"I have to first comment on the characters, I found them to be very realistic and humorous and the dialogue was out of this world. I started reading this book and did not put it down until I read the last page. Rhona had me laughing through the whole book, she was a very amazing character. It was fast paced, easy read and I loved every line." - Goodreads, J. Kahele
Published: June 25th, 2015
Cover Artist: Em Taylor
As Rhona Lorimer waits for her new boss to arrive, she reckons things can’t get much worse. The manager of the Scottish estate has to explain to her new American boss that the estate is in ruins and there’s no money left. When the drop dead gorgeous cowboy turns up in full Highland regalia, looking like he fell off a shortbread tin, Rhona knows she has her work cut out.
The locals don’t take to Lord Cole Macallan, so Rhona feels obliged to show him hospitality. But the guy is hot. Can Rhona fight her feelings for her new boss as their worlds collide and they discover just how much Scotland and America are two countries divided by a common language… but brought together by mutual passions?
GUEST POST
Top 10 criteria to consider in a Cowboy Vs. Scot
1. Easier access to a guy in a kilt. Jeans are a pain to get off if they’re too snug.
2. A cowboy can rope a calf, but then a Scot can toss a caber – I’m calling that one a draw.
3. Accents: Drawl versus Brogue. I grew up in Scotland so I’ll take the drawl because I’m afraid a Scottish brogue does nothing for me, but I guess for the non-Scots among you, you have to make up your own minds.
4. Weapons: A cowboy may carry a gun in his truck but a Scotsman will club you to death with his sharp wit and sarcasm. We don’t do firearms in Scotland—we just bare our butts and wave pointy sticks at the English. It doesn’t work but it makes for a good movie.
5. Music: I’m a fan of both country and western and Scottish folk music. In my early 20s I was madly in love with Donnie Munro from the Scottish folk rock band Runrig. Now, I do love a bit of Brad Paisley. Both can have equally bad lyrics and both can be a bit depressing. So I’m calling a draw on that one.
6. Cars: We don’t do big flashy cars in Scotland. Most of us drive what you would call a compact family car. Thus the cowboy’s pick truck wins this round for so many reasons.
7. Scenery: A Scotsman can take you for a drive to see 14th century castles, mountains, lochs and beautiful glens all in one day trip. Then he can take you back to a snug little cottage with a roaring fire, with a bottle of wine. A cowboy can show you his ranch and lots of cows and maybe the town with one street. I calling this one for the Scot.
8. I suspect neither cowboys not Scottish men eat particularly healthily. I can’t see either of them ordering a nice tofu salad in a diner. A steak dinner versus haggis, turnips and potatoes. In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I won’t tell you what’s in haggis and I’ll declare the cowboy the winner of number 8.
9. Sport: Scottish men play rugby which is like American football without all the stopping and starting and without all the protective gear. They just pile in on top of each other. And kick the living daylights out of one another. Apparently there are rules but I can’t seem to figure them out. Scottish men also play shinty, the forerunner to ice hockey. Basically 22 men are given wooden hockey sticks, a ball is thrown between them and they batter lumps out of each other until someone scores a goal. Again, apparently there are rules. Sometimes there is ice but they’ve started playing it in the summer so there is less ice. Cowboys play the American versions of these sports with all the padding. Guess who won that round.
10. But not all men play sport. Actually more Scottish men watch what Americans call soccer. And I know a lot of Americans prefer baseball and basketball to football. When it comes to both cowboys and Scotsmen we can guarantee that whether kilted or cowboy booted, when they come home to us, they’re more likely to sit around in their underpants, drinking beer and watching the aforementioned sport on TV. And we wouldn’t have them any other way… well it would be nice if they’d put out the garbage without being nagged to do it fifty times.
About the author:
Em lives in the small village of Dundonald (which features in An American Cowboy in Scotland) in Ayrshire, Scotland. She regularly visits Dundonald Castle for coffee, cakes, inspiration and chat. When she’s not writing historical, contemporary and vampire romances, she’s trotting around the country to film and TV conventions, hob-nobbing with celebrities and avoiding housework.
Em is still waiting for her own Colonel Brandon to come along but since she’s sick of kissing frogs, she’s quite content to hog the TV remote and have the whole sofa to herself.
18+ Fletch has charm, Fletch has charisma, and Fletch has moves. He turns dreams into reality two nights a week, baring his body to lonely women, bored housewives, and bachelorettes looking for that one last good time. He’s into one-night stands, one-time things, and he never, ever gets serious.
Description:
Release Date: September 9th, 2015
Fletcher Novak is Sexy.
Fletch has charm, Fletch has charisma, and Fletch has moves. He turns dreams into reality two nights a week, baring his body to lonely women, bored housewives, and bachelorettes looking for that one last good time. He’s into one-night stands, one-time things, and he never, ever gets serious.
Tiffy Preston is looking for commitment.
A billionaire’s daughter with the world at her fingertips, Tiffy’s in Lake Tahoe to take over her father’s hotel and clean up the Mountain Men Male Revue Show. She’s well-bred, polite, and hates everything Fletcher represents.
But Fletcher offers Tiffy something she can’t refuse—total satisfaction and the man of her dreams. All she has to do is… everything he tells her.
Because Sexy doesn’t sell… it’s for sale.
Sexy is a full-length, standalone novel by New York Times Bestselling author, JA Huss.
EXCERPT
“Mr. Novak,” Amy, the resort manager, says in her businesslike tone, “there was a meeting this afternoon. I had it on your calendar and you missed it. I’m sure, as always, you have a good reason for that? I expect to hear it tomorrow at nine AM sharp.” She pauses for a moment to sigh. “And Fletcher, just so you know, it had better be monumental.”
There’s a click and the computer voice starts giving me options before I can disconnect the call.
Fucking management. I hate that corporate shit they do. And I hate these monthly meetings even more. But I have a show to do, so I push it away and head back downstairs. The ordinarily quick lift takes a few minutes and is filled with rich, drunk gamblers by the time it gets to my floor, so when I finally walk back through the stage door, Chandler is already calling my name.
“Fletcherrrrrrr…” he roars above the crowd of cheers.
“You’re late again, bro,” Bill says, walking by with his costume in his hand, sweat falling down his face after his dance routine. His hard body is rippled with muscles and his wet-look thong is stuffed with dollars.
But I’m a professional, remember?
I take the small set of stairs two at a time and push the curtain aside, just as Chandler says my name again. His expression is one of annoyance as he looks at the curtain, but then he realizes I’m here and it turns to relief. “Novakkkkkk…” he says, placing the mic in the stand and walking off stage on the opposite side.
I throw up my arms, allowing the tight white t-shirt to stretch across my chest and rise up from the waistband of my tattered jeans a little. The spotlight flashes directly overhead—just one brief tease of what’s to come—and the audience goes wild at that little bit of skin. But before they can do anything else, the stage goes dark again and the music starts bumping.
I don’t talk on stage. No one wants to hear what I’ve got to say. They only want to see what I can do with this body. Hardened from years of sports and diligent gym visits. Lean muscles accentuated with a grace that you only get with a decade or more of martial arts training. That’s all they want. That’s all they see. I’m just something to look at when I’m up here.
So I give them exactly what they expect. A show.
I start dancing, my hips moving to the beat of the song. Another flash of light from above. Another round of screams. And then silence as I freeze.
Whistles and catcalls start. But I hold my pose—fingertips on the back of my shirt, ready to oblige their insatiable need for the sight of bare flesh tonight. Then another flash. I drag the shirt up in that brief glimpse, and then darkness mimics my pause. The next flash they see my abs, the dream six-pack that’s mostly genetics, but I do my share of crunches. Then another flash and I give them the pecs, flexing the muscles and making them dance a little. And in that final flash, I rip the shirt over my head.
The front row stands, waving their dollar bills in the air, begging to shower me with money.
I twirl the shirt several times, taking in the throngs of women with their hands up, ready to catch the prize, and then throw it to a little redhead just as all the lights come on to the beat of the bass. I train my eyes on the crowd, ready to start the real show, and then the lights switch from me to them, lighting up their faces—red with the heat of five hundred woman jostling for position in the room. All of them there for me in this moment. It pans to the left side, and I use those three seconds to search for my star. Then down the middle. My eyes train on a woman in a light-colored suit sitting dead center before I lose her in the darkness and switch to the right side.
But she’s the one. She’s my star tonight. And she has no idea how hard I’m about to rock her world.
ROOK & RONIN IS ON SALE
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About the author:
JA Huss is the USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty romances. She likes stories about family, loyalty, and extraordinary characters who struggle with basic human emotions while dealing with bigger than life problems. JA loves writing heroes who make you swoon, heroines who makes you jealous, and the perfect Happily Ever After ending.You can chat with her on Facebook, Twitter, and her kick-ass romance blog, New Adult Addiction .
If you’re interested in getting your hands on an advanced release copy of her upcoming books, sneak peek teasers, or information on her upcoming personal appearances, you can join her newsletter list and get those details delivered right to your inbox.
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Author's Giveaway
a Rafflecopter giveaway 
Jack’s life is awesome. His store is making money hand over fist and his best friend has found love.
Published: July 16th, 2015
Jack’s life is awesome. His store is making money hand over fist and his best friend has found love.
So what if he’s feeling a bit restless and put out about his upcoming birthday and his ex is being a pain in his fabulous behind? That’s nothing he can’t handle. But then his smoking hot new bookkeeper discovers things at the store aren’t actually as they seem. Someone is playing fast and loose with the finances.
Jack’s bestie and his gal pals, the gray-haired knitting detectives, jump at the chance to solve Jack’s problems. When they aren’t re-enacting scenes from spy thrillers, they’re setting Jack up on dates and generally insinuating themselves into his love life. They’re determined to find love for Jack as well as his missing money.
Will Jack catch a thief or find love? Either way Jack’s going to get his man.
“The five female seniors’ involvement in all of this, especially the investigation, is both hilarious and endearing.” - Amazon - Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko
“The five female seniors’ involvement in all of this, especially the investigation, is both hilarious and endearing.” - Amazon - Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko“I would recommend this book (and am) to friend that read. It was light hearted, quick to read, and fun in all the best ways.” - Amazon , Vicki Smith
“The “gray haired detectives” are back, which I’m happy to say are in their usual rare form. There is nothing feeble about them and they use their skills to do recon missions, perform accounting audits, and get in a little bit of trouble with the local police. In their spare time they play matchmaker to the single people in their church, whether or not the poor souls want any help.” - Amazon, C. Gerber
EXCERPT
“Hands in the air. Drop to your knees,” was shouted at them. Blinded by a flashlight, it was impossible to identify the speaker.
Martha huffed. “There is no way I’m going to my knees, young man.” She yelled at the light.
“Me either. I’ll never be able to get up again.” Ally agreed and put her hands on her hips in protest.
Jack shook his head but quickly dropped to his knees. Only he would get caught while snooping with two grandmas who refused to listen to the police. He hung his head and pretended he was somewhere else, anywhere else.
The cop lowered his flashlight and brought out a pair of cuffs. He started walking towards the group but stumbled when he took in Ally and Martha. He shook his head. “Are you ladies willing to go quietly into my squad car?” He asked.
Ally and Martha took one look at the cop and nodded. “Wherever you want to go officer,” Martha responded. Oh great. Now they were flirting with the arresting officer. Jack waited patiently on his knees until the cop reached him. He was cuffed and then dragged to his feet.
“Come on ladies,” the officer stated while pulling Jack to the cop car.
There were two squad cars in Damien’s driveway. Betty, Rosemary, and Rose were already sitting in the backseat of the other car. They waved as Jack passed with Ally and Martha in tow. Jack shook his head at them and looked for Izzy. She sat in her car and mouthed sorry but didn’t make a move to help them. Jack knew it wouldn’t help anything if Izzy got out of the car. She’d just get arrested as well but still he stuck his tongue out at her. The cop scanned the area to see where Jack’s tongue was pointed. Izzy immediately started up the car and, with a squeal of the tires, took off. Jack chuckled.
“Aren’t you going to turn on the siren,” Martha asked once the cop was back in the patrol car and they were headed to the police station. Ally bobbed her head in excitement. Jack hung his head.
The cop chuckled. “Normally perps don’t like the siren on.”
“Why not?” Ally leaned forward to get a better look at the officer.
“They don’t want to be seen being hauled to the police station,” was the officer’s perfectly acceptable answer.
Ally and Martha huffed. They leaned back and crossed their arms across their chests. “Well, that’s just boring,” Martha said to Ally. Ally nodded in agreement.
The quiet didn’t last long. “So, officer,” Martha began. “Are you single?” Jack tried to make himself disappear at this point but unfortunately closing his eyes and wishing he was anywhere else in the world but in the back of a cop car that smelled like piss with two elderly troublemakers turned matchmakers was a bust.
“I’m single ladies,” the officer readily answered. “But don’t get your hopes up for your granddaughters. I’m also gay.” Jack prayed for a hole in the floor of the sedan to open up and swallow him whole.
Ally and Martha clapped in glee. The officer turned around in surprise before quickly returning his attention to the road. The quick look was all Jack needed. It appeared that he’d been arrested by a man hot enough to be Mr. January in the police calendar. Although it was dark in the car, he couldn’t miss the curly brown hair and eyes the color of rich chocolate. He’d bet the man was made of muscles as well. He nearly sighed but caught himself just as he saw Ally and Martha looking at him for a response. He buried his face in his chest. Luckily, they had arrived at the police station.
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About the author:
I was born and raised in Wisconsin, but think I’m a European. After spending my senior year of high school in Germany, I developed a bad case of wanderlust that is yet to be cured. My flying Dutch husband and I have lived in Ohio, Virginia, the Netherlands, Germany and now Istanbul. We still haven’t decided if we want to settle down somewhere – let alone where. I’m leaning towards somewhere I can learn to surf even though the hubby thinks that’s a less than sound way to decide where to live. Although I’ve been a military policewoman, a commercial lawyer, and a B&B owner, I think with writing I may have finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. That’s assuming I ever grow up, of course. Between playing tennis, running much slower than I would like, trying to adopt every stray dog within a 5-mile radius, traveling to exotic new locales, singing off tune, drinking entirely too many adult beverages, addictively watching new movies and reading books like they are going out of style, I write articles for a local expat magazine and various websites, review other indie authors’ books, write a blog about whatever comes to mind and am working on my sixth book.Author's Giveaway
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Published: July 24th, 2015
There’s a fine line between sexy alpha and creepy stalker…and Rye has crossed it.
Izzy Grant is supposed to be dead, suicide by hanging. But when she regains consciousness she’s still alive and still the crazy girl voted Most Likely to Kill Herself in high school. She’s still the girl who everyone in Old Town loves to hate.
But one thing had changed. He saved her life, a man wearing all black and riding a motorcycle. He pulled her down from the tree and made sure she was still breathing.
Now he’s following her. Izzy doesn’t know why, but she’s eager to find out.
"From my favourite author comes another great book using her pen names, whenever I see anything written by Dakota Madison or Savannah Young, I know that they are definite reads and that I will love them to bits and Rye Must Die did not disappoint. [...] If you need a new series to start and a new author to discover , check out Rye Must Die and the great thing to is that this is a quick read." - Goodreads, Paula Phillips
EXCERPT
Prologue
I gasp for breath. Then I cough. The brisk air stings my lungs.
I’m on the cold, hard ground, not hanging from the tree like I’m supposed to be, and I’m definitely not dead.
When I open my eyes I’m glad it’s dusk. I don’t think I could take the glare of the sun right now. Dusk was always my favorite time of day, when nature’s light is fading away.
My neck feels raw, but there’s no rope on it. I search around me, but the rope seems to have vanished.
I spot a guy dressed in all black. He’s sitting on a black H-D Iron 883, very similar to the motorcycle I ride.
A shiver runs through me when I realize the guy is watching me.
He must have been the one who did it. He cut me down from the tree. I have a vague memory of a struggle. Of strong arms grabbing me and holding me tight. I fought against him, but I was hopelessly outmatched.
I wanted to die but I realized he wasn’t going to let me.
Then I blacked out, and woke up on the ground.
I wonder how long he’s going to sit there. It’s almost like he’s guarding me. Then he opens a black satchel on his bike and removes a rope—my rope—and holds it up for me to see.
I feel like he’s taunting me with it. Why does this asshole care if I live or die?
When I give him the finger he doesn’t respond. He just puts on his dark helmet and speeds away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
I think about some of the other ways I could kill myself, but those methods leave a margin of error that I’m not comfortable with. I don’t want to jump in front of a moving truck only to be paralyzed for life and still not dead.
Besides, I’m suddenly hungry and craving a burger and fries in the worst way. I guess today is not the day for me to die.
Six Weeks Later
Another exciting day at the Old Town Antique Shop. I’ve had only two customers and only one who actually bought something. It’s a good thing the building is completely paid for, I live right upstairs, and my grandmother was extremely generous to me in her will. I certainly couldn’t afford to run a real business on the pittance the store makes on a weekly basis.
I would have been out of Old Town by now if my grandmother didn’t croak. And she didn’t stipulate in her will that I had to keep the antique shop running in order to get the money she entrusted to me. I’m the last living member of the Grant family and I now have the honor of running the business that’s been in our family for generations.
I glance down at the stash of romance novels I keep hidden under the counter. I know they’re cheesy, but right now they’re the only things that are keeping me from slashing my wrists when I’m in the bathtub. They give me the slightest bit of hope that maybe someday; someone will love the town pariah. Even the meanest girls in romance novels always get the guy.
I’m deep in a very hot sex scene when I’m startled by the little bell that chimes when the front door opens.
I’m even more surprised by the guy who walks into my shop. Or more like strolls in. He’s wearing a wild flowered Hawaiian shirt over a red Green Day T-shirt, faded cargo pants and red converse high tops. He runs his hands through his mop of sun-bleached blond hair, but it doesn’t help. Old Town is always windy, but his hair isn’t just windblown. It’s a little too long and looks shaggy.
He’s definitely not from Old Town.
After giving me a quick once over he grins. His grin is too wide and his teeth are too perfect and too white. I already hate him.
“You know we’re nowhere near the shore?” I try not to sound as disgusted as this guy is making me.
He laughs. He seems like the kind of guy who laughs easily. I hate him even more.
“I’m not here to surf.”
I give him a once over. “You could have fooled me.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a shiny business card. He wiggles it in my face so the light overhead reflects off of it.
I rip the card out of his hand just to make the glare stop. “What’s wrong with you?”
He laughs again, which makes me even more perturbed. Not that it’s difficult to do. Most people are able to get on my bad side pretty quickly.
“Do you want a list?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
I shake my head and examine his card:
Old Town Ghost Tours. Max Elliot, Paranormal Investigator.
Great. Not only is he starting to be the most annoying person on the planet, he’s also one of those ghost hunting freaks.
I try to hand the card back to him, but he puts his hands up and shakes them at me. “The card is yours to keep.”
If I had a trash can close I’d make a point of throwing the thing inside of it, but the trash can is on the other side of this weirdo and I don’t feel like walking past him to get to it.
“You didn’t answer my question.” I glare at him.
“What’s wrong with me?” He looks down at his watch, which I now notice has Mickey Mouse on it. “How much time do you have?”
I give an exasperated sigh. “What can I help you with?”
He grins again. Boy does this guy like to smile a lot. He must think it’s charming, and maybe some girls are into that, but I’m definitely not one of them. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve smiled so far this year.
And I don’t go for blonds and definitely not beach boy blonds with big smiles. I prefer the dark and dangerous type, all in black leather, preferably riding a motorcycle.
“I’d love for you to go out with me, but we can negotiate that later. I’m here to see Alberta Grant. Something tells me that you’re not Alberta.”
“I’m Izzy Grant,” I reply, but I’m not sure why. I don’t really want anything to do with this guy.
“What’s Izzy short for?”
I frown. “Izzy.”
No one calls me by my given name, and definitely not this guy. I only give it out on a need-to-know basis.
“Okay, Izzy. How can I find Alberta?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re obviously not from around here.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, you’re not wearing jeans and cowboy boots for starters.” And you have no idea my grandmother is dead. Everyone in town knows that.
He points to his business card lying on the counter. “Just moved here. I’m trying to start a business.”
“In Old Town?”
He nods. “I’m going to capitalize on the popularity of the Tawnee Mountain Resort. The guests need some nighttime entertainment and ghost hunting is really popular right now.”
I don’t feel like stating the obvious. That there’s no such thing as ghosts.
I decide to play with the guy because he’s annoying and it’s not like I have anything better to do.
“Alberta isn’t here right now, but I can take you to her.”
He grins again. Oh how I wish I could just slap that big grin right off of his perfect, beach boy face. Then he looks around the place. “Are you sure you aren’t too busy?”
I narrow my gaze at him. “I’ll make time for you.”
“See, you already like me.”
If he only knew.
I lock up the store and hang up my OUT TO LUNCH sign. Max follows me to the small parking lot on the side of the store.
I stop in front of my old Harley H-D Iron 883. “Do you want a ride? I’ve got an extra helmet.”
He laughs. “There is no way I’m riding on the back of a chick’s motorcycle.”
I point a finger in his face. “I’m not a chick. And if you ever call me that again, I’ll rip your dick off.”
He puts his hands up. “Okay, chill. It’s just an expression. Can we take my car instead?”
I glance at the bright red Mini Cooper parked at the other end of the parking lot. “That’s not a real vehicle. That’s a clown car.”
“This isn’t just any Mini Cooper. It’s a special limited edition.”
I frown. “Just an FYI. If you plan on living in Old Town you’ll attract a lot less attention if you’re driving a pickup, preferably a Ford or a Dodge Ram.”
He grins. Another one of those huge grins that irritate every nerve in my body. “Who says I don’t want attention?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
I’m short, only about five feet two inches, and I’m worried about fitting inside that car. I have no idea how Max, who’s easily a foot taller than me, fits inside of it.
“Okay, we can take your car,” I agree, but only because I want to see how he squeezes inside that thing.
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts throwing them in the air like he’s juggling with them. The guy has no shortage of ways to completely annoy me.
To my surprise Max fits into his car better than I imaged he would. He’s got the seat pushed back as far as it will go, so his legs aren’t cramped.
“You could buy a bigger car,” I say as I snap on my seat belt. “Being such a big guy.”
He laughs. “Are you kidding? This car is a chick magnet. I’ve known you less than fifteen minutes and I’ve already got you inside of it.”
When he winks at me I feel a little bile rise in my throat like I want to vomit. “Just so we’re clear. You’re not my type.”
He waves the comment off like a mosquito. “I’m everyone’s type.”
“Not mine,” I repeat.
“You won’t know for sure until you’ve had a chance to test the goods.” Then he winks at me.
Now I’m really going to be sick. “I’m not interested in testing any of your goods. Do you want to see my grandmother or not?”
He heaves a sigh. “Tell me where to drive.”
Five minutes later we pull up to the Old Town Cemetery. As soon as Max parks the car he turns and looks at me. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“You’re the ghost hunter. Isn’t this like your Valhalla or something?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Most graveyards aren’t haunted. Spirits like to stay close to loved ones, or places they were most familiar with before they died.”
“Whatever you say.” I open the door and hop out of his clown car.
I’m surprised when he follows. Part of me thought he’d just turn the engine back on and speed away.
As I open the cemetery gate I’m overwhelmed with sadness…again. It’s been happening a lot lately…ever since my grandmother died. She was the last of my relatives, and now I’m alone in the world. Not that I’m not used to being a loner. I’m known for it. But being alone, without any family to anchor me, makes me feel truly lost.
Alberta Grant wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but she was my rock. She lived to be ninety, and from what I’ve heard around town, spent at least forty of those years being a cantankerous old broad, who was both feared and admired.
I seem to be following in her footsteps. Except for the ad-mired part. People in Old Town say I’m freak and a bitch and tend to steer clear.
And I’m okay with that.
When I find my grandmother’s headstone I clear away the leaves that have fallen on it.
“How did she die?” Max asks. His tone is actually sincere. He’s finally dropped the overdone surfer-boy salesman act.
“She was old. Ninety.”
He nods. “Do you miss her?”
“More than I ever thought I would.”
He’s actually quiet as he stands there with me. He’s slightly attractive when he’s not talking. It’s when he opens his pie hole that he’s a complete turn off.
As we drive back toward the antique shop I have a brief moment of panic when Max passes right by it.
“You missed my stop.”
“I know,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Let me out. Now.” I can feel my pulse start to race. I briefly consider jumping out of the car, but I’m not wearing my leather today so the pavement would definitely hurt as I slid across it.
“It’s okay.” When Max glances over at me, I can see concern in his eyes. “I’m just going to take you to lunch. My treat.”
I take in a deep breath and try to calm my frayed nerves. “Lunch?”
“You put an OUT TO LUNCH sign on your door,” he reminds me. “So I’m taking you to lunch.”
“You’ll do anything for a date, won’t you?”
“So you’re actually going on a date with me?” He grins. “And here I thought you were a tough girl.”
I huff. “Do I have a choice? You kind of have me trapped in your clown car.”
When he glances over at me his eyes have turned serious. “You always have a choice. Don’t ever forget that.”
I nod, but we’re both quiet as we head back into the center of Old Town.
If only all guys thought the way he does, my life wouldn’t be a complete and total mess.
About the author:
USA TODAY Bestselling author Dakota Madison is known for writing New Adult and contemporary romance with a little spice and lots of heart. She likes to explore current social issues in her work. Dakota is a winner of the prestigious RONE Award for Excellence in the Indie and Small Publishing Industry. When she's not at her computer creating spicy stories Dakota likes to spend time with her husband and their bloodhounds at their home outside Phoenix, Arizona.Romance novelist SAVANNAH YOUNG grew up in rural northwest New Jersey in a place very similar to the fictional Old Town, which is featured in her books. When she's not at her computer creating spicy stories, Savannah is traveling to exotic locales or spending time with her husband and their bloodhounds.
