Turn to someone and say, “‘Tis the season…” and that person will smile back at you and probably say, “To be jolly.” Then the two of you might laugh and sing “Fa la la la la la la la la.” The season of Advent revolves around the themes of peace, hope, joy and love reflected in the song “Deck The Halls”. On successive Sundays congregations light three purple or blue and one pink candles in their Advent wreaths and recite a prayer anticipating the hope, peace, joy and love that the coming of the Christ child will bring. The assumption is this is the most wonderful time of the year. But what if your time isn’t wonderful, putting you at odds with the majority of the people around you?

Loss at any time is painful, but experiencing loss when everyone else is smiling, laughing and giving good cheer can be doubly painful. A sense of isolation — or worse a sense of having no right to your feelings — can set in. The pressure to stiff-upper-lip-it is great. Sometimes greater than people can bear. This is why as minister for pastoral care, I developed a “Blue Christmas” service for First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, NY (FPCJ) as a way to affirm loss and offer comfort to those for whom crying makes more sense than caroling.

Often held on the longest day of the year, Blue Christmas services let people who are mourning know that they are not alone, that they are not forgotten, that they have a right to what they’re feeling. Hymns and songs are usually sung in a minor key. Prayers shared acknowledge the sorrow and pain of loss with dignity. Works from authors like Ann Weems, who write meditations based in their own experience of suffering, are read. Old Testament scriptures point to people journeying from darkness to light. Psalms chosen are often ones of lament like Psalm 22 or ones looking for help like Psalm 121. New Testament readings focus on a hope that is always there, even when you can’t feel it. Candle lighting is coupled with litanies that banish as much as possible feelings of shame or blame. In the service I designed for FPCJ, attendees were invited to come forward and light candles as an act of agency showing that even when we feel most helpless we always have power. As a reverse offering, attendees were invited to take a scripture stone (glass stones with scriptures on them) from the offering plates to take home as reminders that help from the word of God is always within reach.

Here are two sample services so you can see what I mean: https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/blue-christmas-a-service-of-reflection-for-the-longest-night, https://youngclergywomen.org/blue-christmas-service-when-christmas-hurts/.

If you’ve never attended one, find a community near you that’s offering one then consider going. FPCJ’s Blue Christmas services were some of the most life affirming events I had the honor to participate in.

If this season is a dark night of the soul for you or someone you know, I hope this blogpost can serve as a reminder that there is comfort and strength for you in this time of loss, that there are people who care and that — as the old Negro spiritual proclaims — “trouble don’t last always.”

One Breath Away

Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. She’s never been courted, cuddled or spooned, and now no man could want her, not when sexual satisfaction comes only with the thought of asphyxiation. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.

Wealthy, freeborn-Black, Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing the mysteriously exotic woman is his mate foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex.

Hope ignites along with lust until the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…

Excerpt:

His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.

He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”

At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.

“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.

“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands.

“May I beg the honor of this dance?”

“Beg?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”

“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”

“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”

She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.

The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.

Resist the devil and he will flee.

Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue. The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”

He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.

Resist.

Her heart countered.

Surrender.

She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.

He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.

He wants something, Mary. Beware.

“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”

He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“I might.”

He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”

“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”

Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?

The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.

You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.

Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.
Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?

The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.

“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”

“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”

She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.

“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”

“Why not you?”

She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.

Why not her?

Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.

Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.

Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.

Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.

That’s why not her.

His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.

“Why not you, Mary?”

“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”

Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.

“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”

“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”

Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.

“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”

The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”

Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”

“A certainty.” He winked.

A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss.

She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.
*~*~*

Book links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QfEOZd

Social media links: Twitter – @mscottauthor1
Website: https://www.michalscott.webs.com

In the eyes of many, my husband Jack and I have it easy for the holidays. First, we don’t have children or grandchildren. Second, due to weather and work schedules, and the fact that we are the outliers not living in the Midwest, we don’t travel to family for the holidays and because the distance is great, they don’t travel here either. Third, we’re very easy to please when it comes to eating, and with two of us, big, time-consuming meals are not on our agenda. We have had black bean soup for Thanksgiving, and pizza for Christmas, so tradition on the dinner table is not a big concern.

So, no muss or fuss, no massive events in the kitchen, no hurried rushes to stand in airport lines.

But…

No family gatherings with laughter and hugs, no luscious smells coming from the oven, no getting up early to hurry to the tree to see if Santa came. No midnight Mass with its music and joyful feelings as the baby Jesus lies in the manger that has been empty at the front of the church for weeks. No well, specialness that comes with being with those you might see infrequently, no one to get excited with over that new pair of snow boots, no real reason to jump out of bed.

I’ve always been excited over Christmas, and for more than the gifts. It was the decorations, the carols, the sparkle. I mean, the season starts with Thanksgiving and a parade—or it used to, back in the day when stores didn’t put up Christmas decorations before Halloween—and ends with a holiday and a parade on New Year’s Day. A fitting, happy time before the dark days of winter enveloped us ‘til spring. Even when I was in college and went home, I asked my mom to put out something under the tree I could look at before she and my dad got up on Christmas morning. We got home from Mass by 1:30 and I was usually up by 6:00. I would wrap an afghan around my shoulders, turn on the tree lights, and bask in the beauty of it all.

When Jack and I were married, he groused every year when I would wake him at the butt-crack of dawn, whispering, “I hear sleigh bells!” “Go back to sleep, Dee! It’s the butt-crack of dawn!” Spoil sport.

Anyway, you see how I was and still am. Though now I have to admit, I’ve mellowed. It seems like too much to put up even a small tree. There’s no garland at our house, there will be no ham or turkey, no jumping out of bed to the sound of thrilled grandchildren rushing to see what Santa brought, no bundling up for Mass (I can’t stay awake for midnight Mass anymore!). But there will be happy phone calls to those far away, a pleasant meal of some sort, one or two heartfelt gifts (this year it’s a heartfelt bathroom renovation!), and a quiet day spent with the man I’ve loved for 53 years. Sure, there’s a bit of the ideal Christmas missing, but when it comes down to it, can Christmas be much better? The rest is all trappings. We all know that the true meaning of the day is love.

Wishing you a blessed and happy Christmas or Hanukkah!

One Woman Only

One Woman Only takes place in that time between Thanksgiving and New Year. It’s Book 2 in the Good Man series (Only a Good Man Will Do is Book 1). I hope you enjoy Jonah and Kelly’s story!

As one of a set of triplets, Jonah always feels the need to make his individuality known. So where his brother Daniel is serious and completely focused, Jonah shuns commitment. Where his genius brother Mark is hailed in the scientific world, Jonah hides beneath a car, tinkering. Thing is, being different isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It takes a woman—the right woman—to make him see that a “good man” can always be a better man.

Buy link: Kindle Unlimited, mybook.to/OneWomanOnly

Excerpt:

He left the car under the cover in front of the door and strode into the lobby. A petite brunette stood at the registration desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like a room.”

“For tonight?”

“Yes.” Jonah dug his wallet out of his back pocket and removed his VISA.

“One king or two queens?”

“One king.”

The girl typed furiously and then looked up. “We only have two queen rooms.”

“Then that will do.” He didn’t give a flying fuck how many beds were in the room as long as it had one as a minimum.

Jonah tapped his card on the counter and then walked to the door to look out at Kelly sitting in the car. He wasn’t dreaming. That really was Kelly Shepherd sitting in his car and they really were checking into the Family Inn.

“Just one person?”

Oh yeah. He hadn’t actually checked in yet. “Two.”

“Oh.” What the fuck? Did that sweet young thing just frown in judgement?

“Luggage?”

“No.” There was that frown again. He glanced down at his clothing, looking a little wilted now after the wedding and imagined what it looked like, his checking in with someone, obviously coming from a party of some sort. But again, what the fuck? She worked in a no-tell motel. Lots of people probably checked in here in for a quickie.

That thought shocked him. Kelly Shepherd was no quickie. If anything, she was the love of his life, the one he’d never forgotten but never felt he deserved. The rich girl whose daddy owned more than half the town and rented most of the rest. And he was…

For the first time, he saw himself as Daniel had seen the three of them since childhood. Well-loved and well cared for bastards. Yeah, no kids had ever had better parents but that didn’t change his parentage. Who was he to hold Kelly Shepherd in his arms?

Just as he started to turn toward the door to leave, the desk clerk asked, “First floor or second?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but just pick out a vacant room, tell me how much it is, run my credit card, and give me the key. My bride has been waiting in the car long enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Your…your bride? Why didn’t you say so?” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She took his VISA and gave it back after a few seconds. “Park right out there in front of the light pole and you can come in through the front doors. Take the elevators to the third floor and go all the way to the end. That whole wing is empty so you and your wife can have some privacy.”

“Thank you, uh”—Jonah looked at her nametag—”Ms. Clark. I appreciate it.” Without waiting for more conversation, He dashed back to the car. Minutes later, holding Kelly’s hand tightly, he walked quickly back through the lobby.

“Congratu— Oh!” Little Miss Desk Clerk exclaimed. “You didn’t wear white.”

“What?” Kelly asked, slowing Jonah down with a tug on his hand.

“I said, you didn’t wear white. To the wedding.”

Shit. After almost talking himself out of taking Kelly up to the room, now interfering Ms. Clark was going to do the trick for him.

“No. That would have been inappropriate.”

Jonah saw Ms. Clark’s eyes widen again as he realized the spin her mind put on Kelly’s words. Then that damn frown returned. Jonah wrapped his arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Our room is ready.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, gazing into his eyes with the love a real bride would have for her new husband. No, wait. That was a look of confusion. No matter. He pulled Kelly to the elevators and punched the button with his index finger. Once inside, he took her in his arms and kissed her with all the heat that had been building in him all night. To his relief, Kelly responded in kind, pushing her fingers through his hair and holding his head to hers.

When the elevator slowed and then stopped, they stepped into the hallway. Jonah checked the room number on the key card holder and turned them to the left. In her heels, Kelly had a hard time keeping up, so he swept her into his arms.

At their room, she took the key card from him and opened the door. Once inside, Jonah was certain his heart would burst from needing, from wanting, from years of unfulfilled dreams, all about to come true.

“What did that girl mean?”

“What girl?” Jonah took he shawl from her shoulders and folded it loosely on the dresser.

“The girl at the front desk. What did she mean about my not wearing white?”

“Oh, that.” He emptied his pockets onto the dresser, and deftly removed a condom from his wallet. “I told her we’d just been married.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Kelly moved away from his fingers that were trying to find how to unwrap her wraparound dress.

“Because she kept making judgmental noises and frowning. She made me feel guilty for bringing you here.”

“So, when she noted that I wasn’t wearing white she assumed that I wasn’t a virgin?”

“Probably.” Jonah took a step back and gazed at her. “Does that bother you? Because it damn sure bothers me that she dared make any assumptions about us.”

Kelly smiled. “You of all people know that I’m not a virgin.”

Jonah groaned. “Can we please not talk about that night again? And especially not now?”

Kelly smiled. “Sure, we can do that. And do I care what that little girl downstairs thinks? Not a whit. I just care what you think, Jonah. Here and now.” With a flick of her wrist, the tie came loose and the dress flowed to the floor. There, standing before him in all her glory wearing only a lacy bra and little satin short-short things, was the woman of his desires.

About the Author

A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. Writing was so much fun Dee decided to keep at it. That’s how she spends her days. Her nights? Well, she’s lucky that her dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy, and nights are their secret. For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join Dee on Nomad Authors. Contact Dee at dsknight@deesknight.com.

Author links:
Website: https://nomadauthors.com
Blog: https://nomadauthors.com/blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DeeSKnight
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN
Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/h8t2y6
LinkedIn: https://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

I am so excited to be guest blogger on Delilah Devlin’s blog today. Thanks to you, Delilah, for all the time and work you exert to promote other authors’ work. It’s really fun to be here right now, during the holidays. I hope all of you are enjoying the preparations for celebrating your traditions.

Speaking of holidays, when I was a little girl, one of the most beloved traditions in our house was the way in which we were awakened on Christmas Day. It didn’t take me long to learn that my Daddy was the biggest kid of all. As long as I can remember, he always woke up first on Christmas Day. He’d put the coffee on, but when he’d start cooking breakfast, which he did every morning so my Mom could sleep a little longer, he’d suddenly have trouble. Pots and pans would rattle, cabinet doors would bang, and plates and cups would sound as though they were about to break. He was trying to wake us up so we could all run into the den together to see what Santa Claus had brought us.

Now, my brothers and I have our own families and our own holiday traditions, but sometimes I wake up early on Christmas morning and I think I can hear Daddy rattling pots and pans, hoping to wake my brothers and me, so we can enjoy finding what Santa Claus brought us—and he can enjoy watching us.

I have never lost that excitement I got from my dad, about Christmas morning. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I love everything about it, from the glitter and sparkle, to the spirituality. So naturally, I love Christmas stories, both reading and writing them, and by the way, Christmas movies too.

This year, I’m excited to have a new indie Christmas novella in 23,000 words, Christmas Bodyguard. I wrote it using my favorite Christmas theme—no room at the inn. The story is about a police detective who hates Christmas and a young pregnant widow who’s about to give birth and is determined to give Christmas to her brand new baby.

Christmas Bodyguard

Detective Trevor Atkins has good reason to hate Christmas. On Christmas Eve four years ago, his pregnant wife fell and lost their baby. Now divorced, Trevor deals with Christmas the only way he can, by ignoring it. When he is assigned to guard a widow who is the only surviving victim of a suspected serial killer, he expects just another assignment. But when Trevor arrives, he is stunned. This may be the hardest assignment he’s ever faced. The widow is kind, beautiful and very, very pregnant. And she’s putting up Christmas decorations all over the safe house.

Merry Randolph takes her joy where she can find it. She lost her new husband in a tragic helicopter crash only weeks into her pregnancy, and then she survived an attack from the notorious Widow Killer. Merry is determined to have a real Christmas for her family—herself and her unborn child—even if her stubbornly sexy police bodyguard doesn’t want any part of it.

When an ice storm hits and Merry’s contractions start, they are forced to leave the safe house and enter a tightening web of danger. Trevor must face his heartbreak and loss, and Merry must trust her life to a stranger who is only doing his job if she wants to survive to see her baby born on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Bodyguard Excerpt:

Police Detective Trevor Atkins jabbed at another button on the radio, muttering curses under his breath. It was Christmas Eve. Even the rock station was playing Christmas music. He switched it off. He was nearly at his destination anyway.

He exited the interstate two hours north of Atlanta, onto a two-lane road, headed toward the precinct’s safe house. His eyes skimmed over a couple of houses sporting Christmas decorations and lights, trying to ignore the rising rhythm of his pulse and the worm of sadness that gnawed at his heart.

Damn, he hated Christmas.

Ten minutes later, he turned onto the street where the safe house was located. It was an isolated neighborhood, perfect for safely hiding a witness away from someone who might harm her. The street looked as though the developer had gone bankrupt in the middle of the project. There were only a few other houses completed, and those appeared deserted. They still had stickers on the windows and fill dirt where the lawns should have been. The only sign of life was a Randolph and Ducharmes delivery truck that passed him going the opposite direction. He eyed it in his rearview mirror. That could hardly be a coincidence.

The witness’s family owned the upscale department stores. He reached for his cell phone and called his boss.

“Captain, what’s up? An R&D delivery truck just passed me, coming from the safe house.”

The captain sighed. “The perils of babysitting the rich and famous. Apparently, Mrs. Randolph needed a few things. Don’t worry, Trevor. Sims rode shotgun. The delivery was legit.”

“Legit? Maybe, but it was also very visible.”

“The mayor’s office called me. Think I had any choice?”

Trevor pocketed his phone and arched his neck to ease the tension. The holidays always increased his stress level, but he’d been glad to do a favor for a fellow detective by switching duty schedules with him. Stokes had a family. Christmas was important to him.

Guarding witnesses scheduled to testify was a boring task. The witnesses were usually consumed with worry about their testimony, and the most exciting event was likely to be a good ball game on TV. Guarding a spoiled heiress would up the annoyance factor slightly, but not beyond what Trevor could handle.

His charge, Merry Ducharmes Randolph, was the only surviving victim of the Widow Killer, a name given by the press to the elusive killer who had killed three widows within the past year.

But they’d only been able to charge Harry Bonner, Merry’s attacker, with attempted robbery and assault. As badly as the Atlanta Police Department wanted to solve the Widow Killer murders, they’d been unable to positively link Bonner to the other three women. He had no prior arrests, and he’d turned up no hits on either the DNA or fingerprint database.

Trevor parked his white pickup in the driveway of the nondescript house next to Detective Amanda Moss’s SUV. Turning up the collar of his jacket against the rapidly falling temperature, he started up the walk. Before he reached the porch, Detective Moss flung open the front door, causing the sleigh bells on the Christmas wreath to jangle. “Hi, Trevor,” she said, her breath turning to ice crystals as she spoke. “Nice to have you on the case. I’ve got to run if I’m going to finish wrapping the kids’ gifts.”

“Merry,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is Detective Atkins.”

Trevor nodded at Amanda, then stepped up to the front door and scowled toward the narrow strip of face visible between the door and the door facing. The single eye narrowed suspiciously. “Good morning, Mrs. Randolph. Like Detective Moss said, I’m your new day-shift detective,” he said dryly. “Replacing Roger Stokes. My name is Trevor Atkins.”

When the door finally opened wide, Trevor’s gaze ran slap into a pair of bright green eyes under a red Santa hat. Long, pale brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, and a full mouth showed a hint of white teeth above a determined chin.

The Santa hat stirred his knee-jerk aversion to anything connected with Christmas. He tried to force his expression to remain neutral as a faint pink glow lit the woman’s cheeks and a hesitant smile spread across her face. So, this was the widow. She was familiar, and not just from TV news spots about the attack she’d survived. He’d noticed those emerald-green eyes before.

He sighed. Wreath, bells, Santa hat? Great. Obviously, she loved Christmas. “You got word that I’m taking Detective Stokes’ place over Christmas eve and day ?”

“Yes.” She took a step backward, still hanging onto the door with one hand and a piece of red cloth in the other. “But Amanda will be back tonight, right?” The quaver in her voice matched the wariness in her eyes.

“That’s right. Detective Moss is still your night guard.”

A flicker of relief passed across her face. He’d seen that look before in assault victims. A fearful mistrust of men that, for some victims, never went away. He almost apologized for invading her privacy, then nearly laughed at himself. She didn’t know it yet, but there was no one on the planet safer for her to be with than he was. She was under his protection, and he would never violate her trust or risk her safety. She’d eventually figure that out and then she’d relax.

He stepped past her into the modest living room. The sight that greeted him almost knocked him to his knees. Every square inch of floor space was covered with Christmas. A sea of gold Randolph and Ducharmes bags full of ornaments flowed into dozens of red and pink poinsettias in brightly wrapped pots. To his left, a monstrous Christmas tree aglow with white twinkling lights almost blocked a large picture window. A staggering horror tightened his chest and streaked like electricity out to his fingers and toes. He felt the blood drain from his face. The smell of mulberry and cedar turned his stomach.

Images he’d banished to the dark side of his heart swirled around him—long bright corridors, sympathetic faces, the low soft lights of the hospital’s chapel. A sterile, quiet, sad room. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never passed out in his life, but there was always a first time. Steadying himself with a hand on the back of the sofa, he sucked in a deep breath. “What the hell is all this?” he rasped when he could finally speak.

When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Randolph was standing behind a table, eyeing him the way a cornered mouse watched a cat. “I—I asked the store to send over some Christmas decorations. No one had—you know—” she gestured vaguely “—decorated the house.” Her voice rose and strengthened in the space of those few words.

“This is not a store window, Mrs. Randolph. It’s a safe house,” he said harshly.

She sniffed. “Oh please, Detective. It’s Christmas Eve.” She spread the red cloth over a table.

“So that’s what the truck was delivering.” His captain was a coward. He knew Trevor’s history. He could have warned him that it was a truck full of Christmas. Well, the stuff would just have to go back. He would not be subjected to Christmas. He’d taken this job to avoid the holiday and the tragic memories attached to it.

“Look, Mrs. Randolph, all this has got to go. We are not here for a party,” he said just as she stepped out from behind the table and he got his first good, head-to-toe look at the glowing woman in front of him.

“Oh, God—” His chest tightened and his head spun. He gripped the back of the couch more tightly and fought the surge of dizziness and gut-wrenching nausea that broadsided him.

“What?” Merry cried, her eyes widening. “What is it?”

“You’re pregnant!”

#

Confused, Merry Randolph stared at the detective’s chiseled features. His mouth was compressed so tightly the corners of his lips were white. What was his problem? She smiled.

“Of course I’m pregnant. How could you possibly not know?” Her every move had been chronicled by the media for the past seven months. “My husband’s helicopter accident, then the attack? I’ve been the favorite local news filler for the entire Atlanta area these past months.” She tasted the bitterness that darkened her voice.

Detective Atkins didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, his face drained of color, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Detective, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He wiped a hand over his face and shot her a hard glance, then turned away and shrugged out of his jacket. With his back to her, he didn’t seem quite so intimidating. She let out a breath of relief. Why couldn’t Detective Stokes have foregone Christmas Eve and Christmas morning to stay with her? She winced at her selfish thought. Of course she didn’t mean that. He deserved to spend Christmas with his family, even if his doting, fatherly disposition had made her feel completely safe and comfortable. Detective Atkins had been here less than five minutes and there was nothing remotely fatherly about him. He had a lean and hungry look, as though he could slay dragons.

She thought about what the captain and his lieutenant, and several other police officials, had told her over and over. We’re the good guys. We’ll keep you safe.
As Detective Atkins folded his jacket and lay it on the back of the sofa, she noticed the brown leather straps of a shoulder holster crisscrossing the black T-shirt he wore. His movements were spare and efficient as he adjusted the holster and checked his weapon. He angled his head as if he’d sensed her scrutiny, and then rounded on her. “Do you realize you may have compromised this safe house by having all this delivered?”

“What?” She recoiled at his cold tone.

“That R&D delivery truck might as well have sported a banner—This Way to the Witness.” He shook his head, his voice as cold as the wind outside.
Merry’s heart pounded and she bit her lip. She should have thought of that. But in her defense, this was the store’s busiest time of year. “Randolph and Ducharmes has trucks making deliveries all over the city.”

The detective shot her a disgusted look. “Not in abandoned neighborhoods.”

She had no response for that.

“I’m here to protect you from a suspected killer, not deal with a house full of Christmas—” He bit off the end of the sentence.

Frustration and a deep sadness burned in Merry’s stomach, until, by force of will, she bullied those feelings into determination. She’d never had a real, homey Christmas. Not once. Her parents were nationally renowned philanthropists who had spent their married life traveling the world to work with their own and others’ charitable ventures. This year, as every year, they’d found as much to do during the holidays as during any other time of year. For most of their twin daughters’ lives, Merry and Christy had traveled with them, tutors in tow. Now Christy, whose full name was Christmas , was a runway model and almost never had time to come home to Atlanta, except on business.

As bad as this entire year had been, Merry was determined to end the year the way she wanted. She might be locked up in a barely furnished house under police protection during the holidays, but no matter what else happened, she planned to spend Christmas surrounded by beautiful decorations.

“Detective, I could not possibly be more aware of how serious my situation is. A man who may be a serial killer is out on bail pending his trial, and he knows I can identify him.” She lifted her chin. “I can see in your face what you think of me. But if I stay in this house, it will be decorated for Christmas. This past year has been the worst of my life.” To her utter dismay, she felt a tear spill over and drip down her cheek. “I lost my husband, I was almost murdered, and now I’m spending the holidays in an ugly house located who knows where and unable to see my family. I will have Christmas decorations!”

She swiped the tear away. Her little guy was sure playing havoc with her hormones, but she would not cry in front of Scrooge McCop. She turned her back and picked up a crystal ornament from one of the bags. “I apologize if guarding me is keeping you from Christmas with your wife and children,” she said as she stretched to hang the ornament.

He sucked in a long breath. Her shoulders tensed.

“You’re not keeping me from anything. I’m divorced. I don’t have chil—” He practically choked on the word “children.” She turned and caught a haunting sadness clouding his eyes. His sadness pierced her heart like an arrow. She’d unwittingly tapped into a private place inside him, a place she was sure no one ever saw.

With a flash of insight, she realized that Detective Atkins wasn’t just a Scrooge who hated the holidays. His gruff manner hid a tragedy—a tragedy that centered around Christmas and children. His children?

(End of Excerpt)

Thanks again, to everyone. I would love to hear about your favorite childhood holiday tradition, if you’d like to post a comment. You can do that by clicking Say Something/Something Said, below. I hope you’ll consider picking up Christmas Bodyguard if you want a quick and heartwarming read for the holidays. You can find it, or any of my other books, by clicking one of the links below.

Christmas Bodyguard is available now at your favorite ebook retailer.
https://books2read.com/ChristmasBodyguard

Mallory Kane

Hello Sexy Readers,

Thanks for joining me on Delilah Devlin’s blog today, and a huge shout out to her as well. I hope everyone is excited for the holidays. I know I am. I plan on making great memories. So what if my kids are twenty, eighteen, and fourteen? We’ll still be making gingerbread houses, decking the halls, watching all the animated Christmas movies, and enjoying our favorite homemade goodies.

While I was writing Triple Naughty Christmas, I incorporated a few of my family’s holiday rituals here and there, including the all-important sausage balls. I know: Everyone makes them, but mine are the best. I cook up a bunch of those tasty hors d’oeuvres every year and take a batch of them to every family gathering I attend. Everyone raves and no one understands why their sausage balls don’t come out as well. Friends and relatives always ask for the recipe which I graciously provide with a smile on my face.

Now I won’t bore you with my sausage ball recipe. It’s the same one you’ll find on any number of websites, and having it means nothing. What I will do you, is fill you lovelies in on all my secrets (Yay for pen names—can’t let my in-laws know I’ve been holding out on them.). The first trick is simple enough: milk. The high calcium drink isn’t listed in the ingredients for sausage balls in my cookbook, and it’s usually omitted in most, but you need it. If you try to mix two or more cups of baking mix in with your sausage and cheese without a few splashes, you are going to have some hard, dry balls (yuck!) Don’t ask how much to add. It depends on how much baking mix you use. I’ve seen recipes call for anywhere between one cup (amateurs) to three and a half to pair with their shredded cheese and one pound of sausage (What are they thinking?) Trust me. Two cups are all you need. The consistency will tell you if you’ve used the right amount of milk or if you need to add more. If you manage to put too much milk in, well, bless your heart. You can salvage by adding some more baking mix but all bets are off on you reaching holiday pork nirvana.

Rule two: Use your hands (Wash them well first, of course). I’ve seen people use mixers or expensive food processors so they don’t have to touch raw pork. Good luck with that—it’s not going to taste right unless you get your hands in there and mix it to perfection. This holiday treat is a tradition and a labor of love. You have to finesse it with your own fingers before rolling those puppies into pretty balls.

Now if you follow rules one and two, you will have some yummy sausage balls, but they still likely won’t be as good as mine because rule three is key. Buy premium sausage! I recommend the hot Bass Farms if it is available in your area. If not, you will have to labor with trial and error until you find what’s best and freshest in your neck of the woods. Of course, what’s really important is that you get your loved ones in the kitchen with you to knead your mixture and roll your balls. Have fun and Bon appetite!

*****

Two husbands, four kids, a gaggle of nosy neighbors, a car accident, the best present ever, a naughty party, and a mother-in-law expected for Christmas.

How will Trisha ever pull it off?

Triple Naughty Christmas by Sierra Brave

Series: Triple Passion Play – Book Four

Hashtags: #Menage #BisexualRomance #RomanticComedy #Holiday

Release date: 29th November 2019 (Preorder Available)

Amazon Buy Links: US, UK, CA, AU

Also Available at other Major Retailers: https://books2read.com/u/bzvGw9

What it’s all about…

Navigating the Yuletide season can be a challenge for anyone but after hosting their family Christmas celebration for more than fifteen years, forty-something mom, Trisha Marks-Davidson, believes she’s conquered Santa and tamed all of his reindeer. Anything but ordinary, Trisha’s family of seven consists of herself, her two husbands, Tommy and Ken, and their four kids. Despite their unusual situation, she’s cultivated a system for a fun-filled holiday packed with their own special traditions.

Trisha, Tommy, and Ken are pleased with the quiet, comfortable life they’ve built together but are disturbed to learn the novelty of their three-way union still hasn’t worn off for some members of their community even after nearly two decades. A last-minute decision to attend a neighborhood Christmas party could be the trio’s undoing. The opportunity to set the record straight is there for the taking but actions speak louder than words and temptation is all around them.

Excerpt:

Glancing at the mirror, Ken caught the reflection of a slight movement in the shadows just outside the door and sighed. “Just how long have you been skulking in the darkness?”

“Long enough.” Trisha stepped into the room with them. Bathed in the bathroom’s bright lights, her platinum highlights shimmered within her long, sandy-colored locks. Ken glanced at Thomas, noting the way he eyed Trisha’s tanned, toned and completely nude form. Ken couldn’t blame him. Even after all these years, she was an impressive beauty and Thomas hadn’t seen her for a few days. A primal yearning stirred within Ken as he watched his husband’s gaze eyes linger over Trisha’s breasts and taut nipples before breezing over her tummy to her bikini area’s neatly trimmed triangle of curls. Ken stepped closer to her, slipping his arms around her waist and pressing a smooch against her soft, warm lips. She smelled of sex and cinnamon-scented body lotion. “Why didn’t you join us?”

“You two seemed to be doing just fine on your own, and I didn’t want to interrupt your anniversary sex.” Ken ran his hands over the small of Trisha’s back before cupping her naked ass. She was in pretty good shape by any standards, but for a forty-four-year-old, mother of four, she was a goddess.

“I can’t believe you were hiding in the shadows like a stalker.” Thomas wagged his head at her.

“Well…I was awoken by the unmistakable sound of my husband receiving a blow job, and by the time I was able to force myself out of bed to check things out, you two were intensely focused on each other. Honestly, I couldn’t pry my eyes away. It was so hot!”

Ken smacked her butt playfully, eliciting a tiny squeal, “Naughty peeper. Maybe I should grab the hairbrush and punish you.” Trisha’s face lit up. She enjoyed playing the naughty college co-ed to his strict professor, and Ken loved the way her ass jiggled when he spanked her. Sadly, Thomas was never interested in playing those games with them. Ken’s cock twitched a hair at the mere thought of putting the big, sexy blond man over his knee.

“I already came, but if we have any more of those little, blue pills, I’ll be glad to give you equal time, Trish.” Thomas smiled at her from his partially slumped-over position on the side of the tub. Ken smirked, secretly proud to have drained the poor guy dry.

Leaning against the counter with her legs crossed at the ankles, Trisha shook her head, a smirk playing on her pouty lips. “I’m good. Why do you think Ken and I were naked when you got home?”

*****

Other books in the Triple Passion Play series: Can love between three survive?

Rock You Like a Hurricane

The Power of Three

Baby Makes Four

Connect with Sierra

Website: https://sierrabrave.rocks/

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FB: https://www.facebook.com/Sierra-Brave-1422713414692067/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/BraveSierra

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

What I’m working on…

When Worlds Collide is the first book in the Crenshaw brothers series. It is the first ever—my extensive research supports this assumption—pickleball romance. Pickleball is a racket sport, a hot one at that, and I feature this sport in my very first pickleball romance. I’m in the editing process, a crucial part in my approach to writing. This is the place where I see my characters solidify as they evolve with the narration. Two-dimensional aspects turn realistic. Contrary to the creative process when I’m just beginning a book, the editing stage is intense and deeply satisfying. I call this my “holing up” period. I’m off everyone’s radar for a bit which can mean anything from a few days to weeks. I come out of my hole when friends begin to question my whereabouts.

In between I add on to promoting my new romance to be released in February 2020 as I wear many hats being the writer, publisher, publicist and marketing CEO of Karma’s Slow Burn.

Karma’s Slow Burn

Karma’s Slow Burn, promo price of $1.99 on pre-order until date of release on 1 Feb 2020!

Buy Links:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07ZJSZD5X
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/957769

Sportswriter Karma Huntington is going to hit Rafael Henley, star pitcher for the Sliders, hard to avenge her husband’s death. Rafael cannot ignore the chemistry between them and decides a one-night stand is in order. Karma agrees. Just to get that itch off. But once they get into each other’s pants, things get complicated. Revenge and guilt take a back seat with sizzling chemistry in control. Rafael likes willowy blondes and women who don’t look to him as their protector. Yet here is, lusting after the complete opposite: petite, raven-haired, Karma with a rose tat running up her neck. Can Rafael overcome the dark secret he hides and give in to what his heart wants? Will Karma finally admit she needs Rafael?

Excerpt

Reverie? What kind of a man used such an old-fashioned word?

Karma hoped he wasn’t expecting polite conversation and was glad when he maintained silence. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore and opened her eyes. His features were bathed in the silver light of the moon. Dark hair maybe. That nose. There was something about it. And those lips. She’d seen them before.

“Henley! What are you doing here? On my spot?”

He peered at her, angled his face and his features came into focus. “Your spot? I distinctly heard you say this is free and not yours to own, Karma.”

“This,” using her index fingers, she made a square in the air right before her face, “is my spot. That,” she jabbed a finger in a vague direction away from her, “is yours.”

“All right then. Now that’s clear.”

“Anyway Henley, what are you doing here?”

“Getting back from my mother’s. She lives up there,” he pointed with his chin.

“You’ll have to spell that out. Can’t see a bloody thing in this moonlight.”

“Right over on Miranda Ave. And you?”

“Midland area.”

“Right, I forgot. Small world.”

“Yeah. How’s that baby of yours?”

“The most beautiful thing on this earth.”

“ Remind me, boy or girl?”

“Girl. Alicia.”

“Think we could get together for some pictures?”

“Sure. Just let me know.”

After that, nothing more was said. Clouds wandered in bit by bit until they extinguished the light from the moon, shrouding them in its pale afterglow. Karma became increasingly aware of the figure beside her. She crinkled her nose. Definitely something woodsy maybe even citrusy. She felt the shape of his arm next to hers and had an unbearable urge to touch him. The light from the moon turned diffuse before it became dark.

When he did something, she nearly jumped out of her skin, she had so tuned out. His hand was under her chin cupping it, turning her face to him. She made out the shape of his face before he lowered his head further.

“I’m going to kiss you, Karma. You have five seconds to stop me if you don’t want this as badly as I do.”

His sexy voice slithered into her ears and five seconds later, his silky beard brushed against her cheeks and then his mouth was on hers. His other hand moved to her back pulling her closer to him and then she was in his lap.

Fireflies in the Night

Literary Fiction, winner of the 2017 Next Generation Indie Book Award; Best Books of 2016 by Kirkus Reviews; Starred Kirkus Review; Finalist Foreword Reviews Indie Fiction Award. A historical, coming-of-age novel.

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01HZS28CW

About the Author

Nalini Warriar dreamed of being a writer then forgot the dream for a bit as she went on to garner a Ph.D in Molecular Biology. While in her lab, the dream came back and hit her on the head, and she’s never looked back, writing through her years as a scientist. After more than a decade in cancer research, Nalini returned to the creative part of her soul and now devotes her time to dreaming up the perfect alpha male and feisty woman to appear in her books. Her novel, Fireflies in the Night, was a Foreword Reviews Fab Award finalist and won the Next Generation Indie Book Award in 2017. Kirkus Reviews awarded Fireflies in the Night a starred review and named it Best Books of 2016. Karma’s Slow Burn, a contemporary romance will be released in February 2020. She’s working on her next romance, a Crenshaw Brothers book, to be released in 2020. She lives in Ontario, Canada.

Author Links
www.facebook.com/authornaliniwarriar
www.amazon.com/author/naliniwarriar
Twitter: @nwarriar

“America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public is occupied with their trash.”

Sounds like contemporary critics of the romance genre, doesn’t it? This little gem was penned by Nathaniel Hawthorne to his publisher in 1855 because his female contemporaries were reaping critical acclaim and outselling him.

I first heard this quote in a keynote speech this past October given by Maya Rodale. Intrigued, I wondered who was “Mr. Scarlet Letter” complaining about. This 2013 article gave me more than a clue:

https://www.bookslut.com/the_bombshell/2013_06_020173.php

Among this damned scribbling mob was the woman to whom Abraham Lincoln is supposed to have said, “So you are the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war.”

That’s right: Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Harriet Beecher Stowe? A writer of trash? Hardly.

Stowe had been writing for fifteen years before Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published in 1852. In addition to novels, she wrote non-fiction, poetry and a drama based on Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin has gotten a bad rap through the years, but think about how radical it was for a White woman in the 1850’s to have a Black slave representing Christ at a time when her society was debating whether or not African-Americans were even human. We don’t have to imagine the impact of seeing slaves depicted with dignity, loyalty, and willing to be self-sacrificing had in that era. Even Lincoln recognized the power of her novel. What I never imagined was the backlash it received. Her depiction of African-Americans as human beings was so despised there was a slew of anti-Uncle Tom novels written to offset her novel’s impact. Needless to say, they failed.

As I’ve learned more about Stowe’s religious views and social justice activities, I understand better why her novel hit the nerve it did when it did. She wrote from her heart about a cause she believed in, unlike Mr. worried-about-having-no-chance-of-success Hawthorne. I’m eager to read more of her works and more works about her because I want to be a scribbling woman like her.

Better to Marry Than to Burn

Wife Wanted: Marital relations as necessary. Love not required nor sought…

A bridal lottery seems the height of foolishness to ex-slave Caesar King, but his refusal to participate in the town council’s scheme places him in a bind. He has to get married to avoid paying a high residence fine or leave the Texas territory. After losing his wife in childbirth, Caesar isn’t ready for romance. A woman looking for a fresh start without any emotional strings is what he needs.

Queen Esther Payne, a freeborn black from Philadelphia, has been threatened by her family for her forward-thinking, independent ways. Her family insists she marry. Her escape comes in the form of an ad. If she must marry, it will be on her terms. But her first meeting with the sinfully hot farmer proves an exciting tussle of wills that stirs her physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

In the battle of sexual one-upmanship that ensues, both Caesar and Queen discover surrender can be as fulfilling as triumph.

Excerpt:

WARNING! This is hot!!

With thanks to God, he pushed past her flimsy drawers to the moist welcome of her center. Her vaginal walls gripped his fingers with surprising force. No amount of twisting or turning wrenched them free. God, to have that grip surrounding his shaft.

He pulled back and studied her face. Eyes still closed, a sly smile bowed her perfect lips. She enjoyed this battling as much as he.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mrs. King?”

Her eyelids rose with the slow grace of sunrise. A gleam as sly as her smile shone in her gaze. “You call that brutal, Mr. King?”

She unclenched her lower muscles, allowing his fingers momentary retreat. With great care, she grasped his hand then slid his fingers between her folds once more.

“Holy Christ, woman. What—?”

The gentle rubbing robbed him of his ability to think.

“Jesus, have mercy,” he wheezed.

She slid his fingers from her wet sex into his mouth. He moaned, lost in her delectable taste.

Without taking her gaze from his face, she raked her gloved hand down his chest, across his belly, to his groin. Anticipation tensed his muscles in the wake of her touch. He watched mesmerized as, with a practiced ease, she unbuttoned his fly, pushed past the fabric, sought, found and stroked his cock. Her woolen gloves imparted a delicious friction he couldn’t oppose, even if he’d wanted. Delight enlivened every muscle in his body, including his jaded heart.

Jesus. This couldn’t be more than arousal. Could it?

Her fingers squeezed and his body arched upward on the yes swelling his spirit with joy. He threw back his head, mouth open, ready to shout as he neared the point of release.

Then she let him go.

He doubled over, slain by the abandonment. His lungs constricted, bereft of air. Reason deserted him too.

She stood and smoothed down her skirts with the hand that had massaged his shaft more deftly than he ever had. Reseated, she grabbed the reins and snapped the leather against his horse’s rump.

“Get up there.”

The wagon jostled Caesar from side to side. Still unable to straighten up, he looked into eyes gleaming with triumph. Her lips curved in a regal smirk.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mr. King?”

Buy links:
Wild Rose Press – https://www.thewildrosepress.com/books/better-to-marry-than-to-burn
Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/Better-Marry-than-Michal-Scott-ebook/dp/B07BK1JPKX/

Thanks to Delilah for letting me pop onto her blog on my birthday. Shout out to all my fellow Scorpios!

I just launched the latest novel in my steamy contemporary Thirsty Hearts series. For a few years, I’ve outlined some books that added a paranormal twist. I’m fascinated by the world of psychics and cartomancy and have developed a total tarot card addiction that’s finally under control now that I’m channeling that energy into my writing. Kisses & Kismet features an enemies-to-lovers story with a twist of magic. There’s a psychic, a ghost, and a hero with a sly secret.

Kisses & Kismet

The heroine, Lilith Carver has suppressed her abilities as a psychic and a medium since a frightening incident with her foster sister when they were teenagers. Lilith and Kali, her sister, have been estranged, but the death of Kali’s boyfriend brings them back together. It also puts both women at odds with the man’s son, Jamie Wylde. Jamie and Lilith have sparks from the start as they’re on opposite sides of a fight over the Wylde family estate.

Lilith will do anything for her sister—even use the gifts she’s tried to ignore to uncover Jamie’s secrets. Jamie’s plan to exclude Kali from the Wylde fortune has one obstacle. Lilith. Equally matched and battling to win, Lilith and Jamie find themselves wanting to win at love above all else.

For more on Kisses & Kismet, read the excerpt below. As happens when I’m writing, I fall in love with the characters and the world. I have a story brewing in my mind for Kali as well, so stay tuned! It will be a second-chance romance, and when you read Kisses & Kismet, I’ll bet you’ll be able to guess with whom.

Buy Links:
Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XHT9FPY
Apple – https://books.apple.com/us/book/kisses-kismet/id1479304700
B&N – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/2940160899992
Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/kisses-kismet

Excerpt from Kisses & Kismet:

Jamie lifted his chin to a haughty angle, but his evasive glance told me I was right. Preston was trying to tell me something. If I wanted to help Kali, I would have to set fire to the carefully reinforced walls at the edges of my psyche and listen.

“And you should be more careful of the truth,” I snapped.

“No. Your sister should.”

“What does that mean?” I edged closer to him.

“Ask her.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” He flipped the watch at his wrist to eye level. “Shit. I’m supposed to be somewhere.”

“You can’t run away. This isn’t over, you know.”

“Oddly, I do,” he grunted with a grim smile. “You’re relentless.”

I took another step forward and poked the center of his chest. The grumble of my own voice through gritted teeth shocked even me. “You have no idea.”

His gaze snatched down to mine as he took a half step back, trapped against the open door of his fancy car. The electricity between us crackled on my skin. My breath quickened.

The dim light of the parking garage played with the angles of his face. The perfection crumbled. A rogue curl of dark hair slipped to his forehead. The arrogant mask he wore fell away revealing confusion, trepidation, and hurt.

He straightened his shoulders, adding to his height as he stared down at me, and sneered. “Is this your plan? You corner me in a parking garage and start touching me and giving me your best siren’s eyes?”

“Siren’s eyes?”

He cackled and lifted his hands up as if touching me might give him some incurable disease. “God, you and your sister are alike. But I’m not my father. I’m not going to let a little horniness make me lose my mind.”

I covered my mouth and mockingly wretched. “Ugh. I’m going to lose my lunch.”

“Really?” He snickered under his breath. “Yes. That’s why you touched me.”

“I was making a point. If you’re horny, that’s your problem.” Still, I stepped away from him. “Understand this: I’m not going to let you railroad my sister.”

I spun on my heels and stormed away, not totally sure where I parked or if I was even on the right level of the parking garage, but I didn’t dare risk looking confused. I kept walking to the other side of the elevator. Finally, the screech of his car down the exit ramp pierced through the roar of rushing blood in my ears. I closed my eyes, clenching and unclenching my fists to relax.

If I was going to fight for Kali, I needed to control my emotions. Because when they controlled me, that was a disaster.

About the Author

Kris Jayne is a devoted writer, reader, and traveler. She spends her days blissfully sweating out the writing process in the Dallas area with her dogs, Otis the Shih Tzu, Rocco the Terrier, and Red the Foxy Mutt.

Her passion for writing is only matched by her passion for the adventures of travel. In 2008, she let a friend talk her into sleeping outside for the first time in her life when she climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. If you’re buying her a gift, she has a penchant for single-malt Scotch and scarves.

In addition to Kisses & Kismet, Kris launched two holiday romances in November and has a sexy, friends-to-lovers book launching in January.

For more about all of her books, follow her online:
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/krisjayneauthor/
Instagram – https://www.instagram.com/krisjayne/
Bookbub – https://www.bookbub.com/profile/kris-jayne?follow=true
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