Monday, February 10, 2025

Cover Reveal: Lush

Lush
Tinia Montford
Publication date: March 31st 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

Laurene King had it all: beauty, wealth, and a sexy secret affair with Reese Ashbourne— the brooding heir of her family’s sworn enemy.
But one reckless night shattered everything.

Tragedy struck. Laurene disappeared. And Reese was left with betrayal, unanswered questions, and scars he’ll never forget.

Now, Laurene is back, forced to return to the life she fled, but her homecoming comes with a cruel twist. Their families, teetering on the edge of ruin, have resurrected an old deal to save themselves: an Ashbourne and a King must marry—or lose everything.

Only this time, Reese is the groom. Not his brother.

Haunted by the past, Reese craves revenge as much as he still craves her. Trapped in a forced proximity neither can escape, their chemistry ignites—and so do their secrets.

But someone knows the truth about that night. The lies that tore them apart are unraveling, and the shadowy danger lurking in their luxurious world could destroy them both.

With their second chance at love and their families’ legacies hanging by a thread, Laurene and Reese must choose: bury the past or watch everything crumble to ashes.

The clock is ticking, and some truths are better left buried…

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Author Bio:

Tinia (TUH-NIA) Montford is a Pisces who’s a sap for romance, especially when there’s (tons of) kissing. Loves eighties sitcoms and will consume anything with chocolate. She graduated from the University of San Francisco with a degree in English and Graphic Design. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Fiction.

You can find Tinia at www.tiniamontford.com or on social media: @tiniawritesbooks

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok / Amazon



Discover Perfectly Polished and a Giveaway

Perfectly Polished
Lynne Hancock Pearson
(Keeney Builds, #2)
Publication date: February 10th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

He made good on his promise to call. She refused to answer.

Facing an embarrassing divorce and fighting against her controlling mother, Fiona doesn’t have time for the broody ex-con, despite toe-curling kisses that still star in her dreams.

Surprise doesn’t begin to describe her reaction when he appears in her company’s boardroom months later. And ignores her.

Tomas tells himself he’s no longer interested in the tightly wound executive. But he can’t stop wondering if she’s all right. Can’t stop wanting to pick up the pieces. Can’t stop thinking about how perfect she felt in his arms.

Defying her mother, Fiona gives Tomas a chance, and they connect over their shared dream of building affordable housing. The community rallies around them, but not everyone is on board, and roadblocks are thrown up to challenge their plan and their relationship.

Can they build something solid despite threats to their foundation? Is permanent even possible when family differences turn ugly?

Perfectly Polished is a small-town, opposites-attract romance between a burly builder who grunts more than he speaks and a polished professional who has never known love.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Forty-five minutes.

Fiona Han discreetly turned off the alarm on her smart watch. It wasn’t that she was having a bad time, these were nice people. But they were people who knew far too much about her, and she was ready for this day to be over. With a small smile, she said, “I called an uber. Hilary, thanks for inviting me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

Fiona blinked and stared at Tomas Alvarado. “Umm… Thanks, but I’m fine.” She waved her phone at him and put it into her purse.

He stood and looked down at her. “I’ll drive you home.”

Eep!

She did not want to make a scene. He didn’t give off the axe-murderer vibe, and her friends were grinning at her like he was perfectly safe, but the man unnerved her.

Marcia Ortiz, a woman in her mid-fifties, and best friend to Fiona’s mother in law Iris, touched her hand. “You’ll be fine,” she murmured.

Fiona rose, tucked her purse under her arm and followed Tomas to the stairs leading from Hilary’s deck to the driveway. She glanced back at Marcia, who winked at her.

Eep!

Descending the stairs, she was aware of the man behind her. It seemed that for the past two weeks, Tomas had been at her back, without saying a word. Reaching the driveway, she faced three white pick-up trucks bearing the logo for Keeney Building Supplies, the company Iris owned. With a hand to her elbow, Tomas guided her to the one in the middle, distinguishable from the others by the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, and opened the passenger door. Fiona eyed the distance up to the seat of the truck, then down at her pencil skirt and heels. Then she was up. Tomas placed her gently on the seat and reached around to buckle the seat belt.

“I’m not a child!” She glared up at him.

He met her eyes fully for the very first time. “I know you’re not.” He closed the door and walked around the hood of the truck.

Walk was the wrong word. Tomas prowled like a predator. Did that make her his prey?

He climbed behind the wheel, his presence taking up all the air in the truck. Fiona wanted to open the window, to breathe, perhaps to crawl out.

Placing a large hand on the back of her seat, he ignored her as he turned to back out of the driveway. She could smell him. If she turned her head, ever so slightly, she could brush up against his hand and rub his scent all over her. Where had that thought come from? Fiona shook her head and stared forward.

“I live on Dunlop Street,” she told him.

“I know.” Tomas met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I changed the locks on your doors last week.”

“Right,” she said in a small voice. To keep the douche canoe of her soon to be ex-husband out. Her eyes got big. “I haven’t paid you yet! I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it. I can write you a cheque when we get to the house. It’s just –”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Oh.” Tomas worked for her mother-in-law. Iris must have had him do it. “Thank you.”

He drove in silence.

Not knowing how to converse with someone who clearly didn’t like to talk, she leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

She awoke to see Tomas scouring the word ‘cunt’ off her garage door.

Fiona threw herself from the truck, stumbling as she hit the ground. She righted herself and flew around the hood of the truck. Tomas whirled and grimaced.

“Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod,” she chanted, pacing back and forth in front of the garage. Scrawled in dripping red paint, each capital letter was at least two feet high.

Eddie.

He’d chosen a public and humiliating way to get back at her.

Author Bio:

Lynne Hancock Pearson writes fun, flirty, feel-good fiction that simmers at low heat. Set in the Pacific Northwest, they are stories of people finding their way, even if it takes a while to get there.

She lives near Seattle with two and a half finicky felines and one long-suffering husband. She is a left-handed middle child who grew up in the Great White North and is a proud member of the Métis Nation of Canada.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram


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Tour Stop/Giveaway: Celebration Boys Duet by Willa Okati

Title: Valentine’s Vow/Independence Day

Author: Willa Okati

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

Genres: Box Sets, Paranormal, Romance, Romantic Comedy

Themes: Gay, Magic, Sorcery, and Witchcraft

Series: Celebration Boys (#3)

Book Length: Box Set

Page Count: 57

Synopsis

True love comes where you're least looking for it... and where it's been, all along.

Valentine’s Vow: Best friends and frequent bed-buddies Thom and Ryan don't go for any of that "love" stuff. They're so set on their path they swear off Valentine's Day as a holiday for the hopelessly mushy. What they don't know is St. Valentine himself has taken an interest in their case. Flaunt his Holy Day, will they? He'll teach them a lesson they won't soon forget... and show them that there really is a lot more to love than candy and flowers.

Independence Day: With the help of guardian ghosts Edmund and Great-Uncle Joey, Thom and Ryan made the transition from bed-buddies to live-in lovers in Valentine Vow. But their relationship hits the skids when Ryan discovers Thom has neglected to tell people about their new coupledom. Miffed that he's a closeted secret, Ryan's ready to call it quits. Time for Edmund and Joey to step in again, to bring Ryan and Thom back into each other's arms in time for Independence Day.

Excerpt

Valentine's Vow/Independence Day (Celebration Boys Duet)
Second Edition
Willa Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Willa Okati

Ryan stood at the kitchen range, slowly stirring a pot of his special chili. Hot as the seven fires of hell, full of peppers and onions, it let out a smell that made his nose tingle. No one could beat that chili.

He paused in thought. Should he serve it over potatoes? Given a few minutes, he could toss a couple of tubers in the oven and get them baking. Or nuke the things. That'd be quicker. Never tasted the same, though.

Maybe he should serve it plain. Garnish it with a good sharp cheddar and let it stand as the golden god of bachelor cuisine that it was. Beans and all.

He'd gotten the recipe from his great-uncle Joey, grouchiest son-of-a-bitch on earth, and a lifelong bachelor. And, as it turned out, a randy old goat, too. One of the brothers of the flesh and in the closet all his life, although Ryan hadn't found that out until after the man died and he inherited his cabin. While rooting around in the attic, he'd come across stacks of old letters from "Edmund."

Funny what you don't know about people until it's too late.

Ryan had taken the letters and run with them. Together with his best buddy and lover Thom and a couple of six-packs, they'd had a hell of a night reading through the stacks. Turned out Joey and Edmund had had a pretty hot on-again, off-again relationship for almost fifty years.

Damn. That was something, when you thought about it. Fifty years. From tasty young men with presumably tight asses, to tottery codgers with no teeth bitching about the younger generation.

Those two had done everything when they'd manage to snatch a few days together. Edmund had been some kind of banker in the city. Big man. Bigwig. He'd even gotten married for a while, but that hadn't lasted. He went back to Joey -- Joey and his penchant for the hot and spicy. According to the letters, Joey didn't do it just in the missionary position, with his eyes shut and thoughts fixed on England. He liked it on his back, on his stomach, up against a wall, on the floor, in the bathtub or the shower. Hard and fast, slow and sweet, or spicy like his chili.

Edmund raved about that chili every time he had to go to some honorary banquet. Seemed there was nothing he'd rather have done than pull a chair up to Joey's rickety table and go down on a bowl of the good stuff.

Speaking of which, the chili looked like it was almost done. "Hey, Thom!" he called out to the living room, where his friend was flipping channels like he was in a speed-click contest. Bad habit of his. Ryan made a point of never watching TV with the guy. You could have a seizure.

"Yeah!" Thom called. "That chili about done? I could eat the whole pot and still have room for you for dessert!"

"You fucking wish!" Ryan hollered back, stirring the mess of meat, beans, sauce and peppers. "Your turn to bring the condoms. Did you remember?"

A foil packet flew through the open door into the kitchen, skittering to land by Ryan's foot. "I've got a half-dozen just like that!" Thom called. "You have the lube?"

"Yep. I even picked up that mango scent you like so much. You know how hard it is to find flavored, scented lubes that don't damage latex?"

Ryan kicked the condom out of his way. If the dog didn't eat it, he'd get it later -- probably when they'd finished their meal and come back for seconds on the sex. They usually ended up in the kitchen, having gone in search of a long cold one and, instead, finding a long… hot one.

Gingerly, he took a taste from the tip of the spoon. Almost burned his tongue off. Good; almost ready. He ran a glass of water and gulped it down. Which reminded him… "Did you bring the wine?"

"Wine? I brought beer!"

"Beer? You asshole!" Ryan stormed out of the kitchen, tearing off his apron. "I told you on the phone. Wine. White wine. Something really dry, and it needed to be cold. Ice cold. And you bring me beer?"

Thom smirked up at him from his position on the couch. Legs open, leaned back, he looked tastier than the chili. "Goddamn it, you are such a fucking fruit, Ryan." He gestured at a cooler. "White wine, as you requested. Nestled in ice. Just waiting for that chili. And holy hell, is it done already or what?"

Ryan folded his arms. "Maybe. Are you going to apologize for talking to me like that?"

"Nope."

"Then it's ready." Ryan grinned, beckoning him toward the kitchen. "Bring the wine. I'll get some glasses."

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

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Giveaway

One lucky winner will receive a $10.00 Changeling Press Gift Code! 


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Sunday, February 9, 2025

Tour Stop: Nothing Ever Happens Here

 


Nothing Ever Happens Here

By Seraphina Nova Glass

On Sale: February 11, 2025

ISBN: 9781525831591

Graydon House Paperback

Price: $18.99



About the Book:

“A charming cast of characters, a twisty mystery, and a diabolical killer make Nothing Ever Happens Here impossible to put down. A riveting page-turner with a sly sense of humor.” —Robyn Harding, internationally bestselling author of The Haters

Nothing ever happens in small towns…

When Shelby Dawson survives a harrowing attack that should have left her dead, she tries to move past it—for herself, and for her family. Fifteen months later, with the help of her best friend, Mackenzie, she finally feels safe again in the snowy Minnesota town she calls home. But when an anonymous note appears on her windshield bearing the same threats her attacker made, Shelby realizes that her nightmare has only just begun.

As new evidence surfaces, and a group of well-meaning senior citizens accidentally makes the case go viral online, the situation quickly goes from bad to worse. And with suspicious accidents targeting those closest to her happening all over town, Shelby can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. Fighting to stay one step ahead of disaster, she finds herself asking the question on everyone’s lips: Who attacked her that night?

But Shelby isn’t the only one with questions. Mackenzie’s husband, Leo, vanished without a trace on that terrible night, and over a year later, no one knows why. Until a deep dive into his finances reveals a history of debts, mismanaged funds, and hidden accounts—one of which is still active. Their suspicion that Leo is still alive only complicates things further, though, and when another person connected to Shelby goes missing, she’s caught in a race against time before her attacker becomes a killer.

 

Excerpted from NOTHING EVER HAPPENS HERE by Seraphina Nova Glass. Copyright © 2025 by Seraphina Nova Glass. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

3

Florence

Fifteen Months Later

 

I read a story on the internet about how elderly people without hobbies are among the saddest sacks on earth, although I’m sure I have that wrong and they didn’t use the word “sacks.” Anyway, it went on to say how having hobbies could greatly reduce one’s chances of developing dementia. They didn’t give a percentage and I would have liked a percentage, because if it’s only a one percent chance reduction, well then, why bother? But I guess they wouldn’t have written the whole article, in that case, or used the words “greatly reduce one’s chances” for that matter either, would they? So I decided I would like a hobby.

So, when I Googled “how to start a hobby” the first advice given was to break it into small steps so you’re not overwhelmed. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t Google how to embezzle diamonds from the Russian mafia, I was simply thinking I might take up cookie making or something. How could I get overwhelmed? Anyway…then I learned that professional cookie decorators call themselves “cookiers” and I just found the term so irritating I gave up on the whole thing.

Then Millie told me I could knit with her and I told Millie that she’s shamefully cliché, and how does she not have carpal tunnel by now? And it’s not really a hobby, is it? She’d be sitting in front of the television watching Bonanza with or without her knitting in hand, so it’s quite mindless, and I don’t think a hobby should be mindless. Bernie has taken up winemaking, but his room smells like a boiled egg, so I don’t think he’s doing it right. It’s still at the top of my list, though.

Gardening was a contender too. I was quite the gardener once, but the snow won’t melt until April, so that seems a long wait. I could be dead by then for all I know. But then Herb said I should make a podcast about gardening and share my wisdom with the world. This intrigued me—because I was once a news announcer on public radio, and in a way it’s a perfect idea. My love for plants and helping people learn, hmm. But how would one even begin? I just showed up and talked into a mic at the station, and that was long ago. I would need to figure out a lot of things, but learning it all would keep me busy, and maybe that’s a hobby all in itself. I was almost sold on the idea.

But then something very serendipitous happened. I was at Murph Moyer’s funeral, which was such a sad occasion since Murph had just had a hair transplant he was very excited about, and had planned a trip to the Bahamas to swim with the pigs. I guess that’s a thing… He even bought a bottle of spray tan on Amazon, and then just like that, a fall on the ice on his way down to The Angry Trout for a pint one night and that was it. And now he looks orange in his casket, poor Murph, and he never even got to put his new hair to good use. It’s like that these days, though. When you get to be our age, you start receiving invitations to a lot more funerals. And part of you gets used to it, but the main part of you never does.

At the reception, I was chatting with Rosie and Susan by the punch bowl. We were sitting in metal folding chairs and holding little slices of white cake on napkins when I noticed Winny pouring a long pull of scotch into a Santa Claus coffee mug and sitting by herself next to a fake ficus in need of dusting. She was hunched over her drink, and I saw her dot her eye with the corner of a napkin, so I excused myself and went to sit with her.

I could tell it wasn’t her first scotch because she had a glassy-eyed look and loose lips, but that’s a good thing. It was easy to get her to confide in me and tell me why she’d missed our bridge game last Tuesday and what in the world was the matter. I mean, I know her husband passed only a couple of months ago, of course. But he’d been battling severe diabetes complications and was in the hospital for who knows how long. He was even left unable to speak after a diabetes-induced stroke. Lord help him. It was a mercy, really, him passing. It was very expected. So I am quite surprised at what Winny tells me—that she thinks her husband was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes. Well, I had to set my punch on the floor next to me and rest my hand on my heart a moment.

“Sweetheart, why would you say that? Otis was so sick, bless him,” I say to her, placing my hands on her knees. I thought she lost the plot, if I’m honest, but I was still going to be sympathetic. She picks at Santa’s chipping glitter beard and talks into her lap.

“Something wasn’t right there,” she says with a haunted look on her face.

“What do you mean, love?” I ask, trying to look in her eyes so she’s forced to look back at me, but she continues to mumble. And I suppose I would speak quietly too if I were saying the crazy thing she was about to say.

“Someone there killed him,” she whispers.

“At the hospital?”

“Yes, Florence. I… Yes. I’m not just—I’m not crazy. I’m not making shit up.”

“Of course you’re not, dear,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. “Well, did you tell the police?” I ask, because what else does one ask in this sort of situation? “Of course, but they don’t believe me. I can tell. They say they’ll ‘have a look,’ whatever that means, but I know when I’m being condescended to. They will not have a look. Plus that old detective Riley has a head full of chipped beef. Has he ever helped anyone solve anything in this town?” she asks, becoming louder and more agitated as she goes. She puts her mug down and takes a deep breath.

To be fair, the only crime I can remember happening in the last few years in this town, besides petty bike theft or drunk fistfights, is the tragedy that happened to Mack and Shelby that terrible night last year, but I can’t blame Riley for that. It absolutely baffled everyone. He does have a head full of chipped beef though, I’ll give her that.

“Why would you think something like that, love? You know all of the hospital workers,” I say, which is a given. She pretty much knows everyone around here. “You think one of them hurt Otis? That’s…” I stop, because I don’t know what to say. It’s absurd and makes me worry for Winny. I wonder if she’s gone around telling other people this sort of thing.

“He told me,” she says, and since I know he was unable to speak, now I really zip my lip and just look over at the bottle of scotch on the refreshments table with a longing gaze, wondering how to kindly extract myself from the conversation.

“Something’s goin’ on around here, Flor. Something is happening. First Shel and Mack, and poor Leo wherever the hell he really is. Now this.” It’s strange to hear someone say “poor Leo,” because the general, mostly unspoken consensus is that he’s a rat bastard who ghosted his wife. I hope I’m using that term correctly. Ghosted. Anyway, I wonder if it would be rude to lean over and pick a few cucumber sandwiches off of the table while she’s talking. I do hate to be rude, but I really am famished, and I know Liddy Wingfield made them, and she uses the pimento cream cheese on them, which is a dream.

Before I can decide, Winny leans in conspiratorially.

“Can I show you something?” she asks.

“Of course,” I agree, giving up on my chance for a cucumber sandwich as she motions for me to follow her. The reception is at Dusty Waltman’s house because he and Murph were very good friends. I suppose he’s a nice enough man, I just can’t get past the urge to take a bottle of Pledge and a washrag after him each time I hear the name Dusty. Not his fault, I suppose, and his house is quite tidy, although too drafty for my taste.

Even so, I follow Winny down his front hall with the brown plaid wallpaper and creaky wood floors, and we pull our coats from a pile of other sad-looking black and navy down coats draped over an old steamer trunk near the door and walk out into the frozen air. It’s so cold the snow is having trouble trying to fall, and it swirls around the lampposts in light, icy specks. Before I can complain about freezing to death, I hear “My Heart Will Go On” start to play inside, and now I’m happy to be out here, so I give her a minute as I shift from foot to foot and blow on my hands while she pulls something from her pocket. Why do they play songs like that at funerals? Everyone is already sad, and now I can hear sobs from inside. I hope they play “Another One Bites the Dust” at my funeral. And have it at a Dave & Buster’s, where everyone will get free mojitos and play free SkeeBall, and not in a drafty house with peely wallpaper and stale sheet cake.

Winny finally fishes out whatever it is she’s been digging for, then shoves the pieces of a ripped-up sheet of paper at me. I take it, examining it and have no idea what the hell she’s playing at.

“What is it?” I ask. She takes the papers back, swipes a layer of snow off of Dusty’s porch swing, and sits. I sit next to her, and she lays them out on her knees.

“Look,” she says, and I do. I see a scrap with the words “Help me” scrawled across it, and another that reads “Trying to kill me.” But the words before it are torn away. She stares at me, waiting for a response. “Well, what is this?” I ask. “Otis wrote it. Look! This is the clearest one.” She puts a scrap on top of the others. It says, “You have to tell someone what’s happening here.” The last part says, “Warn Mack and Shel…” but the end of her name is torn away.

“See,” she says, “and then it stops, like he couldn’t finish.”

“I don’t… Why is this in scraps? Why would he write this?” I’m shivering from the cold, and my words come out in white puffs.

“All I can think is that he was trying to get this note to me. Maybe something happened when I went home that last night, because he was gone by morning and he never had a chance to give it to me. And then I think back to all the people who were in the room when I was there, and maybe he couldn’t risk giving it to me then, but I was there so much it’s all a blur. I can’t keep it all straight. I found it just a few days ago in the wooly sweater he always wore over his hospital gown. It was sitting in a bag for weeks and then I went through it all and… God. He was begging for help. I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe he didn’t want someone to find he’d written it—someone he was afraid of. I don’t know,” she says, tears welling in her eyes as she pushes the paper shreds back into her pocket.

“Why else would it be torn up?” she asks before I even have a chance to respond to all this shocking information. “I mean, that’s all that makes sense, right? For why it’s torn up? It’s like he was afraid of someone finding it, I mean why else? He was trying to warn me—to get help, and he was afraid the person who was after him would find it. I know how that sounds, but I have gone over this a million times in my head, and what other reason could there be?”

“Shit” is all I manage to say.

“My poor Otis, I couldn’t help him and he was all alone there with someone trying to hurt him. But who would want to hurt Otis? I mean, who in the world?” she says, and that’s exactly what I was going to ask.

“And you told all of this to Detective Riley?” I ask.

“Yeah right. What do you think he’d say—that Otis had a stroke and we didn’t know the extent of the damage, so this was probably some delusion or paranoia?” she says, and he would have a point, of course. “But I know my Otis, and he seemed different those last days. I know, of course, a stroke makes people different, but I still know him, Florence. I know him, and I saw his eyes change. Now I think it was fear, not just being sick, but…this…” She half motions to the papers in her pocket.

“I can’t let it go. I can’t have his cries for help literally in my hand and blow it off as paranoia. I need to find out the truth. And fine, people can think whatever they want about me, but what about Mack…and poor Shelby Dawson. It was a warning to them too.”

“You think he meant they’re in danger?” I ask. She closes her eyes and blows a cone of white mist into the frozen air, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“This could all be connected,” I sort of mumble to myself, thinking about any reason why, even if he was suffering from some delusion, he would bring Mack and Shelby into it. That’s pretty specific for a delusional man’s imaginings. Winny holds her head in her hands and I put my arm around her shoulder. We shiver together for a few moments.

“I believe you,” I say.

“You do?” she asks, straightening up and looking at me with wet, desperate eyes.

“If there’s some motherfucker out there responsible for this, we’re gonna find him,” I say. She puts her arms around me and cries while I hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.

And that’s the moment everything was set in motion. I didn’t know it then, but hunting a killer would become my new hobby, not gardening, as it turns out.

Buy Links:

HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/nothing-ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass?variant=42521060835362

Amazon: https://www.amazon.ca/s?k=9781525836725&tag=hcg-02-20

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nothing-ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass/1145581324?ean=9781525836725

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/everyone-knows-something-a-thriller-original-seraphina-nova-glass/21448569?ean=9781525836725


About the Author:
 

Seraphina Nova Glass is an assistant professor of instruction and playwright in residence at the University of Texas, Arlington, where she teaches film studies and playwriting. Her novel On A Quiet Street was nominated for an Edgar Award, was a New York Times Summer Read, an Amazon Bestseller and Editor’s Pick, and also featured in the Boston Globe and Bustle. Publishers Weekly has named her “a writer to watch.” She’s also an award-winning playwright and holds an MFA degree in dramatic writing from Smith College and a second MFA in directing from the University of Idaho. She is a proud dog mom and loves to travel the world with her husband. She resides in Dallas, Texas.

Social Links:

Author Website: https://www.seraphinanovaglass.com/

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

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8061717.Seraphina_Nova_Glass

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


Saturday, February 8, 2025

New Release WinterTour Stop: A Tropical Rebel Gets the Duke

 


A Tropical Rebel Gets the Duke

By Adriana Herrera

On Sale: February 4, 2025

ISBN: 9781335476968

Canary Street Press Trade Paperback

Price: $18.99


 About the Book:

The third and final book in USA TODAY bestselling author Adriana Herrera's smart, sensual Las Leonas series featuring an ambitious doctor breaking societal norms and the reluctant Duke willing to risk it all for her...

Aurora Montalban Wright has had a whirlwind summer in Paris but is finally settling down to the business she came to do: run an underground women’s clinic. This venture is risky, not only because she’s technically breaking the law, but because she is providing services to the daughters, wives and mistresses of powerful men who could get her into a lot of trouble.

When she finds herself in danger, Apollo Sinclair Robles, the new Duke of Annan, offers his assistance, even though she despises him (or wants to despise him – that doesn’t stop the several dalliances they have with one another). But he has many secrets of his own. He’s still grappling with his newfound place in the British aristocracy, especially as a Black man. Now he is part of a world he despises with more than a few enemies waiting for any opportunity to disgrace him.

He should be focusing on finding a bride that can help him further his causes and leverage himself within the highest echelons of power, but instead he’s distracted with keeping Aurora  

Excerpted from A Tropical Rebel Gets the Duke by Adriana Herrera. Copyright © 2025 by Adriana Herrera. Published by Canary Street Press.


Prologue

July 1889

Paris, France

Aurora Montalban Wright was no rebel.

At least that was what most who knew her would say. It was not an unfair assessment of her character. After all, true rebels never bothered with consequences, not when a glorious mission lay in the balance. No one would label Aurora a carefree sort, and that was fine by her. Because what she’d learned early in life was that rebellions cost blood, sweat and tears, and she had none of those to spare. This, of course, did not mean she was above bending a rule—or five—if the situation called for it.

In fact, twice in her past, she’d broken every rule set before her in order to escape her circumstances. Once, humiliatingly, for a man—which came to a disastrous end. The other—equally catastrophic—for her freedom. Despite this, Aurora was not rebellious by nature. It was simply that she was galvanized by the word no. The more she was told she could not do something, the more creative she became at conquering it.

No, Aurora was no rebel, but tonight she felt like one. The worst possible news had come at the worst possible time and she desperately wanted a distraction. In fact, she wanted far more than that, she needed the kind of oblivion that only came from terrible decisions. Thankfully she was in a city where immoral diversions were easy enough to procure, if one knew which objectionable doors to darken.

Her destination, the clandestine apartment of Apollo César Sinclair Robles—a man who’d just claimed his place as the heir to a dukedom by destroying his own father—could be considered a particularly ill-advised one.

As her fiacre came to a stop on the Rue de Volney, she fleetingly considered if there weren’t less potentially disastrous ways to deal with her current mood. Then she felt the weight of the key she’d kept in her pocket for weeks and decided there definitely were, but she still wanted to do this.

The building looked exactly as she remembered from the night she’d spent here a month earlier. It was one of those modern, luxury apartment buildings near the Parc Monceau, kept by wealthy aristocrats and business titans to commit their more slanderous peccadillos in decadent discretion.

When she reached the door, she took a moment to examine herself in the sparkling glass window. The walking suit she’d donned that morning showed the strain of the day. Her face was framed with wisps of loose curls that had escaped the braid pinned to the nape of her neck. Her hat was a bit more askew than what was fashionable and there was a stain on her left cuff she could not quite identify and was reluctant to smell.

She ought to go home, clean herself up and come another day.

She wasn’t presentable and she was certainly not in a state of mind to interact with someone who had a natural gift for trying her patience. Coming to Apollo for what she needed tonight was the furthest from sensible she’d been in a long time.

The thought sent a flash of alarm through her body. She decidedly ignored the cardiovascular admonition.

Undeterred, she pushed the door open and strode right up to the porter with the key dangling from her hand and her heart making another valiant effort at warning her off.

“Oui, madame.” The porter greeted her with the detached politeness of someone too well trained to openly scowl at her clothes, but too French not to appear at least marginally aggrieved at their deplorable state.

“Lord Darnick.” The two words did the trick, and with a nod, he stepped aside and directed her toward the lift operator, who was already pushing buttons.

Clearly, women coming to see his lordship at all hours of the night was a regular occurrence. Not exactly a surprise. From the moment she’d met the man at a soiree months earlier, he’d been an unapologetic reprobate. She’d never encountered anyone who cared less about other people’s opinions than Apollo César Sinclair Robles.

The evidence of that lay in the way he’d arrived in Edinburgh like a dark avenging angel and exposed his father as a liar and a thief. Upending in a single night, one of the oldest dukedoms in Britain while establishing himself as its rightful heir, leaving the peerage reeling, and his own father a social pariah.

He was arrogant, rude, and blatantly ridiculed the societal norms she’d so carefully ascribed to. From that first meeting, she’d found herself equally appalled and intrigued by him.

A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of what the new Earl of Darnick would do when she turned up at his apartment and told him she was there for sex, and the more depraved, the better.

He would probably think she was out of her mind.

Out of her mind or not, she had it made up, and whatever lapse this was, she would deal with it in the morning. Four steps forward and two firm knocks were all it took for her, a respected physician, to announce herself at a man’s tryst apartment somewhere between one and two in the morning.

Her heartbeat marked hurried footsteps on the other side, while she took in slow, calming breaths. The moment the door finally opened, it was suddenly very clear that she had not properly prepared herself. The rapid escalation of her pulse told the story.

He looked like the very last stop on the train to ruination. All languid grace, and the ease of a man who was well aware of the damage he could do on a woman’s good sense with a mere wink and a smile.

Aurora, to her eternal shame was not immune to either.

“Bella Doctora, I didn’t know you made house calls.” He spoke in that lazy drawl he always used with her, but there was an alertness to his gaze that betrayed his indifference.

“Don’t call me that,” she rebuked, then remembered she was here to ask for something and tempered her manner with what she hoped was a comely smile. “I came to return your key.” She held it up as she endeavored, and failed, not to gape at the triangle of bronzed, muscled chest. She didn’t dare look below his sternum lest she encountered bare forearms and swooned before she could tell the man what she was about.

“My key,” he drawled, without reaching for it. “After more than a month, you’ve decided to deliver it at one in the morning, on a Tuesday.” He’d given it to her on the night he’d brought her here, after her friend Manuela’s wedding day devolved into a scandal that had all of Paris talking for weeks. She hadn’t seen him since.

“I was looking in on a patient close by,” she retorted, truthfully, dropping the key into the pocket of his dressing gown. The other truth she failed to disclose was that she’d kept the damned key in her pocket like some kind of talisman since he’d given it to her.

“Ah yes, Doctora Montalban and her causes.” His voice dripped with cynicism, as if it amused him that she considered her profession anything serious.

“Why is it that every time you call me that it feels like an insult?”

“That might have more to do with you than with me.”

It irked her that his barbs always hit their targets. She’d made an art of letting men’s opinions roll off her back, not a difficult task, since a significant number of men she encountered were imbeciles. But not this earl, not the man who’d ambushed the British aristocracy like Simón Bolívar did with the Spanish at Boyacá.

She wished that diabolical grin of his didn’t start a sizzle under her skin. “Are you going to invite me in?”

He cocked a thick, dark eyebrow at whatever he heard in her tone, but instead of inviting her inside, he braced a large hand on the top corner of the doorjamb, until his very distracting mouth was close enough to kiss. She swallowed audibly when she caught a glimpse of the corded muscle of his forearm, thick veins and dusting of dark hair. Her salivary glands seemed to run out of fluid just then.

“First you have to tell me what you’re really here for, Doctora.” He was showing off his size for her and it was fruitless to pretend it had no effect on her. Everything about the man eroded every preservation instinct she had.

For over ten years, she’d avoided any scenario that could place her in a vulnerable position. She’d practically forgotten that under her walking suits lived a woman with very real urges and burning desires. Until this man had crossed her path. Since then, he’d been like a toothache. Making himself known, throbbing, gnawing at her, until she’d had to do something about it.

His closeness sent her blood from a canter to a gallop, and her breaths became shorter, more erratic. The undeniable biological evidence of arousal and desire. She might as well get on with it. She locked her own gaze with the new Earl of Darnick’s, took a breath and leaned in.

“I came here for sexual intercourse, Lord Darnick.” It was gratifying to see his predatory gaze replaced by genuine shock. But as expected with a hunter, he recovered quickly.

“Well, in that case, do come in, Doctora Montalban,” he told her with a wave of his hand before stepping aside.

She decided to ignore the sarcasm in his voice and walked into the apartment.

The moment she stepped inside, she was once again surprised by how different this place was to what she envisioned for Apollo’s lair. Instead of a showroom full of ostentatious furniture and excessive gilt, what she found was a comfortable, unpretentious room. He had an impressive collection of books. One of which was sitting open on the armrest of a chair by the fire, next to a tumbler of amber liquid. He also collected art, which to her astonishment were tasteful and interesting.

He was rich, handsome, well-read and had an uncanny eye for art. Not that any of it mattered, to her. She was not here for a marriage proposal, she off from the door and taking a few steps toward her place by the bookshelf. “Let’s reserve the endearments for later and see what we can do about all these clothes you’re wearing.”

“What?” She sounded like a dolt. This was what she’d told him she wanted. What did she expect after propositioning a scoundrel? Sweet nothings in her ear, passionate declarations?

“Your clothes, sweetheart.” He wiggled two fingers somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. “The infernally unending layers of fabric you insist on wearing. They give a man a devil of a time surmising what you’ve got under all that wool and linen.” He made a face, and her mouth twitched. Of all the things to fluster the wicked Earl of Darnick.

She took another look at him, those winged cheekbones, skin like the most perfect caramel, and the umber curls, which made her think of days in bed and rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets. It was a face a woman could ruin her life over. It was a good thing she’d already done that once and had no intention of ever doing it again.

“This is just for tonight.” It needed to be said, but he remained unbothered.

“That you don’t need to worry about, sweetheart.” He lifted a shoulder, his gaze still suspended somewhere below her neck. “I’ve never had much craving for seconds.”

She shrugged and looked away, what more was there to say to that?

“I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.”

“Keeping secrets from your pride, are you?” he asked in a mocking tone. He was referring to her two dearest friends. The friends with which she arrived here in Paris four months earlier: Luz Alana and Manuela. The only two people in the world who knew every one of her secrets, except for this one now, she thought grimly.

“My dear sister-in-law will be scandalized to know you’ve come to me in your hour of need.” Of all the unlikely twists of fate the last few months in Paris had yielded, Luz Alana finding a love match with a Scottish whisky distiller, who turned out to be an earl and Apollo’s half-brother, had been one of the most surprising.

“It is not like you’re the Marquis de Sade, you’re just convenient.” He laughed again and this time it reached his eyes. “Besides, Luz Alana and Manuela have their own lives.”

“True love is miraculous.” For her friends, it seemed to be. She’d seen enough people entrapped into those cageless prisons of duty and guilt to have any use for the sentiment.

But even she had to admit, Luz Alana and Manuela seemed to have found partners worthy of their devotion. She was glad for them, but that was not what she searched for.

Her friends believed in love worth any sacrifice. That soulmates and fairy tales were possible. Aurora did not. Not for herself, at least. She was too…marked. Too jaded to ever believe in the lies of the heart.

Love, for her, had only ever served to remind her of the ways she never quite measured up, how hard it was for her to inspire that sentiment in another, and she would never again risk her freedom for that chimera. She had a feeling Apollo César Sinclair Robles, in this at least, was a kindred spirit.

“Why are you really here, Doctora?” Apollo asked, taking another step in her direction. He was merely a couple of feet away now. From this distance she could see that his lips had a pink tint to them. She allowed herself the distraction of that perfect mouth for a moment as she considered his question.

She could confess that this very evening she’d received a letter from her brothers informing her they’d suspended her ability to withdraw funds from her trust. She could tell him she’d been using those funds to operate a clandestine clinic that helped women in a certain kind of trouble. She could even say that the friend who delivered the correspondence had seen the man who’d ruined Aurora at the of age fifteen aboard a steamer headed to France. She might even admit that the possibility of running into the villain of her past made her so sick with dread and shame she’d run here, to Apollo. To ruin herself again, by choice, this time. But none of those pitiful confessions would be conducive to what she’d come here for, not comfort or solace, but escape.

“Let’s just say I’m in a fairly destructive mood,” she declared, looking at him square in the eyes. “I would very much like to do something utterly ruinous and you were the first thing that came to mind.”


About the Author:
 

USA TODAY bestselling author Adriana Herrera was born and raised in the Caribbean, but for the last fifteen years has let her job (and her spouse) take her all over the world. She loves writing stories about people who look and sound like her people getting unapologetic happy endings. Her books have received starred reviews from PW and Booklist and have been featured on The TODAY Show and NPR, in Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times and The Washington Post. Adriana is an outspoken advocate for diversity in romance and was one of the co-creators of the Queer Romance PoC Collective. 

Social Links:

Author Website: https://adrianaherreraromance.com/

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

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18639202.Adriana_Herrera

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laura.adriana.94801

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/adriana-herrera

Thursday, February 6, 2025

Book Spotlight/Giveaway: Second Chance

Title:  Second Chance

Series: Hudson Valley Murder Mysteries, Book Two

Author: S.B. Barnes

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 02/04/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 94800

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, gay, demiromantic, Hudson Valley, mystery, murder, campus, town/gown, professors, auto mechanic, closeted, coming out, family drama, student/teacher relation, mental health

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Description

Almost a year after the murder that shook Lobell College to its core, the start of a new academic year brings familiar faces back to the scene of the crime. Daniel Rosenbaum starts his first year as dean of the English department and takes a hands-on role in advising students. Lily Peterson and Gianna d’Angelo return to continue their undergrad studies after the death of the professor they were both in love with.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Hudson, Tony d’Angelo is working hard. With his sister back in college, it’s all hands on deck to keep his dad’s auto shop running and take care of his infant niece. He still finds time to spend most nights with his boyfriend, Daniel, although he can’t seem to find the words to talk to his family about his relationship. Tony’s life is exactly what he’s always wanted it to be—so why does he feel like he’s struggling to be himself?

When a Lobell professor is once again found murdered, the idyll of the last months is turned on its head. Can Tony and Daniel stay out of harm’s way this time? Or will the fragile new peace they’ve found together be shattered?

Excerpt

Second Chance
S.B. Barnes © 2025
All Rights Reserved
Prologue

With a groan, Amelia Lawrence pushes away from her desk. The sun is setting outside, and since it’s late August, that means it’s about eight. The semester hasn’t even started yet.

It serves her right for taking this long to finish the syllabus; she should have gotten the jump on planning last weekend or maybe sometime in July. It just didn’t work out. For some reason, trying to make herself work on classes in the summers feels like stuffing a square peg in a round hole, with her brain being the square peg.

That’s the burnout talking, Amy, the analytical goblin living in the back of her mind tells her.

She ignores it.

She’s getting really good at that.

Amelia vaguely recalls a phase when she was better at this. She got more things done in the same amount of time. She planned her lessons, wrote her syllabi, and there was somehow still time left over to do her own research.

The sun sets over the trees at Wordstone Mansion, down by the river. Amelia can barely see it from the science building, but she can feel in an unsettled way how beautiful it would be to be there. There and not in her office, slaving away at things she should have been done with ages ago.

Her husband sent a text. It’s a video of their daughter, Francie, waving goodnight.

Guilt swamps Amelia. Her husband didn’t mean to make her feel this way, she’s sure. He gets it. He got a doctorate, too, before leaving academia for the calmer and more lucrative waters of IT consultancy. She still feels guilty.

They talk about it in oblique references sometimes, she and her husband. The burnout. The thing looming on the edges of her psyche she can barely put a name to because it means failure. The reason she’s already exhausted at the thought of teaching on Monday.

It’s not fair.

Amelia has always loved teaching.

She was one of the few PhD students in her cohort who did.

But here she is, thirty-five years old and not even a tenure-track position to show for it. Instead, she has to hope every year she’ll be somehow, magically, gifted something more permanent than a “good work this year, let’s talk about contract renewal.” Amelia barely dares to ask for a raise in those talks, only an inflation adjustment, because what does she have to offer? Her own research is stagnating, like so many zebrafish she has her students perform experiments on.

Psychology is so glamorous.

Amelia needs to learn to draw proper boundaries. Say no and mean no. Go to class with last year’s slides and no other preparation. Not be available to everyone and anyone. Take time for her own stupid zebrafish experiments. Do some writing, catch up on journals, stop living day to day.

Take her daughter to the Catskills when autumn hits the hillsides in the Hudson Valley and turns it into a glorious riot of color.

Amelia takes a deep breath.

“Just finish up tonight, Amy,” she tells herself. “Get it done and then be happier.”

She sits down at her computer again, willing herself to work through the end of the syllabus.

Immediately, an email notification distracts her. An unread message from Lily Peterson. A vague memory surfaces in Amelia’s brain, something to do with the mess last year after Professor Lombardi died so tragically. Lily was involved. Amy has a dim memory of an all-faculty email about it. She’d been seeing him, and when he died, she vanished from class suddenly and completely. Lily was on the roster of one of Amelia’s classes, a two hundred–level lecture course about…something. Neuroscience, probably. That’s the one everyone drops out of.

Amelia clicks on the email.

Apparently, Lily returned to Lobell, and she wants to know if she can still get credit for the class by retaking the final.

For a heartbeat, Amelia thinks about it. She’d have to dig into the mess of the file structure on her computer and figure out where she left the final exam. Then she’d have to schedule a time, remember how she graded the neuroscience final last fall, oversee one student taking the exam, figure out how to get the extremely late grade through the Registrar’s office, and—

No, her burnout gremlin tells her very firmly. Boundaries. Amelia’s setting boundaries this year. She won’t let it stay this bad.

Dear Lily, she writes. I’m sorry.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

S. B. Barnes attended college in the Hudson Valley, studying English Language and Literature and Anthropology (although unlike her characters, her time there was not interrupted by crime-solving). She grew up split between the USA and Germany, attending university in both countries before eventually settling in Germany. Today, she works as a teacher and lives with her husband and two cats in an apartment with too little shelf space. Fiction has always been one of her greatest loves, as a reader, as a teacher, and as a writer. While S.B. has been writing for most of her life, this is her first foray into publishing her work.

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One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code! 


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Wednesday, February 5, 2025

Discover Bitroux: High Country today & Giveaway

 


Discover Bitroux: High Country by Jordan Harcourt-Hughes today and make sure to enter the tour wide giveaway as the author is giving a  randomly drawn winner will be awarded a $25 Amazon/BN gift card. The tour is sponsored by Goddess Fish Promotions and find all the tour stops HERE. Make sure to enteron other blog posts as well to up your chances of winning.


Talking with author Jordan Harcourt-Hughes:


What is your favorite ice cream flavor? 
Caramel. And possibly licorice. I don’t think people appreciate licorice as much as they should. Although admittedly, it is a very distinct flavor. I’m currently loving licorice-flavoured chocolate as well! 

Describe your writing space. I mostly write in cafes, actually. One day I’m going to attribute a book to all of the cafes and baristas who have kept me caffeinated in the early hours of the morning! 

What’s one of your biggest beefs in life? By far the thing I find most challenging is incongruence. I don’t like it when people aren’t incongruent in their actions and behaviour. You see this when people say one thing and then go and do something completely contradictory. Or, when people are saying one thing and their bodies are sending a different signal. I find it truly exhausting, and I wish humans didn’t feel the need to do it so much! 

Why do you think this kind of behavior is so prevalent? I think a lot of it is fear-based. People want to be seen to be doing the right thing, and saying the right thing, even when they don’t feel fully aligned with it. And, people can also be scared to be judged by others. So, we act in a way that won’t raise eyebrows, even when those actions aren’t in line with our personal values. 

How does this impact you in daily life? I find that I really gravitate to people with very little personal ‘noise’ around them.

This means that they say what they think and do what they say they are going to do.

This kind of congruence is, to me, very healthy.

I find it really joyful to have this kind of clarity when I’m engaging with someone, and it makes me feel very comfortable and relaxed.

 I don’t have to spend energy trying to read between the lines, and I’m not picking up on any dissonance – which is where there are mixed signals creating a confusing environment. 

How do you explore this in Bitroux? I wanted to explore a type of communication that doesn’t rely on words. That’s why I started looking at the potential of hahma current (a type of electricity in the books) as a conductor of frequency.

Then I started playing with the idea of different frequencies having the ability to carry particles of intelligence that can be intercepted and translated by our bodies. As we digest these particles, they make their way up through our subconscious, into our conscious awareness, as knowledge and insight.

In this way, data is processed in an individual way for everyone, and completely bypasses our logical brain – which is where so many of our judgement and control mechanisms sit.

I think that if we could be more intuitive in our communication with each other, we could also be more congruent, and less motivated by fear of what others think and fear of how we are being perceived. 

 


Bitroux: High Country

Author: Jordan Harcourt-Hughes

Genre: Science Fiction


If Merouac ever thought his life’s work would culminate in leading the metal workshops of the Transcontinental Railroad Project, he was sorely mistaken. 

 

Now, his true challenge lies in navigating the other-worldly abilities he’s only beginning to understand—abilities that allow him to tune metal to interdimensional frequencies.

 

While trying to be a guardian to his niece, Evra, he’s realising she may have more to teach him than he ever expected. At the same time, his decision to help an interdimensional race find refuge underground puts him at the centre of an even deeper mystery.

 

As reality reshapes itself around him, Merouac faces a growing realisation: the world of Ahm is on the brink of a profound transformation, and everything he thought he knew may soon be shattered.


 Excerpt One: 

There was something about that zone of quiet concentration. It was always somewhere in the middle of those quiet moments where the blue light of the Top Hats had started to appear at the edge of his gaze. It had always been hard to see the things directly in his sight; they shifted and moved and always seemed hazy and insubstantial. He wondered if, in those moments, he had drifted into the Maolfi state without realising it.  

 

He kept working. The surges of static came and went, heating his body, and then leaving, giving him a sense that his whole body was buzzing, vibrating. He kept moving, concentrating only on the wood. And things started to shift, but not in the way he had anticipated.  

 

Soon, two piles had been moved and Merouac was starting to feel a welcome feeling of tiredness. He contemplated leaving the last pile of wood for the morning but kept moving instead. Then, something sounded.  

 

He looked up. Nothing. Had anything made a noise at all? He felt sure he had heard something. All was still. What was it that he thought he had heard? Like someone or something was crashing through the trees, perhaps. He shook his head. Nothing unusual stirred, the flickering lights continued and below he could see hummers and their fluorescent markings shimmering in the trees.   

 

Then he realised. He hadn’t heard it. He’d felt it.  

 

He closed his eyes, tried to make his way to the place the Faurin called the Maolfi state. Kii had wanted him to find a place of deep listening. And perhaps what he was just starting to understand was, that you could listen with all your body, and feel sound in other ways than just noise. 

 

After a time, he opened his eyes again and saw spheres hovering in the air, full of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.  

 

Reaching out to touch them, they felt full and weighty and yet his hand could partially pass through them. They were not solid, and yet they were full. Like bubbles being blown by some invisible child, they formed and hung in the atmosphere.  

 

They grew larger, then fuzzier, then collapsed from their own weight, dripping a strange sentience that dispersed back into the atmosphere. Often, they formed again straight away, the same spheres, the same size and colour, the same weight, only to burst and disperse once again.  

 

Some of the smaller ones were only as large as his hand. Others, twice the size. And then hovering at greater height, larger spheres his whole body could have walked through. They shifted and mutated, formed and faded, pulsed and glowed. They were magical.   

 

‘This is different,’ he said out loud, and grinned.  

 

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links: 

Jordan Harcourt-Hughes  is an abstract painter, writer and communications professional. She’s passionate about all aspects of creativity, life-long learning and personal wellbeing.  Over the last fifteen years she’s led, coached and developed creative professionals across the Asia-Pacific region.  

Jordan’s books, studio workshops, courses, coaching and resources are an invitation to explore the rich landscape of creative experiences open to all. 

High Country is Jordan’s second novel set in the world of Bitroux. 

Website: https://jordanharcourthughes.com

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

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

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10795591.Jordan_Harcourt_Hughes


Cover Reveal: Lush

Lush Tinia Montford Publication date: March 31st 2025 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense Laurene King had it all: beauty...