Wednesday, December 13, 2017

RELEASE BLITZ & REVIEW - Of Smoke & Cinnamon: A Christmas Story by Ace Gray




Title: Of Smoke & Cinnamon: A Christmas Story
Author: Ace Gray
Genre: Holiday Second Chance Romance
Release Date: December 13, 2017



Blurb

Camilla Collins hasn't gone home in thirteen years. As much as she loves her family, their tiny hometown in the folds of the Colorado mountains holds too many memories. Memories of a life barely lived and a love barely realized. No matter how she thrives, AJ Jenkins is the man she compares all others too. He just so happens to be the one that broke her heart. Seeing him, seeing the life she might have had with him, has been a very convincing reason to celebrate the holidays in the Pacific Northwest, happy in the rain instead of the snow.

AJ Jenkins isn't exactly bitter and frigid. It's the below freezing temperatures, the knee deep snow, and the death of his chronically ill father dragging him down. That is until Cam Collins finally comes home for Christmas. After thirteen years, he'd almost given up on seeing her. And was incredibly happy about it. But thirteen is unlucky for a reason, and apparently that reason is still a klutzy, gorgeous, living memory determined to poke holes in his barely hanging on heart with death defying stilettos. 







Purchase Links

99c for a limited time

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

Free in Kindle Unlimited






Excerpt


Barely behind me, Cam is bent over the pool table, angling at a difficult shot. Those painted on jeans accentuate curves I don’t remember her having. Curves I want to paw. Then there’s the mysterious tattoo. It cuts across cream colored skin and I want to lick it—lick her—despite everything between us.

To make matters worse, she makes the near-impossible shot. The Cam Collins I know is three things: uncoordinated, callous and the world’s worst pool player. I’d had to help her with every shot she ever took, my body wrapped completely around hers, my hands guiding her every movement. Almost every time she’d look over at me rather than the ball.

But she’s well on her way to running the table.

How long has she had these skills? Did she develop them because I wasn’t there? My heart twists at the thought.

Or, worse, could she always do this, her mind so accustomed to angles and trajectories, but wanted my hands on her?

Fuck.

I don’t know why I’ve thought of the possibility, but it’s the most dangerous one yet because it sucks me back to that warm summer night when we’d played the best game of pool of my life. I’d helped her with each shot. She’d wiggled her ass up against my crotch too many times to count. Just when I thought I was going to have to take her home then jerk off, she’d grabbed my hand and pulled me out to the 13th green behind Molly Merithew’s house.

Crickets chirped, punctuating her labored breathing. There was the slightest warm breeze tickling my skin. I never asked if it was the breeze or me that peaked her nipples when she shimmied out of her white eyelet linen top. I couldn’t really ask anything as Cam stripped naked behind the willow trees and let me have her for the first time, bathed in moonlight. When we snuggled under the stars she wore nothing but my flannel.

I never got that shirt back. I’d sworn off anything remotely related to vanilla, too—that’s what Cam tasted like.

Shit.

That’s what the hidden taste in the bourbon was.

Fuck pool. Fuck this delicious bourbon. And fuck Cam Collins. 





Author Bio


Ace Gray is a self-proclaimed troublemaker and connoisseur of both the good life and fairy tales. After a life-long love affair with books, she undertook writing the novel she wanted to read, which culminated in her first release STRICTLY BUSINESS and followed with, well, quite a few more. When she’s not writing, she works in craft beer. Originally a small town, Colorado girl, she now loves rainy days, shellac manicures, coffee shops and bourbon—all of which are bountiful in her adopted home of Portland, OR where she runs amok with her chef husband and husky pup.



Author Links

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What if you could have a do over?

Wood and Steel- both bendable to the desired shape.Memories steeped in scent that roll along your tongue like a good glass of liquor. As teens they were inseparable but hurts and securities can run deep. Cam left Jay 13 years ago to travel and grow , but he ended up staying home in Willow Creek. For those 13 years, they grew and changed but both suffered from broken hearts. 13 years later, Camilla is guilted to see her family, but that means most likely running into Jay and the friends she left behind. Cam and AJ have always had an awareness of each other but neither knows how to hash out the root of their heartbreak with fighting the adult attraction.

This was a story steeped in emotional with wisps of insight leading up to a reunion of the soul. His taste, her taste will always remind each other of home. I really enjoyed the story and the characters, Each character dad flaws we all could identify with. This is one that will stay in my minds catalog for some time. I can’t wait for next year for the next part. 

5 Stars

Pre-Order Blitz for Bang by Lauren Rylie

Title: Bang
Author: Lauren Rylie
Genre: Erotic Romance
Release Date: December 21
Bane Vincent- ugh, just uttering his name causes acid to rise in my throat- is the biggest prick on planet Earth, and unfortunately, he's packing the biggest prick in the world in his pants, too. I only know that because I foolishly gave him my virginity when I was seventeen and he was nineteen.

Did I mention he's my older brother's best friend?

Prick and I haven't spoke to one another in almost five years...

Who knew a flat tire on the side of the interstate would bring him back into my life? Had I known my brother was going to send Bane to my rescue, I would have hitch hiked.

This won't end well...


ONLY 99¢ 

AMAZON * AMAZON UKAMAZON CA

A secret mother daughter duo under one name to bring you sweet & spicy (and funny) reads.


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Cover Package: Friends List by Rob Watson

Title: Friends List
Author: Rob Watson
Genre: Suspense/Thriller/Mystery/Horror
Release Date: January 2, 2018
My friends are being slaughtered one by one. Decapitated. Burned alive. Chopped to pieces. The hooded killer has vowed to keep murdering people I care about until they’re all dead, their profile pics on social media replaced with photos of their mutilated bodies. The police can’t catch him. They have no leads. The horror is making the visions come back—the fire that took my parents, leaving my twin Alex and me alive, but broken. The hooded killer won’t stop until I’m completely shattered. He’ll eat away at my mind, heart, and soul until there’s nothing left. No one left to love, no one left to trust, and nothing I can be sure is real. Dr. Cross thinks a trip back to the place my parents died will stop the visions. Alex is afraid it’s a trap. But I know the hooded killer won’t hurt me. That’s not his game. His game is much deeper. Much darker.
Rob Watson was born in Santa Monica, California. He is married and is the father of three children. He is the president/CEO of Damaged Psyche Productions. He is a horror/sci-fi fanatic and has been ever since early childhood. He has been imagining and writing stories for as far back as he can remember. Some of his idols are Rod Serling, Steven King, David Cronenberg, Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Hitchcock, Wes Craven, and Dan Curtis. Rob studied film and creative writing at Long Beach City College and California State University, Long Beach, after which he spent a couple of years working on movie production crews (as set PA, second assistant director, boom, etc.). Since then, he has written almost a dozen feature length screenplays (mostly horror and/or sci-fi) as well as numerous short stories and scripts. He has two original screenplays currently in pre-production and has written several “work-for- hire” scripts.
HOSTED BY:

Release Day Blitz for Returning Home by Riann C. Miller


Returning Home (A Novella)
Riann C. Miller


Contemporary Romance


At fifteen, I fell in love with Luke Runyan.

With just one look, one touch, he became my world until he shattered my heart into a million pieces. No one meets their soulmate when they’re only a kid, yet convincing my heart to move on is a task I never mastered. 

My heart has only ever belonged to one woman, Samantha Harris.

Sam had dreams; dreams I couldn’t deliver, which left me with only one choice… I walked away. 

Whoever said time heals all wounds never lost the love of their life. And they don’t force you back to the same small town you’ve spent your entire adult life avoiding, especially when she’s everywhere you turn.


Juggling the bags in my hands, I manage to get the back door open. My stomach grumbles from the sweet smell of warm cookies. I place the bags on the counter, ready to swipe a cookie from a cooling rack when Margie walks into the kitchen.

“Oh, you came. I wasn’t sure if you’d bring my order this week.”

“I don’t bail on people; you should know that by now.”

I wince when her mouth turns down with a frown.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Sam. I guess I was just worried things would change now.”

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look nearly as fake as it feels. “Nothing is going to change unless of course, you want it to.”

She limps in my direction and pulls me in for a hug. I lost my mother when I was five and over the years, Margie has filled the void I’ve felt. Losing her isn’t an option, at least not one I can live with.

“I would understand if you didn’t want to come by.”

I open my mouth, ready to reply when he walks into the kitchen. The second Luke spots me he freezes, both of our bodies going stiff.
Margie’s eyes follow mine until they stop on her son. “Oh, I thought you were taking a nap.” Her voice shakes, probably expecting all hell to break loose, but I’m not about to act like a crazy ex-girlfriend.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Luke’s deep voice rumbles through me. He looks the same, just bigger, harder, tougher compared to the eighteen-year-old I remember.

I clear my throat and my wandering thoughts. “I didn’t check your order before bringing it to you. If you’re missing anything, let me know.”

I lean forward, giving Margie a quick kiss on the cheek. “Have a great day.” Without looking at either of them, I swiftly walk out the back door.

My entire life has been one messy situation after another. I shouldn’t be surprised that Luke of all people would return home and somehow magically become my patient, but damn if I don’t hate my new reality.


Hi, I'm Riann. I've been obsessed with reading romance novels for close to five years. I love getting to know new people in the book community and I've met several people along the way that I consider true friends. I'm happily married with two children. When I'm not reading or writing, I'm usually spending time with my family, friends or watching baseball.




Blog Tour: Forsaking Hope by Beverley Oakley

Forsaking Hope
Fair Cyprians of London By Beverley Oakley
Beverley is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here

About the Book: 

Two years ago, she missed their secret assignation and disappeared without a trace. Now the divine "Miss Hope" is in Felix Durham’s bed - a 'surprise cheering-up gift' sourced by his friends from London's most exclusive brothel. Felix is in heaven - and he wants to stay there. So does Hope, but she can’t. Hope Merriweather lives by a code of honour – even if she’s a prostitute. Having sold her soul, she’s prepared to sacrifice everything else to protect what she believes in. Even if honour – in her eyes – comes at the cost of thieving and breaking hearts. Including her own.

Available for preorder here:
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Excerpt: 
Chapter One Wilfred Hunt. If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair she was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom oppressively over her. With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s benefactress—procuress, employer and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting: Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one. Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her hair to the texture of wool but her crowning glory these days was supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her – before they were thrown back into the street from where most had come. Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame who knew her history would understand her loathing for this man, above all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the willful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I won’t—” Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would serve as an example to them. No one crossed Madame Chambon. The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose twitched and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age. Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly. The Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man about town who visited 56 Albemarle Street was frequently rendered ecstatic by the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual. “You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discerning customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls arranged in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room that intransigence would not be tolerated. “Mr Hunt has requested you.” She paused and when Hope remained silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his residence then you will go.” Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that indentured a girl for life unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her though she'd have forsaken all the dupion silk and Spitalfields lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny – and her body - if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every second day. Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned. “How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat pocket book. “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands, clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall, slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the prison to which she was returning. She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.” Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of your family.” Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the surface. “Not even a sister?” Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research. Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public. “Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.” ~*~*~*~*~*~

Author Info: 

Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her first her 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley became a journalist.
Twenty-six years later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North Sea.
Since 2009 Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances, mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery, intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off a thrilling race to save someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel from the noose – it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt Scotch.
Beverley lives with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.

You can get in contact with Beverley at: