Wednesday, May 26, 2021

BLOG TOUR: Tie Me Down by Melanie Harlow

Tie Me Down, an all-new swoon-worthy friends to lovers, small town romance from USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow, is now live!

Just friends.
That’s all Beckett Weaver and I have ever been.
Sure, he’s a hot cowboy who left Wall Street behind to take over his family’s ranch. Yes, I’ve had a secret crush on him since we were seventeen. And who wouldn’t appreciate those strong hands, that massive chest, and the way he fills out a pair of Levis?
He makes a girl sweat just looking at him . . . and I look. A lot.
But I’m a single mom trying to move on with my life, and he’s running that ranch single-handedly while taking care of his elderly father. We don’t even live in the same state. I only returned to my hometown of Bellamy Creek to sell my late mother’s house, and he just invited me and my son to stay with him because he’s got a big heart.
That’s not the only big thing he’s got--which I discover the night I finally sneak across the hall to his bedroom and shed my inhibitions right alongside my pajamas. And once we give into each other, we can’t stop.
The hayloft. The bed of his truck. The dock by the pond.
Nothing has ever felt so right, but his past has taught him not to believe in happily ever after, and every perfect night I spend in his arms brings us closer to goodbye.
Like any cowboy, he’s good with a rope and knows exactly how to tie me up.
But what if I want him to tie me down?

Grab yours now or read in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3hc2Yke
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TieMeDown

Excerpt

When Beckett reached the landing, he headed for his bedroom. 

“Night.” 

I opened my mouth to say goodnight—I swear I did. 

But that’s not what came out. 

“I need to tell you something,” I blurted. 

He turned and faced me.

 “I want to answer your question.” My heart raced, and my fingers locked over my stomach. 

“What question?”

“You asked me—last night—why I always chose jerks.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I lied. I do know.”

He was silent a moment. “So tell me.”

I took a step toward him. “I chose jerks because they didn’t ask anything of me. They didn’t expect anything of me. They didn’t even want much from me—just skin.”

Beckett took a deep breath, his chest expanding. 

“That’s why I couldn’t be with you,” I whispered. 

“Because you think I would have expected perfection?”

“Because you would have deserved it.”

He exhaled and shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m sorry. This is stupid.” I squeezed my eyes shut a moment. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this right now. It’s not like I can go back and do things differently. I guess I just wish I would have been brave enough to tell you the truth back then.”

“What’s the truth?”

“That I wish I could have been yours. I know you would have been good to me.”

He said nothing for ten full seconds, during which my heart banged painfully against my ribs and I regretted everything. 

“Listen, forget I said anything,” I said quickly. “I don’t know what Blair puts in that apple pie, but—”

“I have something to tell you too.”

I swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah. Several things, actually.” He moved closer to me, so close I could feel his breath on my lips. “First, I’m glad you finally answered my question. It’s been bothering me for fifteen years. Second, you’re right. I would have been good to you. And third, no—we can’t go back and do things differently. The past is past.”

“Yes. Well, goodnight.” Tears of mortification burning my eyes, I spun away from him, but he grabbed my arm. 

“But there’s one more thing.”

“What?” I whispered. 

“I sleep with my bedroom door open. But I want you to think hard before you take advantage of that. Because I’m not eighteen anymore, and I’m no longer in the mood to be a gentleman.”

Then he let go of my arm and disappeared across the hall. 

With my legs trembling, I slipped into my room, shut the door and leaned back against it, fanning my face. 

Holy. Shit. 

He’d left it up to me. 

But his invitation was clear. I hadn’t imagined it. 

And before I thought about it too hard and blew my chance to be with him, I raced into the bathroom, pulled my braids out, and brushed my teeth. Back in my bedroom, I whipped off my clothes and pulled on the pineapple-print tank and matching shorts I’d brought to sleep in. Not exactly my sexiest lingerie, but in my defense, seduction hadn’t been on my to-do list when I’d packed my bags. 

Then I took a deep breath, opened my door, and snuck across the hall.

Add Tie Me Down to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3suOrlu

About Melanie Harlow
USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her heels high, and her history with the naughty bits left in. When she's not writing or reading, she gets her kicks from TV series like Schitt’s Creek, Homeland, and Fleabag. She occasionally runs three miles, but only so she can have more gin and steak.

Melanie is the author of the CLOVERLEIGH FARMS series, the ONE & ONLY series, AFTER WE FALL series, the HAPPY CRAZY LOVE series, the FRENCHED series, and the sexy historical SPEAK EASY duet, set in the 1920s. She lifts her glass to romance readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and pet rabbit.

Connect with Melanie
Facebook: http://bit.ly/2RPwr51
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1NPkYKs
Bookbub: http://bit.ly/36kL7yB
Instagram: http://bit.ly/2NW3UtA
Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2sVOz55
Facebook Reader Group: https://bit.ly/3mYzBBo
Stay up to date, sign up for Melanie’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/2P7MATT
Website: www.melanieharlow.com

Tuesday, May 25, 2021

AUDIOBOOK REVIEW: Local Woman Missing by Mary Kubica


Local Woman Missing by Mary Kubica

On Sale Date: May 18, 2021

$27.99 USD, $34.99 CAD

Fiction / Thrillers / Psychological

352 pages



About the Book:


People don't just disappear without a trace…
Shelby Tebow is the first to go missing. Not long after, Meredith Dickey and her six-year-old daughter, Delilah, vanish just blocks away from where Shelby was last seen, striking fear into their once-peaceful community. Are these incidents connected? After an elusive search that yields more questions than answers, the case eventually goes cold.
Now, eleven years later, Delilah shockingly returns. Everyone wants to know what happened to her, but no one is prepared for what they'll find…
In this smart and chilling thriller, master of suspense and New York Times bestselling author Mary Kubica takes domestic secrets to a whole new level, showing that some people will stop at nothing to keep the truth buried.


Excerpt:



MEREDITH

11 YEARS BEFORE

March

The text comes from a number I don’t know. It’s a 630 area code. Local. I’m in the bathroom with Leo as he soaks in the tub. He has his bath toys lined up on the edge of it and they’re taking turns swan diving into the now-lukewarm water. It used to be hot, too hot for Leo to get into. But he’s been in there for thirty minutes now playing with his octopus, his whale, his fish. He’s having a ball.

Meanwhile I’ve lost track of time. I have a client in the early stages of labor. We’re texting. Her husband wants to take her to the hospital. She thinks it’s too soon. Her contractions are six and a half minutes apart. She’s absolutely correct. It’s too soon. The hospital would just send her home, which is frustrating, not to mention a huge inconvenience for women in labor. And anyway, why labor at the hospital when you can labor in the comfort of your own home? First-time fathers always get skittish. It does their wives no good. By the time I get to them, more times than not, the woman in labor is the more calm of the two. I have to focus my attention on pacifying a nervous husband. It’s not what they’re paying me for. 

I tell Leo one more minute until I shampoo his hair, and then fire off a quick text, suggesting my client have a snack to keep her energy up, herself nourished. I recommend a nap, if her body will let her. The night ahead will be long for all of us. Childbirth, especially when it comes to first-time moms, is a marathon, not a sprint. 

Josh is home. He’s in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner while Delilah plays. Delilah’s due up next in the tub. By the time I leave, the bedtime ritual will be done or nearly done. I feel good about that, hating the times I leave Josh alone with so much to do. 

I draw up my text and then hit Send. The reply is immediate, that all too familiar ping that comes to me at all hours of the day or night. 

I glance down at the phone in my hand, expecting it’s my client with some conditioned reply. Thx. 

Instead: I know what you did. I hope you die. 

Beside the text is a picture of a grayish skull with large, black eye sockets and teeth. The symbol of death. 

My muscles tense. My heart quickens. I feel thrown off. The small bathroom feels suddenly, overwhelmingly, oppressive. It’s steamy, moist, hot. I drop down to the toilet and have a seat on the lid. My pulse is loud, audible in my own ears. I stare at the words before me, wondering if I’ve misread. Certainly I’ve misread. Leo is asking, “Is it a minute, Mommy?” I hear his little voice, muff led by the ringing in my ears. But I’m so thrown by the cutthroat text that I can’t speak. 

I glance at the phone again. I haven’t misread. 

The text is not from my client in labor. It’s not from any client of mine whose name and number is stored in my phone. As far as I can tell, it’s not from anyone I know.

A wrong number, then, I think. Someone sent this to me by accident. It has to be. My first thought is to delete it, to pretend this never happened. To make it disappear. Out of sight, out of mind. 

But then I think of whoever sent it just sending it again or sending something worse. I can’t imagine anything worse. 

I decide to reply. I’m careful to keep it to the point, to not sound too judgy or fault-finding because maybe the intended recipient really did do something awful—stole money from a children’s cancer charity—and the text isn’t as egregious as it looks at first glance. 

I text: You have the wrong number. 

The response is quick. 

I hope you rot in hell, Meredith. 

The phone slips from my hand. I yelp. The phone lands on the navy blue bath mat, which absorbs the sound of its fall. 

Meredith. 

Whoever is sending these texts knows my name. The texts are meant for me. 

A second later Josh knocks on the bathroom door. I spring from the toilet seat, and stretch down for the phone. The phone has fallen facedown. I turn it over. The text is still there on the screen, staring back at me. 

Josh doesn’t wait to be let in. He opens the door and steps right inside. I slide the phone into the back pocket of my jeans before Josh has a chance to see. 

“Hey,” he says, “how about you save some water for the fish.” 

Leo complains to Josh that he is cold. “Well, let’s get you out of the bath,” Josh says, stretching down to help him out of the water. 

“I need to wash him still,” I admit. Before me, Leo’s teeth chatter. There are goose bumps on his arm that I hadn’t noticed before. He is cold, and I feel suddenly guilty, though it’s mired in confusion and fear. I hadn’t been paying any attention to Leo. There is bathwater spilled all over the floor, but his hair is still bone-dry. 

“You haven’t washed him?” Josh asks, and I know what he’s thinking: that in the time it took him to clear the kitchen table, wash pots and pans and wipe down the sinks, I did nothing. He isn’t angry or accusatory about it. Josh isn’t the type to get angry. 

“I have a client in labor,” I say by means of explanation. “She keeps texting,” I say, telling Josh that I was just about to wash Leo. I drop to my knees beside the tub. I reach for the shampoo. In the back pocket of my jeans, the phone again pings. This time, I ignore it. I don’t want Josh to know what’s happening, not until I get a handle on it for myself. 

Josh asks, “Aren’t you going to get that?” I say that it can wait. I focus on Leo, on scrubbing the shampoo onto his hair, but I’m anxious. I move too fast so that the shampoo suds get in his eye. I see it happening, but all I can think to do is wipe it from his forehead with my own soapy hands. It doesn’t help. It makes it worse. 

Leo complains. Leo isn’t much of a complainer. He’s an easygoing kid. “Ow,” is all that he says, his tiny wet hands going to his eyes, though shampoo in the eye burns like hell. 

“Does that sting, baby?” I ask, feeling contrite. But I’m bursting with nervous energy. There’s only one thought racing through my mind. I hope you rot in hell, Meredith. 

Who would have sent that, and why? Whoever it is knows me. They know my name. They’re mad at me for something I’ve done. Mad enough to wish me dead. I don’t know anyone like that. I can’t think of anything I’ve done to upset someone enough that they’d want me dead.

I grab the wet washcloth draped over the edge of the tub. I try handing it to Leo, so that he can press it to his own eyes. But my hands shake as I do. I wind up dropping the washcloth into the bath. The tepid water rises up and splashes him in the eyes. This time he cries. 

“Oh, buddy,” I say, “I’m so sorry, it slipped.” 

But as I try again to grab it from the water and hand it to him, I drop the washcloth for a second time. I leave it where it is, letting Leo fish it out of the water and wipe his eyes for himself. Meanwhile Josh stands two feet behind, watching. 

My phone pings again. Josh says, “Someone is really dying to talk to you.” 

Dying. It’s all that I hear. 

My back is to Josh, thank God. He can’t see the look on my face when he says it. 

“What’s that?” I ask. 

“Your client,” Josh says. I turn to him. He motions to my phone jutting out of my back pocket. “She really needs you. You should take it, Mer,” he says softly, accommodatingly, and only then do I think about my client in labor and feel guilty. What if it is her? What if her contractions are coming more quickly now and she does need me? 

Josh says, “I can finish up with Leo while you get ready to go,” and I acquiesce, because I need to get out of here. I need to know if the texts coming to my phone are from my client or if they’re coming from someone else. 

I rise up from the floor. I scoot past Josh in the door, brushing against him. His hand closes around my upper arm as I do, and he draws me in for a hug. “Everything okay?” he asks, and I say yes, fine, sounding too chipper even to my own ears. Everything is not okay. 

“I’m just thinking about my client,” I say. “She’s had a stillbirth before, at thirty-two weeks. She never thought she’d get this far. Can you imagine that? Losing a baby at thirty-two weeks?”

Josh says no. His eyes move to Leo and he looks saddened by it. I feel guilty for the lie. It’s not this client but another who lost a baby at thirty-two weeks. When she told me about it, I was completely torn up. It took everything in me not to cry as she described for me the moment the doctor told her her baby didn’t have a heartbeat. Labor was later induced, and she had to push her dead baby out with only her mother by her side. Her husband was deployed at the time. After, she was snowed under by guilt. Was it her fault the baby died? A thousand times I held her hand and told her no. I’m not sure she ever believed me. 

My lie has the desired effect. Josh stands down, and asks if I need help with anything before I leave. I say no, that I’m just going to change my clothes and go. 

I step out of the bathroom. In the bedroom, I close the door. I grab my scrub bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt from my drawer. I lay them on the bed, but before I get dressed, I pull my phone out of my pocket. I take a deep breath and hold it in, summoning the courage to look. I wonder what waits there. More nasty threats? My heart hammers inside me. My knees shake. 

I take a look. There are two messages waiting for me. 

The first: Water broke. Contractions 5 min apart. 

And then: Heading to hospital.—M. 

I release my pent-up breath. The texts are from my client’s husband, sent from her phone. My legs nearly give in relief, and I drop down to the edge of the bed, forcing myself to breathe. I inhale long and deep. I hold it in until my lungs become uncomfortable. When I breathe out, I try and force away the tension. 

But I can’t sit long because my client is advancing quickly. I need to go.



Excerpted from Local Woman Missing @ 2021 by Mary Kyrychenko, used with permission by Park Row Books.





About the Author:


Mary Kubica is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of six novels, including THE GOOD GIRL, PRETTY BABY, DON’T YOU CRY, EVERY LAST LIE, WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT, and THE OTHER MRS. A former high school history teacher, Mary holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, in History and American Literature. She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two children. Her last novel THE OTHER MRS. was an instant New York Times bestseller; is coming soon to Netflix; was a LibraryReads pick for February 2020; praised by the New York Times; and highly recommended by Entertainment Weekly, People, The Week, Marie Claire, Bustle, HelloGiggles, Goodreads, PopSugar, BookRiot, HuffingtonPost, First for Women, Woman’s World, and more. Mary’s novels have been translated into over thirty languages and have sold over two million copies worldwide. She’s been described as “a helluva storyteller,” (Kirkus Reviews) and “a writer of vice-like control,” (Chicago Tribune), and her novels have been praised as “hypnotic” (People) and “thrilling and illuminating” (Los Angeles Times).  LOCAL WOMAN MISSING is her seventh novel. 


Social Links:


Website: https://marykubica.com/ 

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MaryKubica 

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

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7392948.Mary_Kubica 


Buy Links:


Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Local-Woman-Missing-Mary-Kubica/dp/0778389448/ 

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/local-woman-missing-mary-kubica/1137387568  

Bookshop: https://bookshop.org/books/local-woman-missing/9780778389446 

IndieBound: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780778389446 

Libro.fm: https://libro.fm/audiobooks/9781488211690-local-woman-missing 

Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Local-Woman-Missing/Mary-Kubica/9780778389446?id=8051055467945# 

Target: https://www.target.com/p/local-woman-missing-by-mary-kubica-hardcover/-/A-81225904 

Walmart: https://www.walmart.com/ip/Local-Woman-Missing-Original-ed-Hardcover-9780778389446/700252600 

Indigo: https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/local-woman-missing-a-novel/9780778389446-item.html 

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/local-woman-missing 

AppleBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/local-woman-missing/id1524947457 

Google Play: https://www.google.com/books/edition/Local_Woman_Missing/sKazzQEACAAJ?hl=en 


Monday, May 24, 2021

TOUR: Tie Me Down by Melanie Harlow

Like any cowboy, he’s good with a rope and knows exactly how to tie me up.
But what if I want him to tie me down?

Tie Me Down, an all new smoldering second-chance romance from USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow is now live!

Just friends.
That’s all Beckett Weaver and I have ever been.
Sure, he’s a hot cowboy who left Wall Street behind to take over his family’s ranch. Yes, I’ve had a secret crush on him since we were seventeen. And who wouldn’t appreciate those strong hands, that massive chest, and the way he fills out a pair of Levis?
He makes a girl sweat just looking at him . . . and I look. A lot.
But I’m a single mom trying to move on with my life, and he’s running that ranch single-handedly while taking care of his elderly father. We don’t even live in the same state. I only returned to my hometown of Bellamy Creek to sell my late mother’s house, and he just invited me and my son to stay with him because he’s got a big heart.
That’s not the only big thing he’s got--which I discover the night I finally sneak across the hall to his bedroom and shed my inhibitions right alongside my pajamas. And once we give into each other, we can’t stop.
The hayloft. The bed of his truck. The dock by the pond.
Nothing has ever felt so right, but his past has taught him not to believe in happily ever after, and every perfect night I spend in his arms brings us closer to goodbye.
Like any cowboy, he’s good with a rope and knows exactly how to tie me up.
But what if I want him to tie me down?

Grab your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3hc2Yke
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TieMeDown

Add Tie Me Down to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3suOrlu

About Melanie Harlow

USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her heels high, and her history with the naughty bits left in. When she's not writing or reading, she gets her kicks from TV series like Schitt’s Creek, Homeland, and Fleabag. She occasionally runs three miles, but only so she can have more gin and steak.

Melanie is the author of the CLOVERLEIGH FARMS series, the ONE & ONLY series, AFTER WE FALL series, the HAPPY CRAZY LOVE series, the FRENCHED series, and the sexy historical SPEAK EASY duet, set in the 1920s. She lifts her glass to romance readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and pet rabbit.

Connect with Melanie

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2RPwr51
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1NPkYKs
Bookbub: http://bit.ly/36kL7yB
Instagram: http://bit.ly/2NW3UtA
Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2sVOz55
Facebook Reader Group: https://bit.ly/3mYzBBo
Stay up to date, sign up for Melanie’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/2P7MATT
Website: www.melanieharlow.com

Friday, May 21, 2021

BLOG TOUR: Fake by Kylie Scott

"Such an easy, sexy read! You'll fall for Patrick Walsh, just like I did. I guarantee it."
--Monica Murphy, New York Times bestselling author

Fake, an all new witty and sexy fake relationship, grumpy hero standalone from New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott, is available now!

He walks the red carpet. She’s more familiar with vacuuming one.

When a scandal tarnishes the reputation of hot as hell A-lister, Patrick Walsh, he needs a reputation rescue, pronto.

Enter waitress Norah Peers–a nobody who’s average with a capital A. She’s available, dependable, and has sworn off men for the rest of her natural born life. In other words: the perfect match for a no-strings fake romance.

For the right amount of money, she can avoid waitressing and play the part of his dependable down-to-earth girlfriend. What she can’t avoid–dammit–is the growing steam between them.

But being hounded by the paparazzi and having her life dissected on social media is a panic attack in the making. And while Patrick might be a charming rogue on screen, in real life he’s a six-foot-two confusing, gorgeous, brooding grump, who keeps her at a distance . . . but also makes her feel like this bond between them might be more than just an act.

Being dumped on cue should be no big deal. Except being fake with Patrick is the realist relationship Norah has ever had. What’s a girl to do, but flip the script, and ask for a re-match made in Hollywood?

Read today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2P2liAJ
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/Fake
Kobo: https://bit.ly/2QfG54j
Nook: https://bit.ly/32pTdWT
Apple Books: https://apple.co/3v5gzh8

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3egt0j3


It was hard for me to get a handle on Patrick. Perhaps because we don't get his POV. I think I would have enjoyed having Paddy's POV. I'm almost positive that hearing his thoughts would have bumped my review rating up to 5 stars. He was slightly standoffish and kind of stiff especially compared to Norah. Norah is messy and a bit crazy... she word vomits when she's nervous and has a super quirky personality. They are an interesting mix but seem to make it work... or is it all Fake? Is he that good of an actor?


If you enjoy slow burns with a teasing, torturous tension than Fake is the book for you. This story gives slow burn a whole new meaning... it's more like glacier speed in Alaskian winter. I thought I was going to cry out in relief when finally, some action occurred... when I say action I mean R rated action. I loved it though, while I actively seek out instalove stories, I do love a good, developed friendship into more very much. This was a fun and light read... messy and magical. It was over way too soon.

I received an ARC of this book with the hope that I would leave an Unbiased Opinion. I was not required to leave a review, positive or otherwise, and my opinions are just that... my opinions.


 


Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

He slunk into the restaurant mid-afternoon wearing his usual scowl. Ignoring the closed sign, he took a booth near the back. No one else was allowed to do this. Just him. Today’s wardrobe consisted of black jeans, Converse, and a button-down shirt. Doubtless designer. And the way those sleeves hugged his biceps . . . why, they should have been ashamed of themselves. I was this close to yelling “get a room.” 

Instead, I asked, “The usual?”

Slumped down in the corner of the booth, he tipped his chin in reply. For such a tall guy, he sure went out of his way to try to hide.

I said no more. Words were neither welcomed nor wanted. Which was fine since (A) I was tired and (B) he tipped well for the peace and quiet.

Out back, Vinnie the cook was busy prepping for tonight, his knife making quick work of an onion.

“He’s here,” I said.

A smile split Vinnie’s face. He was a huge fan of the man’s action films. The ones he’d made before hitting it big time and taking on more serious dramatic roles. Him choosing to visit the restaurant every month or so made Vinnie’s life complete. Especially since the restaurant, Little Italy, was the very definition of a hole in the wall. Not somewhere generally frequented by the Hollywood elite. Meanwhile, I was less of a fan, but still a fan. You know.

“Get him his beer,” Vinnie ordered.

Like I didn’t know my job. Sheesh.

He was busy with his cell by the time I placed the Peroni in front of him. No glass. He drank straight from the bottle like an animal. Just then, a woman in a red sweater dress and tan five-inch-heel booties strode in through the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I said.

“I’m with him.” She headed straight for his booth and slid into the other side, giving the man a dour look. “You can’t just walk out, Patrick. You’re going to have to choose one of them.”

“Nope.” He took a pull from his beer. “They all sucked.”

“There had to be at least one that would do.”

“Not even a little.”

She sighed. “Keep this up and you’ll be obsolete by next week. Beyond help. Forgotten.”

“Go away, Angie.”

“Just another talented but trash male in Hollywood. That’s what they’re saying on social media.” 

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Liar,” she drawled.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Obviously they knew each other, but he did not seem to want her here. And she really wasn’t supposed to be here. Vinnie had okayed after-hours entry to only one person. On the other hand, if I asked her to leave, she’d probably sic her lawyers on me. She looked the type.

The woman spied me hovering. “Get me a glass of red.”

“She’s not staying,” countermanded Patrick.

Angie didn’t move an inch. “They were all viable options. Pliant. Young. Pretty. Discreet. Nothing weird or kinky in their backgrounds.”

“That might have made them more interesting.”

“Interesting women is what got you into this mess.” The woman frowned, taking me in. Still hovering. One perfectly shaped brow rose in question. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to sigh and give me a nod. He was so dreamy with his jaw and cheekbones and his everything. Real classic Hollywood handsome. Especially with his short light brown hair in artful disarray and a hint of stubble. Sometimes it was hard not to stare. Which is probably why his personality tended to scream “leave me alone.”

I headed for the small bar area at the back of the restaurant to fetch the wine like a good little waitress. 

“We shouldn’t be discussing this here,” said Angie, giving the room a disdainful sniff. Talk about judgy. I thought the raw brick walls and chunky wood tables were cool. Give or take Vinnie’s collection of old black-and-white photos of Los Angeles freeways. Who knew what that was about?

Patrick slumped down even further. “I’m not going back there. I’m done with it.”

“This isn’t safe.” Angie looked around nervously. “Let’s—”

“We’re fine. I’ve been coming here for years.”

“You just got dropped from a big-budget film, Patrick,” she said, exasperation in her tone. “The industry may not find you bankable right now, but I’m sure gossip about you is still selling just fine. This week at least.”

About Kylie Scott

Kylie is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She was voted Australian Romance Writer of the year, 2013, 2014 & 2018, by the Australian Romance Writer’s Association and her books have been translated into eleven different languages. She is a long time fan of romance, rock music, and B-grade horror films. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two children and husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around on the internet.

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