Book Tour Stop/Giveaway: Sugar Sand and Land by Patricia Leavy

 

Discover Sugar Sand Land by Patricia Leavy today and make sure to enter the tour wide giveaway as you would win  a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card. Check out all the tour stops HERE and this tour is sponsored by Goddess Fish Promotions.

Interview with Patricia Leavy about Sugar Sand Land.

What is your favorite ice cream flavor? 

Mint chocolate chip. I also love gelato, especially pistachio. I’m also a big sorbet fan, especially in Europe where the fruit is so good. I love all berry flavors, apricot, plum, peach, lemon. In New York there’s a restaurant called Lure that has incredible lychee sorbet, that tastes faintly of rose. In Stokholm there’s an ice cream stand that has marzipan and saffron ice cream. They’re really good.

 You post a lot about traveling and your novels take place in many different places. What are your three favorite places outside of the US? 

Japan. Tokyo is an amazing city. I love everything about it. Sweden is another. Stockholm is my favorite city in Europe. It’s beautiful with all the waterways. I love art and always visit as many museums as I can and the modern art museum there is my favorite. I go most days and write in the café. The seafood is amazing too. Iceland is also magical. The nature is just incredible and like nothing that exists anywhere else. It’s literally like being dropped on another planet. I’ve written two novels that take place there because it’s just so special.

 What’s your favorite place to visit in the US? 

New York City, especially SoHo. I’ve been going there since I was a kid. The cast iron buildings are incredible and there’s a super cool arts vibe. I love writing when I’m there—in my hotel room, coffee shops, and museum cafés. It’s endlessly inspiring. Going there is like getting a big dose of creative fuel.

 Sugar Sand Land is set in many locations—Los Angeles, New York City, Palm Springs, and Las Vegas—to name a few. How did you decide where to set the book? 

Characters and stories always tell me where they should be. This book is a Hollywood story between two celebrities. The paparazzi play a huge role. They needed a break from LA too though, and there were reasons why Emerson’s work would send her to NYC. LA and NYC have very different vibes so that was fun to play with and I know the latter well. The big Vegas chapter is one my favorite parts of the book. Emerson is larger than life and I always envisioned how she would approach Sin City. Renn likes the quiet, and I could picture him having an oasis away from LA in the desert. A little midcentury modern house befitting a star, but in no way showy. Like I said, the characters tell me where they belong. I’m lucky because mentally I get to go to these cool places with them.

 Describe Sugar Sand Land in five words or phrases. 

Romantic and sexy, celebrities, social media, cancel culture, and what’s real versus what’s an illusion.

SUGAR SAND LAND

by Patricia Leavy

Romance

For fans of Ashley Poston and Abby Jimenez, a contemporary romance—with a twist—about a media-savvy reality television star and a canceled country singer. 

Twenty-eight-year-old beauty Emerson Blue is the second most followed celebrity on social media. A self-proclaimed “living piece of art” who rose to fame as a reality star and then parlayed her celebrity into a megabucks career as an influencer, she seems to have everything. 

Forty-eight-year-old Grammy winner Renn Walker is a fallen country music star. Years ago, he was canceled following allegations of sexual misconduct, and he has lived in seclusion ever since. Once a beloved figure, he seems to have lost it all. 

When Emerson and Renn meet, sparks fly. Against all odds, a star obsessed with popularity and a recluse shunned by the world fall in love. Everyone in the public and media has an opinion and thinks they know Emerson and Renn. But in a world dominated by social media—a world that blurs the lines between what’s public and private, what’s real and what’s illusion—do we ever really know anyone?

 Buy Links:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Simon & Schuster

 

Excerpt Three: 

They smiled at each other, but the moment was broken when several people eagerly approached the pair. A lanky woman with a brown bob and red lips, sporting a black turtleneck and cigarette pants, greeted Emerson with air kisses. “Darling, you look chic as always. I promised everyone it would be a star-studded opening. Thank you for helping me keep my word.” 

Emerson smiled politely. “Glad to do my part, Miranda. You have one of the best spaces in Tinseltown, and the best eye. I’d like you to meet my friend Renn Walker. Renn, Miranda owns this wonderful gallery.” 

“It’s a pleasure,” Renn said, extending his hand. 

“I’m honored you would see fit to come to our little show,” Miranda replied, shaking his hand. Her eyes lingered on him with a mix of awe and confusion. After a moment passed, she stammered, “Uh, please allow me to introduce the artist, Lars Grant.”

           She gestured to a tall man in black leather pants, a white T-shirt with a black peace sign, and dark sunglasses. “Hey. Thanks for coming,” he said. He flipped his glasses to the top of his head and stared at Emerson. “I’m mad for you. Your artistic impulse is singular. You’re ahead of the curve. Pushing the envelope.”           

The others in the group started adding their words of praise. “You’re the embodiment of art,” one spandex-clad woman gushed.           

“The embodiment of embodiment theory,” another added, looking quite proud of himself.           

“Yes, you’ve taken performative to a whole new level,” another concurred.           

Emerson smiled. “All our lives are really works of art. Don’t you think?”           

The group nodded along, hissing oohs and aahs at her words.            

A waiter walked over carrying a tray of flutes brimming with champagne and raspberry sparkling water.           

Emerson grabbed a glass of the pink bubbly water. “Well, we’re going to take a little stroll around. Best of luck with the show,” she said, taking Renn’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you all,” he said, and he followed Emerson through the crowd, smiling politely to people along the way as they admired the art, until they reached the back wall where they had privacy. They stood in front of a large canvas covered in rows of brightly colored paint and a clump of broken glass. Emerson leaned back on Renn, and he comfortably slipped his hands around her waist as if they had been together forever.           

“Are those your friends?” Renn whispered.           

“Hell no. People from the art scene,” she replied.           

“Good,” he said, giving her waist a squeeze. “They were kind of . . .”           

“Pretentious?” she asked.           

He chuckled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything to offend you, but . . .”           

“What?” she asked.           

“They’re so far up your ass. Do you think they have any idea how ludicrous they sound?”           

She giggled. “That’s the thing about art and fame, they don’t really go together, do they?”           

He huffed. “Funny. I never used to think about that at all. I just wrote songs, played my music. Everything else just fell into place. I never gave any of it a thought. Until it went away.”           

“The art never goes away, though. For the real artists, that’s always there at the center. Even when the hype takes on a life of its own, at the core, in the eye of the storm, there’s always the art.”           

“Em, you are very surprising,” he said.           

“So, we’re up to nicknames now?”           

“Yes,” he replied, dropping a kiss in her hair. “Is that okay?”           

“Yes. It’s sweet actually,” she said.           

“Good,” he said, dropping another kiss in her hair. “So, do you think art can survive fame?”           

“It’s like this artwork.” She tilted her chin forward at the piece before them. “Miranda started a major publicity campaign to get this guy’s name out there, create buzz, brand him the next big find, and it’s all just spin. It could have been this guy or that guy or any other guy in some ways. Yet the art is real. This piece,” she said, gesturing, “it’s real.”           

“Do you like it, this work?” Renn asked.           

“Yes. It’s a commentary on the art world itself, or maybe even society as a whole. Pretty pictures and shattered dreams. The filtered image and the broken soul. Illusion and the crash of reality.”           

They stood for a moment, looking at the piece, Emerson’s words in the air. Eventually Renn broke the silence and said, “Are you sure it’s not just some broken glass glued to a canvas?”           

They both laughed.

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links: 

Patricia Leavy, PhD, is an award-winning, best-selling author. She is also the publisher and CEO of Paper Stars Press. She was formerly Associate Professor of Sociology, Chairperson of Sociology & Criminology, and Founding Director of Gender Studies at Stonehill College. She has published more than fifty books; her work has been translated into many languages, and she has received more than one hundred book awards. Her novel Shooting Stars Above was featured on People “10 Romance Books to Read After Great Big Beautiful Life by Emily Henry” and was the 2025 Firebird Book Award First Place Winner in Contemporary Novel, Romance, and Summer Beach Read. Patricia has also received career awards from the New England Sociological Association, the American Creativity Association, the American Educational Research Association, the International Congress of Qualitative Inquiry, and the National Art Education Association. In 2018, she was honored by the National Women’s Hall of Fame and SUNY-New Paltz established the “Patricia Leavy Award for Art and Social Justice.” In 2024 the London Arts-Based Research Centre established “The Patricia Leavy Award for Arts-Based Research.” Patricia lives in Maine. In addition to writing, she enjoys art, reading, and travel.

 

Website: www.patricialeavy.com 

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

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

X (Twitter): https://x.com/PatriciaLeavy

Book Teaser Spotlight: Wylder Magic by Camille Anthony

Contemporary Multicultural Magic

Paranormal Dark Romance

Date Published: October 23, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Eight days...

Elias Wylder, that egotistical SOB, had the gall to trick Moriah into bonding with him during her Opening Ceremony! Now her year of hiding is almost up. Only eight days and she'll be free. In eight days, Moriah can repudiate the bond with Wylder and claim her rightful place in Arcane Society. Until then, she dare not allow the powerful warlock to discover she still loves him, despite his trickery. She must keep her distance, no matter how close she wishes they could be.

But Wylder's not the kind to take no for an answer.

Humbled by her loss, Elias will do anything to find Mariah, even begging the Council of Magick for help. Unfortunately, his year of futile searching is almost up. An Athame Warlock must present his lady to the Council before the year passes, or lose her forever. Elias can't allow that to happen. Mariah's taken more than Wylder's magick -- she's stolen his heart. He's got just eight days to find her, and win her back!

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Camille Anthony

Thursday, October 14, 11:00 PM

(Northeastern Division Time)

"By the Lord and Lady! Wylder, how did you come to misplace the academy's most promising student?"

Wylder sneered at Lemuel Westerner, refusing to give the irritating council member the satisfaction of answering. Yet he could not help acknowledging, if only to himself, his utter responsibility for the disaster now facing him. By totally fucking up, asshole. How else?

My own actions had caused this. I saw something I wanted, something wondrous, and with my usual damned arrogance, tried to snatch it for myself.

"And why are you only now bringing this to our attention?"

Just being here, ordered to be here, had his temper flaring hotter than the salamander-ignited fires blazing through San Francisco at this very moment, and here was Westerner, an old enemy, finally mated and a full member of the council, trying to lord it over him.

Elias Wylder -- the most powerful warlock since his evil ancestor, Grimm the Rogue -- glared at Lemuel Westerner until the hairy, burly shifter gulped and hunched down in his seat. Elias narrowed his eyes, bunched his thick eyebrows in an intimidating scowl, until he realized there was more likelihood of the man growing a second head than there was of his growing the balls to truly confront Elias in challenge. "What's gotten into you, little mule? You know better than to speak to me in that tone of voice."

Just the thought of Lemuel trying to stand up to him made Elias's lips turn up in a contemptuous smirk. "Little cat, you couldn't possibly be thinking about challenging me. Even drawing upon the enhanced power bestowed by your mated state, you haven't a hope in hell of defeating me. Any contest between the two of us would be ludicrous -- no contest at all."

The werecat's lips pulled back from his teeth in an angry snarl but before he could do other than posture, another council member spoke up. "I, too, would like to know the particulars of Miss Maganistus' graduation. Where is the record of the ceremony? If you officiated at it, why has she yet to come before this council to receive her diploma and wand? The shock waves we've been attributing to her graduation were felt as far away as the Outer Isles."

Lady Selima's quiet voice worked wonders on his mood, as usual, and Elias turned to face her, sensing her nurturing magick flowing over him, calming his fractious anger. "Until now, I deemed it a personal matter. I didn't feel the council needed the information, as at the time, it did not fringe upon national security. It does now."

Her gentle mind reached out, attempting to touch and soothe his turbulent spirit. He closed his eyes, resting a brief moment in the peace she generated before mentally jerking back with a curse. Giving a sharp shake of his head, he broke contact with the compassionate lady, unable to afford even one second of weakness. The fluctuation in his power continued to increase. His control deteriorated daily. "Stop stroking my aura, Selima. You weren't invited."

The mellow magicker spread her hands out, palm up. "I sense great upheaval in your heart and soul. I but seek to ease --"

"Butt out! I don't need you softening me up." His low growl rumbled through the room like static electricity. "Don't make me tell you again."

The dark menace in his voice would have made any other cringe, but it didn't surprise him to see Selima continue toward him, arms still outstretched. Before she could reach him, her husband drew her back, arrowing an admonishing glare toward the male upsetting his tenderhearted mate.

Antoiyn Grooden placed a comforting hand over his wife's while his other hand furtively sketched a powerful protection rune in the air. "She means no harm, Wylder."

Elias snorted, an imp of adversity temping him to burn a rune of his own into the air. He resisted, knowing the situation was already hot enough. "Stand down, Grooden. I mean her no harm." He enjoyed teasing the stuck-up, tight-assed older male, and a toothy grin curled his lips as he continued to bait the powerful mage. "As if any signing of yours could stop my magick if I were inclined to --"

"Oh, for the goddess' sake, Wylder, cut out all the dramatics and just tell us what happened with the girl. We put you in charge of seeing to her graduation exercises, and now no one can find a trace of her. It's as if she fell off the face of the earth. So, what did you do... kill her?"

Horrified silence cloaked the room's occupants in the aftermath of the daring outburst made by Westerner's mate, until the silence shattered under the bark of Wylder's involuntary laughter. Only Judith would actually come out and say something like that to me! How could I have ever fucked this mentally blonde airhead?

Oh, well, he reasoned a second later, chuckling and shaking his head, my cock didn't give a fuck about her absent thought processes...

His grudging amusement over her customary no-clue-ism gradually faded as his night-dark eyes touched on each of the mated pairs, noting with disdain how they had drawn back, distancing themselves from poor Judith and the anticipated backlash of his anger.

Wylder's black eyes flashed, a grimace drawing his mouth tight. "Look at you, presenting as small a target as possible, pretending you aren't frightened enough to piss yourselves." He taunted them, not bothering to hide his disgust at his fellow council members. "None save Selima and Judith have the courage to speak their minds, let alone meet my gaze." He snorted, mouth curling up in a mocking half smile when even the Elven pair -- next in power to him -- refused to acknowledge his derision. "Judith may not have enough sense to fill a thimble, but apparently she and Selima are the only ones in these chambers with any balls."

Like a caged beast, he paced the parquet floor, running agitated hands through his shoulder-length mass of dense, black hair. Turning on his audience, he shouted, "What has this council come to? Once, this body of rulers stood for something. Now all I see is a pathetic group of cowards. Is this all that remains of the mighty Council of Magick? Well, you need an infusion of new blood. You need me!"

"Not yet, we don't," Lemuel snapped, face distorted with a mix of jealousy, envy and fear. "You don't get to take control of this council until you are mated."

"Meanwhile," Grooden interrupted, smoothly bringing the conversation back on track, "you were telling us about Lady Maganistus --"

"No Lady until she receives her wand, Chairperson Grooden," someone reminded him.

"As for what happened with Lady Maganistus --" The emphasis on the title did not go unnoted by Wylder's listeners. "-- I supervised her graduation, which she passed with glowing expertise. I left her sleeping, recuperating from the rite. When I returned, I found she had escaped."

"Escaped? Why did she need to escape? She was a graduate, not a prisoner."

"What did she do... better yet, what did you do?"

The memory of what he had done made his cock, never totally quiescent since that long ago evening, swell to painful hardness. Wylder chose his words with care, his rebellious thoughts running in counterpoint. "In my judgment, she was too powerful to risk with just anyone, so I chose to personally supervise the ceremony." And I didn't want any Warlock's cock in her but mine!

 

About the Author

A funny thing happened on the way to the grave... In 2006, Cammy was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis and given two weeks to live. She promptly discharged herself AMA -- Against Medical Advice -- since, as she stubbornly informed her doctors, she could die at home far more comfortably than at the hospital. But then... she got an idea for a new story. Then another, and another...

Fifteen years and dozens of fantastic tales later, Cammy passed quietly in her sleep, at home, as was her wish. We miss her. Her work lives on, and we hold her in our hearts. Cammy decided many years ago that upon her passing, she wished to donate her royalties to The Quiet Kitty fund, which helps authors with emergency medical expenses. We do, to keep her in our hearts and minds.

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

Book Blitz & Giveaway: Dead Man’s Trigger by Kat Huddleston

Dead Man’s Trigger: A Max Maguire Vampire Novel
Kat Huddleston
Publication date: October 5th 2026
Genres: Adult, Urban Fantasy

Who Knew Immortality Could Be So Short?

When high school history teacher Max Maguire begins to suspect one of his brightest students is in trouble, he ends up walking down the wrong alley. Suddenly, he’s staring down the fangs of a beautiful, powerful, and utterly merciless vampire named Jade.

As Max’s life takes a dark turn he’s forced to learn how to survive in Jade’s twisted world. But if Jade thinks her hostage is going to play nice, she really should have read his resume. This former Special Forces sniper might just have to dust off some very lethal muscle memory.

While Max plots exactly how to kill the most dangerous predator on the planet, he discovers there’s another group of vampires that have their own plans for Jade. Before he knows it, Max is caught in the crosshairs of a vampire war that neither side can afford to lose.

And there’s one thing neither side knows… Max has a secret of his own.

CONTENT WARNING: This is NOT a romance. The novel contains mature content intended for readers 18 and older. This is a gritty, fast-paced genre hybrid combining vampires with dark urban fantasy, tactical military thriller action, and sarcastic humor, with a wisecracking protagonist at its center. There is explicit sexual material, including non-consensual sex, graphic violence, torture, adult themes, and visceral horror elements. In other words, my vampires don’t sparkle.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Max Maguire just got a brutal lesson from his captor, Jade, after his arm was exposed to the sun. He’s left burned and sick. The only one who can help him is the vampire who hurt him.

Max faded in and out of consciousness for hours, as the pain from his arm and the demands from his hunger took turns pounding through him like two enormous drums vying for attention. When he felt the sun leave the sky, the hunger reared up.

He tried to sit up, but his body started to shake. He felt like he was going to die, even though he figured a vampire wouldn’t die from a little sunburn. But he didn’t have any control over his body and every time he moved or touched his arm, pain seared through him. Eventually he stopped trying to get up or move and decided to wait it out. And suddenly there she was, Jade, looking down on him like an angel… or at least an angel from hell.

“What’s wrong with me?” Max asked.

“It’s sun poisoning. You’ll feel better after a bite.”

He closed his eyes as his body began to shake again. Max knew that she could bring him one of his former students at that moment and he’d kill them. His body would take over, the desire ripping right through his heart. And just as Max was focusing every ounce of his being on hating Jade, she sat down on the bed next to him and pulled him into her arms. Tenderly, almost lovingly, she rocked him like a mother would a sick child.

“It’s going to be okay. Drink me, Max,” she said.

He looked up at her surprised. Jade laughed.

She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead and then turned her head to the side, exposing her neck for him. Max’s body took over and in an instant he wrapped his hands around her and crushed her into his body, his fangs sinking into her neck. His mind went blank as he drank her deep and hard, extreme pain mingling with intense pleasure driving his senses to places he’d never been before. Better yet, he could feel her pleasure in his act.

When his mind came back to him, Max kept waiting for her to push him away, but she didn’t. When he finally stopped, he lay back wiping the blood from his mouth. She watched him with her cobalt blue eyes, like a curious cat wondering what he might do next. She’d gone from being pink and warm to pale and cool.

“Do you feel better?” she asked.

Max nodded. “Thank you.” It was a kind of twisted logic that would have him thank her for helping him considering she hurt him in the first place. Regardless he’d go with it. He had to make Jade believe she owned him body and soul, and there was no time to start like the present.

He was still in some pain, but Max felt much, much better. He rolled over to look at her, resting his head on his good arm. “You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re an idiot.”

“Okay,” he said.

“When I was holding your hand, you could have twisted out of the sun. You could have screamed, begged me to stop. Any number of things. But you didn’t. You just endured the pain. Why?”

“If I had done those things, would you have stopped sooner?”

“Probably not,” Jade said.

“Maybe I was trying to impress you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think… you weren’t going to let me beat you.”

“You’ve already beaten me,” Max said as he played with her long, blonde hair rubbing a strand over his lips.

Jade laughed and shook her head. “Not yet. But I will… Do you want to continue with lessons on the Saracen Lance?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why is more like it.”

“I don’t think learning how to handle myself in this environment will hurt me.”

“It might not help you either… You’re a very interesting former human. Not always too bright though.”

“Somehow I don’t think being bright is a requirement for this job.” Max let his eyes run down the length of her body. She was wearing the T-shirt and jeans from earlier. He really wanted to take them off.

Jade touched his chest and her power flowed through him like an electric current. “I suppose not.” Jade pushed him onto his back and Max stopped talking. He didn’t want to think any more. He just wanted to let the feeling of her power flow through him. At that moment he didn’t even have the energy to hate her.

Author Bio:

Kat Huddleston has never met a perfectly ordinary day she couldn't improve with a vampire, a monster, or an alien invasion.

The result is Dead Man’s Trigger, the first book in her Max Maguire Vampire series, about a former Special Forces sniper turned high school history teacher turned vampire. He has military training, a talent for sarcasm, and a complicated relationship with being dead. Or is it undead?

Kat likes her supernatural creatures intelligent, her heroes complex, and her humor dark. Her vampires don't sparkle.

A Chicago-based writer, teacher, and award-winning artist, Kat spent a couple of decades writing about sci-fi TV and movies for the Syfy Channel’s website and Sci Fi Magazine. She's also written short stories and screenplays, taught fused glass, and created artwork that can be found in several galleries. Occasionally, she pretends she can concentrate on one thing at a time.

When she's not writing, painting, or melting glass in the name of art, Kat lives with her two cats, Jax and Nicky. They provide moral support, quality control, and unsolicited keyboard supervision. So far, neither has offered to help with marketing.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Bookbub / Newsletter

GIVEAWAY

Dead Man’s Trigger Blitz

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Book Tour Stop: Fear and Jonathan Friend by Barry Creyton

Title: Fear and Jonathan Friend

Author: Barry Creyton

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/20/2026

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 34600

Genre: Horror/thriller, M/M romance, psychological thriller, no sex but offhand mention of M/F affair, amnesia, author, newspaper reporter, hurt/comfort, mental illness, PTSD/post-traumatic stress

Add to Goodreads

Description

Jonathan Friend, a successful novelist, is left shattered by the tragic death of his husband, Andy. He suffers a breakdown, spends months of therapy in London, and returns to the US, only to endure a catastrophic plane crash in which he is the sole survivor.

After recuperating in the hospital, he returns to his rural Connecticut home. Here, Jonathan is haunted by a paralyzing fear of the cellar where Andy died and plagued by surreal nightmares, often reliving Andy’s death by impalement on garden shears. His rationality declines further when he discovers disturbing truths about the crash.
Bernie Jensen, local newspaper editor, seeks an interview with Jonathan. Initially met with hostility, over time, a romantic bond forms. As Jonathan confides his fears and hallucinations to Bernie, he investigates Jonathan’s claims.

As shocking truths are revealed, Jonathan loses his grip on reality and attacks Bernie, wounding him. He is arrested, but escapes custody to confront his fears at his home. Here, the devastating truth about Andy’s death is finally revealed.

Excerpt

Fear and Jonathan Friend
Barry Creyton © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

A violent jolt woke him from a deep, dreamless sleep.

He pushed the sleep mask up to his forehead and tried to orientate. He was sitting up, comfortable enough, covered by a thin blanket, a pillow behind his head.

“This is the first officer again.” The disembodied voice filled the cabin.

Of course! He was on a plane. He was going home.

“Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened.”

He raised the shade on his window and saw only gray, lit intermittently by the flicker of lightning.

“The weather hasn’t cleared as we hoped, and traffic is heavy around JFK. We’re in a holding pattern and will land you as soon as we can.”

The cabin shuddered violently, and he grabbed at his diary as it slid from the tray table. The notebook he deemed “diary” was a gift from his publisher—bound in deep green leather with his name tastefully embossed in gold.

“Those of you who have connecting flights will be given priority at customs, and airline staff will conduct you to the appropriate gates.”

The announcement was replaced by a tinny version of the old waltz, “Fascination.” Jonathan smiled to himself as he pondered the judiciousness of playing a song written in 1900, and probably played on the Titanic, on a sleek modern aircraft at present battling a storm.

The shaking subsided. He glanced across the aisle. A matronly looking woman of around sixty was staring at him. She wore a little too much makeup, and the jewels which glinted at her throat, ears, and on her manicured fingers were clearly the real thing. She clutched a hardcover book that bore the title The Persistence of Memory by Jonathan Friend.

She turned the book over and inspected the picture of Jonathan on the rear of the jacket, then turned a squint to Jonathan. “Jonathan Friend, right?”

Jonathan smiled courteously and nodded.

“Geraldine Weissman.” She opened the book at the flyleaf and held it out to Jonathan. “You mind, honey? Put ‘to Geraldine.’ Don’t put the ‘Weissman.’ I want my friends to think I’ve known you twenty years.”

Jonathan took the book from her. He slid the small gold pen from the spine of his diary and wrote:

To my old friend Geraldine

with fondest wishes,

Jonathan Friend.

He passed the book back to her.

She read the inscription and chuckled. “I’ll treasure this, honey. I’ve read all your books. I’m what you might call a fan.” She reached into the seat pocket and withdrew a purse. She rummaged around for a moment before finding a small, elaborately inscribed card which she handed to Jonathan. “You’re ever in Brooklyn Heights, look me up. I mean it.”

Jonathan nodded and slipped the card into the pages of his diary.

Geraldine sobered somewhat. “I read about your loss. As who didn’t? Tragic, honey, real tragic. You don’t mind me bringin’ it up?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“‘Life is but a day,’ you know? ‘A fragile dew-drop.’ That Keats said a mouthful.”

Jonathan registered no emotion, none he cared to display, and changed the subject. “Are you coming from London?”

“Via London. From France. I just did Paris.”

“How did you like it?”

“Too much scenery.”

The cabin lurched, and Geraldine clutched at the armrest. “Oh boy!”

The tinny, banal orchestration of “Fascination” became a little more obtrusive, and Jonathan rubbed his forehead to ease a growing headache. He leaned out of his seat to take a look at the passengers to his rear.

Behind, on the aisle, a businessman in a dark suit and thick-lensed glasses sat rigid with fear, clutching a briefcase. He stared straight ahead with a frown of concentration, as if willing the aircraft to follow a smooth trajectory. Behind him, a young couple who seemed to Jonathan to be newlyweds, though there was no overt evidence beyond the occasional shy looks they exchanged. Next to them, a middle-aged woman with a washed-out, downtrodden appearance, wearing a plain cotton print dress which underlined the impression of a housewife from a 1950s TV commercial, unused to being out of a kitchen. She seemed out of place in the privileged trappings of first class. Jonathan chastised himself mentally, briefly, for thinking like a snob. With the woman was a young girl of perhaps four who laughed happily as the plane shuddered and bounced. She held a brightly colored ball and waved at Jonathan. Jonathan waved back.

His gaze returned to Geraldine who was no less apprehensive than the other passengers. “This kinda thing scare you?” she asked.

Jonathan shrugged. “I’ve had my fair share of turbulence.”

Geraldine took the oblique reference to personal tragedy at face value and shook her head. “Scares the shit outta me. The late Mister Weissman used to say, ‘if God meant us to fly, we woulda been born with airsick bags.’ Of course, he never went farther east than Atlantic City in the whole of his—”

There was a decisive shudder. The plane dipped into a steep downward dive. Oxygen masks fell; overhead bins flew open, spewing bags, clothing, and more. A woman somewhere to the rear screamed. Jonathan strained against the sudden velocity and peered through his window as the aircraft broke free of the clouds.

A flight attendant stumbled down the aisle checking seat belts. He grabbed her arm. “Are those trees out there? Aren’t we a little close to the—?”

A shriek of tortured metal overtook the roar of the engines, then a hideous grinding, and the world turned 360 degrees.

Flames.

An explosion.

Black.

Silence—broken only by the distant droning of the waltz, “Fascination.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Barry Creyton has worked extensively in British and Australian theatre and television as actor, playwright and director. His plays are produced in more than twenty languages. Awards include the prestigious Kessell Award for his outstanding contributions to Australian theatre, the L.A. Ovation Award, and the Noel Coward International Writing Award. He resides in the United States. Learn more

 at Barry's website.

 

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jon Ketzner will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Talking with Jon Ketzner about Coincidence:

What is my latest book about?  My latest, “Coincidence,” is centered by the assassination of President Johnny F. Kennedy. It is a historiographic metafiction novel that weaves fictional characters in and out of the basic assassination background and actual bad day in Dallas. I like to think it’s a Valentine to those people and times, but it is laced with humor and salacious friskiness…just like those people and times.

 

How does the process from concept to publishing work for me?  As with many folks I suspect, the kernel of narrative idea drifts into my head all the time. I do miles of interstate driving and during those drives I often consider story ideas. I have written short story anthologies as well as novels. I prefer novels, but that of course requires that you have a narrative superstructure robust enough to support 60,000+ words of crisp story telling. In both of my novels, II have repurposed a couple of my previously published short stories. This provides both a prompt and a nice jumpstart for me. I generally need about eight weeks to craft a first draft of a novel, then another few weeks to edit. Then off to the publisher for their proofing and editing. I like to think I’m a pretty good self-editor and the feedback is generally minimal. Then off to the printer.

 

Which of my books would I recommend for a new reader?  I think my first novel “Bad Consequence…tales of an Amish samurai” may be best, ot either of the short story anthologies. The Kennedy book may not be everyone’s cup of tea, especially if that event still resonates deeply with a reader. My basic narrative arc is a strong female protagonist, cartoon villains and a happy…almost Hallmark Network…ending. I think many readers find that type of tale satisfying.

 

Do I have a favorite development or writing book I could recommend? Sorry, nope. Not how I roll. I have never to my recollection tackled a self- help or self-improvement book. I’m not a big reader of any non-fiction frankly.

 

Something fun or interesting about me:  well, I am a retired actuary, so the fact that I find post-retirement joy in paragraphs rather than numbers is, perhaps, curious. Left brain/ right brain thing. I delivered my daughter in the backseat of our car. I moved our family to the small rural city of Cumberland, Md from Philadelphia at age 40 to raise our small children. We’re still here, the kids now both live back in Philly. I just got back from chasing a solar eclipse around the Mediterranean.

 

What have I learned through my writing process? I learned how to better use Word. I do not outline, I generally write my stories sequentially from opening to closing. I do this by constructing the story in my brain then downloading. Once in a while, I’ll paint myself into a corner with my plotting that might require a ridiculous coincidence or unbelievable twist to escape…not wanting that, I will suck it up and re-write. That can feel humbling.

 

What inspired me to become a writer? Like for most folks, a lifetime of reading is my main inspiration. When the reading experience is satisfying, you appreciate it and recognize how you’ve been happily manipulated by the author. My brain would then go further…maybe it’s the mathiness in me…and I would take those various satisfying nuggets…the cool rescue, the funny chatter, the happy ending…and in my head synthesize those into a totally different narrative. Voila, you have your story.

 

How do I keep my ideas fresh and avoid tropes? I think imagination is something you have, or not. Artists have used chemicals…LSD, pot, whiskey…to try and jumpstart fresh ideas. I’m not quite that desperate yet. Besides, I am not as offended by well-worn narrative journeys as others might be. Trope are tropes because readers have found them satisfying over many wreaks and re-telling. I actually respect that.

 

What tropes have I not yet written but want to? I’ve published two anthologies of short stories, so I’ve covered many tropes. Both anthologies are based on story prompts from the Maryland Writers Association and were purposely intended to cover a wide range of styles and genres and set-ups. My next novel is intended to be a buddy-police procedural. We’ll see how that goes.

 

Do you have a specific writing process. I’ve referenced my approach in earlier questions. Beyond that, one thing I do is proofread whatever I wrote yesterday before writing anything today. Then once a week I proofread everything before moving on. I think this was Hemingway’s approach too.

 

My favorite author is Joseph Helker and my favorite book is probably his “Something Happen.” But all his post “Catch-22” novels were wonderful. Other favorites: Henry Fielding, E.L. Doctorow, Vonnegut, Gore Vidal, Elmore Leonard, Stephen Hunter, Robert Craig and Tim Dorsey.

 

What do I do when I’m not writing? Grandbrat duty, hiking, traveling, bs-ing, reading and voyeurism (I.e. enjoying watching other people enjoy life)

On the eve of President John F. Kennedy's final trip to Dallas, an irreverent narrator from the Ether begins to reveal the hidden chain of events that history never recorded. Spanning decades and weaving together Hollywood legends, political dynasties, secret affairs, and forgotten tragedies, Coincidence imagines how seemingly unrelated lives become entangled in the most infamous assassination of the twentieth century. From Joseph P. Kennedy and Gloria Swanson to Jackie Kennedy, Mary Pinchot Meyer, and the young Lee Harvey Oswald, every choice, passion, and betrayal sends ripples through time. Behind every headline lies another story, and every story hides a secret long buried. As the strands converge on November 22, 1963, the line between fate and accident begins to blur. Rich in historical detail and provocative speculation, Coincidence asks: was it really coincidence at all?

Read an Excerpt

Jackie rarely consulted him about her clothing. Her sense of style, if not her sense of humor, was notorious.

“The pink.”

She seemed surprised. “Why the pink?”

“Texas. All those tired cowgirls raising their brat kids to be Miss America. They adore pink in Texas.”

The First Lady eyed the pink at arm’s length. She shrugged. “Okay. The pink.”

“But the hat,” POTUS said, “could you do without the hat. I hate those things.”

Jackie shook her head.

“I’ll need the hat. Without the bubble top on, my hair would be a mess.”

The president leaned back against the pillows on his rock-hard bed, supine in his boxers and the argyles Bobby had given him which bore the presidential seal. He grinned.

“Remember the times when we would drift down the Potomac, standing by the rail, the wind blowing wildly through your hair, and there on the river in the middle of the city you would sink sexily to your knees…”

“Drop dead, Mr. President.” Words Jackie would soon want back.

The door to Suite 850 opened and George Lapp entered to help The President dress. He nodded at Jackie. He had seen her naked many times and was indifferent to the marital scenario into which he had strolled. Jackie smiled curtly and sidled toward her own room to don the pink Chanel, including its matching hat.

Before she left, the President grinned and said to his valet. “I might need the back brace today, George, had a strenuous night.”

About the Author: Jon Ketzner was born in Cumberland, Maryland in the lovely Appalachian foothills. He grew up in Baltimore then graduated from Towson University with a degree in mathematics and went on to a long career as a consulting actuary. For many years, Jon and his family lived in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania before moving back to Cumberland in 1990.

As a recovering actuary and inspired by the Maryland Writers Association’s “Notable Authors” monthly challenges, Jon decided to try his hand at writing and give his left-brain side a rest. He cites as influences: Henry Fielding, Joseph Heller, Gregory McDonald, and Tim Dorsey.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/34506564.Jon_Ketzner

Enter to win a $25 Amazon/BN gift card.

Book Teaser Spotlight: Patch by Harley Wylde

 

(Hades Abyss MC 16)

MC Romance / Age Gap

Date Published: October 23, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

She risked her future for my brother. I’ll risk everything for her.

Maren -- Treating a gunshot wound could cost me my license -- and career. I did it anyway. Saving a biker’s life was supposed to be one reckless decision. I never expected Patch -- the quiet, controlled man who brought him to me -- to become someone I could depend on. Then I discover someone has been using the veterinary clinic where I work for an illegal operation, putting everything I’ve worked for -- and possibly my life -- at risk. Patch says he’ll handle it. I’m beginning to understand exactly what that promise means. And I’m not sure I want to walk away.

Patch -- For twenty years, I’ve made sure my brothers come home alive. Then Freak takes a bullet, our doctor is gone, and my only option is a vet tech with steady hands and enough courage to risk everything to save him. Maren should have walked away from us afterward. Instead, I keep finding reasons to see her. Protect her. Make her problems mine. And when I discover someone has been using her clinic for something dangerous, there’s no question what happens next.

No one touches what’s mine.

WARNING: This book contains violence, gunshot wounds, kidnapping, organized crime, illegal activity, and medical emergencies. It also features an age-gap romance and sexual content. Intended for mature readers.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Maren

The overheads in reception were already off. I’d hit the switch twenty minutes ago, same as every night. The front desk phone sat on the counter playing something low and instrumental that I’d stopped hearing half an hour back. The lobby chairs were pushed in. The magazines were stacked. The credit card terminal had been wiped down and the drawer emptied into the safe. Every surface clean. Every light off except the surgical suite.

I hauled the mop bucket through the door with one hand on the handle and the other braced against the frame. The wheels caught on the threshold. I lifted and rolled and it cleared. The bucket sloshed. Bleach and hot water at a ratio I could smell without measuring. Three parts to one. Maybe two and a half. My nose knew better than my measuring cup.

Stitch was asleep on the procedure table. Full extension. Orange belly up, three legs splayed, the missing left hind an absence so familiar I’d stopped noticing the shape of it. His one good ear was folded back against the vinyl. He didn’t open his eyes when I came in. He knew the sound of the wheels. He’d been sleeping there for six years in direct violation of every health code Gerry had ever been cited for and never fixed.

The latch on the supply cabinet needed a thumb on the bottom edge. I found it without looking. The cabinet swung open. I grabbed the bottle of disinfectant spray, set it on the counter, and closed the door with my hip. The spray bottle went into my left scrub pocket. Right pocket held a roll of gauze and a pair of shears.

The sink handle stuck. I jiggled it left, then right, then left again. The water came on cold. I filled Stitch’s ceramic dish to the rim and set it on the floor beside the table leg. He still didn’t move. The water would be there when he woke up. It always was.

The clinic was mine in this hour.

Gerry had left at four-thirty, after sorting out where his keys were. He’d said something about a dinner with his sister in town.

Tessa had clocked out at six sharp, her scrubs swapped for jeans and a sweatshirt. The building settled around me after hours. The fluorescent hum. The faint tick of the hot water heater through the wall. The smell of bleach and fur and the underlying note of something chemical that never quite aired out.

I moved through it without thinking. My hands knew where everything lived. The suture drawer was three inches left of the anesthetic cabinet. The saline bags hung on the far wall hook behind the scale. The crash cart sat where it had sat for six years, its contents arranged by size rather than use because that was how I’d found it and how I’d kept it. I could reach any of it in the dark. I had, twice, during power outages.

The supply levels ran in my head instead of on the clipboard. Two cases of 4-0 suture. Three boxes of exam gloves, large. One case of saline, half-empty. The drug drawer was locked. The key lived on the ring with the keys for the back door and the crash cart.

The lead technician credential hung on the wall behind the front desk.

Framed. My name in block letters. Maren Hale, CVT, Lead Technician. Six years in that frame. Six years in this building, working for a man who left at four-thirty. I could have moved. There were clinics in Springfield paying fifteen thousand more for the same credential. There were teaching hospitals in St. Louis that would have taken my hours and my recommendation letters and put me in a lab coat with somebody else’s name on the door.

I hadn’t moved.

There was a specialty credential I’d been eighty hours short of for two years. Emergency and critical care. The hours were free but getting them was another matter. Not to mention the exam fee, and the two days off work that ‘d need.

My grandmother’s memory care facility cost thirty-two hundred a month. The number hadn’t changed in two years. It wouldn’t change until she died. I wrote the check. Every time. What came after the check was mine. Usually about eight hundred dollars. Sometimes less. Enough for my bills and the occasional pair of scrubs when the elbows wore through.

I wasn’t unhappy.

I had a job I was good at. I had hands that didn’t shake. I had a cat on a procedure table who trusted me enough to sleep through a mop bucket three feet from his head. I had a grandmother who sometimes remembered my name when I visited on Sundays.

The mop handle was warm from my grip. I leaned it against the wall and sprayed the counter with disinfectant. The mist settled. I wiped it down with a paper towel I’d folded twice. The surface came up. No streaks. No residue. I tossed the towel and reached for the light switch.

The surgical suite went dark. Just the exit sign above the door throwing a dull red glow across the floor. Stitch had shifted in his sleep. One paw now draped over the edge of the table. His breathing was slow. Even. He slept like a man who knew exactly where he was.

I stood in the dark for a second. Let the quiet settle. The phone in reception had stopped playing. The building hummed. Somewhere out in the lot, a car passed on the county road. Headlights swept the front window and were gone.

This was enough. For right now, in this hour, with the floors clean and the supplies counted and the cat asleep on the table he wasn’t supposed to be on, it was exactly enough.

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

Release Blitz: Craving Silence by Freya Barker

Title: Craving Silence (Silence Series, #5) 

Author: Freya Barker 

Genre: Romantic Suspense 

Release Date: October 16, 2026 

Hosted by: Buoni Amici Press, LLC

.

Nurse practitioner, Dana Kerrigan, finds her steady and comfortably predictable life suddenly turned upside down as the result of a family emergency. With no choice but to take a leave from work, she has to hustle to keep Silence’s favorite pub running and her parents looked after. When heartbreak brings with it an unexpected opportunity to realize a long-held dream, it presents a new set of problems. One that involves murder, and the man sent to investigate.

As a recent transplant to Silence, sheriff’s detective, Rick Althof, was aiming for less stress and more solitude. Instead, he finds himself frequently drawn to The Kerrigan, a popular pub in town, to enjoy a meal, a beer, and—if lucky—a friendly chat with the owner’s pretty daughter. Still bearing the invisible scars of past mistakes, he’s determined to keep things friendly, despite a growing attraction.

However, his resolve is put to the test when she lands in the middle of an elaborate development scheme involving bribery, blackmail, and even murder.

AMAZON | APPLE BOOKS | NOOK | KOBO

“What’s the deep sigh for?” he asks from his perch on the ladder, as I fold the last of the towels. “It’s a satisfied sigh,” I explain, picking up the stack of laundry to carry upstairs. “The kind that comes with being able to check a box off my list.” A faint smile appears on his lips. “You’ll have another to check off soon,” he offers. “I’m almost done here.” I’ve been so busy studying the man, I failed to notice how quickly he’s made his way around to the last remaining wall in the kitchen. “I see that. It looks amazing.” I glance around the space, mentally noting some patchwork that will need to be done, but at least the horrific wallpaper is gone and the walls will be ready for some paint soon. Maybe I can do some of that after work this week. “Let me run these upstairs real quick, and I’ll help with the clean up.” My linen closet sports organized stacks of linens and towels, everything sorted by type and size. I guess I’m a little anal, but I love when everything has a place. It makes life so much easier. Maybe that need for predictability is why my life had become such a rut before Mom’s health took a nosedive and forced me to pivot and adapt. But that process also showed me there is so much more to life if you can be open to change. That kind of flexibility takes time though, and like a muscle that has been dormant for a long time, it needs to be used and exercised. I’m working on it. Half an hour later I haul the last garbage bag stuffed with discarded wallpaper to the back porch. Leaning over the railing, I twist my head to look up at the sky which is studded with stars. I missed the sun going down, and the temperature must’ve dropped about fifteen degrees. It’s cold out, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we drop below freezing tonight. Inside, I find Rick in the kitchen with a serious expression on his face. He may have been watching me. “You have to go…” I guess. He shakes his head in response and slowly approaches. His hands slide around the sides of my neck as he tilts my chin up with his thumbs. His eyes are deep blue pools I find myself drowning in. His voice is low and his words send a delicious shiver down my spine. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” Closing my hands around his wrists, I lift up on my toes until my lips almost touch his. “Yippie,” I whisper, before taking the initiative.

USA Today bestselling author Freya Barker loves writing about ordinary people with extraordinary stories.

With forty-plus books already published, she continues to create characters who are perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy.

Recipient of the ReadFREE.ly 2019 Best Book We've Read All Year Award for "Covering Ollie, the 2015 RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for Best First Book, “Slim To None”, Finalist for the 2017 Kindle Book Award with “From Dust”, and Finalist for the 2020 Kindle Book Award with “When Hope Ends”, Freya spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!

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