Saturday, May 25, 2019

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Choose Me by RC Boldt
Release Date: May 21, 2019
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Choose Me, an all-new standalone coming-of-age romance
by RC Boldt.
Wearing the nicest suit I own, I stand in the very back with a flask full of whiskey in my inner pocket. I put on a brave face as I watch her walk down the aisle.
Because it’s too late.
I refuse to be the bastard who makes her cry on her wedding day, but I’m dying to tell her what I’ve always known. She’s my best friend, but she doesn’t realize she owns my f*cking heart and soul, too.
Each step down that aisle takes her farther away from me and brings her closer to him, forcing me to face the truth: I’ve fallen in love with someone who can’t be mine. If she’d just turn around, maybe she’d realize I love her more than he ever could.
I won’t ruin her perfect day, but my broken heart begs me to try and convince her.
Choose me.
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I startle at the male voice calling my name. When I turn, I find a guy about my height wearing a button-down shirt beneath a sport coat and a pair of pressed slacks. He regards me with a mixture of surprise and recognition while I have no idea who the hell he is. He steps closer with a smile.
“Sorry to catch you off guard,” he apologizes and holds out his hand to me. “Grant Stevenson.”
I shake his hand warily. “Hollis Barnes.” I pause before adding, “But somehow, you already knew that.”
He grins, and if I’m being completely honest, I don’t detect any douchebag vibes. “I recognized you from one of the photos Magnolia has in her room of the two of you.”
It takes all my control to suppress the jolt that zigzags through me at his words. She still keeps a photo of us?
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts his chin to gesture to me. “Although I have to be honest, the ink and beard initially threw me off.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, and I slide my hands into my pockets.
Grant steps closer and glances around before lowering his voice. “I’m actually glad you’re here. I know you and Magnolia haven’t seen one another in a while, but you’re her oldest friend…”
Oldest friend. Not best friend. I don’t miss the phrasing. Although I don’t feel it’s intentional, it cuts deep just the same.
“I’m nervous as hell, and I’m hopin’ you can tell me if she’d like this.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s pulled out of his pocket.
A velvet ring box and a packet of Pop Rocks.
F***, f***, f***.
I resist the urge to rub at the center of my chest, where searing pain radiates.
He flicks open the box to reveal a ring with a large diamond that’s fancy as hell. Something Mrs. Barton would love and deem appropriate. But Magnolia? Hell no.
“Her mom helped me pick it out.”
“And I know she loves Pop Rocks since she always has a pack.”
Not the strawberry flavor.
But he’s trying. I can see the nervousness in his expression. The hope. The excitement.
I can’t crush this guy. He’s exactly what her parents have always wanted for her. The kind of guy who doesn’t get his hands dirty. The one with money and connections.
The one who can give her the future her parents expect her to have. The one who won’t come home with rough hands, callused to hell and back from working on a project that’s for a high-end client or due to be auctioned off to a car collector with more money than they know what to do with.
The man who wears button-downs like they’re second skin. Designer clothes.
So caught up in my thoughts, I don’t immediately realize that he’s pocketed the items and is gazing in another direction. When I turn and follow his focus, catching sight of her weaving through the crowd, I take advantage of the moment and let my eyes drink her in. She’s…so g**damn beautiful.
Her long blond hair spills down her back, and even beneath the shapeless graduation gown, her sleek, tanned legs peek out from the bottom hem, her heels accentuating her toned calf muscles.
When she catches sight of Grant, her entire face lights up, and…go**ammit.

I can’t do this. This was a f***ing mistake. It’s like someone’s performing open heart surgery and just cracked my chest open without anesthesia.

About RC Boldt:
RC Boldt enjoys long walks on the beach, running, reading, people watching, and singing karaoke. If you're in the mood for some killer homemade mojitos, can't recall the lyrics to a particular 80's song, or just need to hang around a nonconformist who will do almost anything for a laugh, she's your girl.  

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Wednesday, May 22, 2019

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The Billionaire Boss Next Door, an all-new hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

My new boss has it all. In spades.
Gorgeous green eyes? Check.
Hard-and-sexy body? Check.
Intelligence? Check.
Success? A big fat billionaire… Check.
Too bad I haven’t started out on the best foot.
My big mouth has already turned him against me, and tempting good looks and success aside, Trent Turner is no peach either. He’s stubborn and thick-headed, and son of a fruitcake, he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the hotel business.
With him running the development of the new Vanderturn New Orleans Hotel and me doing the design, our work relationship is far too intimate for two people who absolutely despise one another.
But that’s not all.
See, he isn’t just my billionaire boss from hell. He’s my new neighbor, too.
Same city.
Same building.
Same floor.
Trent Turner is my billionaire boss next door.
Holy moly, let’s hope my career—and hormones—can survive.
Disclaimer: If you generally love to suffer, hate fun of any kind, and are allergic to laughter, this book is not for you.
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It only takes five minutes inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in bed. I do not got this. I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working out, and I’ll never be good at working out. I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know what to do with me. Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm. I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish. The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license. I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But, it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do. Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…” Huh? I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have. He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest. It’s a seat. For asses. A seat for sweaty, workout asses. Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine. “You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us. Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores. Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight. With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there by Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot. Hip. Abduction. Do I need aliens to use this thing? Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads. No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks! The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too. I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead. After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me. Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams. Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge. I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks. Busted. Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners. Shit. His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass. I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint. Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me. I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing. “Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.” He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.” “Excuse me?” “Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.” Oh no, he did not just say that…. “I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.” He nods knowingly. “And setting up my music,” I continue. He hums. “I’m just about to catch my stride.” “Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green as fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…” What. The. Fuck. Who does this guy think he is? “Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit. “All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick? “Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?” Start over? How about let’s never have started at all? Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.” He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?” “Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.” Ugly décor? Really?” How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here. “Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.” “I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.” Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me. Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George. “Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.” His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans. “What did you say your name was again?” Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym. Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with… Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can. “I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.” “Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot. “Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was just pretending to work out.” Because you know what dicks can do? They can go fuck themselves and wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned. Suck on that, workout Romeo.    
About Max Monroe:
A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.   Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​  
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This was an awesome last minute read that I couldn't get enough of and was a welcome distraction to my work week!! I enjoyed the cast of characters and the humor of the book and would highly recommend this to anyone wanting to bypass the day-to-day drama. 

Tuesday, May 21, 2019

Callum's Hell by V.F. Mason is available now! #DarkRomance #Standalone #DarkAsHell
Amazon -- FREE with #KindleUnlimited
She knew no chaos...until I claimed her. She was a florist. He was a serial killer. She created beauty. He created chaos. She belonged to nature. He belonged to the underworld. She was an angel. He was the devil. She wanted to escape. He trapped her instead. They played a dangerous game with their lives at stake. Where the winner took it all and the loser burned in hell.

They say obsessions and insanity go hand-in-hand, but I have another theory.
Possession and desire go hand-in-hand, because they create such deep insanity a man is willing to eliminate everything and everyone in his way to get to what he wants.
I flick my fingers and knock two pawns from the chessboard, ready to strike again.
By the time this is done, there will be no one but the queen left standing.
About the Author: V.F.Mason always loved reading books and had quite a few fights with her momma over the genre she liked (romance, duh!) She studied filmmaking and thought that would feed her desire for stories, but that didn’t happen. Finally, when she was tired of all those voices in her head, she sat down and wrote a book. It was a huge decision to make and she thanks her friends and family for supporting her in it. When she is not writing, she can be found with her friends doing all sorts of crazy things or reading recent romance books that were written by her favorite authors. Connect with V.F.! Facebook: Instagram: Twitter: Bookbub: Newsletter: Website:

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Title: Rocket
Series: Hell's Handlers MC
Author: Lilly Atlas
Genre: MC Romance 
Release Date: May 14, 2019
Logan “Rocket” Carrera has a history he prefers to leave buried under prickly layers of standoffish personality. He’s seen and done things that would make most people lie awake at night. A master of compartmentalization, he’s never had trouble moving on until the night he rescues the redheaded Chloe from a sadistic gang.
Kidnapped, beaten, and abused by criminals, Chloe has a difficult time assimilating back into the world after the most traumatic experience of her life. With each passing day, her anxiety builds until she’s forced to find an outlet. Finally, Chloe discovers her own way to make sense of the world and steal a few moments of peace. There’s just one problem: she can’t tell a soul what she’s doing. Who could ever understand the risk she’s taking?
Unable to stay away from the fascinating woman who’s screwing with his head just by breathing, Rocket tails Chloe as often as he can. His curiosity over her actions borders on obsession. Before long, and despite the MC president’s orders to keep his distance, Rocket succumbs to the urge to approach her.
Logan, the handsome man Chloe meets in a bar, gives her exactly what she needs. He’s accepting of her unusual requests in a way she hadn’t thought possible. The fantasy unravels, however, when she discovers who he really is, the outlaw biker who saw her at her very lowest moment. Will Chloe be able to accept Logan as the biker, Rocket, and allow him into her life enough to help her heal? The answer won’t matter if his violent past sucks him away before she has a chance to try.

What the hell was the infuriating woman doing?
Two months of this bullshit, and Rocket still didn’t understand what the fuck her deal was. He wasn’t a man that appreciated unanswered questions. He tended to dig and dig until he uncovered what he wanted to know. That tenacity was a part of his personality and it had served him well in the past, but sent puzzles like Chloe to obsession level. 

“What’ll it be, man?” the bartender asked. Rocket spared him a quick glance. This lounge had one man and one woman working the highly-trafficked bar. Smart business move. A broad to subtly flaunt her tits and draw in the men, and a dude with the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled high enough to show his tatted and bulging forearms for the ladies. Rocket’s friend’s ol’ lady, Toni, had described the look as badass gentleman or some shit. Guys who dressed all proper and suave, but under the pricy threads were bad to the bone. Apparently, the look worked to get women’s motors revving. At least the women he knew.

According to Toni, when Rocket dressed up—which was usually rarer than a hot pink helmet on one of his bothers, he had much of the same look. Might explain the table of women currently eye-fucking him. With no choice but to blend in with the professional crowd, he’d slipped into some slacks, a tailored shirt, and a tie.

A fucking tie. Noose, more like it.

Enter the table of late-twenties women sending him come-fuck-me vibes. Whatever. While the release would be nice, they weren’t a part of his plans for the evening.

“Jack Daniels.” He held up two fingers, and the bartender nodded before turning to the bottle-loaded shelves.

Rocket’s attention strayed back to the woman who’d set up camp in his mind almost five months ago and had yet to leave.

Chloe Lane.

Five-foot-nine-inches of sex appeal wrapped in a curve-hugging purple dress. And damn, did that woman have curves. Instead of sleeves, the dress had thick straps and a low square neckline showing off her tits in the most appealing way. Every man in the bar got an eyeful of creamy white cleavage, but not too much of it. Classy, while still being erotic as fuck. But it was the color of the dress that had half the men in the room slobbering into their martinis. The deep purple made those green cat-eyes ten times more intoxicating than the overpriced liquor.

Like some kind of witch, she cast a spell over every man within a ten-foot radius, Rocket included. When the hell had he even noticed the color of a woman’s outfit, let alone what it did to her eyes?

The fact that she was currently conversing with a man didn’t seem to matter in the least to the other dogs in the room. Nor did the fact that many of them had dates or at least hook-ups of their own. No, all over the damn lounge, eyes strayed in her direction, fixating on those small but high and perky tits. Or maybe it was the short skirt riding up a pair of toned thighs that did it for them.

The woman was fine as fuck.

And she was out of her goddamned mind.

“Here you go, man,” the bartender said as he placed Rocket’s double of Jack in front of him. “You starting a tab?”

“Nah, just the one, thanks.” He dropped a twenty on the bar top, and waved the bartender away when he lifted a brow in an unspoken, need change?

One drink was all he’d have time for, if that. Chloe wouldn’t stick around long. God knew, after practically stalking her for months, Rocket had her routine down pat. And it was a disturbing fucking ritual.

For the first three months following the assault, Chloe rarely left the house. While concerning, her self-imposed house arrest wasn’t exactly surprising considering what had been done to her. Then, one night, out of the blue, she emerged looking like sex on a stick. She drove to this very bar, had one drink, picked up a polished and manicured gentleman, and drove to a fairly nice motel. The pair had disappeared into a room, and Chloe emerged an hour later almost to the second.

And so began a habit she engaged in every Friday and Saturday night.

Every week.

For the past two months.

The bars changed, the dresses changed, but the pattern never did.

One drink.

One guy.

One room.

One hour.

And Rocket, being the stupid fuck he was, followed her every single time.

He told himself it was to protect her. To make sure Lefty never came sniffing around again. In reality, it was the unsolved mystery of what the hell she was doing that drew him in like a fish on a hook. And the boner he got pretty much any time he laid eyes on her? Yeah, that had nothing to do with his stalker act.

Any one of the men she invited to the hotel room could hurt her in ways he’d describe as unimaginable, but unfortunately Chloe didn’t have to imagine. She knew exactly what the fuck could happen to an unprotected woman.

Which made this entire thing, including Rocket, crazy.

What the hell was she doing in there?
Drugs? Crying on their shoulders? Raging?
Surely, she wasn’t fucking them? Not after what she’d been through.
Drugs seemed the most logical answer. Self-medicating to chase away the demons she hadn’t been allowed to purge through therapy. But why snag a random guy? And she always left the hotel room looking as put together as when she went in. Not a hair out of place. Not a wobble in her step. She even drove home without swerving.
Drugs were seeming less and less likely.
Most nights, Rocket lurked in the shadows to avoid being spotted, but tonight, the overcrowded bar had him sitting much closer. In fact, he was on the barstool next to her, however her attention was fully trained on the man sitting to her opposite side. The suit had come on to her before Rocket made it through the door, and she’d never so much as glanced his way. Some snooze fest in a fucking Armani suit. Actually, most of the men in the bar, including Rocket, were dressed in professional attire. The place was hands down a martini and banker bar.
As were all the establishments Chloe visited. Swanky, post nine-to-five meet-up locations Rocket wouldn’t be caught dead in, if it weren’t for his newfound obsession. A whiskey swilling, music blaring, dive bar was much more his speed. But concessions had to be made if he wanted to continue stalking Miss Chloe. He’d have stuck out like a sore thumb in jeans and a leather cut. Not that he gave a shit. Fitting in with this crowd was dead last on Rocket’s priority list, but remaining incognito was at the top. She’d never seen his face, but a Handlers’ cut carried the risk of freaking her the fuck out.

“Excuse me if I’m overstepping, but that dress makes your eyes look like two sparkling emeralds,” the bro on Chloe’s left crooned.

Rocket couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling skyward. Was that the shit women in these snazzy joints wanted to hear? Sure, the guy’s description might be dead on, but, shit, who spoke like that? In his experience, women preferred a dirty mouth working hard between their legs to a sweet one whispering in their ear. Talk was cheap, but oral? Yeah, that was the shit.

“Thank you,” Chloe responded, her soft voice stroking over Rocket’s dick.

No doubt about it, he was a sick fuck. No matter how many times he jerked off before tailing Chloe, or how many lectures he gave his damn cock, the prick wouldn’t lie limp in her presence. No, it filled to capacity just from the sight of her. Now that he was close enough to smell and hear her? He was in some serious damn discomfort.

A hard cock was probably the last thing Chloe wanted anywhere near her. A mere five months ago she’d been raped. By three vicious men. Rocket gripped the glass in his hand to a near shattering point. His hands ached to squeeze the life out of Lefty. The MC was working hard on finding him, but it’d proven more difficult than they’d anticipated.

“Do you live nearby?” the dude asked in his cultured voice. Cultured, hell, that was just a fancy word for snobby and obnoxious. 

Come on, there was no way she’d choose this guy for whatever would go down in that hotel room.

“No,” she said. “Just in town for business. I head back home tomorrow morning.” Her voice dropped, taking on a husky quality that left no question as to her desire.

The woman wanted to be fucked and she wanted to be fucked now.

Didn’t. Make. Sense.

The sultry way Chloe spoke did nothing to stem the flow of blood to his cock. Through the mirror along the wall behind the bar, he had a clear view of her body language. Yep, the woman was open and ready for business, at least that’s what her heavy-eyed, pouty-lipped look portrayed. She leaned in, giving the guy an even better show of her stellar cleavage, and her crossed legs brushed against his thigh. On any other woman, this would scream do me big guy. But surely not on Chloe. He just couldn’t let himself believe it. What the fuck was her game?

“That’s too bad,” douche bag replied. “I was hoping to take you out, show you a good time.”
"verdana" , sans-serif;">Chloe tilted her head, giving the man an assessing gaze. Then, she tossed back the last of her Cosmopolitan. Shit, even the way her throat worked swallowing down the liquid, had Rocket ready to bust a nut.

Lilly Atlas is a contemporary romance author, proud Navy wife, and mother of two spunky girls. By day she works as a physical therapist for a hospital in Virginia. Lilly is an avid romance reader, and expects her Kindle to beg for mercy every time she downloads a new eBook. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet, and she can often be found absorbed in a good book.

This latest book from Lilly Atlas was a page turner for me for several reasons:
1. Rocket has always been an interesting character for me - starting from the very first story and continuing with this one. I wanted to see this side of the story through Rockets's eyes.
2. Chloe was so broken from what happened to her but she was coming through it. She was beautiful and brilliant but didn't think she was.  I loved her character. 
3. I loved the chemistry between these two characters and I really liked how they worked the it's not a black and white world, but lots of grey.
4. What I didn't like was all the violence and abuse in this one that was written in the name of backstory.  That kind of bothered me.
I almost DNF'd several times because of the subject matter and it might cause several others to do the same.

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

You murder a man, and all of a sudden people are scared of you.

Slate Solis went from being a guy that people went to in times of need to an ex-con that people crossed the street to avoid being too close to.

He knows he’s done wrong, but out of all of his sins, only one really bothers him—coveting thy neighbor’s wife.

Harleigh Belle—the cute little lady that never gives him a second glance.

After seeing her for the first time while he was in prison, she’s stayed on his mind for three long years. Each time she comes in to visit with her friend on family day, he can’t help but stare.

Then the day comes that he’s set free, and he’s almost disappointed that he’ll never see her again.
Except fate has different plans.

He hasn’t been back in his house for more than three hours when he sees her.

Harleigh Belle in all her glory…oh, and her husband that is everything Slate isn’t.

He tells himself that her being fifty feet away from him, all day every day, is a complete coincidence. 
One that he shouldn’t take advantage of. The more time passes, the harder it gets to stay away. Until one day, and one very ill-timed thunderstorm, ruin everything.

Who knew that baby-making-weather was a real thing?



I love Slate in this book and I loved Harleigh Belle with him. The thing about LLV is that all her books are connected in some way and you really have to go back sometimes to reread the parents book (which is what I did and loved it!!) I also really loved the fact that Harleigh is one tough character - even though they're always talking about how tiny she is and how she has to be taken care of all the time...she just had some internal strength that I think no one but Slate saw and he just never gave up. He was probably one of my favorite characters right up there with Silas and those are some big shoes to fill because I ❤❤ Silas something fierce. I had been waiting for Slate's story probably since the very beginning of the Bear Bottom MC series. If you've read all of the series, then it's a no brainer to pick this one up. If you've not read any - that's totes okay because you're not going to be lost if you pick up here and start. This might bring your love for all things LLV!❤🙌

Lani Lynn Vale is a USA Today Bestselling Author of over thirty titles. She is married with three children, two dogs, two cats, a donkey, and a couple (a couple also meaning over twenty) chickens.
When she’s not writing, you can find her curled up in her favorite chair reading.
Lani is married with three children and lives in the Great State of Texas.