Drake McGinn turned his back on hockey after the league betrayed him. Will the Titans be his chance to clear his name and take back the career he once loved?
After I made the decision to divorce, my ex-wife set out on a smear campaign against me, telling anyone who would listen that I was betting on hockey and throwing games. It wasn’t surprising that my ex told the lies, but the fact that the media, league, and fans chose to believe her baseless claims was unforgivable. I walked away from it all and never looked back.
Having settled into life as a single dad to three boys, I’m content. I have more money than I could ever need, and plenty of time to do whatever I want, whenever I want, and whoever I want. So when Brienne Norcross, the team owner for the Pittsburgh Titans, shows up at my house with a job offer, I have no problem turning her down. But the no-nonsense billionaire, with sinfully seductive red lips and killer heels that would look hot as hell thrown over my shoulders, won’t take “no” for an answer.
Now I need to find balance between hockey, my boys, and the explosive chemistry Brienne and I can no longer deny. A cast-off hockey player and the league’s only female team owner? I can think of a million reasons why it could never work but can’t bring myself to care about a single one of them. Game on.
Drake has some serious trust issues after being betrayed by both his ex-wife and the league. It makes his attraction to Brienne very complicated – he can handle things when its just his body involved but as soon as its his heart things become problematic.
While Brienne tries, she can’t resist the pull she feels for the cocky hockey player. If they can keep it superficial … but as he shows her his caring side, for his family and for her, deeper feelings soon follow.
Bennett is amazing at delivering characters, both male and female, that are strong but with vulnerabilities that need to be overcome on their way to a HEA. Both Drake and Brienne have their reasons for keeping things light but their attraction is so overwhelming that they find themselves spending more and more time together, with emotions developing that neither of them want. Steamy, sassy, and smart Bennett delivers yet another must read. Her Titans are guaranteed to deliver and I’m ready to see what she will bring next.
(I think there should be a content warning for those who have concerns around consent. Drake is very alpha and a take charge guy in the bedroom. He also recognizes that while Brienne owns her sexuality, most of the time she wants to give up control because she spends so much of her time making big decisions as the CEO of her company. It works for a romance novel but it may be disturbing for some as there are times when Drake pushes her a little. Just putting that out there for those that need it.)
*****
Author Info:
New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling author Sawyer Bennett uses real life experience to create relatable stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From contemporary romance, fantasy romance, and both women’s and general fiction, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone.
A former trial lawyer from North Carolina, when she is not bringing fiction to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to her very adorable daughter, as well as full-time servant to her wonderfully naughty dogs.
If you’d like to receive a notification when Sawyer releases a new book, sign up for her newsletter (sawyerbennett.com/signup).
A cross between Firefly Lane and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, a dual-narrative about two sisters who realize their mother isn’t who they’d always thought when a legendary movie star shows up at her funeral, unraveling the sweeping story of a friendship that begins at a nursing school in Iowa in 1967 and onward as it survives decades of change, war, fame—and the secrets they kept from each other and for each other.
The Sunshine Girls
by Molly Fader
ISBN: 9781335453488
Publication Date: December 6, 2022
Publisher: Graydon House
Blurb:
A moment of great change sparks the friendship of a lifetime…
1967, Iowa: Nursing school roommates BettyKay and Kitty don’t have much in common. A farmer’s daughter, BettyKay has risked her family’s disapproval to make her dreams come true away from her rural small town. Cosmopolitan Kitty has always relied on her beauty and smarts to get by, and to hide a devastating secret from the past that she can’t seem to outrun. Yet the two share a determination to prove themselves in a changing world, forging an unlikely bond on a campus unkind to women.
Before their first year is up, tragedy strikes, and the women’s paths are forced apart. But against all odds, a decades-long friendship forms, persevering through love, marriage, failure, and death, from the jungles of Vietnam to the glamorous circles of Hollywood. Until one snowy night leads their relationship to the ultimate crossroads.
Fifty years later, two estranged sisters are shocked when a famous movie star shows up at their mother’s funeral. Over one rollercoaster weekend, the women must reckon with a dazzling truth about their family that will alter their lives forever…
There were too many lilies. Clara wasn’t an authority on flowers or funerals. But, it was like a flower shop—that only sold lilies—had exploded in the blue room of Horner’s Funeral Home.
This was what happened when everyone adored you. They buried you under a mountain of your favorite flower—in this case, stargazers with their erotic pink hearts and sinus-piercing pollen—before they actually buried you.
And it was just a cosmic kick in the pants that Clara Beecher was allergic to her mother’s favorite flowers.
“Clara!” Mrs. Place, her eighth-grade language arts teacher, clasped Clara’s hands in her bony grip. Mrs. Place had not changed at all. She was the kind of woman who seemed middle-aged at seventeen and just waited for time to catch up. “Your mother was so proud of you. You and your sister, you were her pride and joy.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Clara said, keenly aware of her sister, Abbie, across the room doing the sorts of things that would make a mother proud.
“At book club, she’d go on and on about you and the important work you were doing in the city and, well, most of it went right over my head,” Mrs. Place said. There was nothing complicated about Clara’s work; Mom just lied about it so, as a former hippie, she didn’t have to say the words my daughter is a corporate shill. “But you could tell she was just so proud.”
Clara pulled her hand free in time to grab a tissue from one of the many boxes scattered around the room and held it to her allergy-induced, dripping nose. “Thank you,” she said through the tissue.
“Everyone is going to miss Betts,” Mrs. Place said. “So much. There’s not a part of this town that she wasn’t involved in. Church, the library. Park board. Community gardens.”
Like an invasive species. Invite her to something and she’d soon be running the show.
Grief is making you sharp. That was something her mother would say. If she wasn’t dead.
The Blue Room of Horner Funeral Home was hot and wall-to-lily packed with people coming to pay their respects to one of Greensboro’s favorite citizens.
BettyKay Beecher had lived her whole adult life in this tiny town, and the town had shown up bearing casseroles and no-bake cheesecakes for the reception after the burial, wearing their Sunday best, armed with their favorite BettyKay stories.
She sat with my dad when he was dying.
She helped us figure out the insurance paperwork when our son was in his accident.
They were all mourning. The whole room and the hallway outside and the people still sitting in their cars in the parking lot. People were crying real tears, huddling, sobbing—actually sobbing—in corners. And all Clara could think was:
Did they know?
Had Mom, in true fashion, told the entire town the secret she’d kept from her own daughters for nearly forty years? The bombshell, life-rearranging, ugly secret she’d blurted, exasperated and furious with Clara in their last phone call?
Would they be mourning so hard if they knew?
Clara sneezed.
“Oh, bless you, honey,” Mrs. Place said.
“It’s just allergies.” Clara folded up the tissues before putting them in the pocket of her new black Marco Zanini suit with the sash tie and the sky blue silk lining. She’d thought the lining might be a bit much for a funeral, but that was before she knew about the lilies.
And don’t get her started on all the men wearing camouflage. To a funeral. Were they all going hunting after this?
“She’s with your father now. I hope you find comfort in that.”
“I do, thank you.” It was, as it always had been in Greensboro, Iowa, easier to lie.
Another person came up with another story about BettyKay Beecher. “Is that your sister?” She pointed across the room after sharing an anecdote about their time together in the Army Nurse Corps. “Abbie?”
Abbie was surrounded by her friends from childhood—who used to be Clara’s friends from childhood, not that it mattered—who kept bringing her mugs that were not filled with coffee. Abbie’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright and she was half-drunk, crying and hugging and not at all bothered by the lilies.
“Yep. That’s my sister,” Clara said, ushering the woman toward Abbie and not even feeling bad about it. “She’d love to hear your story.”
Three years ago, they’d stood in this exact same room, mourning their father, Willis Beecher. It was hard to be home and not see him in the corners of rooms. She couldn’t drink rum or Constant Comment tea and not miss him. The smell of patchouli could bring her to tears. A sob rose up in her throat like a fist, and her knees were suddenly loose. She put a hand against the table so she didn’t crumple onto the floor.
I’m an orphan. Me and Abbie—orphans.
She was a full-grown adult. A corporate lawyer (about to make junior partner, fingers crossed) who billed at $700 an hour. She had a condo on Lakeshore and a good woman who loved her. Abbie had two kids of her own, a husband of twenty-five years and kept slices of homemade lemon loaf in the freezer that she could pop in a toaster in case someone stopped by for coffee. They were far from orphans.
But she couldn’t shake the thought.
Clara found the side door and stepped out.
The wind was icy, blowing across the farmland to the west, picking up the smell of fries and burgers from The Starlite Room, only to press her flat against the yellow brick. She felt the cotton-silk blend of her suit snag on the brick.
The first few days of March were cold, too cold to be out here without a jacket, but the freshness woke her up. Spring hadn’t committed to Iowa yet and the cornfields were still brown, lying in wait, like everything else in Greensboro, for the last blizzard to come hammering down from the Dakotas.
Her phone buzzed. She left it in her pocket.
Horner’s Funeral Home was on the other side of town from the Greensboro University, and St. Luke’s School of Nursing’s white clock tower was just visible over the trees. The university had all the flags lowered to half-mast for the week. It was a nice touch. Mom had been a student there and then a teacher and for the last twenty years, an administrator.
She closed her eyes, letting the wind do its work.
“Hey.”
Clara felt her sister lean back against the wall next to her, smelling of vanilla and Pinot Grigio.
“Hey,” she said, eyes still closed.
“The lilies—”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Clara hummed in her throat, a sound that wasn’t yes or no. That was, in fact, the exact sound of the exhausted limbo the last few days had put her in.
“Me neither,” Abbie said. “It just… I feel like I’m missing something, you know? Like I’m walking around all wrong.”
Clara felt the same. Being BettyKay Beecher’s daughter was a part of her identity she didn’t always carry comfortably, but it was there.
“Where’s Vickie?” Abbie asked, and Clara caught herself from flinching at the sound of her girlfriend’s name.
“She wishes she could be here but she has a case in front of the Illinois Supreme Court.”
She felt Abbie’s doubt, the way she wanted to probe and pick.
“Did you have to blow up that picture so damn big?” Clara asked, before Abbie could get to her follow-up questions.
All around the funeral home were pictures of the Beecher family. And—God knows why—Abbie had decided to blow up to an obscene size, the picture of their mother that was on the back of her book: Pray for Me: The Diary of an Army Nurse in Vietnam. In it BettyKay was a fresh-faced twenty-two-year- old, with a helmet-shaped brunette bob wearing an olive green United States Army Nurse Corps uniform.
“Darn.”
“What?”
“Fiona’s turning into a little parrot, so we don’t swear anymore. We say ‘effing’ and ‘darn’ and ‘poop.’”
“That’s effing nonsense.”
“Probably.” Clara could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “And yes, I did. I love that picture of Mom. She looks so brave.”
Clara thought she looked terrified.
“Max and Fiona don’t understand what’s happening,” Abbie said. “They keep asking why Gran is lying down.”
Clara’s laugh was wet with the lingering allergic reaction to the flowers. “That’s awful.”
“Denise from the hospital keeps trying to get the kids to touch Mom’s hand. So they can feel how cold she is and then they’ll understand.”
“What will it make them understand?”
“That she’s dead.”
“That’s morbid even for Denise.” They were both laughing, which felt alien but sweet.
“She says it will give them closure.”
Abbie reached out and grabbed her hand. Clara started to pull away, but Abbie didn’t let go.
I should tell her. Part of her even wanted to. To share the burden of information like they were kids again. And Abbie, who liked the view from the perch her reputation as a Beecher in this town gave her, would tell Clara it wasn’t true. Couldn’t possibly be. That Mom had been wrong. Angry. Something.
Some excuse to keep everything the way it was.
That was why Clara couldn’t tell her. Because Abbie had to live in this town side by side with the memory of Mom. Bringing Abbie into it would make her sister’s life harder.
“Abbie, don’t get upset but I am going to leave after the reception at the church.” There. Done. Band-Aid-style.
“And go where?” Abbie asked.
“Back home.”
And here comes the look. “Chicago? You’re kidding.”
“We have a new client—”
“You’re leaving?” Accidentally Clara caught Abbie’s furious gaze and wished she hadn’t. She could see her sister’s rage and her grief and it felt worse than her own.
“I’ll be back,” Clara lied.
“Bullshit.” So much for not swearing.
“Abbie—”
“You know. I should have expected this. You show up last-minute in your car and your ugly suit—”
“Hey!”
“With your nose in the air—”
“I’ll pay to have the house boxed up.”
Abbie sucked in so much air Clara went light-headed from the lack of oxygen around her.
“Can we please not make this a big deal?” she asked.
“What did I ever do to you, Clara? To make it so easy for you to leave me behind?”
The wind caught the side door as it opened, banging against the brick with a sound that made Clara and Abbie jump like they’d been caught smoking.
Ben, Abbie’s husband, stuck his head out and Abbie stepped forward. Ben was a good-looking guy in a gentle giant kind of way. Constantly rumpled, but usually smiling. He reminded Clara of a very good Labrador retriever.
She wanted to pat his head and give him a treat. And then yell at him for tracking mud across the rug.
“There you are,” he said.
“I was just getting some air,” Abbie said, with surprising defensiveness. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s…” Ben glanced over his shoulder and made a face, bewildered and somehow joyful in a way that made Clara and Abbie push off the wall. It was his mother-in-law’s funeral after all. Joy was a strange sentiment.
“What?” Clara asked.
“Well, I think you should come in and see for yourself.”
Ben held the door while Abbie and Clara walked back into the packed room. Everyone was silent now, pressed to the walls and corners in little clumps, whispering in that painfully familiar way out of the corners of their mouths and behind their hands. There was a path down the center of the room right to Mom’s casket, where she lay with her arms crossed, wearing her favorite green dress and way too much blush.
Standing at the casket, was a woman. A stranger.
Everything about her screamed not from around here. She wore an elegant long black skirt and a pair of boots with low heels of rich black leather. A gray sweater (Ralph Lauren Collection cashmere or Clara would eat her own boots) with a black belt around her trim waist. Her hair was long and silvery blond, the kind that appeared natural but Clara would put money on the fact that it cost a lot and took a lot of time to keep that way.
She kind of…glittered.
“Who is that?”
“You don’t recognize her?” Ben whispered between Abbie and Clara’s shoulders, his breath smelling of coffee and cough drops.
Something about the woman did seem familiar, polished.
“Is she from the publishing company?” she asked Abbie.
“I don’t think so. They sent a cheesecake.”
“That morning show Mom did sometimes, in Des Moines? Ramona?”
“Ramona Rodriguez died, like, ten years ago.”
Clara should know this woman. But her mother’s funeral was throwing her off.
“Are you kidding me? You really don’t recognize her?” Ben asked. “It’s Kitty Devereaux.”
MOLLY FADER is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of The McAvoy Sisters Book of Secrets, The Bitter and Sweet of Cherry Season, and more than 40 romance novels under the pennames Molly O’Keefe and M. O’Keefe. She grew up outside of Chicago and now lives in Toronto.
For Tansy Hill, nothing is sweeter than honey from her farm—except maybe revenge on the man whose father stole her family’s secret honey recipe years ago. Dane “The Viking” Knudson has been Tansy’s rival since childhood, and though he’s grown into a frustratingly handsome charmer, he’s also standing between her and the best honey award at the Honey Bee Festival, which Honey Hill Farms desperately needs to stay afloat.
Fanning the sparks that have forever flown between them, the competition is on. Sure, Tansy and Dane have plenty in common—more than they’ll admit—but Dane’s plans to expand Viking Honey are also on the line. When buried family secrets come to light, they’ll have to decide whether taking a chance on each other is worth risking the happiness they’ve been longing for.
“He cannot be serious.” Tansy stared at the front page of the local Hill Country Gazette in horror. At the far too flattering picture of Dane Knudson. His long, pale blond hair pulled back in a sloppy man-bun—which should look ridiculous but, on him, never did. The skintight Texas Viking Honey T-shirt vacuum-sealed over what appeared to be a very Viking-like chest. And that smile. That smug, “that’s right I’m superhot and I know it” smile that set her teeth on edge. “What was he thinking?”
“He who?” Tansy’s sister Astrid, sat across the kitchen table, her lap occupied by Beeswax, their massive orange cat. “Who has poor Tansy-Wansy all worked up, hmm, Beeswax?” She smiled down at the cat, who was staring up at Astrid with pure adoration. “Maybe you should go cuddle with her.”
“Dane.” Tansy shook the newspaper. “Who else?”
“Who else, indeed?” Aunt Magnolia said. She stood, straight and tall and willowy, stacking fresh-from-the-oven lavender-honey lemon poppy seed muffins on a plate.
“What did he do now?” Aunt Camellia asked, looking and sounding the appropriate mix of outraged and sympathetic Tansy was hoping for. She wiped her hands on her apron before tightening the lid on the Mason jar full of her lavender-scented beeswax lotion.
“What did he do now?” Lord Byron, Aunt Camellia’s parrot, sat on his perch close to her chair waiting for one of the oyster crackers she always had tucked away in her pocket, just for him.
“This.” Tansy shook the newspaper again. “Texas Viking Honey to Help Honey, Texas, Develop Its As Yet Untapped Agri-Tourism Opportunity.” She paused, waiting for the reaction.
“This is bad?” Astrid asked, leaning around Beeswax to pick up her teacup. “Why is this bad? If they’re scaling back on honey, then—”
“‘While continuing to produce their award-winning clover honey,’” Tansy read, then snorted, “‘Texas Viking Honey, with the support of the Honey City Council, will be expanding operations and combining their Viking ancestry and Texas heritage—”
“That does sound rather impressive, Tansy.” Aunt Magnolia slid the plate of muffins onto the kitchen table and took her seat. “That doesn’t mean it is impressive.”
“Impressive? More like pompous.” Aunt Camellia took a muffin and joined them at the table. “All the Viking this and Viking that. That boy is pure Texan.” She devoured the muffin in a few angry bites.
“The Viking thing is a marketing gimmick,” Tansy agreed.
“A smart one.” Astrid winced at the glare Tansy shot her way. “What about this has you so worked up, Tansy?”
“I haven’t gotten there, yet.” Tansy held up one finger and continued clearly now, over-enunciating each syllable as she read, “‘Combining their Viking ancestry and Texas heritage for a one-of-a-kind event venue and riverfront cabins ready for nature-loving guests by next fall.’”
All at once, the room froze.
Finally. She watched as, one by one, they realized why this was a bad thing.
“But, the bees.” Astrid frowned. Beekeeping wasn’t just their family’s livelihood, it was their way of life. But Astrid had an extra connection to their winged friends. For her, it wasn’t about the honey or the beeswax or the money, it was about protecting them. There was one thing that made Astrid Hill upset—endangering the bees.
Two years of scorching heat and drought had left Honey Hill Farms’ apiaries in a precarious position. Not just the bees—the family farm itself. They all knew this season could make or break the Hill family. None of them wanted to say the words out loud, of course, but there was an inordinate amount of pressure to win the cash prize at this year’s Honey Festival—and the distribution contract with Healthy & Wholesome Markets. If they didn’t, they’d lose their home and their bees… Of course, Dane’s stupid plan might run off the bees long before then.
Astrid looked crestfallen. “It’s almost as if he doesn’t understand or…or care about the bees.”
“He doesn’t care about the bees.” Tansy wanted to hit something. Or someone. “If he did, this wouldn’t be happening.” She scanned the paper again—but not the photo. His smile only added insult to injury. “The noise and traffic and guests, and who knows what ‘event venue’ means? Before that, there will be construction and machinery and workers and…and destruction.” She shook her head. “What is he thinking?”
“I’ll tell you what he’s thinking.” Aunt Camellia took another muffin. “Come to think of it, he’s a Knudson, so chances are he’s not thinking… But, if he’s anything like his father, he’s determined to milk every cent he can out of every avenue available to him. This little…stunt will likely bring them a pretty penny.”
“Now, now, Camellia.” Aunt Magnolia held her hand out for the newspaper.
Tansy handed it over and exchanged a look with her sister. They didn’t know all the ins and outs of what had happened between Aunt Camellia and Harald Knudson—only that their aunt had zero tolerance for all things Knudson.
On that, she and Aunt Camellia were of one mind.
She and her aunt had spent the last eighteen months perfecting their newest honey to make absolutely certain they’d win top prize at this year’s Honey Festival. All the long hours and tweaking of flavors had led to the best honey Tansy had ever tasted—and she’d tasted a lot of honey in her lifetime. That was how Tansy knew, deep in her bones, they’d win. They’d win the blue ribbon and the cash prize and the Healthy & Wholesome Markets deal that would keep Honey Hill Farms alive and well for the long-term. But the cherry on top? Winning top honors would put the Knudsons in their place and avenge her aunt Camellia. Her aunt was bighearted and generous and kind to a fault. That Harald Knudson had done something to hurt her was enough to make the Hills and Knudsons business rivals. Thanks to Tansy’s incident with Dane, the rivalry was intensely personal for her. Up until ten minutes ago, she’d been on a sort of high just thinking about Harald Knudson’s shock as the Hill family took first place—not to mention how ecstatic she’d been imagining wiping the grin off Dane Knudson’s impossibly handsome and perpetually condescending face. Sweet victory.
But now…this…
Tansy stood and carried her coffee cup to the kitchen sink, leaning against the counter to clear her head. Her gaze bounced around the farmhouse kitchen, taking in Granna Hazel’s hand-painted bee and flower details on the pale yellow walls, Aunt Camellia’s leftover lotion materials atop the large island, and the dozen or so full jars sealed and lined up beneath the window over the sink. Aunt Camellia’s pups, all five of them, were a patchwork mass of fur, piled close in a long beam of sunlight that cut across the Spanish-tile kitchen floor. This room was the heart of the old house. This was where they gathered at least twice a day to share a meal, news, and work through any concerns together. Even with stacks of bee journals, magazines, books, baskets of honey, soap- and lotion-making supplies, and all sorts of bits and bobs tacked to the refrigerator and oversize corkboard by the pantry, it was impeccably clean. Aunt Camellia believed in organized chaos—that’s how she described it. Tansy sighed, peering out the window at the bluebonnets and golden agarita waving in the spring breeze, beckoning to the bees that called Honey Hill Farms their home.
A home Dane Knudson is jeopardizing…
“You have to give the boy credit,” Aunt Magnolia said, folding the newspaper and laying it on the table. “He has drive.”
Tansy wasn’t giving the boy a thing. As far back as she could remember, Tansy and Dane had gone toe-to-toe. From middle school spelling bees, fundraisers and Junior Beekeepers competitions, to two publicly humiliating and painful weeks in high school that forever cemented their mutual dislike of one another. She stopped that line of thought cold. Bottom line, they’d been each other’s fiercest competition. But it wasn’t the competition that irked her or the time and work she’d put in to besting him, it was Dane. He had been—he still was, this article proved that—heartless. Heartless and selfish. To him, life was a game, and toying with people’s emotions was all part of it. Over and over again, she’d invested time and energy and hours of hard work and he’d just sort of winged it. As far as Tansy knew, he’d never suffered any consequences for his lackluster efforts. No, the great Dane Knudson could charm his way through pretty much any situation. One thing was certain: Dane and his father were both rotten to the core.
“Drive? Or ego? Maybe he’s finally bitten off more than he can chew?” Tansy shook her head. “What he’s planning has nothing to do with beekeeping.” If anything, there was the potential for disaster. For all of them. And now this…this expansion of his could cost her family their home, the farm, the bees…everything. Tansy’s stomach knotted with dread.
“We should file a protest,” Aunt Camellia said, taking a third muffin.
“It’s his private property, Camellia.” Aunt Magnolia sipped her tea, one fine red eyebrow arching. “He can do as he pleases. Besides, it sounds like the city council is on board.”
Tansy didn’t want to think about just how charming he’d been to manage that. Ugh. She took one of the still-warm lavender-honey lemon poppy seed muffins and pulled it apart. The scent flooded her nostrils and made her stomach growl. Fluffy and golden, with just the faintest hint of their homegrown lavender-infused honey. She took a bite and moaned. “Oh, yum, Auntie Mags. These are heaven.”
“Of course, they are. I made them.” Magnolia smiled. “But mostly because it’s Granna Hazel’s recipe.” She winked.
Tansy spread on some of the honey butter she’d made the week before. Over the years, she learned how to balance rich flavors with a smooth-as-silk texture—making all Honey Hill honey butters spread perfectly. She took a bite, moaned again and smiled. “So, so good.”
“Why not go talk to him?” Astrid asked.
Tansy almost choked on her muffin. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Astrid shot their aunt a look. “Aunt Camellia can’t.”
“I can’t and I won’t. I’m not setting foot on that man’s property.” Aunt Camellia nodded so vigorously that her reddish-blond curls shook. She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and leaned back against her chair, declaring, “And I won’t be responsible for my behavior if he ever dared show up here.” He meaning Dane’s ne’er-do-well father, Harald Knudson.
“Dared show up here,” Lord Byron repeated, the parrot bobbing up and down on his perch.
Aunt Camellia smiled at the parrot. “What do you have now?” she asked, retrieving the page of newspaper Lord Byron was standing on. The parrot was always taking things and hiding them away, but Aunt Camellia so adored him that he was rarely scolded—much to Aunt Magnolia’s disapproval. “Little thief,” Aunt Camellia all but cooed, then she fed him a cracker.
“I don’t think Harald Knudson would ever think about visiting Honey Hill Farm, Camellia.” Aunt Magnolia shrugged. “Which is good because we need to spend our money carefully, not bailing you out of jail. Your bird, however, could use some time locked up.” She glared at the parrot. Lord Byron glared right back.
Astrid shrugged. “You have to go, Tansy. I’d only make things ten times worse, and you know it.”
“I doubt that,” Tansy argued, though she knew what her sister meant. Astrid would go on a long diatribe about the welfare of the bees, how beekeeping was about equity and respect and balance, before she ever addressed the very real, very legitimate concerns this expansion could cause. A whole list of worries that included things like how vehicle exhaust fumes disrupted a bee’s scent signals, the necessity of an environmental study done prior to any construction—all to ensure no harm or disruption for the land, animals and bees…
Oh, how she loathed Dane Knudson—now more than ever.
He had to know that clearing or changing his property could cataclysmically alter the hives’ pollen source, didn’t he? Or that a queen would relocate her hive if she feared they were in danger? Or that bringing in people, people who didn’t understand bees or honey or anything about beekeeping, could stress a hive and impact their honey production or have them desert their home? A real beekeeper would carefully consider all of this, plus some, before considering such a…a scheme. Since Dane Knudson proclaimed to be a beekeeper, from a long line of beekeepers, he should know of this. He should know better.
“Aunt Magnolia shouldn’t go because she intimidates…well, everyone. That’s not exactly conducive to conversation.” Astrid shrugged, running a hand along Beeswax’s orange-striped back. “Sorry, Aunt Mags.”
Tansy couldn’t help but wonder if Dane Knudson didn’t need to be intimidated a little. Or a lot.
“Don’t be. I love being intimidating. It’s so…so powerful.” Aunt Magnolia smiled. “You can do the same, Tansy. Try it, you’ll like it. Put that brawny boy in his place.”
“Too bad Rosemary isn’t here.” Astrid sighed. “She’d have the perfect talking points for him, spout off just the right numbers and present it so matter-of-factly that he couldn’t argue.”
But their genius little sister, Rosemary, was off following her dreams and participating in a truly innovative bee genomics postgrad study in California. Too far away to call in for backup.
So apparently, Tansy was it. “Unlike Rosemary, the chances of me remaining matter-of-fact are slight.” Especially when I’m face-to-face with that self-inflated, condescending, ridiculously good-looking, unethical jerk.
“Tansy, darling, there is absolutely no reason to let him upset you so. Make your concerns known.” Aunt Magnolia sipped her tea. “Stay calm and cool. Keep the upper hand.”
“She’s right, Tansy. He’s the same bully he was in high school. Getting under your skin for fun,” Astrid reminded her. “But you’re older and wiser and you know how he works so he can’t get to you anymore.” She smiled, sort of. “Just remember what Auntie Mags said. Be intimidating.”
“They’re right, Tansy, darling.” Aunt Camellia patted her hand. “You can do it.”
“You can do it,” Lord Byron squawked.
Tansy didn’t miss the way both her aunts looked at her—Astrid, too. None of them appeared convinced that she could have a productive conversation with their Viking-ish neighbor. And that included herself. But if I don’t talk to Dane, then there’s no chance of stopping his idiotic plan. What choice did she have?
USA Today Bestselling Author Sasha Summers writes stories that celebrate the ups and downs, loves and losses, ordinary and extraordinary occurrences of life. Sasha pens fiction in multiple genres and hopes each and every book will draw readers in and set them on an emotional and rewarding journey. With a puppy on her lap and her favorite Thor mug full of coffee, Sasha is currently working on her next release. She adores hearing from fans and invites you to visit her online.
Rachel Rubenstein-Goldblatt is a nice Jewish girl with a shameful secret: she loves Christmas. For a decade she’s hidden her career as a Christmas romance novelist from her family. Her talent has made her a bestseller even as her chronic illness has always kept the kind of love she writes about out of reach.
But when her diversity-conscious publisher insists she write a Hanukkah romance, her well of inspiration suddenly runs dry. Hanukkah’s not magical. It’s not merry. It’s not Christmas. Desperate not to lose her contract, Rachel’s determined to find her muse at the Matzah Ball, a Jewish music celebration on the last night of Hanukkah, even if it means working with her summer camp archenemy—Jacob Greenberg.
Though Rachel and Jacob haven’t seen each other since they were kids, their grudge still glows brighter than a menorah. But as they spend more time together, Rachel finds herself drawn to Hanukkah—and Jacob—in a way she never expected. Maybe this holiday of lights will be the spark she needed to set her heart ablaze.
Rachel Rubenstein-Goldblatt stared at the collection of miniature Christmas figurines spread across her desk. She owned 236 of the smiling porcelain Santas from the world-famous Holiday Dreams Collection. When her best friend, Mickey, arrived, she would complete that collection with the addition of the coveted Margaritaville Santa.
Oh, the Margaritaville Santa. How she had dreamed of the day when that tiny porcelain Santa, in a Hawaiian shirt and wear-ing Ray-Ban sunglasses, would sit atop her prized collection.
Rachel had scoured eBay for the tiny limited-edition figurine, set up price alerts and left frantic (somewhat drunken) posts at three in the morning on collector blogs. Now, after six years, five months and seven days of hunting, the Margaritaville Santa would finally be hers.
The anxiety was killing her.
Rachel glanced out the window of her apartment. It was snowing outside. Gentle flakes fell down onto Broadway and made New York City feel magical. She was wondering when Mickey would actually get here when there was a knock at the door.
“Finally!” Rachel said. Excitement bubbled up inside her as she raced to the front door, throwing it open. And then, disappointment. Her mother stood in the threshold.
“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, a perfectly innocent smile spread across her two round cheeks.
Her mother was always in the neighborhood.
It was one of the downsides of living on the Upper West Side while her mother, a top New York fertility specialist, worked out of Columbia Hospital just ten blocks away.
Rachel had to think quickly. She loved her mother, and was even willing to entertain her completely intrusive and unannounced visits, but the door to her home office was still open.
“Mickey’s about to stop by,” Rachel warned.
“I won’t be but a minute,” her mother said, lifting up a plastic bag from Ruby’s Smoked Fish Shop as a peace offering. “I brought you some dinner.”
Dr. Rubenstein pushed her way inside, letting her fingers graze the mezuzah on Rachel’s doorpost before entering. Making her way straight to the refrigerator, she began unloading “dinner.”
There was a large vat of chopped liver, two loaves of pum-pernickel bread, three different types of rugalach. Dr. Ruben-stein believed in feeding the people you love, and the love she had for her daughter was likely to end in heart disease.
“How are you feeling?” her mother inquired.
“Fine,” Rachel said, using the opportunity to close her office door.
Dr. Rubenstein looked up from the refrigerator. Her eyes rolled from Rachel’s hair, matted and clumped, down to her wrinkled pink pajamas.
She frowned. “You look pale.”
“I am pale,” Rachel reminded her.
“Rachel,” her mother said pointedly, “you need to take your myalgic encephalomyelitis seriously.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. Outside, the gentle snow was gathering into a full-blown storm.
Dr. Rubenstein was probably one of the few people who called Rachel’s disease by its medical term, the name research scientists and experts preferred, describing the complex mul-tisystem disease that affected her neurological, immune, autonomic and metabolic systems. Most everyone else in the world knew it by the simple and distasteful moniker chronic fatigue syndrome.
Which was, quite possibly, the most trivializing name for a disease in the entire world. The equivalent of calling Alzheimer’s “Senior Moment Syndrome.”
It did not begin to remotely describe the crushing fatigue, migraines, brain fog or weirdo pains that Rachel lived with daily. It certainly did not describe the 25 percent of patients who found themselves bed-bound or homebound—existing on feeding tubes, unable to leave dark rooms for years—or the 75 percent of patients who could no longer work full-time.
For now, however, Rachel was one of the lucky ones. She had managed to graduate college with a degree in creative writing and, over the last decade, build a career working from home.
“Ema,” Rachel said, growing frustrated. “My body, my choice.”
“But—”
“Change the topic.”
Dr. Rubenstein pressed her lips together and swallowed the words on her tongue. It was not an easy feat for the woman. “And how’s work?”
“Good.” Rachel shrugged, returning to the couch. “Noth-ing that interesting to report.”
“And the freelance work you’re doing—” her mother craned her neck to peep around her apartment “—it’s keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough.”
Dr. Rubenstein raised one eyebrow in her daughter’s di-rection.
Rachel knew what her mother was really asking. How can you afford a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side simply by doing freelance editorial work? But Dr. Rubenstein had learned an important halachic lesson from her husband, Rabbi Aaron Goldblatt, early on in their marriage; you don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to.
For all Rachel knew, her mother believed her to be a web-cam girl. Or a high-class prostitute. Or the mistress of some dashingly handsome Arabian prince. All of which, Rachel was certain, would be preferable to what she actually did for a living.
“Ema,” Rachel said, steering the conversation away from her career. “What is it you’re really here for?”
“Why do you always think I have an ulterior motive, Rachel?”
“Because I know you.”
“All right!” Dr. Rubenstein threw her hands up into the air. “You caught me. I do have an ulterior motive.”
“Baruch Hashem.”
“Now, it’s nothing bad, I promise,” her mother said, taking a seat on her couch. “I simply wanted to see if you were available for Shabbat dinner this Friday?”
There it was. The real reason for her mother’s visit. Shab-bat at Rabbi Goldblatt’s house was not just a weekly religious occurrence, it was a chance for Dr. Rubenstein to kidnap her daughter for twenty-five hours straight and force her to meet single Jewish men.
Over the years, there had been all sorts of horrible setups. There was the luxury auto dealer who used his sleeve as a napkin during dinner. The rabbinical student who spent an entire Saturday afternoon debating aloud with only her father over what to do when an unkosher meatball falls into a pot of kosher meatballs.
And then, there was her favorite blind date setup of them all. Dovi, the Israeli mountain climber, who had traveled the world in his perfectly healthy and functioning body, before telling Rachel that he didn’t think chronic fatigue syndrome was a real disease.
Chas v’chalilah.
Rachel had no intention of spending another Friday night, and Saturday afternoon, entertaining her mother’s idea of a dreamboat. Especially not when that dreamboat had the word Titanic embroidered across the bottom of their knitted kippah.
“No,” Rachel said.
“Rachel!” her mother pleaded. “Just hear me out.”
“I’m too busy, Ema.”
“But you haven’t been home in ages!”
“You live in Long Island,” Rachel shot back. “I see you and Daddy all the time.”
Her mother could not argue with this factoid.
“Jacob Greenberg will be coming,” her mother finally said. Rachel nearly choked on her tongue. “What?”
“You remember Jacob Greenberg?”
The question sounded so innocent on the surface. Jacob Greenberg. How could Rachel forget the name? The duo had spent one summer together at Camp Ahava in the Berkshires before the seventh grade.
“Jacob Greenberg?” Rachel spit back. “The psychopath who spent an entire summer pulling my hair and pushing me into the lake?”
“I recall you two getting along quite well at one point.”
“He set me up in front of everyone, Mom. He turned my first kiss into a giant Camp Ahava prank!”
“He was twelve!” Dr. Rubenstein was on her feet now. “Twelve, Rachel. You can’t hold a grown man accountable for something he did as a child. For heaven’s sake… The boy hadn’t even had his bar mitzvah.”
Rachel could feel the red rising in her cheeks. A wellspring of complicated emotions rose up inside her. Hate and love. Confusion and excitement. Just hearing his name again after all these years brought Rachel smack-dab back to her ado-lescence. And sitting there beside all those terrible memories of him humiliating her were the good ones. Rachel couldn’t help herself. She drifted back to that summer.
The way it felt to hold his hand in secret. The realiza-tion that there was more to their relationship than just dumb pranks and dead bugs left in siddurs. Jacob had gotten Rachel to open up. She had trusted him. Showed him a side of herself reserved for a select few. Aside from Mickey, she had never been so honest with anybody in her entire life.
Dr. Rubenstein dismissed her daughter’s concerns with a small wave of the hand. “It was eighteen years ago. Don’t you think you’re being a tad ridiculous?”
“Me?” Rachel scoffed. “You’re the one who’s hosting my summer camp archenemy for Shabbat.”
“He’s in town from Paris for some big event he’s throwing. What would you have me do—not invite him?”
“While you’re at it, don’t forget to invite Dana Shoshan-ski. She made me cry every day in third grade. In fact, let me get you a list of all the people who made fun of me for being Rachel Rubenstein-Goldblatt growing up. I want to make sure you don’t miss anybody.”
Her mother did not blink. “I’m sorry it was hard for you…being our daughter.”
Just like that, her mother had twisted all those feelings back around on her.
Rachel bit back her words, looking up to the ceiling. She loved her parents more than anything in the world. They had been there for her at every stage of her life, doting and won-derful. Still, the Rubenstein-Goldblatt name came with pres-sures. They were pressures that, even as an adult, still managed to follow her.
A knock at the door drew their attention away.
“Let me get that for you,” Dr. Rubenstein said sweetly, ris-ing from the couch.
“Ho, ho, ho-oooooooh… .” Mickey said, standing at the door, his smile fading into panic. He was holding a medium-sized red gift bag in the air. He glanced at Rachel, who sig-naled the immediate danger by running one finger across her throat. Quickly Mickey hid the bag behind his back.
“Dr. Rubenstein!” he said, his eyes wide. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Not to worry, Mickey,” Dr. Rubenstein said, adjusting her scarf. “I was just getting ready to leave.” She turned back to her daughter one last time. “Just think about coming to din-ner, okay? Daddy and I won’t be around forever, and there may come a time in your life when you miss spending Shab-bat at your parents’ house.”
Mickey waited for the door to shut firmly behind him and the elevator at the end of the hall to ding before turning to his best friend. “Whoa,” he said. “That woman is a pro when it comes to Jewish guilt.”
“Tell me about it,” Rachel said, collapsing on the couch.“So what did our fine rebbetzin want this evening?” Mickey asked, taking his boots and jacket off at the front door.
“You’ll never believe it if I tell you.”
To everyone that knew them, it seemed that Mickey and Rachel had been bashert, soul mates, since time immemorial, having met at Camp Ahava when they were eight years old.
Since Rachel couldn’t be sure what drew the pair together, she assumed it had something to do with how other people at their camp had treated them. Mikael, the adopted son of a powerhouse lesbian couple from Manhattan, was Black. And Rachel, as everyone who met her cared to remind her, was the daughter of Rabbi Aaron Goldblatt. The Rabbi Aaron Goldblatt.
Whether they liked it or not, when Mickey and Rachel walked into a room, people noticed them. People watched them. This shared experience formed the basis of their com-radery and, later, extended far beyond Jewish summer camp.
“She wanted to set me up with Jacob Greenberg,” Rachel said.
Mickey finished pulling off his boots. “Jacob Greenberg? From Camp Ahava?”
“The one and only.”
“Wow,” Mickey said, coming over to sit beside Rachel. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in forever. Didn’t he give you mono?”
Rachel squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to think about that first kiss with Jacob Greenberg. “Can we seriously not talk about this right now? I’ve waited seven long years for this moment, Mickey…and just like some of the other most important moments of my life, Jacob Greenberg is ruining it.”
“You’re right,” Mickey said, laying the red bag on the coffee table between them. “And I have just the thing to take your mind off He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
This was it. The moment she had waited for. With eager fingers, Rachel reached into the bag, pulled out the tiny fig-urine and gently removed the plastic bubble wrapping that protected it.
Author Jean Meltzer studied dramatic writing at NYU Tisch, and served as creative director at Tapestry International, garnering numerous awards for her work in television, including a daytime Emmy. Like her protagonist, Jean is also a chronically-ill and disabled Jewish woman. She is an outspoken advocate for ME/CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), has attended visibility actions in Washington DC, meeting with members of Senate and Congress to raise funds for ME/CFS. She inspires 9,000 followers on WW Connect to live their best life, come out of the chronic illness closet, and embrace the hashtag #chronicallyfabulous. Also, while she was raised in what would be considered a secular home, she grew up kosher and attended Hebrew School. She spent five years in Rabbinical School.
Saying “I do” has never been this much fun in this charming new romance from New York Times bestselling author Ginny Baird.
Hope Webb can’t believe her twin sister, Jackie, is begging her to swap places and play fiancée at Jackie’s pre-wedding festivities. Sure, it’s only a business-deal sort of marriage, but Hope is a carb-loving teacher who enjoys curling up with a good book. Jackie is a workaholic whose idea of a good time is a brisk five-mile run at the crack of dawn. The two sisters couldn’t be more opposite.
Now Hope is stuck in the middle of a warm, tight-knit family she can’t help but adore and a groom who turns out to be entirely wonderful…for her.
Hotel magnate Brent Albright knows something is off about his fiancée, but he doesn’t care. Gone is the driven woman with similar career goals, and in her place is someone warm and funny who not only charms his family but him as well. She’s doing everything she can to avoid him, but that’s probably just nerves. Two people about to wed couldn’t know each other less.
Now Brent is determined to woo his fiancée, for real this time, because the more he gets to know her, the more his sweet fiancée turns out to be entirely wonderful…for him.
And that’s when things start to get really complicated…
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Ginny Baird writes sweet contemporary romance with a dash of humor and a whole lot of heart. She’s published more than twenty-five novels and novellas, both with traditional presses and independently, and has several exciting projects in the works. When she’s not writing, Ginny enjoys cooking, walking, and spending time with her family.
I can’t believe I missed this new series by Christi Barth! I’ve just added 2 more books to my TBR pile 🙂
*****
Ruling the Princess
Unexpectedly Royal series
by Christi Barth
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: March 23rd
Blurb:
I’m thrilled that my first trip back to my homeland, after years in exile, is for an assignment from the prime minister. Even better, the job’s to put Princess Genevieve in her place…by cutting off her cash flow. Spoiled royals—even drop-dead gorgeous ones—don’t do anything to deserve their wealth and status. Hell, they don’t do anything. She’s fighting me tooth and nail, of course. The only way to stop her arguing is, well, to kiss her.
And I can’t seem to stay away from her. Now I see a whole different side to the princess—and not just because I’ve gotten her clothes off. But I was put on this assignment for a reason… Those outside the castle want to see the Princess discredited and push their own agenda, and I may have just given them all the ammunition they need.
Each book in the Unexpectedly Royal series is STANDALONE: * The Princess Problem * Ruling the Princess
“Uh, you actually pulled rank and just summoned someone? That’s so…”
“Regal? Imperious?”
“Ballsy.”
“I declare it necessary. This…” Genevieve flipped to the end to squint at the signature, the harsh, spiky scrawl that was redolent with a smug—and mistaken—sense of power. “…Lord Theo Holst has a lot to answer for.”
“Yikes. Is it wrong that I’m excited to watch an old-fashioned, royal dressing-down? I’ve only seen this happen in movies.”
Genevieve appreciated Kelsey trying to lighten the mood. But she wasn’t ready to let go of her anger yet.
Ire.
No, fury.
“He thinks he can order me around? Me, a blood princess of four undiluted centuries of the House of Villani? Trust me when I say I’ll disabuse him of that notion.”
“I’m dying of curiosity over here. What order did he give you?”
Genny folded her napkin. Which was a major victory given that she wanted to throw it across the room. Preferably with an ice-ball inside of it. And preferably at Lord Theo’s head.
Then she stood and allowed the tiniest portion of her vexation to set her cream and fawn spectator pumps clicking across the floor at a fast clip. “He demanded that I slash my budget. That I allow him to tell me how and when and what to spend for the next two months. That I make the myriad of cuts he’s outlined, without question or discussion.”
Kelsey pursed her lips. “Weeeeeell—I’ve seen your closet. You have an entire shelf of tiaras.”
Of courseshe did. This lifelong job she’d never asked for did have its perks. “I’m a princess. They come with the title. I didn’t buy them on a reckless shopping spree. I inherited them.”
“Did you ‘inherit’”—her sister put finger quotes around the word—“the custom-made red Italian pumps I drooled over last week?”
Those had been her reward for surviving a week-long, twenty-five stop official visit to Sweden and the Netherlands. In January. “I repeat, I’m a princess.
*****
Author Info:
USA TODAY bestseller Christi Barth earned a Masters degree in vocal performance and embarked upon a career on the stage. A love of romance then drew her to wedding planning. Ultimately she succumbed to her lifelong love of books and now writes award-winning contemporary romance.
Christi can always be found either whipping up gourmet meals (for fun, honest!) or with her nose in a book. She lives in Maryland with the best husband in the world.
Y’all, it has been a slow posting week for me – I’m heading out on vacation tomorrow so it’s been quite a busy time around my house. There are no posts schedule until after June 1, but then we are back to regularly scheduled programming 🙂
If you are in the US, I hope you have a safe and enjoyable Memorial Day weekend!
I’m going to be offline(ish) for a little over a week so things are going to be quiet for a bit. I do have a review of Laura Trentham’s newest due next Thursday so make sure you check that out – from what I hear this one is fabulous and is getting some ah-mazing reviews already!
Things will be back to normal starting the 13th (I hope) and I’ve got lots of great books on my schedule for both reviews and spotlights so I’m excited about heading into the rest of the year!
But when a hunted woman takes shelter in his arms, this gentle giant swears he’ll do more than heal her battered spirit—he’ll defend her with his life.
K9 Officer Otto Gunnersen always had a soft spot for anyone in need. As Monroe’s very own Dr. Doolittle, he dedicates himself to rehabilitating the injured souls that cross his path—but for all his big heart, he’s never been in love.
Until he meets Sarah Clifton’s haunted eyes. Until he realizes he’ll do anything to save her.
All Sarah wants is to escape a life caught between ambitious crime families, but there’s no outrunning her past. Her power-mad brother would hunt her to the ends of the earth…but he’d never expect Sarah to fight back. With Otto and the whole of Monroe, Colorado by her side, Sarah’s finally ready to face whatever comes her way.
It’s time to take a stand.
Sarah lived an absolutely horrifying life before a slightly shady acquaintance helps her flee. Said contact, who also helped both Jules & Grace (from the first two books), gets her hidden … unfortunately her brother has a big reach and she doesn’t stay hidden for long. At that point the shenanigans begin. And what action-packed shenanigans they are! Luckily for Sarah she has Otto, along with Theo & Hugh, on her side. And there’s not much that those guys can’t handle.
Some of Otto’s development and back-story might have been rushed a little bit, what with all the bad guys trying to get them. But we do get a little glimpse of what made him such a gentle giant, with a big heart and a huge protective streak. And it takes him all of about half a second to decide he wanted to give all his love and protection to Sarah. He’ll take on just about anything to keep her safe and in his arms. And he might have to.
I will admit that I was a little sad that the romance wasn’t as detailed as the action portion of this one. It seemed to me that Ruggle balanced them a little bit better in the first two books … but man did she deliver an edge of your seat thrill ride with Otto & Sarah’s story. I found myself glued to the pages and wanting to read just a little bit more, no matter how late it got. That last third just about gave me an ulcer from all of the stress! If you are looking for an exciting read, this one definitely cranks things up.
(While technically this one can stand on its own it does tie in to the first two stories. Both Jules and Grace’s pasts come back into play and is tied in, well & logically, with Sarah’s.)
Celebrate the Release of PROTECTING THE GIRL NEXT DOOR and PROTECTING THE MOVIE STAR along with the entire THE PROTECTORS series!
Four former Marines, each trying to protect the one they love. The Protectors series tells their stories. Fans of contemporary romance will not be able to put this series by New York Times Bestselling Authors, Noelle Adams and Samantha Chase, down.
Protecting the Girl Next Door was originally published as Forever Bound. It has since been expanded, revised, and re-edited.
I like women, and I like adventure. I always have. The last thing I want to do is settle down with the girl next door and live a boring, domestic life. So I have no idea what I’m doing here, posing as a first-grade teacher.
It’s the most ridiculous undercover security job I’ve ever had to work. Corralling a bunch of six-year-olds while I try to do my job and keep anyone from knowing how clueless I really am. I manage to fool everyone. Except Kristin.
She’s an actual teacher, and she’s determined to find out what I’m really doing here. She doesn’t trust me, and her daughter doesn’t like me. And the worst part is that I’m starting to like them. A lot.
So now, instead of being the tough guy, I’m stuck with rowdy children and Christmas pageants and falling in love. It’s not the way I thought I’d spend Christmas.
Protecting the Movie Star was originally published as Home Bound. It has since been expanded, revised, and re-edited.
The story of my life isn’t pretty. I come from the wrong side of the tracks. I’ve been a criminal. I’ve been homeless. I almost killed my father, and I might be responsible for the death of my best friend.
I should not be wanting Evangeline.
Her life story is the stuff of dreams. She’s America’s sweetheart – beautiful, talented, and famous – and she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ll protect her from a stalker since it’s my job, but that’s all I’m allowed. No touching, no lusting, no falling in love. I’m all wrong for her, and she’s completely off-limits.
But I’ve never been good about following the rules.
Be sure to check out the entire THE PROTECTORS series!
Protecting His Best Friend’s Sister
The Protectors #1
by Noelle Adams and Samantha Chase
Release Date: August 9, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: FREE
Blurb:
Protecting His Best Friend’s Sister was originally published as Duty Bound. It has since been expanded, revised, and re-edited.
The only woman I want is the one I can never have.
Harper. My best friend’s sister. I’ve wanted her since I was eighteen, but she’s always been off-limits. Now I’m home after years in the Marines, and nothing has changed–except everything has. Her brother is dead, and she’s on a hopeless quest for answers about his death.
And I want her just as much as ever.
Someone is trying to kill her now, and she won’t let me keep her safe. I have to protect her anyway, even if she doesn’t trust me, even if she hates me for it. A man protects what’s precious to him, whether or not he can ever claim her for his own.
Protecting the Enemy was originally published as Honor Bound. It has since been expanded, revised, and re-edited.
Twelve years ago, I gave up the love of my life because my family made the relationship impossible. Now that Ali has come back to me, I’m not going to give her up again.
It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and I know she’s hated me all this time. I never expected to see her working as an event planner for one of my father’s business partners. But here she is, always snooping around and getting into trouble. I’m supposed to be providing security, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
She’s up to something, and it might put her in danger. She sees me as the enemy now. Maybe I am, but I’m not going to lose her again. I might be hired to protect the man she’s working against, but my heart only wants to protect her.
Noelle handwrote her first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she reads any book she can get her hands on and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.
She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances.
If you’d like to contact Noelle, please contact her at noelle.s.adams@gmail.com. Or connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.
*****
Giveaway:
Enter to win a $15 Amazon Gift Card! One runner-up will receive their choice eBook from Noelle’s backlist.
Romantic Reads and Such 