Title: Five Years & One Day
Author: Michal Admoni
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: April 7, 2019
She finds herself hospitalized with no sensation in the lower half of her body
Jake Mozik has fought his way back from a possible career-ending injury and has returned to the Redtails focused and ready to reclaim his former glory as half of the best defensive duo in the league. But his attraction to the fierce Faith is unexpected and distracting.
Faith doesn’t usually fall for overly confident, uber sexy jocks. But when she does, apparently she falls pretty damn hard. Jake is so not her type. Or so she thinks. Until he shows up to volunteer at the alternative school where she works and she sees a different side of the normally cocky athlete. He’s kind and patient and— Damn it, she is not falling for this guy. She’s rebuilding her life after a near-fatal accident and there’s no room for a man.
Jake is determined to make room in Faith’s life. And once he sets his mind on something, he doesn’t let go until he gets what he wants. And he wants it all…
Stephanie Julian is a New York Times and USA Today best seller who writes sophisticated, sultry romance for adventurous readers.
Her books include sexy heroes (sometimes two!), smart heroines and emotionally engaging love stories. Her series include the best-selling Salon Games, Indecent and Magical Seduction.
Stephanie is a slow runner, a reluctant cook, a lover of all things Joss, JJ and Disney. She’s happily married to a Springsteen fanatic and is the mother of two sons who introduced her to the joys of Slipknot, Warped Tour and never-ending headaches.
Connect with Stephanie!
First and Only Destiny
Publication date: September 9th 2014
Genres: Adult, Romance
“Beautifully written love story. The prose in this book is extraordinary, the emotions heart-breaking and the author leaves you hanging on the edge right to the end of the story. I could feel the characters’ happiness, confusion, pain and sadness. When it rained, I felt that rain on me, when the characters were laughing, I laughed – it was really that good! I can’t wait to read the next story in this book and will add Ms. Silk to my “must-buy” authors. Love her writing! Ms. Silk fills the pages with emotion – hope, happiness, sadness, guilt, joy – you will run the gamut with this book.” Elizabeth Lennox, Author of the Thorpe Brothers series
Do you believe in love at first sight?
First love has never been more intense, heartbreaking, and oh so worth it!
Shy artist Lia cannot resist gorgeous genius, Devraj. Sparks fly and their families and friends try to break them apart.
It’s love at first sketch for shy, sheltered art major Lia Abraham, when she meets the Bollywood-gorgeous Devraj Shah at a London university. But she refuses to show her undeniable attraction to the gregarious genius who is being groomed for his family business empire. Nothing can stand between her and her dreams of traveling and teaching art across Europe. No taking risks or detours for Lia!
The last thing Lia needs is a handsome distraction from her true love: art. Although she protests, the charming Devraj, with his dimpled grin and sparkling eyes, convinces Lia to be “just friends”.
But inevitably—with one rain-soaked, sweet yet sizzling kiss—their unleashed desire becomes stronger than their cultural divides—a Hindu boy and a Jewish girl? Gods forbid!
As their friendship flares into an all-consuming passion, the growing pressure from both families changes the landscape of both their lives.
Despite loving him to distraction, will Lia’s gratitude to her frail grandparents, who raised her, and her loyalty to her cultural ties, force her to forsake the forbidden fruit of her love for Devraj?
Or can she stand up for her first and only love and face their uncharted future head on?
First and Only Destiny by Gloria Silk
North London, June 1995
Leaving the tomb-like silence of the Rolls Royce, Lia gripped the heavy skirt of her imprisoning wedding dress, while accepting the stooping, old man’s help to brave the summer downpour.
The big, bat-like umbrella over them absorbed the mini bullets of the rain, turning the pure white of her gown to gunmetal grey.
Was it sunrise or sunset? She did not know or care. The universe had lost all colour and warmth.
Her feet and heart refused to cooperate as the old man tightened his embrace around her and urged her toward the arched doors of the imposing granite-grey building ahead of them.
A familiar magnetic pull made her turn her head to look over her shoulder, across the road. Lips trembling under the stifling veil, she saw the soaking, unshaven, Devraj standing by his car.
She felt his agony, heard his thoughts, How can you throw away your life, our destiny? Please come back to me!
But the sleek, dark river of the London street may as well have been oceans separating them, like a chasm of culture neither could overcome.
Even if this was her biggest mistake, he had to see her enter the house of her God.
Suddenly, thunder reverberated above them. She turned away from the love of her life. Her first love was an illusion and a part of her past, now. He had to be.
Look forward, not back.
“Love will come, you’ll see. Howard will make you happy.” Her grandmother’s mantra over the past endless weeks had almost made Lia want to scream that it would only make her grandparents happy. But… here she was, still walking in the opposite direction from Devraj. For his own sake.
Whether or not he ever forgave her, one day she would be proud of her strength and sacrifice.
Tears streaming down her face, she forced her legs up the stairs into the dimness. The cool, musty scent of the traditions ingrained into the spirit of the synagogue made her shiver.
Faces of curious strangers watched her advance towards the waiting bridegroom. The high jewel-tone stained-glass windows, to which generations of proud families had contributed, seemed about to shatter in on her. And, as every hesitant step led her closer to the man at the end of the aisle, his patent happiness made her steps falter, and she wanted to shout, it’s a lie; you know nothing about me!
She almost stumbled, but Dedda supported her. The nightmare continued.
But this was her destiny, not the heart-broken, young man out in the rain.
Statue-still, she lowered her burning eyes behind the veil. If Devraj ran up that aisle, demanding he was her rightful soul mate, would she flee with him? No!
Sucking in a shaky breath, she prayed for strength from the same God who had gifted—and then snatched away—an alternate, impossible future.
Anchoring her limbs, she swore to be the perfect wife to the smiling man beside her. She was not marrying him for her grandparents, but for a much bigger reason.
Or—she raised her head, heart pounding—she could grab the long train of her white dress as restrictive as armour, and escape into the arms of her one and only true love.
She took another fortifying breath.
Her fingers unfurled from their fists like opening petals.
Ever since Gloria Silk was little her passion was creating and sharing her romantic stories with others. She always loved reading contemporary and historical novels that grasped her imagination. Gloria now writes intense, sensuous love stories.
In addition to writing romance and women’s fiction, she enjoys writing intercultural romances and about family bonds. What can be more important in life than love and family?
Born in Russia, Gloria Silk has visited and lived in amazing, exotic places in the world. Loving Europe (especially the English, Italian and French countryside) and the Mediterranean, her other favorite country is Hawaii. She has yet to visit India and Australia, her dream destinations in the name of research, of course!
Being a writer gives her the privilege to explore, travel, and meet wonderful, new and exciting—and sometimes eccentric—people. Her background in English literature, writing, and psychology helps her create unique characters for her stories. Especially the charismatic heroes and feisty heroines who find themselves in sticky situations with each other, their families, and their cultures. There is nothing more satisfying than knowing readers love her warm heroines and the gorgeous enigmatic heroes, like she falls in love with them.
When she is not painting in various media or watching romantic movies, or cooking up a storm for her family and friends, she hangs out with her writing friends and other creatives.
Although she was brought up in England, she now lives – and writes – in the Toronto, Canada, with her own love of her life, soul-mate husband, her gorgeous and fun daughter and her smart, blonde Cockapoo, Princess Bella.
Please email Gloria Silk with any questions or comments at: contact@GloriaSilk.com
Publication date: January 24th 2018
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Thriller
Clay Finnes is the sheriff of a small town in Georgia called Bulwark. Recently separated from his wife, all he can think about is what went wrong, and will Jenna ever come back to him. He’s troubled by a bothersome reporter trying to build a story from what he thinks is a normal day in his life. Clay has to admit that the fantastical stories, told by an accident victim as well as unusual sightings of wolves, things are getting a bit strange. A visit to the ominous Gingerbread House makes him realize that his life as he knows it will never be the same.
“It’s like a primordial soup,” Clay Finnes muttered, his hands on his hips.
“A primordial what?” Owen Bishop raised his hangdog face to look at the town sheriff.
“Primordial, ancient, prehistoric . . .” Clay looked at the deputy’s blank face and finished with, “old . . . really, really old.”
“Oh,” Owen shook his craggy head. His bulbous eyes looked like two hard-boiled eggs, and his hair was matted as if glued to the top of his round head. Owen never passed any of the tests allowing him to advance in the force. He was a deputy when Clay first got a job in Bulwark, right out of the army. As the promotions started coming, Clay eventually became his boss. He wondered if it bothered the older man to be taking direction from someone who had trained under him.
“You mean like dinosaurs?” Owen scratched his head. “Dino . . . no . . . forget it, Owen. What else did the couple say?” He listened to Owen drone on about the car that was now sitting in the middle of the greenish pond.
“Appears they were coming from the other side.” Owen pointed vaguely in the other direction.
“How could they? There’s nothing there. That road’s been closed off for years.”
Something was wrong. Clay wasn’t sure what, but a feeling of unease enveloped him until his body fairly vibrated with it.
Clay looked up, his deep brown eyes scanning the thicket of trees surrounding the strange body of water that seemed to have appeared overnight. He crinkled his nose; the pond smelled pretty bad too. It was a greenish color, like dirty army fatigues. It seemed shallow. He resisted the urge to stick the toe of his boot in the water. It was still, the surface like polished glass. The Ford Fusion was trapped in what appeared to be the deepest part of the puddle, as if the driver had tried to speed through it. Clay estimated the brackish water was about two feet deep.
“If they had skirted the edges, they would have made it through. He shoulda used the choke, probably got an entire engine full of water.” Once Owen started talking, he could go on about something forever.
“Where the hell were they coming from?” Clay muttered to himself. He moved away as if to see through the gloom. “It’s a road that leads to nowhere.”
He took off his hat, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. It was hotter than usual. No breeze ruffled the leafy trees or relieved the stifling humidity that made his shirt stick to his back.
There was nothing—no sound, not the buzzing of bees or the droning sound of mosquitoes. Not a bird in sight or the croaking music of frogs in the late afternoon. When he got home, he’d mention it to Jenna—his wandering thoughts came to an abrupt halt. There would be no conversation. Jenna wasn’t there anymore. His family’s old farmhouse only had one occupant now. His wife had up and left him. Clay’s chest tightened, his throat closing up. His entire life changed and would never be the same. Losing Claire was just the beginning of the end. After that had happened, it was as though they were stuck in some nightmare and couldn’t get out.
“Well,” Owen continued, oblivious to his boss’s distracted air. “The car hit the . . . um . . . water, at a high rate of speed, I think. It must’ve started to sink.”
“It’s not deep enough to sink,” Clay watched his deputy scratch his bald head then turned to look at the enormous puddle. It covered the road from one end to the other. He chewed the inside of his cheek. He had to admit, it appeared larger than when he had arrived. It couldn’t be that deep, could it? Clay forced his attention back to Owen. It helped him stop thinking of his own life. “Where are they?”
“Over at JB’s house. The wife’s pretty freaked out.”
“JB?” Clay liked the retired football pro, had shared quite a few stories with the old vet.
“Over what? The puddle?” The interruption came from Dayna Dalton, a reporter from the Bulwark Advance. She was walking toward them, a camera hung around her exposed neck, a spiral notebook clasped in her hand. “Think somebody dropped a load of waste here?”
Clay looked at her. His cheek twitched. Her buttons straining, her clothes were so tight, they looked like they had been painted on her body. She shook her mane of red hair like an angry mare. He turned his gaze away, knowing it annoyed her. No matter how much she pranced around in her tight jeans, he wasn’t interested. She hadn’t done anything for him in high school, and she didn’t do anything for him now. Somehow, it never stopped her from trying to get him to notice her. Clay was tired of it. He sighed heavily.
She came around the back of the car, moving into his personal space. For a minute, Clay thought about backing up, but damn it all, he was the sheriff. He stood his ground, daydreaming how Dayna would react if he threw her into the stinky, green lake that had seemingly developed overnight.
Dayna repeated her comment about someone dropping waste. Clay shrugged indifferently then turned to Owen, ignoring her.
He could feel her bristling but refused to move. He dug his feet in the dark soil, his arms folded over his chest. “JB see anything? Maybe notice something out of place?”
Owen shook his head. “Nope. Nada. I asked. Been quiet. JB said this started small. Says he has a few pictures on his laptop he can send us.” Owen paused and then said, “Wait, he mentioned they had a wolf problem lately.”
Clay looked at Owen sharply. “Wolves, there haven’t been—hey!”
He saw Dayna take off, her feet scurrying around a clump of bushes.
“Dayna!” Clay called after the reporter, who was dashing up the incline straight to JB Straton’s cabin.
Brit Lunden is also known as prolific children’s author, Carole P. Roman. She has published over fifty books.
Whether it’s pirates, princesses, or discovering the world around us, her books have enchanted educators, parents, and her diverse audience of children. She hosts two blog radio programs and is one of the founders of a new magazine, Indie Author’s Monthly. She’s been interviewed twice by Forbes Magazine. Carole has co-authored a self-help book, Navigating Indieworld: A Beginners Guide to Self-Publishing and Marketing.
Bulwark is her first book of adult fiction.
The year I turned forty, I got a birthday card from my parents. On the inside my mom wrote, “This is going to be your year!” She couldn’t have known a cold blast of death and sh*t storms were headed straight for us, or how I’d become an abominable wreck and make my way back to the shackles of the R.J. Reynolds’s killing campaign, a.k.a. smoking. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in over ten years. It felt longer, but who’s counting? I was!
A few years before I reached for the smokes again, I’d been estranged from my older brother, Mike. My life was more or less calm. I’d been fed up with his soapbox lectures about how I’d be going to Hell for being a Jew unless I recognized who my savior was. At this particular moment, we were stuck at a hospice facility in Las Vegas with our dying father. My only savior was a pack of Camels, because Mike and I were fighting about every aspect of our dad’s care.
Three weeks we stayed there. My dad hung on while Mike nearly drove me into a nut house. Two weeks into our stay, I frayed. I took off in my car one afternoon, screeching down Las Vegas Boulevard in rush-hour traffic like a lunatic jonesing for a special kind of crack.
The combination of losing my dad while being trapped in a room with my feral family members pushed me to a breaking point. Only my brother could drive me into levels of such nicotine rage. All those years of breathing clean and clear were for nada. Wasted and meaningless.
I turned my steering wheel to the right, pulling three lanes over from the left, and into the lot of a 7-Eleven. I parked and sat there for a moment to make certain I knew what I was doing. I didn’t.
Mike, who’d been ringing the crap out of my cell phone, was about to get an earful of angry little sister. He wanted to know where the hell I’d run off to.
“Fu** this sh*t!” I exploded through giant tears. “I am so ready to go back to L.A. Though my windows were closed, I’d managed to frighten a lady just outside my car. I watched her quickly skedaddle into the store.
Mike had experienced my outbursts before, but this one seemed to come from the underworld, blasting up out of the ground, like somebody stepped on an IED or something—the blast taking place in my Honda CRV.
I’d been holding it together and keeping my cool, but now I was certifiably losing my mind. He was the older one, yet for most of our lives I’d been the responsible one. Not that it could’ve, or would’ve, ever mattered. He was the goda*ned Golden Boy. My mother always kissed his sh*ts before they went bye-bye.
Several blocks away from the 7-Eleven stood Alliance Hospice Care, where we’d both been staying with my dad while he lay dying. Once the doctors gave Dad seventy-two hours to live, Mike went completely into denial. To him, the place was the Play-doh Murder factory. His plan was to nurse Dad back to health by shoveling gobs of tapioca pudding down his throat.
“Eat, Dad, eat. We gotta get you out of this prison!”
But the place wasn’t bad. It was bright and clean with a big tropical fish tank in the lobby where you could stare at the fish and think about death. The patients’ rooms circled around a pretty courtyard with nice-ish patio furniture, though some of the upholstery was ripped and faded, beaten by the Vegas sun. The staff, too, were super friendly and qualified. All of this was paid for by Medicare, by the way. No way could you find anything like it in Los Angeles.
He had a private room, palatial and homey. As if we were staying in a little cottage in a Thomas Kinkade painting. There were two extra beds, sort of: a daybed too short for Mike’s boney six-foot frame, and a trundle bed underneath. I slept in the trundle bed like a sweater in a drawer, but I spent most of my time in a chair next to Dad’s bed, working on a hand-sewn doll of myself (or a version of me anyway)—an autobiographical character I often use in my paintings and drawings, a thing I call Moppet. She’s a straggly little ragdoll. She looks disheveled and as if she’s about ready to collapse like a push puppet. Moppet usually wears a simple dress, something I’d never do. The dress has a kind of clown collar. “She” is genderless and shaped like a gingerbread cookie with rounded arms and legs, an oval-shaped head and eyes with pupils nearly filled black, like those sad, velvet puppy-dog paintings. She neither smiles nor frowns; her mouth, a straight black line, a lot like me: indifferent. Also like me, she is an awkward child. I suppose she represents my vulnerabilities, my fragility, and what I think of myself, which isn’t much. In fact, she used to wear a dunce cap, but after ten years of therapy it’s been removed.
Los Angeles writer, musician, and self-taught artist Carol Es writes for the Huffington Post, Whitehot Magazine, and Coagula Art Journal. She’s been published with Bottle of Smoke Press, Islands Fold, Chance Press, and her Artist’s books are featured in the Getty Research Library, Brooklyn Museum, and the National Museum of Women in the Arts. She is a two-time recipient of the Durfee Foundation’s ARC Grant, a Pollock-Krasner Fellow, and won the Wynn Newhouse Award in 2015.
Mischief and Mayhem
(Whiskey Sisters #2)
Published by: Entangled Publishing
Publication date: July 9th 2018
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
Welcome to Mayhem, Minnesota, home of the Knitty Kitty, The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop, and O’Halloran’s Pub—owned by the four young women known as The Whiskey Sisters.
In the wake of her divorce, Jameson O’Halloran has gone man-vegan. And this is one diet she’s determined to stick with. Even when her long-lost ex-brother-in-law shows up looking like two scoops of double dutch dipped in chocolate… She’s not giving in. Been there and still wearing the messy T-shirt.
It’s been a decade since Scott Clarke left his family and his hometown, never to return. But when tragedy strikes, he finds himself dragged back to the land of gossip, judgment, and the one woman he absolutely, positively, without a doubt can never have. His brother’s ex is off-limits. He just needs to keep repeating that to himself until it sinks in.
Each book in the Whiskey Sisters series is STANDALONE:
*Blame it on the Best
*Mischief and Mayhem
The shelf is a little too high for my short self, and I’m only able to brush the dishes with my fingertips.
“Oh, here, let me help you with that…”
Before I can object, he’s standing behind me, reaching over me to get the dishes. For a brief second, his front is pressed against my back. His broad, muscled, perfectly sculpted front. I feel a wave of unwelcome warmth beginning under my collar and creeping up my neck.
“Thanks…” I murmur awkwardly, keeping my back to him for a moment longer in an attempt to quash my blush.
“Okay. I’m just going to grab a shower before my brother gets here, if you don’t mind.”
“Nope. Not at all,” I say quickly. “You go right ahead.”
Once he disappears around the corner, I silently smack my palm to my forehead.
What was that, Jameson? Why the blush? He’s just your ex-husband’s brother, that’s all. This is insane. I’ve got to stop this childish behavior. No. More. Men. Remember? No thinking about men. No looking at men. No fantasizing about men.
Especially not that man!
I’m still shaking my head and silently berating myself when I hear him behind me.
“Hey, Jameson, do you happen to know if my dad keeps an extra toothbrush around? I dropped mine in the toilet and…”
I don’t hear the end of his sentence because, when I turn to face him, I suddenly can’t hear anything. I’m too entranced by the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
Oh, crap, oh crap, oh crap… I am in so much trouble here. No men. No men. No men… I repeat the mantra over and over again in my head, but clearly the rest of my body isn’t getting the memo.
L.E. Rico didn’t set out to be an author. In fact, she’s made a name for herself as a classical music radio host—doing her best to make the music and the composers relevant by putting them into a modern context. It was just a few years ago that she discovered a passion for writing that blossomed into an entire novel. And then another. And another. And, while she still spends plenty of time on the radio, telling the stories of the great composers, she spends even more time composing her own great stories.
This third book in the Egypt trilogy wraps up the lives of the characters in a neat and satisfying way, according to some readers. Like the rest of the series, the story is set in the beautiful twin- island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. The two main characters, Marva and June, have come out of an abusive childhood (Egypt) and are now adults. Marva is a nun at a home for delinquent girls. Marva is known for being strict and well disciplined, but when her adoptive father is killed in a Muslim coup, the family relies on Marva’s levelheaded calm to help them get through their crisis. But little do they know that Marva has a crisis of her own, one that her discipline and her faith seem inadequate to handle.
Angela is the author of the Egypt series, three books written in the women’s fiction genre, and Women For All Seasons, a Christian non-fiction book. Angela’s work has also appeared in A Cup of Comfort For Mothers and Chicken Soup For the Soul.