Sunday, December 31, 2017
Date Published: Feb 27, 2018
Damien Morgan learned a long time ago that love was just a figment of someone’s warped imagination and good girls simply didn’t exist because women were master manipulators. Nonetheless, he’s happy to wish his brother well when he decides to take the plunge.
Serenity Hanscom is shocked that she’s been invited to the wedding a year after her sister played matchmaker for the groom and had an active role in a plot to murder his sister-in-law. Despite the rather unusual circumstances, Serenity accepts the invitation because it’s an opportunity to mingle with Miami’s elites. But the second she catches sight of Damien, she’s reminded of the horrible events that led to her father’s imprisonment, all because of him. Determined to ignore him, as the evening goes by, she finds herself drawn to him more and more.
Will their plan to stay clear of love backfire on them and instead become the first step to an unexpected happily-ever-after?
This is UNEDITED and will be cleaned up when the book releases in February. This is for sneak peak purposes only!
Once everyone stood up and cheered for the bride and groom's kiss, Serenity sunk in her seat and tried to hide. Her glass was almost empty but it sounded like the ceremony was finished. She stood and joined the crowd of people clapping their hands. Soon, the yacht would return to shore and she'd run.
The bride and groom walked past her fast. The captain said, "Please wait in your seats for five minutes while we transition to the reception. Waiters will offer everyone a glass of champagne for this short intercession."
More champagne might help her survive this. She slumped into her seat and held her hand high to signal she wanted a glass. The waiter handed her glass to the man at the end of the row and her neighbors passed it. Once everyone in her row had a glass, the server moved forward and she nodded her head at the people next to her then took a sip. The champagne tasted sweeter without staring at people her sister almost killed or the man that set her father up. Her skin grew goose bumps and the air grew warmer. There was something tasty in the air itself. A second later, Damien turned around and as he stared at her, he winked, "This will be over soon, sweetheart."
"Don't be sexist." She swallowed her sip and took a deep breath. Damien had no right to say anything like that, to her. She turned her nose in the air. "I'll never be your sweetheart."
"Relax." He then motioned for the man next to him to change seats. Without another word to her, he came and sat beside her. "I'm here to make amends."
"How?" He clicked his glass with hers. She refused to drink and shook her head. "Damien Morgan, that's impossible. You and I can never be friends."
"Why?" He raised his eyebrow.
Tonight he insulted her. Years ago he ruined her life and he had no shame about any of it. She sipped her champagne as steel ran up her spine. "I know who you are and how you knew my father."
He sipped his own glass. "Neither of our father's were boy scouts, sweetheart."
"Perhaps I wasn't clear. Don't patronize me with the nickname 'sweetheart.' It's insulting." Her free hand formed a fist at her side. Damien Morgan was the last person on earth to insult her, again. She knew better than to get riled up. She forced her hand to uncurl itself and gulped another sip. In one minute, she could get up with the crowd and lose Damien.
"I'll happily be your sweetheart."
"Never going to happen." Sometimes she wished she was a guy who could tell another to back away and be respected. She folded her hand over her waist. "Forget this conversation."
"Wow." Her eyebrows both raised as she shook her head. "You do know my name?"
"I should not have insulted you earlier. I'm sorry."
"Don't." Sorry echoed in her ear. If it was anyone else, she'd close her eyes, say a prayer and then wish him well. However Damien wasn't anyone else, and he had no idea. She finished her drink and then waved for the waiter to get another. Once she had her drink, she squared her shoulders and stared hard toward the now empty altar. "You didn't know I would walk in on your conversation about me earlier. You didn't know I remembered you at my father's house. And for the record, you say what you want about me. I don't care."
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author, Victoria Pinder grew up in Irish Catholic Boston before moving to the Miami sun. She’s worked in engineering, after passing many tests proving how easy Math came to her. Then hating her life at the age of twenty four, she decided to go to law school. Four years later, after passing the bar and practicing very little, she realized that she hates the practice of law. She refused to one day turn 50 and realize she had nothing but her career and hours at a desk. After realizing she needed change, she became a high school teacher. Teaching is rewarding, but writing is a passion.
During all this time, she always wrote stories to entertain herself or calm down. Her parents are practical minded people demanding a job, and Victoria spent too many years living other people’s dreams, but when she sat down to see what skill she had that matched what she enjoyed doing, writing became so obvious. The middle school year book when someone wrote in it that one day she’d be a writer made sense when she turned thirty.
She’s always been determined. She is amazing, adventurous and assured on a regular basis. Her website is www.victoriapinder.com.
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Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Friday, December 15, 2017
Date Published: 8 February 2018
That’s all it takes.
A new kind of war has begun.
Pak Han-Yong’s day is here. An elite hacker with Unit 101 of the North Korean military, he’s labored for years to launch Project Sonnimne: a series of deadly viruses set to cripple Imperialist infrastructure.
And with one tap of his keyboard, the rewards are immediate.
Brendan Chogan isn’t a hero. He’s an out-of-work parking enforcement officer and one-time collegiate boxer trying to support his wife and children. But now there’s a foreign enemy on the shore a blackout that extends across America, and an unseen menace targeting him.
Brendan must do whatever it takes to keep his family safe.
In the wake of the cyber attacks, electrical grids fail, satellites crash to earth, and the destinies of nine strangers collide.
Strangers whose survival depends upon each other’s skills and courage.
For fans of REVOLUTION, Tom Clancy, and Thom Stark’s MAY DAY, ALL SYSTEMS DOWN is a riveting cyber war thriller which presents a threat so credible you’ll be questioning reality.
The sun rising over the Yalu River was the best part of Pak Han-yong’s day.
It began with darkness. In the distance, on the far side of the river, his homeland lay swaddled in unbreaking night. The fields and the factories, the port and the mills all slept. Then the horizon would lighten, from black to blue to gold, and the three faraway smokestacks appeared from the port city of Sinǔiju; first as silhouettes, then as gray fists, casting long shadows.
Next, the sun. Crimson light burned at the edges of red pine forests and reflected off the rice paddies. River, land, and air awoke to the glory of the Supreme Leader and the world’s chosen people. Tears sprung, as they always did, as light brought his beloved North Korea to life.
He observed it all from his desk on the tenth floor of the Shanghai Hotel in Dandong, China, across the border from the land of his ancestors.
China. After two years, Han-yong still had trouble internalizing the wealth of this nation. The Chinese lived in skyscrapers, profligate buildings of steel and glass. So different from his home city of Chongjin, where families lived modestly in single-story “harmonica homes,” so named because of their resemblance to the tiny boxes that make up the chambers of a harmonica.
On Fuchun Street, ten stories below, cars bustled. Unnecessary, extravagant. In Chongjin, nearly everyone was content to ride a bicycle or take public transit. And when they did drive, his people didn’t smoke like the Chinese. If you smoked, you wouldn’t catch the constant engine problems of your soviet-made Volga or ZIL.
Even from thirty meters above, it was apparent how the well-fed Chinese had been made soft by water that flowed reliably and electricity that ran all day. Food here wasn’t rationed by the gram. No one in China grew strong and clever from struggle and strain. There were no hardships here. And for that, he despised the Chinese, military allies or not.
“Long live the Shining Sun of North Korea,” he said. These people aren’t better than us. We have nothing to envy in the world. He lowered himself into the seat of his desk, rearranged his mouse so it squared perfectly with his keyboard, took a final sip of tea, and continued to monitor the attack that had started hours earlier.
Today, Han-yong fell into his routine, despite the enormity of the day’s events. Routine was the scaffolding that held his life together. He had woken in the earliest hours, barely speaking to his five roommates in the converted hotel room, had slipped into his pressed uniform, and spit-polished the single silver star on his shoulder. Then, after quickly wiping dust from the portrait of the Supreme Leader that hung alone on the wall, he’d moved to the common area to drink his tea and work until sunrise.
Two years of waiting, and today it has finally begun. He rubbed his hands together. Every day Han-yong worked here, visited the canteen, and bunked in his room. He rarely slept more than five hours. And never, in those two years, had he left the tenth floor of the Shanghai Hotel.
For all the differences between China and North Korea, there was only one that mattered, and it was why Han-yong was here at all. The Internet. On the North Korean side of the river, the global Internet, for all practical purposes, did not exist. There was a limited internal network that pointed to a handful of websites. But North Korea had fewer Internet protocol addresses in the whole country than could be found on a block in some Imperialist cities.
Here in China, though, the Internet reached nearly every corner of the globe. And because of that, Han-yong and the other elite hackers of Unit 101 could touch a banking system in London, a hospital network in New York City, or a data center in Tokyo.
“Junior Lieutenant Pak!” The gruff voice of the senior lieutenant shattered Han-yong’s reverie and brought him spinning from the window, springing to his feet, fingertips raised to eyebrow in salute. “You are to come with me.”
The senior lieutenant was very different from Han-yong. He was loud and assertive, tall by North Korean standards, and good-looking enough that he probably did well with women when he took leave—an amenity provided only to senior officers. But, most grating, he was a traditional military officer, untrained in online warfare, and knew just enough to stick his fingers where they didn’t belong.
Still, there was nothing to do but obey.
They waded the corridors in silence, past the desks where scores of other hackers from his unit sat immersed in a war that had begun with an attack on an Imperialist supercarrier only hours earlier. As Han-yong sauntered through the ranks of Unit 101, his pulse quickened with pride. They were the elite, plucked from grade school from across the country and enrolled in Command Automation University in Pyongyang. They had trained with the singular focus of learning to hack into secure enemy networks. They had become warriors. Instead of tanks or drones, their weapons were in code. They had mastered digital viruses, worms, the dedicated denial of service attack, trapdoors, and botnets. They had simulated cyber war amongst themselves and infiltrated foreign targets. At every stage, they had been tested and evaluated, and only the most gifted had come to wear the uniform.
The senior lieutenant stopped the door that led to the stairwell. “The colonel has ordered a meeting with you,” he said, one hand placed haughtily on his hip, not bothering to meet Han-yong’s eyes. He’d assumed the pose of a Manchurian guerrilla fighter from the war movies. “You will speak when spoken to and answer all inquiries in full.”
Han-yong couldn’t help himself. “Sir, what inquiries?”
“About the interconnect logic bombs,” the senior lieutenant snapped, unlocking the door. The stairwell beyond was devoid of decoration, except for a creamy swirl on the vinyl tile, like the pattern on the lid of a paint can. “Hurry now.” And he started up the stairs, feet tapping a marching rhythm.
The Imperialists of North America had many weaknesses, but Han-yong had been ordered to focus on the power grid. The system was a relic of the 1960s, set up with no thoughts for security, but instead as a way to balance the supply and demand for electrical power across vast swaths of territory. In their arrogance, the Americans had organized just five power-grid interconnections across the entire country, electrically tied together and operating at the same frequency.
While it may have so far proven a sufficient way to balance loads—power companies with little demand could transfer electricity to areas with greater demand—the reality was that a single significant disturbance could collapse all of the systems tied to the interconnection. And Han-yong did not have the means to cause just a single disturbance.
He had the means to cause thousands.
The project was code-named Sonnimne, after the smallpox gods of Korean mythology that long ago crossed the Yalu River. It was both a nod to the new pestilence they would unleash and a reference to how the plague had already spread in secret, machine to machine, substation to substation.
Han-yong had planted logic bombs—malware that could be triggered in response to an event—in substations across the United States. It had taken months of steadfast work. The difficulty was writing the combustible code within a Trojan application in a way that was at once difficult to detect, easy to spread, and powerful once deployed. While the wait and the work had been excruciating, the payoff would be enormous. And imminent.
They reached the top of the stairs, and the senior lieutenant produced a key to open the gray-painted industrial steel door. The eleventh floor was reserved for high-ranking officers, their quarters, and computer servers that required additional security.
Sweat beaded on Han-yong’s brow. The colonel ranked just three steps below a general, and was likely the most senior military official Han-yong would ever speak to in his career. A slipup here might find him dishonored and discharged, or eating rats in a reeducation camp.
They rounded the first corner through the carpeted corridor, where Han-yong noticed, with more than a little satisfaction, that the smell of mildew pervaded every bit as strongly as in the floor where the junior officers worked. The senior lieutenant pulled up short in front of a door with a brass room number in the Western style. Before they could knock, a man inside bellowed, “Junior Lieutenant Pak Han-yong. Come in. Come in.”
The voice was not what he’d expected. Friendly. Jovial, even. Han-yong poked his chin through the doorway.
Nothing about the scene that greeted them was as he had imagined. The hotel suite was gaudy by North Korean standards. The walls, which should have been bare except for the requisite photograph of the Supreme Leader, were decorated with paintings of mountains and birds in a style that Han-yong vaguely recognized as Japanese.
The room was not sleeping quarters, but an office far larger than the room Han-yong shared with the other soldiers. At the center of the space, a heavy-grain oak desk displayed unrecognizable artifacts: three swords on a wooden rack, an unfolded fan with red tassels and a painted orange sun, a clay jar in the shape of a boar, and a half-dozen other oddities that Han-yong had never seen. They were beautiful, and he felt guilty for admiring the work of foreigners.
The colonel himself was also a surprise. A crisp military uniform did nothing to hide his bulk. No one Han-yong had ever met carried more than a few pounds of extra weight. How could they, when even prison guards and soldiers, who received the best rations in the country, still lived off just enough to fill their bellies?
“Junior Lieutenant,” the colonel began, leaning back in his chair, “your commanding officer tells me we are ready to move forward with project Sonnimne. And I understand that you have implanted code throughout the US system of interconnects?”
“Not exactly, sir.” Han-yong hesitated, unsure of how much technical detail to provide. “I created a zero-day exploit. A new kind of virus, sir. It uses entirely original code.” The colonel raised an eyebrow. “That means it can’t be detected by malware filters,” Han-yong continued. “The virus triggered a patch update in the operating systems of the high-voltage distribution facilities and spread throughout.”
The colonel inclined forward, his chair squealing under the weight. “What do you mean by ‘spread throughout?’ How many facilities have the virus?”
Han-yong paused, careful to give the correct information. “All of them, sir. All of the distribution facilities in the United States now have the virus.”
The senior lieutenant let out a dry cough. Otherwise, for several seconds no one moved or spoke. Han-yong shifted his weight between feet.
“But … that must be thousands,” the colonel said.
A trickle of sweat trickled down Han-yong’s brow toward his eye, but he ignored it. “Yes, sir. There are over nine thousand electric-generating facilities and over three-hundred thousand kilometers of high-voltage lines spread between them. These substations alone carry seventy percent of the most-hated nation’s electricity. They all have the virus.” The sweat droplet fell into his eye. He blinked it away.
“Do you mean to say that we have a virus that can wipe out seventy percent of the American electrical grid?”
“No, sir. When the majority of the US power grid goes down, the lower-voltage lines won’t be able to sustain the added load volume. They will topple under the stress. This virus will wipe out one-hundred percent of the American electrical grid.”
The colonel’s mouth hung open as if he were about to speak, but couldn’t, while the senior lieutenant wore a self-satisfied smirk that reminded Han-yong of a least weasel with a bellyful of stolen eggs.
The colonel’s jaw tightened below a layer of fat. “If the virus is dispersed so completely, then why has nothing happened? The lights are still on in the West.”
Now it was the senior lieutenant’s turn to explain. “The virus has two stages. The first is the spreading stage, which is only recently complete. The second stage is activation, when the logic bombs that have been hidden in the code will deploy. We are ready to deploy that on your order, sir. Today, if desired. Along with the hundreds of other attacks Unit 101 has prepared.”
Han-yong nodded, proud that his efforts fit so well with the whole. Each team member had his own projects designed to attack global enemies; separate and equally deadly projects to take out Imperialist infrastructure. Some cyber soldiers had built malware to disable railways. Some had built code to choke airline traffic. Still others had built viruses to cripple the Imperialist military communications.
“At your command, we can activate the logic bombs with a keystroke,” the senior lieutenant continued. “The virus will cause the power grid to overheat and self-immolate. I have no way of knowing how long it would take to repair, but every time the Americans try to rebuild the lines, we can bring them down again.”
At that, the colonel laughed heartily, the fat of his jowls jiggling with mirth. “You both are too young to appreciate the irony in what we are about to do. You see, when the Soviet Union collapsed decades ago, our system also faltered. The subsidies that had sustained us fell away, and our power plants rusted into disuse. Our streets went dark. And many of our cities are still without power, as you know. The fatherland is still in the dark.”
Han-yong nodded. All too well, he knew of the humiliations his countrymen had suffered under the sanctions of their enemies.
“But our time has come,” the colonel continued. “Like the thousand-li horse, we are too swift to be mounted, too elegant to be cowed. At last, it has all come together. The fight has only begun, and already the enemy falters. So now we will strike at the heart. Today we will lash out with this and everything we have. This is our chance to repay, blindness for blindness, a world that sent us into blackness.”
About the Author
Sam has worked as a wildland firefighter, journalist, and owner of a mid-sized marketing agency. Though he’s lived in France and Spain, his heart belongs to Portland, Oregon, where he lives with his wife, Tehra, two wonderful children, and a messy cat that keeps them from owning anything nice.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
The Lost Macaw Blitz H
Date Published: 12/14/17
The Lost Macaw is the fourth novella in the Lost and Found Pets series. Alexandra Prescott is a licensed private investigator specializing in finding missing animals. Reuniting pet and owner is more than just a job.
A former client hires Alex to find her lost parrot. The bright colored bird has flown away before, but this time there is evidence that Molly was kidnapped. The demand is simple—the bird for the pictures.
When her client suffers a stroke, Alex is left with a ransom note, a missing bird, and some very incriminating photos. She is in a race against time to solve the mystery of the lost Macaw.
“Your little old lady is quite interesting, Alex,” Halie said.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t exist until about thirty years ago.”
“I did a preliminary background search on her. In general, she is clean. No debt. The house is paid off as is her car. The one thing that jumped out at me was the fact that she had a safe deposit box at four different banks.”
Luke raised one eyebrow. I got a sinking feeling. I had noted the bank accounts but hadn’t really given them much thought.
“Yeah,” I said, “I saw those.”
“So why does an eighty-year-old woman need four safe deposit boxes?”
“Why does she need more than one?” Luke muttered.
“Exactly,” Halie said. “So I dug a little deeper.”
“What did you find?”
“About thirty years ago, Joseph and Trudy Kearns purchased the house on Carriage. Back then, it was a new neighborhood, and the prices were cheap. They paid cash. They also opened a bank account, and Joe got a job working for the city. Those are the first records I can find for either one of them.”
“Trudy would have been fifty at that time. Her husband probably a few years older. What about birth certificates? Social security cards?”
“They had them, but conveniently, they were issued from a small county in Virginia where a massive flood destroyed all their records. The county office was in the process of moving the old paper records to electronic when the flood hit.”
“Let me guess. The Kearns’s records did not survive the flood.”
“So the only records for them are the ones they had in their possession.” I paused a moment. “Do they look real?”
“Yes,” Halie replied.
“So they could be authentic.”
“Or really good forgeries. In some ways, it was easier back then.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Not really. Like I said, she’s pretty clean. Lives on a fixed income of social security and a small pension from her husband’s job. It isn’t much because he only worked for the city for twelve years before he had to retire.”
“This isn’t looking good.”
“I’ll keep digging. See if anything else turns up.”
“Okay, thanks Halie.”
After ending the call, I looked a Luke. He had a perplexed look on his face that I had a feeling mirrored mine.
“Who the hell is Trudy Kearns?”
About the Author
B. L. Blair writes mystery/romance stories. Like most authors, she has been writing most of her life and has dozens of books started. She just needs the time to finish them.
She is the author of the Holton Romance Series, the Leah Norwood Mysteries, and the Lost and Found Pets Mystery Series. She enjoys reading books, writing books, and traveling wherever and as often as time and money allows. She is currently working on her latest book set in Texas, where she lives with her family.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Ever wondered about the personalities behind your favorite books? Victoria Danann's new podcast with Riley J. Ford has an incredible lineup of authors booked through the spring. No question is out of bounds. Check it out!
THIS WEEK'S BEST SELLING AUTHOR...
C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind – especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.
She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over thirty novels – romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.
Oh, and Caitlin loves to chat (incessantly), so feel free to e-mail her, send her a Facebook message, or put up smoke signals. She's already looking forward to it.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection
Publisher: Carrick Publishing
Published: November 2017
Near-future dystopia, interstellar flight, first encounter, space battles, AI, and more--find them in this new sci-fi bundle.
This new sci-fi bundle takes the reader from an Earth dominated by multinationals and policed by their mercenaries to colonizing another planet and the first encounter with ETs. And beyond, far into a future with space battles, ESP, AI, and more. This three-novel bundle provides hours of sci-fi entertainment in just one ebook.
About the Author
Steven M. Moore writes sci-fi, mystery, and thriller books and sometimes combines these genres as he does in this trilogy. He is a full-time writer, and his many books illustrate his perpetual love of storytelling. He was born in California and lived in many other places, both in the U.S. and abroad, experiencing diverse peoples and settings that often define his near-future mysteries and thrillers and extrapolate well into his sci-fi. He currently lives with his wife in NJ.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Inspirational Romantic Suspense
Date Published: December 5, 2017
Publisher: LLC: Swan Press
Lanie Owens has just survived a horrific attack by a stalker. Her grandfather, a retired army colonel, drives her to a resort in Maine where she can heal in peace while the authorities track down the man who almost killed her. To Lanie’s dismay, he hires a bodyguard to protect her. Lanie’s nightmares are debilitating, but giving up control of her life is unacceptable.
Former Army Ranger Matt Saunders knows all about nightmares. He’s spent the last year recovering from an injury he sustained during his last tour and the hellish events that caused it. Anxious to prove that he is fit to go back overseas, he accepts the bodyguard job. The resort is everything they imagined - tranquil, safe, and a place to heal. Gradually, they open up to each other and realize they have a lot in common – except their future plans. When a resort video goes viral, Lanie's stalker knows just where to find her.
Matt couldn’t help himself. He kissed the top of Lanie’s head again and inhaled the citrus and floral scent that was now a familiar comfort to him. She tilted her head up to him, a lazy smile on her lips.
“This is heaven,” she stated. “Let’s forget the rest of the world and just be.” Her eyes pleaded with his for understanding. “Like the song,” she murmured.
He touched his lips to her forehead. “I’d like that.” He pulled his head back to look at her. “But I don’t know how.” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on hers.
Lanie reached out her hand and placed it on his cheek. She turned his face back to her. “I do,” she whispered. “Even if only for a moment.”
Matt froze as she pulled his head down toward hers and gently kissed his lips. Shocks he could only describe as lightning shot through his every nerve. He sat still, stiff as the igneous rock beneath him, paralyzed with awe and fear.
Lanie was so beautiful, and so trusting. She was facing her fears head on and working through her pain in her effort to return to normal. He knew that was a myth. You couldn’t go back, only create a new normal. Why couldn’t he push past his barriers like she was doing? Why was he so messed up he couldn’t enjoy a kiss from a woman like Lanie? Why couldn’t he even kiss her back? He wanted to, more than anything. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he trust himself? She drew back and searched his eyes.
“Lanie.” He pulled away. He hoped she couldn’t hear the anguish in his voice. “We can’t—”
“I know,” she replied, her eyes cast downward. “I got caught up in the moment. But what if we could get lost here?” She turned and scooted away from him. She pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged them. “Just disappear.”
About the Author
Kerry Evelyn has always been fascinated by people and the backstories that drive them to do what they do. She graduated from Bridgewater State University with a Bachelor of Science in Education and Sociology. A native of the Massachusetts South Coast, she taught in an inner city elementary school before moving to Florida to teach in a rural setting, and then in her own neighborhood. Fast forward a few years, and she's now a crazy blessed wife and homeschooling mom to the two sweetest kids you'll ever meet (she's also super biased). When she's not homeschooling or writing, she's mentoring moms through Mom Mastery University, sharing essential oils, and planning super fun events for her kids and their friends (although her own kids have yet to be impressed, being that every event has some sort of learning snuck in to it). She loves God, books of all kinds, traveling, taking selfies, and escaping into her imagination, where every child is happy and healthy, every house has a library, and her hubby wears coattails and a top hat 24/7.
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Date Published: 11/30/17
Publisher: Carolina Blue Publishing
Dr. Charlotte Avery is the newest resident of Windsor Falls, North Carolina. Just back from the war-ravaged plains of Africa, Charlie only wants to settle into her new life and to reconnect with Elizabeth Fitzgerald, her best friend from residency. What she doesn’t expect, or need, is the instant attraction she feels for Elizabeth’s brother-in-law, Brendan. A single dad, Brendan Fitzgerald isn’t interested in anything that will further complicate his life. Will they be open to a second chance?
About the Author
Kimberley O’Malley is a recent transplant to Charlotte, North Carolina from the frozen North. She is learning to say y’all but draws the line at sweet tea. Sarcasm is an art form in her world. When not writing, she is a full-time nurse and part-time soccer Mom, but not necessarily in that order. She shares her life with an amazing husband of more than twenty years, two teenagers, and one very sweet Shetland Sheepdog, Molly.
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Monday, November 27, 2017
WELCOME TO THE CYBER MONDAY SALE BLAST!
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