#BookBlitz #Excerpt #PittyParty #WhitneyDineen #XpressoTours

 

Pity Party
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series, #2)
Publication date: September 26th 2023
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Melissa

I should have used my college degree to become a lawyer, politician, or heck, even a Time Lord—hey, it worked for Dr. Who. But no, I had to own a bridal boutique. Turns out that’s a terrible idea for someone with my lousy dating history.

Every day, I’m surrounded by the trappings of the perfect wedding, and I’m starting to resent all the smug almost-marrieds. I shouldn’t want to throat punch the brides, right?

Then Jamie Riordan moves to Elk Lake with his twelve-year-old daughter. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a guy—tall, gorgeous, successful, and clearly devoted to his kid.

Too bad his grumpy highness wants nothing to do with me.

I may not be his dream girl, but does he have to be so insulting about letting me know?

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“Your total is two thousand forty-eight dollars,” I tell the beaming bride-to-be who’s nearly blinding me with her over-the-top white teeth. She’s like Ross Geller from that one episode of Friends.

I used to dream of being just like her—hopeful, excited, no visible baby bump while planning my impending nuptials. Unfortunately, life has kicked me in the teeth often enough that I’m slowly stepping away from that fantasy. Instead, I’m focusing on the fact that women like her are probably more stressed out than your average sky diver during a tornado. Will he say yes? Does his mother hate me as much as I think she does? Should we really be spending this kind of money on one party? And the most important—Does he know I was serious when I said I don’t clean toilets? The list goes on and on.

“You’re the best, Melissa!” the petite blonde with the unnatural orange tan gushes. She says this like I just brought her bail money at two in the morning. As she hands me her credit card, she adds, “You must love owning a bridal shop! I mean, could there be a better job?”

I didn’t think so ten years ago when I became my mom’s partner at Bride’s Paradise. I had recently graduated from college and was so full of hope and anticipation about my own wedding I couldn’t imagine anything better. Not that I was engaged or even dating anyone at the time, but I was raised on television shows like Say Yes to the Dress, Bridezilla, and David Tutera’s My Fair Wedding. I’d fantasized about my big day for over a decade at that point.

For a generation that is meant to believe there’s more to life than marriage, we sure spend a lot of time dreaming about it. Being fed a constant visual diet of what our big day is supposed to look like wreaks havoc with expectations. Somehow a wedding has become more about the show and what we wear than about true love.

Had I only gotten hooked on Law and Order or Dr. Who, I might have become a lawyer or even a Time Lord. Note to self: investigate the kind of credentials needed to become a Time Lord.

I hand the credit card back to Brooklyn as her wedding party circles around her. Her maid of honor squeals—loudly—“Oh, my GOD, Brook! This is it!! You said yes to the dress!” We’ve already taken pictures with the requisite signage and hashtags to ensure that everyone the bride has ever met will know where she bought her gown. Hashtags are the backbone of my business. #BridesParadise #ElkLakeWisconsinWeddings #LoveIsInTheAir #ImSoSickOfMyJobICouldSpit

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries -- not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #EverythingsFine #CeciliaRabes #XpressoTours

 

Everything’s Fine
Cecilia Rabess
Publication date: June 6th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

“Extraordinarily brave…plain funny as hell, too.” —Zakiya Dalila Harris, New York Times bestselling author of The Other Black Girl

“A subtle, ironic, wise, state-of-the-nation novel, sharp enough to draw blood, hidden inside a moving, intimate, sincere and very real love story–or vice versa.” —Nick Hornby

On Jess’s first day at Goldman Sachs, she’s less than thrilled to learn she’ll be on the same team as Josh, her white, conservative sparring partner from college. Josh loves playing the devil’s advocate and is just…the worst.

But when Jess finds herself the sole Black woman on the floor, overlooked and underestimated, it’s Josh who shows up for her in surprising—if imperfect—ways. Before long, an unlikely friendship—one tinged with undeniable chemistry—forms between the two. A friendship that gradually, and then suddenly, turns into an electrifying romance that shocks them both.

Despite their differences, the force of their attraction propels the relationship forward, and Jess begins to question whether it’s more important to be happy than right. But then it’s 2016, and the cultural and political landscape shifts underneath them. And Jess, who is just beginning to discover who she is and who she has the right to be, is forced to ask herself what she’s willing to compromise for love and whether, in fact, everything’s fine.

A stunning debut that introduces Cecilia Rabess as a blazing new talent, Everything’s Fine is a poignant and sharp novel that doesn’t just ask will they, but…should they?

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Chapter 11

Jess’s first day of work, the first day of the rest of her life. Into the elevator and up to the twentieth floor, where the doors open with a little whoosh.

The entire building smells like money.

She receives a small plaque with her name printed in all caps: JESSICA JONES, INVESTMENT BANKING ANALYST. Then mintroductions—the other analysts on the team: Brad and John and Rich and Tom, or maybe it’s Rich and Tom and Brad and John—and also Josh, who Jess remembers from college.

“Hey,” she says, “it’s you!”

He looks up from his desk—he is already installed at a workstation, looking busy and important—but his face is blank.

They had a class together last year and Jess remembers him, because he was the worst.

“Jess?” she offers. “From school?”
He blinks.
“We had a class together?” she tries again. “Supreme Court Topics?”
He just looks at her, saying nothing. Is it possible she has something on her face? “With Smithson? Fall semes—”
“I remember you,” he says. And then promptly swivels in his chair.
Cool, Jess thinks. Nice catching up.
She starts to go.
“You know,” he says, not turning, “I knew you’d been assigned to this desk.”
Jess stops. “Oh, really?”

He nods—the back of his head—“I worked with these guys when I was here last summer. And I graduated off-cycle, so I’ve been back since January.” He pauses. “They asked me about you.”

“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What! Why didn’t you tell them I was amazing?”
“Because,” he says, finally turning to look at her, “I’m not convinced you are amazing.”

The first time Jess met Josh, it was fall of their freshman year. November. The night of the 2008 election. All day the campus had pulsated. History in the making. Around eleven the election was called and Jess emerged stunned and delirious onto the quad, which had erupted into something like a music festival. Students spilled out into the night cheering and hugging. Car horns honked. Someone screamed woot woot and, somewhere, a trombone, brimming with pathos, played a slow scale.

Jess had the feeling she had been shot out of a cannon; she was blinking into the moonlight when a couple of reporters from the school paper stopped her. They were compiling quotes from students on the eve of this historic moment. Did she have a minute to share her feelings, and would she mind if they took her photo? Jess said sure, even though the air was crackling and she wanted to weep.

The reporter’s pencil was poised. “Whenever you’re ready.” What could she possibly say? There were no words.

“I’m just… I’m just… fucking ecstatic! Is this even real? And now I’m probably going to go have, like, thirty shots—no, fifty!—because that’s more patriotic!”

The student reporter looked up from his mini legal pad. “End quote?” “Wait, no! Don’t write that!”
“What do you want to say?”

Jess thought about it, collected herself. Imagined her dad reading her words. Her dad, who she’d spoken to just hours ago, and whose reaction to the early returns—Ohio and Florida were set to break for Obama—was to pour himself another Coke and say: “Well, Jessie, I’ll be darned.”

She started over. “I feel the weight of history tonight. To cast my very first vote for our nation’s very first Black president is such an awesome privilege. A privilege that my ancestors, slaves, did not share. Standing on the shoulders of so much strength and sacrifice, I’ve never felt more humbled or hopeful.”

“That’s great,” the reporter said. “Now just stand over there and we’ll take your shot.”

Jess took a step to the left and watched as the reporter approached another student. A sandy-haired freshman wearing chinos and a collared shirt.

The photographer said to Jess, “Look this way. On the count of three.”

And the reporter said to the boy in business casual, “How are you feeling about the election?”

Jess turned to the camera and smiled.

The guy in chinos turned to the reporter and said, “Everyone seems to forget that we’re in the middle of a financial crisis. The stock market is in free fall. Gas is four dollars a gallon. So I’m not convinced that now is the right time to entrust another tax-and-spend liberal with the economy,” he shrugged, “but I guess I can see the appeal.”

Jess, aghast, turned to give him a dirty look, her smile dropping just as the flash popped.

The next day she was on the front page of the school newspaper under a headline that read STUDENTS REACT TO OBAMA’S HISTORIC WIN.

The picture was good—the angle, the moonlight, her face radiating quiet wonder—and that, plus the gravitas of the moment, made Jess feel like this was something she would show to her children and their children one day.

There was only one problem.

The paper had spoken to ten students, a grid of two-by-two photos and quotes, names and graduation years printed below. But there were only two faces above the fold. There was Jess, but also the guy in the collared shirt, with his terrible quote. Jess’s friends agreed that it was a stupid thing to say. Miky, who lived across the hall, said, “Who pissed in his Cheerios?” And Jess’s roommate, Lydia, peered at the photo and declared: “He looks boring.”

Still, Lydia tacked the paper to the outside of their door. With a marker, she drew a frame of hearts and stars around Jess’s face. But there was no way to accordion the paper so that only her picture appeared. It cut off the text strangely and warped her smile. It was impossible to see Jess without seeing Josh. Eventually Miky took a Sharpie and drew devil ears and a weird mustache across his face, and that was better.

Eventually the tack hardened and the paper fluttered to the floor. At that point it was the spring semester and the hallway had devolved into a persistent, low-grade chaos: crushed pizza boxes, twisted extension cords, a mysterious pair of men’s underwear. And when the cleaning crew cleared out the dormitory between the spring and summer sessions, they swept everything, including that momentous reminder, into the trash.

But until that happened, Jess could return to her room each day and see the newspaper, like a talisman, stuck to her door, emanating strength and inspiration, and when she looked at it, she would think: We are standing at the precipice of a bright new world, hopeful and resolute, knocking on the door of progress, with the conviction of what’s on the other side.

And then she would slide her eyes to the right, to the photo of JOSH HILLYER ’12 and his terrible quote, and she would think: Asshole!

Brad and John and Rich and Tom’s and Josh’s desks are all arranged in a tight semicircle around a dirty carpet in the center of the room. In the bullpen, they are packed like sardines, swimming in pitchbooks and gym bags and coffee cups, so there is no space for Jess.

“We’ve got you over here,” Charles says. He is the most senior associate on the team, and Jess can tell he’s in charge because he wears his tie the loosest and calls everyone by their last name. Even more senior is Blaine, the team’s managing director, but he can’t be bothered to meet her.

Charles leads her to a row of desks along the wall. By now, after the all-day orientation, it’s after five, but the office is still buzzing. Still, the seat that Charles points to and all the ones that surround it are empty. The desks, though, are covered in equipment, telephones and Bloomberg Terminals and digital handsets.

Traders, Jess guesses.

Traders are the first ones in and the first ones out. When the market closes their day is done. Jess feels a tingle of excitement. The traders are loud and potty-mouthed and wear hideous pinstripe suits. The investment bankers, on the other hand, are nasty but

humorless. Jess might have liked to be a trader but had missed the deadline to apply. Maybe this is a sign, an opportunity.

She imagines herself shouting orders into a phone, telling someone to go fuck themselves when she doesn’t like a price.

“So this is where the traders sit?”

Charles blinks. “No, not exactly.”

“Then what’s with all the telephones?”

“Switchboard,” Charles says. “Secretaries and stuff. You know, ‘Goldman Sachs, how may I direct your call?’ Switchboard,” he repeats. “Secretaries.”

“Oh.”
He pauses. “Yeah.”

By the end of her first month, Jess can say How may I direct your call? in four languages and she still hasn’t been assigned any real work. Her back is to the bullpen, but whenever she looks over, the other analysts appear to be chained to their chairs, heads bent over their desks, doing God’s work.

Jess is doing nothing.

It doesn’t help that when the bankers shout for coffee orders or someone to run to the copy shop, they do it in her general direction: a secretary is a secretary, even when she’s actually an analyst.

Just yesterday a harried-looking senior associate asked her to pick up a suit from the dry cleaner’s downstairs.

“Oh, I’m actually an analyst.”
He stared.
“So, I think maybe you should ask one of the admins?”

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, handing her his bright pink ticket. “Look, can you just help me out?”

She said she couldn’t, but then hid in the bathroom for fifteen minutes so that he wouldn’t see she had nothing else to do.

Jess begs Charles for something to do.

She reads an article about women and work. It says: “It is incumbent upon females in male-dominated workplaces to create their own opportunities for development.”

She says to Charles, “It is incumbent upon females in male-dominated workplaces to create their own opportunities for development.”

He squints.

“And so I was hoping you could help me. Create an opportunity? Like, give me something to work on?”

Miky sends Jess a link to a video of Nicolas Cage superimposed on a teenage girl’s body, wearing white panties and a tank top, swinging from a giant cement wrecking ball.

Jess clicks on it.
Charles walks by her desk right then and says, “I see.”
Later, he drops a stack of public information books on her desk. “Jones,” he says, “I need some numbers.”
“Great.”

“Should be pretty straightforward,” he says, flipping through one of the books. “If you log in to the server, you’ll see we’ve already got a template. I just need you to tune the model and run a few different comps. Got it?”

“Got it.” Jess eyes the stack of books. “When do you need this by?”

Charles says, “Yesterday.”

It doesn’t occur to Jess that she has no idea what she’s doing until it’s too late to ask for help. The only person who offers is Josh, though not because he actually wants to help, but because he is her buddy.

On her second day he appeared at her desk.

“Hey, Jess.”

She spun around so that she was face-to-face with his waist. “Josh, hey.”

“I’m your buddy,” he said.

“Excuse me?” she said, to his belt.

“Your buddy,” he said.

She pumped the lever on the side of her chair and dropped three inches in her seat. Her face was still uncomfortably close to his crotch so she stood.

“So what does that mean? You’re my buddy?”

“I’ve been assigned to help you. To answer questions if you have them,” he shrugged. “They try to pair every first-year analyst with a second-year analyst, kind of like a mentor. They picked me for you. Probably because we’re from the same undergrad.”

“But you’re not a second-year analyst.”

“Close enough,” he said. “Anyway, I’m here.” And then he walked away.

Now every night before he leaves, if it’s before she does, he asks if there is anything she needs help with. But he’s always holding his phone and his bag and wearing his jacket, and his corporate badge is already in his pocket, so that Jess can tell he doesn’t mean it. It’s just something to say and, anyway, her desk is right next to the elevator.

Of course she needs help, has questions. How is a debt capacity model different from a credit risk analysis? How does the federal funds rate affect LIBOR? How come her key card doesn’t work at the gym on the first floor?

But he is the last person she wants to ask. She can tell he thinks she’s an idiot, that she doesn’t belong here. She catches him sometimes, looking at her sideways. Interested but unimpressed. Like he’s waiting for her to mess up.

Plus, he’d already made his feelings clear.

That class they’d had together senior year: Supreme Court Topics. Each week they debated a different landmark decision, and someone was always shouting. Or sharing a

pointless personal anecdote. Or invoking the founding fathers to prove a stupid point. Jess hated it, but it fulfilled the undergraduate Law & Society requirement.

They sat around a big wooden table that was meant to foster “active dialogue,” and the discussion was student-led, the format purposefully discursive, so that even if one day, for example, the syllabus said Grutter v. Bollinger: Affirmative Action, they might spend half the class arguing about basketball and standardized tests until someone groaned: “Is anyone else completely bored of this debate?”

It was the guy from Jess’s door, JOSH HILLYER ’12, who cared about the price of gas and hated Barack Obama. Who Jess had managed to avoid since freshman year, but who had reappeared three years later. Still with the newscaster hair and the terrible takes.

Jess had turned and glared. Not because she wasn’t also bored of the debate, but because she knew he was bored for the Wrong Reasons. He’d said what he said on the front page of the school paper, but it wasn’t just that: it was everything about him. His Choate sweatshirt, for example, which made Jess think of lawns and regattas and gin cocktails and haughty blondes. And there was something about his face. It had been there in the school paper, that something, but the effect was more pronounced in real life.

He looked like what a fifth grader might come up with if asked to draw a man, all even lines and uncomplicated symmetry. Square jaw, blue eyes. Like someone to whom life had been incredibly kind. Like a guy from an old sitcom who condescended to his wife.

“It’s 2011,” Josh had argued, “why are we still having this debate? How does throwing open the doors to elite universities fix discrimination? The problem is broken homes and blighted communities. That’s where policy interventions should start. In homes, in neighborhoods, in schools.”

“This is a school,” Jess had pointed out.
“Whatever,” another classmate said. “It’s reverse racism.”
And Jess had said, “If that were a thing!”
Another classmate: “People shouldn’t get into college just because they’re Black.”

“Sure,” Jess replied, “because my college application was just the words ‘I’m Black’ repeated one thousand times.”

Someone else clarified, “I think his point is that we shouldn’t take race into account at all.”

“Exactly. Affirmative action isn’t fair.”

“It’s not meritocratic.”

“It’s not constitutional.”

“It is kind of outrageous that there’s essentially a double standard based on, you know, melanin.”

“What about the double standard for athletes and legacies!” Jess’s heart was pounding; she felt a little wild-eyed. “Isn’t that the outrage?” She searched the room—for what? For someone who might agree with her? That wasn’t going to happen. They would make their dispassionate arguments, and when class was over they would calmly pack their textbooks away and Jess would be the only one who’d felt like she’d been kicked in the teeth repeatedly.

She took a breath. “My point is just that anyone with a squash racquet or a trust fund is automatically exempt from scrutiny. No one’s asking if they’re qualified. Why?”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.” “Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it—!”

The professor cleared his throat. “Let’s bring it back to the case at hand. Was Grutter’s claim valid? Or was the court’s decision, on balance, unconstitutional?”

Jess sighed and sat back.
To her right, Josh leaned close.

He whispered, “Is that really your argument? That legacies and affirmative action are the same thing? I mean… really?”

Jess had ignored him and pretended to pay attention as someone prattled on about why it didn’t make sense for universities to “lower the bar.”

Josh slid his elbows over the table so that his clasped hands rested on Jess’s notebook. So that she could smell the fabric softener on his sleeves. “Come on,” he had said, his voice low. “I don’t believe you believe that.”

Jess had picked up her pen, drawn a series of squiggles and spirals in the upper right corner of her notebook. Avoided eye contact.

“At least you see how it’s a false equivalence, right? You do see that, don’t you?”

All Jess saw was his pale wrists, the titanium watch ticking silently. His father had probably given it to him on his eighteenth birthday. Along with a fifty-year-old bottle of scotch and the passwords to all the brokerage accounts.

Jess didn’t reply.

He leaned closer. “So you really think relaxing admissions standards for ‘underrepresented minorities’?”—here he used air quotes, which confirmed for Jess that, yes, he was the worst—“is an acceptable mechanism by which to achieve”—more air quotes—“?‘equality?’?”

This was why Jess hated Law & Society. It was always the same story: oppressed peoples, willful misrememberings of history, a whiff of white supremacy. Unlike calculus or economics, in which the professor silently scratched out the answers at the front of the lecture hall, and in which there was rarely controversy—unless someone got started on infinity!—in these liberal arts classes people insisted on shouting out their opinions, no matter how unseemly. It was a lot to endure for a couple of college credits. Yet here she was.

And there he was. Breathing. Staring. Forcing her to engage. Emanating smug entitlement. Waiting.

“So you really believe that having a certain skin color is as good as possessing some demonstrable skill or talent?” He shook his head. “Seriously?”

Why couldn’t he just go polish his watch and leave her be?

But he wouldn’t let it go. He kept shaking his head, saying, “I don’t believe you believe that,” until Jess said: “Josh?”

He leaned toward her, expectant, and Jess tugged her notebook from under his wrists. “You’re on my notes.”

He seemed momentarily startled but was undeterred. “You realize you’re essentially arguing that ‘diversity’ matters more than merit.”

She was losing patience. “Well, you’re arguing that swinging a squash racquet is equivalent to four hundred years of slavery and systemic inequality!”

Around the table conversation stopped.

Everyone looked over. It occurred to Jess that she wasn’t exactly whispering, wasn’t even really using her indoor voice anymore.

The professor frowned. “Jess? Did you have something to add?”

This always happened: She got sucked in. When she would rather say nothing, just sit quietly playing number puzzles on her phone under the table.

At the same time she accepted, begrudgingly anyway, that it was her responsibility to Say Something. This Jess had learned from her father, who, throughout her Nebraska childhood, seemed perpetually to be saying something. Demanding that the Walmart manager stock multicultural dolls while Jess stood behind him, mortified. Driving across state lines at Christmas to find the only Black Santa in the Great Plains. Pestering the principal about the lack of books about Black history in the school library.

He was doing his best, Jess knew. Compensating, probably, for the fact that her mom had died when Jess was a baby. But sometimes she wondered why he bothered. Wouldn’t it have been easier to move? Instead of yelling at her teachers for fucking up the Civil War unit? Or buying knockoff Barbies? All she had wanted was to fit in, not to read another children’s biography of Dr. Martin Luther King.

Not to have to whisper-fight with Josh, in his prep school sweatshirt with his newscaster hair; not to have to defend herself, her race, her right to be there.

Later that night, at the bar where everyone went, he tracked her down and dragged her back into the conversation. It was nine o’clock and everyone was drunk. Avenue Tavern had sticky floors and a sign above the door that said FREE BEER TOMORROW. Fifteen dollars and a fake ID bought twenty-five-cent well drinks all night long.

Jess had drunk cranberry vodkas until she ran out of quarters and when the room started spinning she found an empty booth near the bathroom. She had only been there for a minute when she felt a depression in the fabric. A body next to hers. She had opened one eye, cocked her head slightly.

“Jess, right?”—it was him—“Josh,” he introduced himself, formally, sticking out his hand. She ignored it, closed her eyes again, hoping he’d go away.
But he didn’t. She could hear him rattling ice around in his drink.
“So,” he said, “your argument in class today was pretty thin.”

Jess said nothing, slid a little bit lower in her seat.

Josh ignored her ignoring him, pressed on. “As a direct beneficiary of affirmative action I see why you’d want to defend it. I get it, I do. But you can’t really believe, I mean intellectually not emotionally, that relaxing admissions standards is an appropriate mechanism by which to address systemic inequality. Sending kids to schools that they’re not qualified to attend? That’s helping? Besides, it’s completely unenforceable. I mean the real problem with inequality in this country has nothing to do with race, right? It has to do with class. How is it fair that a rich African American kid with mediocre grades and test scores gets preference over some poor kid from Appalachia who’s had even less in life?”

“So, you’re asking me, the expert”—Jess finally opened her eyes—“why we don’t have affirmative action for poor white people?”

He nodded. “I mean that’s fairly reductive, and I sense some sarcasm, but yes, I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“My thoughts are”—she took a sip from her drink, melted ice that tasted of metal—“fuck you.”

He shook his head. “It’s like pulling teeth, trying to have an honest intellectual conversation with anyone at this school.”

“Maybe you’d be happier at Appalachia State.” “Funny,” he said, and got up.
But then he was back.

“Here.” He pushed a glass of water at her and Jess had to make an effort not to say thank you.

“So,” he said, one arm slung over the banquette, “what are you doing next year?” “What?”
“After graduation. I’m working at Goldman Sachs. You?”
“Oh.” Jess shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Really? You don’t have anything lined up?”

Jess shrugged again. “Maybe a nonprofit that does something with kids. Or an art gallery.” That was her roommate Lydia’s plan. Rent an apartment in the West Village or Brownstone Brooklyn and take taxis to her full-time internship at Christie’s in Rockefeller Center.

“A thing with kids? An art gallery?” Josh shook his head. “Those aren’t real jobs.”

“Okay, well, not everyone wants to grow up to be Gordon Gekko, yelling at their secretaries and raiding pension funds just to buy more caviar and purebred dogs. Some of us would actually like to give something back.”

“Give something back? With a forty-thousand dollar salary?” “Funny,” she said, “I didn’t realize everything was about money.”

Jess wanted to believe this more than she actually believed it. Wanted to affect a casual relationship with money. To seem like she could take it or leave it. She didn’t want to seem too hungry. Or desperate. Or striving. None of her friends wanted jobs in finance. They wanted to volunteer, to seek fulfillment, to make art. And why not? They were right. Money didn’t matter.

Unless you didn’t have any.
Or you wanted to be taken seriously.
He raised an eyebrow. “So what, you’re going to pay rent with… IOUs?” “Josh.” She looked at him, exasperated. “Why do you care?”

“I’m curious, that’s all. Is it because that’s what your friends are doing? I thought you were different.”

“Different from what?” “From your friends.”

It was true that in many ways Jess was different from her friends; from Lydia, who had attended a boarding school in the Alps where they broke at noon for cheese and chocolate and whose father was the president of a Swiss bank. Or from Miky, who wasn’t a member of the Korean royal family but who seemed like she could be—she had a way of insisting that she wasn’t that made it seem somehow truer. But they had been friends since freshman year and it rankled Jess to think that her efforts to obscure those differences had failed, and that some guy at a bar, in a pink shirt, would call it out.

“What do you mean different?”

“Not an art gallery girl.”

“I’m sorry.” Jess was taken aback. “Do you know me?”

“Don’t be defensive,” Josh said. “Some of us had to work to get here. Some of us will have to work after we leave. I’m guessing that’s you too.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You think just because I’m Black I’m poor? How enlightened.”

“Well, I mean statistically, that’s the reality. It’s just numbers. But that’s not what I was saying. It’s something else. You seem…” He stopped, searching for the right word.

Involuntarily, Jess leaned toward him. “I seem…?”

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. It whistled, low and melodic, like a whale. “Keen,” he said finally.

Keen? Keen? Jess would have been less offended if he’d told her she smelled like hot garbage.

“Josh?” she pointed across his lap. “Yeah?” he said, but didn’t move.

“I’m leaving.” She pushed past him out of the booth, spilling both of their drinks as she did.

At the bar, Lydia was ordering another round. “Who was that?” she asked, handing Jess a shot. “He’s cute! Are you going to bone?”

Jess tipped her head back and the icy liquid burned. She let a wave of nausea pass through her and then wrinkled her nose. “You don’t recognize him?”

“Should I?”
“He’s the guy from the paper. Freshman year. Devil ears?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“So no, definitely not cute.”
“Hmm.” Lydia made a face.
“What?”
“Just,” Lydia shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know,” Jess said, shaking her head, “and we hate him. He sucks.”
“I’m heading out,” Josh says. “You good?”
And because she is desperate, Jess goes off script: “Actually, I might have a question.” He looks at his watch, “What is it?”
“It’s just this model Charles asked me to do. It’s kind of giving me trouble?”
“You’re not done with that?”
“Not exactly.”

She taps her computer and it hums to life. She hopes to impress, or intimidate, him with complicated numbers and figures that appear on-screen. But he immediately recognizes what she’s doing.

“A precedent transaction analysis?” He leans over Jess, pecks at her keyboard and flips through various documents on her desktop. He narrates each document as he goes: “Discounted cash flow, balance sheet, cost of capital.” He looks at Jess. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.”

He looks at her screen. Toggles back and forth between the various spreadsheets. His face is just inches from hers. He smells like store-brand soap and Altoids. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“That depends on how you define ‘know’ and ‘doing.’?”

“Christ,” he says, wheeling over the chair from the desk next to Jess’s. He sits. “Where are you calculating the discount rate?” He is keying over the cells of Jess’s spreadsheet; his fingers dance over the keyboard like a pianist’s.

“Here.” Jess points to the screen. “This is wrong.”
Jess doesn’t disagree.

“You need to take the weighted average cost of capital”—he picks up a public information book from her desk, pages through it, picks up another and turns to the appendix—“from here”—he points to a number on a page, grabs a yellow marker and highlights it—“and then use that to drive the model assumptions”—he points to the screen—“here. See?”

She nods.

“Here, scoot over.” He rolls his seat toward her and pulls the keyboard into his lap. “Do you know how to set up dynamic named ranges?”

She shakes her head. “Christ.”
But he helps her.

He is a little hostile, but also patient, like a German schoolteacher. And eventually it gets done.

She sends the model to Charles first thing in the morning and immediately receives a response: “Come see me.”

Jess flies over to his desk. He is leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed in a triangle over the other, bouncing a rubber band ball against the corkboard wall. The model is open on his computer.

“You rang?”

He swivels toward her. “What is this?”

“It’s the model you asked for.” Jess stops herself from saying more.

“Calibri?”

“Um.”

“This isn’t a fucking humor magazine. Next time you use Arial. Or Times New Roman if you’re feeling fresh.” He snaps a single rubber band just over her shoulder. “Got it?”

Jess finds Josh in an empty conference room.

“Thanks again for your help last night,” she says.

He ignores her, just keeps scrolling through his phone.

Jess says, “No ‘You’re welcome, Jess’? No ‘Happy to help, Jess’? No ‘Anytime, Jess, what are buddies for’?”

“I had plans,” he says, still staring at his phone.
She is trying to be friendly. To say thank you. But, fine.
“What, did you miss your Young Republicans happy hour or something?” He finally puts his phone down, looks up, raises an eyebrow.

Jess wonders if she’s offended him, wonders if she cares. Implying that someone is a Republican is not an insult, not technically. Especially not at a bank. But he definitely is, Jess is pretty sure. In their Supreme Court class he was always talking about fringy

economic things, like payroll taxes and public debt. Once, she’d run into him at the school bookstore and watched him pay for a pack of gum with a hundred-dollar bill.

“Funny.” He picks up his phone again.

“Well,” Jess says, headed for the door, “for what it’s worth, I do actually appreciate your help.”

Outside, the city is teeming with new college graduates, everyone looking to have a good time. It’s late August, and the hot sticky heart of the summer has passed, so it feels like spring.

It reminds Jess of college, when the entire student body emerged from the gray winter in short shorts and plastic sunglasses and dragged couches out onto front lawns. Sometimes they would cut class, Jess and Miky and Lydia, and sit on a patio drinking sun-warmed beer and spicy margaritas until their heads would spin.

But that’s all over now.
Miky and Lydia make new friends, while Jess is stuck inside.

Their new friends, the Wine Girls, are sunny California optimists with trust funds and tangled hair whose parents grow grapes in the Napa Valley, who believe in free love and acupuncture and private space travel and electric cars.

Jess meets them one night, when she sneaks out of work at a reasonable hour. The bar slash restaurant is dark and loud, and in the heat of the crowd Jess feels nostalgic.

She finds them all sitting at a small table crammed with cocktails and tall glass bottles of sparkling water.

Everyone screams hello and then the Wine Girls shout over the music, “Why are you wearing a suit?”

Jess sits down and shout-explains that she works at Goldman Sachs.
They frown over their cocktails and shout back, “That sucks! Why do you work there?” Silently Miky slides a drink in front of Jess.
The Wine Girls don’t let up. “How can you work there!”

“It’s not that bad,” Jess shrugs.

“Not that bad! Goldman Sachs is the great vampire squid!” the Wine Girls insist, “attached to the face of the economy, sucking it dry!”

A waiter materializes.

“Ooh,” Lydia lights up, “should we order the squid?”

The Wine Girls inform Jess that, given her hundred-hour workweek, she’s essentially making minimum wage, less, probably, than she would slinging burgers at a fast-food place.

This is not true, obviously, and more importantly, working at McDonald’s doesn’t come with the imprimatur of the most powerful and important bank in the world. Or the begrudging respect of people who might otherwise write her off. Or black car rides home every night. But the Wine Girls aren’t completely wrong; Jess kind of hates her job. It’s boring, and no one is nice to her, and all the midweight wool makes her itch. She barely sees her friends, barely sleeps, barely eats anything that doesn’t come in a take-out box. When Lydia asked, Jess complained about life on the front line.

“Lyd, it’s awful. It’s just a bunch of dudes, in suits, doing shit and saying shit. All day. Every day.”

“Well,” Lydia said, “the patriarchy wasn’t dismantled in a day. At least there’s no line for the ladies’ room.”

This was not the case in Lydia’s own office, a boutique auction house, where two-thirds of the employees were women and where the toilet was always clogged with tampons and glitter.

Jess fantasizes constantly about a different job.

Like Lydia’s job at the auction house, which can be demeaning, but has a decidedly glamorous air. Or like the Wine Girls: Callie, who works at a cookie dough startup, and Noree, who works at an eco-first company that makes shoes out of recycled bamboo. Even Miky, who’s an account coordinator for the world’s biggest creative advertising agency, is still home by six every day.

It would be nice: a fake job and a nice apartment and parents who pay the bills.

Instead: student loans, a studio that eats up half her salary, people always and forever looking at her sideways.

Jess’s dad calls.

“Well,” he asks, “are you giving ’em hell?”

She knows what he wants to hear. That she’s showing up early and leaving late; that she’s beating them at their own game. Growing up he’d said it again and again. She needed to be twice as good to get half as much. He was right, she knew, but she resented it. Why did her success have to be predicated on perfection instead of, say, a vague sense that she was someone people would like to have a beer with?

Still, she tries. To keep up, to keep her head down, to make herself useful. Even though she’s not sure anyone notices. And while she’s definitely better than Rich, who graduated from Harvard but still can’t spell Wednesday, it’s not clear that she’s better than Josh, who can do a discounted cash flow with his eyes. She considers telling her dad the truth: that she feels like a baby sometimes, needy and helpless. That she is the only one at a loss, the only one who doesn’t have a strong opinion about The Things That Matter: the price of soybeans, the nuances of Glass-Steagall, the new menu at the University Club.

But she can hear him smiling, waiting, on the other end of the line.
So instead she says, “You bet. I’m great. I’m awesome. Everything’s fine.”

Author Bio:

Cecilia Rabess previously worked as a data scientist at Google and as an associate at Goldman Sachs. Her nonfiction has been featured in McSweeneys, FiveThirtyEight, Fast Company, and FlowingData, among other places. Everything’s Fine is her debut novel.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #OverrulingJudgement #LizEllyn

 

Overruling Judgment
Liz Ellyn
Publication date: July 7th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Erotica, Romance

Ian refuses to allow an explosive night of passion to derail his desire to make partner at the law firm. But, her tempting presence in the office, along with her alluring scent, mocks his resolve.

JD’s the hot art teacher with the body and stamina of a former professional hockey player. He’s a creative master, in and out of the bedroom, who captures the affection of the brilliant young attorney, but he second-guesses if he’s enough for her.

Sasha won’t settle for less in her career or love life. It’s all or nothing. After a twist of fate and a proclamation of love, Sasha escapes choosing between Ian and JD. The alternative is far more arousing.

With careers in flux and hearts on the line, how will they all find the fortitude to come out on top?

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—

EXCERPT:

Ian started talking. Of course, he initiated control of the conversation just like he dominated legal negotiations. “We understand that you aren’t inclined to choose either one of us. We aren’t pressing you to do that now.” The tenderness in Ian’s voice and the concern in JD’s eyes alarmed her.

Sasha’s chin began to quiver as a feeling of doom swept through her. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Are you both here for closure’s sake?”

“Fuck no!” JD swore, clasping her hand more securely. “I have no desire to end things with you.”

A tear slid down her cheek. Sasha started biting her lip. Did JD think she was going to choose him over Ian? Her head started to spin. Nausea brewed in her belly.

Ian leaned in closer. “Neither of us wants to end things with you. Well, I suppose our case is a little different.” Ian extended an open hand. Her free hand itched to reach out and accept Ian’s offer. Uncertainty made her hesitate.

“I’m totally confused.” Sasha looked back and forth between the two. Neither of their faces gave her a clue. What were they suggesting?

Author Bio:

INDULGE IN LIFE'S GUILTY PLEASURES!

Liz Ellyn nourishes people’s cravings for the irresistible. Like the decadent desserts she delivers, she creates alluring characters deserving of happy endings.

With degrees in both engineering and law, she argues that the positive energy gained by indulging in one’s guilty pleasure appropriately counterbalances the serious forces of daily life.

When she isn’t writing or devouring steamy romance books, she spoils her family, including her two dogs, Boomer and Tanner.

Bon Appetite and Happy Reading!

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #SmoothHoperator #SylvieStewart #XpressoTours

 

Smooth Hoperator
Sylvie Stewart
(Love on Tap, #2)
Publication date: July 6th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

SMOOTH HOPERATOR: A FAKE-RELATIONSHIP ROMANCE

After tanking my career in politics, I’m looking for new direction. But my GPS must be broken because it keeps leading me to a kooky librarian’s front steps.

It’s not easy, but I’m doing my best to let go of my old ambitions and embrace the simple life of slinging beer at my family’s brewery. But some powerful players from my past are determined to cause problems for me and my family.

When a chatty local librarian with the wardrobe of a third grader and the optimism of Spongebob begins sticking her nose into my business, I want to tell her to get lost. As fate would have it, though, Sunny and her ill-tempered grandfather are my only remaining option to get free of my past for good.

It will take some convincing to get this goofy, goat-loving librarian on board with my risky plan. But if she’ll do things my way, I’ll return the favor by playing her fake boyfriend to make her true love finally take notice and fall head over heels.

But the deeper we get into this venture, the more I realize there’s nothing fake about Sunny at all. Including the way I’m beginning to feel about her.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

My first indication that I’m not in the attic at home is the mattress spring digging into my back. The second is the warm hand on my junk that doesn’t belong to me. I may have just awoken this second, but my dick has beaten me to it by several minutes, at least.

When I blink my eyes open, sunlight filters through the closed curtains of the motel room, allowing enough illumination for me to make out the body of my bedmate—the very same one whose hand has wandered during the night. Sunny’s hair is splayed over my shoulder, and she’s using my chest as a pillow.

My dick jumps because that’s what dicks do when they’re being felt up. It clearly remembers last night as well as I do. But instead of causing Sunny to withdraw her hand, the movement only appears to encourage her. She burrows her face into my chest and throws a bare leg over my thigh. In other words, she’s trying to kill me.

I’d love nothing more than to roll her onto her back and explore all the skin and curves I didn’t get to last night, but after her confession and that panicked exit, I can’t touch her until we talk. And I doubt she’ll be happy if she wakes up like this.

I try carefully sliding to the side so I can stand, but as soon as I start moving, she grabs onto me like a spider monkey and pulls me closer, using my dick as leverage. I bite down on my cheek to keep from howling.

“No,” she says, her tone scolding.

Here we go again with the sleep talking.

This time, I gently pry her hand from my junk, one finger at a time until I’m gripping her hand just above it. So, of course, that’s the moment she awakens.

I witness as each synapse fires and she comes fully awake to find me holding her hand over my obviously aroused dick. Thank God I’m still dressed at least.

“What are you doing?” She jerks her hand out of my grip.

“Nothing, I swear.”

She lifts her head from my chest and retreats until she’s back on her side of the bed. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

This is ridiculous. I was trying to be sensitive to her emotions, but she can’t honestly think… I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Look, I just woke up, and you were holding my junk and using me as a pillow. That’s all I know.”

She eyes me skeptically. “What happened to the covers?”

We both inspect the bedding and while my side of the bed is as tucked and neat as it was when I first lay on it last night, hers is a mess of twisted sheets and blankets, both pillows buried somewhere within.

“I have no idea.”

She glances around for a few more seconds and then untangles herself. “Oh. I guess I must have moved around a little in my sleep.”

“A little?”

Unfortunately, I still have the issue of the tent in my pants, and now that Sunny is fully awake, she is not shy about looking, which does nothing to help the problem.

“Did I…?” She trails off, pointing at it now. Jesus.

“While it does usually make its presence known first thing in the morning, it’s never this… cheerful.”

She tries and fails to hide her self-satisfied grin. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. I think I’ll survive.” My tone is as dry as my mouth is.

Author Bio:

USA Today bestselling author Sylvie Stewart loves bad jokes, dirty rom-coms, country music, and baby skunks—preferably all at the same time. Most of her steamy contemporary and romantic comedy novels take place across her favorite state of North Carolina, and her characters never run out of snarky banter or snacks. When her laptop closes, Sylvie is a sucker for hugs from her twin boys and a good laugh with her hot-nerd hubby. If you love smart Southern gals, hot blue-collar guys, and snort-laughing with characters who feel like your best friends, Sylvie's your gal.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpts #HiddenJustice #BrokenPromises #DianaMunozStewart #XpressoTours

 

Hidden Justice
Diana Muñoz Stewart
(Spy Makers Guild, #1)
Publication date: April 18th 2023
Genres: Adult, Romance, Suspense

Justice
Saved from my not-so-stellar childhood and adopted into a wealthy, loving family of international spies, I’ve trained my whole life to rescue others––and to get revenge. Now, my latest mission has hit a snag. Okay, yeah, I’m the snag. Rash actions and all that. Point is, I need a new cover. Unfortunately, my best solution jeopardizes a good man. A man I can’t help but admire…in more ways than one.

Sandesh
After a loss too big to bear, I left Special Forces and dedicated my life to founding a humanitarian group. Helping others isn’t cheap, so when the wealthy and smoldering Justice Parish offers to fund my charity––as long as she’s in charge of PR––I barely hesitate. Still, I’m beginning to worry that what I don’t know about my sexy, new benefactor could save my company but endanger my heart, and maybe…even my life.

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Broken Promises
Diana Muñoz Stewart
(Bad Legacy, #1)
Publication date: July 6th 2021
Genres: Adult, Romance, Suspense

Eight years have passed. Now, what tore them apart takes a back seat to keeping her alive.

Felicity Shields spent a lifetime fleeing her notorious mother’s reputation. But when her mother’s killer marks her as the next victim, there’s nowhere left to run. Desperate, she turns to a man she once trusted completely. The same man who broke her heart long ago.

Private security expert Brooks Delgado knows how to stop a killer. He also knows Fee wouldn’t ask for his help if she had any other choice. As the man who once loved her, he’ll help her catch a murderer. As the man who loves her still, he’ll move mountains to keep her safe, and prove himself worthy of a second chance.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Hidden Justice

In this excerpt our main character, Justice Parish, has been informed via email that the mission she’s worked on for years is being delayed for another two years. Furious, she charges into the Spy Makers Guild office to confront the boss of The Guild––her adopted mother, Mukta Parish.

Justice

Head full of steam, I march through the Parish empire’s headquarters in Philadelphia blowing past sharp corridors, glass walls, and attractive businesspeople in power suits.

I won’t let Momma put my mission on hold. I don’t care about a few complications. This is our best chance to take down a global trafficking ring. We find a way.

I near Momma’s office and her executive assistant—straitlaced Lorena of the cotton button-downs and starched pantsuits—blocks my path to the closed mahogany doors. She crosses her arms. “She’s busy.”

Huh. A human barricade.

Good thing I’ve been trained for such an event.

I run straight at her. She cries out for me to stop and holds her ground. Kind of what I wanted. Veering left, I lift my booted foot, plant the arch against the edge of Lorena’s desk, toe into a leap, and vault over her. She ducks and cries out. Instant classic.

I land with a thud. “Thanks, Lorena,” I say, pulling open the office door. She’s still sputtering vague threats as I close the door with a click.

The satisfied grin slips from my face.

Momma isn’t alone.

The man—built like a hot night of unforgettable, wild blond hair like a sandstorm, eyes the color of the ocean after a lazy day in the sun, and beach-bronzed skin—drives the air from my lungs.

Come on, give a lady a warning. I’m used to finding stodgy business-type people in Momma’s office.

Everyone, including blondie, is staring at me, expecting me to say or do something. Like a deer caught in beautiful blinding blue headlights, I stare at the man.

I’m usually more successful at hiding my feelings, trained in it and all. But this high-pressure situation—Jack-be-nimbling Lorena, barging into a business meeting, and finding this perfect hot stranger—has me off my game.

Sandesh

Hearing the administrative assistant’s loud objection and the thud of something I can’t puzzle out I go from corner-office mode to time-to-take-someone-down mode.

A woman burst through the doors.

First thought: I hope I do have to take her down because that body underneath me would make my day. Second thought: Sucks to be wearing a damn monkey suit. Third thought as her eyes sweep my body: There are no thoughts.

Her mischievous dark gaze and the fan and flutter of those thick eyelashes swallow every decent thought from my mind, replacing them with open desire.

—

Broken Promises

In this excerpt, Fee’s long lost love has returned home for her mother’s funeral. She’s in an emotionally difficult place—blaming herself for her mother’s death. Brooks is trying to comfort her, rescue her from her own harsh criticism.

Fee felt the warmth of Brooks’ hand reaching toward her, as if to coax her head up, but he didn’t touch her. She lifted her chin.

A knuckle of skin was pinched between his creased brows. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

She was being hard on herself? “I’m being honest.” He should try being in her head for two seconds. “You can try it. I won’t break. Trust me, you can tell me whatever you think about me.”

She kept her eyes pinned to him, open, inviting, and waiting. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached forward, swept his finger lightly across her forehead, down her cheek.

His touch, electric and warm, sizzled through her with breathtaking speed. His pupils dilated. “Querida, you are a song that my heart never stopped singing. And when I’m with you, the music is everywhere.”

The rich tone of his voice caressed her senses. Warm delight prickled her skin. She’d meant mean stuff. Kind stuff… well, she had no defense for that. But she would not cry. Not in front of him. But maybe something else…

Tiptoeing, she did something that, an hour ago, would’ve seemed unforgivable.

She lifted her face to his and kissed him.

She’d intended to catch and release, but the second she met his smooth, full lips the need that had been burning in her for eight long years erupted. She fisted his shirt, pushed her tongue boldly through his wet lips and into his warm mouth.

A surprised pause was followed by him gently tugging her hands from his shirt.

She let go, put her arms around his neck, and held him in place. So good. So Brooks. So long denied.

The hot heavy length of desire unfurled inside her and she disappeared into that need.

With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her closer.

Their low sighs and grinding bodies left no doubt what would happen next if they kept it up. Maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe, forgetting this way would be best.

He pulled back. “Fee…” Catching his breath, he disentangled her arms from his neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sort of seeing someone.”

Oh, my God. She snatched her hands from inside his. Of course, he was. He was a beautiful man. Kind and… beautiful and… Oh, my God.

She covered her hot cheeks with her hands. Why hadn’t she asked? Why had she just assumed it was okay to kiss him? “No. I’m sorry. I…”

His eyes filled with regret and maybe pity. Two things she frantically didn’t want to see. She didn’t know where to look. She snatched the coat he still held in his hand. “Let’s go.”

She raced down the hall into the foyer, head spinning.

Brooks caught up to her and grasped her arm. “Fee. Wait. Please.”

She pulled away. Held up her hand. Shook her head. That motion, along with the overwhelming scent of rose and lily condolence flowers, flipped her stomach. “I can’t, Brooks. Whatever it is you need to say about that kiss, about the woman you’re dating, about us….” She willed her voice not to break. “Not today. Let just go. Okay?”

Author Bio:

#1 Amazon bestselling author.

Armed with a razor-sharp wit and a rolled-up MFA in Creative Writing, Diana Muñoz Stewart cartwheel-kicked her way into publishing with her fiery Black Ops Confidential series. Washington Independent Review of Books called the series’ award-winning debut, “original, impressive” a “rollicking good ride” and “high-octane.”

Of her writing Publishers Weekly declared, “Stewart plays adeptly with the reader’s emotions” and noted that in her series, “Stewart’s talent shines.”

Of her unflinching openness in taking on today’s relevant topics, Booklist said, “Munoz-Stewart discusses such sensitive topics as human trafficking, sexual violence, and sexism…while the diverse …Parish family and their mission to protect women everywhere give these topics…hope…”

Kirkus Book Reviews said her romantic suspense series, along with having, “Sizzling physical encounters” also “enables an emphasis on recovery and power.”

Munoz Stewart’s work has been a BookPage Top 15 Romance of 2018, a Night Owl Top Pick, A BookPage Top Pick, and an Amazon Book of the Month. A 2014 Pages From The Heart Winner, 2015 Golden Heart® Finalist, 2016 Daphne du Maurier Finalist, and a 2016 Gateway to the Best Winner, Diana Munoz Stewart is a member of Romance Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters in Crime.

Diana lives in an often chaotic and always welcoming home that—depending on the day—can hold husband, kids, extended family, friends, and a canine or two. A believer in the power of words to heal, connect, and distract from chores, Diana blogs regularly on topics near and dear to her heart, including spotlight pieces on strong women from around the world. When not writing, Diana can be found kayaking, doing sprints up her long driveway—harder than it sounds–attempting yoga on her deck, or hiking with the man who’s had her heart since they were teens.

Diana is represented by the wonderful Michelle Grajkowski of Three Seas Literary Agency.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #SomeDaySoon #AnnaLindgren #XpressoTours

 

Some Day Soon
Anna Lindgren
Publication date: May 24th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Everyone wants something…

But why can’t I figure out what Noah James wants out of our relationship? His sister hates me hell, the whole town fears me, and if he knew what I’m capable of, he’d leave like everyone else.

I’ve terrorized the quaint town of Smugglers Cove, blazing a trail of self-destruction when anyone gets too close. So when Noah buys the cottage next door and finds out about my past, he creates a list of childish activities to complete together.

I try to keep him at arm’s length, but every-time I think I’ve scared him off, he’s back for more. He’s always there when I need him and even when I don’t.

One thing’s for certain, people like me don’t end up with Noah James.

***

Noah:

Samantha Simmons stole my heart the minute I saw her standing near the bar, in an off-white dress, at my little sister’s wedding. Everyone warned me about the infamous villain of Smugglers Cove, but I never thought it’d be impossible to stay away.

When I move in next door, she lets me in on some of her secrets and reveals a side of her few have uncovered. The more she lets me in, the more I want to defend her and prove there’s more to her than a bad reputation.

Each-time I think I’ve earned her trust, all hell breaks loose. She’s scared to let me in but I’ll wait until she sees,

She may be the villain in everyone’s story but I think she deserves a happily ever after.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t shut me out.”

“Go away,” she warns.

“No,” I say. “Talk to me, Sammy.”

“I can’t!” she yells at me.

I step toward her, lowering my voice as emotion threatens to crack my voice. “I can’t help if you keep fucking pushing me away.”

“Stop it,” she spits the words.

“I’m not going to leave you,” I say, holding onto her hands before she rips them away. “Nothing you say to me, nothing you do is going to convince me you aren’t worth it.”

Her chest heaves as tears stream down her cheeks. Her lips are parted, ready to fight back, ready to tell me how wrong I am, how I won’t understand.

This moment is do or die, leave it all on the table.

I take another step toward her, and crush my lips against hers, showing her how I feel before I tell her.

“I love you,” I pant against her lips. “I think I’ve loved you since the first day I met you when you wore white to my sister’s fucking wedding.” I laugh. “I fucking love you, Sammy girl. Don’t push me away. You can shut the world out. Just leave me in this one with you.”

She leaves her forehead pressed against mine, our noses breathing in the smell of one another.

“I can’t,” she whimpers, swallowing down the building emotion. “I can’t love you, Noah. I can’t risk losing you.”

Her voice cracks with each word. My ears ring as though a bomb has detonated near us, and I guess, in some metaphorical sense, one has.

“You lose all the fucking time when you push everyone away,” I say, my voice cracking under the pressure of each word. “Isn’t it worth trying to stay for once? To work through it rather than shut me out?”

“I’ll never be what you need,” she says. “I’ll never be able to give myself to you completely, to trust you fully.”

“Bullshit,” I snap.

“It’s not bullshit. You made a mistake ever thinking you could change me.” She sighs before hammering the final nail in our coffin. Her eyes locked on mine full of honesty and meaning. “I was your biggest mistake. You’re just too stubborn to acknowledge it.”

Author Bio:

In the 3rd grade, Anna won a notable mention for her holiday story in her small hometown's daily paper. Since then, no awards have been won but the writing has, fortunately (or not––depends on who you ask) continued. She is now the author of two small-town Alaskan romances with a third set to be released in 2022. Her stories feature tales of friendship, bouts of laughter, and lots of swoon-worthy moments. She shares stories of adventure, love, and loss all the while remaining true to the quirkiness of the loveable small town she grew up in.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #TheLostMan #ASKelly #XpressoTours

 

The Lost Man
A.S. Kelly
(From Connemara With Love, #6)
Publication date: May 3rd 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

I left at dawn on a rainy day.
I left as he slept, believing that he’d still find me in his arms when he woke up. I left, taking everything I’d promised him. I took it all, and neither of us would ever have it again.
I left, turning my back on everything I knew, believing I could never be part of it.
I left the man who loved me, the family who raised me. I left my home, my roots, my dreams. I left my whole life behind in search of a past that was never mine. I hurt everyone who loved me, and broke him into so many pieces that I know I’ll never deserve his forgiveness.
But I’m here, now, trying to rebuild everything I’ve destroyed. I’m trying to find what I thought I’d lost. And although he says that he’ll never be the same, though he says that there’s nothing left of him, I can’t abandon him again. I can’t say goodbye to us.
They say that you always find your way back to happiness, but I’ve found my way back to the only place I’ve ever felt at home.
I’ve found my way back to him.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“What are you watching?”

Noel turns his head slowly. I’m glad I thought to bring a set of keys out with me – he wouldn’t have heard me knocking, didn’t even hear me come into the room.

“You’re back.”

I walk over to him and sit beside him. “Of course I came back. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He shakes his head a little, his eyes roaming back to the TV.

“Have you eaten?”

“I can’t remember… I think so…”

I force myself to smile, stroking his beard.

“Do you want me to make you something?”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“How about tea and biscuits? I’m going to make some for myself.”

He looks at me and flashes me a weak smile, which feels a little like hope; like the sun peeking through thick cloud.

“There are still some shortbread biscuits in the tin on the counter. I made them this morning.”

“You sure know how to make a woman happy,” I say, pressing my lips lightly against his before heading through to the kitchen to make us both some tea.

When I come back into the living room, I place the tray of tea and biscuits down on the coffee table and sink onto the sofa beside Noel. I drape the blanket over us both and squeeze him, my hand on his arm and my head on his shoulder.

You can’t abandon someone you love just because they’re not the same person you met a long time ago.

You can’t abandon someone you love just because they can’t find the way back home.

You can’t abandon someone you love just because they no longer love themselves.

“You have no idea how glad I am that you’re here,” he whispers, his voice uncertain, emotion caught up in his words, his breath.

“I’m home, Noel. With you.”

He lifts his arm and wraps it around me; I snuggle against his body and inhale his familiar scent. It reminds me that, in spite of everything, he’s still here, with me.

Author Bio:

A. S. Kelly writes Rom-Com, Romantic Fiction and Family Saga.
Avid reader, hopeless romantic, lover of yoga, knitting and home baking.
She was born in Italy but lives in Ireland with her husband, two children and a cat named Oscar.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #Bookworm #CookieOGorman #XpressoTours

 

Bookworm
Cookie O’Gorman
Publication date: April 20th 2023
Genres: Romance, Young Adult

Bookworm (buk-werm): Someone who loves books, reading, and/or studying. For reference, see Charlotte Kent.

Seventeen-year-old Charlotte Kent likes happy endings. Not that she’s looking for one herself. Awkward, never been kissed, and bookish to the core, Lottie would rather read about love than experience it.

But she enjoys helping others find their HEA in books.

Lottie loves working at the library…even if it means running into Bo Stryker.

Broody, athletic, and unfairly attractive when he frowns, Bo works at the flower shop across the street. Lottie is about to get rejected…when surprisingly, Bo steps in, pretends to be her boyfriend, and steals her first kiss.

One viral video later, everyone thinks they’re together.

Bo wants to keep pretending. Lottie wants to make amends—long story short: she was on a ladder; he startled her; the book slap was an accident.

A fake relationship may be the solution. But as they grow closer, Lottie can’t help falling for Bo—which is a disaster because grumpy sunshine only works in fiction…right?

This book features two opposites with undeniable chemistry, one lovable librarian, so many stolen kisses and answers the question:

What happens when a nerd falls for the grump-next-door?

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Rolling my eyes, I reached over, gently grasped his forearm and brought it closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax,” I said, trying not to laugh at the alarm I heard in his voice. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now.”

“Says the girl who gave me a bookcussion” he grumbled.

Biting back a smile, I concentrated on his forearm, running my fingers over his skin to find the correct spot. This took a few moments. When I found it, I leaned closer, using my thumbs to press down, gently at first, then adding a little more pressure. Bo didn’t tense. He didn’t move a muscle. I might’ve thought he’d stopped breathing he was so still. But then I felt his breath against my neck.

The sensation sent shivers down my spine.

I counted the seconds under my breath and then released him.

“What was that, Kent?” he asked softly.

“I looked up how to treat a sprained wrist,” I said with a shrug. “It was nothing, just one of the techniques they recommended.”

“You looked that up?”

Meeting his eyes, I nodded. “Does it feel any better?”

Bo glanced down at his wrist before looking back up, locking me in his intense stare. “Yeah, it does. Thanks, Kent.”

For some reason, I blushed. “No problem.”

I didn’t know what made me say it.

But I added, “Maybe now, you won’t be so opposed to working with me.”

Bo shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he said. “I just don’t like the idea of you taking care of me out of some misplaced sense of guilt.”

Oh.

I hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“I thought you hated having me around,” I admitted.

“I don’t.”

“You even told me how much you hate people.”

“Not you,” he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

“I could never hate you, Kent.”

Author Bio:

Cookie O'Gorman Bio: Cookie O'Gorman writes YA & NA romance to give readers a taste of happily-ever-after. Small towns, quirky characters, and the awkward yet beautiful moments in life make up her books. Cookie also has a soft spot for nerds and ninjas. Her novels ADORKABLE, NINJA GIRL, The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder, The Good Girl's Guide to Being Bad, The Kissing Challenge (YA novella), WALLFLOWER, CUPCAKE, and FAUXMANCE are out now! She is also the author of NA sports romances The Best Mistake, The Perfect Play, and The Sweetest Game. Her newest release BOOKWORM came out on April 20, 2023!

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #IUsedToBeFun #MelanieSummers #XpressoTours

 

I Used to be Fun
Melanie Summers
Publication date: April 14th 2023
Genres: Adult, Women’s Fiction

“Insightful, entertaining, and satisfying. A deliciously dishy look at a typical American family behind closed doors.” ~ USA Today Bestseller Whitney Dineen

“A life-affirming emotional rollercoaster. Perfect for fans of Where’d You Go, Bernadette!” ~ USA Today Bestseller Kate O’Keeffe

A richly satisfying family dramedy for any woman who has asked, “Whose life is this?”

Jessica Holloway is miserable. As mom to two ungrateful, almost-grown children and wife to one appreciative-but-needy husband, she has all-but-abandoned the extraordinary—and extraordinarily fun—woman she used to be.

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#BookBlitz #Excerpt #FakingItWithTheGrump #KateOkeeffe #XpressoTours

 

Faking It With the Grump
Kate O’Keeffe
(Second Chance Café, #1)
Publication date: March 14th 2023
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

He’s grumpy, boring, and thinks it’s okay to wear a suit and tie to a smalltown bar full of lumberjacks. But when I kiss him? Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting THAT.

Harper Cole

It’s one thing to be dumped by the huge Hollywood star you thought you were going to marry. It’s quite another to move back to the small town you’re both from.

As a booby prize for being shown the door by Dex Ryan, everyone is trying to set me up with their son, their nephew, or their long-lost cousin’s gardener. Either that or they’re throwing me pitying looks that say, “You’re a big loser.”

I’m not going to put up with their patronizing sympathy anymore.

So, when I spot new-guy-in-town Christopher Young, I set out to make him mine. Or you know, pretend to make him mine. I’m still in a horrible funk over Dex, and Christopher is an uptight grump. Not exactly my type.

The fact that despite appearances, he’s gorgeous and doing weird things to my blood pressure doesn’t mean a thing.

Really.

Not. A. Thing.

Christopher Young

Hunter’s Creek, population next to nothing, is the reason I work all the time. I’m solely focused on buying the town’s lumber mill so I can go back to NYC and get my big promotion. This small town is a means to an end. Nothing more.

That is until the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen superglues her lips to mine in an unexpected and very public way. She’s not the kind of woman I usually go for with her boho dress and ankle boots, but that kiss…

I’m disappointed when she comes up for air and tells me it’s all for show. But if Harper Cole wants me to be her fake boyfriend while I’m here in town, who am I to turn her down? Being attached to a local might ingratiate me to the townsfolk and make my job that much the easier.

After all, dating Harper can only be make believe. Nothing more. Not when my entire future is at stake.

Faking It With The Grump is a grumpy-sunshine, opposites attract, fake relationship romance set in the small town of Hunter’s Creek, Washington. It’s the first book in the new Second Chance Café series. Each book follows a different sister’s love story and can be read as a standalone novel or as part of a series.

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EXCERPT:

She looks suddenly nervous. “Okay, here’s the thing. I kind of told some people today that you and I are…well, that we’re…”

When she doesn’t complete her sentence, I lean in and ask, “You and I are what?”

She glances around nervously before she says, “Dating.”

I straighten, shocked.

As my brain tries to comprehend what she just said, I blink at her a few times.

I need clarification. In my experience, beautiful women don’t usually go around telling people they’re dating you without your knowledge.

Well, not sane, beautiful women, anyway.

“Did you say you’ve told people you and I are dating?” I ask.

She nibbles on her lip, reminding me of a rabbit. It only adds to her appeal. Despite my concern, she’s confirmed she’s not exactly sane. “I did warn you it was weird.”

“That’s true, you did. But that doesn’t explain why, exactly.”

She clasps her hands together, clearly uncomfortable.

I’m overcome with the strangest sensation, wanting to reach out and place my hand over hers to reassure her it’s okay.

I don’t.

She takes a breath. “I know this makes me sound crazy. And I’m not crazy. Really, I’m not.”

Said no crazy person ever.

“I don’t know if you recognize me or know what happened, but even if you don’t, I really, really need you to pretend to date me because—”

Wait. Pretend?

Her eyes dart to something behind me, and before I fully realize what’s happening, she’s pushed the bar stool to one side, closed the distance between us, a decidedly wild look in her eyes.

“Everything all right?” I ask her tentatively.

“Okay if I kiss you?” she murmurs out of the corner of her mouth.

I blink at her. “Now you want to…kiss me?”

She nods, her eyes darting behind me and then back to my face. “That okay with you?”

This gorgeous woman who smells like a meadow, the double threat, the woman who only just told me she wants to pretend to date me, now wants to kiss me.

As confusing as this situation may be, I’d be an idiot not to leap at this.

“Sure,” I tell her, the thought of having her soft lips pressed against mine making my belly clench.

It would appear she’s not a woman to be told twice.

Immediately, she pulls herself up onto her toes, places her hands at the back of my head, and before I can utter another word—like “why?”—she leans in toward me and kisses me.

I don’t move for fear this is some kind of mirage. Not that I think mirages are all that common in Washington, what with it not being a desert. But seriously, this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me a whole lot. Or, you know, ever.

And I’ll be honest, as far as kisses go, it’s easily the most surprising of my life, hands down. One second, she’s explaining to me why she wants me to fake date her, and the next she’s kissing me, like it’s no big deal at all.

The problem is, for me to kiss someone like Harper Cole, it should be a big deal.

Author Bio:

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Kate O'Keeffe writes exactly what she loves to read: laugh-out-loud romantic comedies with swoon-worthy heroes and gorgeous feel-good happily ever afters. She lives and loves in beautiful Hawke's Bay, New Zealand with her family and two scruffy dogs. When she's not penning her latest story, Kate can be found hiking up hills (slowly), traveling to different countries, and eating chocolate. A lot of it.

Visit kateokeeffe.com to sign up to her newsletter and you'll receive a FREE romcom.

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