#BlogTour: The Witches of Moonshyne Manor by Bianca Marais

/

On Sale Date: August 23, 2022

9780778386995, 0778386996

Trade Paperback

$16.99 USD, $24.99 CAD

Fiction / Magical Realism

400 pages

About the Book:

A coven of modern-day witches. A magical heist-gone-wrong. A looming threat.Five octogenarian witches gather as an angry mob threatens to demolish Moonshyne Manor. All eyes turn to the witch in charge, Queenie, who confesses they’ve fallen far behind on their mortgage payments. Still, there’s hope, since the imminent return of Ruby—one of the sisterhood who’s been gone for thirty-three years—will surely be their salvation.But the mob is only the start of their troubles. One man is hellbent on avenging his family for the theft of a legacy he claims was rightfully his. In an act of desperation, Queenie makes a bargain with an evil far more powerful than anything they’ve ever faced. Then things take a turn for the worse when Ruby’s homecoming reveals a seemingly insurmountable obstacle instead of the solution to all their problems.The witches are determined to save their home and themselves, but their aging powers are no match for increasingly malicious threats. Thankfully, they get a bit of help from Persephone, a feisty TikToker eager to smash the patriarchy. As the deadline to save the manor approaches, fractures among the sisterhood are revealed, and long-held secrets are exposed, culminating in a fiery confrontation with their enemies.Funny, tender and uplifting, the novel explores the formidable power that can be discovered in aging, found family and unlikely friendships. Marais’ clever prose offers as much laughter as insight, delving deeply into feminism, identity and power dynamics while stirring up intrigue and drama through secrets, lies and sex. Heartbreaking and heart-mending, it will make you grateful for the amazing women in your life.


Doesn’t this sound amazing? Read on for an excerpt from The Witches of Moonshyne Manor.

 1

Saturday, October 23rd

Morning

Half an hour before the alarm will be sounded for the first time in decades—drawing four frantic old women and a geriatric crow from all corners of the sprawling manor—Ursula is awoken by insistent knocking, like giant knuckles rapping against glass. It’s an ominous sign, to be sure. The first of many.

Trying to rid herself of the sticky cobwebs of sleep, Ursula throws back the covers, groaning as her joints loudly voice their displeasure. She’s slept in the buff, as is her usual habit, and as she pads across the room, she’s more naked than the day she was born (being, as she is, one of those rare babies who came into the world fully encased in a caul).

Upon reaching the window, the cause of the ruckus is immediately obvious to Ursula; one of the Angel Oak’s sturdy branches is thumping against her third-floor window. Strong winds whip through the tree, making it shimmy and shake, giving the impression that it’s espousing the old adage to dance like no one’s watching, a quality that rather has to be admired in a tree. Either that, or it’s trembling uncontrollably with fear.

The forest, encroaching at the garden’s boundary, looks disquieted. It hangs its head low, bowing to a master who’s ordered it to bend the knee. As the charcoal sky churns, not a bird to be seen, the trees in the wood whisper incessantly. Whether they’re secrets or warnings, Ursula can’t tell, which only unsettles her further.

That infernal billboard that the city recently erected across from the manor property—with its aggressive gigantic lettering shouting, ‘Critchley Hackle Mega Complex Coming Soon!’—snaps in the wind, issuing small cracks of thunder. A storm is on its way, that much is clear. You don’t need to have Ivy’s particular powers to know as much.

Turning her back on the ominous view, Ursula heads for the calendar to mark off another mostly sleepless night. It seems impossible that after so many of them—night upon night, strung up after each other seemingly endlessly—only two remain until Ruby’s return, upon which Ursula will discover her fate.

Either Ruby knows or she doesn’t.

And if she does know, there’s the chance that she’ll want nothing more to do with Ursula. The thought makes her breath hitch, the accompanying stab of pain almost too much to bear. The best she can hope for under the circumstances is that Ruby will forgive her, releasing Ursula from the invisible prison her guilt has sentenced her to.

Too preoccupied with thoughts of Ruby to remember to don her robe, Ursula takes a seat at her mahogany escritoire. She lights a cone of mugwort and sweet laurel incense, watching as the tendril of smoke unfurls, inscribing itself upon the air. Inhaling the sweet scent, she picks up a purple silk pouch and unties it, spilling the contents onto her palm.

The tarot cards are all frayed around the edges, worn down from countless hours spent jostling through Ursula’s hands. Despite their shabbiness, they crackle with electricity, sparks flying as she shuffles them. After cutting the deck in three, Ursula begins laying the cards down, one after the other, on top of the heptagram she carved into the writing desk’s surface almost eighty years ago.

The first card, placed in the center, is The Tower. Unfortunate souls tumble from the top of a fortress that’s been struck by lightning, flames engulfing it. Ursula experiences a jolt of alarm at the sight of it for The Tower has to signify the manor; and anything threatening their home, threatens them all.

The second card, placed above the first at the one o’clock position, can only represent Tabitha. It’s the Ten of Swords, depicting a person lying face down with ten swords buried in their back. The last time Ursula saw the card, she’d made a mental note to make an appointment with her acupuncturist, but now, following so soon after The Tower, it makes her shift nervously.

The third, fourth and fifth cards, placed at the three o’clock, four-thirty and six o’clock positions, depict a person (who must be Queenie) struggling under too heavy a load; a heart pierced by swords (signifying Ursula); and a horned beast towering above a man and woman who are shackled together (obviously Jezebel). Ursula whimpers to see so many dreaded cards clustered together.

Moving faster now, she lays out the sixth, seventh and eighth cards at the seven-thirty, nine and eleven o’ clock positions. Ursula gasps as she studies the man crying in his bed, nine swords hovering above him (which can only denote Ursula’s guilt as it pertains to Ruby); the armored skeleton on horseback (representing the town of Critchley Hackle); and the two bedraggled souls trudging barefoot through the snow (definitely Ivy). Taking in all eight sinister cards makes Ursula tremble much like the Angel Oak.

Based on the spread, Ursula absolutely should sound the alarm immediately, but she’s made mistakes in the past—lapses in judgment that resulted in terrible consequences—and so she wants to be a hundred percent certain first.

She shuffles the cards again, laying them down more deliberately this time, only to see the exact same shocking formation, the impending threat even more vivid than before. It couldn’t be any clearer if the Goddess herself had sent a homing pigeon with a memo bearing the message: Calamity is on its way! It’s knocking at the window, just waiting to be let in!

And yet, Ursula still doesn’t sound the alarm, because that’s what doubt does; it slips through the chinks in our defenses, eroding all sense of self until the only voice that should matter becomes the one that we don’t recognize anymore, the one we trust the least.

As a result of this estrangement from herself, Ursula has developed something of a compulsion, needing to triple check the signs before she calls attention to them, and so she stands and grabs her wand. She makes her way down the hallway past Ruby’s and Jezebel’s bedrooms at a bit of a clip before descending the west wing stairs.

It’s just before she reaches Ivy’s glass conservatory that Ursula breaks out into a panicked run.



Excerpted from The Witches of Moonshyne Manor @ 2022 by Bianca Marais, used with permission by MIRA Books.

 

About the Author:

Bianca Marais cohosts the popular podcast The Sh*t No One Tells You About Writing, aimed at emerging writers. She was named the winner of the Excellence in Teaching Award for Creative Writing at the University of Toronto’s School of Continuing Studies in 2021. She is the author of two novels, Hum If You Don’t Know the Words and If You Want to Make God Laugh, as well as the Audible Original The Prynne Viper. She lives in Toronto with her husband and fur babies.

Social Links:

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

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/biancamaraisauthor 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/biancam_author/ 

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

They Drown Our Daughters by Katrina Monroe

/

Available now

CW: child abuse, parental death, suicide, drowning

Mourning the end of her marriage, Meredith comes back to the one place she never wanted to return. Cape Disappointment is haunted by the tragedy her family suffered generations ago, and by the animosity of the townspeople who have made their money on the tourists brought in by the ghost that haunts the water. Adding to Meredith’s already stressful life, her mother appears to be suffering from alzheimer’s and is caught up in delusions about the dangers of the water. Convinced the ghost stories are real, Meredith’s mother is consumed by the need to keep her daughter and granddaughter safe at any cost.

This is a gorgeously written and compelling slow burn gothic mystery. Told through multiple points of view across history, we learn of the tragedy that has shaped Meredith’s family over several generations. Monroe weaves one of my favorite types of story: is it a ghost or is it a delusion? I was immediately invested in the characters and their continued survival. It’s incredibly atmospheric. Set on the Pacific coast, Monroe’s descriptions of the beaches, lightowers, and the character’s greatest threat-the ocean-leaves you feeling cold and damp throughout the entire story. Meredith, along with her other female ancestors, felt a palpable connection to the water and whether it was real or not, that connection ruled their daily lives. Adding to the mysterious and otherworldly feel are the characters with supposed magical knowledge and workings that are used to keep generations of the family safe. I really love a story with women who make charms and know the power of nature to fend off ghostly nonsense. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

This is a fabulous book that I flew through in two days and couldn’t wait to read more of it. It’s creepy, atmospheric, mysterious, and has wonderfully developed characters. Highly recommend this if you like generational stories, women with magic, dark family secrets, and complicated characters.

If you would like to add this amazing book to your shelf, you can click here or on the book cover for ordering information.

This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

#BlogTour! Mr. Perfect on Paper by Jean Meltzer

/

From the author of the buzzy THE MATZAH BALL, a pitch-perfect romcom about a matchmaker who finds her own search for love thrust into the spotlight after her bubbe outs her list for “The Perfect Jewish Husband” on live television.

Dara Rabinowitz knows a lot about love. As a third-generation schadchan, or matchmaker, she’s funneled her grandmother’s wisdom into the world’s most successful Jewish dating app, J-Mate. Yet, despite being the catalyst for countless Jewish marriages, Dara has never been successful at finding love. Oh, she’s got plenty of excuses—like running a three-hundred person technology company and visiting her beloved bubbe every day. But the real reason Dara hasn’t been on a date in three years is much simpler. Though she desperately wants to meet her bashert, and stand beneath the huppah, she is frozen by social anxiety.

All that single dad Chris Steadfast wants to do is give his daughter stability. But with the ratings for the TV news show he anchors in the gutter, and the network threatening cancellation, Chris’s career – like his life with Lacey in Manhattan -- is on the chopping block.

When her bubbe outs Dara's list for “The Perfect Jewish Husband” when they're guests on Chris's live show, Chris sees an opportunity to both find Dara her perfect match, and boost the ratings of his show. But finding Mr. Perfect on Paper may mean giving up on the charming—and totally not Jewish—reporter following Dara's nationwide hunt...

Doesn’t this sound great? Read on for an excerpt of Mr. Perfect on Paper!

1

“Now,” Dara said, glancing down at her watch. “If you don’t mind, we’re on a tight schedule here. I need to get out of here before the coming of Moshiach.”

With that, the entire room jumped into action. Dara took a seat at her vanity. Bobbi laid out the makeup palettes, flipping on two nearby lights to mimic the high-intensity light-ing of a studio. Simi took the clip out of her hair, allowing Dara’s thick black corkscrews to fall free around her shoulders.

Naveah moved to the center of the room, by the built-in island that housed an impressive array of shoes, and began unzipping the plastic packaging. Hanging the outfits up on a mobile rack, she worked hard to carefully display each item.

“Okay, we have three looks for you to choose from this morning.”

Dara analyzed her choices. There was an elegant pleated skirt and tight cashmere sweater. It was Jewy, which went with her brand, but possibly too Jewish for a nationally syndicated televised event that needed to appeal to a broad audience. She glanced over to her next choice, a pair of smart silk pants and a floral blouse. Finally, there was the casual tech look. A pair of tight blue jeans, Converse sneakers and a Patagonia vest.

“Number two,” Dara said.

“Fabulous,” Naveah swooned, hanging it up on the room divider screen.

Dara stepped behind the screen, tossed off her robe and changed into the outfit. After a few moments, she returned to the center of the room, taking her usual place in front of the full-length mirror to analyze the final look.

The black silk pants, cinched at the ankles, gave her more curves than usual. The dramatic blouse, made from the most luxurious of fabrics, was imprinted with stunning large white orchids. It achieved the right type of look for her interview. Professional yet feminine. Assertive without feeling aggressive. It was all the things she needed to accomplish as a powerful female executive—often held to a different standard than her male counterparts.

“What do you think?” Naveah asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It’s perfect.”

Everyone applauded. Dara sat back down at the vanity. Simi ran her fingers through her curls, while the rest of her staff gathered round, peering down at her with tablets and makeup brushes in hand.

“And what’s the look we’re going for today?” Cameron asked.

“Professional,” Dara instructed.

“Got it,” Cameron said, moving to pick out a pair of maroon heels. “A pop of color to go with all that black and white!”

“And the hair?” Simi asked.

“Just put it up.” She smiled. “A stylish bun, nothing too sexy.”

Bobbi and Simi began working on her hair and makeup. 

Meanwhile, Naveah pulled up a chair and turned on her tablet. “Now, I know you’re taking this afternoon off to be with your grandmother, so what do you need me to work on in your absence?”

“I sent you a list this morning.”

Naveah tapped on her screen. Moments later, she had the to-do list that Dara had sent her at four o’clock in the morning. “‘Grocery,’” Naveah said, reading the items aloud, “‘laundry, check with caterers for Yom Kippur breakfast, confirm travel for all executives attending October J-Mate sales conference, confirm all of Miriam’s oncology and radiation therapy appointments for September…’”

Dara was always making lists. Always trying to figure out how to turn her chaotic and extremely busy life into some-thing manageable and organized. In truth, her to-do lists, like her obsessive planning, helped her control her anxiety.

She was certain that her nonstop list-making drove every-one she worked with—including Naveah—straight-up meshugana. Janet had even once jokingly referred to Dara as the Good List Dybukk, a dislocated soul who appeared without warning and sprinkled to-dos on every person who crossed her path. Fortunately, as Dara paid her staff extremely well for their efforts, they kept the majority of their criticisms to themselves.

Dara heard the familiar refrain of an incoming Skype call. “Got it!” Naveah said, snapping at Cameron to grab Dara’s phone. “It’s Janet.”

Dara waved Simi away from her face. She asked everyone to give her a minute, and her entourage left the room. Dara waited for the door to shut firmly behind them before continuing.

“Good morning!” Janet beamed from her home office in Colorado.

“What time is it there?” Dara asked.

“Early.” Janet laughed. “You got the whole crew with you today, huh?”

“You know it,” Dara said, glancing at her half-done makeup in the mirror.

Just as Dara’s generalized anxiety disorder was well-known among those she worked with, so, too, was the fact that she genuinely despised all types of public appearances. Alas, that didn’t stop her from doing them. She had learned early on that selling herself on television, in interviews and on Instagram was a necessary evil. Everybody wanted a face, a real person to support, behind the brand. Over the years, Dara had de-vised all sorts of systems for handling her anxiety regarding these appearances.

“And how are you feeling this morning?” Janet asked, get-ting right to the point.

“Oh, you know me,” Dara said. “I’m only nervous for the three days before and the six days after…so in terms of the actual interview, I imagine it will go just fine.”

Janet laughed. “You’re going to do great, Dara.”

In truth, she always did great. She was a perfectionist, after all. She always had a plan and always said all the right things. She smiled in all the right places. She was never caught off guard, and therefore, never floundered. Though the glam squad and to-do lists may have seemed overkill to some, her obsessive-compulsive tendencies worked. Her business was thriving. Her reputation in tech, and the Jewish world, was flourishing, too.

“Like we already discussed,” Janet continued, “there shouldn’t be any surprises, okay? Everything has been worked out between our publicity people and their producers. You want to run through the script one more time?”

“No,” Dara said, firmly. “I got this.”

Janet nodded. “Then I hope you have a blast with your bubbe today.”

The camera shut off. Dara put her phone away, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been ar-ranged into a sophisticated bun. Her angular features had been softened with light contouring. On the surface, she was the picture of poise and finesse. And yet, her hands were shaking.

She cracked her knuckles, took a sip of tea. She knew it was ridiculous, being this nervous about going on Good News New York, a show that nobody even watched…but she couldn’t help herself.

Dara watched it.

Religiously.

It was a habit of hers to keep the television running in the background while she worked. She liked the noise, the hum of familiar voices. It helped her anxiety. She especially liked the deliciously handsome head anchor of Good News, Christopher Steadfast, and the easygoing way he ended every episode with the words, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Unfortunately, it had a weird time slot. Midafternoon, during the week, squeezed between the morning talk shows and the soap operas. Plus, it was an oddity in the world of live broadcasting in that it only focused on positive stories. Good news and human interest tales, like the two kids who donated proceeds of a lemonade stand to a homeless shelter, and Bucky, the vegan golden retriever.

Dara adored the segments on Bucky. She watched all of them, often on repeat, staying up late into the night, scrolling through all his reposted videos on the Good News New York Facebook fan page. In fact, the only reason she had even suggested going on Good News New York to begin with was for a chance at meeting the King of Aww himself. Though she was far too mired in her own busy schedule (and anxiety) to ever own a pet herself, she had adopted the quirky golden retriever in her heart.

As for Christopher Steadfast, it could never happen. And the reason it could never happen was right there in his name. Christopher Steadfast was not Jewish. As such, and thanks to a very clear rabbinic prohibition against interfaith marriage, she regarded the man the same way she would some beautiful non-Jewish Fabergé egg you passed by in a museum. Some-thing to gaze upon and admire…but never, ever touch.

She couldn’t believe she would be meeting him today. The dog, obviously.

Not the man.

She had no interest at all in some sexy Southern heartthrob with a voice that could melt schmaltz and the pectoral muscles of a Norse god.

Dara shook the thought away. Then, as her own ema, or mother, had taught her, she focused all her energy on dealing with practicalities.

She had Simi and Bobbi come back to the room, finish her hair and makeup. She did one final run-through of her sched-ule with Naveah. She had Cameron and Alexa double-check her bags at the front door, packing up her phone and tablet. Eventually, with well wishes and air kisses, Naveah and the entourage departed for the day. Normally, she would have someone from her staff accompany her to her events. But today, she wanted to focus on spending time with her grandmother.

Dara found herself alone in her apartment once more. She glanced down at her watch. She still had fifteen minutes left before she needed to head out to her bubbe’s. Fifteen minutes. It was a long time to sit around staring at the concrete walls of her apartment. Quiet was dangerous for Dara. It left her open to obsessing.

She moved to fill the space. She brushed her teeth again. Double-checked the bedroom, making sure the bed was made and everything was neat and tidy. She turned off her computer monitors and all the lights. She unplugged her coffee maker and double-checked the third bedroom for any hair straighteners or curling irons left plugged in. She made sure all the knobs on the oven were turned off, and that the patchouli candle was blown out. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photograph of both. Just in case her brain started obsessively worrying that she had left something on by mistake, and she was single-handedly responsible for burning down all of Hoboken.

Dara landed at the front door. Her eyes wandered down to her red high heels. She hated wearing heels in the city. Not for any practical reason, or because they gave her blisters. But because in case of emergency, the zombie apocalypse or an-other mass casualty event, she was worried about having to traverse sixty city blocks—or, God forbid, a bridge—to get back home.

She debated her options. She could pack her heels and wear sneakers for the commute, but that would require yet another bag for the simple day trip into Manhattan.

She hated that it had to be that way. That she couldn’t just be judged on who she was and what she created. Sadly, Dara was a realist. A huge part of her success in life had been understanding how the world works, and the way people inter-act with each other. Whether she agreed with it or not, first impressions were important. Like a shidduch sheet, or a profile on J-Mate, everybody went to the photo first.

Otherwise, she looked perfect. The house looked perfect, too. Perfection was the layer of armor she wore to protect her-self from the swings and swipes of an uncertain world.

She reminded herself of the positive. She was going to be spending the day with her beloved bubbe. They would be making important memories together. Necessary memories. Any anxiety she felt—any sense that something terrible was about to happen—was simply the neurons in her brain misfiring. Her feelings could not be trusted.

Forcing her shoulders back, and her chest upward, she projected confidence. And then, slinging her messenger bag over one arm, she grabbed that box of black-and-white cookies from the kitchen counter and headed out.



Excerpted from Mr. Perfect on Paper by Jean Meltzer, Copyright © 2022 by Jean Meltzer. Published by MIRA Books

Author Bio: 

Author Jean Meltzer studied dramatic writing at NYU Tisch, and served as creative director at Tapestry International, garnering numerous awards for her work in television, including a daytime Emmy. Like her protagonist, Jean is also a chronically-ill and disabled Jewish woman. She is an outspoken advocate for ME/CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), has attended visibility actions in Washington DC, meeting with members of Senate and Congress to raise funds for ME/CFS. She inspires 9,000 followers on WW Connect to live their best life, come out of the chronic illness closet, and embrace the hashtag #chronicallyfabulous. Also, while she was raised in what would be considered a secular home, she grew up kosher and attended Hebrew School. She spent five years in Rabbinical School. She is the author of The Matzah Ball and Mr. Perfect on Paper.

Social Links:

Author Website

Facebook: @JeanMeltzerAuthor

Instagram: @JeanMeltzer

Goodreads























Year of Yoga by Kassandra Reinhardt

/

Available now

Full Disclosure: I’m about to be one of Those People. Nearly two years ago I completely wrecked my knee while working out much harder than I was capable of doing safely. Because I’m stubborn and hate the American healthcare system, I was convinced I could heal my knee on my own. And I kind of did. Through yoga. And not just any yoga, but by following along to Kasandra’s youtube videos every morning until I finally took the plunge and signed up for her mobile app. I am on my mat, every morning, with Kassandra leading me through thoughtful and challenging practices and it has truly changed my life. Now, pretend I’ve taken the time to write out all the disclaimers about how you should consult your doctors and this isn’t medical advice, blah, blah, blah. This is just my story, your mileage may vary.

Now, you’re here about the book, I know. It’s beautiful and very thoughtfully laid out. Kassandra begins with how to use the book and the very basics of yoga and the props that are mentioned in the book. The book is then broken down into practices and rituals to use for each season and different phases of the lunar cycle. Each practice comes with a QR code that leads you to a video of the practice and I can’t emphasize enough how calming and wonderful Kassandra and her practices are. There are also listicles with music playlists, recommendations for books, crystals, scents, and essential oils. There’s even a smoothie recipe friends.

It’s a truly lovely book that is very accessible if you’re new to practicing yoga. I have found it delightful and really enjoyed the practices. I also bought this with my own dollars-no galley was given for free-and would gladly buy it again.

If you’d like a copy for yourself, you can click on the cover for ordering information. This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

Sci-fi Quickie: Upgrade by Blake Crouch

/

Available now

Blake Crouch is back with another thrilling science fiction adventure. Logan Ramsey is a complicated and interesting character who works to find and convict people accused of genetic engineering, while also being the son of the most infamous genetic scientists to ever live. When he begins to notice changes to his physical and mental abilities, Logan finds himself on a dangerous and epic adventure to discover who is behind his transformation and what this could mean for the rest of the world.

In true Crouch fashion, it’s impossible to talk about this book without spoiling it. If you’ve enjoyed his other novels, you’ll definitely enjoy this one. To me, the stakes seem higher in this one and the interpersonal relationships more complex. Logan is put in one impossible situation after the other making for an incredibly tense and emotional book. The science is fascinating and the way it ties into the world building is really interesting.

Upgrade is a compulsive, action packed thriller that explores the meaning of humanity and how we are often our own worst enemy. If you would like a copy for yourself you can click on the cover for ordering information or click here.

Thank you to Netgalley and the Publisher for the opportunity to read and review this title. All opinions and mistakes are my own. This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

Horror Quickie: What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher

/

Available now

What Moves the Dead is a deliciously creepy Gothic horror that is deeply unsettling. T. Kingfisher has given us a gorgeously written retelling of Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher” that is both atmospheric and utterly terrifying. Told through the eyes of Alex Easton, a retired soldier, this slim little novel takes us on a horror-filled journey to uncover the mysterious afflictions that have fallen upon Alex's childhood friends. With the help of mycologist Eugenia Potter and a doctor, James Denton, Alex battles forces no one is prepared to believe.

Fair warning: This book is incredibly graphic, incredibly horrifying, and gave me nightmares for weeks. I’m not complaining about the nightmares-I love when a book is powerful enough to be nightmare inducing.

Incredibly atmospheric and chilling, What Moves the Dead is sure to leave readers deeply disturbed and thoroughly satisfied. If you’re interested in your own copy, you can click the cover for ordering options or click here.

Thank you to Netgalley and Tor Nightfire for the opportunity to read and review this title. All opinions and mistakes are my own. This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

#BlogTour! Out of Her Depth by Lizzie Barber

/

Available July 12, 2022

Out of Her Depth 

Author: Lizzy Barber

ISBN: 9780778386445

Publication Date: July 12, 2022

Publisher: MiRA

Rachel lands her dream summer job at a luxurious Tuscan villa. She’s quickly drawn into a new group of rich and beautiful sophisticates and their world of partying, toxic relationships, and even more toxic substances. They’ve never faced consequences, are used to getting everything. But then someone goes too far. Someone dies. And nothing will ever be the same.

Lizzy Barber’s debut A Girl Named Anna won the Daily Mail First Novel Competition. In her newest and even more unputdownable work, she weaves a clever and deadly web of manipulation and desire. A summer thriller rife with back-stabbing, bed-hopping, and murder, Out of Her Depth is a perfect escapist read for fans of Euphoria, J.T. Ellison’s Her Dark Lies, or Rachel Hawkins’s Reckless Girls.

Before you judge me, remember this: a girl died, but it wasn’t my fault.

I know that seems like a pathetic confessional. Even more pathetic because the confession itself has, until this point, never been uttered.

I’ve wanted to. Believe me, I’ve wanted to.

The words have formed themselves on the precipice of my tongue, palpitating with their ugly need to be heard, to make me part of the narrative. To declare to the A-level students when I see it coming up on their news feeds, languorously debating it, now, once more, as it has risen into public consciousness twenty-one years after the fact: I was there.

When they stumble in late to my lesson, less eager to talk of the trapassato prossimo than about who fucked whom at last night’s social, and whether crimped hair really is making a comeback.

I was there.

When they blink at me from faces still etched with yesterday’s makeup, reeking of the top-shelf vodka and menthol cigarettes that their house mistresses will studiously ignore.

I was there.

When they declare they “really struggled with this week’s essay” so they only have notes, and they say, “About that C on the mock exam… Did you know my parents funded the library?” and they don’t even bother to wait for the response as they pull out their laptops and glance at their watches, and they think to themselves, Boring bitch has never lived.

I was there.

I imagine each letter incubating in the saliva that pools in the side of my gums. I picture myself standing, drawing the blinds. An illicit eyebrow raise that will make them pause, look up at me anew, place their laptops on the floor as I edge toward them.

Screw Dante. Let me tell you a real story about Florence.

..….

Read on for an excerpt from Out of Her Depth

Now

I am just leaving for dinner when I hear.

People talk of remembering exactly where they were when great events happened: Princess Di, the Twin Towers, Trump. I know this isn’t quite on the same scale, but I’ll remember exactly where I was, all the same.

I’ve had back-to-back lessons all day, but now, at last, I have an hour to myself, the only person left in the languages office. I spend it working on my paper “Pirandello and the Search for Truth” for the Modern Language Review, barely coming up for air. This is the part of academia I enjoy the most: the research, the pulling together of an idea, the rearranging of words and thoughts on the page until they start to take on a life of their own, form arguments, cohesion. I’m hoping that this will be the one they’ll finally agree to publish.

I am the only French and Italian teacher at Graybridge Hall, 

have been for the last ten years. When they decided to introduce Italian for the younger years, as well as the older students, I did suggest that perhaps now it would be time to look at hiring someone else. But Ms. Graybridge, the eponymous head—and third of that name to have held the position—reminded me that the school’s ethos was “personal and continuous care for every girl.” Which didn’t really make sense as a rebuttal, but which I knew was shorthand for no, and which she knew—because of certain circumstances under which I assumed my position in the first place—I wouldn’t argue with.

Not that I don’t enjoy teaching. Sometimes. “shaping young minds” and all that seems like it should be a worthy cause. When I was younger, much younger, I imagined maybe I would do a PhD, become a professor. I also thought about diplomatic service, traveling the world as a translator, journalism, maybe, why not? Instead I sit through mock orals on topics as ground-breaking as Food and Eating Out, Cinema and TV, and My Family.

My rumbling stomach is the first signal I have that evening is approaching, and when I tear myself away from my laptop screen to look at the darkening sky, I decide to ditch my planned root around in the fridge, and be sociable instead. Wednesday is quiz night at the pub near school. A group of teachers go every week, the little thrill they get as their cerebral cortexes light up with a correct answer just about making up for a day spent asking the girls to kindly not look at their Apple Watches until break, and maybe not take their makeup out of their Marc Jacobs backpacks until class is over just this once.

I close down my laptop and do a brisk tidy of the room before slipping on my coat and scarf, and am just about to slide my phone into my rucksack when an alert catches my eye—specifically, a name, bouncing out of the BBC News push notification, one I have avoided all thought of for a long while, as much out of circumstance as necessity.

Sebastian Hale.

I freeze in the doorway—phone clutched in my hand as preciously as though it were the Rosetta stone—and look again, not quite believing I saw it right, presuming perhaps it was just wishful thinking, a long hour of screen-staring playing tricks on my eyes, that could have conjured his name before me.

But there it is. That name. Those five syllables. The six vowels and seven consonants that have held more significance for me than any word or sentence written in my entire attempted academic career.

And next to them, three words that throw my whole world off kilter, that see me reaching for the door handle and wrenching it shut, all thoughts of dinner gone from my mind:

Sebastian Hale Appeal Proceeds Tonight.

I sit at my desk, lights off, face illuminated by the white glow of my phone screen, and read someone else’s report of the story I know so well. The story I have lived. I place the phone facedown on the desk, snuffing out its light, and press my palms into the woodwork. The feel of my flesh rubbing against the desk’s smooth surface grounds me, helps me process the report—think.

I knew there had been requests for appeals over the years, all denied by the Corte d’Assise d’Appello. A change of lawyer, probably hoping that new eyes on the case could find something that was missed. But they’ve all come to nothing. How did I miss this?

If he is retried, if there is any possibility that he might be released…everything would change.

After the initial trial, after my part was done and I could finally go home and resume the life I had worked so hard to live. I tried—I really, truly tried—to put it behind me.

That was what she did, after all, and I wanted to follow her lead. I have always wanted to follow her lead. But that time has never truly left me. Sometimes, it will take the smallest thing—the light filtering through a window just so, a particular kind of humid heat, walking past a patisserie and being hit with a waft of baked vanilla sweetness—and it all comes back to me with cut-glass clarity. The sound of our laughter ricocheting off ocher-colored walls. The clink of glasses and the taste of hot weather, raw red wine. The touch of sweat-dewed skin. The scent of pine. The giddy, delightful feeling of being young and happy and having the rest of our lives spooling out in front of us.

These are the good things—the things I want to remember.

The bad things…those I have no choice but to remember.

And now, at the sight of his name alone, I am instantly transported: flying on the wings of a deep déjà vu, away from the cold late-autumn day and the dusty corners of my tired office and back, back, back to that time—that summer.

To those gold-tinged days and months that crescendoed so spectacularly into those final, onyx hours.

To the start.

Buy Links:

BookShop.org

Harlequin 

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Books-A-Million

Powell’s

Lizzy Barber studied English at Cambridge University. Having previously dabbled in acting and film development, she has spent the last ten years as head of marketing for a restaurant group. Her first novel, A Girl Named Anna, won the Daily Mail and Random House First Novel Prize. She lives in London with her family.

Social Links:

Author Website

Twitter: @ByLizzyBarber

Facebook: @ByLizzyBarber

Instagram: @ByLizzyBarber

Goodreads

Bright Like Wildfire by Juliette Cross

/

Happy Book Birthday to Bright Like Wildfire!

I fell in love with Juliette Cross’s writing after getting my hands on Wolf Gone Wild and eagerly dove into the rest of the Stay a Spell series. Bright Like Wildfire is her first contemporary I’ve read and boy did I love this book! Not only do we get a small town romance, we get an enemies to lovers romance where a glitter booby bomb created a decade long grudge.

Glitter. Booby. Bomb.

Bennett has no idea why Betty Mouton hates him.

Other than the time he accidentally hit her boobs with a glitter bomb in their community theater performance of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he’s been nothing but helpful and accommodating. But that notorious “incident” happened nine years ago. Time for the gorgeous redhead to get over it and admit to the real chemistry between them, not just the on-stage kind.

Betty is in trouble.

She may have gotten her dream role in a production by her favorite playwright, but there’s a big problem. Her romantic lead is that cocky, annoyingly hot know-it-all Bennett Broussard. And when the fake touching and fake kissing start to feel way too real, Betty realizes one thing. She better act her heart out or finally admit that Bennett has stolen hers.

This book was pure fun! Betty is a high school English teacher who loves her students and loves performing on stage. Bennett is a natural when it comes to theater and wants to prove his business skills by opening his own high-end grocery store and leaving the family business. Betty and Bennett have incredible chemistry together and are absolutely electric in the bedroom. If you’ve read anything by Cross, you know Bennett is going to be an exceptionally good dirty talker and trust me, he has top notch skills. It was really fun to read a grumpy-sunshine where the female MC was the grump. Betty knows she can be prickly and is dealing with her issues through snark and sass. Bennett was a bit of a delightful surprise with his jealousy and possessiveness over Betty’s attentions but balanced it all out with his superior charm and banter skills. Very, very good banter.

And the goat! There is a charming little goat friend who ends up wreaking all kinds of silliness on Betty and her new home.

This book is equal parts sweet, smart, sultry, and satisfying! I thoroughly enjoyed reading and it and can’t wait to see what you all have to think about it!

Thank you so much to Juliette Cross for allowing me to be a part of her ARC team and for the advanced copy of this title. All opinions and mistakes are my own.

This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Affiliate links and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

Sci-fi Quickie: Drunk on All Your Strange Words by Eddie Robson

/

Available now

Drunk on All Your Strange New Words is a fascinating and compelling take on first contact. Lydia is a translator for Fitz, the cultural attaché to Earth. Her job requires her to translate mentally with Fitz and the effects of this work leave her feeling drunk by the end of the day. While her job can be incredibly stressful, it pays well and her client is pleasant enough to work with. After a long night of translating at a prestigious event, Lydia wakes up to find her client murdered. Racing against the clock, Lydia must help to solve the murder and declare her innocence. But Lydia is haunted by the voice of Fitz and finds herself unable to trust anyone around her, including herself.

Absolutely fascinating and thrilling, Drunk on All Your Strange New Words is a compelling and well-written sci-fi mystery. I really liked how the author centered the way Lydia and Fitz communicate, as well as all humans and Logi, and the intimacy that this kind of communication can develop. Lydia had Fitz in her head all the time, essentially reading each other’s thoughts without any way to lie or deceive one another. I found the mystery was well crafted and I definitely didn’t solve it before the end. Overall, this was a delightfully weird and fascinating book that I was very happy to spend a few hours with.

If you’d like a copy for your shelf, you can click on the cover for ordering information.

Thank you to Netgalley and the Publisher for the opportunity to read and review this title. All opinions and mistakes are my own. This post may also contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

Romance Quickie: Fire Magic & Ice Cream by Lauren Connolly

/

Available Now and in KU

This book was pure fun! Quinn is a fire elemental whose power is tied to her sexual arousal. When she gets some pants feelings going on, she literally sets her pants on fire. What’s a girl to do when she wants some sexy times but she’s also a fire risk? She finds someone who can counteract her powers. Luckily for her, August has moved to town. August is an ice elemental who owns and operates the Land of Ice Cream and Snow, an amazing ice cream parlor.

This was such a fun and escapist read. There are some ridiculous consequences to Quinn and August attempting to get busy that are absolutely hilarious. All of the characters have big personalities and I wish I had a tenth of their snark and witty banter abilites. Quinn and her sisters have a great relationship and it was fun to see how close and supportive their friends were. The magic system is interesting and easy to follow and isn’t known by mortals-I love a small town that is crawling with supernaturals and the humans are oblivious.

This is a great book to enjoy while hanging out in the hammock with a fun beverage and is the perfect summer book. It’s fun and breezy and really, really sexy. Interested in grabbing a copy? Click on the cover image for ordering options and if you use KU, you can find it there.

As always, this post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

Repost: One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston

/

One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston 

Originally posted June 2021

Available Now

This is such a fun and sweet romance! McQuiston has this gift of taking an imaginative and wild concept and making it feel realistic and relatable. Intent on taking control of her life, August Landry moves to New York City, enrolls in college, finds an eclectic group of roommates, lands a job, and falls in love with a girl on the subway. Seems like everyone’s fantasy, right? But August falls in love with Jane Su, a young woman who is fascinating, beautiful, smart, kind, and seems to know everyone. She also seems to always be on the train. As August falls more and more in love with the punk rock loving Jane, she also discovers that Jane doesn’t just seem to love a different time, she is literally from another time. Jane Su went missing 45 years ago and her connections to August’s life run far deeper than a school girl crush. 

As the two discover more about Jane’s past and what may have trapped her on the train, August and her incredible group of new friends do everything they can to save Jane from living on the train for eternity. 

I am a true sucker for a found family and August definitely won the lottery with her amazing roommates. Niko, bartender by day and part-time psychic, knew August would be a great fit through a handshake. Myla, artist and engineer, instantly goes out of her way to make August feel at home, but you also learn that she is always the warmest and kindest person in the room. Wes, former trust-fund baby now cut off from his family, is madly in love with the drag queen next door and has an adorable dog Noodles. The four roomies are instantly inseparable best friends and their bond carries over to saving Jane, and August, from a devastating fate. I loved that August was able to find this close connection to such an amazing group after a childhood spent with just her mother. We quickly discover that there is more to her and her mother’s relationship than a love of true crime and the quest to find her missing uncle, an uncle that went missing before August was born. When the truth comes out about why August and her mother were such a tight team, August needs her new friends to fall back on for support. 

Also, there’s subway sex. Friends, that’s right, subway sex and it’s beyond hot!

Full of heart, hope, and witty banter, One Last Stop, is a smart and hilarious story of otherworldly love that transcends time. 

If you want to add this lovely love story to your shelf, you can find ordering information here:

 
 

Thank you so much to Netgalley and St. Martin’s Press for the opportunity to read and review this title. The pleasure, as well as opinions and mistakes, was all mine. 

This post also contains affiliate links and I earn from qualifying purchases. 



















#BlogTour! Here for the Drama by Kate Bromley

/

Here For The Drama

Author: Kate Bromley 

ISBN: 9781525811449

Publication Date: June 21, 2022

Publisher: Graydon House Books

This summer, it's much ado about everything.

Becoming a famous playwright is all Winnie ever dreamed about. For now, though, she'll have to settle for assisting the celebrated, sharp-witted feminist playwright Juliette Brassard. When an experimental theater company in London, England decides to stage Juliette's most renowned play, The Lights of Trafalgar, Winnie and Juliette pack their bags and hop across the pond.


But the trip goes sideways faster than you can say "tea and crumpets". Juliette stubbornly vetoes the director's every choice, and Winnie's left stage-managing their relationship. Winnie's own work seems to have stalled, and though Juliette keeps promising to read it, she always has some vague reason why she can't. Then, Juliette's nephew Liam enters stage left. He's handsome, he's smart, he is devastatingly British, and he and Winnie have sizzling chemistry. But as her boss's nephew, Liam is definitely off-limits, so Winnie has to keep their burgeoning relationship on the down-low from Juliette. What could go wrong?

Balancing a production seemingly headed for disaster, a secret romance, and the sweetest, most rambunctious rescue dog, will Winnie save the play, make her own dreams come true, and find true love along the way--or will the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune get the best of her?

Buy Links: 

BookShop.org Harlequin  Barnes & Noble Amazon Books-A-Million Powell’s

One


“I’m here and I have coffee!”

After five years as a personal assistant, I have found that entering a chaotic scene with caffeine is the quickest way to ease panic. It’s a distraction, it boosts morale, and if you’re working in the ever-intense theater world, it’s often as necessary as breathing.

Roshni, our second assistant, is quick to approach as the penthouse door swings closed behind me. She’s wearing a knee-length floral romper, and her flawless ebony hair is parted just off to the side. If I wore a romper, it’d look like a man’s bathing costume circa 1916, but on Roshni, it’s the ultimate embodiment of summer fun. I’m still not positive if I want to be her or marry her, but we’ve happily settled on being ride or die work friends in the meantime.

“Thank you so much,” she says, scooping her iced hazelnut coffee out of the to-go tray I’m carrying and casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Okay, so, two things. One, I accidentally knocked a pile of papers off Juliette’s desk, which then led to her calling me an anarchist and threatening to have me arrested. And two, she thinks you’re going to London.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She straight-up told me you were going to London.”

“I am not going to London,” I announce, making my voice loud enough to carry through the spacious four-bedroom apartment. With almost a decade of drama study under my belt, my vocal projection is legit.

“Why are you always so resistant to anything remotely ex-citing? To stand still is to go backwards, Winnie.”

I hear her before I see her. Juliette Brassard. My boss of five years, my pseudo-mother, my often-combative sibling, and the perpetual bane of my existence. Working for her is tiring, demanding, slightly monotonous and bizarre, but I love every second of it.

She looks the same as she does most days. Wide-legged pants and a layered top. Always layered. Today it’s a beige cotton shirt and a charcoal vintage vest. Her straight gray-brown hair just reaches her shoulders and thick-rimmed glasses cover her ceaselessly curious chestnut eyes. Her style is a fair reflection of her life—eclectic and casual but secretly expensive.

“It was never the plan for me to go to London,” I tell her. “Roshni is going with you, and you were perfectly happy with the arrangements yesterday.”

“Yes, well, happiness is fleeting, and I realized today that I need my whole team with me if this trip is going to be a success.”

“I checked with the airline this morning,” Roshni says, taking a tentative step forward. “And apparently there’s one seat left in first class.” I shoot her a loving glare as Juliette raises a victorious arm in her direction.

“You see? It’s a sign from the universe.”

“It’s not a sign from the universe,” I counter. “It’s a ridiculous amount of money to pay, and you’re probably the only non-tech billionaire who’s willing to spend that much for a fully reclining seat.”

“A noble sentiment. You should preach that sermon to the bare foot that caressed our cheeks the last time we sat in coach.”

“Okay, we had one uncomfortable flight from LA, and you know full well that the guy was wearing socks.”

“I don’t know that, Winnie. I’ve repressed the memory so deep into my subconscious that I’ll be shuffling around this apartment and whispering about phantom feet until I’m ninety.” She spins away with her typical dramatic flair, opting to walk over to the windows and gazing out at the traffic below. She also covertly checks to see if I’m still watching her.

I choose to ignore her attention-seeking behavior and in-stead place our drinks down on an antique side table. With my hands now free, I pick up a stack of opened event invitations that I left there the day before, giving them one final look over before handing them to Roshni, who’s still standing nearby.

“I’ll reorganize the papers on her desk,” I tell her. “Just RSVP to these, and then we can go over tomorrow’s itinerary. Blue Post-its are a yes. Yellows are a no.”

“Blue, yes. Yellow, no. Got it.” She exits the room with her coffee and the invites, seemingly happy to get out of the fray. If only I was so lucky.

Juliette’s been dropping hints about me going on this trip with them for the past week, but I’ve always managed to side-step the issue. And now, she’s brought the battle to my door-step. Or I guess it’s really her doorstep, since she lives here. And what a doorstep it is.

Twenty floors up on a cobbled Tribeca street, you’d either have to be born into money or wildly successful to own one of these grandly scaled units. Juliette is both. Already a border-line heiress thanks to her Manhattan real-estate mogul father, she then went on to become one of the city’s most celebrated playwrights. She was given everything but still hustled like crazy for her career and threw all of her time and energy into mastering her craft. Luckily for her, it proved to be a lethal combination.

As a native New Yorker and a fiercely proud West-Sider, Juliette’s lived in this apartment for as long as I’ve worked for her. The furniture is mismatched and romantic, and white walls are splashed with green from her dozens of potted plants. Every available surface is covered with old scripts, books, or mugs with half-drunk cups of tea. It’s scholarly chic. If Jane Austen ever traveled forward through time, I like to imagine that this is what her apartment would look like. Alas, dear Jane is nowhere to be found as Juliette steps away from the windows, moving through the space to sit on the arm of her tufted couch.

“Give me one good reason why you can’t go on this trip.” I roll my shoulders, trying to relieve a sudden stress knot before taking a much-needed sip of my latte. “Because you’re leaving tonight. I’m not mentally or physically prepared, and this is supposed to be my yearly vacation time. I have projects that I need to work on, too.”

“Yes, your grand opus of a play that you’re forever editing. Maybe the change of scenery will inspire you. In London, love and scandal are considered the best sweeteners of tea.”

“Don’t try to mind-trick me with John Osborne quotes.” Juliette groans and pushes up off the sofa. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“It would help me if you read my play and told me what you think.”

She just looks at me then and says nothing, no doubt trying to come up with another lackluster excuse. I’ve asked her to read my play dozens of times over the years, but she always finds a reason not to. She’s too busy, her mind is clouded, she’s not in the right mood.

“I’ll read it when it’s finished. Whatever I say now would alter your creative course.”

Ah, so she doesn’t want to sway my process. Not likely. Juliette’s perpetually happy to give her two cents on everything, especially on another playwright’s work.

“As far as London,” she goes on, “you just need to think about it more. Mull it over, let the idea sink in, and if you could agree to come with us in the next ten to fifteen minutes, that would be great.” She goes to leave the room after that but stops short when her cell phone starts ringing. She looks around but doesn’t find it. I do the same until she digs into the couch cushions and eventually plucks it out. She checks the caller ID and smiles as she answers.

“Liam! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

A little out of breath from her impromptu sofa wrestling match, she twists around and away from me, walking over to the windowsill and picking up a small watering can. She sprinkles her first row of plant babies as she listens to his response. Liam is her nephew and lives in London, which is also where her sister, Isabelle, has lived since she moved there in her twenties. I’ve never met her or him, but I have sent Liam gifts on Juliette’s behalf every Christmas and on his birthday. 

“That’s right,” she says, moving on to the next row of plants. “I’m getting in tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Will I be seeing you?” She tries to water the oversized ficus in the corner, but the can is empty. “Sounds great! Here, I’m passing you over to Winnie for a second. Do me a favor and convince her to come on the trip with me. She’s being obstinate.”

“What? No.” My protest is in vain as Juliette’s phone is already in flight. I barely catch it as she disappears into the kitchen, shaking the empty watering can over her shoulder in response.

I clear my throat and put the phone to my ear. “Hello, Liam.”

“Hello, is Winnie there, please?” he asks with mock seriousness.

I fail to suppress my involuntary smile at his polite request and inviting British accent. “This is she,” I answer back.

“Excellent, just the person I was hoping to speak to.”

“My sentiments exactly. To be honest, I’ve secretly been dying to talk to you for years.”

“Have you really?” he asks, surprised.

“No, not really. I don’t even know you.” He says nothing, and I think I might have scared him a bit. “Sorry,” I lightly amend, “I thought we were pretending that we actually meant to have this conversation.”

“Yes, well, that was my initial intention, but it turns out you’re much more convincing than I am. I can only assume that you’ve had formal training?”

“That assumption would be correct.”

“I should have figured.” His voice is surprisingly calm, sounding more like one of my old improv buddies and less like a stranger who’s thousands of miles away. “So,” he goes on, “I’ve been instructed by my aunt to convince you to come to London.”

“She does seem to have that idea stuck in her head.”

“There’s much to recommend it, of course. Red buses. A phenomenal bridge. How do you feel about museums?”

“I hate them,” I tease.

“Absolutely. Nothing to be learned from there. And what about parks?”

“Not into them at all.”

“Couldn’t agree more. I’m violently allergic to pollen, and why should I be forced to carry an EpiPen just so everyone else can enjoy natural beauty? Pure selfishness on their end.”

I smile to myself and pivot around so I’m no longer standing still. “I knew you couldn’t be as normal as you originally sounded. It’s to be expected, though, since you do share a bloodline with Juliette.”

“Yes, we had hoped lunacy would skip a generation, but apparently not.” He pauses then, and I somehow know that he’s smiling, too. “So, how am I faring on my quest so far? Are you packing your bags at this very moment?”

“Unfortunately not. I somehow forgot to bring all my lug-gage and clothes with me to work today, but still, this has been a very pleasant verbal exchange thus far.”

“For me as well. Can I ask what’s holding you back from taking the trip?”

“You may, but I may also choose not to answer.”

“Ah, a lady of secrets, are we?”

“Oh yes,” I answer dramatically. “A lady of many secrets and a play that I need to finish in seventeen days if I’m going to make a contest deadline.”

“Really? I take it that you’re a playwright as well, then?” 

“Afraid so.”

“In that case, as you have a very good reason to stay at home rather than crossing the Atlantic, I won’t try to sway you any further…but know that I do so very reluctantly.”

“I appreciate that.”

Juliette sashays back into the room then, the watering can forgotten as she plops down onto the couch with one of her many notebooks. I’ll have to see to the rest of the plants later. She props her feet up on the coffee table and begins to write as I make my way towards her.

“Alright, well, your aunt is now back, so I’ll get going.” “It was very nice meeting you, Winnie.”

“We didn’t actually meet,” I say, correcting him.

“But it sort of feels like we did.”

I find myself grinning once more and shift away so Juliette won’t notice. “I guess it does,” I admit. “Bye, Liam.”

“Goodbye, Winnie.” I pivot back around and hand the phone over. Juliette looks at me with a mischievous sort of smirk as I shake my head and step away to hang my bag in the entryway closet.



Excerpted from Here For the Drama by Kate Bromley, Copyright © 2022 by Kate Bromley


Published by Graydon House Books.


Author Bio: 

KATE BROMLEY lives in New York City with her husband, son, and her somewhat excessive collection of romance novels (It’s not hoarding if it’s books, right?). She was a preschool teacher for seven years and is now focusing full-time on combining her two great passions – writing swoon-worthy love stories and making people laugh. She is also the author of Talk Bookish to Me.







This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.



Books That Bring Me Joy

/

Do you ever find yourself looking for a book that you can get lost in? One where the world draws you in and lets you forget about the real world around you? A book where the characters seem to be living the ultimate life full of wealth and luxury? Or, characters who have lives so mess you just keep wondering who the author is basing these characters on. I love books with snarky characters, messy wealthy people, and drama that is over the top. Here’s a quick list of books that have brought me joy. Now, this is not a list of joy-filled books. These books brought me joy by reading them.

I fell in love with Charley Davidson years ago when I was searching for a new audiobook. Charley is a Grim Reaper who sees ghosts everywhere. Literally everywhere. Sometimes they are hanging out in her bathroom or never leave her living room. Charley also has the world’s most amazing best friend, a super sexy mysterious figure who has haunted her dreams for years, and a love of coffee that is boderline obscene. These books are snarky, witty, sarcastic, and extremely hot. I listened to them on audio but they are wonderful in print as well. If you love this series, definitely check out the Sunshine VIcram and Betwixt & Between series from her as well.

This is the ultimate Rich People Problems book. The ultimate! Nearly every single character is awful. Everyone is hiding something, or someone, and is only looking for out their own best interests. A elite and exclusive chain of resorts has been the second home to the uber wealthy for years. It has been their safe space from the paparazzi and a keeper of their secrets. But those secrets are about to be exposed and it is explosive! So many horrible people with way too much money trying maintain their deepest darkest secrets. Very soapy, very dramatic, and very, very dark. Loved this one!

I heard this book recapped by Heaving Bosoms and I was immeadiately hooked! It has two of the most beautiful and successful people who are so full of themselves they can’t figure out that the perfect person from them is RIGHT THERE! It’s an enemies to lovers romance with tons of snark, witty dialogue, and chemistry that is explosive! It’s incredible. Read it.

This is the softest, gentlest, cozy fantasy that I have ever read and I want a dozen more. An ogre who wants to leave a life of violence behind to open a coffeeshop in a small town that has never heard of coffee or a coffee shop. It’s a couple hundred pages of making lists, buying suppplies, renovating, and making connections with the locals. It’s a truly delightful book and I loved every single page of it.

This one is smoking hot! It’s a five alarm pants fire and I love it so very much! A young woman is about to lose her job as a maid and finds herself being offered a job at a brothel for non-humans. She is far from horrified about this job offer-she’s up for anything and anyone! It’s a love letter to the monster romance genre and it’s readers and conveys an extremely unconventional romance with grace, love, and respect. It’s a joyous look at sex and pleasure and handles the concept of consent and respect with great care. It’s a wild ride and I loved every minute of it!

As someone who fell in love with Greek mythology as a kid, you better believe I was all over this series of retellings. They’re extremely sexy, full of politics and high drama set against a backdrop of a modern city obsessed with celebrity. Each book, there’s 3 so far, has given us a little bit more information about the world of Olympus but we still don’t have the full story. From what I can gather, Olympus exists in a pocket universe next to the mortal plane and hidden from the eyes of mortals. Instead of the world being ruled by the Gods themselves, their names are treated as job titles and form the powerful group known as The Thirteen. Politics are a part of daily life and each family connected to The Thirteen are treated as celebrities-for better or worse. They are a lot of fun and are really quick and intense reads. Love them so much.

What are some of your favorite reads? Any series that are your go-to reads when you need to escape? Drop those in the comments and we’ll topple some TBR piles.

As always, this list contains links, including Amazon affiliate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

#Review: The Hacienda by Isabel Caña

/

Available Now

Reader Friends, this book is so spooky! I love a gothic horror novel and when you set it in post-War of Independence in Mexico with some major family drama you end up with a riveting combination of All the Things I Love. That’s right, we have family drama, political drama, a spooky house, a remote location, some mysterious deaths, and a tight knit group of people who have everything to lose if they come forward with their suspicions. 

Beatriz’s whole world fell apart after her father was executed and she and her mother had to move in with relatives who treated them more as servants than family. Desperate to have a home for herself and her mother Beatriz marries Rodolfo Solórzano, a wealthy politician who can guarantee safety and stability, but not love. When Beatriz arrives at her new home, she is not greeted with kindness or friendliness. She is met with iciness from the staff and even the house seems displeased with her presence. 

When Rodolfo leaves for the capitol shortly after her arrival, Beatriz is determined to make the home her own, not just a series of reminders of her husband’s first wife. As Beatriz works on redecorating and furnishing her home, she encounters more strange occurrences within the home that are both unsettling and terrifying. When she calls in help from a local priest, Beatriz finds herself, and those around her, in grave danger. 

It’s so spooky! The pacing in this novel is perfect. There’s just enough flashbacks and backstory to really set the stage and the right amount of horror and suspense to keep you glued to the page. I was enthralled by this book and found myself constantly thinking about it and wanting to get back to it. You know it’s good when I’m willing to give up my sci-fi shows to read. 

I loved the history included in the novel and the way it was written as known facts and not needing to be overly explained to the reader. You could feel the oppression the war had on those around Beatriz and how her father’s execution absolutely devastated her. Working for her mother’s family damaged her confidence and filled her mind with doubt that impacted so many of her decisions. Andres, the priest, had to be so careful with his knowledge and family legacy so that those around him weren’t threatened by the local law or ostracized by those around them. It was a constant weight felt through everyone’s decisions and actions. 

I absolutely loved this book and can’t want to see what else this author has in store for us. 

If you would like to add this amazing book to your shelf, you can find ordering information here:

 

This post may contain affiliate links, including Amazon Associate links, and I may earn from qualifying purchases.

#BlogTour! A Proposal They Can't Refuse by Natalie Caña

/

On Sale Date: June 7, 2022

9780778386094

Trade Paperback

$15.99 USD

336 pages

“My Big Fat Greek Wedding” but make it Latinx when a Puerto Rican chef and an Irish American whiskey distiller are blackmailed into a fake relationship by their scheming octogenarian grandfathers.

Ain’t nobody got time for octogenarian blackmail, especially Kamilah Vega. Convincing her parents to update the family’s Puerto Rican restaurant and enter it into The Fall Foodie Tour is quite enough on her plate, muchas gracias. And with the gentrification of their Chicago neighborhood, the tour looks like the only way to save the place. Too bad her abuelo made himself very clear; if she wants to change anything in his restaurant, she must marry the one man she can't stand: his best friend’s grandson.

Liam Kane spent a decade working his ass off to turn his family’s distillery into a contender. Now he and his grandfather are on the verge of winning a national competition. Then Granda hits him with a one-two punch: he has cancer and has his heart set on seeing Liam married before it’s too late. And his Granda knows just the girl... yup, you guessed it, Kamilah Vega.

If they refuse, their grandfathers will sell the building that houses their businesses, ruining all their well-laid plans. With their legacies and futures on the line, Kamilah and Liam plan to outfox the devious duo, faking an engagement until they both get what they want. But the more time they spend together, the more they realize how much there is to love. Soon, they find themselves tangled up in more than either of them bargained for.

BUY LINKS:

Bookshop.org

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Read on for an excerpt from A Proposal They Can’t Refuse!

Kamilah Vega stomped up the short entryway and yanked the heavy glass door open with more force than necessary. A strong wind, the type only ever experienced in Chicago, grabbed a hold of the door and pushed it back so roughly that it made a loud bang. The front-desk secretary jumped and gave her a dirty look, but Kamilah barely noticed. Her attention went immediately to the two bodies slumped in the love seat outside the director’s office. 

She tried her best to keep the anger out of her voice because she already knew how the two troublemakers in front of her would react to it. “What did you do now?” 

That garnered an immediate and very predictable response of “Nothing” from both occupants. It was a lie, of course. It always was whenever these two started claiming innocence in unison. 

Kamilah rubbed both hands over her face and let out the type of deep and weary sigh that someone should let out at midnight after a hard and long day—not at eight thirty in the morning. She dropped her hands. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop with the shenanigans? You’re eighty years old, Abuelo.”

Her grandfather gasped in outrage at the mention of his age and scowled at her. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking up all over the place like a fuzzy baby monkey, making him look adorable despite the baleful glare.

Looking decidedly more put together, even in his tattered denim overalls and faded flannel, Abuelo’s roommate and best friend gave her his own version of the stink eye. “You’re only as old as you feel,” Killian replied in his deep Irish brogue.

“And that means what? That you two feel twelve?”

Before they could answer, the door to the office opened, and there stood Maria Lopez-Hermann, the director of Casa del Sol Senior Living. “Hello, Kamilah. I’m glad you were able to come on such short notice. I know you were probably in the middle of morning prep at the restaurant.”

Kamilah didn’t bother telling Maria that after closing the night before, she’d slept through her many alarms and was late to work. Now, thanks to the two hooligans next to her, she was going to be very, very late. Her employers wouldn’t care about her excuses. It didn’t matter that they were her parents. Kamilah was a Vega and an employee, so her main responsibility was to the family restaurant. Always.

Maria motioned for them to enter her office, and they filed in. Kamilah purposely let Abuelo and Killian sit in the two chairs in front of Maria’s desk, while she stood behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders. It was the same stance her mami had taken the time she and her cousin Lucy had got in trouble for skipping gym class for two weeks.

Abuelo crossed one leg over the other and tucked his hands under his armpits, while Killian leaned back, spread his legs wide, and let his arms hang over the short back of the barrel chair. Kamilah once again marveled at their ability to look summarily unconcerned while she was sweating bullets, and she hadn’t even done anything.

Maria took a seat behind her desk and interlocked her fingers, resting them on top of her desktop calendar. “I thought I had made myself clear after the bird incident that being banned from pet therapy would be the least of your worries if there were any more pranks pulled.”

Kamilah closed her eyes and shook her head. It was a variation on what she’d said right before giving the Devious Duo a monthlong suspension from bingo for starting an illicit gambling ring; before that, there was a security-enforced curfew after the strip-poker fiasco. “What did they do now?” she asked, well aware that it was the third or fourth time she’d asked the question that morning and had yet to get a response.

“This morning we had two residents with high blood pressure show alarmingly high readings after breakfast. We did some investigating and found that Mr. Kane and Mr. Vega had snuck into the cafeteria last night and replaced the decaffeinated coffee grounds with fully caffeinated espresso.”

“Abuelo!” Kamilah exclaimed.

“They don’t have any proof it was us,” Killian interjected. “They just want to blame us for everything that happens in this godforsaken prison.”

“Prison,” Kamilah scoffed. “You two have more freedom than anyone else in here.” It was true. Because of their relatively good physical health and stable mental health, Abuelo and Killian didn’t require as much care as many of the other residents. It was more as if Casa del Sol were their college dorm rather than their senior-care facility. It didn’t help that the two tended to view the senior-living center’s strict rules as friendly suggestions.

“Your feelings aside,” Maria continued, “we do have proof. The cameras that we installed in the cafeteria and kitchen caught very clear images of you both.”

Abuelo softly damned the cameras. “Condenados cámaras.”

But Killian had other concerns. “You hear that, Papo? Freedom,” he harrumphed.

“They won’t even let me drink café con leche,” Abuelo added. “They give me light brown poop water and call it coffee.”

“It’s decaf with a splash of coconut milk, and your doctor says it’s better for your heart,” Kamilah pointed out. Abuelo’s doctor also said his congestive heart failure was very treatable as long as he took his meds, stuck to a heart-healthy diet, and remained relatively active. Of course, Abuelo paid him no attention.

As if on cue, Abuelo made a noise of disdain. “Ese doctor no sabe na’. Cuando me duele el pecho, me pongo un poco de Vaporú y ya.”

Kamilah sucked her teeth more at the claim that his doctor knew nothing than at the miraculous healing quality of Vicks VapoRub. All Latinx people knew Vaporú was the cure for everything from a common cold to heartbreak.

Abuelo looked at the director of the complex with petulance. “And when are you going to start serving carne frita con mofongo?” Abuelo continued, because apparently he was on a roll. “I’m sick of eating all these steamed vegetables like a damn rabbit.”

Maria leaned forward. “Mr. Vega, if you are so unhappy with Casa del Sol, you are welcome to find another living facility to reside in.”

Kamilah jumped in before her hardheaded grandfather could ruin the best thing he had going for him. “Maria, could I talk to these two alone for a few minutes before you lower the hammer?”

Used to their antics, Maria nodded her head and left the office.

Kamilah sank to her haunches between their chairs and waited until both men looked at her. “You guys have to stop this,” she said in her voice of reason tone. She placed a hand on each of theirs. “I don’t have time for you to be staging weekly high jinks like you’re the Little Rascals. I can’t be here all the time making sure that you don’t get kicked out.”

Abuelo turned his face away. “Nobody told you to come act like our mother.”

Killian nodded. “We are grown men.”

“Bullshite,” a deep voice sneered from too damn close, startling Kamilah right as she felt a presence looming over her.

A girl who grew up on the West Side of Chicago and with four tormenting older brothers knew to strike first and ask questions later.

“Not today,” Kamilah declared in her You-Messed-Withthe-Wrong-Bitch voice, spinning around in her crouched position, morphing into famous Chicago heavyweight champion Ernie Terrell, and swinging her fist at her would-be attacker’s crotch.

The moment her fist connected with the very sensitive part of the man’s anatomy and she heard his pained “Son of a bitch,” she knew she’d made a grave mistake.

Oh dear God, no. Not him. Please don’t let him be here.

Meanwhile, Tweedledum and Tweedledee laughed their asses off like a pair of demented hyenas.

When he fell to his knees, Kamilah suddenly found herself face-to-face with the exact man she’d just prayed wasn’t there.

Big, broad, and brooding, Killian’s grandson didn’t resemble him in the least. Where Killian had a round face and wide nose with a bit of a hook at the end, Liam looked like something conjured out of the tie me up and spank me books her sister-in-law was always reading. His face was all sharp angles, set off by dark stubble, a stern mouth, and cool eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” He wheezed. “You can’t just go around dick-punching people.”

The hyenas laughed harder.

Kamilah’s jaw dropped. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you, coming up on me like that? You don’t sneak up on a woman and expect not to get junk-punched. Especially not a woman born and raised in Humboldt Park.”

His French-blue eyes narrowed under dark brows. His nostrils flared while he inhaled deeply. That was Liam speak for I’d really like to tell you off right now, but not going to engage.

Kamilah saw that look often. Whatever. He pissed her off too.

“She has a point, lad,” Killian said, the amusement still thick in his voice. “You deserved that whack to the wanker.” He stood and pulled his grandson to his feet.

Kamilah found herself once again eye level with Liam’s crotch. She quickly stood and turned away from him, her face flushing with embarrassment. She met Abuelo’s gaze.

He arched his brows. “Nena, aren’t you going to apologize to him?”

“Me? Apologize to him?” Kamilah let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “He should apologize for sneaking in here and scaring me.”

“He didn’t sneak. The door was open.”

Kamilah didn’t answer. She should own up to her part and apologize, but her pride wouldn’t let her. Pride was the only thing protecting her from Liam. She couldn’t let it go now.

Liam stared, expressionless. Then he ignored her comment completely. “Granda, what did you do now?”

Kamilah hated when he ignored her.

Killian opened his mouth, but Liam cut him off. “And don’t say nothing, because I know you better than that.”

Before Killian could come up with a story, Maria walked back into the office. “They threw away all of the decaf coffee and replaced it with Café Bustelo espresso.”

“What the hell, Granda? You are willing to get kicked out of this place over coffee? Seriously?”

“It’s not the coffee. It’s the principle,” Killian replied, his nose in the air.

Liam threw up his hands and let out a sound of exasperation. “What principle? That the people you pay to take care of you actually take care of you?”

Killian crossed his arms. “You don’t get it because you’re young.”

“I don’t get it because it’s nonsense. Granda, where do you plan to go if you get kicked out? You sold your house to move in here with Papo.”

At the mention of the house he once shared with the love of his life, Killian’s face fell. That had been his wife’s dream house, and Kamilah had always suspected that he hadn’t really been ready to sell it.

“If you get thrown out, you can’t live with me, Granda.”

That was too much. Kamilah certainly wasn’t in agreement with their troublemaking, but Liam didn’t have the right to speak to his grandfather that way. Not after all Killian had done for him. “Because God forbid Super Loner Liam has to allow someone into his hermit cave.”

He turned on her. “Excuse me?”

“I’m saying that if they did get asked to leave, which we don’t know is going to happen, it wouldn’t kill you to let your grandpa move in with you. That’s what family does.”

“I was referring to the fact that he can’t walk that many stairs anymore, but I guess, as the almost thirty-year-old woman living with her parents, I should take your word on that other stuff.”

Kamilah scowled. He didn’t have to bring up her living situation like that. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? It’s like it’s not a big deal for us, because I’m not a miserable person who is extremely difficult to be around.”

Liam scowled at her. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, off making someone else’s day shitty?”

Rude. Her pulse sped up. “I usually would, but since I already started with you, I can check it off my to-do list and it’s not even ten o’clock. Thanks a bunch.” She added a sweet smile.

“Glad to be of service.”

“Would you two just get a room already?” Killian said. Liam turned his dark look on his grandfather, and she made a disgusted noise.

“What?” Killian shrugged. “All I’m saying is you two fight like a couple.”

“Yeah.” Abuelo added his two cents. “You should just get married already.”

There was a beat of silence, and then both octogenarians’ eyes lit with the same mischievousness. The kind that had no doubt led to all of them being in their current situation.

You know what? Let’s get back to the reason we are here.” She faced Maria. “They may not look it, but I know Abuelo and Killian are sorry for the danger they put their fellow residents in, and next time they will think more about the consequences before they do something so incredibly stupid.”

Maria let loose a world-weary sigh, much like the one Kamilah had released earlier. She gave a small eye roll while shaking her head because they both knew Kamilah was full of shit. “Their cafeteria privileges have been revoked for the next two weeks. Prepackaged paper-bag meals will be sent to their apartment, or their families will have to provide their meals for them.”

“Is that supposed to be a punishment?” Abuelo asked.

“With the stuff they serve here, it feels more like a rew—”

Kamilah covered his mouth with her hand. “That seems totally fair.” In her head she was freaking out because she just knew she was going to be the one providing said meals, and she did not have the time for all that. “I’ll make sure they get fed.” She felt Abuelo’s mouth curve behind her hand, and she saw Killian’s pleased smile. “Don’t get too happy,” she warned. “You think they denied you? Just wait to see what I have in store. When I’m done with you, you are going to wish you could eat rabbit food.”

They were completely unfazed by her threats. Probably because they knew Kamilah was a crème brûlée—right below a crackly hard surface, she was really just pudding.

Echoing her thoughts, Liam scoffed. “As if you aren’t going to end up making them three-course meals complete with dessert.”

Kamilah fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him like a six-year-old. Instead, she ignored him. “I have to go to work, but for the love of God, please behave yourselves today,” she begged the duo of deviants.

She was almost positive she heard Killian mumble, “We make no promises.”



Excerpted from A Proposal They Can’t Refuse by Natalie Caña. Copyright © 2022 by Natalie Caña. Published by MIRA Books.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Natalie Caña writes contemporary romances that allow her to incorporate her witty sense of humor and her love for her culture (Puertominican whoop whoop!) for heroines and heroes like her. A PROPOSAL THEY CAN'T REFUSE is her debut novel.

SOCIAL LINKS:

Author website: http://nataliecana.com/services-and-pricing 

Twitter: @NatCanaWrites

Tik Tok: @nataliecwrites

Always Practice Safe Hex by Juliette Cross

/

Available today!

Reader friends! Welcome to my new favorite series! I stumbled across book one in the Stay a Spell series, Wolf Gone Wild and instantly fell in love with the Savoie sisters and their lives in New Orleans. In the fourth installment of the series, we are given the epic romance of two fierce rivals, Livvy Savoie and Gareth Blackwater. It’s wildly funny, incredibly sexy, and full of magical mayhem. I absolutely loved watching these two hard-headed dummies realize that the chemistry between isn’t toxic, it’s explosive! If you’re looking for a new paranormal romance series that is full of heart, heat, and magic, this is definitely the series for you! Read on for more information about this amazing new book!

Something wicked this way comes, everyone. And his name is Gareth Blackwater—a grim reaper with secrets and sexiness to spare. Happy Release Day to ALWAYS PRACTICE SAFE HEX, book 4 in the STAY A SPELL series. Here’s what you’ll find in the newest addition to this popular paranormal series:


Steamy, enemies to lovers

Forced proximity

Werewolf wet t-shirt contest

Telekinetic bed play

Bondage with a grim's monster

Dominant hero who is ALL in

There's a reason no one messes with a grim...

Livvy Savoie is a people person. Not only does she have the magical gift of persuasion, but her natural charisma charms everyone she meets. She hasn't met a person she didn't like. Until her annoyingly brilliant competitor walks through the door. No matter how hard she denies it, loathing isn't the only emotion she feels for him.

Grim reaper Gareth Blackwater is rarely, if ever, moved beyond his broody, stoic state. But the witch he's partnered with in the public relations contest is destroying his peace of mind. He's convinced that the flesh-melting attraction he feels for her is merely her witchy magic at work.

But forced proximity proves there is more than magic sparking between them. Livvy learns this enigmatic grim's abilities are beyond any supernatural she has ever known. And when Livvy becomes the obsessive target of a dangerous warlock, Gareth proves just how powerful he truly is. Because no one is going to hurt his Lavinia.


AM: https://amzn.to/3FgSfim

AM UK: https://amzn.to/3KKehuX

AM CA: https://amzn.to/3sg62QZ

AM AU: https://amzn.to/3KTCsaI

B&N: https://bit.ly/3wgE764

KOBO: https://bit.ly/3Lhobo8

APPLE: https://apple.co/3MrrA58

GOOGLE: https://bit.ly/3MwFrHK

Goodreads: https://bit.ly/37l1YI6

Something wicked this way comes, everyone. And his name is Gareth Blackwater—a grim reaper with secrets and sexiness to spare. Happy Release Day to ALWAYS PRACTICE SAFE HEX, book 4 in the STAY A SPELL series. Here’s what you’ll find in the newest addition to this popular paranormal series:


Steamy, enemies to lovers

Forced proximity

Werewolf wet t-shirt contest

Telekinetic bed play

Bondage with a grim's monster

Dominant hero who is ALL in


There's a reason no one messes with a grim...

Livvy Savoie is a people person. Not only does she have the magical gift of persuasion, but her natural charisma charms everyone she meets. She hasn't met a person she didn't like. Until her annoyingly brilliant competitor walks through the door. No matter how hard she denies it, loathing isn't the only emotion she feels for him.

Grim reaper Gareth Blackwater is rarely, if ever, moved beyond his broody, stoic state. But the witch he's partnered with in the public relations contest is destroying his peace of mind. He's convinced that the flesh-melting attraction he feels for her is merely her witchy magic at work.

But forced proximity proves there is more than magic sparking between them. Livvy learns this enigmatic grim's abilities are beyond any supernatural she has ever known. And when Livvy becomes the obsessive target of a dangerous warlock, Gareth proves just how powerful he truly is. Because no one is going to hurt his Lavinia.


AM: https://amzn.to/3FgSfim

AM UK: https://amzn.to/3KKehuX

AM CA: https://amzn.to/3sg62QZ

AM AU: https://amzn.to/3KTCsaI

B&N: https://bit.ly/3wgE764

KOBO: https://bit.ly/3Lhobo8

APPLE: https://apple.co/3MrrA58

GOOGLE: https://bit.ly/3MwFrHK

Goodreads: https://bit.ly/37l1YI6

#BlogTour! On A Quiet Street by Seraphina Nova Glass

/

ON A QUIET STREET

Author: Seraphina Nova Glass

ISBN: 9781525899751

Publication Date: May 17, 2022

Publisher: Graydon House Books

A simple arrangement. A web of deceit with shocking consequences.

Welcome to Brighton Hills: an exclusive, gated community set against the stunning backdrop of the Oregon coast. Home to doctors, lawyers, judges--all the most upstanding members of society. Nothing ever goes wrong here. Right?

Cora's husband, Finn, is a cheater. She knows it; she just needs to prove it. She's tired of being the nagging, suspicious wife who analyzes her husband's every move. She needs to catch him in the act. And what better way to do that than to set him up for a fall?

Paige has nothing to lose. After she lost her only child in a hit-and-run last year, her life fell apart: her marriage has imploded, she finds herself screaming at baristas and mail carriers, and she's so convinced Caleb's death wasn't an accident that she's secretly spying on all everyone in Brighton Hills so she can find the murderer. So it's easy for her to entrap Finn and prove what kind of man he really is.

But Paige and Cora are about to discover far more than a cheating husband. What starts as a little agreement between friends sets into motion a series of events neither of them could have ever predicted, and that exposes the deep fault lines in Brighton Hills. Especially concerning their mysterious new neighbor, Georgia, a beautiful recluse who has deep, dark secrets of her own...

Read on for an excerpt from On A Quiet Street by Seraphina Nova Glass

ONE

Paige

Paige stands, watering her marigolds in the front yard and marvels at how ugly they are. The sweet-potato-orange flowers remind her of a couch from the 1970s, and she suddenly hates them. She crouches down, ready to rip them from their roots, wondering why she ever planted such an ugly thing next to her pristine Russian sage, and then the memory steals her breath. The church Mother’s Day picnic when Caleb was in the sixth grade. Some moron had let the potato salad sit too long in the sun, and Caleb got food poisoning. All the kids got to pick a flower plant to give to their moms, and even though Caleb was puking mayonnaise, he insisted on going over to pick his flower to give her. He was so proud to hand it to her in its little plastic pot, and she said they’d plant it in the yard and they’d always have his special marigolds to look at. How could she have forgotten?

She feels tears rise in her throat but swallows them down. Her dachshund, Christopher, waddles over and noses her arm: he always senses when she’s going to cry, which is almost all the time since Caleb died. She kisses his head and looks at her now-beautiful marigolds. She’s interrupted by the kid who de-livers the newspaper as he rides his bike into the cul-de-sac and tosses a rolled-up paper, hitting little Christopher on his back.

“Are you a fucking psychopath?” Paige screams, jumping to her feet and hurling the paper back at the kid, which hits him in the head and knocks him off his bike.

“What the hell is wrong with you, lady?” he yells back, scrambling to gather himself and pick up his bike.

“What’s wrong with me? You tried to kill my dog. Why don’t you watch what the fuck you’re doing?”

His face contorts, and he tries to pedal away, but Paige grabs the garden hose and sprays him down until he’s out of reach. “Little monster!” she yells after him.

Thirty minutes later, the police ring her doorbell, but Paige doesn’t answer. She sits in the back garden, drinking coffee out of a lopsided clay mug with the word Mom carved into it by little fingers. She strokes Christopher’s head and examines the ivy climbing up the brick of the garage and wonders if it’s bad for the foundation. When she hears the ring again, she hollers at them.

“I’m not getting up for you people. If you need to talk to me, I’m back here.” She enjoys making them squeeze around the side of the house and hopes they rub up against the poi-son oak on their way.

“Morning, Mrs. Moretti,” one of the officers says. It’s the girl cop, Hernandez. Then the white guy chimes in. She hates him. Miller. Of course they sent Miller with his creepy mustache. He looks more like a child molester than a cop, she thinks. How does anyone take him seriously?

“We received a complaint,” he says.

“Oh, ya did, did ya? You guys actually looking into cases these days? Actually following up on shit?” Paige says, still petting the dog and not looking at them.

“You assaulted a fifteen-year-old? Come on.”

“Oh, I did no such thing,” she snaps.

Hernandez sits across from Paige. “You wanna tell us what d id happen, then?”

“Are you planning on arresting me if I don’t?” she asks, and the two officers give each other a silent look she can’t read.

“His parents don’t want to press charges so…”

Paige doesn’t say anything. They don’t have to tell her it’s because they pity her.

“But, Paige,” Miller says, “we can’t keep coming out here for this sort of thing.”

“Good,” Paige says firmly. “Maybe it will free you up to do your real job and find out who killed my son.” Hernandez stands.

“Again, you know we aren’t the detectives on the—” But before Hernandez can finish, Paige interrupts, not wanting to hear the excuses.

“And maybe go charge the idiot kid for trying to kill my dog. How about that?”

Paige stands and goes inside, not waiting for a response. She hears them mumble something to one another and make their way out. She can’t restrain herself or force herself to be kind. She used to be kind, but now, it’s as though her brain has been rewired. Defensiveness inhabits the place where empathy used to live. The uniforms of the cops trigger her, too; it reminds her of that night, the red, flashing lights a nightmarish strobe from a movie scene. A horror movie, not real life. It can’t be her real life. She still can’t accept that.

The uniforms spoke, saying condescending things, pulling her away, calling her ma’am, and asking stupid questions. Now, when she sees them, it brings up regrets. She doesn’t know why this happens, but the uniforms bring her back to that night, and it makes her long for the chance to do all the things she never did with Caleb and mourn over the times they did have. It forces fragments of memories to materialize, like when he was six, he wanted a My Little Pony named Star Prancer. It was pink with purple flowers in its mane, and she didn’t let him have it because she thought she was protecting him from being made fun of at school. Now, the memory fills her with self-reproach.

She tries not to think about the time she fell asleep on the couch watching Rugrats with him when he was just a toddler and woke up to his screaming because he’d fallen off the couch and hit his head on the coffee table. He was okay, but it could have been worse. He could have put his finger in an outlet, pushed on the window screen and fallen to his death from the second floor, drunk the bleach under the sink! When this memory comes, she has to quickly stand up and busy herself, push out a heavy breath, and shake off the shame it brings. He could have died from her negligence that afternoon. She never told Grant. She told Cora once, who said every parent has a moment like that, it’s life. People fall asleep. But Paige has never forgiven herself. She loved Caleb more than life, and now the doubt and little moments of regret push into her thoughts and render her miserable and anxious all the time.

She didn’t stay home like Cora, she practically lived at the restaurant. She ran it for years. Caleb grew up doing his homework in the kitchen break room and helping wipe down tables and hand out menus. He seemed to love it. He didn’t watch TV all afternoon after school, he talked to new people, learned skills. But did she only tell herself that to alleviate the guilt? Would he have thrived more if he had had a more nor mal day-to-day? When he clung to her leg that first day of preschool, should she have forced him to go? Should he have let him change his college major so many times? Had he been happy? Had she done right by him?

And why was there a gun at the scene? Was he in trouble, and she didn’t know? Did he have friends she didn’t know about? He’d told her everything, she thought. They were close. Weren’t they?

As she approaches the kitchen window to put her mug down, she sees Grant pulling up outside. She can see him shaking his head at the sight of the cops before he even gets out of the car.

He doesn’t mention the police when he comes in. He silently pours himself a cup of coffee and finds Paige back out in the garden, where she has scurried to upon seeing him. He hands her a copy of the Times after removing the crossword puzzle for himself and then peers at it over his glasses.

He doesn’t speak until Christopher comes to greet him, and then he says, “Who wants a pocket cookie?” and takes a small dog biscuit from his shirt pocket and smiles down at little Christopher, who devours it.

This is how it’s been for the many months since Grant and Paige suffered insurmountable loss. It might be possible to get through it to the other side, but maybe not together, Paige said to Grant one night after one of many arguments about how they should cope. Grant wanted to sit in his old, leather recliner in the downstairs family room and stare into the wood-burning fireplace, Christopher at his feet, drinking a scotch and absorbing the quiet and stillness.

Paige, on the other hand, wanted to scream at everyone she met. She wanted to abuse the police for not finding who was responsible for the hit-and-run. She wanted to spend her days posting flyers offering a reward to anyone with information, even though she knew only eight percent of hit-and-runs are ever solved. When the world didn’t respond the way she needed, she stopped helping run the small restaurant they owned so she could just hole up at home and shout at Jeopardy! and paper boys. She needed to take up space and be loud. They each couldn’t stand how the other was mourning, so finally, Grant moved into the small apartment above their little Italian place, Moretti’s, and gave Paige the space she needed to take up.

Now—almost a year since the tragic day—Grant still comes over every Sunday to make sure the take-out boxes are picked up and the trash is taken out, that she’s taking care of herself and the house isn’t falling apart. And to kiss her on the cheek before he leaves and tell her he loves her. He doesn’t make observations or suggestions, just benign comments about the recent news headlines or the new baked mostaccioli special at the restaurant.

She sees him spot the pair of binoculars on the small table next to her Adirondack chair. She doesn’t need to lie and say she’s bird-watching or some nonsense. He knows she thinks one of the neighbors killed her son. She’s sure of it. It’s a gated community, and very few people come in and out who don’t live here. Especially that late at night. The entrance camera was conveniently disabled that night, so that makes her think it wasn’t an accident but planned. There was a gun next to Caleb’s body, but it wasn’t fired, and there was no gunshot wound. Something was very wrong with this scenario, and if the po-lice won’t prove homicide, she’s going to uncover which of her bastard neighbors had a motive.

She has repeated all of this to Grant a thousand times, and he used to implore her to try to focus on work or take a vacation—anything but obsess—and to warn her that she was destroying her health and their relationship, but he stopped responding to this sort of conspiracy-theory talk months ago.

“What’s the latest?” is all he asks, looking away from the binoculars and back to his crossword. She gives a dismissive wave of her hand, a sort of I know you don’t really want to hear about it gesture. Then, after a few moments, she says, “Danny Howell at 6758. He hasn’t driven his Mercedes in months.” She gives Grant a triumphant look, but he doesn’t appear to be following.

“Okay,” he says, filling in the word ostrich.

“So I broke into his garage to see what the deal was, and there’s a dent in his bumper.”

“You broke in?” he asks, concerned. She knows the How-ells have five vehicles, and the dent could be from a myriad of causes over the last year, but she won’t let it go.

“Yes, and it’s a good thing I did. I’m gonna go back and take photos. See if the police can tell if it looks like he might have hit a person.” She knows there is a sad desperation in her voice as she works herself up. “You think they can tell that? Like if the dent were a pole from a drive-through, they could see paint or the scratches or something, right? I bet they can tell.”

“It’s worth a shot,” he says, and she knows what he wants to say, also knows he won’t waste words telling her not to break into the garage a second time for photos. He changes the subject.

“I’m looking for someone to help out at the restaurant a few days a week—mostly just a piano player for the dinner crowd—but I could use a little bookkeeping and scheduling, too,” he says, and Paige knows it’s a soft attempt to distract her, but she doesn’t bite.

“Oh, well, good luck. I hope you find someone,” she says, and they stare off into the backyard trees.

“The ivy is looking robust,” he comments after a few minutes of silence.

“You think it’s hurting the foundation?” she asks.

“Nah,” he says, and he reaches over and places his hand over hers on the arm of her chair for a few moments before getting up to go. On his way out, he kisses her on the cheek, tells her he loves her. Then he loads the dishwasher and takes out the trash before heading to his car. She watches him reluctantly leaving, knowing that he wishes he could stay, that things were different.

When Paige hears the sound of Grant’s motor fade as he turns out of the front gate, she imagines herself calling him on his cell and telling him to come back and pick her up, that she’ll come to Moretti’s with him and do all the scheduling and books, that she’ll learn to play the piano just so she can make him happy. And, after all the patrons leave for the night, they’ll share bottles of Chianti on checkered tablecloths in a dimly lit back booth. They’ll eat linguini and clams and have a Lady and the Tramp moment, and they will be happy again.

Paige does not do this. She goes into the living room and closes the drapes Grant opened, blocking out the sunlight, then she crawls under a bunched-up duvet on the couch that smells like sour milk, and she begs for sleep.



Excerpted from On A Quiet Street by Seraphina Nova Glass, Copyright © 2022 by Seraphina Nova Glass. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Social Links:

Author Website

Twitter: @SeraphinaNova

Facebook: Seraphina Nova Glass: Author

Goodreads

Author Bio: 

Seraphina Nova Glass is a professor and playwright-in-residence at the University of Texas, Arlington, where she teaches film studies and playwriting. She holds an MFA in playwriting from Smith College, and she's also a screenwriter and award-winning playwright. Seraphina has traveled the world using theatre and film as a teaching tool, living in South Africa, Guam and Kenya as a volunteer teacher, AIDS relief worker, and documentary filmmaker.

Romance Quickie! Rafe: A Buff Male Nanny by Rebekah Weatherspoon

/

This has been my “Break In Case of Emergency” book was for some time now. I’ve only heard amazing things about it and there’s just something comforting about knowing I had this incredible book waiting for me. But like all BICOE books, I was instantly mad that I had waited to read it…even though that’s the point?

Anyways, Rafe is a huge, buff, tattooed, motorcycle riding nanny who is very good at his job. Kids and families love him. He’s calm, gentle, and genuinely loves kids. Dr. Sloan Campbell is an accomplished heart surgeon and mom to twin 6 year-old girls and divorced from her dickish husband. Her nanny quit in the middle of the day, leaving the girls alone until Sloan came home from work. Luckily, Rafe happens to be fresh out of a job after his last family moved across the globe and knows he can’t leave a single mom in a lurch.

He’s not prepared for hot she is.

She’s not prepared for hot he is.

They handle the entire attraction very responsibly in regards to employer/employee respects.

They’re smoking hot together.

The kids are not annoying.

It’s incredible! Highly recommend, don’t wait like I did, it’s so good!