Tuesday, 17 July 2018

The Promise Of Everything: Release Day Blitz

 #NewRelease #ThePromiseOfEverything #BlaireBroderick #TheGarnerWilloughbyBrothers #NowLive

Goodreads - http://bit.ly/2zHT1H4

She’s living for today…

Sophie is dying—probably. An aneurysm at the base of her brain is just waiting to burst, and though she tries to keep her mind off the inevitable by painting away the pain, she simply can’t forget that her days are numbered.

He’s yearning for tomorrow…

Jamison is stuck. His past is a mess he’d rather not revisit, and his present is so dull he can hardly stand it. He takes refuge in his nightly walks where he looks up from the silent New York streets and stares into the window of a tragically beautiful girl painting her masterpiece.

They were made for each other…

A near collision in the dead of night brings them together, and fate means to keep it that way. But when Jamison turns out to be Sophie’s surgeon—the best in the city and her only chance at survival—will she be forced to choose between the love of her life and life itself?

They’re perfect together. But will the curse of the Garner-Willoughby family tear them apart?

**This is a full-length standalone romance with a HEA and no cliff hanger.**



My boots crunched in the snow as my lungs filled with freezing cold air. Oversized snowflakes brushed my face melting on contact as moonlight spilled through barren trees.
I came alive at night, roaming the streets of Tribeca. Packed city streets became mostly deserted come ten o’clock. That was when I took my nightly walks. Crisp night air washed the day off me, cleared my mind, and brought a sort of otherworldly peace I could never fully put into words.
My nightly walks were also when I got to see her—the painter girl. Her loft apartment was directly across from mine on the other side of the street. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d stare out my window and watch her paint. Leaning against my living room window, I’d watch as her wild, brown hair spilled down her shoulders, and her body moved in tandem with each stroke of her brush. Sometimes the canvas was bigger than her, and the colors seemed to swallow her whole.
I tried to imagine what kind of music she was listening to or what was going through her mind as she painted. I’d never seen her up close before. I only knew she had long, dark hair filled with loose waves and thick bangs that hung in her eyes.
I’d walk past her building each night hoping to catch a glimpse of her face just once, but it was always just her hair.
In a borough with over a million people, I thought I’d never be lonely. It turned out I’d never been so lonely in my life. I spent my days amongst hundreds of people, ten- or twelve-hour days sometimes packed full of people who needed me and pulled me in every direction. There was never enough of me to go around.
My quiet apartment perfectly juxtaposed itself against the chaos that consumed my days. No one ever needed me after six o’clock anymore, not since I’d realized that people like me were better off alone than in the company of those with less-than-genuine intentions.
I slipped past the painter girl’s apartment and glanced up. Her window was dark that night. I sighed, trekking on and slipping my gloved hands into the pockets of my gray woolen coat.
Maybe tomorrow.
The door to her building flew open just before I passed, and a girl bundled up in a puffy coat with a fur-lined hood ran out breezing past me. Her face was covered with a thick lavender scarf, and dark hair fell from her hood spilling down the front of her coat.
“Dammit!” she yelled a second later. “Ow. Ow.”
I spun around to see her lying on the ground, a gloved hand wrapped around her ankle.
“You okay?” I rushed to her side. “Sidewalks are slick tonight.”
She tugged her scarf down her face revealing full lips and a hint of deep dimples centered in her rosy cheeks. “I was trying to get to the art supply store before they close. I need more white paint.”
It was her. The painter girl.
A dried streak of blue paint graced her left cheek, and it took every ounce of my Type A personality not to try to wipe it off.
“I think I twisted my ankle,” she said, her sweet face flinching. She glanced at me, looking up through a splay of dark lashes, and immediately tried to toughen up. I studied her soft features in the moonlight. She was more beautiful than I’d ever imagined her to be. Her arms latched onto the park bench beside her attempting to hoist herself into a standing position. “Ouch…”
“Let me help you.” I lifted her up as if she were a rag doll and plunked her on the bench. “Can I look at it?”
Her body froze as our eyes met. Even in the dark of night, I could see her cheeks blush. She cleared her throat and nodded. I slipped her boot off and pulled her sock down enough to examine her ankle before I gently felt around.
“It’s just a light sprain,” I said. “Ice it for the next two to three days until the swelling goes down. Keep it elevated. Stay off it.”
I pulled the sock up and slipped her boot back on ensuring it was perfectly straight on her foot.
“You need help getting to your apartment?” I asked her.
She huffed, though her annoyance was more than likely directed toward her sprained ankle than anything else.
“Yeah. I live right there.” She pointed toward the door she’d burst from just minutes before. “Third floor.”
I slipped my arm under hers, and she gripped my shoulder as I raised her up. We hobbled, step by step, to the apartment building door.
“I don’t have an elevator,” she said apologetically as we made it inside the warm and cozy foyer.
“Not a problem.” I scooped my arm under her knees and lifted her petite body up the stairs one at a time until we’d arrived at the third floor. “Which apartment?”
“God, this is embarrassing,” she muttered, her hand flying to her reddened cheeks. “3B.”
I carried her to 3B and carefully helped her stand, my arm around her hips for support as she fished through her purse for her keys. A blast of warmth hit our faces the second her apartment door opened. In the corner, a space heater roared in the direction of a makeshift studio. Exposed brick walls, a drafting table, huge canvases, and a cart filled with paints, brushes, and palettes took center stage. A large canvas, still wet and half-completed, rested against a paint-covered easel.
“Where do you want me to put you?” I asked, watching as her eyes danced longingly toward her art studio. I glanced around at her place. It was a fraction of the size of my loft. It was wide open with no walls save for the bathroom. A vintage, industrial kitchen stood across from a makeshift living room, and a large bed covered with a million pillows rested against an empty wall. Her studio took pride of place next to the large floor-to-ceiling windows I’d watched her through so many times.
“I don’t know,” she sighed. She wanted to paint. It pained her not to. I could see it all over her pretty face.
“Here,” I said, directing her toward her sofa. “Sit here.”
Her careful gaze never left me as I walked to her studio and lifted her easel and canvas bringing them over to her along with a palette and brushes. I ran to her kitchen and stuffed a hand towel with ice cubes from her freezer, filled a glass with water, and grabbed some ibuprofen.
“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” she said with an amused half-smile.
“I wasn’t going to leave you out there,” I said, handing her the water and gel caps.
“I mean all this,” she said, her eyes dancing around the makeshift studio I’d set up for her. “It was very nice of you. Thank you.”
I shrugged and offered a reserved smile.
“I’m Sophie, by the way,” she said. “I’ve seen you around. You go walking at night.”
My heart leaped. She’d noticed me, too.
“Jamison,” I said. We stood, my eyes locked on her big, brown gaze for far too long as an awkward silence filled the space between us. I couldn’t get enough of her pretty face. There was something wildly innocent and free-spirited about her. Maybe it was the way her hair hung in her face or the way she didn’t notice the paint streak on her cheek. Maybe it was the way her apartment was decorated in a mish-mash of colors and styles as if she’d found random things at a flea market and decided to claim them. There was no rhyme or reason for any of it as far as I could tell.
“What time does your art store close?”
Her arched brows raised under her thick bangs. “You don’t have to do that.”
I glanced down at my watch. “How far away is it? You said you needed white, right? What do you paint with?”
“Oils,” she said. “But you don’t have to do that.”
“What’s it called?” I asked. “If I bring you white, will you promise to stay off your feet and let your sprain heal?”
Her lips twisted, amused again. “Beacon Art Supplies. They were staying open late for me tonight. It’s up the block on the left.”
I bolted out of her apartment, practically running down the two flights of stairs and out past the spot where she’d slipped and fallen ten minutes prior. Five minutes later, I’d arrived.
“Hello?” I called, poking my head inside. The ‘open’ sign was unlit, but the door was unlocked, and the lights were still on.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice called from the back.
“I’m here to pick up some paint for, uh, Sophie,” I said, realizing I didn’t yet know her last name.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Be right there.”
A blonde woman about Sophie’s age with a braided ponytail hanging over her left shoulder strutted to the front. She was wearing a paint-covered smock and holding a giant bottle of white paint in her hand.
“She slipped on the way here,” I said. “I told her I’d grab it for her.”
The woman’s nametag identified her as Mia. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I told her I’d stay open late. Must’ve been in a big hurry.”
“Sidewalks are slick,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “Be careful out there tonight.”
Mia waved her hand. “It’s free.”
“She works for me.”
“Oh,” I said, slipping my wallet back into my left back pocket. “All right, then.”
I hurried back to Sophie’s knocking before letting myself in. She was still right where I left her, lying across the couch with her leg propped up on a pillow, half asleep.
“Here’s your paint,” I whispered, sitting it next to the easel on her coffee table. I clicked off the lamp that lit the space above her sofa and showed myself out, pausing to look at her one more time before locking the door from the inside and shutting it tight.
So that’s her.​​


Blaire Broderick is a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw—if Carrie Bradshaw had three small children, two dogs, a sitcom-dad of a husband, and lived in the suburbs far, far away from the romantic city streets of Manhattan. A daydream believer, Blaire is never without an idea in her heart or a song in her head.  When she’s not busy tending to her little ones, she can be found working on her next book. And when she’s not working, you just might find her curling up with a good book or a really trashy reality show.

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Tuesday, 26 June 2018

RELEASE BLITZ - Whiskey Girl by Adriane Leigh

Title: Whiskey Girl
Author: Adriane Leigh
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: June 26, 2018

She was the one thing holding him together. Until she was gone.
And then there was whiskey.
Fallon Gentry has spent the last decade reliving one dark night in his head. The moment he lost the woman he loved when a single blink cascaded into a series of events that stole both of their lives. Now his nights are spent playing music in southern honky-tonks and nursing the memory of her the only way he knows how–at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

A brief stint in Nashville, a hit song, and a brush with Hollywood couldn't bring him closer to God, but when the ghost of Augusta Belle Branson appears in his corner of another lonely dive bar late after dark, he's forced to confront everything he thought he knew about that fateful night, and a few things he didn't.

He’s her contradiction, she’s his salvation.
A firestorm of emotion consumes them when they come together after ten lost years, every moment more revealing, more unpredictable, more intoxicating than the next until the only reckoning left for Fallon is the one he must make with himself. But this time, fate may have left an after-burn too bitter to swallow. This time, he may lose his whiskey girl for good.

An unforgettable, epic love story about two lost souls who, against all odds, find themselves through their passion and music. Filled with raw emotion, this lyrical, all-the-feels masterpiece may catapult Adriane Leigh into the league of Colleen Hoover, Brittainy Cherry, and L.J. Shen. — Nelle L'Amour, New York Times Bestselling author of THAT MAN



UK: https://amzn.to/2ymohef
CA: https://amzn.to/2yo7Hub
AU: https://amzn.to/2M3Uvwz
B&N: http://bit.ly/2M3LNOR
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2t9yRA2
iBooks: https://apple.co/2JWVgHm



The first time I met Augusta Belle Branson, she was fixin’ on killin’ herself.
Said the minute I’d walked up, she was tryin’ to decide if jumpin’ off the bridge in the center—where the water was deep and the current stronger—would be a swifter end, or if she should jump near the edge, where jagged limestone slabs anchored the slow-moving current.
Certain death for sure.
I replayed the split second when the Indian summer sun burst through the orange oak leaves, a halo of warmth enveloping her.
Like an angel. Stardust sparkling straight from heaven, ploppin’ her in my path.
And then she turned, the most startling shade of liquid amber eyes breathing something real and alive, like fire, into my soul.
That same something I’d been runnin’ from—or chasin’, dependin’ on how you looked at it—just about every day since.
I settled myself on the lone wooden stool that awaited at center stage, my thoughts drawing back to the present. My head swam, but the old familiar chords floated on through the current of whiskey in my blood, and I strummed the first few notes of a song I wrote a lot of nights ago by an act of sheer muscle memory.
Old acoustic guitar resting on my knee, my first and third fingers in position on the strings, the opening chords of “Whiskey Girl” bled from my fingers.
Every chord, another dagger.
Every whispered lyric, my undoing.
I still didn’t know what the fuck had overtaken me the night I’d written this song in a fevered rush.
Well, the booze might have played a part, but I happened to think my best shit came out of uninhibited states.
I’d just had a fuckton of uninhibited states recently.
And the harder the liquor, the more she haunted me.
Whiskey Girl.
My poisoned lullaby.
The crowd of a few hundred erupted into a standing ovation when I ended with the final, emotion-charged words.
The irony of this song was it was the one that’d launched my career. The first single to hit radio waves and then the top spot on the Billboard charts, and brought reporters, music executives, long-lost family members I wasn’t even really sure I was related to, and too much other scum with an end game that carried dollar signs to my front doorstep.
I’d moved to Nashville a rising star and left two years later, middle finger in the air as I tossed my once-promising music career out with last night’s liquor bottles in favor of the open road.
Chasing something.
Not finding the one thing I needed.
Playing local honky-tonks for a fraction of the money I could have made.
But the truth was, the road was the only place I could find my happy.
A familiar ball of pain formed in my throat as I stood, pushing my guitar over one shoulder and bowing deeply. I couldn’t see a single face behind the glaring stage lights, but still, some part of me pretended she could be out there, that I was singing to her.
That she would hear her song and find her way back to me.
After hundreds of faceless crowds and too many bottles of Tennessee whiskey to bother counting, I still felt the pull inside me to travel to every town in America if that’s what it took to find her.
Hell, maybe she was happily married with a few kids, a dog, and a fucking minivan by now.
I nodded my head, giving one last wave to the crowd in the dark beyond, then left the stage, taking the steps two at a time and angling past the curtains to head for the tiny-ass dressing room this dive bar provided. Heading for another chug of amber gold before packing my shit into my truck and hitting the road.
I pushed a hand through my hair, thinking maybe a shower would be in order before I bailed, when a curvy little thing backed right up into me.
My palms landed on her shoulders, warm blond waves falling in a cascade over one side. The heady scent of peaches and honey filled my nostrils. My eyes slammed closed and brought me back to summer nights under a giant oak, fireflies melding together with the stars above like a painting.
“Sorry, I just dropped my phone.” The sweet-scented creature spun, brilliant smile falling from her face when our eyes made contact for the first time.
Every coldhearted memory slammed into my chest like a pallet of bricks.
I narrowed my eyes, gaze tracing the familiar yet unfamiliar angles of her porcelain face.
She was thinner now, cheeks sharp slashes of bone that highlighted her always-devastating round eyes and full lips. It was her, all right. I’d know this woman anywhere.
“Hi, Fallon.” I’d been dreamin’ of this moment for the better part of a decade, and still, my heart wasn’t prepared for those two words. My name on her lips left me with a toxic reaction.
My whiskey girl.
My damnation and my salvation.
“I need a fucking minute.” I dropped my hands from her shoulders, her skin still haunting my fingertips, and walked straight down the narrow hallway, pushing the rusted back door open so hard the hinges protested.
Warm night air filled my lungs, replacing the empty feeling seeing her again had left.
“Fallon…” Hell, she’d followed me out.
And hell if wanted her to, but I didn’t not want her to either.
The emotions bombarding my mind were just a-fucking-bout unbearable.
“I said I need a fucking minute.” The sentence came out as more of a growl than I intended. Before she could reply, I stomped across the potholed parking lot, aiming for my heavy-duty Ford.
I yanked the door open, digging behind the driver’s seat for a fresh bottle of my favorite recipe.
I couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the half-full bottle I’d left in my dressing room. I had to get as far the fuck away from her just to clear my head and process what her being here even meant.
My hands circled the neck of the bottle, and I opened it in a flash, chugging back the first warm bite of pleasure I’d been craving.
I tossed the cap on my dash and fished the keys out of my pocket, about to climb into the cab and make hay, when fingertips painted a dark navy filtered into my vision and back out again, my goddamn truck keys hanging from one finger.
“Fuck,” I bit out, crawling out of the cab and swiping for the keys.
My reactions were a helluva lot slower than I thought they were. How much of that bottle had I drunk before the show? I shook the thought from my head, realizing this was probably about close to my average state of play on any given day. Runnin’ away from the life Augusta Belle and I’d had took something out of me. Something only whiskey could fill.
“I don’t care what your stupid ass does on your own time, but you’re not dying on mine, Fallon Gentry.”
My head pounded then. A whole fucking sentence out of her pretty pink lips, and my body’s old dependable reaction to her infuriating every cell of me.
I’d never been in control when it came to Augusta. Shouldn’t have been surprised it was no different now.
“As irritating as ever, I see,” I said, swiping for my keys one more time and missing before I stumbled off around her, whiskey bottle clutched in my hand and hell on my mind.
Augusta was back, and there wasn’t enough whiskey in the state of Tennessee to help me deal.


Adriane Leigh is an Amazon Top 25 and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and erotic romance. Raised in a snowbank in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, she was born with a book in her hand and won her first Young Authors award before the age of ten. She finished her first romance novel at 14, and hasn't stopped playing with words since. She earned a literature degree, co-founded and organized international book conventions with RARE: Romance Author & Reader Events, and has written more than 45 independent titles under various pen names.

Married to her own Prince Charming, she now lives among the sand dunes of Lake Michigan, and plays mama to two sweet baby girls. She's a romantic rebel and word junkie that believes wanderlust is life, is part of the #goodvibetribe, and wishes she had more time to read and knit scarves to keep her cozy during the arctic Michigan winters. Yoga pants, puppies, and mac and cheese also help. Never miss a release! Get an alert at: 

Praise for Adriane's work:

“Sizzling chemistry, a glamorous world, plot twists…a perfect combination held together with Adriane Leigh’s addictive writing. I dove into this world, and didn’t want to come up for air. I can’t wait for more!” – Alessandra Torre, Hollywood Dirt

“Adriane Leigh never dissapoints with equal amounts of heat and heart with all the sex, suspense and scandal…Leigh’s newest mysterious hero will have you anxiously flipping pages well into the night trying to uncover his secrets.” – Jay Crownover, Marked Men


Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/adriane.leigh.writer
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AdrianeLeigh
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/LeighAdriane


There is a giveaway for a $25 Amazon gift card + paperback of Whiskey Girl (1 winner, open internationally)

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Sunday, 24 June 2018

RELEASE BLITZ- Save the Date by Carrie Aarons

Title: Save the Date
Author: Carrie Aarons
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: June 24, 2018

You know that pact you make with your childhood best friend of the opposite sex? The one where, if you’re both still single, lonely and hopeless at thirty, you’ll marry each other?

This is the story about what happens when you hit the big three-oh and have to make good on that pinky promise.

Personally, I think love, romance and all of that nonsense is a crock of, well, you know. And Reese Collins, the boy who used to put worms in my hair at backyard barbecues, knows that better than anyone.

But when he moves to the same city I’ve happily, and singly, inhabited for years, memories of oaths past resurface. Reese is like a dog with a bone; a really hot dog and that bone just happens to be me.

He won’t stop hounding me, and the crazy thing is, my frigid, traitorous heart is starting to cave. For my best friend.

It seems so far off, when you’re a kid playing Monopoly in your treehouse. But when that clock strikes midnight on your thirtieth birthday, and you’re standing alone in front of a grocery store-bought cupcake, a childhood deal to walk down the aisle doesn’t seem so silly anymore. 


PURCHASE LINKS – 99c for release day ONLY! 

UK: http://1click.bz/SavetheDateUK
CA: http://1click.bz/SavetheDateCA
AU: http://1click.bz/SavetheDateAU

Free in Kindle Unlimited


Author of romance novels such as Red Card and Privileged, Carrie Aarons writes sexy, swoony and sarcastic characters who won't get out of her head until she puts them down on a page.

Carrie has wanted to be an author since the first time she opened a book, and still can’t fathom that she gets to live her dream each and every day.

When she isn't in a writing coma, Carrie spends time Netflix-binging with her husband, snuggling her infant daughter, and chasing her black Lab through the dog parks of New Jersey.


Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CarrieAarons
Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/carriescharmers
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorCarrieA
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1P556r9
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14160972.Carrie_Aarons

Friday, 22 June 2018

RELEASE BLITZ - Family Ties by Stephie Walls

Title: Family Ties
Author: Stephie Walls
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: June 21, 2018

With a history like ours, the meaning of the word family tended to tangle into something unrecognizable. DNA and bloodlines didn’t tie us together, and neither did our last names. Various shades of grey blurred the branches of our twisted family tree.

I wasn’t her brother.
They weren’t my parents.
Not that it mattered…

She was off limits.

Portia was my friend.
Then my foster sister.
And she’d always be the love of my life.



UK: http://1click.bz/FamilyTiesUK
CA: http://1click.bz/FamilyTiesCA
AU: http://1click.bz/FamilyTiesAU

Free in Kindle Unlimited


Stephie Walls is a lover of words—the more poetic the better. She lives on the outskirts of Greenville, South Carolina in her own veritable zoo with two dogs, three cats, the Mister, and Magoo (in no preferential order).

She would live on coffee, books, and Charlie Hunnam if it were possible, but since it’s not, add in some Chinese food or sushi and she’s one happy girl.


Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1785152491767338
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/stephiewalls
Twitter: https://twitter.com/StephieWalls
Amazon: http://amazon.com/author/stephiewalls
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8126412.Stephie_Walls
Newsletter: http://bit.ly/2rwxvkc
Bookbub: http://www.bookbub.com/authors/stephie-walls


There is a giveaway for a $10 Amazon gift card + a signed paperback of Family Ties

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Wednesday, 20 June 2018

RELEASE BLITZ - Crazy Stupid Love by K.L. Grayson

Title: Crazy Stupid Love
A Dirty Dicks Standalone Novel
Author: K.L. Grayson
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: June 20, 2018

There’s a special place in hell for a man like me—a man who shamelessly sleeps with his best friend’s little sister, knowing he’ll never be what she needs. A man who takes because the only thing he has to offer in return is a broken past that’s destined to destroy his future.

I was the kid who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks with shit parents and clothes that had been handed down one too many times. I stole to feed my sister, fought to protect her, and I’ll always be the guy your parents don’t want you to bring home.

So yeah, that’s me. Lincoln Bennett. Adley Allen’s walk on the wild side. Her dirty little secret. And I’m okay with that—ninety-nine percent of the time. Unfortunately today is in that one percent when it doesn’t sit well with me. For some strange reason, I want to be around to celebrate all of Adley’s successes. I want to be here when she gets her first job and take her out to dinner after her first shift. I want to be the one she depends on, the person she calls when she has a bad day. Or a great day. Or any kind of day.

I want more than her body. I want her heart. But men like me don’t get women like her.

At least not to keep.


PURCHASE LINKS – $2.99 for a limited time

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CA: https://amzn.to/2tdQTkX
AU: https://amzn.to/2tkrW6i

Free in Kindle Unlimited


Crazy Sexy Love 

UK: http://amzn.to/2IcSahU
CA: http://amzn.to/2tsPTvM
AU: http://amzn.to/2FkRMQp

Free in Kindle Unlimited

Crazy Hot Love 

UK: https://amzn.to/2jfCU8C
CA: https://amzn.to/2ra69xi
AU: https://amzn.to/2r680E7

Free in Kindle Unlimited


K.L. Grayson resides in a small town outside of St. Louis, MO.  She is entertained daily by her extraordinary husband, who will forever inspire every good quality she writes in a man.  Her entire life rests in the palms of six dirty little hands, and when the day is over and those pint-sized cherubs have been washed and tucked into bed, you can find her typing away furiously on her computer.  She has a love for alpha-males, brownies, reading, tattoos, sunglasses, and happy endings…and not particularly in that order.


Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/booksbyklgrayson
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/booksbyklgrayso

Thursday, 14 June 2018

Elisabeth Naughton’s SURRENDER – Review & Excerpt Tour

From New York Times Bestselling author Elisabeth Naughton, comes SURRENDER, a new novella in her House of Sin Series, brought to you by 1,001 Dark Nights! Be sure to grab your copy today!


From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Elisabeth Naughton comes a new story in her House of Sin series…
The leaders of my House want her dead.
The men I’ve secretly aligned myself with want her punished for screwing up their coup.
I’ve been sent by both to deal with her, but one look at the feisty redhead and I’ve got plans of my own.
Before I carry out anyone else’s orders, she’s going to give me what I want. And only when I’m satisfied will I decide if she lives or dies.
Depending, of course, on just how easily she surrenders…

Buy Links:


I glanced over the masked couples and frowned as I sipped my drink. “Afraid to say, it’s really
not all that exciting from where I’m sitting, though.”
She smirked and lifted her glass to her lips. “And what do you find exciting, Mr. Garcia?”
Blood rolled through my veins and gathered in my groin as I pinned my eyes on her. “Very
proper British women who eye-fuck strangers across the room and act shocked and dismayed
when they’re called out for it.”
For a heartbeat, she didn’t respond, then slowly swallowed what was left in her glass and turned
my way. “I wouldn’t dream of appearing shocked and dismayed.”
She stepped in close, and I realized she was much more petite than I’d originally assumed. Even
in her four-inch heels, she had to push to her toes so I could feel her breath against my skin.
And holy hell, did I feel it. She breathed so hot over the scruff on my jaw, a blistering need
whipped through my body, making me hard in a heartbeat. “And if I was really interested, Mr.
Garcia, trust me. I wouldn’t be doing something as boring as eye-f*cking you from across the
room.” The scent of gardenia melded with the whisky on her breath when she lowered her voice
to a sultry note and added, “I’d be dragging you into a back room and literally f*cking that dirty
mind right out of you.”
Holy mother of God...
She lowered to her heels, pinned me with a steamy look mixed with a hefty dose of trouble, and
took the glass from my hand. Tipping it back, she swallowed the last mouthful without breaking
eye contact, then set my empty glass on the bar. “Mm. You were right. That was good.”
She pushed away and wove through the crowd. Blood pumping hard, I looked after her, unable
to do anything more than stare at her sexy ass and those gorgeous legs.
F*ck. Me. I was as hard as stone and even more determined to make that little siren surrender to
me. Screw what my House wanted. Screw what my associates wanted. I had to have her.
I would have her one way or another.


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Elisabeth Naughton is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. From Elisabeth: “I was never one of those people who knew they wanted to be an author at the age of six. I didn’t have imaginary friends. I didn’t write stories in my journal or entertain my relatives by firelight after Thanksgiving dinner. For the most part, I was just a normal, everyday kid. I liked to read, but I wasn’t exceptional at it. And when my teachers complimented me on my writing abilities, I brushed them off. I did, however, always have a penchant for the unique and absurd. And as my mother told me all throughout my childhood, I should have been an actress—I was a drama queen before my time.
“Years ago, my husband bought me Scarlett: The Sequel to Gone With The Wind. If you ever saw the book, you know it’s a long one. I sat and read that thing from cover to cover, and dreamed of one day being a writer. But I didn’t actually try my hand at writing until years later when I quit my teaching job to stay home with my kids. And my husband? After that week of reading where I neglected him and everything else until I finished Scarlett, he vowed never to buy me another book again. Little did he know I’d one day end up sitting at a keyboard all day drafting my own stories.
“My writing journey has not been easy. I didn’t just sit down one day, decide I was going to write a book and voila! sell my very first attempt. As most authors will probably agree, the path to publication is filled with hours of work, pulling all-nighters I thought I’d given up in college, sacrifices, rejections, but a love I discovered along the way I just can’t live without. Instead of a big, thick book to read by lamplight (I do read much smaller ones when I get the chance), I’ve traded in my reading obsession for a laptop. And I’ve never been happier.
“I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a wonderful family and fabulous husband who put up with my writing—and obsessive personality—even when life is chaotic. More than once my kids have been late to swimming or baseball because I needed just five more minutes to finish a scene. Their support and encouragement mean the world to me. I also have amazing friends and a support network I couldn’t survive without. So to all of you out there who have encouraged me along the way, sent me emails and fan letters, phone calls and congratulations, I just want to say, thank you. You make this whole writing gig that much more enjoyable. I truly wouldn’t be here without you.”

The Promise Of Everything: Release Day Blitz

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