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As a teenager I learned firsthand how untrustworthy and cruel a woman could be. She destroyed me from the inside out and took everything from me. The first chance I got, I ran, and have been running from my past ever since.
Until I met Hayley.
She's a complete game changer.
She's everything I never thought a woman could be.
She's honest and sincere and completely selfless,
And by some miracle she's fighting for me.
I'm learning if I want to keep her, I'm going to need to find the courage to fight for us instead of finding the strength to run.
Nikki Ash resides in South Florida where she is an English teacher and mom by day and a writer by night. When she’s not writing, you can find her with a book in her hand. From the Boxcar Children to Wuthering Heights to the latest Single
Parent Romance, she has lived and breathed every type of book.
Reading is like breathing in, writing is like breathing out. - Pam Allyn
While reading and writing are her passions, her two children are her entire world. You can probably find them at a Disney park before you would find them at home on the weekends!
I have a history of making mistakes with men – #married, #bad boy, #narcissist … you get the idea
In fact, mistake no.6 just dumped me, and boy, do I need a break from men. My best friend won’t have it though, she knows “the sweetest guy” for me… no thanks!
You see, I like my men with an edge, and sweet won’t cut it. Take my history professor Rick Carter for example, he’s not your typical professor. He’s smoking hot, and when I’m at his lectures… well, let’s just say English lit is the last thing on my mind, #squirming in seat.
Of course, he’s just a fantasy, a dirty little daydream, I mean I’m 21 and he’s at least 32 and we move in different circles, in fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know I exist.
There’s no way he could ever turn out to be mistake no.7… is there?
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath, setting the bucket of cleaning supplies on the porch while I waited for my client to answer the door. Mr. Evans had assured me that they would be there first thing in the morning to let me in before giving me a key.
Footsteps approached the front door. I found myself holding my breath in anticipation.
Please don’t be an old pervert, I willed.
The door opened and I felt a rush of warm air.
My body nearly shut down when I saw the person who opened the door. It was none other than my young English lit professor, Rick Carter. There he stood in nothing but a
pair of red boxers, a sheen of perspiration on his tanned skin and his muscles bulging as if he’d been working out. My eyes took in his broad shoulders, his hard cut abs and, against my will, were drawn to his boxers, which covered what appeared to be a very sizeable bulge.
When I looked back up he was grinning.
My heart pounded in the base of my throat as he, in turn, gave me in my stupid, too tight uniform a once over. His gaze left hot trails on my skin.
He arched an eyebrow lecherously.
“So you’re my maid then?” he asked, without an ounce of recognition.
I felt my face burn with embarrassment and for the longest moment I couldn’t speak. I was struck dumb.
“Hello?”
“I-I-” I stumbled over my words like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Professor Carter. I didn’t realize that you were the one who-”
“Wait!” he said, sharply. “You know me?”
I suppose I couldn’t blame him for not recognizing me. After all, I had my hair pulled back tightly, and had let Tess do my makeup – not to mention the outfit I was wearing. In class I always dressed for comfort – jeans and sweaters were my go to.
“I’m in your class,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “It’s me, Rebecca. Rebecca Black. We talked the other day? I’m in your advanced senior writing course.”
Recognition filled his eyes.
“Oh, Christ! Miss Black! Of course – the daydreamer. Wow!” He ran a hand through his messy brown hair with a small sheepish grin that sent my heart fluttering. “I didn’t recognize you all… I mean so h… you look different out of class.”
“The uniform is a job requirement,” I said, almost apologetically as I smoothed a hand over my hair. “And I don’t usually wear makeup.”
“Well you look… great,” he said, and pushed the door open as his eyes flicked over my body again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve recognized you. Well, come on in, you must be freezing.”
I wasn’t freezing. In fact, I felt feverish. And it only got worse as I squeezed past, bumping against his bare chest as he ushered me through the door…
Elana Black has the power to make herself fictional. But when she decides to start saving all the people in books and TV shows who die just for the sake of advancing the plot, she quickly learns that she’s not the only one with her powers.
All Elana wants to do is save people. But these others don’t want the stories to change, and they’ll do everything they can to stop her.
If you had the power to change fate… to create a happy ending where there wasn’t one before… would you do it if it meant risking your own?
I was struck by the sudden idea of how absurd it would be if my life were a story somewhere and this is where it began. You never see the really boring beginnings of most literary characters. Wuthering Heights begins with Lockwood having a crap time with his new landlord, which—okay, might not be the best example to start with. I think most of us can relate to fighting with a landlord. All right then, pretty much any superhero. You get the essential small parts of their day-to-day lives before they get hit by lightning or find an artifact or get bitten by an insect and then yay! Super powers! But presumably, they lived an entire life before any of that happened. You don’t see anyone stuck in traffic or eating alone in a food court while wondering if they should take up Swing lessons. Maybe I’ll get bit by a magic spider!
I looked around. No spiders. I took a sip of my whiskey. This is terrible whiskey. Maybe it was magic whiskey, and I’d get alcohol related super powers! I took another sip, and…
… no, no powers. Unless a sore throat is a power? I became a little more aware of my surroundings then and felt just a twinge of claustrophobia.
“This was a mistake,” I said out loud to myself, sincerely and entirely by accident. It was true but that didn’t change the fact that I was hoping desperately that no one had heard me. I was usually much better at internalizing that sort of thing, so I could only assume I had truly meant it. I looked around, and if anyone had noticed, they didn’t care. Or they cared, but just didn’t want to show it. The most likely scenario was they were all too self-absorbed with whatever they had been talking about to notice me. This was preferable.
I’ve often had the problem of liking people whose idea of fun is vastly different from my own. The entire house seemed too small, and the air unnaturally humid. Vibrations came from a speaker on the other side of the living room; the sound was the lyric-less mess of incidental noise you heard at every party. I was convinced no one actually liked it but seemed to think that everyone else did. Except for this one guy who stood nearby. I’d never seen him before, but was sure of two things: he really liked this noise, and he’d hit on nearly every woman there. I feared I was next. I would have left if not for the fact that three more people I didn’t know had created an impenetrable triad between my spot in the kitchen and the salvation of the exit. To me, interrupting a conversation is worse than drinking orange juice immediately after brushing my teeth.
I wanted more than anything to be on the other side of them, but I couldn’t blame them for talking to each other. It was a party, after all, and it was my fault for being there in the first place. It’s not that I don’t like parties, it’s just that—I don’t know.
Yeah, I just don’t like parties. Not even housewarming parties for good friends. I don’t want to be the type of person who doesn’t like parties, but that doesn’t change anything. People are capable of amazing things, change being one of them, but I’ve yet to meet someone capable of explaining how change works. I wouldn’t even know who to ask, so I guess that’s a bit of a non-starter. I never know what to say, for one thing. In Los Angeles, it seems like at least half of the time, everyone wants to talk about entertainment. Which would be fantastic, except it’s never about the worlds or the people or the stories or any of the other outstanding things that make entertainment… well, entertaining. To most people here, it seems to be about video editing, being someone’s assistant, or the post production. I’m going to level with you: I don’t actually know what post production is, but I’ve heard people mention it enough times that I’m convinced it’s a real thing.
Sometimes I just want to shout the truth about me and what I’m capable of at the world. It’s not a good idea. I don’t know why it’s not a good idea, but I’m pretty sure it is. You know what? That’s a lie. I know exactly why. It is because as much as everyone claims to love individuality, there’s a limit and my life almost certainly dashes past that and wears it as a first place ribbon for weirdness, then takes a victory lap before car surfing a stolen food truck off a cliff and into—
“Elana Black! What up?”
What kind of obnoxious jerk announces someone’s first and last—Wait. I forget this guy’s name. Brett? Brad? Bard? Bard would be a pretty sweet name.
“Hey!” I replied immediately, with a smile. His name would come to me in a moment. I was spiraling anyway.
He hugged me, which I really wasn’t happy about. I’m not against hugging in general, I just… have a thing about it sometimes. He also seemed to disregard the fact that I was holding a drink, and preventing it from spilling became the full focus of my attention for the next two very precarious seconds. Like a pro, I quickly slipped into the small talk that he confused for genuine friendship. I could hear the answers coming out of me before I was able to stop and consider what I was actually saying. It wasn’t that I disliked Jeff—
Jeff! I was way off.
It’s not that I disliked him. There was nothing inherently offensive about him; he was just so uninteresting. He also stood too close, never quite smelled right, and never talked about anything other than himself. He would talk and talk, and yet never actually say anything.
You’d think with how often I’d seen him that I would have remembered his name. I suddenly felt very guilty for that. Even so, I almost didn’t notice when he finally left.
I don’t know why I feel the way that I do when I get into large social situations like this. I sincerely care about people; I guess just not as an audience. I came here to hang out with my friend Olivia, this was her party. But as is usual with Olivia, she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Logan, her boyfriend. I liked him too, which is strange because I typically don’t get too attached to the partners of close friends, but he’d passed the test (the test being whatever arbitrary and secretive test that I thought of at the time and only made sense to me, that test). My other friends Ann, Jason, and Teague had all failed to show as well, so that accounted for the five people I could relate to and felt safe talking to at a party. From my hopefully secure location in the kitchen, I could count maybe twenty people and knew none of them to varying degrees. The range was anywhere from a complete stranger to I kind of recognize them from maybe the last time I saw them and didn’t know them.
While gauging my level of intoxication, I identified trepidation at the notion of a stranger talking to me. So that meant the level was “Not Very.” I further decided to get the hell out of here. I thought about hiding in Olivia’s room, but it was locked. I made a mental note of that, what was that about? It’s almost like she didn’t want a house full of people to have access to her bedroom. Okay, mental note discarded, that actually makes perfect sense. But another room was open, and it had what I needed: Books. I walked right up to the flimsy wire frame shelving and was disappointed. I couldn’t use any of these. Books on art history, an entire book about motorcycles, some apparently heavily used textbooks. There had to be something decent here.
I spun at the sound of the door opening up wider behind me. It only just now occurred to me that I was in someone else’s room without their permission.
“See anything good?”
I didn’t recognize this man, but his appearance struck me all the same, mainly how well he dressed. Put together. All of his clothes were immaculate like they’d been purchased earlier that day. He wore
white slacks, white shoes designed for some sport which was irrelevant given they would never be used for their intended purpose, and a white vest over a white dress shirt. He completed the look with a white cap, like the kind you might see on a golfer. Not the kind with the fuzzy ball on top, the regular kind, I guess. You know what I mean.
It was in stark contrast to my disaster of an outfit. Canvas high tops that I’d painted nonsense on at some point, beige slacks I had slept in the night before, a bluish, purplish and somewhat wrinkled blouse, red suspenders, an oversized vintage brown coat I’d found at a yard sale off Miracle Mile and immediately had dry cleaned, a bright multi-colored scarf I found at a dollar store, and a white straw sun hat hanging off the back of my head, which barely hid my thick head of red hair. My hair was thick, not my head. Ok, maybe also my head. I was only just now becoming aware that I was still wearing the hat indoors and at night. My finishing ensemble piece was a too large, beige canvas book bag I had made myself on my first attempt, just to see if I could. I could have fit a small child or a medium sized dog in there, but I liked it. It was also devoid of books at the moment, a rarity for me.
My mind wanted to go to its default party speak mode, but it was too late for that. I’d been surprised, and was now present.
“Not really, honestly,” I said. “I’m not sure I can exactly curl up with a glass of wine and Honors Geometry.” I could already tell that was less charming than I’d intended.
He smiled and said, “You must be Ollie’s friend.”
She hated that name. Less charming than he’d intended.
“And what makes you say that?” I asked. That was dumb. I was in her home at her party.
“I’m her new roommate. I don’t believe we’ve ever met, and you’re standing in my room, so I’m hoping you’re her friend and not a homeless woman who wandered in off the street.” He was still smiling.
The homeless crack kind of stung, but I let it go. He was joking, but I already felt uneasy about my fashion sense compared to his. I like comfort over form, and I didn’t want to apologize for it. Maybe he could swing past my home later and ask me if the neighborhood was safe, maybe come inside and point out things I should replace.
“You got me,” I said, returning the smile, not letting him see anything else.
“They say you can tell a lot about a person by what they have on their bookshelf. So what can you tell about me?”
“Who says that?” I challenged him on instinct.
“English majors, probably,” he offered. “Or maybe just people who are too proud of their bookshelves.”
“Fair enough.” I decided to go along (and that he didn’t need to know about my English Lit degree). “You’re not a big reader. I don’t even think you can call this a bookshelf, I use something like it for cleaning supplies. Some of these seem like they might be for school, but I don’t think you’re a student anymore. The textbooks seem like things you never got around to throwing away. The rest is just a bizarre compilation of topics that don’t make any sense together. It’s almost like you just bought a box of random books from a thrift store and just sort of dumped them here. Why do you even have this?”
I held up a book that offered knowledge of how to develop psychic powers through a vegan diet.
“For research,” he replied curtly, his smile fading. Catching himself, he offered an explanation. “I’m an actor.”
Of course you are, I thought sarcastically. Maybe cynically? I felt awful for thinking like that. Or at least, for judging as quickly as I did.
“Oh! Here’s a good one!” I exclaimed, reaching for another book, both due to genuine excitement and to distract from feeling like a jerk. Or was he being a jerk too? I read the title out loud. “Crome Yellow! An Aldous Huxley title that’s not Brave New World. I’m impressed!”
“Well, thank you.” His smile was returning but I had barely noticed.
“Have you read this? It’s pretty awesome.” I couldn’t contain myself and kept going. It didn’t even occur to me to wait for an answer. “The story itself is very obviously fiction, there’s a man named Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and I mean, come on. But the house in it is actually based on this real place called Garsington Manor, and all these famous literary types of the day used to hang out there and just create. So Huxley writes this book about a party that was being thrown there, and it’s honestly just the worst party ever. Everyone is pretentious and trying too hard, no one is happy by the end, and nothing really happens. I love it.”
I was beaming. I could feel the tightness in my face coming from a smile growing that full.
“You, uh, you definitely know more about the book than me,” he said, forcing the kind of small laugh that comes from being intimidated. “I didn’t even know I had it. But that’s cool though.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t expected to be this disappointed.
“Tell you what though. You keep it. My gift to you. I need to get back to the party, but it was lovely meeting you, uh…” He did that thing where he wanted my name without asking for it.
“Elana,” I answered without wanting to. He offered me a quick handshake, and I accepted out of instinct.
“Yeah, cool. My name is Jason. You take care!”
I didn’t have the chance to tell him I knew another Jason who was supposed to be here. He left in a hurry. Weird that he just left me in his room like that. I guess his only qualifier for someone being alone in his room was if they were homeless or not. Maybe I just weirded him out and he wanted to get away. I could relate to that.
I considered the book in my hands. Crome Yellow would work. It wasn’t like I had a lot of other options and now, more than ever, I wanted to get out of there. I took the book into the bathroom—sadly, not a new experience for me. I’ve spent more time pretending to go to the bathroom at parties than actually using it for its intended purpose. But I wasn’t just hiding every time and definitely not this time; I was escaping. There was a huge difference; one made me anxious and shamed, the other was adrenaline inducing.
I opened the book and started to look for an entry point. I don’t know how I know where they are, I just sort of find them.
“At least I won’t have to attend the party over there,” I muttered to myself. I locked the door and made myself as comfortable as I possibly could on a throne that was not a seat. I opened the book, careful of the glue of the paperback. This was not a book which had been handled with care. I started to read, and as always, my eyes cascaded over the words like water over a hill.
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains—the few that there were—stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart.
There it was. My way inside, much sooner than I’d expected. I wasn’t complaining.
I sat on the toilet seat, reading furiously and long enough for my butt to start numbing. I didn’t care. Not about the pins and needles in my leg, not about Jason or this party. It was happening. Words became colors. The colors danced and swirled, becoming more vivid than ever intended.
Oh, this is my favorite bit!
And that smell! Like daybreak, like clean water. The poorly lit bathroom was giving way to the luscious greens of an English Manor. Then the familiar sensation of falling, losing both the fight with, and fear of, physical gravity. The dull thuds of music against the thin door were replaced by birds and the background hum of the universe, in that order. The slight ceramic chill around me faded into the sharply refreshing feel of morning mist on my face. The very pages in my hands disintegrated into sunlight and wind.
Goodbye, Highland Park. Hello, Oxford.
Author Bio:
My name is Danny Bell. I want to tell stories and avoid writing author profiles. I read—when I should be interacting with people, I named my cat after a cat I liked in a book, I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost one time—though I’ll never admit it publicly, I’m too tall for the earth, and I’ve never eaten a vegetable. I lied about the vegetable part. Wait… is someone going to read this?
FATHER Clarissa Wild Publication date: April 25th 2017 Genres: Adult, Romance
Confess your sin.
People call me Father, but I prefer Frank because I’m the worst preacher you’ll ever meet.
Days spent completely wasted pull a number on you, especially when you’ve got a truckload of baggage that comes with it.
Until this beautiful girl in the back of the church takes my breath away.
…And we end up committing sacrilege in the confessional.
Did I mention I’m filthy?
Bad doesn’t even begin to describe me, and after one taste of what she’s got to offer, I want more.
Too bad having a dirty mind isn’t the only thing we’ve got in common…
Our past is laced with sin.
Author’s Note: This book is not for everyone. It’s raw. It’s vulgar. It’s downright offensive. But it’s oh so damn delicious with a capital D. If you are easily offended or prudish, please don’t read this book. But if you like a bit of humor mixed in with raunchiness and brawling, you’ll love this book.
Contains disturbing situations, strong language, and graphic violence.
She turns her attention to me as she rubs her forehead with her towel. “Well, well, what a coincidence.”
I smile and enjoy the view. No point in denying anything, especially since there’s been no allegation. Yet.
“So Bruno already found you. Are you stalking us or something?” she asks, raising a brow.
Ah-ha, there it is.
“Nah.” I grin. “Just your friendly neighborhood preacher patrolling the area.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s barely able to keep the laughter inside.
“Got something to confess?” I ask.
She snorts. “Like you don’t already know everything.”
“I do!” Bruno raises his hand.
“Oh, yeah? Tell me then, what’d you do?” I inquire, inching closer.
He closes his mouth and freezes, so I lean in even closer and pat the bench. “Sit.”
He does what I ask, and then I turn my ear to him so he can whisper.
“I peed in the sandbox.”
My grin turns into a full-on outburst of laughter.
“What?” Laura asks.
I turn my face to Bruno and whisper back into his ear, “Is that the real reason you didn’t wanna play in the sandbox anymore?”
He nods.
“What?!” Laura’s voice is even louder this time, and she’s even thrown her towel over her shoulder like some kind of statement.
Bruno looks at me as if he’s pleading me not to tell her—probably because she’d get mad and rightfully so. But I think I’ll play along with this game.
So I twine my fingers and smile like a motherfucker. “I’m sorry. Confessions made to a preacher are strictly confidential.”
Oh, that look on her face right now.
Blood-boiling rage.
Magnificent.
“Frank …” she hisses.
I shrug, still smiling as I lean back.
“He did something; you gotta tell me. This isn’t a joke,” she grumbles. “What if it’s something embarrassing or wrong?”
“You mean like that thing we did in church?”
Her eyes widen, and the shock on her face is amazing to see.
“What thing?” Bruno asks.
“Nothing!” Laura hisses. “Frank …”
I look at Bruno and say, “Bruno. If you say you’re sorry, your sins will be forgiven.”
“Does that mean God forgives me too?”
I nod. It’s hard to explain these things to a kid as young as he is.
He draws a cute cross on his chest and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
“Good.” I pat his back and then look at Laura. “See? He’s repenting, so he’s forgiven of his sins.”
She narrows her eyes and snarls at me. “You are so bad.”
TRAILER:
TEASERS:
—
PLUS! Click HERE for a free extended epilogue for those who’ve read the book (spoilers inside)!
Author Bio:
Clarissa Wild is a New York Times & USA Today Bestselling author, best known for the dark Romance novel Mr. X. Her novels include the Fierce Series, the Delirious Series, the Stalker Duology, Twenty-One (21), Ultimate Sin, Viktor, Bad Teacher, RUIN, and the Indecent Games Series. She is an avid reader and writer of sexy stories about hot men and feisty women. Her other loves include her furry cat friend and learning about different cultures. In her free time she enjoys watching all sorts of movies, reading tons of books and cooking her favorite meals.
Want to get an email when my next book is released? Sign up here to receive 4 FREE short stories: http://eepurl.com/FdY71
Genre: General Fiction with sub genres of contemporary, romance, drama,
and suspense.
Age category: Young Adult
Release Date: July 17, 2017
Blurb:
Fame.
Money.
Glory.
These were all the things that you would expect from being famous. The bait that
the producers of the industry would tempt you with to get you on their side.
What they don't tell you though are all the inner tragedies that come along just
as quickly. They don't tell you about the heartache that occurs when you realize
that this wasn't what you wanted at all.
They don't tell you about the pressure that's always on the verge of crushing
you when you're forced to do everything that the public demands for and not what
you truly desire.
They don't tell you about the self hatred that would soon take over your entire
being at the thought that you will never be good enough.
No - they don't tell you these things at all.
But, Lilith Rose will.
When Lilith Rose, lead singer to one of the most famous rock bands around gets
tired of all the lies and secrets that comes with being famous.
She decides that it's time for all of it to stop and ends up revealing
everything on a Facebook live stream.
The result...
"Part of me wants to die tonight, part of me wants it to be an accident, and
part of me wants someone to notice and save me." - Lilith Rose.
Time.
In the beginning, that was all there was. Seconds, minutes, hours pressed
together, forming a mask of illusion that could never be dropped. A wall of
steel grew around their hearts, one that couldn’t be broken. The United Misfits
image could never be distorted.
It was wrong. It wasn't right. No matter what her heart told her, it was wrong.
Every flutter that skated through her stomach. His every skipped heartbeat,
meant nothing. She was nothing. He was nothing. They were nothing.
It had been said many times, by many different people, the most broken person in
the world could hide behind a perfected smile and a fake laugh. This could carry
out a person's persona, something that never even existed to begin with. That
would never exist. Laughter and smiles filled with fake truths and real lies
could hide what that person wanted to show, to tell, the truth.
In the end, she wanted to break free, but chains restrained her, blocking each
and every move before she could make a single one, turning her into a prisoner.
A captive in her own life.
Those chains squeezed tighter and tighter, never loosening their grip. They
choked her from the inside, wrapping her tighter with every deceitful accusation
and fake persona they put in her life. Deadly thoughts clouded her vision and
stomped through her mind. Both of their minds.
Their hearts were noosed, yanked in every which direction. Like a snake. Until
it all stopped. Until they both stopped fighting.
And when the fight dissipated, she could no longer turn away from the deceitful
ways that they had so graciously bestowed on her.
About the Author:
H.L. Roberts is a short story writer and a contemporary novelist from a small
town in Kentucky. She is currently in her third year of college where she is
majoring in English Literature and minoring in Psychology. When she isn't
reading a book you can find her raising awareness about mental illness, suicide
prevention, and epilepsy.
There is a cover reveal wide giveaway for the cover reveal of 23:27. Three
winners will each win an ebook copy of 23:27 by H.L. Roberts. Open
International.
Descended from a secret race of Amazon Warriors, Ana Thermadosa is not like other girls. As a student at Artemis Academy, the training grounds for a mysterious company called Cerberus Enterprises, Ana has spent her life learning what is important. How to fight, how to win, how to kill, and, mostly importantly, how to follow orders and live up to the expectations of her powerful family.
Trained in the art of warfare since birth, now her skills are being put to the test. She’s been hired to defend Jordan Banks, the wealthy son of a nefarious businessman, from kidnappers.
She despises Jordan and all he stands for, but soon comes to realize that many things in the outside word aren’t as she’s been led to believe. She also discovers Jordan isn’t what she expected, and, against her better judgment, finds herself starting to care for him.
When disaster strikes, Ana is put in a difficult predicament. Keeping Jordan safe would mean betraying her own people and everything she believes in, but letting him die would mean betraying something even more important.
“If you’d like a demonstration, I am willing to provide it.”
“A demonstration?” Roman asked with a snort, but Ana could tell he was intrigued.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Philip suppress a grin.
“Me against them.” She looked at the three hulking bodyguards standing behind him. One of them actually had the nerve to giggle. She decided he would be the first to learn a lesson. Bodyguards should never giggle.
Melani had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. “You don’t have to do this, Ana.”
“Yes, I do.” She removed her black jacket, part of the standard issue uniform worn by everyone at the company, and placed it over the back of her chair. Beneath it, she wore a snug, black t-shirt, and comfortable pants. “There’s a sparring room next door.”
“Would you like them to come in one at a time?” Roman asked, trying to sound like a gentleman. Ana knew he thought she was going to get beat up, and she also knew he kind of looked forward to seeing it. He wouldn’t be so lucky today.
She studied the bodyguards, sizing them up from head to toe. All three of them grinned at her. She opened a door that connected to the sparring room ushered them in, leaving everyone else in the conference room.
“No. I can handle them all at once,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
Author Bio:
Wende Dikec has spent her life traveling the world, collecting stories wherever she visited. She majored in Japanese and International Economics in college and worked in import/export and as an ESL teacher before she committed herself full time to writing. She writes in several romance genres, and her books are quirky and fun. Wende is a Trekkie, a book hoarder, the master of the Nespresso machine, and the mother of three boys (probably the main reason for her caffeine addiction). A puppy named Capone is the most recent addition to her family, and she blogs about him as a way of maintaining what little sanity she has left. She is the author of TIGER LILY and STARR VALENTINE, and writes adult romance under the name Abigail Drake. She can be found on the web at www.wendedikec.com.
Nathan had always been more than just my dad’s friend. I never thought he’d see me as an adult, especially not after avoiding me for so long. But one hug, one moment feeling every inch of him against me, shattered that illusion. Consequences no longer mattered—I was eighteen, and I was willing to risk everything for my shot with him.
He’s not going to resist anymore
I never should’ve seen Eve as more than my best friend’s daughter. As a cop, I knew it was wrong. It was my job to protect her from guys like me. Chasing her could cost me my career—not to mention the only family I’d ever known—but I couldn’t hold back another second. One taste, and I wanted her. To hell with the fallout.
What was I doing? I’d come in to check. To see if what I thought I’d seen and felt outside had been a figment of my imagination. But it hadn’t, as evidenced by the bulge he was obviously sporting, and I needed to figure out what to do with that information.
So I answered honestly. “Pushing you.”
“Pushing me to do what, exactly?”
“Whatever it is you want.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like a man who needs to be pushed.”
His eyes devoured me again, burning me from the inside out. Leaving nothing but ash where I’d once stood. “Maybe I’m the one man you shouldn’t push.”
—
AUTHOR Q&A:
Last book you read:
Brighton: A super advanced copy of Tessa Bailey’s TOO BEAUTIFUL TO BREAK
Ellis: I just reread SHELTERED by Charlotte Stein the other night. So hot.
Favorite genre or category outside of what you write:
Brighton: Paranormal romance
Ellis: Inspirational romance
Which author would you most fangirl over meeting?
Brighton: Jill Shalvis. And I’ve met her. Many times. Been introduced to her by my editor. Promptly ate my tongue.
Ellis: Kelley Armstrong for sure. Her Women of the Otherworld series brought me back to paranormal romance.
Are you a re-reader or are your books one and done?
Brighton: Most of the time, I’m one and done. I have a very small handful I’ve reread, but I seriously get anxious when I reread, thinking about all the books out there that I’ll never be able to get to, which only increases every time I reread a book instead of diving in my TBR pile.
Ellis: Totally a re-reader. Things stick with me, and I like to go back and visit favorite characters/scenes now and again.
Last thing that made you cry:
Brighton: A video on FB. Damn FB videos.
Ellis: Oh gosh, probably something I heard on the radio. I’m a total softy.
Last trip you took:
Brighton: Went to Orlando for Apollycon in March. I’ve never been to Orlando when it wasn’t balls-hot out, so this was a nice change of pace.
Ellis: I spent a week in California for work earlier this year. Got to go to Downtown Disney and Universal’s Harry Potter world. It was super fun.
Last thing that made you smile:
Brighton: A text from my husband.
Ellis: A text from one of my writing pals.
Favorite quote:
Brighton: She turned her can’ts into cans and her dreams into plans.
Ellis: She believed she could, so she did.
Last thing you treated yourself to:
Brighton: A year’s worth of manicures at my salon. I usually get one manicure a year, just before RWA, but I love how my nails look after I get them done. Buying six to use in a year was totally out of character, but I did it anyway. And I’ve managed to use it once. >.<
Ellis: A night on the couch watching bad reality TV. I work full time and write and have two kids. Time for myself is really a luxury, so I rarely watch anything that isn’t chosen by children. I love to just veg out and binge watch something brainless or educational.
Last person you hugged:
Brighton: My husband.
Ellis: My husband.
Favorite place in the world:
Brighton: I don’t know that I’ve found it yet.
Ellis: There’s a beach on an island in the Caribbean that is shaped in such a way that the waves make the sound of a kiss when they touch the sand. I want to be there.
Last emoticon you used:
Brighton: Laugh-crying smiley face
Ellis: The one where the little face is crying from laughter.
Last thing that made you laugh:
Brighton: Someone made a spit/swallow comment on a horrific stock photo I posted and I laughed really hard.
Ellis: Probably Brighton and one of her TWSS jokes.
If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Brighton: Pizza
Ellis: Chicken and dumplings
What is something you never leave home without?
Brighton: My phone.
Ellis: My phone.
What is your favorite movie?
Brighton: SO MANY. The Bourne series, 13 Going on 30, Pretty Woman, The Matrix, I Love You, Man, Old School...the list is as vast as it is eclectic.
Ellis: Love Actually
Favorite Band?
Brighton: I don't have a favorite band. I have a favorite singer. Does that count? Tori Amos.
Ellis: Does the cast of Hamilton count?
What are 3 words you’d use to describe each other?
Brighton: Ellis is generous, focused, and compassionate
Ellis: Brighton is: Kind, funny, and audacious
Do you have a favorite hobby/pastime?
Brighton: Reading and shopping
Ellis: Reading of course
—
Author Bio:
London Hale is the combined pen name of writing besties Ellis Leigh and Brighton Walsh. Between them, they’ve published more than thirty books in the contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense genres. Ellis is a USA Today bestselling author who loves coffee, thinks green Skittles are the best, and prefers to stay in every weekend. Brighton is multi-published with Berkley, St. Martin’s Press, and Carina Press. She hates coffee, thinks green Skittles are the work of the devil, and has never heard of a party she didn’t want to attend. Don’t ask how they became such good friends or work so well together—they still haven’t figured it out themselves.
Nikki Ash resides in South Florida where she is an English teacher and mom by day and a writer by night. When she’s not writing, you can find her with a book in her hand. From the Boxcar Children to Wuthering Heights to the latest Single 
