Romance Quickie: The Rivals of Casper Road by Roan Parrish

Available now

This covers says it all!

It’s a Halloween Romance!!! I know that was Monday but I just got my hands on this one. Reader Friends, this one is so sweet and cute I just can’t stand it! Bram is a nature loving, dog loving, motorcycle riding rugged snack who has moved to Garnet Run to heal his broken heart after a horrible break up. Across the street is a grumpy, straight laced, no-nonsense architect who wants things done Just So named Zachary. Bram is also scared of all things spooky and Zachary is obsessed with horror films. They also happen to live on a street that has a notoriously competitive Halloween decorating contest.

Prank wars!

Small town!

A tight-knit queer community!

It’s so soft and sweet and funny and I loved it so much. SO much! Go grab it before it’s gone in print or pick it up in digital-it’s also at my Library so it’s probably at yours.

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Small Town, Big Magic by Hazel Beck

Book Summary:

For fans of THE EX HEX and PAYBACK'S A WITCH, a fun, witchy rom-com in which a bookstore owner who is fighting to revitalize a small midwestern town clashes with her rival, the mayor, and uncovers not only a clandestine group that wields a dark magic to control the idyllic river hamlet, but hidden powers she never knew she possessed.

There’s no such thing as witches…right?

Emerson Wilde has built the life of her dreams. Youngest Chamber of Commerce president in St. Cyprian history, successful indie bookstore owner, and lucky enough to have her best friends as found family? Done.

But when Emerson is attacked by creatures that shouldn’t be real, and kills them with what can only be called magic, Emerson finds that the past decade of her life has been…a lie. St. Cyprian isn't your average Midwestern river town—it’s a haven for witches. When Emerson failed a power test years ago, she was stripped of her magical memories. Turns out, Emerson’s friends are all witches.

And so is she.

That's not all, though: evil is lurking in the charming streets of St. Cyprian. Emerson will need to learn to control what’s inside of her, remember her magic, and deal with old, complicated feelings for her childhood friend--cranky-yet-gorgeous local farmer Jacob North—to defeat an enemy that hides in the rivers and shadows of everything she loves.

Even before she had magic, Emerson would have done anything for St. Cyprian, but now she’ll have to risk not just her livelihood…but her life.

Read on for an excerpt from Small Town Big Magic by Hazel Beck!

1

If you google my name—something I only do every other Tuesday because ego surfing is an indulgence and I keep my indulgences on a strict schedule—the first twenty hits are about the hanging of Sarah Emerson Wilde in 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts.

Guess why.

Only after all those witch hits—three pages in—will you get to me, Emerson Wilde. Not a tragically executed woman accused of witchcraft by overwrought zealots, but a bookstore owner and chamber of commerce president. The youngest chamber of commerce president in the history of St. Cyprian, Missouri, not that I like to brag.

Men are applauded for embellishing the truth while women are seen as very confident for telling the truth—and very confident is never a compliment.

If you slog past all the Crucible references and sad YouTube videos from disaffected teens with too much eye makeup, you might read about how my committed rejuvenation efforts have brought ten new businesses to St. Cyprian in the past five years. You might read about our Christmas around the World Festival which, thanks to my hard work and total commitment, brings people from—you guessed it—all around the world. You could read any number of articles about what I’ve done to help St. Cyprian, because it’s not a good day unless I’ve done something to support the town I love best.

And I pride myself on making every day a good day.

Even if most people read about Sarah and the witch trials and stop there, I know the truth about her. I learned all about my notorious ancestor while researching a presentation for my fourth-grade class.

My peers might have preferred Skip Simon’s bold and unlikely claims that he was a direct descendent of the outlaw Jesse James, but learning about Sarah changed my life. The reality of Sarah Emerson Wilde is that she was a fierce feminist who wanted to play by her own rules. A nonconformist who wasn’t interested in playing the perfect Puritan, and therefore a direct threat to the Powers That Be. Following her own rules, ignoring theirs, and trumpeting her independence got her killed.

Sarah wasn’t only a tragic figure. She was also a fierce martyr who would have hated being called either.

In retrospect, it was maybe too much for Miss Timpkin’s fourth-grade class.

But ever since then I’ve considered Sarah my guiding light. I’m proud to have such an exceptional, indomitable woman in my family tree. My great-grandmother times nine, to be precise. I’ve always felt that I owe it to myself, the Wilde name, and Sarah to be a strong, independent woman who doesn’t let the patriarchy or anything else get her down for long.

“And I don’t,” I announce brightly to the quiet of the early-morning kitchen of my family’s historic house.

It’s a Tuesday in March and I have plans. I always have plans. It’s what I do, but these are particularly epic, even for me. I might have been born too late to speak feminist truth to Puritan patriarchal power, but I have my own calling.

I am here to make St. Cyprian a better place.

Don’t laugh.

You can’t fix the world until you sort out your own backyard. I intend to do both.

Since my first St. Cyprian community project with my second-grade class, I have put everything I am into this shining jewel of a river town, the people lucky enough to live here, and the shops that carve out their spots on the cobbled streets—like my own intensely independent bookstore.

For all the women who came before me who weren’t allowed. Or those who carved out their way and were shunned for it.

Fist pumps optional.

I pump a few on my own in the kitchen, because there are few things in this life that psyche a girl up more than a fist pump. One of those things is coffee. Another is sugar. Combine all three and I’m ready to face the day.

But first I need to face my roommate.

My roomie and best friend, Georgie Pendell, grew up in the rickety old house next door, but moved in with me when she could no longer bear another moment of agony in her parents’ house—her dramatic words, not mine. She’s been here five years, sprawled out over the third floor and using the extra bedroom I’d assumed she’d make into an office as a library instead.

Mind you, what Georgie calls a library gives me hives. It’s an overflowing catastrophe of books piled into tottery towers that she refuses to let me organize for her. The last time I tried to go inside, the door only opened about two inches before hitting one of her stacks.

She insists it’s exactly the way she wants it.

And that’s fine, because Wilde House is big enough for the both of us. In fact, bigger than we need. With my parents gone living the high life in Europe and my sister’s defection to who knows where after our high school graduation, the house had seemed too big. I had been thrown for a loop when both my sister and parents left St. Cyprian within a year of each other—though I’d rallied the way I always do. My sister, Rebekah, had always been a free spirit. My parents had always been socially ambitious—so why not take that as far as it could go on the Continent? I had the town. I had my friends. I got to live in this piece of history with my grandmother. Yet when my grandmother died a few years later and left me here alone, the old house felt like an ominous, rattling thing that might swallow me whole. Winter had seemed to seep in, cruel and unforgiving. The halls had seemed too long, the lights too dim.

Possibly I was grieving. The loss of Grandma. The loss of my family, who I knew had their reasons for staying away, in Rebekah’s case because she always had reasons no matter how little she communicated those reasons. Or returning only for the funeral, in my parents’ case, and then rushing back to their European adventure.

It felt a little stormy there for a while.

My silly, happy, eccentric best friend moving in has been like letting in the sunshine.

Organizational challenges aside, having her here makes these early mornings with the whole of Wilde House creaking around me, like it’s singing its own song while I wake, feel less…lonely.

Not that I allow loneliness in my life. I swat it down like an obnoxious fly anytime it pops up. Because loneliness is a betrayal of all the women who came before me and I am not going to be the Wilde who lets them down. I’m the current caretaker of this landmark of a house that’s been in my family some three hundred years, since the first Wilde wisely made the long trek away from the Massachusetts Colony and settled down in this part of Missouri where two great rivers meet, the Mississippi and the Missouri. I like the idea of roots that deep and rivers that tangle together. I like this house that towers above me with its uneven floors and oddly shaped rooms. I like where it sits in town, on one end of Main Street like a punctuation mark.

And I really like that my best friend is always right here, within reach.

Because before I head off to my beloved Confluence Books today, I need to get Georgie on board for an Official Friend Meeting tonight. Being a young, ambitious, independent woman in charge of the chamber of commerce in the most charming river town in Missouri—and therefore America—comes with its challenges. A strong leader knows when to lean in to her community, and I do. My friends are always the first people I turn to when I need some help.

I tell myself that I would do that even if my family was still here. That my friends are my family. My parents and sister are the black sheep—not me. Their leaving, their lack of contact entirely or bright, shallow, early-morning messages from abroad is their choice.

And their loss.

My friends stayed. They love St. Cyprian and loved my grandmother too. They are mine, and I am theirs. Just like this town I love so much.

Still, sometimes I like to make a gathering official because that makes it more likely we’ll get to the constructive advice more quickly.

I head for the curving narrow stairs that will take me up into the house’s turret. It’s never been my favorite part of the house—it makes me think of princesses and fairy tales and other embarrassingly romantic things that have no place in a practical, independent life—but it suits Georgie to the bone. Like it was made for her.

I eye the newel post as I start up the stairs because it’s shaped like a grinning dragon and I’ve never understood it. The Wildes are the least fanciful people alive. Pragmatism and quiet determination would be our coat of arms if we had such a thing, but we’re Midwesterners, thank you. Coats of arms are far too showy.

The dragon grins at me like it knows things I don’t.

“That is unlikely,” I tell it, then close my eyes, despairing of myself.

There is no room in my life for the kind of whimsy that results in discussions with inanimate objects. Especially a dragon. A sometimes creepy dragon who hunches at the foot of the banister like he’s guarding the house.

“Stop it,” I mutter at myself—and possibly at him—as I head upstairs.

Once on the third floor, I eye Georgie’s library door as I pass it, itching to get in there and establish some order, but sometimes friendship comes before logic. Or intelligible shelving systems. At the end of the hall, her bedroom door is ajar, and I can see Georgie herself sitting on the wood-planked floor facing the two huge turret windows that take up most of the outside wall. They are flung wide open to the cool spring air and she has her face lifted to the sunrise.

Her curly red hair swirls around her, and she’s wearing enough bracelets on her wrist to perform a symphony of tinkling metal sounds. Like the half hippie, half free spirit she claims to be.

Georgie’s family also has roots in Puritan Massachusetts witch trials but unlike me, she loves getting lost in all that witchcraft nonsense. She pretends she has various supernatural powers to annoy me, but mostly she likes the trappings. What she solemnly calls crystal lore and sage burning. She likes to talk to her cat as if he can understand her and claims his meows are detailed replies that she, naturally, can comprehend perfectly. And she steadfastly claims to believe that Ellowyn, one of our other closest friends, can brew teas that cure colds, repair broken hearts, and curse weak-willed men.

There’s something comforting about how Georgie wholeheartedly embraces the silliness, like this daily ritual of hers. The morning light streams in, making the colorful crystals she’s arranged around her in a circle glow.

As I stand in the doorway, she gets to her feet and begins to collect her debris. Her crystals are the only item she owns that I have ever seen her keep in some kind of order. I used to try to help her pick up the various rocks, but she would tell me things like I put the malachite with the quartz and everyone knows that’s wrong, or that reds and blues shouldn’t touch on Wednesdays, obviously. I finally gave up.

I’ll admit that sometimes I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from helping again anyway.

“What brings you to my lair this early in the morning?” she asks without looking at me. I know this is to give the impression that she divined my presence when it’s more likely she heard the creaky board out in the hallway.

She does something dramatic with her fingers in the air, and at the same time a breeze shifts through the wind chimes she has hanging in her windows. A funny little coincidence.

I ignore it. “You’re free tonight, right?”

“Sadly no. In a shocking twist that will surprise everyone who’s ever met me or seen me attempt to dance, I’m running away to Spain, where I will dedicate myself to the study of flamenco. And possibly also tapas and wine.”

In other words, yes, she’s free.

“I need to call a meeting.”

Georgie sighs and looks over her shoulder at me. “Not every get-together needs to be a meeting with a cause.”

I smile winsomely at her. “But some do.”

“Is this about those flyers I helped you put up yesterday?”

I smile even more broadly. If there was an award for best flyer, that one would win it. But then, I’m excellent at flyers. “That flyer was about the new and improved Redbud Festival, Georgie.”

“Yes, I know. I also know that anytime you try to new and improve something in this town, the plague that is Skip Simon descends on you like the locust he is.”

“He hasn’t. Yet.”

“But he will.”

He will. He always does.

I sigh. “Yes, he will. He can’t resist. But I don’t want to fight him.” This time is implied. “I want to find a way to get through to him. Preferably without embarrassing him in front of the whole town.”

Because the only thing I’ve ever been able to do when it came to Skip Simon, from another old and well-to-do local family here in St. Cyprian like mine, was embarrass him.

Publicly.

His unearned victory against me in fourth grade notwithstanding.

There was the kickball game. You’d think a grown man wouldn’t still be mad that a girl had accidentally smashed his face with a kickball in gym class, both breaking his nose and making him the laughingstock of the fifth grade, but Skip had brought it up at least twice in the past six months alone.

There was the olive branch incident. Except it wasn’t an olive branch. It was an extra helping of the fish sticks from the cafeteria that everyone knew he loved. I’d thought he’d find those fish sticks within the hour and maybe we could bury the hatchet. Instead, he’d come back from a week’s vacation—that he claimed was the flu, but he had a tan from lying on the beach in Mexico—to find everyone calling him Stinky Simon. And hadn’t believed I’d been out that same week because I really did come down with the flu before I could take the fish sticks offering back out of his locker.

There was the unfortunate field trip to Mark Twain’s Boyhood Home in Hannibal. The riverboat incident a year later. The ninth-grade intercom thing that even my own friends didn’t entirely believe was an accident, but how was I supposed to know that it could be so easily turned on? Or that Skip and his freshman year girlfriend would choose to use that room to make out in?

Classmates made unfortunate slurping sounds at him for years.

Then there’d been prom. Our parents had urged us to go together despite the many years of discord. They thought our two old St. Cyprian families should be friendlier, and obviously my rebellious sister wasn’t the one to approach for cordiality of any kind. And when they’d had a few drinks, our parents tended to wax rhapsodic about how they’d always had hopes for Skip and me.

Neither Skip nor I shared these hopes.

But we’d agreed all the same, because St. Cyprian is a small town. And because it made sense to make an effort. Okay, that was me, but he was briefly less jerky about things. We even called our awkward plans peace talks.

Then I stood him up.

It was an accident, but no one believed that.

My position, then and now, is that when your always-problematic sister “loses” your favorite science teacher’s chinchilla, you can hardly be concerned about a dance. You initiate search and rescue, in a prom dress, because it’s the poor, lost chinchilla that matters. And given that I was the one who found Mr. Churchilla, you’d think Skip would have forgiven me.

But he didn’t. Especially when the rumor went around that I’d always plotted to stand him up. As if I would descend to playing teen rom-com movie games with Skip. Plus, there was another rumor that Skip himself had actually been planning to embarrass me with something far more cringeworthy than his choice of white tuxedo.

I wish I could say we’d left such silly adolescent issues behind, but on the day of Skip’s coronation—I mean, election, if you could call it that when his grand and formidable mother basically forced everyone she knows into voting for her precious spoiled baby—as mayor of St. Cyprian, I led a town cleanup service project. I had no idea the cleaning substance we’d used in the community center would make the floor abnormally slippery. I was wearing shoes with decent treads.

But Skip was not. He tripped, fell flat on his face and, yes, broke his nose again.

Yes, he blamed me.

The harder I tried to be nice to Skip, the worse I seemed to embarrass him. Over time, he moved on from any actual incidents to simply blaming me by rote. If there is any bad word breathed about him on the cobbled streets of St. Cyprian, he assumes it’s my fault.

But he’s the mayor. What mayor is universally adored? Welcome to politics.

An argument he does not find compelling, sadly. I’ve tried.

Skip might not believe this, but while he can certainly schmooze with the best of them, he isn’t liked by all and sundry. He is mayor here because his family is powerful and because he vowed to keep the town as it is. The sad truth is, no matter how many progressive folks live here, a great many people in the greater St. Cyprian area are afraid of change.

That doesn’t mean they like Skip personally. Yet somehow the blame for any negativity aimed at him or his office or his campaign gets put on my shoulders. When he decides I’m wrong, which is pretty much anytime I get out there and try to change things for the better, he really goes after me.

This is why I need my friends to help me brainstorm ways to deal with Skip’s eventual, inevitable response to my new ideas for the Redbud Festival. Because I’m certainly not going to stop trying to improve St. Cyprian and its tourist-attracting, revenue-producing festivals to appease Mayor Stinky Simon. 


Excerpted from Small Town, Big Magic by Hazel Beck. Copyright © 2022 by Megan Crane and Nicole Helm. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Author Bio:

HAZEL BECK is the magical partnership of a river witch and an earth witch. Together, they have collected two husbands, three familiars, two children, five degrees, and written around 200 books. As one, their books will delight with breathtaking magic, emotional romance, and stories of witches you won't soon forget. You can find them at www.Hazel-Beck.com.

 




Author Website: https://hazel-beck.com/

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

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

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#BlogTour! Would You Rather by Allison Ashley

Book Summary: Would you rather play it safe in the friend zone, or risk it all with a modern marriage of convenience?

Noah and Mia have always been best friends, and their friendship is the most important thing to them. Life is going great for Noah and he’s up for a promotion in a job he loves. But Mia’s life is on hold as she awaits a kidney transplant. She’s stuck in a dead-end job and, never wanting to be a burden, has sworn off all romance. So when the chance of a lifetime comes to go back to school and pursue her dream, it’s especially painful to pass up. She can’t quit her job or she’ll lose the medical insurance she so desperately needs.

To support her, Noah suggests they get married—in name only—so she can study full-time and still keep the insurance. It’s a risk to both of them, with jobs, health and hearts on the line, and they’ll need to convince suspicious coworkers and nosy roommates that they’re the real deal. But if they can let go of all the baggage holding them back, they might realize that they would rather be together forever.

"Pitch-perfect...gives me all the feels, and I love every one of them!"—Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis  “Ashley makes favorite rom-com tropes feel new again with a pitch-perfect friends-to-lovers story.”  —Publishers Weekly starred review

Read on for an excerpt from Would You Rather by Allison Ashley!

Mia Adrian stared at her phone screen, wondering what in the hell she’d just read.

Noah: Would you rather—text message edition. Daily messages with strange animal facts OR positive affirmations?

What kind of question was that? She frowned and leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair before tapping out a one-handed response.

Mia: ???

Noah: It’s a question. Would you rather receive daily animal facts or positive affirmations?

Mia: Um.

Mia: Neither?

Noah: Both it is.

Mia: Don’t you dare.

A banner appeared at the top of her screen, alerting her to a message from an unknown number.

When I breathe, I inhale confidence and exhale timidity.

She groaned and waited, hoping for some additional message that would give her instructions to opt out of whatever service he’d just signed her up for. Her gaze darted to her computer screen for a second, then back to the phone.

Nothing.

Would she seriously get something like this every day? How the hell was she supposed to stop them?

The text alert dinged again. Another unfamiliar number.

Elephants are the only animal that can’t jump.

She pressed a fist to her forehead.

Mia: I’m going to kill you.

Noah: Should have done it before you taped a banana under my desk. I’ve been wondering what the smell was for days.

She couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up, and glanced around to make sure no clients were around. Noah might be her best friend, but they teased each other at the office like elementary school rivals. She liked her job, but it was still work—and their games usually helped her get through until five o’clock.

This, though? This was her personal cell phone.

He’d taken it one step too far.

Mark my words, Noah Agnew. I’ll get you back for this.

Yet another chirp sounded, but this wasn’t a text message. It was the alert reminding her she needed to leave in fifteen minutes for her weekly infusion appointment.

She smiled at the thought that followed. Thursday meant a trip to the infusion center, but more importantly, it also meant chicken wings for dinner.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. What would it be today? Louisiana Rub? Lemon Pepper? Maybe she’d go wild and try the Mango Habanero.

They all sounded good—but which sounded best?

When it came to food—chicken wings in particular—Mia didn’t mess around.

“You’re thinking about chicken wings, aren’t you?”

Mia’s eyes popped open and she lurched to a sitting position. Noah stood on the other side of her desk, arms folded across his broad chest.

He had on the baby blue dress shirt. Blue always had been her favorite color on him—she’d told him so no less than fifty times. And yet he only wore the hue once a month, maybe not even that often.

She didn’t mention the ridiculous text messages. Best to let him think they didn’t bother her that much and get him back when he least expected it.

She flicked invisible lint from her black skirt. “It’s Thursday, is it not?”

“It is. But even if it wasn’t, I’d still know. Nothing else puts that look on your face.”

“What look is that, exactly?”

He slid his hands into his pockets. “Pure, unadulterated longing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Only every Thursday for the last nine years.” She leaned forward and dropped her elbows to the desk. “It’s your fault, you know. You’re the one who introduced me to them.”

Noah reached out and moved her nameplate several inches to the left. It drove her crazy.

No matter, she’d rearrange the items on his desk tomorrow morning before he came in.

“I didn’t know I was creating a monster.”

Mia laughed. “Too late for hindsight. Want me to bring some over tonight?”

“Sure.”

She didn’t have to ask what flavor he wanted. Noah was as consistent as her doctor’s appointments. When he found something he liked, he stuck with it. Long ago she’d noticed he usually ordered something he’d had before when they went out to eat, and once asked him why he never branched out.

“What if I try something new, and it’s not as good?” he’d said.

“What if it’s better?” she’d returned.

But he wouldn’t be swayed. Wasn’t worth the risk, he maintained, and she’d let it go.

She made a mental note to add a ten piece of plain wings to her order tonight, and swiveled aimlessly in her chair. “How’s your day been?”

“Boring. Full of client meetings, but you know that.”

“If not, I’d be the world’s worst administrative assistant.

Speaking of meetings, you’ve got one more in—” she checked her watch “—ten minutes.”

“I do?”

“Darcy Lane, here to discuss her new fitness center.”

“Right.” He put his palm flat on the desk and leaned in a little. His eyes brightened with excitement. “So I had lunch with my dad today.”

She smiled, ignoring the pang of jealousy at his casual mention of spending time with his dad. There was a time she and her parents got together for regular meals, too. Now, she couldn’t even remember the last time. “Yeah?”

“He’s going to announce his plans to retire. This week, probably.”

“Really?”

They’d been expecting it. Mr. Agnew had been dropping hints about retiring for the last three years. Mia didn’t blame him—he was in his sixties and had built an impressive architecture firm of fifty employees that had become known around Denver for modern, sustainable designs. He’d earned a break.

“Yep. Said the principals would look to promote one of the associates after he left.”

When Mia had started this job many years ago, it had taken her a while to learn the titles and hierarchy structure of architects at the firm. CEO, principal, associate, architect, intern…but eventually she’d gotten it straight.

Mia rubbed her hands together. “Which means a junior principal position will open up, and it will have your name on it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t want them to pick me just because I’m the founder’s son.”

She snorted. “Son or not, you’re the best candidate. No contest.”

“Thanks,” he said, chewing on his lower lip. “I’d love the opportunity. And I know it would make my dad proud.”

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving an errant lock sticking straight up in the back.

“Noah,” Mia scolded. She stood and beckoned him to lean over. He obeyed and she smoothed his hair down, a ritual they performed at least twice a week. “Better.”

“Thanks.” He turned toward his office. “You’d better get out of here.”

“I will as soon as your three o’clock arrives.”

He started down the hall to his office just as Julia and David, both architects like Noah, came from the opposite direction.

Julia paused and flashed him a smile. “Hey, Noah.”

He offered a polite greeting but kept moving, and Mia scowled at his back. No matter how many times she brought it up, he always brushed off the suggestion Julia was interested in him.

Julia, looking poised and elegant in a gray dress and heels, veered off into the break room while David turned to where Mia sat. “I can’t find the Trodeau file.”

She blinked, disarmed by his clipped tone. She shouldn’t have been, though, because he always spoke to her like that. “Um, I thought I filed it last week. Did you check the black file cabinet?”

He looked at her like she’d just asked if he knew right from left. “Of course.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I might have misplaced it,” Mia said, unease filling her stomach. Every time she messed up—which wasn’t often—it always seemed to involve David. The man thought she was a complete idiot. “I’ll find it.”

David just stood there and arched a sardonic brow.

Mia glanced to the side, then forced herself to regain eye contact. “I can’t do it right this minute, I’m about to leave—”

“Right,” David said disapprovingly. “It’s Thursday. Make sure it’s on my desk first thing tomorrow. It’s important.”

“Yes, I can do that. I’ll get it to you tomorrow.”

He didn’t reply and went back the way he’d come.

A subtle chime sounded, alerting Mia to a newcomer in the office. A young woman with long brown hair stepped into the foyer, and Mia stood.

“Good afternoon.” She smiled, trying her best to shake off the interaction with David.

The woman came forward. “Oh, hello. I’m Darcy Lane—I have an appointment?” It came out like a question.

“Yes, at three o’clock with Noah.” She should probably refer to Noah as Mr. Agnew to clients, but that had always been what she called Noah’s father. “I’ll just let him know you’re here. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?” Serving and chatting with clients while they waited was one of Mia’s favorite parts of her job.

“I’m okay, thank you.” The woman sat in the chair farthest from Mia and pulled out her cell phone.

Guess she wouldn’t be one of the chatty ones, but that was probably best since Mia had to leave, anyway. She picked up her desk phone and hit number one on her speed dial.

“Client’s here?” Noah asked by way of greeting.

“Yep. Should I set her up in the conference room?”

“Not yet. I need a couple of minutes to get her stuff together. I’ll come get her when I’m ready, you need to head out.”

“Relax. I won’t be late.”

“You will be if you don’t leave now.”

“Okay, okay. See you tonight.” She hung up and locked her computer screen. Just as she was about to turn to the woman, she heard Noah’s voice and looked up to see his head poke around the corner.

“Darcy? I’m Noah. I’m just finishing something up, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

The woman seemed stunned for a second as she looked at Noah, blinking several times. “Um, sure. Yes, that’s fine. I know I’m a little early.”

Mia smiled to herself. The woman had no idea how much Noah appreciated that. Tardiness drove him crazy.

“I look forward to our meeting.” Noah’s expression was polite and businesslike, and he ducked back into his office.

Mia forwarded her phone to the office manager and gathered her purse. She went around the desk and stopped in front of Darcy. “I have to head out for an appointment, are you sure there’s nothing you need before I go?”

Darcy’s cheeks were flushed. “No, thank you.”

This wasn’t the first time a woman had become flustered around Noah. The firm did mostly commercial design, and the majority of their clients were men. But occasionally women came through, and they’d had several female interns. It was quite clear the effect Noah had on women, even if the man himself was oblivious.

Despite their long-standing friendship, Mia could still admit her best friend was hot.

Really hot.

Author Bio: Allison Ashley is a science geek who enjoys coffee, craft beer, baking, and love stories. When she's not working at her day job as a clinical oncology pharmacist, she pens contemporary romances, usually with a medical twist. She lives in Oklahoma with her family and beloved rescue dog.

Social Links:

Author Website 

Twitter: @AllisonAuthor 

Facebook: Author Allison Ashley

Instagram: @authorallisonashley 

Goodreads

Would You Rather

Author: Allison Ashley  

ISBN: 9780778386490

Paperback Original 

Publication Date: August 23, 2022

Publisher: MIRA/ HarperCollins 

#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?

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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.







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