving them, then leaving them to do it over and over again. But that was the system.

The system was fucked.

Blue and red lights whirled as I approached the corner. I usually crossed Fifth Street here, but today I stopped, stared at the silent police car.

The police only came when someone was dying…or dead.

Mom.

I found my feet moving toward the cops even though I wanted to run away. My heart raced, my vision blurred as tears flashed, then disappeared.

Mom.

Excerpted from The Missing Witness by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2024 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books.

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About the Author

ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling and award-winning author of over forty novels, including The Sorority Murder. She lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets. The Missing Witness is the fifth thriller in the new Quinn & Costa series.

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

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