Monday, June 18, 2018

Don't Call Me Cupcake

Don't Call Me Cupcake
The Holloway Girls #1
by Tara Sheets
Genre: Supernatural Romance

Most families have a favorite recipe or two, handed down through generations. The Holloway women are a little different. Emma Holloway, like her grandmother before her, bakes wishes into her delicious cupcakes, granting the recipient comfort, sweet dreams, or any number of good things. It’s a strange gift, but it brings only happiness. Until gorgeous, smooth-talking newcomer Hunter Kane strolls into her shop, Fairy Cakes—and Emma makes the mistake of selling him not one, but three Sweet Success cupcakes. 

Hunter, it turns out, is opening a fancy new restaurant and bakery right on the waterfront—Emma’s competition. To make matters worse, the town committee has decided to split the upcoming summer festival contract between the two, forcing Emma to work with her nemesis. But she can’t afford to split her profits. The solution: create a recipe that will make Hunter leave town permanently.
The Holloway charms are powerful. But there are other kinds of magic in the world—like red-hot first kisses, secret glances, and the feeling that comes with falling truly, madly, inconveniently 
in love . . .

Tara Sheets is an award-winning author of contemporary romance and women's fiction. Her debut novel, Don't Call Me Cupcake, won the 2016 Golden Heart® award sponsored by Romance Writers of America. Tara began her career as an author in the Pacific Northwest, inspired by the rain and the misty mountains and the rivers of Starbucks coffee. She now lives in the warm, wonderful South where she can stand outside with no coat on, and she finds that pretty inspiring too. When not writing, Tara enjoys life with her book-loving family and a book-eating dog named Merlin.

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Unforgettable Love 2018

  Rescue and Redemption by Daniel Banner
 JFK, a firefighter for the Park City Fire Department, is tired of being razzed about his classy nickname. He’s lost weight, and even cut back on the swearing and drinking in an effort to fit the image. Still, he believes people never really change at heart. After all, under those muscles that can bench 250, he’s still the same guy. When a striking beauty wanders into his kitchen with her two-year sobriety coin, he wonders if he’s underestimated himself. A guy like him might just get a girl like her. Mercy Jewell McGovern, recently graduated from college and is in the process of getting her life back on track when she meets JFK. She’s immediately attracted to the capable chef running his precision kitchen at a charity event. But on their first date, it’s obvious he’s used to hanging out with guys, not with a lady. That won’t fly for Mercy. Despite her rowdy past, she knows she’s worthy of someone who knows how to open a door for her and can sit down to Sunday dinner with her extended family, the Jewells, who could write books on manners. Time after time JFK comes to her rescue, but will she be the one to ultimately save him from settling for less than his best?

On sale until 8 am on June 19th

 As Mercy walked into the huge, bustling kitchen, she heard a man snap, “Just because it’s a free meal doesn’t mean they get what they pay for!” She saw a large man in a white chef’s coat and big white chef’s hat that fell back behind his head. He went on to tell a middle-aged man who was slicing potatoes, “These little pieces are going to be starch-mush and these big fat ones will be crunchy. You can’t cook a dime and a hockey puck in the same dish. Keep it consistent, keep it quality.” “Yes, Chef,” said the man with the dedication of a reality food show contestant. The chef took a step over to another counter where a row of women were washing and peeling potatoes and picked up a perfectly peeled specimen. “If I need eggs peeled I know who to come to, but we’re making gourmet.” He grabbed a potato out of a huge bowl that had bits of peel still on it. “Gourmet, Mrs. Huxton. It’s like regular food but with more mistakes and smaller portions.” “Yes, Chef,” she said and screwed up her face as she worked on peeling potatoes in a less perfectionist manner. The chef was young to be so in charge, maybe 25 or 26. His facial features were large and manly and his eyes took in everything from under a strong brow. His jaw was just as strong and his big lips looked like they could be kissed for hours without wearing out. It had been a while since a man’s physical appearance had such an effect on Mercy, and she shook her head to clear it and get back to work. It was obvious the chef wanted good work done in his kitchen and he didn’t really care about what people thought about him. Yeah, his bedside manner could be more coddling with the volunteers and paid workers, but they seemed to respond to his brusque manner. Mercy found his manner attractive, as well as the way his kitchen buzzed with people getting things done right. His big, strong face was just plain sexy, she found herself thinking again. He was nothing like a chiseled marble statue, more like Tarzan, King of the Jungle, but not as ripped. Under the chef jacket he was carrying some extra weight, but he carried it just fine. The name badge pinned to his chest strictly read, Chef. “Looking for a job?” he asked her, and she realized she’d been staring. “Or just admiring the specimen?” He spread his hands wide to let her see all of him. Mercy smiled and brushed her hair back behind one ear and wondered if he liked edgy hair styles. “I’m Mercy, the Volunteer Coordinator for today.” “Oh good.” Projecting his voice toward some people chopping green beans, he said, “Now I know who to call when Jeff chops his fingers off.” “I’m being more careful, Chef,” said a skinny man in glasses without looking up. “What’s your name?” asked Mercy. “JFK.” “I like your hat,” she told him. “Thanks, I like your …” he looked at the shaved side of her head, the small stud in her nose, then at her coat, her Chuck Taylors, then his eyes stopped briefly on her neck where a couple of her tattoos came up almost to her hairline. With a mischievous grin he said, “I like your compliment of my hat.” Mercy found herself laughing naturally. Usually when she met guys her age they were either tripping over themselves trying to impress her, or sneering contemptuously at her. This guy—JFK? Really?—was one hundred percent himself. She didn’t know if she’d ever met someone so real.
"I've loved all of the books in this series, but I have to say this was my favorite so far!" "JFK had Mercy crying happy tears by the 43 percent mark, and I was crying with her."   Author Daniel Banner
 Daniel Banner, a 15-year fireman and paramedic, collects experiences by day and makes up stories by nights, and sometimes vice versa.
For Daniel, writing is an escape from the traumatic days, and a celebration of the triumphant days.  

Two Hearts RescueThe Peaceful Warrior: Navy SEAL RomanceThe Captivating Warrior9 Reasons to Fall in Love A Perfect RescueSparks Will FlyHow to Heel a Wounded Heart
Giveaway Details Ends 7/8/18 Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use money sent via Paypal or gift codes via Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning.
This giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader and sponsored by the author.

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Grease Slapped ( Ink Slapped Book 2) by A.M. Jones

Grease Slapped ( Ink Slapped Book 2) by A.M. Jones
Eli Gregor’s hole couldn’t be any larger as he fights to redeem himself. When tragedy strikes, he learns a few things about holes as Taylor explores the values of right and wrong. Caught between better judgment and desire, Taylor and Eli find themselves at a crossroads—should they make the best decision for their careers or give in to their undeniable connection? A torrid tale that weaves humor, drama, and sexual tension, Grease Slapped will leave you reeling and wanting more. *Grease Slapped contains explicit language and sexual content. It's the conclusion of Ink Slapped.*


I stop walking, keeping my focus on the exit. “Sorry Hunter, but I’m with someone.”
“You mean the dude that was about to get it on with Kayla in the backroom?”
A violent turn of my stomach makes me clutch it tight.
“Yes, the dude in the backroom,” Eli spits at Hunter, stalking down the hall. He grabs my arm, never stopping his angry stride. He drags me outside. People are everywhere, but he seems to know where he’s going. When we reach a parking lot, I recognize Milo’s van as Eli spins me to face him. “You’re mad.”
“Why would I be? You haven’t done anything wrong.” I cross my arms.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Then why did you walk out like that?” The alcohol fumes hit me in the face. His eyes flash and they’re a bit red. His jaw grinds something fierce. When I say nothing, he scoffs—an incredulous sound. “You’re jealous?”
Again, I keep my words to myself. I’ll only make it worse.
“Or are you mad because I interrupted you and that guy?”
“Really?” I snort and snap, “I’m not the one who’s married.”
A mocking laugh rumbles from his throat. “Do you know how it feels to be okay one second, insanely euphoric the next, and then fall into a despair so deep, you’re not sure you’ll ever climb out?” He boxes me in with his arms, supporting himself against the van. His face inches closer.
“You hide under all that ink. But you’re not fooling me. You can tell yourself whatever you need to keep this locked tight.” He traces a heart shape on my chest. “That’s why you don’t like Ink Slapped.”
I close my eyes.
“You know the weekend of the convention? Madison wanted me to get you out of my system.”
My body’s so tense I wonder why I don’t break in half.
“I don’t think it’d be that easy,” he whispers. Almost like it was more to himself than me.
I shake my head. Not disagreeing with him, I don’t know what to say to diffuse the situation. I don’t know how to make things better. A few moments tick by. “You’re not gonna say anything?” When I don’t respond, he pushes from the van, spinning away from me. “I don’t need this. I don’t fucking need another woman driving me fucking crazy.” He stops and hangs his head. “Maybe you are like your mom.”
I feel my chest expand like my body wants to start sobbing. I clench my hand, knowing the truth of his statement. “You’re right,” I whisper. “Go live your life and chase the dream. I’ll break your heart eventually, anyway.”

He links his hands behind his neck. “Don’t you think that’s for me to decide?” His head turns so I can see his profile, and he drops his arms. “But like I said, Taylor, whatever you gotta tell yourself.” He cuts his eyes sideways before shaking his head and walking away.

Author Bio: Author A.M. Jones is a hopeless romantic with a lewd mind. She resides in Tennessee and writes about anything that strikes her inspiration and creativity. Her strength in characterization makes realistic elements of humor, angst, and drama jump from the page and into your soul. Ms. Jones’ other half has published books in dark fantasy and continues to do so. https://instagram/AuthorAMJones

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Ink Slapped

Ink Slapped by A.M. Jones

The heart wants what the heart wants—a concept that free-spirited author T.M. Dabney, never understands until she lays eyes on her new cover model, Eli.

Eli Gregor, a struggling musician and mechanic, thinks he knows the true meaning of heartbreak—that is until he accepts a business venture with the alluring Taylor Dabney. With her help, he pieces his life back together when his dreams dangle within reach and once again everything falls apart. And his success comes with a price he doesn’t want to pay.

Caught between better judgment and desire, they find themselves at a crossroads—should they make the best decision for their careers or give in to their undeniable connection?

A torrid tale that weaves humor, drama, and sexual tension, Ink Slapped will leave you reeling and wanting more.

*Ink Slapped contains explicit language and sexual content.*


“When are you going to dress me like a Viking and take pictures of me fondling a half-naked woman?”
Her eyes widen for a split second before she bursts into laughter. The sound draws eyes our way, but she’s oblivious. “Oh, that would be torturous for you, I’m sure.”
“It would be. I’m not a PDA kind of guy.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not romance. It’s apocalyptic. I can obscure your face if you don’t want it shown.” She pulls things out of her messenger bag and flips open a sketchbook. “This is my vision for the cover.”
It’s a simple sketch of the pose and lighting. I realize with amazement the art drawings on her website are of her own making. She knows what she wants for the book cover. I study the weapons and blood, and of course, more dead bodies. “Where will you get dead bodies?”
She laughs again. “I have stock on reserve.” She hands me a stack of books. Her books. “Like this.” I make a show of considering each one, like they haven’t been burned into my brain in the past twenty-four hours. “They’re demons who appear human.” Excitement shines in her eyes. She grips her beer glass, but it’s empty. Mine is, too.
So, we get more.
Two hours and several beers later, more people pile in the bar. She stops talking and leans away. “I must bore you.” She isn’t. Her passion makes me want to write my own demon story. The more she drinks, the more animated she becomes. Her hand gestures are comical.
I’ve also studied her tattoos when she doesn’t notice because staring outright would be rude. Once I get past the fact they cover her, the artwork is stunning. Some kind of flower runs the length of her arms in different shades of color. Different tints of green weave in and out, making leaves and curly vine things. Then I notice the tattoos are stages of flower decomposition. They’re vibrant and alive near her shoulders, but by the time the tattoo reaches her wrist, the flowers have wilted and died, leaving behind withered leaves, dead vines, and branches. It’s… odd and makes me wonder why she chose to have them dying.
I lean forward, place my elbows on the table, and meet her gaze. “I find you refreshing.”
Her mouth pops open a little as if she’s not sure what to say. Biting her lip, her gaze darts around before she pushes the stack of books to me. “Those are yours.”
“Don’t these cost you money?”
“Yes, but I’m giving them to you.” She removes a cigarette from a pack and lights it, blowing smoke into the haziness of the bar. I’ve never seen a real live 1970s smoking ad before, punk rock edition. The ones where tobacco companies give smoking major sex appeal. She should be getting paid the bucks right now and she doesn’t even know it.
Some emotion wiggles its way into me. Despite everything that’s happened lately, and as much as I shouldn’t, I’m looking forward to getting to know her better.
“You should tell me to fuck off.” I'm a little disheartened by my warning. Not sure why I tell her so.
She returns my stare, searching my face before her gaze lands on my guitar case. “Not a chance. I need you.”
I sit back and twirl my beer on the table, trying to remember the last time someone said they needed me. Nothing comes to mind. “You need me?”
She nods. “I’d like to write full time. This could be an opportunity to market to a wider audience. Build my platform.”
“At least you have goals.” I don’t even know what mine are anymore.
The slight smile on her face beckons me to lean forward. “And maybe one day I’ll write something I feel good enough about to snag me an agent.”
I remember the portfolio on her site, which is why I suggested we trade services, but now suspicion weighs on me again. “Why do you think I can help you?”
I laugh when she gestures as if I have huge tits. She laughs, too. Although it’s a humorless, nervous laugh. “Your physical appearance might attract a broader female audience, as much as I hate to say it.”
I scoot her books back to her, not wanting her to just give them to me. It’s not like I have any cash to pay for them. To lighten the mood, I announce, “Let’s get a shot of tequila.”
She laughs again but looks ill. “Last time I had tequila, I danced on the bar with the chicks at Coyote Ugly. My bra still hangs on the clothes line across their ceiling.”

With the top she has on now, I don’t think she’s even wearing one to lose. “Sounds like a great time.”

Author Bio:

Author A.M. Jones is a hopeless romantic with a lewd mind. She resides in Tennessee and writes about anything that strikes her inspiration and creativity. Her strength in characterization makes realistic elements of humor, angst, and drama jump from the page and into your soul. Ms. Jones’ other half has published books in dark fantasy and continues to do so.