Christmas Countdown Blitz - Day 2 with Giveaway!

Tara Mayoros teaches guitar, paints, occasionally bakes, and loves working with plants. She's an avid collector of globes and maps, as they help with her incurable case of wanderlust. The Rocky Mountains are her home and they call to her whenever she is in need of inspiration. She explores them regularly with her husband and three children.

Connect with the Author here: 

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Christmas is already going to be tough for Marie and her family. When a series of events is set in motion long before a Christmas Eve tragedy, she is too occupied to notice God's grace. An emergency letter to Santa sets her on a quest for a Christmas miracle. With time running out, she prays for the first time in a long time. A miracle does happen, but it is not what she expected.

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Q & A with the Author:

1.  Describe yourself in 50 words or less.

* As an author, artist, baker, music teacher, gardener, and nature lover – I the beauty in the process, and the miracle, of creation. The Rocky Mountains are my home and they call to me whenever I'm in need of inspiration.

The Christmas Bike is my third published novel. I have 10 other books I'm working on, and most of them have a fantasy element to them.

2. What do you love most in the world?

* My husband and kids. I love how supportive they are to me. I love to create - whichever way possible. It makes me feel like a Goddess.

3. What do you fear most?

* Scorpions - I hate them! They are the spawn of Satan. We killed over 50 one summer while living in Phoenix.

4. What is your largest unfulfilled dream, and what are you doing to reach it?

* Travel - I want to see the world and do humanitarian work. My first novel was about cleft palates and orphanages in China. My dream is to start a Non-profit to help them.

5. What is the hardest thing you've ever done?

* Running half marathons are always hard, but I'm so happy to have done them. Also, publishing books have been pretty dang hard - but worth it :)

6. Now that we've gotten to know each other, tell me a story. It can be long or short. From your childhood or last week. Funny, sad, or somewhere in between. Just make sure it's yours. What's your story?

* I will tell a true story of when someone gifted me a guitar for no reason. I entered this story into a writing competition and it won an award! Here ya go:

MY BEST GUITAR LESSON EVER!

I can be cynical. Cynical: believing that people are motivated by self-interest; distrustful of human sincerity or integrity. A general distrust of others’ motives, believing that humans are selfish by nature, ruled by emotion, and heavily influenced by the same primitive instincts that helped humans survive in the wild.

I wasn’t always a cynic. It is a trait that has evolved over the past five years or so. Yes, I fight it. I take my thoughts to battle. But still, with all of the heartbreaking news and depressing social media feeds, it compounds the issue.

So, yesterday when I went to a local guitar shop, my mind was churning over a cynical situation that had been really bothering me. I grabbed my old guitar out of the trunk, walked into the store, and placed it down on the counter. I breathed deep, because this was hallowed ground. The smell of wood and lacquer and musicians reliving the good ‘ol days, rested my mind. I smiled as the shop owner stopped jamming with the only other customer in the store and then walked behind the register.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeballing my ratty old guitar. His gaze skimmed over the not-so-sexy lines of my unusual guitar.

I pressed my lips, feeling a wave of protection flood over me. No one makes fun of my blue guitar. This instrument was bought in China for $5 US dollars. It had been my companion on the dirty, rancid forty hour train rides through rice fields and bread loaf mountains. I was stopped and searched at customs in Malaysia, Thailand, and Macau because I as too stubborn to leave this guitar.

I told him these things. He played it and confirmed what I already knew… My guitar had died, but I still clung to our memories in hopes that the shop owner could resurrect life into it again.

No, he couldn’t.

I stared down at it a long time, looking over the doodles and the collected stickers and stamps, which mirrored my old passport. What would I do with it now? I couldn’t just throw it away, or donate, or keep it as a decoration. Maybe I could just hang it on the wall for display, but I knew the o.c.d. decorator inside me would never let me do that. I had even written this guitar into one of my books and considered it a character. My heart clenched and I strolled over to the wall of guitars to hide the emotion on my face. Who cries over a buried guitar, one that would most likely end up collecting dust in the back of my closet?

The new guitars with their shiny wood and shimmering metal strings, sang to me, beckoning. Their voices rich and full. So much different than my humid warped, aged guitar. I caressed the lines of the beautiful instruments with jealousy and longing.

I stopped. There it hung. An acoustic electric that I had always wanted. Not so extravagant, and yet it would take me a while to save for. The shop owner pulled it down, selling me all the bells and whistles. Yet, I had already been sold. I just couldn’t get it yet… not for a while yet.

“Sit down and play. See how it sounds, how it feels,” he urged.

I pulled up a cushioned stool and sat down. It was like meeting a new friend. I’d like to imagine that my fingers flew up and down the frets with fluidity and grace, but I’m sure they weren’t, as I was still a bit frazzled. Picking and strumming, getting a feel for its song.

I began to tell the shop owner and other customer about an amp I had in the basement that wasn’t working anymore. We chatted. Small talk about how I was sad about my guitar and maybe someday I’ll buy this one. They were nice people. I’d hung around enough music shops to know that they are all generally nice people.

I continued to play. Time stalled as it usually does when I create music, or art, or novels. The walls faded away. I was falling in love.

A tap on my shoulder and a show of a receipt. “It’s yours.” He pointed. “The guitar.”

I stood, almost dropping the instrument. “What? No. I’ll have to come get it another time.”

“No really. He wanted you to have it.” He pointed to the only other customer who was getting ready to leave. The man was unassuming in his faded jeans and t-shirt.

I wondered why…

Right here… Here is where my cynicism makes an appearance. What did he want in return? What were his motivations? I looked down to see what I was wearing. Turtle-neck sweater, no make-up, and hair in a bun. I had my wedding ring on and I had talked briefly about my kids playing guitar earlier.

“Why?” I asked.

The customer paused, then said, “because I have money and it has caused me nothing but heartache. I want to do something nice with it.”

I refused — even went to hang the guitar back on the hook.

The kind man just shook his head. “It’s already been paid for. It’s done. Just be happy.”

I was happy. I was ecstatic!

Tears welled in my eyes. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. “I don’t know how to thank you.” I struggled for words.

“You just did.”

I stopped him from leaving. “Well let me get a picture with you.”

He refused this time. He didn’t want any fan fare.

“Let me at least give you a hug.” So I did. It wasn’t strange or awkward. It was a meeting of similar hearts, bound by the innocent love of music.

Driving home, I felt both joyous and inadequate. What to do with such an unrequited show of generosity? People are good. He restored my faith in humanity. I thought of the many ways I could pay it forward because I knew I’d never see him again. And I also knew that’s the way he would want things to end.

I learned a lesson yesterday. Yes, there are tough things that we go through that can turn us cynical, doubtful, and hopeless. But little miracles happen everyday. It doesn’t have to be something as big as this to make you see the good in people. Look around. It seems everyone is in a funk. What can you do to brighten their day? I promise it will make your day better in return. It will make you feel rich with happiness. I think back to that man and how he said, “money gave him nothing but heartache.”

When I was leaving the guitar shop, with my old lifeless guitar in one hand and my new hope-filled guitar in the other, I looked back. The kind man had a huge smile on his face and I knew that the act of giving… is where the treasure truly lies.

Has there ever been a time when you were the recipient of unrequited generosity?

To view our blog schedule and follow along with this tour visit our Official Event page 

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Cover Reveal of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid!!

Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of beach-ready hits Maybe in Another Life and One True Loves, will publish her fifth novel, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, on June 6, 2017. It follows writer Monique Grant, whose life and career have seemed to stall right when she gets the opportunity of a lifetime: Aging actress Evelyn Hugo has plucked her out of obscurity to write her biography — though Monique doesn’t have the slightest idea how Evelyn Hugo would even know who she is.

                               

From Taylor Jenkins Reid, “a genius when it comes to stories about life and love” (Redbook), comes an unforgettable and sweeping novel about one classic film actress’s relentless rise to the top—the risks she took, the loves she lost, and the long-held secrets the public could never imagine.

Aging and reclusive Hollywood movie icon Evelyn Hugo is finally ready to tell the truth about her glamorous and scandalous life. But when she chooses unknown magazine reporter Monique Grant for the job, no one in the journalism community is more astounded than Monique herself. Why her? Why now?

Monique is not exactly on top of the world. Her husband, David, has left her, and her career has stagnated. Regardless of why Evelyn has chosen her to write her biography, Monique is determined to use this opportunity to jumpstart her career.

Summoned to Evelyn’s Upper East Side apartment, Monique listens as Evelyn unfurls her story: from making her way to Los Angeles in the 1950s to her decision to leave show business in the late 80s, and, of course, the seven husbands along the way. As Evelyn’s life unfolds through the decades—revealing a ruthless ambition, an unexpected friendship, and a great forbidden love—Monique begins to feel a very a real connection to the actress. But as Evelyn’s story catches up with the present, it becomes clear that her life intersects with Monique’s own in tragic and irreversible ways.

Filled with emotional insight and written with Reid’s signature talent for “creating complex, likable characters” (Real Simple), this is a fascinating journey through the splendor of Old Hollywood into the harsh realities of the present day as two women struggle with what it means—and what it takes—to face the truth.

Evelyn Hugo to Auction Off Gowns

New York Tribune
By Priya Amrit
March 2, 2017

Film legend and ’60s It Girl Evelyn Hugo has just announced that she will auction off 12 of her most memorable gowns through Christie’s to raise money for breast cancer research.

At the age of 79, Hugo has long been an icon of glamour and elegance. She is known for a personal style both sensual and restrained, and many of Hugo’s most famous looks are considered touchstones of the fashion and Hollywood archives.

Those looking to own a piece of Hugo history will be intrigued not only by the gowns themselves but also by the context in which they were worn. Included in the sale will be the emerald green Miranda La Conda that Hugo wore to the 1959 Academy Awards, the violet soufflé and organdy scoop-neck she donned at the premiere of Anna Karenina in 1962, and the navy blue silk Michael Maddax that she was wearing in 1982 when she won her Oscar for All for Us.

Hugo has weathered her share of Hollywood scandals, not the least of which being her seven marriages, including her decades-long relationship with film producer Harry Cameron. The two Hollywood insiders shared a daughter, Connor Cameron, who is no doubt the influence for the auction. Ms. Cameron passed away last year from breast cancer soon after turning 41.

Born Evelyn Elena Herrera in 1938, the daughter of Cuban immigrants, Hugo grew up in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City. By 1955, she had made her way to Hollywood, gone blond, and been rechristened Evelyn Hugo. Almost overnight, Hugo became a member of the Hollywood elite. She remained in the spotlight for more than three decades before retiring in the late ’80s and marrying financier Robert Jamison, older brother of three-time Oscar-winning actress Celia St. James. Now widowed from her seventh husband, Hugo resides in Manhattan.

Preternaturally beautiful and a paragon of glamour and daring sexuality, Hugo has long been a source of fascination for moviegoers the world over. This auction is expected to raise upward of $2 million.

* * *

“Can you come into my office?”

I look around at the desks beside me and then back at Frankie, trying to confirm to whom, exactly, she’s talking. I point to myself. “Do you mean me?”

Frankie has very little patience. “Yes, Monique, you. That’s why I said, ‘Monique, can you come into my office?’”

“Sorry, I just heard the last part.”

Frankie turns. I grab my notepad and follow her.

There is something very striking about Frankie. I’m not sure that you’d say she was conventionally attractive—her features are severe, her eyes very wide apart—but she is nevertheless someone you can’t help but look at and admire. With her thin, six-foot-tall frame, her short-cropped Afro, and her affinity for bright colors and big jewelry, when Frankie walks into a room, everyone takes notice.

She was part of the reason I took this job. I have looked up to her since I was in journalism school, reading her pieces in the very pages of the magazine she now runs and I now work for. And if I’m being honest, there is something very inspiring about having a black woman running things. As a biracial woman myself—light brown skin and dark brown eyes courtesy of my black father, an abundance of face freckles courtesy of my white mother—Frankie makes me feel more sure that I can one day run things, too.

“Take a seat,” Frankie says as she sits down and gestures toward an orange chair on the opposite side of her Lucite desk.

I calmly sit and cross my legs. I let Frankie talk first.

“So, puzzling turn of events,” she says, looking at her computer. “Evelyn Hugo’s people are inquiring about a feature. An exclusive interview.”

My gut instinct is to say Holy shit but also Why are you telling me this? “About what in particular?” I ask.

“My guess is it’s related to the gown auction she’s doing,” Frankie says. “My understanding is that it’s very important to her to raise as much money for the American Breast Cancer Foundation as possible.”

“But they won’t confirm that?”

Frankie shakes her head. “All they will confirm is that Evelyn has something to say.”

Evelyn Hugo is one of the biggest movie stars of all time. She doesn’t even have to have something to say for people to listen.

“This could be a big cover for us, right? I mean, she’s a living legend. Wasn’t she married eight times or something?”

“Seven,” Frankie says. “And yes. This has huge potential. Which is why I hope you’ll bear with me through the next part of this.”

“What do you mean?”

Frankie takes a big breath and gets a look on her face that makes me think I’m about to get fired. But then she says, “Evelyn specifically requested you.”

“Me?” This is the second time in the span of five minutes that I have been shocked that someone was interested in speaking with me. I need to work on my confidence. Suffice it to say, it’s taken a beating recently. Although why pretend it was ever really soaring?

“To be honest, that was my reaction, too,” Frankie says.

Now I’ll be honest, I’m a little offended. Although, obviously, I can see where she’s coming from. I’ve been at Vivant for less than a year, mostly doing puff pieces. Before that, I was blogging for the Discourse, a current events and culture site that calls itself a newsmagazine but is, effectively, a blog with punchy headlines. I wrote mainly for the Modern Life section, covering trending topics and opinion pieces.

After years of freelancing, the Discourse gig was a lifesaver. But when Vivant offered me a job, I couldn’t help myself. I jumped at the chance to join an institution, to work among legends.

On my first day of work, I walked past walls decorated with iconic, culture-shifting covers—the one of women’s activist Debbie Palmer, naked and carefully posed, standing on top of a skyscraper overlooking Manhattan in 1984; the one of artist Robert Turner in the act of painting a canvas while the text declared that he had AIDS, back in 1991. It felt surreal to be a part of the Vivant world. I have always wanted to see my name on its glossy pages.

But unfortunately, for the past twelve issues, I’ve done nothing but ask old-guard questions of people with old money, while my colleagues back at the Discourse are attempting to change the world while going viral. So, simply put, I’m not exactly impressed with myself.

“Look, it’s not that we don’t love you, we do,” Frankie says. “We think you’re destined for big things at Vivant, but I was hoping to put one of our more experienced, top hitters on this. And so I want to be up front with you when I say that we did not submit you as an idea to Evelyn’s team. We sent five big names, and they came back with this.”

Frankie turns her computer screen toward me and shows me an e-mail from someone named Thomas Welch, who I can only assume is Evelyn Hugo’s publicist.

From: Thomas Welch

To: Troupe, Frankie

Cc: Stamey, Jason; Powers, Ryan

It’s Monique Grant or Evelyn’s out.

I look back up at Frankie, stunned. And to be honest, a little bit starstruck that Evelyn Hugo wants anything to do with me.

“Do you know Evelyn Hugo? Is that what’s going on here?” Frankie asks me as she turns the computer back toward her side of the desk.

“No,” I say, surprised even to be asked the question. “I’ve seen a few of her movies, but she’s a little before my time.”

“You have no personal connection to her?”

I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

“Aren’t you from Los Angeles?”

“Yeah, but the only way I’d have any connection to Evelyn Hugo, I suppose, is if my dad worked on one of her films back in the day. He was a still photographer for movie sets. I can ask my mom.”

“Great. Thank you.” Frankie looks at me expectantly.

“Did you want me to ask now?”

“Could you?”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and text my mother: Did Dad ever work on any Evelyn Hugo movies?

I see three dots start to appear, and I look up, only to find that Frankie is trying to get a glimpse of my phone. She seems to recognize the invasion and leans back.

My phone dings.

My mother texts: Maybe? There were so many it’s hard to keep track. Why?

Long story, I reply, but I’m trying to figure out if I have any connection to Evelyn Hugo. Think Dad would have known her?

Mom answers: Ha! No. Your father never hung out with anybody famous on set. No matter how hard I tried to get him to make us some celebrity friends.

I laugh. “It looks like no. No connection to Evelyn Hugo.”

Frankie nods. “OK, well, then, the other theory is that her people chose someone with less clout so that they could try to control you and, thus, the narrative.”

I feel my phone vibrate again. That reminds me that I wanted to send you a box of your dad’s old work. Some gorgeous stuff. I love having it here, but I think you’d love it more. I’ll send it this week.

“You think they’re preying on the weak,” I say to Frankie.

Frankie smiles softly. “Sort of.”

“So Evelyn’s people look up the masthead, find my name as a lower-level writer, and think they can bully me around. That’s the idea?”

“That’s what I fear.”

“And you’re telling me this because …”

Frankie considers her words. “Because I don’t think that you can be bullied around. I think they are underestimating you. And I want this cover. I want it to make headlines.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, and I shift slightly in my chair.

Frankie claps her hands in front of her and rests them on the desk, leaning toward me. “I’m asking you if you have the guts to go toe-to-toe with Evelyn Hugo.”

Of all the things I thought someone was going to ask me today, this would probably be somewhere around number nine million. Do I have the guts to go toe-to-toe with Evelyn Hugo? I have no idea.

“Yes,” I say finally.

“That’s all? Just yes?”

I want this opportunity. I want to write this story. I’m sick of being the lowest one on the totem pole. And I need a win, goddammit. “Fuck yes?”

Frankie nods, considering. “Better, but I’m still not convinced.”

I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve been a writer for more than a decade. I want a book deal one day. I want to pick my stories. I want to eventually be the name people scramble to get when someone like Evelyn Hugo calls. And I’m being underused here at Vivant. If I’m going to get where I want to go, something has to let up. Someone has to get out of my way. And it needs to happen quickly, because this goddamn career is all I have anymore. If I want things to change, I have to change how I do things. And probably drastically.

“Evelyn wants me,” I say. “You want Evelyn. It doesn’t sound like I need to convince you, Frankie. It sounds like you need to convince me.”

Frankie is dead quiet, staring right at me over her steepled fingers. I was aiming for formidable. I might have overshot.

I feel the same way I did when I tried weight training and started with the forty-pound weights. Too much too soon makes it obvious you don’t know what you’re doing.

It takes everything I have not to take it back, not to apologize profusely. My mother raised me to be polite, to be demure. I have long operated under the idea that civility is subservience. But it hasn’t gotten me very far, that type of kindness. The world respects people who think they should be running it. I’ve never understood that, but I’m done fighting it. I’m here to be Frankie one day, maybe bigger than Frankie. To do big, important work that I am proud of. To leave a mark. And I’m nowhere near doing that yet.

The silence is so long that I think I might crack, the tension building with every second that goes by. But Frankie cracks first.

“OK,” she says, and puts out her hand as she stands up.

Shock and searing pride run through me as I extend my own. I make sure my handshake is strong; Frankie’s is a vise.

“Ace this, Monique. For us and for yourself, please.”

“I will.”

We break away from each other as I walk toward her door. “She might have read your physician-assisted suicide piece for the Discourse,” Frankie says just before I leave the room.

“What?”

“It was stunning. Maybe that’s why she wants you. It’s how we found you. It’s a great story. Not just because of the hits it got but because of you, because it’s beautiful work.”

It was one of the first truly meaningful stories I wrote of my own volition. I pitched it after I was assigned a piece on the rise in popularity of microgreens, especially on the Brooklyn restaurant scene. I had gone to the Park Slope market to interview a local farmer, but when I confessed that I didn’t get the appeal of mustard greens, he told me that I sounded like his sister. She had been highly carnivorous until the past year, when she switched to a vegan, all-organic diet as she battled brain cancer.

As we spoke more, he told me about a physician-assisted suicide support group he and his sister had joined, for those at the end of their lives and their loved ones. So many in the group were fighting for the right to die with dignity. Healthy eating wasn’t going to save his sister’s life, and neither of them wanted her to suffer any longer than she had to.

I knew then that I wanted, very deeply, to give a voice to the people of that support group.

I went back to the Discourse office and pitched the story. I thought I’d be turned down, given my recent slate of articles about hipster trends and celebrity think pieces. But to my surprise, I was greeted with a green light.

I worked tirelessly on it, attending meetings in church basements, interviewing the members, writing and rewriting, until I felt confident that the piece represented the full complexity—both the mercy and the moral code—of helping to end the lives of suffering people.

It is the story I am proudest of. I have, more than once, gone home from a day’s work here and read that piece again, reminding myself of what I’m capable of, reminding myself of the satisfaction I take in sharing the truth, no matter how difficult it may be to swallow.

“Thank you,” I tell Frankie now.

“I’m just saying that you’re talented. It might be that.”

“It’s probably not, though.”

“No,” she says. “It’s probably not. But write this story well, whatever it is, and then next time it will be.”

Taylor Jenkins Reid is an author and essayist from Acton, Massachusetts. Her first novel, Forever, Interrupted, was named one of the "11 Debuts We Love" by Kirkus Reviews. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Alex, and their dog, Rabbit. You can follow her on Twitter @tjenkinsreid.

Hit Man, Book Three: Deadliest Lies Series by Michele Mannon Book Blitz!

HIT MAN, Book Three: Deadliest Lies Series

Michele Mannon

RELEASE DAY: December 6th.

Blurb:

An attraction so deadly. Passionate. Arrogant. Relentless. Diego is a woman’s wet dream and a husband’s nightmare. He’s a killer who seduced me…over and over again. He’s the only person who seems to understand the dark, dangerous world I’ve stumbled into. Is he out to save me or am I merely a pawn in a deadly game he’s been playing?

Kindle: http://amzn.to/2f4gLWO

Ibooks: http://apple.co/2fs1Wle

Nook: http://bit.ly/2fs11kJ

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2fivpP8

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2frXMJU

Amazon CA http://amzn.to/2eHNFjb

Amazon AU: http://amzn.to/2e9HS59

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2f4jvmV

Synopsis

He always gets what he wants.

The seasoned seducer, who probably charms the panties off of every woman he meets. Diego is handsome. Arrogant. Dangerous. Far more dangerous than anyone I've ever met. And with one look from across a crowded room he has me; hook line and sinker, I'm his for the night.

Diego is not a man to mess with, I know that. I just can't seem to resist his kiss, his touch. But can I trust him with my heart, with my body?

I'm being hunted for something I may or may not have seen, and Diego is my only way out of a world of death and destruction.

If only I can believe his dark promises. 

AUTHOR INFO:

Michele Mannon creates characters who are far from perfect; who are likely to be knee-deep in trouble, heart-first in love and at wits’ end when life unexpectedly, unequivocally turns to hell. Her debut series, Worth the Fight, received two Romantic Times Magazine Top Picks.

Hit Man is the third book in her sexy romantic suspense series, Deadliest Lies and features the most seductive “big-boom” mercenary of them all…Diego.

Michele lives in Pennsylvania but likes traveling to exotic places, including the NJ shore. She’s fond of Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Lattes, quick-witted, Irish-accented men, a good story, and lots and lots of laughter.

For more information about Michele, please visit her website: http://www.michelemannon.com

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The Pawn by Skye Warren Book Blitz!

Gabriel Miller swept into my life like a storm. He tore down my father with cold retribution, leaving him penniless in a hospital bed. I quit my private all-girl's college to take care of the only family I have left. There's one way to save our house, one thing I have left of value. My virginity. A forbidden auction... Gabriel appears at every turn. He seems to take pleasure in watching me fall. Other times he's the only kindness in a brutal underworld. Except he's playing a deeper game than I know. Every move brings us together, every secret rips us apart. And when the final piece is played, only one of us can be left standing. 

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

 THE PAWN is a full-length contemporary novel from New York Times bestselling author Skye Warren about revenge and seduction in the game of love. It's the first book in the brand new ENDGAME series. 

  

Excerpt

“Kinky stuff,” Gabriel says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “What do you know about kinky stuff?”

My face feels hot. “I’ve seen the movie, okay? I know about things.”

That’s a lie. I squirmed through the movie, lips parted in shock. How did people think of this stuff? Why would any girl like it? And I’m not just a random face in this city. My picture has appeared in the society papers. People know my father. Maybe some of the men were cheated by him, just like Gabriel. Would they want to hurt me in revenge?

“Tell me what you know,” Gabriel says.

The words are mocking, but something sparks inside me. “I know that some men like to hurt women. I know it makes them feel big and strong to hurt someone weaker.”

“And are you weak, little virgin?”

No, I want to say. Except I’ve lost everything in the past two months. My life, my school. My friends. I’m a shadow of my former self. Little virgin makes me fight back, though. Gabriel makes me fight back. “I’m doing what I have to do. Is that weak?”

His gaze flickers over my body, the yellow of his eyes brighter in the lamp’s glow. When he meets my eyes, there’s a begrudging respect.

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of contemporary romance such as the Chicago Underground series. Her books have been featured in Jezebel, Buzzfeed, USA Today Happily Ever After, Glamour, and Elle Magazine. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, two sweet dogs, and one evil cat.

Website: http://www.skyewarren.com

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

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

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Cat in the Flock by Lisa Brunette December 6, 2016 Book Blast & on Tour March 1-30, 2017!

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Sky Harbor Press

Publication Date: December 27th 2014

Number of Pages: 197

ISBN: 0986237701 (ISBN13: 9780986237706)

Series: Dreamslippers #1

Synopsis:

A sexy murder-mystery with a spiritual edge.
For most people, dreams are a way to escape reality. But for Cat McCormick, they're a way to get closer to the truth. Cat can 'slip' into other people's dreams.
After graduating college with a degree in criminal justice but little in the way of real-life experience, Cat moves from the Midwest to Seattle to apprentice with her Granny Grace, who shares the ability. Granny uses dreamslipping as a private investigator, and Cat plans to follow in her footsteps.
But forced to take work as a security guard, Cat discovers a mother and daughter on the run. Following the clues, she goes undercover in a Midwestern megachurch, where she finds redemption and goodwill amidst repression, hypocrisy, and murder.

Praise:

"A fascinating tale of mystery, romance, and what one woman's dreams are made of. Brunette will keep you awake far into the night.” -- Mary Daheim, bestselling author of the Bed-and-Breakfast and Emma Lord/Alpine mysteries
"Already hooked, this reader intends further sojourns in Cat's dreamslipping world. Highly recommended." -- Frances Carden, Readers Lane
"Gripping, sexy and profound, CAT IN THE FLOCK is an excellent first novel. Lisa Brunette is an author to enjoy now and watch for the future.” -- Jon Talton, author of the David Mapstone Mysteries, the Cincinnati Casebooks and the thriller Deadline Man
"A little Sue Grafton and a dose of Janet Evanovich… is just the right recipe for a promising new series.” -- Rev. Eric O'del
"The launch of an intriguing female detective series... A mystery with an unusual twist and quirky settings; an enjoyable surprise for fans of the genre." -- Kirkus Reviews

Don't Miss Your Chance to Purchase Cat in the Flock at Amazon , at Barnes & Noble , & Add it To Your List on Goodreads !

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

Sherrie marched into her daughter’s bedroom and dragged a child-sized roller bag suitcase out of the closet. The girl stood in the middle of the room, still in her pajamas. Milk from breakfast had dried around the edges of her lips.
“Ruthie,” the mother said. “I need you to get dressed. We’re going to take a…trip.” Sherrie tried to make her voice sound cheery, but the desperation she felt came through in her tone.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
Sherrie set the suitcase on the bed. The bubble- gum pink had once seemed innocent but now looked fleshy and indecent. She glanced at the clock over the bed. He’d been golfing for a good fifteen minutes by now, long enough for her to make sure he didn’t come back for a favorite club or the right gloves. She wanted to be on that morning flight by the time he got home and discovered them gone.
She flung open the chest of drawers and grabbed all of the girl’s socks and underwear, a pair of corduroy pants, black cotton tights, a sweater the color of a Midwestern sky. Nothing pink. Only warm things. Seattle in her memory was cold and wet. It was a grey city; grey clouds over grey buildings. Even the water was grey.
One doll would fit. Made of cloth, it could be folded in on itself and slid down the backside of the suitcase.
“Can I bring the ballerina skirt?”
Any other day, she would have corrected her daughter, who needed to learn the precise names of things. Tutu. There it was in the closet, hanging because it took up too much room in the drawer. She yanked it free, sending the hanger to the floor. Ordinarily, she would pick that up; her house was so clean it hurt her eyes with its spareness—as if theirs were a showroom house, not lived in. She left the hanger there, aware of the thrill this fraction of disobedience gave her. She shoved everything into the little pink case, but with the fluffy tulle taking up so much space, the zipper would not close. The choice was clear. The doll would be a comfort to Ruthie in Seattle, but the tutu would not.
“We’ll come back for this later,” she said, tossing the tutu onto the bed. The zipper closed, the sound of it satisfying.
“No, Mommy!” Ruthie stomped her foot. “I want it now!”
“Then you’re going to have to wear it. Now get dressed while I pack my clothes.” But she felt a pang of guilt for her reprimanding tone, and for having to leave the tutu. Bending down, she used her thumb to wipe some of the milk crust from her daughter’s face. “I’ll let you wear anything you want on this trip, okay, sweetheart? And clean your face with the cloth in the bathroom, like Mommy showed you.”
The girl nodded, as if sensing this was not the time for a tantrum.
Sherrie’s own packing, she did with even less consideration. Under things, shirts. A fleece hoodie. Warm socks. She remembered she needed layers in Seattle. Sometimes it could seem warm even though it rained and the sun had not come out for weeks. Her keepsakes in their tiny, locked chest would not fit. They were the only things she had to remind herself of her life before this, but she would have to leave them behind.
Sherrie kept watch on the clock and glanced out the window twice to make sure his car wasn’t out front even though she knew he wouldn’t be home for another hour. The sun had risen blood-red over the cornfields in the distance, lighting them as if on fire. She’d miss that. And she thought of thunderstorms, which seemed never to occur in Seattle. She’d miss those, too.
Ruthie appeared in the doorway. Her face was clean, but none of her clothes matched. She was wearing pink high-tops that seemed wrong for the city they were going to, the situation, and everything else, but she had apparently decided not to wear the tutu.
“Time to leave.” She took the girl’s hand, promising to herself she’d never let go.

Author Bio:

Lisa was born in Santa Rosa, California, but that was only home for a year. A so-called "military brat," she lived in nine different houses and attended nine different schools by the time she was 14. Through all of the moves, her one constant was books. She read everything, from the entire Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mystery series to her mother's books by Daphne DuMaurier and Taylor Caldwell.
A widely published author, game writer, and journalist, Lisa has interviewed homeless women, the designer of the Batmobile, and a sex expert, to name just a few colorful characters. This experience, not to mention her own large, quirky family, led her to create some truly memorable characters in her Dreamslippers Series and other works, whether books or games.
Always a vivid dreamer, not to mention a wannabe psychic, Lisa feels perfectly at home slipping into suspects’ dreams, at least in her imagination. Her husband isn’t so sure she can’t pick up his dreams in real life, though.
With a hefty list of awards and publications to her name, Lisa now lives in a small town in Washington State, but who knows how long that will last…

Lisa publishes a bimonthly newsletter. Sign up and receive a free book!

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