by Bruce Blake
Genre: Urban Fantasy
There are two sides to every story.
Until there are three.
And ours isn’t for the faint of hearts.
SWEET VENOM is a crazy in love novel set in three point of views – crazy, crazier and craziest. This is a love triangle that is not made for those looking for an easy love story or an obvious end.
If I were you, I’d be careful who you fall for.
This is STANDALONE.
Meant for mature readers due to murder, violence and sex.
Author, graphic designer, book worm, peppermint tea obsessive.
Kirsty-Anne stumbled across her love for writing as she started university. Over the last couple of years she’s found the style of writing that best defines her and her work. Her favourite genres to write are romantic suspense with dark themes, but loves to push her boundaries.
Free in Kindle Unlimited
Free in Kindle Unlimited
Free in Kindle Unlimited
Michelle Irwin has been many things in her life: a hobbit taking a precious item to a fiery mountain; a young child stepping through the back of a wardrobe into another land; the last human stranded not-quite-alone in space three million years in the future; a young girl willing to fight for the love of a vampire; and a time-travelling madman in a box. She achieved all of these feats and many more through her voracious reading habit. Eventually, so much reading had to have an effect and the cast of characters inside her mind took over and spilled out onto the page.
Michelle lives in sunny Queensland in the land down under with her surprisingly patient husband and ever-intriguing daughter, carving out precious moments of writing and reading time around her accounts-based day job. A lover of love and overcoming the odds, she primarily writes paranormal and fantasy romance.
ON UNFAITHFUL WINGS
To some, death is the end; to others, a beginning. To Icarus Fell, it should have been a relief from a life gone seriously awry.
But death had other plans.
Icarus doesn’t believe that the man awaiting him when he wakes up in a cheap motel room is really the archangel Michael, or that God’s right hand wants him to help souls on their way to Heaven. Icarus doesn’t believe there’s a Heaven, so why should they want his help?
But the man claiming to be the archangel tempts him with an offer he can’t ignore–harvest enough souls and get back the life he wished he’d had.
It seems Icarus has nothing to lose, until he botches a harvest and the soul that went to Hell instead of Heaven comes back to make him pay by threatening to take away the life he hoped to win back.
To save the wife and son he already lost once, Icarus will have to become the man he never was. Somehow, he will have to learn to believe.
I stood with my back to the church, much the way I’d lived my life.
Rain poured down the eaves, splashing my shoes. Each drop pattering against the leather felt as though it landed directly on my mood. I tugged my suit jacket tighter and glanced at my watch—almost eleven p.m. If the rain didn’t let up soon, Trevor would be in bed, his belated birthday present another day late. After letting him down again, Rae probably wouldn’t let me give him the gift, anyway. A heavy sigh drew the taste of rain on dry soil into my lungs as I suppressed the desire to call her names in my head, to blame her for everything. It wasn’t her fault.
There I stood, spirit as dampened by the April shower as my clothing, thinking I waited for the rain to stop, not knowing it was something else I waited for, something entirely different.
I shifted again and the plastic Best Buy bag hidden under my jacket to keep it dry slipped out and hit the stairs with a splash.
I stooped to retrieve the bag, feeling unremorseful for swearing outside a house of worship. There was no God to hear anyway and—with the Pope dry in the Vatican—who’d be offended? A plump drop of rain punished my Godly disdain with a direct hit to my left eye as I fetched my son’s gift from the top step.
I suspected the rain might not let up any time soon.
It probably couldn’t have happened any differently. Do we have any choice in what we do, or is it all pre-planned? I used to believe we did, but my beliefs—or lack of them—were about to be thrown into question, along with my opinion of what happens after we die.
I stepped back and shook moisture from the bag impatiently. It had been half an hour since the unexpected downpour began, its torrent catching me unprepared and forcing me from my planned path—to sneak Trevor his birthday present without Rae noticing me—to my current hiding spot at the church. This church of all churches.
See what I mean about choice?
If the rain wasn’t going to let up, I’d just have to get wet. I stepped from under the pathetic cover of the church’s eaves and my foot splashed in an unseen puddle, cold water soaking the Wal-Mart loafer on my left foot. Raindrops pelted my cheek and I bit back another curse as I jammed the Xbox game purchased for Trevor’s birthday into the pocket of my suit jacket and pulled the coat over my head. I felt like an idiot as my saturated footwear slurped with each step down the concrete path.
Halfway across the churchyard, I noticed two men blocking the path ahead. They wore jackets with hoods pulled up to hide their faces, keep the rain from their heads. At first glimpse, the sheets of rain gave them a ghostly quality, a glow, and made me doubt my eyes. My gaze flickered sideways to the graveyard beside the church, with its broken, moss-covered headstones canted at odd angles, but I quickly dismissed the thought. A trick of rain and poor light.
There’s no such thing as ghosts.
I slowed, wondering if the men could be avoided. Probably not. Living in the city my entire life taught me to be wary of men hanging out on the streets at night with their faces hidden. But this wasn’t the streets, it was a churchyard, and rain this heavy gave good reason to use a hood. Maybe they’d come for a little midnight prayer, eager for the best pew in the house.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I ventured drawing closer to them. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
Apparently they didn’t think so. The man nearest me pulled a knife from under his forest-green rain slicker and jabbed it toward me, stabbing the rain between us. Hell of a reaction.
He could’ve just said ‘no’.
“Give me your money,” he growled.
I know you’re supposed to do what a mugger says: it’s your best shot at survival, but I didn’t. Maybe the rain made me hesitate, or the wetness in my shoes, or knowing the boy would be disappointed again; whichever, my brain wouldn’t let my body do what it knew it should. I stood taller than either of them, but they had the knife. All I had on them was fifteen years of poor eating and neglect.
“C’mon guys. It’s a crummy night and I’m two weeks late for my boy’s birthday. Let a guy be, will you? There must be some little old ladies running around practically begging to have their social security cheques stolen.”
“Shut up and give us your money, asshole.”
The man holding the knife remained in front of me as the other circled to my right, presumably to hinder any escape. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, saw rain bouncing off his gray raincoat, noticed that his runners didn’t match, but he quickly passed from view, blocked by the jacket held foolishly over my head, keeping my hair dry in case they killed me. Cool rain peppered my face as I dropped the coat back onto my shoulders and reached to pull my wallet from the inner pocket. The man with the knife lunged forward, brandishing the blade at my nose. My stomach jumped into my chest and I threw both hands up in the air like a good mugging victim.
“Whoa. You want my money, you need my wallet.”
The tip of the knife waggled in the air, gesturing for me to continue. I stared at the point of the blade, at the man’s fingerless glove and the way he’d chewed his fingers until they looked painful. Beyond his arm, I thought I saw a smile hidden in the darkness beneath the hood.
I sighed, a shuddering breath lamenting how little my wallet contained for them to steal as much as it did the fact they were stealing it. The man behind me snatched it away before it cleared my pocket, his nails raking my wrist, and rifled through the meager contents. He snatched the three bills it contained, made a face at the fifteen bucks, and then took the VISA card I’d fought so hard to get after ruining my credit a few years back. Joke’s on him if he uses it, they’ll probably ask for a payment first.
He showed the sparse loot to his partner.
“Fifteen bucks? That’s it?”
“Look at this.” He’d dug out my driver’s licence. I knew this would happen. “The guy’s name is Icarus Fell. Icarus, like in the Iron Maiden song”
“Yeah,” I said. “The guy who named me didn’t like me much. Call me Ric.”
“Sure, Icarus,” the guy holding the knife said in a schoolyard-bully lilt. With a name like Icarus Fell, I’d heard that tone enough to recognize it. He stepped toward me, blade extended to within an inch of my face. I wanted to take an equal step away, but knew his partner wouldn’t like that, so I stood my ground, hoping to look more brave than stupid. “What else you got?”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
“Check his pockets. He put something in his pocket.”
The man tossed my wallet onto the grass where it landed with a mucky-sounding splat. He advanced on me and this time I moved. He grabbed my arm, pulled me toward him.
“Don’t do nothing stupid.”
Why didn’t he tell me that twenty-five or thirty years ago?
He patted my pants pockets first—the most action I’d seen in a while—then moved to the pockets of my suit jacket; the right hand outer one produced a hollow, plasticky thud. I cringed.
“Nothing,” I said inching away. “A game for my kid.”
“Give it up.”
“Guys, really. What are you going to do with a video game?”
His fingers dug into my bicep. “Give it to me.”
“I already missed his birthday. Can’t you let me keep it?” I yanked against his grip knowing I shouldn’t—people got killed for less—but I couldn’t let Trevor down. Not again. “Take everything else. I won’t tell anyone.”
“There is nothing else. Give it to me,” the knife-wielder demanded.
I wondered what Rae would tell Trevor when he didn’t get a present from me again. Probably that, since someone else was his ‘real’ father, I didn’t care.
Adrenaline flooded my brain, but it didn’t heighten my senses the way they describe in books. Instead, it made me stupid. Before I realized what I was doing, I swung at the man holding my arm, my fist contacting his nose with a satisfying crunch. The move surprised both of us and he lifted his hands to his face.
It took a second to comprehend that he’d let me go. My heartbeat quickened, pulsed in my ears. I ran, or attempted to: dress shoes aren’t made for sprinting on wet grass. Both men jumped me before I got going, riding me to the ground like they were the cowboys and I was the calf. A knee pressed into my back, an elbow in my ear as my cheek sank into soggy lawn knocking breath from my lungs and hope from my heart. My clothes soaked instantly, plastering cloth to skin, the smell of wet earth filled my nose, literally.
“You stupid bastard,” one of them said, but the mud in one ear and elbow in the other precluded me from identifying which one. “Couldn’t give us the stupid game, could you?” He yanked it out of my pocket.
The pain of the knife’s tip pushing through the flesh of my lower back into my kidney hurt more than I could ever have imagined. The shock of it made me suck a mixture of cold air and dirty rain water through taut lips and expel it all in an agonized howl. The knife rose and fell again, then again, perforating my internal organs, each stab more painful than the last. Each time it pulled free, I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in that it would end, that I would get up and hurry on my way to see Trevor.
My body jerked and spasmed beneath the men straddling me, my bladder let go. After the fourth time the knife entered me, my flesh went numb. It may have pierced me a few more times, but I lost interest in counting. I gasped air in through my mouth and the breath tasted like the black crud scraped off bread left too long in the toaster. And blood.
“That’s enough. Let’s go,” one of them said, presumably the one not engaged in shredding my bowels.
Their weight lifted off my back and my mind told me to roll over and sit up, defend against further attack, but my muscles would have nothing of such a proposal, so I lay on the wet grass doing the only thing I could: bleed. Maybe I wept a little, too, but who can tell in the rain?
“I guess Icarus really did fall, didn’t he, Ric?”
Their laughter didn’t sting nearly as much as the knife, and it dissipated much more quickly as they ran off. I was used to being teased but couldn’t say the same of being knifed. After they left, my ragged breathing and the sound of rain pattering around and on me became my world. I never realized how much noise rain hitting grass made until my ear was pressed to the ground with no choice but to listen.
My stomach knotted as the gravity of my situation set in: after eleven on a Wednesday night, bleeding on the lawn outside an empty church in the kind of downpour that convinced people not to venture out for a chat with God.
Did I mention I was bleeding? A lot?
Water pooled in my ear canal until the unnaturally loud plop of rain drops splashing into the tiny pond drowned out even the sound of my breath. Not steady, metronomic drips like I imagined a water torture would be, but an uneven patter that, should I live long enough, would likely prove equally effective at driving me crazy.
In my head, the single word came out a scream, shaking trees and rattling windows, attracting the attention needed to save me so I could see my son again, even if it was for the last time. In reality, it was more of a peep. I closed my eyes and sucked dirty water through my nose then coughed it out my mouth. The pain it induced in my back and side hurt worse than the original stabbing, like someone stood over me with a hot poker pressed to my side, except I was cold and wet and bleeding to death, too. A hot poker didn’t sound so bad.
“Help,” I peeped.
If we’re good, we go to Heaven; if we’re bad we go to Hell. No one wants to go to Hell.Except one man who wishes people would just remember to call him Ric.
In the aftermath of a serial killer’s murderous spree, souls who didn’t deserve damnation went to Hell. The archangel Michael doesn’t seem concerned, but Icarus Fell can’t bear the guilt of knowing it’s his fault they ended up there.
But how can he save them when the archangel forbids him from going and his guardian angel refuses to help?
The answer comes in the form of another beautiful, bewitching guardian angel who offers to be his guide. They travel to Hell to rescue the unjustly damned one by one, but salvation comes at a cost and the economy of Hell demands souls.Is it a price Icarus is willing to pay?
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don’t take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn’t really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the “u” out of words like “colour” and “neighbour” than he does shovelling (and watch out for those pesky double l’s). The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of a burlesque diva.
Debra Anastasia has a release for you. Beast is now LIVE!!
I knew who he was before he introduced himself. Jeans and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. The hem of the material hid his face like he was the grim reaper. Or a Dementor. Legend has it that he’s a serial killer. And that he is covered in abs. Ribbed for a lady’s pleasure.
And he just programed his number in my phone.
The MacGrough Clan Series, prequel to Wired for Sound (coming soon)
by Cherime MacFarlane
Lori Ann Reasor is about to get her big break, a gallery owner in Brighton likes her work. To celebrate she treats herself to tea in a posh establishment. What she discovers there puts her off men. She will stick with painting.
Hamish is trying to hold Bushmaster together long enough to get them signed to a contract. With a prima donna and a junky in the band, it’s not easy. Bushmaster is on the verge of blowing sky high. The two young people are converging as their dreams play out. Can they both keep it together?
The album was done and over with when the band went on tour once again. The first venue down, they quickly had to go searching for a base player when Miller nearly died of an overdose that morning. He was done. A quick call to Warren had the man on the phone to every agent he could find.
Hamish got a call just as they were getting ready to leave the hotel for the airport. A very young bassist had been signed and was on the first flight out of L.A. He would meet them in Berlin. With a shake of his head, Hamish informed the rest of the band in the limo.
As Hamish was certain he might, Vincent had a tantrum. How the hell was he expected to keep everything working smoothly when the lineup was constantly changing? Hamish endured the tirade in silence with the rest of the men.
With a shrug, MacGrough broke out his flask. “Miller isnae doin so well. Tha eejit nearly snuffed himself. I’m nae sure how his family are gonna take it.”
The other members of the group felt something for the man they had played with for years. Vincent Slaughter didn’t give a damn about Sandy Miller. Lurch’s dark eyes stared at Hamish whose fingers were white where he was clutching the flask.
The message was clear when Walker shook his tobacco brown head before turning to Vince. Lurch was going to have a say. “You are a piece of work man. Don’t you even give one tiny little shit about a guy you’ve worked with for years?”
Thud joined in the chorus. “Use some of those upper crust manners yur always yappin about. Shut yur face for a bit. If Warren is sending tha kid, he has tae know somethin.”
Vince opened his mouth to speak. Faced with the frowns of the other players, he snapped it shut. For a change their flight was quiet. No one felt up to commenting on the plight of someone they had known intimately for years.
HIGHLAND LIGHT is a historical romance set in 1308 during the Scottish war for independence.
A young Scots girl cannot find a man who appreciates a headstrong plain woman. A small group of Knights Templar escape to Scotland to hide and start new lives. Among them is a young man, a ward of the Master of the Temple. The men have brought a treasure to Scotland. In exchange for a large share of the treasure, the knights may marry and be adopted into certain clans. No one must know of the agreement. Each man has a duty to the clan they are adopted into, and a duty owed to Robert The Bruce.
One young man has been with the Templars since the age of ten. He knows nothing of relationships or women. Their wedding is a business arrangement. Having no experience of sex or marriage, the young couple make a game of loving and learn of life together.
Let the games begin.
WIRED FOR SOUND
It is 1988 and the band Bushmaster is on its 4th album and 2nd US tour. The front man, Vince Slaughter, is electrocuted on stage at the sound check. Everyone had a motive, but the keyboard player Hamish MacGrough is especially concerned as his wife may have had an affair with Slaughter. Was she involved, can they get home to Scotland before their window of opportunity to do a singles album closes? Hamish’s search takes him up and down the western coast from Los Angeles to Washington state. Through it all his main concern is keeping his wife out of the running as a prime suspect.
Although born in New Orleans, I am proud to call myself an Alaskan. I have lived here since 1977. I have seen -40 degrees, hauled water, made bear bacon and I live in a cabin. I have used a fishwheel to catch salmon coming up the Copper River. I was my second husband’s chief mechanic’s helper and roadie. I have cut firewood on shares. I worked as a cocktail waitress during pipeline days in a small lodge on the Richardson Highway.
My second husband, a Scot from Glasgow, was the love of my life. When I write Scots dialect, I personally experienced hearing it from my in laws. When my husband got on the phone to Scotland, after 5 seconds I could barely understand a word.
We moved to Wasilla to get warm. It barely drops past -25 degrees here in the winter. I became a paralegal and worked for over 26 years for the same firm.
Alaska is my home. I never thought I would love it so much, I never want to leave. The beauty of Alaska is a draw I cannot resist. I love the people and the history. I have been captured by a place I came to under duress. Life does play some interesting tricks on one. My love and I were not apart more than 24 hours for 20 plus years. I never wanted to be anywhere but with him. He was a man to run the river with and was my biggest fan.
Xs: THE INTERVIEW
by TJ Chapman
Publisher: PGP Liquid Gold
Genre: Erotic Romance
Content Warning: 18+
His name is whispered behind the hands of many gossiping women.
The way he pleasures a body leaves you craving his touch, his words, and his breath. The way his eyes bore into yours, you want to look away, but you can’t. He controls every part of your being while you’re in his domain. And when you leave, you feel bereft, but sated.
Who is this man they speak about?
Megan Brayer has the chance to interview this elusive gentleman. Will the answers he gives to her questions satisfy her curiosity?
This is the first book of many short stories. Each story will tell its own little story and can be read as stand alone.
“First of all, thank you for taking the time to let me do this interview. I’m going to jump right in because your secretary said you didn’t have much time today. To start easy, the first question is why? Why did you choose this as your profession?” It was the one thing that puzzled Megan.
“My time today is yours, I’ve made sure of that; and to answer your question, why not? I have the means, and motive as it were. I gain pleasure by giving it. I get paid to help these people, to give them what they want with total anonymity. It’s not dangerous or stupid, and I certainly know I’m mature enough to cope with each situation that comes to me. I don’t care about their history, their backgrounds. I get a little peeved if they’re married or have a partner, and I do try in all instances to persuade them not to come to me, but it is what it is. I’ve had several couples come to me, so it can’t be all that bad.”
“So you do it to gain pleasure? Surely you could go to a bar each night for that, or has it got something to do with money?” Megan had a nagging thought that he was just a typical player who was in it for the money as an added bonus.
“Miss Brayer, my first paid ‘job’ was just before my eighteenth birthday. I had a student in the grade above me begging for my help with her English. She didn’t have much money, but came up with the idea that she could give me a blow job as a payment. Crude, it seems, but as a young man, I was up for it. At the time I was still the gentleman my parents raised me to be, so I did hesitate. However, the girl was one step away from not graduating and by the end of the week, I caved. After I’d helped her with the work she was set, she offered me the ‘payment’, but I could see it in her eyes. Fear and nerves. She didn’t want to do it just as much as I didn’t want to use her for my own horny satisfaction.” He picked up his tall glass of iced water, took a sip, and smiled at Megan as he sat it back down on the crisp white tablecloth.
“I told her that she didn’t have to do anything and that I wouldn’t pressure her, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. We talked for a long time. At that point in my life, I had no clue how to please a woman. One minute we were talking about the stresses of being teenagers and the next, she was showing me how to please her. I was curious and very much willing to learn, so over the next few months I helped her catch up with her work and she taught me the art of pleasing a woman.”
Megan snorted a little. “That’s a bit one-sided, don’t you think? She got the education and the pleasure, too.”
“Not at all. I got an education also, and even if it was one-sided, what horny teenage boy would say no to free sex and a pair of boobs to play with?”
“True. So what happened after you left school?”
“Well, that’s when my education really kicked off. I took a few psychology classes to help both me and women. I went to clubs, all different ones. Early on I learned the more I pleasured a woman, the more I got from it. I observed them constantly. Some women gave away what they wanted from the beginning, others were more reserved. It was almost like I was power hungry. The more I watched and learned, the more a woman would writhe under my control, and the harder I came. I didn’t even have to have sex with them. I could give them pleasure all night and then go home to finish myself off. Those were always the best nights.”
“Power hungry to give pleasure. That sounds pretty strange.”
“Not really. Miss Brayer, take away the fact that we have morals, societies, et cetera, and what we’re left with is nothing more than basic human instincts. Animal instincts. Men still like to congregate around a fire. We’re the heads of our households and when it comes to the bedroom, our instincts really come out. Do you know why most women like their hair being pulled?” he asked, and Megan shook her head, trying not to be pulled in by the feral look in his eyes as he gazed at her over the small table.
TJ Chapman hates talking about herself in third person…
Living in small villages and towns for most of my life, you would have thought that it would get boring as hell. Fortunately for me, I loved it. I got to know a lot of people and when you take the time to ‘people watch’ as a child, your mind can run at a mile a minute.
I often let my mind wander into the lives of these people. That old lady down the road, well, she could have been a spinster witch. The pub owner who looked very shifty, well… He could certainly be up to no good with things in his cellar. You get my point.
I love writing almost any genre and most of my stories are based around the small villages and towns I grew up in, in Kent, UK. Humour, Supernatural, and Romance are my main focus, but if I get a good plotline in my head, my fingers start typing.
NEW TRICKS: PLAN A
by Ella Medler
Publisher: PGP Liquid Gold
Genre: Erotic Romance
Content Warning: 18+
Emma worries her marriage will become humdrum and insipid now that the children have flown the nest. Fretting over it won’t make it better, though. Action will.
Jonathan wants to surprise his wife with a romantic getaway now that he’s got her all to himself. But judging by her plans for rejuvenating their marriage, it looks like she’s considered leaving him—that’s her Plan D.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so Jonathan goes along with Emma’s suggestions in order to win back her love. Plan A sounds exciting, and Plans B and C are not bad either. Plan D might never happen… if he survives Plan A first.
“Delicious!” Jonathan said, tacking quickly on the end, “As always.”
I was certain that, despite my best efforts, my frown hadn’t left my face for close on twenty-four hours now. My dear husband was doing his best to cheer me up over dinner, and it wasn’t working. What better wake-up call did we need?
“Honey, please could we talk?”
His eyebrow rose as he pinned me with a concerned gaze, his fingers wrapped around the last of his bread drip-dropping dots of gravy onto the table. He finished the movement, chewed and swallowed, then asked, “Is Ashley pregnant?”
“Did Tyler get someone pregnant?”
“No! Jon, stop with the assumptions. It’s not about the kids.” Big breath, and then I met his eyes. “It’s about us.”
His left hand immediately shot over to cradle mine. Anxiety burst forth from him in a wave I could almost feel like a physical slap in the face. I didn’t have the heart to keep him waiting.
“It was yesterday when it hit me first… the fact that we’ve grown… not apart, but maybe… into a team. That’s it—we’re a team. We work well together and get things done, and hon, I’m grateful for that. But do you realize that with the kids beginning their own lives we won’t have any more issues to resolve? We won’t have the need to work together…”
“Sweetheart, the kids will need us for a few more years yet…”
“Jon, listen to me! What will happen to us when we have nothing to talk about? What will our subjects of conversation be? Politics? Sports? Your work? Celebrities playing dumb on daytime TV?”
It took a few minutes for the seriousness of my words to get through to him. When it did, it ruptured with a flood of words and half-formed questions. “Emma, are you leaving me? What are you saying? Please, don’t do this… Whatever it is, we can sort it out. I will do anything. Anything at all… Emma, please, please let me try—”
“Jon. Jon, stop. That’s not—”
“…Because I love you, Emma, and I would flip the whole world upside-down for you, you know that, right?”
I smiled in spite of myself at hearing this promise he’d made me the day he’d first confessed his love for me.
“I love you, too. And I want to make it work. I like what we’ve had so far and I want it to continue. That is why I want to talk to you. It’s best to talk and find a solution, don’t you think? Ignoring the fact that we could have a problem is not going to help solve it. Or prevent it from happening.”
I watched his shoulders lose some of the tension and then reached across my front with the one free hand to my opposite-side pocket.
“But this may help,” I said as I unfolded one-handed the four pieces of paper and smoothed them on the table between us.
Jon’s eyes reluctantly left mine and dropped to the paper. “What’s this?”
“A plan. Well, four. Plans A, B, C and D. I spent a lot of time thinking it through. Though I only considered the first one in detail for now. One of these is bound to work.”
Jon nodded. “Okay. I take it Plan A is the best, right?”
“Hit me with it.”
He pulled his hand back and crossed his arms over his chest. I took a deep breath and started.
NEW TRICKS: PLAN B
(COMING IN MARCH)
When at first you don’t succeed…
Emma and Jonathan are doing all they can to rescue their marriage. After a failed Plan A, they need to come up with better ideas. Jonathan’s got it all worked out—a trip away, sun, sea, sex, and most importantly, no distractions. But does Emma have a surprise of her own?
What’s in the suspicious-looking box that was delivered in Jonathan’s absence? And why does Emma insist she has to be the one to re-pack their suitcase when they raise the interest of Airport Security?
Will the couple manage to rekindle their lost romance or merely embarrass themselves further, and what will that do to their love life?
Ella Medler is a U.K. author and editor. She writes fiction in many genres in a seemingly vain attempt to slow down her overactive brain enough to write non-fiction on subjects she knows a thing or two about. She also does not believe in the starchy use of English and ignores the type of rule that doesn’t allow for a sentence to be finished in a preposition. Her books are action-driven, and well-developed characters are her forte. Loves: freedom. Hates: her inner censor.