Release Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Roustabout By Morgan Brice
Carnival of Mysteries Series
A con man and a government agent walk into a carnival…
Bartlett Gibson is a necromancer and an agent for the Tennessee Bureau of Supernatural Investigation. He’s hot on the trail of RJ Tucker, a psychic con man who has eluded him at every turn and led him on a merry chase. Pursuit leads to grudging respect in their game of cat and mouse, which becomes a high-stakes game of seduction. Bart chases RJ to the Carnival of Mysteries and realizes that nothing is as it seems. A dark witch’s curse ups the ante, creating a deadline for revenge and redemption, and the clock is ticking.
Falling in love breaks all the rules. Can Bart and RJ stop the witch, break the curse, and find a way around RJ’s spot on the “most wanted” list before time runs out?
Roustabout is a fast-paced MM paranormal romance filled with supernatural suspense, snarky humor, crafty carnival workers, sarcastic ghosts, midway magic, hurt/comfort angst, adversaries-to-lovers tension, and a very happy ending!
Part of the multi-author, shared-world Carnival of Mysteries series. Can be read as a stand-alone.
You can also enter the giveaway on our Instagram post or click here for your chance to win an e-copy of your choice from Morgan or Gail's backlist!
Excerpt:
R J Tucker sat at the bar at Haggerty’s in Memphis and nursed a Jack and Coke. He had a feeling he could get lucky tonight; wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Whiskey wouldn’t calm his nerves, at least not what he dared consume this close to a job. A good, hard fuck usually took the edge off, which is why he lingered over his drink, wondering who might wander in.
He’d given up on Mr. Right, but he was just fine with Mr. Right-now.
His jobs required staying in shape, filling out his six-foot tall frame with muscle. And coupled with his shaggy red hair, scruffy beard, and green eyes, RJ didn’t go begging for bed partners when he was in the mood.
“Bourbon, neat. Double.” The tall man slid onto the barstool next to RJ, bumping shoulder and hip in a way that RJ knew wasn’t accidental. He counted to ten before he turned to look, already approving of the man’s voice, deep like the rumble of a V8 engine, and his choice of liquor.
RJ’s gaze flicked over the newcomer. He was probably a good four inches taller, just the kind of rangy build RJ liked. The cut of the man’s short chocolate-brown hair suggested military or law enforcement, either past or present. That upped the risk of a liaison, but RJ usually appreciated the rush of danger.
“Been rainin’ all day. Think it might never stop,” the stranger said, and since there was no one on his other side and the bartender had gone to fetch his order, the comment was clearly directed at RJ.
“Don’t mind getting wet, now and again. Does a fellow good.” If the guy was looking to get laid, he’d pick up on the insinuation. If not, RJ probably wouldn’t have to fight his way out of a brawl over it.
“Is that so?” The man chuckled, a low, throaty sound that went right to RJ’s groin. He felt himself chub, despite his earlier ambivalence.
“Seems like the night for it.” RJ had been doing this dance since he was eighteen with a fake ID, navigating the iffy politics of southern bars where taking a glance or a comment the wrong way was the difference between getting laid and getting laid out.
At twenty-eight, RJ had crossed a lot of things off his bucket list, but finding a partner for more than a roll in the sheets wasn’t one of them, and he doubted it ever would be. Maybe when I finish the job—if I live to tell the tale. Probably not. Don’t really want to lie, and I can’t tell the truth.
About the Author:
Morgan Brice is the romance pen name of bestselling author Gail Z. Martin. Morgan writes urban fantasy MM paranormal romance, with plenty of action, adventure and supernatural thrills to go with the happily ever after. Gail writes epic and urban fantasy, with less romance, more explosions.
All of the modern-day Morgan Brice and Gail Z. Martin series crossover, so characters from one series appear in cameos and on page in important secondary roles in books from other series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but the more you read the more the expanded universe of friendships and connections becomes clear.
Morgan and Gail believe that paranormal elements make any story even better, and her worlds are full of ghosts, psychics, shifters, creatures, vampires, monster hunters, and magic.
She's also a huge fan of the TV show Supernatural. (Chibi art by Kamidiox)
Find Morgan at www.MorganBrice.com and her reader group at www.facebook.com/groups/WorldsOfMorganBrice
She's @MorganBriceBook on Twitter, @MorganBriceAuthor on Instagram, and can also be found on Bookbub, Goodreads and Pinterest (as GZMartin).
She's @MorganBriceBook on Twitter, @MorganBriceAuthor on Instagram and TikTok, and can also be found on Bookbub, Goodreads, YouTube (as Gail Z. Martin) and Pinterest (as GZMartin). Join her newsletter here: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/f3v0s8
It's that time of the month when a group of like-minded authors discuss the chosen topic of the month. #readaroundtherainbow
This month the topic is After the End. End of what? End of Days, maybe? Zombies, meteors, divine smite. Well, no. Maybe I should reword the first sentence. This month the topic is After 'The End'.
That's right. What happens after I type The End on a story?
Can we go back to the Zombies? Please? I'll happily write an entire dissertation on dystopian and supernatural romance, despite not having written either.
What do I do after typing The End? With a couple of years of writers block under my belt, I'd probably heave a sigh of relief and do a happy dance. But after that, it's off for content edits and proofing, while I kick back my heels and have a nice cup of tea. My go to is a Rainforest Rooibos, gently steeped, in a glass mug so I can admire the pale orange hue of the tea. I know, I'm procrastinating again.
Do you see a pattern? For me the post-writing portion of being an author is 90% procrastination and 10% panicked flailing.
Let's assume the edits are all done. I don't mind edits, so no faffing about there, but what else do I need to do?
Cover - Now I might already have this. Sometimes the cover inspires the story. But if I don't have one then this is the perfect time for procrastination. Trawling for cover models or backgrounds. Fall down a rabbit hole of images and ideas. If I'm designing my own cover then I get obsessed with colours and fonts, even placement of text.
Here's four versions of the cover for Calamine & Christmas Cake. And the final cover.
Synopsis - Ha, I don't have to do these anymore. The advantage of self-publishing. Synopsis writing is the worst.
Blurb - Summarise a 70k story in a couple of paragraphs. Make it interesting. Make it punchy. But encapsulate the essence of the tale, and the voices of the characters. My blurbs are always too long. I have to send them away to get them trimmed, and make them snappy.
Tagline - You thought a two paragraph summary was hard, how about 15 or so words.
Formatting - No chance for procrastination here. Set steps. Follow them to the letter. Hope for no intruptions. Upload.
Promo graphics - These are fun to do when I can decide what quotes to use. And I can lose several hours playing about in Canva. But they're the only part of marketing I do enjoy. I don't want to even talk about the rest of it.
So, in summary, play about on Canva or Procreate, throw some words at my besties and ask them to whip them into a workable blurb and tagline, play on Canva again. Simple. I don't know what I was complaining about.
Check out the posts from the rest if the group, where hopefully they'll have something more constructive to say 😆.
Release Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway: French Fancy By Lily Morton
The Model Agency, Book 2
Pip Simmonds is the twinkiest twink in London. He’s loud, proud, and packed to the brim with sass. But when he’s laid low by illness, even his hotpants lose their sparkle and his worried boss sends him to the South of France to recuperate in his holiday home.
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat is beautiful, and the periwinkle-blue villa is luxurious, but the real draw for Pip is the villa’s other resident—his boss’s younger brother, Olivier Durand.
Olivier owns a perfume empire and has spent his whole life running from any other form of commitment. He’s worldly, carefree, wild, and the perfect choice for a holiday fling.
Drawn together by proximity, the two men become lovers and friends and then something more. Something special. But will their special bond hold true after summer’s end, when they both must return to their real lives?
This is the second book in the bestselling Model Agency series, but it can be read as a standalone.
A brilliant idea occurs to me. “And you’d better go now because the owner is here. He’s inside.”
I still can’t see his face, but somehow, I know he’s amused. My impression is confirmed when he says, “Really?” with a great deal of lively scepticism.
“Oh yes.” I shift from one foot to the other rather awkwardly. I’m used to being naked in front of men, but more pleasurable things are usually on the agenda. “He’s my lover, and he’s gone to make drinks. Then he’ll be out here, and there’ll be hell to play.”
“Oh, dear. That does sound worrying. Is he dangerous?”
His beautiful French accent lingers on the last word, and I’m lost for a second. Then I rally.
“Oh, very,” I say airily. “He’ll kill anyone who looks twice at me.”
“He must be a very busy man.”
The compliment disarms me. “Oh well, of course,” I say, regaining my composure. “Thank you. You’re quite right, stranger who is not an axe man.”
“I am definitely not that. I don’t think I could fit an axe in my shorts’ pockets, no?”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve met a few men who’ve got enough room down there to stock the contents of B and Q,” I say unthinkingly.
He throws his head back, laughing. It’s a very attractive sound.
“You should go,” I say wistfully. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since my ex shagged me in a glass lift.
“Ah, because your lover will emerge soon, yes?”
I nod.
“And your lover is?” he asks.
“Oh.” My thoughts immediately spin towards the enigmatic brother of my boss. “He’s Olivier Durand.”
“Really?”
I raise my eyebrow. “He’s insanely possessive of me.” I wave a hand down my body. “And who can blame him?”
“Indeed.”
I narrow my eyes. “I can’t help feeling you don’t believe me, stranger danger.”
He steps forward, and a torch sheds light on his face. I stiffen. It’s a face I last saw in a photo in the kitchen—the picture that showed him smiling with my boss’s arm over his shoulders.
“Shit,” I say morosely.
Olivier Durand chuckles, his eyes dancing. “I do believe you. You are incredibly convincing, but now I am in a quandary.”
“Sounds painful.”
“So painful, because I’m afraid I will now have to visit a doctor.”
“Why?” I ask faintly.
“For my memory loss, of course. Here was I thinking myself a hale, fairly hearty, and very single young man, when pouf, I am the victim of amnesia and cannot remember the name of my beautiful young lover. And after that, I shall have to get my shotgun ready to begin shooting your many suitors in a fit of insane rage.”
“Oh dear.”
He starts to laugh again. “It is Pip, yes?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Who else?”
Enter the Giveaway:
To celebrate the release of French Fancy, we are giving you a chance to win your choice of any book from Lily’s backlist! Three winners will be chosen!
Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/cc0f2a57745/?
Check out Book 1 of The Model Agency with The Sunny Side
Jonas Durand is successful, rich, and controlled. He owns a prestigious modelling agency and has the world at his fingertips, but a turbulent childhood has taught him to be focused and never deviate from a plan.
Dean Jacobs threatens that stance. He’s one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels, but he’s also laidback and lighthearted and free in a way that Jonas has never quite managed.
Dean has always been interested in Jonas and has never made any secret of his admiration, but from the beginning, Jonas put him in a neat little box labelled, “Don’t touch,” turned the key, and never looked back.
However, the universe seems determined to thwart Jonas’s plans. Over the course of one hot summer, the two men come together, and Jonas’s well-ordered life becomes something a whole lot wilder.
Moving from the glamorous worlds of London and Paris Fashion Weeks to the sleepy South of France, Jonas finds himself liberating partridges, chasing his supermodel, and falling in love.
From bestselling author, Lily Morton, comes a romantic comedy set in the fast-paced and snarky world of modelling. This is the first book in the Model Agency series.
Lily is a bestselling gay romance author. She writes love stories filled with heat and humour.
She lives in sunny England with her husband and two children, all of whom claim that they haven't had a proper conversation with her since she got her Kindle.
Lily has spent her life with her head full of daydreams, and decided one day to just sit down and start writing about them. In the process she discovered that she actually loved writing, because how else would she get to spend her time with hot and funny men?
She loves chocolate and Baileys and the best of all creations - Chocolate Baileys.
Damien Murphy isn’t a detective, but he played one on T.V. once.
Blurb
Not everyone could say their luck started improving the day they got hit by a car, but not everyone was me. Which was good because one me is all the town of Lester Cove can handle.
Ever since, murder's been afoot and my new friend seems to be right in the thick of things. Mrs. Witte is a sweet older lady but she cannot keep herself from getting involved with the murder mystery, and her stepson Benjamin seems to think that’s somehow my fault.
Look, I’m just a washed up child star turned accidental pet sitter and sometimes plucky sidekick. I had nothing to do with the deaths that seem to be happening at an alarming rate, deaths Mrs. Witte wants me to help solve. Dealing with Ben's antipathy is on my list, right below cleaning up after a dead woman's dog.
Excerpt
Renee Rhodes was everything. She was the raspy voiced, designer dud wearing, theatrical queen I’d hoped she’d be in person.
It was like Liza Minnelli and Tyne Daly had somehow managed to have a baby then Tim Curry got involved somehow with Kander and Ebb doing the score and—
I stepped into the theater lobby which was all done up for the reception with swags of silver and gold bunting and huge (fake) flower arrangements in glossy black Art Deco style vases. I barely had time to take it in before Renee Rhodes, in all her elegant glory, came sweeping down on me from behind the buffet table, calling out in her kitschy Mid-Atlantic tones, “I was so worried you’d changed your mind! You’re late!”
Swept into a swirl of vintage Halston jersey, a heavy-handed application of Fracas with a soupcon of Bombay Sapphire cutting through it all, I couldn’t answer for fear of asphyxiating on either a mouthful of fabric or the fumes. She released me after a tight embrace and a waxy-lipped cheek kiss which I dutifully returned (sans waxy lips—my gloss was very light, thank you, and not at all sticky), she did that old person thing where they hold you at arm’s length and give you a look.
“I, ah, had car trouble outside of town. Something went kerflooey with the engine, I think. Or maybe the oil pan? I just know there was a lot of smoke.”
Ms. Rhodes tsked, looping her arm over my shoulder and giving me a tiny shake. “That’s why I went electric,” she pronounced. “It’s the only responsible way to get around these days, especially in a place like Lester Cove. No public transit, unless you count the ferry,” she added in a throaty stage whisper heard by pretty much everyone around us. “Now, come along, let me introduce you to the charming playwrights who’ve submitted their work for us to judge this weekend!” I had no choice but to follow her flowing jersey knit clad back towards the long refreshment table where she topped up her drink before gesturing towards the bottles in mute offer. I nodded, reaching for a wine glass before she stilled my hand and redirected it towards the stronger stuff.
“You’re gonna need it,” she muttered. “Have you read the packet of plays yet? It’s a lot.”
“I had the chance to look at some of the entries on the way here,” I said wincing at the sharp taste of the gin rickey she’d directed me towards. “They’re really engaging and—”
Ms. Rhodes snorted into her very full martini glass (the vermouth had been a mere whisper of an afterthought whisked away as soon as it entered her mind, apparently). “Most of them are amateurish, downright juvenile which isn’t surprising considering how Charlie treated the contest like some final exam for his students. The ones that aren’t high school efforts are so drab I wanted to scream, darling.” Something in my expression made her pause, offering me a small, not at all apologetic smile. “Forgive me. After years of being simply immersed in the craft, I find it’s hard to shake the inherent snobbery. I appreciate their enthusiasm, but they don’t understand theatre,” she said, this time keeping her voice low enough for just us two. The gala was more crowded than I’d anticipated for such a small town, the press of bodies dressed in everything from smart-casual wear to what looked like prom get-ups on some of the younger attendees forcing us to the side of the room, near a door discretely marked Box Office Management. “They crave it though. So many of them, especially the older generations, go all the way to the city for shows.”
“New York,” I murmured, not quite a question but laced with a bit of disbelief. New York was at least a half day’s drive from Lester Cove, quite a way to go for a play.
“Of course. I certainly don’t mean Bangor,” she tittered. “It’s a lovely city in its own right, but the theatre scene there is nothing like the city.” She exhaled gustily, pushing one of her brassy curls back from her eyes and glancing about, finding her angles before taking another sip of her gin, making sure she was displayed to her best advantage like a true professional. “Nothing is, really.”
“Renee!” A man giving young Kevin Kline vibes but when he was in In and Out, not A Fish Called Wanda, strode across the lobby towards us. Dressed in a wine-red three-piece suit, he stood out among the browns, navy and blacks peppering the crowd, though he didn’t seem bothered by the looks. In fact, he gave a few familiar nods and a quick smile or two on his way over before stopping short of Ms. Rhodes and folding his arms. “It’s been three months! I’ve been patient but--”
“Charlie! You absolute doll!” She leaned in and gave him a smacking kiss on each cheek. Charlie blushed and, somewhat awkwardly, returned the gesture, not quite meeting her skin but giving a little mwah sound.
A for effort, really.
“Damien, this is my dear old friend, Charlie Arnold. Well, old,” she tittered. “He’s a few years my junior but shhhh, don’t let on. Everyone thinks I’m at least ten years younger than I really am!”
I nodded, smiling. No one thought that, I was certain, but cultivating a certain mystique was so old Hollywood of her. “I’ll never tell.”
Charlie Arnold shifted a bit uncomfortably, tilting his head in the direction of the office behind us. “Do you have a moment? We need to talk about—”
“Now, Charlie darling, now is not the time,” Ms. Rhodes protested, patting his arm with the very tips of her brightly painted fingernails. “We’re in the midst of a gala!”
Charlie followed the direction of Ms. Rhodes’ waving arm. His lips tightened and shoulders stiffened as he turned back to face us. “That might well be, Renee, but the fact remains you made a promise—a legally binding promise—and—”
Ms. Rhodes’ smile was fixed and bright but distinctly unpleasant. “Charlie,” she gritted out. “This is not the time. Save your speeches for your students.”
“Renee,” Charlie said, straightening, shedding some of the deference he’d carried over just moments before, “you’ve been dodging me. Every planning meeting, every casual drinks evening, you’ve been avoiding the subject. It’s past time you dropped the charade.”
“You’re embarrassing me,” she whispered. “We’ll talk tomorrow!”.
“I’ve given you forty-odd years of tomorrow, Charlie and later, Charlie,” he snapped, “I’m tired of waiting, Renee. You owe me this much.”
“And,” she said, shooting me an apologetic eye roll, “we can talk tomorrow, Charlie. I assure you, you will not be disappointed.”
She gave his arm a firm pat then and, turning her back on him with a swish of jersey and perfume, took me by the elbow and steered me away from Charlie Arnold. “I’m so sorry about that little scene.” She sighed. “Charlie’s a dear old friend but he just can’t accept the fact some things are just done.”
“A lot of folks are upset about your retirement,” I demurred. “You’re quite the performer.”
She snorted delicately, giving me a nudge. “I’m an old broad who should’ve retired five years before I did,” she chided. “I just hung on because I wasn’t ready to admit my critics were right. I’d gotten to the point where I was just playing versions of myself, you know?”
My face warmed as I nodded. “I’m familiar with the feeling.”
About the Author
Meredith Spies (they/them/theirs) is a queer, nonbinary author who lives far away and writes queer-centered stories with romance in them and queer romances with stories in them. They believe that pineapple goes on pizza, that there’s no reason for open toed boots, and everyone deserves a happily ever after.
Blog Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: Dead Serious Case #3 Mr Bruce Reyes By Vawn Cassidy
Crawshank's Guide to the Recently Departed, Book 3
Tristan Everett was finally getting used to the strangeness that was his life. Being able to see the dead and helping them solve their unfinished business and cross into the light wasn’t so bad after all, especially when he was accompanied by his best friend, dead drag queen Dusty Le Frey. His boyfriend, sexy Scotland Yard detective Danny Hayes, now knew the truth about Tristan’s “gift,” and they were about to move in together officially.
Life was good.
That is until Death—honest to god, Death (aka The Grim Reaper)—pitches up in Tristan’s kitchen with an unusual request: stop Dusty’s ghostly hookup Bruce from crossing into the light, which may result in dire consequences. i.e an accidental apocalypse.
Determined to do the exact opposite, and avoid potentially the end of the world, Tristan and Danny assemble their own ragtag gang of one prickly witch, one snarky psychic private investigator, one living drag queen with an affinity for feathers, and one dead one with an affinity for a deceased rugby player in tiny shorts. Together they must solve a forty-year old cold case, while juggling a dose of the flu, a broken leg, a supernatural storm, and an immortal death deity with the looks and temperament of a sexy but grouchy CEO.
“I don’t like leaving you while you’re this sick though.” Danny frowns again. “Maybe I should call Chan? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on you until I get home.”
For a moment I almost say yes. The thought of Chan keeping me company if Danny can’t be here is very appealing. God, when did I get so needy? I’ve spent years on my own, having to take care of not only my dad but myself.
A resigned sigh escapes my lips. “Danny, I’m sick, not six. I don’t need a babysitter,” I say reluctantly. “Besides, she’s been rehearsing all week for her new number at The Rainbow Room, and as much as she loves me, I can’t imagine she’ll be happy if she catches the flu from me the day before opening night.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “But you’ll call me if you need anything? I can pop home during my lunch break.”
“No, don’t,” I croak, listening to the howl of the wind and the constant downpour outside the bedroom window. “It’s probably not a good idea to go out in the storm any more than you have to.”
“I’m going to get you some water and some paracetamol. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?”
“’Kay.” My eyes close.
The bed jiggles again as Danny stands, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the room. Gathering up what little strength I have, I push myself up and flop unceremoniously onto my back, reaching out with one hand and fumbling on the bedside table for the box of tissues.
There’s a loud clatter, causing me to open my eyes as I knock the lamp over and several items, probably including my glasses, tumble to the floor. Feeling my fingers graze the cardboard box, I grasp hold of it and pull it over.
A quiet whine of misery escapes my mouth as the change of position shifts the pressure in my sinuses. Giving up on trying to actually blow my nose, I settle for jamming a tissue up each nostril to stem the constant drip.
Leaving the tissue box sitting on my chest, my hand flops back onto the bed and I lay diagonally across the mattress like a starfish. My eyes drift closed again, and I feel the flutter of the tissues “against my top lip while my mouth hangs open so I can breathe.
Danny re-enters the room. As always, he has impeccable timing. “You have never looked more sexy.”
Enter the Giveaway:
To celebrate the release of Dead Serious 3, Vawn is giving away a signed paperback of the winner's choice from the Crawshanks Guide to the Recently Deceased Series!
Enter the Rafflecopter giveaway for your chance to win!
Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/cc0f2a57730/?
Go back to where it all began with Crawshank's Guide to the Recently Departed, Book 1
Tristan Everett had always preferred the company of the dead because they were quiet and didn’t talk back. As a slightly awkward introvert working as a pathologist at the Hackney Public Mortuary suited him just fine. That is, until a freak accident with a rogue ice cube and suddenly he can see ghosts. No longer content to just lie on the table and let him figure out how they died, they’re now peering over his shoulder critiquing his work and confessing their most lascivious sins before skipping off merrily into the afterlife.
Suddenly Tristan finds himself thrown into a world of sequins and fake eyelashes, and worse still, he may have developed a crush on Scotland Yard’s brand new drool-worthy detective, Inspector Danny Hayes, who's been assigned to Dusty’s murder. Oh, and the killer now wants him dead too...
All he ever wanted was a simple life but suddenly he’s juggling work, a deliciously sexy detective, a stubborn ghost and a relentless murderer... and things have just gotten dead serious….
Vawn Cassidy is an MM author living in the UK. She’s often known for her world building skills and sense of humor. She loves to write in different genres and has penned contemporary romance, paranormal mystery/romance and dark historical with a supernatural twist.
You can sign up to her mailing list by visiting her website, she can also be found on social media.
Release Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway: Where There's A Will By Anna Sparrows
Dads & Adagese, Book 1
...There's A Way.
Connor and Will are at vastly different points in their lives.
At 32, Connor Stark’s life is pretty great. With a handsome boyfriend, a thriving business as an Events Coordinator, and a vibrant social life set against the stunning backdrop of Australia’s Gold Coast, he has very few complaints. Hell, he even has eye candy in the form of his uniformed silver fox upstairs neighbour, not that he’d ever do anything more than perv on the guy.
Then one day tragedy strikes, and Connor is thrust into single parenthood as he is handed a newborn baby and what feels like zero lifelines.
Meanwhile, at 49, perpetually single firefighter Will Bradford’s life is also pretty great. Though his hair might be more silver than brown these days, he has a rewarding job, amazing grown-up kids, and an adorable downstairs neighbour he probably shouldn’t be checking out as often as he does. So sue him; he’s only human.
When Connor’s life is turned upside down overnight, Will finds himself helping the younger man navigate his new reality. He has no intention of falling butt over teakettle for Connor or his kid, but somehow it happens anyway.
With Connor a broken man, and Will concerned about restarting the whole parenting gig from scratch, how can they make a relationship work, especially when life seems intent on throwing even more hurdles their way?
I refuse to let Daisy help me carry anything down to the car, but she insists on at least bringing down some of the stuffed toys. So that’s what she does while I tried to lug the giant cot box into the lift and out to my car, having left the biggest, bulkiest item for last. I’m still struggling with it in the foyer of my apartment building when an amused, American-accented voice calls out, “Do you need a hand?” I turn to face the owner of the voice. I recognize him as our upstairs neighbour, though we haven’t really spoken, except to nod at each other in passing. He’s dressed in what appears to be part of a firefighter’s uniform. A tight black t-shirt and industrial cargo pants in that tell-tale mustard yellow colour, which are grease stained, hard-worn and insanely masculine, with thick red and grey suspenders hanging in loose loops from his narrow hips. This man is incredibly attractive. He’s got to be at least ten years my senior with his silver fox beard sharply trimmed, accenting his angular jawline and making those steely grey eyes pop. He has crow’s feet beside those intense eyes, belying how often he smiles, and dark hair atop his head, which is cropped neatly at the sides, but longer on top and wavy, with the most beautiful curl dangling over his forehead. This man is sin personified. I can’t help the way I take in those broad shoulders, the tapering of his form to his slim waist, and those thick, strong thighs. I want to climb him like a tree. “No,” I tell him, “I’ve got it. Thanks.” He comes to help me anyway, tucking his just-retrieved mail into the rear pocket of his pants before he lifts one end of the ridiculously heavy box like I might lift a pillow. The casual display of strength throws me off for a moment too long while I can’t help imagining what it might be like to be handled by someone so strong. These musings distract me so much that I miss him asking a question and Daisy has to say my name to get my attention. “Sorry,” I apologise, feeling my cheeks heat. Stupid pasty complexion. “What was that?” “I asked whether you’re moving out,” he says, sounding just as amused as he did a few moments ago. Once again, I’m enamoured by his accent. It doesn’t sound overly regional so, with my not-exactly-vast knowledge of American accents, I guess maybe he’s from California? Maybe? “Y’know, ‘cause we’re carrying this thing out instead of in.” “Oh,” I heft my end of the box to try and redistribute the weight, “No. I threw a shower for her in my apartment. I didn’t think this part of the plan through.” “Ironic,” Daisy taunts. “Shut up,” I respond. Sexy Fireman’s eyes seem to light with understanding as he looks between us. “Siblings?” he questions. Considering Daisy and I look nothing alike, and the age gap often throws people off, I’m impressed and I tell him so, craning my neck to look back over my shoulder as I back my end of the large box through the door that leads to the parking lot outside the complex. He chuckles, “Well, it’s like that between my kids.” Some part of my stomach drops a little as he mentions having kids, because that usually means a partner of some description. Not that I should care if he’s involved, considering I’m not single. Focus, Connor.
Enter the Giveaway:
To celebrate the release of Where There's A Will, Anna is giving away an e-copy of the release and a $10 Amazon Voucher!
Enter the Rafflecopter giveaway for your chance to win!
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About the Author
I’ve been writing* for as long as I can remember. I started with silly short stories as a kid, moved on to fanfiction in my teens (and still write it now), and am also a published MF romance author under a second pen name.
I have been an avid reader of MM romance my whole life. (Ask me about my beginnings with Buffy fanfic, haha.) I wrote a sweet and kinky MM romance novel in 2021 and the reader response changed my life. From there, I knew I had found my niche.
And thus Anna Sparrows was born.
*All of my writing is 100% my own. No part of it is generated by Artificial Intelligence (AI) software of any kind. Yes, that means that it’s sometimes flawed, but I’m okay with that.
Connect with Anna: https://annasparrows.com/newsletter-subscription/
A tired rock star and a judgemental gardener…what could possibly go wrong?
Blurb
The Purple Lizards are a rock world phenomenon, but lead singer Martin’s tired of his rock-and-roll persona. He’d rather be at home with his garden. When he gets home from tour he finds his gardener has had a heart attack and Simon, his grandson, is helping him out. Simon’s different to Fred. He talks, for a start. Martin and Fred have a perfectly functional friendship based on long silences and discussions about heritage vegetables. Simon talks about personal things as well. It makes Martin prickly. Simon’s at a bit of a loss. He stepped up to help his grandfather whilst he was in hospital despite his misgivings about the absent Martin. But Fred clearly likes him, which is unusual for a start. Fred prefers plants to people. That he actively likes a rock star who used to smash up hotel rooms is really strange. Simon’s reserving judgement. Apparently the band have a break in their tour coming up. He’ll see whether he can work for the man once he’s spent some time with him. A tired rock star and a judgemental gardener…what could possibly go wrong?
Excerpt
Chapter Three
It was a huge relief to finally be home, Martin thought, as he made his way back up to the house. He’d dumped his bags in the hall and gone straight out to find Fred for a dose of reality and to get some dirt on his fingers. Instead he’d found Simon and scared himself stupid for a moment, thinking something had happened to his old friend. He understood the impulse not to bother him whilst he was on tour…but it wasn’t as if a heart attack was a minor issue.
He stepped over his bags and went to put the kettle on and peer into the fridge. Simon had told him that Moira had furnished him with a shopping list and instructions in her absence. He seemed a really nice kid. Although…he wasn’t a kid, he must be as old as or older than Pete Heggarty, in his late twenties. Only ten or twelve years younger than Martin. And just as knowledgeable about plants and vegetables as Fred.
Kind, as well. He’d seen he’d given Martin a shock and done his best to cushion it after the fact. He’d been calm and competent and given Martin the space he’d needed to get himself together again. Martin appreciated that. He seemed to spend all his time this tour being the person who sorted things out and looked after other people. It had been nice to have someone else do that for him, however briefly.
Part of the shock had been finding out about Fred. But part of it had been a weird sort of paralysis as he took in the man standing before him. A bit taller than Martin with mousy-blonde hair, Simon had the most piercing, indigo-coloured eyes Martin had ever seen.
He wasn’t a believer in being struck dumb by desire…it was a ridiculous concept. But for a moment there…he’d almost believed it could happen. Simon’s eyes… And he was fit in the way someone who did manual work was fit. No gym-rat body, just all over tone from what Martin had seen through his T-shirt and jeans.
Martin didn’t bother fancying people. When he wanted sex, he went out to one of a few discreet clubs he was a member of and got what he needed from someone he trusted to give it to him with no strings attached. Outside of that…he switched it off. His wiring wasn’t exactly straightforward, he knew. Outside the bedroom, he was a perfectly normal bloke. But inside, once the door closed, the temptation to give up control to his partner was always there. Given his choice of career…casual encounters were risky. It wasn’t that he never had them. But increasingly it felt like there was a disconnect between his sex life and who he was the rest of the time.
The last time he’d dated seriously had been more than a decade ago and although it hadn’t been a disaster, it had petered out into nothing with them both wanting different things in and out of bed. A couple of casual encounters where he’d felt too vulnerable and as if he was giving too much of himself away and he’d started seriously compartmentalising.
And so there he was in the greenhouse, startled into silence by his new employee’s indigo eyes and a conversation about heritage aubergines. He laughed at himself as he got out the makings of a ham sandwich. He should go and see Fred after he had something to eat. Simon had said he was champing at the bit with frustration, wanting to come back to work. Far too soon, the doctors—and Moira, who was the one who really counted—had said. But perhaps one of them could drive him up and he could sit down and supervise—code for boss about—Simon and Martin as they got to grips with whatever needed to be done.
Martin didn’t think Simon needed much supervision, to be honest. He didn’t either these days. He liked working with Fred. They’d fallen into a kind of silent harmony over the years. Martin told him a bit about the weird shit that happened on tour—he’d been looking forward to sharing the saga of Ken’s attempted blackmail and how it had backfired on him so badly. And telling him about how he’d found out Pete Heggarty slept with his violin.
He didn’t know whether he’d want to chat with Simon like that…but having another person around who was interested in the garden and the project itself was intriguing.
He hadn’t felt intrigued with anything for quite a while.
About the Author
I’m a writer of MM Romance! The Rockstar Series is coming this summer. If you like to read spicy MM stories about vulnerable guys looking for love, I’ll have you covered.
A treaty between three warring realms calls for a mass wedding ceremony amongst their eligible princes and princesses to solidify the peace. But since the number of males and females differ, one of the marriages must be between two of the princes.
Prince Obren of Canna draws the short straw, sealing his fate, and Prince Dukan of Butari volunteers to be the other half of the nontraditional marriage. The two princes fought nobly in the years-long war and are willing to do whatever it takes to finalize the treaty, ending the conflict that took the lives of their loved ones…Obren’s brother and Dukan’s lover.
Each harbors a dark secret, and King Rogan of Canna has long nurtured a deep hatred of Obren, blaming him for bringing home the deadly virus responsible for the untimely death of his much-adored wife. Obren and Dukan can’t deny their chemistry, but can they overcome the ugly truths complicating their path to a friendly, respectful, and—dare they hope—loving relationship? Will King Rogan stop at nothing to dash Obren’s chance at happiness, or does that short straw represent good luck, after all?
Interview Questions for
ADDISON ALLBRIGHT
Hello! Thank you so much, Lillian, for having me on your lovely blog today! I’m thrill to be out celebrating my first release (not counting a box set compilation) in two years! Real life got in the way of writing/blogging, as it can do sometimes, but I think I’ve got my muse kicked back into gear now. 😊
How long have you been an author?
A couple months ago I celebrated my 15-year pubversary (publiversary?). I started out publishing at the now-defunct Torquere Press. Then I had one book published at the also-now-defunct Loose ID. That was all in 2008 and 2009. Then real life got in the way and I got completely away from writing for a number of years, and when I was ready to come back, it was a whole new ballgame. But, I started publishing again in 2016, this time at JMS Books, where I’ve been ever since.
Tell us about your new release. What inspired you to write it?
Ah, the inspiration is easy. This month (July 2023) is JMS Books’ 13 year anniversary, and J.M. put out a call for stories with the word “luck” in the title and that theme playing a part in the story. After getting a good title idea, I got to thinking about luck…good luck or bad luck? Or…he thinks it’s bad luck but in the end it turns out to be good luck after all? Originally, I thought this would be a short story. Then once I got going, I though…hmm, maybe it’ll be a novelette! Turned out to be solidly in the novella range. I’m a pantser, and I kept getting ideas for more drama to throw at the guys.
How did you decide on the title?
I went to a website that lists out idioms using certain words and looked over the offerings for “luck,” since that was a requirement for my publisher’s call. I decided on Luck of the Draw, since that gave me a little more inspiration on what, specifically, would transpire at the beginning of the story (drawing straws).
What is the hardest part of writing any book?
For me, it’s the ideas. Ideas for filling out the basic premise I start with come to me as I write, but that often takes time, and I end up being such a slow writer! Once I’ve got things sorted out in my head, the story flows better.
Do you have genres you prefer reading, and if so what are they?
I like a wide variety. Everything from contemporary, historical, mystery, fantasy, and paranormal to science fiction. I suppose I might get into a groove with one or another from time to time, but I always go back to the variety.
What book/s are you reading at the moment?
At the time of filling this out (about a month before the blog tour), I just finished reading books 6 and 7 in Josh Lanyon’s Secrets and Scrabble series (Lament at Loon Landing, and Death at the Deep Dive). I adore that series!
What novels do you adore/re-read?
Lots! I’m a big re-reader. I’ll hit on a few of my tippy-top faves from various genres here. Contemporary: quite a few from the aforementioned Josh Lanyon, but my fave from Josh would be the Adrien English Mysteries. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve reread those. Paranormal: The Plumber’s Mate Mysteries by JL Merrow. OMG, I love that series so hard! Historical: Eleventh Hour by Elin Gregory, an absolutely wonderful story. Science Fiction: Earth Fathers Are Weird series by Lyn Gala, which is so much fun. I’ve re-read each of these multiple times.
Do you have a favourite character and/or book you've written? Who, what and why?
This changes now and then, perhaps depending on my mood at the time, but I frequently say To Love and To Cherish. Even after six years it still stands out as a fave to me. Besides the fun storyline, I think Nash from that book might be my overall fave character, which keeps that book in the running as my fave. I mean, no matter how much I like my other story ideas, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to top marriage of convenience complicated by amnesia.
Are you a panster or a plotter?
Pantser. Or perhaps more accurately, a plantser? I used to be more pure pantser, but nowadays I like to have at least the gist of the story in mind before I start, but the details never emerge until I’m writing, and that often steers me in a different direction.
How often do you write? Do you have a schedule?
I write when I feel like it (when the muse is functioning). No…no schedule. I try to avoid signing up for anything with a deadline (LOL…like I did with Luck of the Draw, although at least I had a good long time for it). I’m not a fan of working under pressure, and the muse can’t be forced. If the words come, they come. If they don’t, they don’t (I feel like I’m channelling Yogi Berra with that comment).
If you were stranded on a desert island, what three things (or people) would you want there with you?
Bwahahaha…If I can go with fictional characters, I’ll go with people instead of things. The three people I stranded on a desert island for years in ’Til Death Do Us Part since they each had skills and/or knowledge that contributed to their survival. I could just do whatever those three tell me to do and not worry about figuring it out for myself (although, having researched the book, I might have a few ideas).
Thanks so much for having me on your wonderful blog today! I’ll leave you with a quick link. I’ve created a handy list on Books2Read with all my books organized by different categories for readers’ convenience:
Obren, a prince of Canna, had drawn straws many times in the past, but never had the stakes been so high. This time it was not about who would go first or last either in childhood games of years gone by, or in sexual liaisons from more recent years. It was not about who would help pitch the army tents versus dig the holes for the latrine. Or fill them in, later, when breaking camp.
This time, the rest of his life was at stake. Not life or death itself, but the direction his life would follow and its potential to bring him happiness.
Obren’s stomach twisted into a knot as his father, King Rogan of Canna, offered his closed fist. Obren drew in a deep breath, understanding, to the marrow of his bones, that any plea to avoid this choice was pointless. A straw must be drawn, and as the older of the two brothers, he would draw first.
Not that the order of drawing mattered. Whether or not he drew the short straw would be down to luck. The luck of the draw would decide his life’s path. His hand twitched as he checked a nervous impulse to smooth down his already neatly styled blond hair.
Obren closed his eyes, shut out the sounds of his father’s heavy breathing, and focused on preventing the quiver building in his gut from reaching his hand as he lifted it. He paused and opened his eyes. Was there any possible stratagem he could employ to boost his chances?
“Just pick one,” Lale hissed. “Let’s get this over with.” Lale, being Obren’s younger brother, was as invested in the outcome as was Obren.
Obren swallowed, squared his shoulders, and snatched one of the two straws sticking up from Father’s fist. He stepped back and stared at the stick, but it gave him no information.
No useful information, anyway. Length could be both absolute and relative. He could see that the absolute length of his straw was about six knuckles long. But it was the length relative to the straw remaining in Father’s hand that would give the answer.
Lale strode swiftly forward and grabbed the remaining straw. The brothers stood staring at one another for ten solid beats before slowly raising their hands to compare straws.
Obren stared blankly at them, but it was the slow grin spreading across Lale’s face that came into focus first. Lale held the longer of the two.
Heat suffused Obren’s face as he snapped his straw in half and let the two pieces drop to the floor.
“Enough of that.” The king used his regal tone, usually reserved for court. “You will do your duty, and you will do it without displays that should have been left behind when you graduated out of the nursery.”
Obren clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t say anything more, but his mouth ran on unheeded. “I’m older. It wouldn’t have been out of order for you to have decided based upon our ages.”
“Your sisters are older still. You’re not even the spare, let alone the heir. You don’t matter.”
Lale snorted, and Obren shot a glare in his direction. But Lale was looking at their father with an unwise expression of disgust. The snort hadn’t been directed at Obren; it had been in response to Father’s unkind remark about both of their worth.
Obren softened his own expression, and when Lale returned his gaze to Obren, Lale swallowed, and said, “Obren’s right. Neither of us wants this, of course, but it should be me.”
The two brothers had never been the best of friends. Their personalities didn’t align well for that. But they’d always felt the bond of brotherhood, and here, Lale probably felt a sense of duty to repay Obren for saving his life amidst a fierce battle in the final year of the war.
Obren wasn’t entirely sure if his conscience would have allowed him to let Lale take this burden upon himself after winning the draw—probably not, impulsive comment notwithstanding—but that option wasn’t on the table. “Nonsense. The selection was fairly made,” the king said with a glare of his own directed at Obren. “I expect you to behave like a rational adult at both the reunion dinner this evening and the ball tomorrow night.”
Obren held in his retort and gave a curt nod before turning on his heel and striding, with as much dignity as he could muster, from the room.
Anger roiled through his belly as he raced through the castle hallways to his suite of rooms. His footsteps clicked on the stone floor and echoed through the empty passages. A lingering whiff of the sausages they’d eaten at breakfast still hung in the air.
It was an understatement to say that Father preferred Lale. Had done since Obren had been a schoolboy. In fact, Obren wouldn’t be surprised to learn if Father had somehow manipulated the straws to ensure Obren picked the shorter of the two.
Father had never forgiven him for his mother’s death. As if Obren had deliberately caught the jumping spotty fever. He certainly hadn’t been aware enough during the height of his illness to influence his mother to stay away from him. She’d nursed him, as a loving mother would do, and she’d become ill herself, succumbing to the disease whereas Obren had recovered.
Once in his suite, he flopped face down onto the bed and screamed into his pillow.
About the Author
Rainbow Award winning author Addison Albright lives smack dab in the middle of the USA. Her stories are gay romance in contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, and science fiction genres. She generally adds a subtle touch of humor, a dash of drama/angst, and a sprinkle of slice-of-life to her stories. Her education includes a BS in Education with a major in mathematics and a minor in chemistry. Addison loves spending time with her family, reading, popcorn, boating, French fries, “open window weather,” cats, math, and anything chocolate. She loves to read pretty much anything and everything, anytime and anywhere.
About Lily:
