RELEASE DAY: Joselyn Vaughn "In For a Pound"

Blurb:

Joshua Pounds speeds to Pine Bottom to take care of his ailing dad, expecting to spend his time bouncing between doctors’ appointments and cancer treatments. His first task, however, requires a canoe paddle and helping his father’s friend win the honeymoon of her dreams. Nor does he count on falling in love with an engaged woman.

Sidney Walker had her life all planned: the wedding, the honeymoon, and the dependable husband --until her fiancé crushes her dreams by putting riches above their relationship.

As her engagement crumbles, her heartbreak rocks his confirmed bachelor status. He picks up the pieces, but the challenge threatens both of their ideas about love.

Will Joshua’s resolve to keep his heart untouched break Sidney’s?

 

 

Author:

I am a stay at home mom who has walked on the dark side of potty training. When not traversing that valley of shadow, I write, run, and sew. Sometimes with successful results. For more, check out my blog at Http://joselynvaughn.com

 

 

Now available on
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Excerpt:

Chapter One

Where was Colin?

Sidney Walker snapped her life jacket and double-checked the paddles in her canoe. The race would start any minute, and her partner was missing in action.

She’d left her phone with her gear bag away from the lake’s edge, but she debated whether she had enough time to retrieve it.

Around her, other teams lined up their canoes and stowed their gear. She snatched Colin’s life vest from the rear of the canoe and unhooked the buckles, readying it for him to slip on as soon as he appeared on the beach.

Missy, the woman who made an art of getting under Sidney’s skin, sauntered past. “Aren’t you missing someone?” she tossed toward Sidney, a smirk contorting her mouth.

“Colin will be here any minute,” Sidney gritted, refusing to let Missy rattle her. She twitched the rope handle on the canoe as if she had all the time in the world. Revenge would be best served on the lake.

Missy snorted as she sashayed down the beach to her own canoe. “Good luck.”

Half of Pine Bottom had hauled lawn chairs to the edge of the beach to watch the race. Colin probably couldn’t find a parking spot. A band played on the far side of the park, but the referee’s bullhorn drowned out their song with preparation announcements. Several boats rolled on the waves outside the swimming area as they prepared to monitor the competition.

She’d already placed Colin’s paddle along the canoe bottom with his handle away from his seat, ready for him to grab after pushing off from the beach.

“The race will start in five minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer bellowed through a staticky bullhorn.

Sidney gasped, “Crap!” She jammed her fists on her hips and scrutinized the crowd. He had to stumble onto the beach any minute. Colin’s white safari hat should be easily visible among the spectators.

Excitement buzzed around her as her anxiety level rose. She ventured a few steps up the beach toward the sidewalk. Where was Colin? It wasn’t like him to be late. He knew they needed the prize money from this series of races to pay for their wedding and honeymoon. If he didn’t arrive soon, he wouldn’t get into his race rhythm, and Missy and her brother, Zach, would beat them with their paddles dragging behind their boat.

Could he have been in a car accident on the way here? They were close enough to the hospital that she’d have heard the sirens if that were the case. She rubbed her forehead, but would they have been audible above the ruckus here? She’d better check her phone.

She clicked and re-clicked her vest, then raised her hand to her eyes to scan the milling spectators again. Nope, she had to check her phone.

Sidney dashed up the beach to her rucksack. If Colin were in trouble, she needed to know. As important as the race was to her, his safety out-weighed it. She untangled her phone from the twist of socks and swimsuits and unlocked the display, hoping to see anything but the normal home screen. There wouldn’t be a text message. Colin refused to pay extra for a texting plan. She admired Colin’s practicality, but at times it was annoyingly inconvenient.

The picture of her and Colin hugging after their last victory filled the tiny screen. A flicker of happiness cheered her. She supposed the matching life vests were a bit dorky, but they were on special at the sporting goods store. She and Colin were so close to realizing her dream — if he would just show up.

RELEASE DAY: Kristin Wallace "Imagine that"

Blurb:

Children’s author Emily Sinclair was supposed to be the next J.K. Rowling…Until her second book flopped and her imagination went on the fritz. Like the storybook heroes of her childhood, Emily sets out on an epic adventure to find inspiration again. Till a dead car lands her in Covington Falls, a small, Southern town with a healing power of its own. Soon Emily is taking up her quest, looking for inspiration driving a mobile library van, as a companion to a crotchety old woman and her insomniac dog, and as a very ungraceful baker’s assistant.  Of course, what really sparks her romantic fantasies is a valiant hero, though he yields a paint roller instead of a sword.

Rugged, blue-collar Nate Cooper has spent most of his life avoiding the printed page. These days he doesn’t have much use for fancy words and certainly not for a slightly off-center writer on the lam. Not when his mother is battling cancer, his little brother has morphed into a teenaged ogre, and God seems to have taken a vacation.

On paper, these two would seem the least likely pairing, and a happily ever after nothing but fantasy. But with faith and imagination Emily and Nate are about to write a new chapter that will lead to unexpected love

 

Author:

Growing up Kristin devoured books like bags of Dove Dark Chocolate. Her first Golden Book led to Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown, C.S. Lewis and the Sweet Valley High series. Later, she discovered romance novels and fell in love all over again. It’s no surprise then that Kristin would one day try her hand at writing them. She writes inspirational romance and women’s fiction filled with love, laughter and a leap of faith. When she’s not writing her next novel, Kristin works as an advertising copywriter. Over the 15-year career in the ad industry, she has worked on clients that have included the Miami Marlins, Discovery Networks, Radisson Seven Seas Cruises, The Peabody Hotel and Sea World. She also enjoys singing in the church choir and worship team and playing flute in a community orchestra.

You can connect with Kristin online at:

Website: www.KristinWallaceAuthor.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/KristinWallaceAuthor 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/KWallaceAuthor

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Kristin-Wallace/e/B00G5KX80I

 

  

Now available on

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

A stomach-churning thunk. A disaster-laden chug. A scary, threatening gurgle.

Emily Sinclair’s hands clutched the steering wheel as she guided her how-could-you-give-out-on-me-now convertible to the side of the road. With a last ominous blunk and splutter, the car gave up the ghost.

She switched off the engine, waited a few seconds, and then turned the key again. Nothing.

Not surprising. As if anything glug-glugging like an octogenarian trying to cough up a lung was going to restart with so little effort.

A cranky yowl went up from the passenger seat. Emily glanced over at the pet carrier and sent the fat Persian inside a confident smile. “Don’t worry, Wordsworth. This is why modern man invented cell phones.”

She fished her phone out of her purse. A blank screen stared back at her. Pressing more buttons did nothing.

Dead.

Dead as her car.

With a sound of disgust, Emily tossed the useless phone aside and stared out the windshield at the deserted country road in front of her. The very deserted country road that stretched around a sparkling blue lake and disappeared into the back of beyond. The kind of road featured in all the best horror stories. Emily’s mind conjured up every one, along with the opening line in the newspaper article.

Once-famous children’s author found mangled to death. Quest to locate her lost imagination and revive faded career ends in disaster… as her mother predicted.

Muttering an oath, Emily climbed out of the car and slammed the door as hard as she could. What a fix. And ironic. There were rules about writing. Not grammar rules, like where to put commas or when to use a semicolon. No, the unofficial rules for fiction writing. Chief among them is that an author should never start a novel with the character driving or thinking. No, readers wanted action right off the top, and the car could never break down.

In college, Emily had written a short story where the heroine’s car stalled in a typical these-people-will-murder-you-in-your-sleep town. Emily’s professor had written cliché in bold, red pen across the page. Not satisfied, she’d added boring cliché, underlining the boring with three thick red lines. The critique had stung. The fact that it had come courtesy of Professor Vanessa Sinclair, Emily’s mother, had been like ripping off an old bandage.

Emily was breaking all three cardinal rules of writing at once. Though technically the driving rule didn’t apply. Same for the sitting rule. She was thinking, though. Thinking her entire life had become a cliché, so what did it matter if she broke her mother’s precious writing rules? She was a one-hit writing wonder. A flash in the pan. A big-haired eighties’ rock band that had scored one giant hit and then disappeared into the oblivion of those nostalgic ‘Where are they now?’ music specials.

Emily sighed. If one had to break down somewhere, one could do worse than… what had the sign said back there? Covington something. Covington something, Georgia. Muted afternoon sun shimmered off the surface of the lake. She lifted a hand to ward off the eye-watering glare and focused on the water. In her previous life, the golden flecks of sunlight reflecting off its surface would have transformed into a million different kinds of fantastical creatures. Or maybe something nightmarish would charge out of that bank of oak trees across the lake.

RELEASE DAY: "Heart on a String" by Susan Soares

  

Blurb:
Marissa tells lies.
To herself, about the fact that her brother abandoned her.
To her grandmother, when she says “everything’s fine.”
To the world when she pretends her mother is at home or working late. When she doesn’t tell them her mother is dead.

She doesn’t even question the wisdom of living in a world built on lies anymore—until she meets Brandon. Unlike Marissa, Brandon faces his grief head-on. As their relationship sweetens, Marissa realizes the value of letting someone in and not letting her grief destroy her. But when her past filled with denial catches up with her, Marissa is forced to tell Brandon her darkest secrets, or risk losing him.

The only thing harder than lying about her life? Facing it.

 

About the Author:

Susan Soares lives in a small town in Massachusetts where she balances writing fiction with raising her three daughters. When she’s not writing she can be found reading, experimenting with photography and planning her next Disney World trip.

Susan recently received her master’s degree in Creative Writing and English from Southern New Hampshire University, and will be pursuing teaching soon. You can follow her on twitter: @susansoares1 and on YouTube: shewritesbooks, and on Facebook: Author Susan Soares.

 

 

Now available on

 ღ Amazon ღ Barnes & Nobel ღ Smashwords ღ

 

 

Excerpt:

Chapter One

 

I held my breath as I ran past the cemetery. Stupid, I know. Regardless, it’s one of those idiotic things that stick with you from your childhood. Like fragments of your being that imprint themselves on your chemical makeup. It was my older brother, Marc, who had told me that once when we were in the backseat of Mom’s old hatchback and were driving past the Sacred Path Cemetery.

Marc poked me in my side. “Quick, hold your breath,” he said before taking in a puff of air and holding it in.

“What? Why?” I looked around from side to side.

He didn’t answer me. Instead he just kept motioning with his hands, pointing out the window, putting his hands around his neck like he was choking or something. Finally, when we turned left onto Harper Street he let out a big exhale.

“Oh man, now you’re toast.” He pointed at me and laughed. That maniacal laugh only older brothers know how to do. I was seven at the time, and Marc was ten. “You probably have a ghost inside you now.” He grinned like a devious villain.

“A ghost?” I said.

“You didn’t hold your breath while we drove past the cemetery. Again I state — you’re toast.” He began drumming on his lap with his hands.

I didn’t comprehend what he was telling me, but I knew I didn’t like it. Tears started forming in my eyes, and I knew I had to rely on my failsafe. “Mooommm,” I cried out, and immediately I felt Marc’s sweaty hand over my mouth.

“Yes, Marissa?” Mom’s sweet voice carried from the front of the car to the backseat.

“She’s fine, Mom. I got it.” Marc’s tone was of the dutiful son. He unclamped his hand from my face. “Listen,” he began, talking kind of slow. “You’ve got to remember this. I’m going to give you a life lesson here. Are you ready?”

His green eyes were sparkling, and I nodded my head in agreement.

“Okay.” He crouched down a bit so he was eye-level with me. “You must always, and I mean always, hold your breath when you drive past a cemetery. And if you’re walking past one, you must run — run and hold your breath until you’re clear. Otherwise, the spirits of the undead could invade your body. And you don’t want that to happen. Do you?” I almost couldn’t tell if the last part was a question or a statement.

“But I didn’t hold my breath back there, and all the times before. What if one’s in me right now?” I began pawing at my body.

Marc threw his head back and laughed. “Nah, you’re fine. Just be careful. Now that you know you have to do it, always do it. Understand?”

Again I shook my head. Marc gave me a thumbs-up, and I begged Mom to take Chester Street instead of Maple because I knew there was a big cemetery on Maple. Luckily she agreed.

So now, here I was ten years later, holding my breath as I ran past Sacred Path Cemetery. While I ran, my new sneakers — the ones I had to work double shifts on Saturdays for three weeks to get — started rubbing the back of my left heel, and I knew I’d have a blister the size of a quarter later on. It’s hard to keep your pace when you’re holding your breath. Luckily Sacred Path Cemetery isn’t that big. Just big enough. It’s just big enough. That’s what my grandmother said anyway. I was almost halfway through when I heard the clicking of the tips of my shoelace on the ground. My thoughts concentrated on what those tip things were called, anything to get my mind off the cemetery. Aglets, I remembered! My aglets were hitting the pavement, and I knew if I didn’t stop and retie that lace, then I would land flat on my face. Grace has never been a character trait of mine. My mother, yes, but not me. Marissa No-Grace McDonald should have been my legal name. How my mother came up with Scranton for my middle name I’ll never know.

The last thing I wanted to happen was to fall face first in front of the cemetery. Complete body invasion for sure then. I couldn’t hold my breath that long. So I did what I had to do. I stopped, turned my face the opposite direction of the cemetery, and took one big breath in and held it. Next, I bent down and furiously retied that lace. Why is it that whenever you try doing something in a rush it never comes out right? Somehow I tied my finger into the knot. Then, I couldn’t get the loops to line up right. Just as I was finally conquering the over-under shoelace tying technique that Marc had taught me when I was five, I heard muffled sounds coming from inside the cemetery. I searched for the source of the sounds. As I looked near the line of big oak trees that lined the right-hand side of the cemetery, I saw the profiles of a family. What I assumed was a family, anyway. There was a woman, about my mom’s age, a guy about my age, and a younger boy, maybe six or seven. The little boy was holding a metallic balloon, which was red and in the shape of a heart. Bright sun caught the corner of it, creating a glare that momentarily impaired my vision. When my eyes refocused, I was suddenly aware of my body and extremely aware of the fact that I was watching this family’s private moment, in the cemetery, in this cemetery. My heart beat frantically, and I became aware that my forehead was covered in perspiration. I stood up, held my breath again, and ran the next half a block without stopping, my aglets clicking against the pavement all the way.