Monday, July 31, 2017




























Coming August 7th





























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On the roof of a house outside Truelove, Maine, master carpenter Max Doyle looks down through a skylight and sees the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. She’s naked, she’s gorgeous, and everything about her is perfect, down to the ball-busting tattoo of a rose that wraps around her hip. But it isn’t just any woman making his knees buckle. It’s his best friend, Rosie Madden. And as he stands there, mesmerized and precariously close to toppling off the roof, he knows he’ll never, ever be able to look at her the same way again.

Rosie can’t help but notice that Max is suddenly acting very strange—lots of long stares, totally tongue-tied, and not at all like the slightly cocky hunk she’s proud to call her best friend. She can’t figure it out, until later that night when Max rescues her from the world’s worst date, challenges her to a game of pool, and shows her just exactly what she’s got him thinking about. Repeatedly.

But life is complicated. Rosie’s cat, Julia Caesar, wants to eat Max’s dog Cupcake for an afternoon snack. A dream job threatens to pull them apart. And another glance through the skylight changes everything, one more time. Yet try as they might, they can’t go back to being just friends, because falling in love with the one you’ve always adored?

It feels so good.


















1
Max

I wasn’t planning to see her naked—I swear to God, I wasn’t. The day was a scorcher, one of those godforsaken New England summer days that makes a guy wonder how he ever said fuck you to winter. I stood on the roof her house, three stories above the Maine woods, with a far-off view of the ocean. It was pretty, yeah, like the kind of shit real estate companies put on complimentary calendars. But in that heat, it was like standing on top of a goddamned toaster, turned all the way to burnt. I could feel that shit in my socks, straight through my work boots. At my feet was a stack of shake shingles, old school, to replace the ones that were missing. Her house had a few slow leaks, and one over her bathroom that made the ceiling look like a huge Rorschach test. She said it definitely looked like a rose in bloom, I said it definitely looked like Batman. But I told her hidden meanings wouldn’t make shit for difference when the ceiling collapsed into the tub, so there I was. Fucking miserable work, but I was glad to do it. Glad to do anything for her—anything she needed at all.
In the forest on every side around the cottage, the cicadas screeched. It sounded like a needle squeaking off a record player. I knelt down by the stack of shingles, using my utility knife to score a line through one to fit a nearby gap. I snapped it with my hands and tossed the scrap end off the edge of the roof. A trickle of sweat ran down my forehead, and I wiped my face with my forearm. One droplet got away, sparkling in the sun. It caught my eye, and I watched it fall, as it landed on the skylight window with a splat.
And that was when it happened. Boom.
There she was, right under me. She couldn’t have been more than six feet away, but she felt even closer. I had a direct line of sight down into her gorgeous, soft cleavage, bright and pure in the sunshine. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the surprise of seeing her, but at first I didn’t really process that it was Rosie at all. My dude brain said, I want that woman.
Then my regular brain said, Don’t be an asshole, man. It’s Rosie. Have some respect.
Respect I definitely had, but of course I’d thought about seeing her naked before. She was so fucking beautiful that any man would have thought about it. Sometimes, like right then looking down into her dress, I couldn’t fucking help it. Sometimes we’d be out doing something ordinary, like eating dinner, or I’d be changing her oil, or she’d be teaching me to do shit I should have learned at some point in the last 34 years, like iron a dress shirt without screwing up the collar, and I’d catch myself watching her cleavage rise and fall as she breathed, or thinking how nice her legs were, and I’d think, Holy hell.
Now she was directly underneath the skylight. The angle of the sun cast my shadow down the roofline, away from the skylight, so I didn’t give myself away. Like that, I watched her. I gave in to my dude brain and just took her in. Her light brown hair glinted, and a beam of light caught the curve of her shoulder.
That was when the goddamned striptease started, beginning with the left strap of her sundress.
Her movements were graceful, sexy, sassy—the sway of her hips, the shake of her shoulders. I realized I might be in real fucking trouble, because I loved that sexy sass. It wasn’t normal Rosie-cute. It was naughty, like nothing I’d ever seen her do before. I liked it so much, I couldn’t look away. She shimmied out of her sundress, and it fell to the floor in a pool at her feet. No big deal, I tried to tell myself. I’d seen her in her bikini a thousand times. This was no different from that.
Except it was, because then she reached around to undo her bra. Before I could tell myself Don’t look, dude. It’s Rosie, don’t look, it was too fucking late. The straps slid down off her shoulders, and for one perfect second got caught on her nipples, swinging in the air before falling to the floor.
Holy…
I pressed my clenched fist to my mouth and groaned into my hand. All my blood was leaving my head. The roofline was getting wobbly.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know her curves; we’d spent whole summers on the beach—I knew her shape and her softness, I knew her lines and her freckles. Every curve of Rosie Madden was sacred in my book. Fucking douchebags on the beach giving her eyes had to answer to me and my eyes, right behind her. She did that to me—I was one punch away from defending her honor, always. But this? This was different. Seeing your best friend in a bikini at a clam bake is one thing. Protecting your best friend from assholes with wandering eyes is part of the guy-girl best friend creed. But seeing your best friend, absolutely naked in her bedroom, without knowing she can see you? That was a different deal.
…Shit.
Part of me knew I should keep my eyes off of her. She thought she was in private, I had no business spying. Anyway, I didn’t want to be that guy. I hated that guy. But the other part of me, fuck. The other part of me was nothing but want.
Then she bent at the hips, and time slowed down, like some kind of stop-motion Jackie Chan kung fu sequence. All the cicadas went silent, at least in my head they did. The wind stopped blowing through the trees. It was just her, and her perfection, in the sunshine underneath me. I felt like I was on one of those glass-bottomed boats, looking at a world I never knew existed.
She tossed her bra aside, and it landed on her neatly made bed. She shimmied out of her panties, shaking her ass as she did. I growled into my fist, and that’s when I went down into a crouch.
Because as she shimmied I saw it in a V above her ass. My kryptonite. A skimpy thong.
All these years, all these decades, I’d had her pegged for cute cotton panties—pastel polka dots, thin stripes, shit that was sweet and sensible. But I was so fucking wrong. Black. Strappy. Tiny. Not sensible at all. Now it was in a rolled-up ball at her ankles. Using her toes, she plucked her panties from the floor, and caught them on one finger.
Fucking A.
She was completely naked, not a thread on her. Every thought I’d ever had got sucked out of my brain, like dishwater down the sink drain. What was left was only one true thing, and it wasn’t about her ass, or her skin, or her breasts. It was the one thing I think I’d always known but never let myself feel. Until that moment.
She is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Part of the reason I thought that was, yeah, obviously, she was fucking stunning, every inch of her straight out of a dream. Not just my dream, either. Guys would slow down on Main Street to give her the elevator stare, and I’d quietly crack my knuckles and give them don’t-you-fucking-dare stares. But the other part, the part that wasn’t in my gut but that was in my heart, was that I fucking adored her. Adored her so hard it hurt.
She crouched down to pick up her dress, lifting the delicate straps with her small, sweet fingers. She pivoted, so I had a view of her other side of her body for the first time. There it was.
The tattoo.
I groaned again. I wasn’t prepared for this shit; three stories up, that body was dangerous. It was a rose tattoo, snaking around her hip, on the milk-white skin that was always under her bikini bottoms. The part of her I’d never seen. It was serious ink, real art, not some namby-pamby temporary tattoo or some amateur shit she might’ve gotten in an hour at a tattoo parlor on a dare on a cruise to Puerto Rico. It was complicated, detailed, and artful. Multiple visits to some tattoo artist, touching that creamy skin—goddamn.
It took every fucking ounce of strength I had, but I did manage to look away. I felt as disoriented as if I’d been sucker punched. Not cotton—lace. Not cute—hot. Not my friend—my fucking fantasy.
She was so important to me, such an integral part of my world, that I’d never let myself think of her as more than what she was. She was like running water, or electricity, or the sunshine itself. She was one of those things that was perfect exactly as it was, and one of those things only an idiot would want to change. I never looked at her and thought, I wish I could have more of her than I do already. That would be like thinking, I wish I could turn that cold glass of water into a swimming pool. Or, I wish electricity came through the air. Fuck that noise. Perfect things are perfect things, and Rosie Madden was a perfect goddamned thing, from the tips of her toes to the freckles on her nose. And that rose, holy fuck, that rose.
I was strong, but not that strong, and I let my eyes move down again. She’d disappeared from view, mostly, except for the edge of her ass. I watched her rifle through her closet, and a few dresses fluttered onto her bed. On her bedside table, I caught a glimpse of the picture she always kept there, of the two of us together. The memories flew back at me like a runaway train. The first time I’d ever seen her was the day my parents and I moved to Truelove, at the start of middle school. The first time I ever saw her, she was volunteering at the community gardens. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and I thought she’d looked super badass. I’d helped her dig up carrots and had been too fucking tongue-tied to say a goddamned word.
That’s how I felt, all over again times a thousand.
I’d never made a move. She’d cried on my shoulder through a line of guys who were never good enough for her. Jocks and pricks and a brief and seriously unfortunate stint with a guy who was a drummer for a reggae band who I hated so much it made me grind my teeth. But I never said shit about it. She was perfect even when she made mistakes. Tips of her toes. Freckles on her nose.
Never mind that rose. Like Banksy took on a temple.
One more time, I glanced down. Now she was sitting on her bed, and I saw that dark V shadow between her thighs. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. I watched her put on a pair of red panties. Equally skimpy, equally not-sensible, equally ball-busting. They were only tragic because they hid the parts of her I’d never seen before.
Christ. All. Mighty.
As the world started to spin, I realized fixing the shingles could wait. I’d been working on old houses long enough to know that if you found yourself on a dangerously sloping roof and felt like you might be less than 100% on the ball, you needed to reconsider your game plan. I needed to get my shit together—that body had me totally fucking derailed. So I made my way down the roof, basically bouldering down backward. I focused on my grip, and my steps, like a climber coming down from Everest without enough oxygen. When I got to the gutter, I worked my way around the corner, standing on the eave, and hooked my leg over my ladder, making sure to put one foot after another and keep a tight grip on every rung.
When I stepped off the ladder, I grabbed a bottle of water that she’d left for me and filled up my palm and then splashed my face. My sweat stung my eyes through the droplets of water, and I rubbed away the tears. I heard the hinges on the screen door creak. “All done?” she asked.
I opened my eyes. They stung like hell, but I didn’t give a fuck. There she was, in a dress I’d seen before. Striped and sweet. But now I knew the secret. There were red panties under there. Red. Cherry red. My eyes fell on that part of her hip that I knew was inked.
“Max?”
I managed somehow to snap out of it. “Sorry. Getting there. Spotted something weird with the skylight.”
Rosie cocked her head. “Were you up there? Above my room?”
Awesome, dude. Smooth. “Just noticed it out of the corner of my eye.”
“I don’t like you being on the roof.” She pursed her lips. “Too steep. Promise you’ll get some ropes up there or something? Promise?” She reached out and put her hand to my arm, her fingers with their short pink nails pressing into my tanned skin. I had a quick but totally unavoidable image of her gripping my forearm in a very different situation. I want that. So fucking...
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
When I didn’t answer—I knew that if I opened my mouth the first words out would be You. Me. Right Now.—she looked up at the roof and squinted into the sun. She peered suspiciously up at me and shifted her nose, kind of like a bunny. Adorable. She wasn’t very tall, so whenever she looked at me she had to lift her chin, which used to be cute. But now looked…like everything I’d ever wanted. “Have you had too much sun?”
I was vaguely aware that she’d said some words, but I wasn’t hearing them because I realized that I couldn’t see her bra straps, so that had to mean she was she was wearing a strapless…
Knock. That. Shit. Off. “I’m good.”
“Mmm.” She nodded and furrowed her delicate eyebrows, which had never looked so pretty as they did at that moment. I didn’t even know eyebrows could be pretty. They’re eyebrows, for fuck’s sake. But suddenly I felt like for the last ten years, I’d been looking at her through a standard definition television, with a shitty cable connection. Now someone had handed me an HDMI cable, and she was in 1080 dots per inch. Christ.
“Lemme make you a sandwich. You’re acting strange.”
Rather than answer her, I dumped the remaining half a bottle of water over my head, like Andre Agassi used to do between break points at the French Open.
“Ham? Or turkey? I’ve got both. Or chicken salad!” She clapped her hands together, compressing her cleavage. “Do you want a pickle?”
She means an actual pickle, you fuckwit. “Surprise me,” I told her, and dragged my eyes off the curve of her cleavage. I grabbed the bottom of my T-shirt and pressed it to my eyes. I had to get out of there. I needed a cold shower, or a call from my tax guy, or an unexpectedly urgent trip to the DMV—anything to stop myself seeing her stark naked every goddamned time I looked at her. Anything to get my mind off that ink.
As I wiped my face, she cleared her throat, and I dropped my shirt. “What?”
She pressed her lips together and rocked back on her sandals. “Nothing!”
I followed her eyes and glanced down at my fly, but the stallion was still in the barn. “Come on,” I said, finding myself smiling right along with her. “What are you looking at?”
“Just…” She swallowed hard. “Looking good there, champ.” She glanced at my stomach, where I’d shown her my bare abs. She made a fist and gave me a mock punch, soft and sweet. “That P90X is working great for you.”
Here we go again with the fitness videos. For everything else she was—beautiful, smart, funny—she was also a fucking ball-buster sometimes. She’d worked up this whole narrative that I spent my nights with Tony Horton on my houseboat, getting cut and doing reps while I drank protein shakes with a straw straight from the blender. It was her only explanation for why I didn’t have a girlfriend. P90X it had to be, she’d said. Or maybe, she’d whispered like a co-conspirator, “Jazzercise.” Now, though, I had a better idea than ever about why I was so picky: not a single woman held a candle to her. I’d been fucking blind to it, but now the mist had burned right off. “I’ve never even seen the opening sequence. Never have. Never will.”
“They’re streaming now!”
“Christ.”
Rosie snorted and made a long wheeeeee. “Sure. Surrrrrrre,” she said, stifling her giggle. “One ham-and-turkey, coming right up.” She spun on her sandals and disappeared into the house. Hips swinging. Red panties invisible, but not to me.
Not anymore.













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Nicola Rendell writes dirty, funny, erotic romance. She likes a stiff drink and a well-frosted cake. She is at an unnamed Ivy and prefers to remain mostly anonymous for professional reasons. She has a PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from schools that shall not be named here. She loves to cook, sew, and play the piano. She realizes that her hobbies might make her sound like an old lady and she’s totally okay with that. She lives with her husband and her dogs. She is from Taos, New Mexico.


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Today we have the blog tour for

Dead & Buried by Jennifer Rebecca!

Check it out and be sure to grab your copy today:

Title: Dead & Buried

Author: Rebecca Jennifer

Genre: Contemporary Romance

About Dead & Buried:

You ever hear the phrase, about as successful as a soup sandwich? Well, that's me, I’m the soup sandwich, but instead of a soggy mess, you have a twenty five year old with a Bachelor’s degree in nothing useful who just quit her job at the local home improvement store where there were definitely no tortured billionaires looking to tie anyone up--and that's not a bad thing. I know, it's looking pretty sad right about now, but at least I don't still live with my parents…   So, here I am, embarking on a new journey covering the Funerals and Obituaries section of the local paper, the San Diego Metro News, for the editor--brace yourself--my uncle, Sal. Unfortunately, while my parents are on vacation, my Granny and her friends are determined to stir up some trouble--but this time, they may have bitten off more than they can chew--especially when some of the residents of the local retirement community are turning up unnaturally dead.   There is nothing that will keep me from protecting the people that I love, no matter how crazy they may be--not even the sexy, I mean stubborn, homicide detective, Trent Foyle, can stop me.   My name is Shelby Whitmore and I'm kind of the newest reporter for the San Diego Metro News, but hey, I'm a hit with the blue hairs.  

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EXCERPT:
Do you ever feel like you’re stuck in an R. Kelly song? Because I’m definitely feeling like I’m living one. You could almost say I’m trapped in one. But not the toot toot, beep beep fun of “Ignition” or the motivational “I Believe I Can Fly”-- I’m talking “Trapped in the Closet.” All seventy-five parts. Because, you know, I am actually trapped in a closet. A utility closet to be specific.
            I have no idea what happened. One minute, I’m walking up the stairs of the building my granny lives in, Peaceful Sunset Retirement Village, singing, ironically, “Ignition.” I had just gotten to the good part, you know, the “hot and fresh out the kitchen” part—it’s the part where I like to mime driving a car, the part after the toots when I pull down my arm like I’m honking the horn on a big rig. I’m right in the middle of my song and dance repertoire—when all of a sudden, I hear one of the doors to the stairwell open and close, which is normal since the nurses and caregivers use these halls to get around faster and not clog up the elevators that the seniors use. The next thing I know, something hits me over the head, and it’s lights out. I never even saw the guy. Or gal. Who am I to discriminate?
Anyhoo, fast forward, however long that might be, and I find myself awake, with a killer headache. A headache a lot like the one I got when I fell out of my friend’s parents’ camper in the second grade. My friend who was also named Shelby. Weird, right? Anyway, we were playing after school at her house, and her mom found nothing wrong with our playing in one of those VW vans that were small campers with the part that pops up out of the roof for you to sleep in.
So there we were, playing with our Super Spy Barbies in the pop-up part, when she jumped down to get a clothing change for her doll. Shelby B., as our teachers in school called her to distinguish between us, was a lot bigger than me. I was the runt of the litter back then. When she went to pull herself back up, dress included, she grabbed the board I was sitting on, and I wasn’t big enough to hold the board down, so Other Shelby pulled me and the board down on top of her. We landed in order: board, then me, then the dolls and their accoutrements. After that, I bounced off of her and out the open sliding door onto the sidewalk, face first.
Next thing I knew, I was coming to, and her mom was running down the driveway with the phone to her ear. A couple of minutes later, my mom and dad pulled up in my mom’s old Jeep Cherokee, followed by a fire truck and an ambulance.
As it turned out, I had one hell of a concussion, which we found out while my dad was hanging out with all of the firemen and paramedics that he knew because they all played basketball together at the gym. I spent the night in the emergency room and the next week with the mother of all headaches, which is how I feel right now as I struggle to open my eyes and make them focus.
I look around and everything is blurry. I blink my eyes a couple of times to clear my vision. It helps a little. I take stock of what’s around me—there are mops and brooms, shelves of lightbulbs and other various paraphernalia, cleaning supplies—when it dawns on me where I am, which is how I find myself trapped in a utility closet, Γ  la R. Kelly.
I’m sitting on the floor on my butt with my back against some more shelves. My legs are straight out in front of me, and my ankles are tied together with a zip tie. Yippee! I groan out loud when I realize my hands are bound the same way behind my back.
I could lie down and wait for a psycho to come back and finish me off, but that’s not how my daddy raised me. And if I did die because I was being a big baby, Granny would bring me back to life just to whoop my butt and kill me again. I wiggle around, trying to find anything I can break these zip ties on. I notice the door has hinges that look like little hooks, and I scoot over to try to hook the tie on my ankles to it. I wiggle and kick my legs and wiggle some more, all pretty thankful I keep my biweekly yoga date with my grandmother and her friends.
I hook the zip tie on the bottom door hinge and kick my feet by bending and straightening my knees. “Come on, come on,” I chant under my breath as I rub the plastic against the sharp side of the door hinge. “Yes!” I shout as the tie breaks. I swing to my knees and push up to my feet. My legs shake. Impressive considering there’s a polka band playing in my head and I kind of want to puke.
I lean my right shoulder against the shelves and squeeze my eyes tight, hoping to stop the room from spinning before I can find something to undo the tie at my wrists. My eyes pop open at the sudden quiet rattle of the door. I have to squint against the intrusion of the bright light that is immediately switched on. When I open them again, I am face-to-face with the vibrant jade eyes of one sexy Detective Trenton Foyle, San Diego PD.
“Jesus, Shelby, you scared the shit out of me!” he booms. I just roll my eyes, which I instantly regret, slamming them shut again.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say coyly.
“You just have to stir up trouble, don’t you?” he asks, shaking his head.
I don’t care to answer, so I don’t. It’s not like I find myself trapped in a closet every day. Who am I kidding? I may not find trouble, but trouble always has a way of finding me. I’d like to say this is the last time, but why lie? My name is Shelby Whitmore, and I’m sort of a reporter for the San Diego Metro News and most definitely trapped in a closet.
 

 

About the Author:

Jennifer is a thirty something lover of words, all words: the written, the spoken, the sung (even poorly), the sweet, the funny, and even the four letter variety. She is a native of San Diego, California where she grew up reading the Brownings and Rebecca with her mother and Clifford and the Dog who Glowed in the Dark with her dad, much to her mother’s dismay.   Jennifer is a graduate of California State University San Marcos where she studied Criminology and Justice Studies. She is also an Alpha Xi Delta.   10 years ago, she was swept off her feet by her very own sailor. Today, they are happily married and the parents of a 8 year old and 6 year old twins. She can often be found in East Texas on the soccer fields, drawing with her children, or reading. Jennifer is convinced that if she puts her fitbit on one of the dogs, she might finally make her step goals. She loves a great romance, an alpha hero, and lots and lots of laughter.  

www.JenniferRebeccaAuthor.com

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Twitter: @JenniRLreads

Instagram: @JenniRLreads

Enter Jennifer’s Giveaway:

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UNSCRIPTED LOVE
Road to Blissville Series, Book 1
AIMEE NICOLE WALKER
M/M ROMANCE
RELEASE DATE: 07.11.17
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PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar
COVER ARTIST: Jay Aheer/Simply Defined Art
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BLURB
Kyle Vaughn had three goals in life: become a vet, find the man of his dreams, and start a family. He easily checked off the first item on the list when he took over his grandfather’s veterinary practice. Too bad he wasn’t as lucky in love.
Chaz Hamilton took a leap of faith when he decided to pursue a career in writing, but one best seller didn’t mean he could quit his day job. All work and no play threatened to make Chaz a very dull man when the only romantic action he saw was in the pages of his manuscript. Too bad he couldn’t write his own happily every after.
Circumstances pushed the two men together, and one magical kiss beneath fireworks and stars changed everything. Kyle knew his luck had finally turned around and Chaz found a man far better than any book boyfriend ever written. There was just one problem. Chaz has kept a secret from Kyle that could ruin their chance at a beautiful life together.
Kyle and Chaz learn that the best-laid plans often go awry, the heart has a mind of its own, and the greatest love is unscripted.
The books in the Road to Blissville series can be read either as standalone books or as part of the series. This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for mature adults 18 and older.
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EXCERPT
Dr. Vaughn!” A familiar female voice exclaimed. “Oh my goodness! You’re the answer to my prayers.”
I spun around and faced Jenny Davis who operated the Carter County Animal Shelter. “That’s what he said,” I replied, jerking my thumb in Chaz’s direction without thinking my actions through. Chaz gasped, Josh threw his head back and laughed in delight, and I’m pretty sure that Andy growled. I chanced a peek at Chaz’s and caught him staring at me with a dumbfounded expression on his face. How much more obvious did I need to be that I wanted to see where things could go between us? “Is this a bad time?” she asked nervously. “I’d like to ask a favor of you.” My staff and I volunteered ten to fifteen hours a week treating the dogs and cats at her shelter. The last time I was there, she mentioned that she needed to raise money for the shelter. I figured that she wanted to discuss a fundraiser with me. “Not at all, Jenny. Josh will be delayed a few minutes, so I have time now.” “Well, it’s a big favor,” she said hesitantly. “Remember how I mentioned a fundraiser to you?” “Sure and I’ll help out however I can,” I told her. “I’m so glad you feel that way because you play a big part in what I have in mind.” She clapped her hands and bounced on her feet. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” she said to herself. “How big?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as an uneasy feeling came over me. That feeling only increased when she broke eye contact and looked down at her feet. “We’d like to do a calendar with the animals at the shelter. One of my staff is an amateur photographer and is willing to donate the time to take and edit the photos.” “So you’re looking for donations to cover the cost of producing the calendars? I’ll gladly help out with that,” I told her. Jenny didn’t meet my offer with as much enthusiasm as I expected. “Not exactly the kind of help I was looking for from you,” she said. “No? How else can I be of service to you?” I asked, clearly confused. I provided free veterinarian services and offered to… “She wants you to pose for the calendar,” Chaz said, interrupting my thoughts. I looked over at him and rolled my eyes. “No, she doesn’t.” “Oh, I think that’s exactly what she’s working her courage up to ask,” Chaz told me. “Isn’t that right, Jenny?” I looked at Jenny, expecting her to brush off his idea, but all I saw was a hopeful gleam in her green eyes. “Me?” I asked in disbelief. “Why not you?” Jenny asked, seemingly emboldened when I didn’t refuse the idea outright. “You’re gorgeous, built like a brick house, and adore animals. Who else would I ask?” “I don’t know, Jenny,” I said hesitantly. “I’m not very photogenic.” “Stop being so modest,” Jenny told me. “You’re exactly what we need. I can see it now…” Her voice trailed off while she envisioned something in her mind. “Shirtless poses with a kitty, cowboy hat and boots while standing beside a horse…” “I’d be wearing more than just a pair of boots and a hat, right?” I asked, needing clarification before the conversation went any further. “Dr. Vaughn!” Jenny’s said in shock. “Why, I’d never suggest such a thing.” Then she covered her mouth with both hands and giggled nervously. “Oh my,” she answered, fanning herself. “That’s not at what I meant at all. Dear me, I meant my offer as a complement, Dr. Vaughn. I thought your love for animals combined with your hunky looks would make a great fundraiser.” “It would probably sell a lot of calendars,” Chaz said, chiming in. I looked over at him and caught him staring at me speculatively. “But would you buy a calendar?” I asked. “Duh,” Chaz said, then added, “it’s for charity.” Aimee Logo
I am a wife and mother to three kids, three dogs, and a cat. When I’m not dreaming up stories, I like to lose myself in a good book, cook or bake. I'm a girly tomboy
who paints her fingernails while watching sports and yelling at the referees.
I will always choose the book over the movie. I believe in happily-ever-after. Love inspires everything that I do. Music keeps me sane.
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Sunday, July 30, 2017


Today we have the blog tour for Bullets & Bonfires by Autumn Jones Lake! Check it out and grab your copy today!

Title: Bullets & Bonfires

Author: Autumn Jones Lake

About Bullets & Bonfires:

The one man she’s always wanted is now the sexy sheriff of their hometown. Battered but not broken, grad student Brianna Avery returns to the childhood home she abandoned four years ago. With her abusive ex behind bars, Bree needs the summer to relax and recover before returning to school. But her overprotective brother decides she needs someone to babysit her in his absence, and he picks the one person guaranteed to drive her nuts. She’s the one woman he can’t have. Telling Bree no has never been easy. Four years ago, Liam Hollister did it to preserve his friendship with his best friend—Brianna’s brother. Now, no matter how she tempts him, he’s determined to do the right thing. As deputy sheriff of their rural area, Liam is torn between protecting Brianna and wanting her for himself. Take a risk or lose the chance. Spending so much time alone together challenges them both. Old feelings and hurts resurface immediately. With each hot, sweaty day it’s harder to deny their attraction. It’s going to be a long, hot summer.

ADD TO YOUR GOODREADS!

Bullets & Bonfires is a complete stand-alone, but if you’re familiar with my Lost Kings MC series, Teller and Murphy make brief appearances throughout.

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EXCERPT: 
LIAM

I pick up the Remington 870. “This is a pump action shotgun. All the same safety rules apply. Always assume it’s loaded. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to kill.”

“Got it.”

While we’re out here for fun and because I want to boost her self-confidence, I’m glad she also takes this seriously.

“Safety is here.” I hit the release and pull the pump back to show her how to load it. “Keep the safety on to load the shells into the tube. Once it’s full, you’re going to rack a shell.” I take a second to show her each of the steps. “Push it forward with authority. Don’t short stroke it.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds dirty.”

“Trust me, I don’t short stroke anything, sweetheart.” My voice comes out low and rough.

“Oh,” she purrs. “I’m well aware you’re all about the long and deep strokes.”

I close my eyes and groan. “You’re killing me.”

“Come on, continue,” she urges, all serious again.

“Pull the trigger, eject the shell, keep going until you’re out of shells. It’s that simple.”

“Got it.”





About Autumn Jones Lake:

Autumn believes true love stories never end. She’s easily amused, a procrastinator and loves romances with true alpha heroes who cherish the sassy women they fall in love with. Her past lives include baking cookies, slinging shoes, and practicing law. Playing with her imaginary friends is her favorite job so far. Autumn prefers to write her romances on the classy side of dirty, and she’s a sucker for a filthy-talking, demanding alpha male hero. The bigger the better.   Connect with Autumn! Website | Facebook | Twitter | IG | Goodreads | Amazon Author Page | Newsletter | Bookbub | Personal Facebook Group   Enter Autumn’s Giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway