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News about a Christmas Book

See what happens when...

a) Alex Jane asks authors to write a short story for an Advent Calendar and i have this idea about.... things...

b) Becky Condit on a discussion about what is awesome about MM, says she loves the phrase *Love Happens Anyway*

Well, you see, what happens is that A CHRISTMAS BOOK is born (because you know how much I like Christmas!), that I am *slipping in* after my secret project...

Rachel has put it up on Goodreads for anyone who uses GR, and it will be with you 6 December... pre-order links soon :)

Now I just have to figure out what short to write for the Advent Calendar LOL



Improper Fraction - V.L. Locey - New Release!

O’Malley Ramsey, math aficionado, grew up next door to Garrison Rook, All-American athlete. While O’Malley dreamed of numbers and kissing Garrison, Garrison’s tastes ran to home runs and hot chicks. During a family celebration the night before both young men were heading off for college, O’Malley joyously discovers that Garrison isn’t quite as straight as the star athlete had been pretending to be. Vows to return to each other quickly followed a few clumsy kisses in the old treehouse in the Rook’s backyard.

O’Malley came home to Garrison. Garrison never returned to O’Malley.

Four years later, the two ex-friends meet up at a summer camp where O’Malley is serving as a counselor. Garrison is desperate to make things right with his childhood friend, but can O’Malley, still nursing the pain and mistrust of Garrison’s betrayal, ever forgive or love Garrison again?

Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.


Deacon's Law (Heroes #3) - OUT NOW!

The Book

Undercover cop Deacon Shepherd lost everything trying to maintain his cover - the man he loved and the future he craved. He walked away and never looked back because it was the only way to keep Rafe alive.

The last thing he needs is to be dragged back in that world, but an attempt on Rafe’s life is enough to make him risk his heart again.

Rafael 'Rafe' Martinez wakes up in hospital, the victim of a hit and run. He’s stunned when the first face he sees is that of the man who betrayed him and left him for dead three years before. Witness protection had stripped Rafe of his name and now it seems someone from his past wants him dead. The only way he can stay alive is to trust the man who tried to kill him and then broke his heart. But how can he ever trust Deacon, and how can Deacon protect Rafe without falling in love all over again?

Heroes Series

Book 1 - A Reason To Stay
Book 2 - Last Marine Standing
Book 3 - Deacon's Law 

Add to Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Smashwords | Kobo | B&N | iBooks | Google Play

Buy Links - Print Book

Amazon US | Amazon UK


Chapter 1

Winter 2014

“What the hell are you doing, Rafe?” Deacon asked, and edged closer, carefully.

Rafe was too near the edge of the lake in the darkness, and he didn’t want to spook the man. He’d been watching him from a distance, but when Rafe stepped closer to the inky depth of water, Deacon had to step forward. The lake was icy cold and deep here, and ice collected around the edges. The crystal in the pale moonlight would have been beautiful but all Deacon saw was danger.

“Looking,” Rafe murmured, and stepped even closer. The lake was around Rafe’s feet now, and Deacon realized that Rafe had stopped on a piece of ground that jutted into the ice.

He wanted to tell him to move away, but that wasn’t his job.

Neither of his jobs.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, and casually stepped closer; just out of grabbing distance, but close enough to try to stop him if he jumped into the lake.

“The ice is pretty here,” Rafe murmured.

He sounded contemplative, quiet, serious, and Deacon didn’t like that one little bit. He’d once talked a jumper off a ten-story building, and Rafe’s voice had that faraway quality that spoke of a decision made and an action that needed to be carried out.

“Come back,” he said; more ordered. He had to stay in character for now, but what if Rafe decided that he was jumping? What did Deacon do then? No one said he had to care about Rafe, but he did.

This was week three, and he’d seen Rafe bullied, and ignored, and seen him close his eyes to it all. He hadn’t seen a family who had welcomed a bereaved nephew and cousin into the fold. All he’d observed was that Rafe shouldn’t be there.

What?” Rafe asked dreamily. Deacon had to think to remember what he’d asked.

“Come away from the edge,” he reworded the instruction. “You don’t want to slip in.”

Rafe let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “What if I do?”



“You could get me some skates, and I could glide on the water. I’ve never done that before; we didn’t have a lot of iced-over lakes in Miami. I’m surprised there is one here in California.”

“It won’t last,” Deacon said, and stepped a little closer. “Only on the coldest nights and just at the edge, but the water would be cold if you swam in it.”

He saw Rafe’s full-body shudder. “I don’t want to swim in it. It’s a horrible, scary lake, so deep you can’t see the bottom, and who knows what I’d find down there if I did.”

The lake was on Rafe’s uncle’s land, a natural crack in the terrain with an icy spring that fed it. Deacon had a feeling there were a lot of things in its depths that were never meant to be found again.

“I’ve skated on a frozen pond,” Deacon said, a little desperately – anything to get Rafe’s attention. “Back in Massachusetts, the pond in our town wasn’t deep, but it spread a good way, and it would ice over when it got cold.”

After a moment’s pause Rafe spoke. “When was that?”

Yes, he was talking back.

“When I was a kid. I used to go skating with my best friend, Mac.”

“No, I mean, how long did it… was it… I don’t know what I mean.”

Shit, this doesn’t sound good.

Deacon carried on. “There was always September first, and it was all rust and gold as far as the eye could see, and then you’d have the snow and ice and the cold of winter.”

Rafe shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, and Deacon took a cautious step forward. Keep talking.

“One day, maybe I’ll go visit there again in the Fall, and wait for the snow and cold so I can skate again. See my family, visit with friends.”

Rafe nodded, as if he was actually listening. “Friends are good,” he muttered, and then the tension slipped away from him and his arms fell to his sides.

What happened next was Deacon’s worries come to life. Rafe turned to face him, slipped on the ice that had crept onto the grass on the bank, and began to slide toward the water.

Deacon grabbed for Rafe, any part of him, getting a solid hold of his arm and hand and yanking him back, stumbling away from the water and tumbling to the ground, Rafe a solid weight on top of him.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want sexy, intriguing Rafe sprawled over him, laughing like an idiot. He didn’t want Rafe at the lake, or even in the same fucking state as his asshole uncle and cousins. Trying to extricate himself from the pile of limbs he was tangled in was useless. Rafe was a dead weight, and seemed to be content being wrapped around Deacon.

“Kid, you need to move,” he muttered, willing away the arousal that was zipping through his body.

Rafe snorted another laugh. “You know I’m twenty-three, right? Legal in every state, or at least I think so.”

“Get off me.” Deacon tried to buck him off, but Rafe was hard against him, and heavy, and clinging like a freaking limpet.

“I know you’ve been looking at me,” Rafe murmured, dipping his head so they were close enough that Deacon could simply lean up a little and they would be kissing.

Remember the goal.

“Kid, Jesus,” he said, in an exasperated tone, which was heavily at odds with the arousal he was feeling at having gorgeous, sexy Rafe slumped over him.

But the tone didn’t work, and Rafe wasn’t moving.

In fact, he ramped the whole thing up so it was worse than before. He peppered Deacon’s face with kisses; small touches with each word, explaining why he wasn’t a kid and Deacon should kiss him back.

For a while – seconds, hours, he didn’t know – he tried to get away from this maniac with the kissing and the laughter, and then abruptly things changed.

In a smooth move, he twisted so it was Rafe on the ground under him, abruptly quiet and looking up at Deacon, his eyes wide.

“Deacon?” he asked, his tone wary.

And Deacon kissed him.

He held Rafe’s hands to the icy ground and kissed him, pressed him hard into the mud and explored Rafe’s sexy, pouty mouth with a thoroughness that had him near to coming in his pants as they rocked against each other.

This kiss was deliberate and needy and the want of it had been building ever since he’d arrived at the Martinez place.

“Deacon!” a voice called in the darkness, and Deacon was off Rafe and up on his feet within seconds, holding out a hand to help Rafe stand. He brushed himself off, and Rafe moved back and away into the shelter of the nearest tree.

“You got your eyes on him?” Chumo asked, his tone accusing.

“Following him around the lake,” Deacon reported, then turned away from Rafe’s cousin, the least psychotic of them. “Need to go.”

Chumo spun on his heel as though that was enough for him. His dad or brother had likely told him to go look for Rafe, and his job was done. When Chumo left, Rafe stepped back out with a soft laugh.

“That was close,” he said, coming to a stop right next to Deacon, his hand brushing Deacon’s arm.

Deacon rounded on Rafe. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he spat. Rafe blinked at him, startled, hurt in his expression.

“I saw your eyes,” Rafe murmured.

“Let’s get back.” Deacon turned to walk away, but Rafe didn’t follow.

“And I felt that kiss,” he added.

“I’m not repeating myself,” Deacon snapped.

This time he sensed Rafe following, and they made their way back to the main house. Rafe said nothing and went to his room quietly. Only when Rafe was in his room did Deacon ever feel truly able to deal with his real mission; finding evidence to tie this family to terrible crimes that destroyed lives.

This family, and possibly Rafe.

Rafe closed his bedroom door behind him. He wouldn’t need to come out of his room now until morning, and if he was lucky he could avoid his family and get to school without incident. Of course, Deacon would be right on his tail all the way to college, but he could handle that.

Or at least, he had been able to until just now.

Now? Well, hell, it would be a hundred kinds of awkward, facing Deacon after that kiss and then Deacon shutting down on him so abruptly.

For a second, Rafe had seen naked need in Deacon’s eyes, and then one word from Chumo and Deacon had pulled down the mask that was his hard-man persona. Rafe was convinced there was more to Deacon; he just didn’t know how to reach the man.

But the need for it burned in him, and he had no clue why. Lusting after one of the bad guys was going to compromise everything he was there to do, but that wasn’t enough to stop him. He was losing his freaking mind.

Lying back on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, and the unsettling feeling of being watched was back again. He hated this place, hated his family, just wanted to be back in Miami with his dad and his stories of how his mom had died. The only place he could find them again was in his memories, and he closed his eyes, thinking of one single day when everything had been okay. Of course, he’d never known his mom – she’d died a few weeks after he was born – but his dad had kept her memory alive with photos and stories. She’d danced, or so his dad had said, danced with crazy happiness in their kitchen, danced slow and crying when she was emotional; to hear his dad tell it, she’d been a whirlwind of motion. Every photo he had of her, she was smiling back at Rafe, but he didn’t have the photos here. They were boxed up in storage along with the rest of his life.

Was I really going to walk into that water?

The thought of it, of stepping into the ice, had been right there in his mind. He imagined the grief of losing his father slowly floating away as he sank to the bottom, and he rolled onto his front, his face buried in his pillows. The tears he cried were hot and fierce, but he didn’t sob, or shake; his grief was his alone.

I don’t want to die.

He hated his uncle, hated him with everything he had. He’d hated him as a child, and now, as an adult, when the grief wasn’t overwhelming everything else, he hated Arlo with every fiber of his being. His dad had been convinced that Uncle Arlo was evil.

“Arlo hated me for marrying his sister,” his dad had always said when whiskey had loosened his tongue. “But I didn’t care. My Santanna was everything to me, and when she gave me you, I couldn’t have loved anyone more. We didn’t need her family.” And then he would correct himself. “We don’t need her family.”

“Why did I even leave Miami?” Rafe muttered, and kicked the corner of the bed, wincing when the bed didn’t give way but his foot did.

He should have stayed in Miami, in the house he’d shared with his dad, surrounded by photos of his mom; hell, he should have listened to his dad and left well enough alone.

“Stay away from your mother’s brother,” he’d said over and over before he died. “That’s the bad side of the family. Your Uncle Arlo and his sons, your cousins, they are bad men.”

Growing up, he’d begun to associate the word “bad” with his uncle and his two cousins, Felix and Chumo. They were all the way over the other side of the country in California, and that was pretty much all that Rafe had known.

Until his dad had been dying and he’d told Rafe everything. Said he’d written everything down, located people who’d seen things, had evidence that Rafe’s uncle had killed Rafe’s mom. Beaten her to death. He’d gone to confront Arlo. He was sorry. He’d fucked up.

What Rafe heard had made his blood run cold. It had also had him organizing his last semester in California, citing that he needed to be with family now his father was dead. The lie sat uneasily with him, but his old college had been okay with it all, the bereavement counselor positively beaming as she ticked all the right boxes about this newly orphaned young man finding family to take care of him.

Grief at losing his dad, and a new acid of hate that was forcing its way into his heart, was what had sent him here.

His dad had been his everything. The mild-mannered man had taken him to peewee baseball, the dentist, school, helped him with homework, and not once had he spoken about his life in Cuba, or his family.

Not until that last week.

Not until the car had hit him, and he’d laid dying in a hospital, and he’d told Rafe what he’d lived with for so many years.

So many secrets that had changed Rafe’s life forever.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling again, considering how long he could keep up the pretense. He should have handed everything over to the cops, but then his dad would have been pulled into the mess posthumously, and his good name was the one thing that was left now of Héctor Ramirez; that and Rafe’s memories of his dad. He had details in his head of his mom’s supposed car accident, a statement from the first cop on the scene; she’d been run off the road just outside the town he was in now. Her car had been shoved off the road, but that had never made the official statements. The cause of the accident had been covered up; she’d been visiting her brother in California and she’d died tragically after she’d lost control of the car. Nothing about the dents that had to have been made by another vehicle. Everything had been covered up, or so his dad had thought. And the accident itself a cover-up for her being beaten to death by her brother.

His dad had sworn that was true.

Rafe didn’t know what to think.

Then there was the hit-and-run responsible for his dad’s death, less than a week after the only visit he’d ever made to visit his brother-in-law in California.

“I went to make him tell me what he’d done,” his dad had told him. “He told me he’d beaten his sister, as if it was okay, as if he was entitled. But I saw evil in his eyes. Always look into a man’s eyes, Rafael. It’s up to you to find out what he did.”

The burden of this weighed on Rafe. He wanted to know how his mom had died, who had killed his dad. But now, here in this house, he was losing his mind in the biggest way.

His Uncle Arlo had, of course, welcomed his beloved nephew with open arms, which Rafe had counted on – Arlo was big on family, and hadn’t batted an eyelid at his nephew living with him when Arlo was the only family Rafe had left. Particularly when Rafe had said nothing about his parents other than the normal exchange of superficial grief statements.

“I miss them,” Arlo had said with great feeling.

“Me too,” Rafe had said, keeping everything inside him.

One thing Arlo hadn’t welcomed him into was the business. Nope, everything had been pushed away, and he’d been kept separate, even so far as being assigned a bodyguard, for his own protection. Deacon had been hired to keep an eye on him. Or at least that was what Rafe thought. It was no accident that Deacon had turned up a couple of days after he had, nor that he was always everywhere Rafe went.

Rafe just needed to play the long game and get enough evidence together to back up his dad’s observations, see if they were more than just the ramblings of an old man, and then he could hand the whole lot over to the police.

Then he could make his uncle pay.

Hump Day Interview - Charlie Cochrane

It's Hump Day Interview time again and today we have the irrepressible Charlie Cochrane in the hot seat...

What is the first book that made you cry?

Well, I remember the first film that made me cry, which was Born Free. I recall a huge queue of children with their parents heading for the toilet – were we being taken there to be cleaned or splashed with cold water or just to get us out of the way? That bit escapes me.

I fail to recollect the first book that made me cry, although I did get in a right lather about the end of Lord of the Rings, when Frodo goes sailing into the west without Sam. *sniff*

What is your favorite childhood book?

I used to love books of myths and legends. I had one about King Arthur (may still have that somewhere) and was very taken with Galahad and the rest. Sir Bors, he was a good ‘un, too. There was also a book by Robert Graves that had all the Greek myths retold for children (all the rude bits taken out, no doubt).

But my absolute favourite childhood reading was my big brother’s comics. I learned to read before I went to school, just by following the adventures of William Wilson and ‘The tough of the track’. It’s no wonder I write about blokes.

What was the last gift you gave someone?
Ah, now. It’ll be touch and go whether the gift arrives with the recipient through the post before this post goes up and gives the game away. I was at an antiques/craft/etc fair on Sunday and saw a handmade foldable shopping bag which was crafted from material featuring classic seaside saucy postcards. I knew just the person who deserved it. (And that’s all I’m saying until it’s delivered.)

What are the ethics of writing about historical figures?

That’s a really good question. I admit that I do occasionally feature historical figures in my stories although rarely on page, as it were. There’s usually a reference to somebody meeting them and an account of what happened, or maybe some sort of veiled allusion. One of the characters in Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour, Dr. Beattie, keeps a photograph of a handsome, moustachioed man who is – in my mind – Wilfred Owen.

In all these cases, I try very hard to keep an accurate picture, based on what I’ve read about them. For example, the family Stewart are well in with royalty in my Cambridge Fellows books, and snide remarks are made about Bertie (Edward VII) and his womanising. That’s well documented and therefore fair game. If I presented him as a homosexual, that would be untrue to his nature as we understand it and therefore, as far as I’m concerned, off limits. To write about Owen and Sassoon having an affair (even though it’s unlikely they did) would be reasonable. To write about Owen and Lloyd George in a relationship wouldn’t.

Do you work to an outline or plot or do you prefer just see where an idea takes you?

The latter. Absolutely. I hate writing to a plot, because I find it so constraining – I want to start changing things everywhere. Normally I start writing a story with something very basic, like a conversation or a description of a setting. It’s like sticking a bit of yeast into a mixture and seeing what happens. Except that, when I start, I only have the yeast and no mixture to speak of.

When I write, I feel I’m either watching or listening to a story that’s being told in episodes, and I’m relating the plot as I see or hear it unfold. I sometimes run across the most amazing plot twists en route that come as a total surprise to me, let alone the reader.

For your chance to win a backlist ebook from Charlie, answer this question...What was the last gift you gave someone? 

Lessons in loving thy Murderous Neighbour - OUT NOW

Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK

Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith like nothing more than being given a mystery to solve. But what happens when you have to defend your greatest enemy on a charge of murder?

Author Bio

Because Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her mystery novels include the Edwardian era Cambridge Fellows series, and the contemporary Lindenshaw Mysteries, while her romances feature in the Portkennack series.

A member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and International Thriller Writers Inc, Charlie regularly appears at literary festivals and at reader and author conferences with The Deadly Dames.

Secret Project Reveal Party - 29 October

There will be a cover and blurb reveal for my November release - a secret project code name J10RH...

The reveal will be in the Facebook group first, but don't worry, if you're not on Facebook then the reveal will happen here as well on my website. :)

Mark your diaries - 29 October 7-9 pm (GMT).

#RainbowSnippets - October 15

Rainbow Snippets is a group for LGBTQ+ authors, readers, and bloggers to gather once a week to share six sentences from a work of fiction–a WIP or a finished work or even a 6-sentence book recommendation (snippets are 6 sentences long–one for each colour in the Pride flag). You can find all the snippets by clicking here.

Today's snippet is from Deacon's Law (Heroes #3) out October 18.


But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The ceiling was still white, the lampshade blue, and the drapes at the window matched the shade. The drapes. There were drapes at the window. Confusion morphed into panic and he turned his head to the right to get a betterfeel for where he was and he saw…him.

Sprawled awkwardly in the chair, his head back, long limbs this way and that, clearly too big for the chair, was a specter from a past that wouldn’t leave him alone.



The Book - Out October 18

Undercover cop Deacon Shepherd lost everything trying to maintain his cover – the man he loved and the future he craved. He walked away and never looked back because it was the only way to keep Rafe alive.

The last thing he needs is to be dragged back into that world, but an attempt on Rafe’s life is enough to make him risk his heart again.

Rafael ‘Rafe’ Martinez wakes up in hospital, the victim of a hit and run. He’s stunned when the first face he sees is that of the man who betrayed him and left him for dead three years before. Witness protection has stripped Rafe of his name, and now it seems someone from his past wants him dead. The only way he can stay alive is to trust the man who tried to kill him and then broke his heart. But how can he ever trust Deacon, and how can Deacon protect Rafe without falling in love all over again?

Pre Order Links - Amazon US | Amazon UK | Smashwords | Kobo | B&N | iBooks 

Heroes Series

Book 1 - A Reason To Stay
Book 2 - Last Marine Standing

Guest Post - N.R. Walker on Cowboys!

A huge thank you to RJ for having me!

Today’s chat is all about cowboys!!! And who doesn’t love cowboys?? My series, RED DIRT HEART, is set in the Outback of Australia in a vast desert of red dirt. Sutton Station (cattle farms, or ranches, are called stations in Australia) is a whopping 2.58 million acres, which isn’t too uncommon in central Australia. I actually based Sutton Station off a working station in the Northern Territory of Australia. Lucy Creek Station is a real place, three hours from the nearest town in the middle of the desert. Real people live and work there, running successful cattle production.

You can see Lucy Creek on Google Maps. Make sure you have it on Satellite settings so you can see the red, red dirt!

My characters, Charlie Sutton and Travis Craig, not only have issues with farming desert sand in a new millennium, but they also have small-town minds to deal with. Being a farmer in the Outback is hard enough, but being a gay farmer makes it so much harder.

Charlie was born and bred in the desert, and is resigned to being alone forever. Travis, an agronomy student from America, falls in love with the desert the second he arrives, and he changes Charlie’s life in ways he never dreamed possible.

The Red Dirt Heart Series consists of four full length novels, one Christmas short story, and a short crossover story with my Imago series.

You can check out Red Dirt Heart at the following retailers:


For more info on N.R. Walker, you can find her at:

Facebook Author Page
Amazon Page
Google +
Email: nrwalker@nrwalker.net

The Heart Of Texas (Texas #1) SALE!

The Heart of Texas (Texas #1) is currently on a bookbub sale for just 99 pennies for a limited time!

If you haven't read this series then now's your chance to take a ride down to the Double D Ranch and meet the Campbell-Hayes family!

Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK) | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | iTunes | Kobo | iTunes | GooglePlay

The Book

Riley Hayes, the playboy of the Hayes family, is a young man who seems to have it all: money, a career he loves, and his pick of beautiful women. His father, CEO of HayesOil, passes control of the corporation to his two sons; but a stipulation is attached to Riley's portion. Concerned about Riley's lack of maturity, his father requires that Riley 'marry and stay married for one year to someone he loves'.

Angered by the requirement, Riley seeks a means of fulfilling his father's stipulation. Blackmailing Jack Campbell into marrying him "for love" suits Riley's purpose. There is no mention in his father's documents that the marriage had to be with a woman and Jack Campbell is the son of Riley Senior's arch rival. Win win.

Riley marries Jack and abruptly his entire world is turned inside out. Riley hadn't counted on the fact that Jack Campbell, quiet and unassuming rancher, is a force of nature in his own right.

This is a story of murder, deceit, the struggle for power, lust and love, the sprawling life of a rancher and the whirlwind existence of a playboy. But under and through it all, as Riley learns over the months, this is a tale about family and everything that that word means.

The Best Corpse for the Job (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 1) - Charlie Cochrane - Book Bub special offer

Tea and sympathy have never been so deadly.
Schoolteacher Adam Matthews just wants to help select a new headteacher and go home. The governors at Lindenshaw St Crispin’s have already failed miserably at finding the right candidate, so it’s make or break this second time round. But when one of the applicants is found strangled in the school, what should have been a straightforward decision turns tempestuous as a flash flood in their small English village.

Inspector Robin Bright isn’t thrilled to be back at St. Crispin’s. Memories of his days there are foul enough without tossing in a complicated murder case. And that handsome young teacher has him reminding himself not to fraternize with a witness. But it’s not long before Robin is relying on Adam for more than just his testimony.

As secrets amongst the governors emerge and a second person turns up dead, Robin needs to focus less on Adam and more on his investigation. But there are too many suspects, too many lies, and too many loose ends. Before they know it, Robin and Adam are fighting for their lives and their hearts.

Runner-Up: Best Gay Mystery / Thriller in the 2015 Rainbow Awards
Amazon US | Amazon UK

Finding Home - Garrett Leigh - New Release

Cover By Black Jazz Design
A YA Novel from Award Winning Author Garrett Leigh.

How do you find a home when your heart is in ashes? 

With their mum dead and their father on remand for her murder, Leo Hendry and his little sister, Lila, have nothing in the world but each other. Broken and burned, they’re thrust into the foster care system. Leo shields Lila from the fake families and forced affection, until the Poulton household is the only place left to go.

Charlie de Sousa is used to other kids passing through the Poulton home, but there’s never been anyone like his new foster brother. Leo’s physical injuries are plain to see, but it’s the pain in his eyes that draws Charlie in the most.

Day by day, they grow closer, but the darkness inside Leo consumes him. He rejects his foster parents, and when Charlie gets into trouble, Leo’s attempt to protect him turns violent. When Leo loses control, no one can reach him—except Charlie. He desperately needs a family—a home—and only Charlie can show him the way.

Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK | Riptide

HALF PRICE SALE on Changing Lines - MM Hockey

HALF PRICE SALE on Changing Lines - US Amazon only **

Half price - only $2 for book 1 in the Railers MM Hockey Romance series written with Vicki Locey​...

US - http://amzn.to/2scv9X1

🏒 ðŸ’ ðŸ’ ðŸ’

Changing Lines (Book 1)

Can Tennant show Jared that age is just a number, and that love is all that matters?

The Rowe Brothers are famous hockey hotshots, but as the youngest of the trio, Tennant has always had to play against his brothers’ reputations. To get out of their shadows, and against their advice, he accepts a trade to the Harrisburg Railers, where he runs into Jared Madsen. Mads is an old family friend and his brother’s one-time teammate. Mads is Tennant’s new coach. And Mads is the sexiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

Jared Madsen’s hockey career was cut short by a fault in his heart, but coaching keeps him close to the game. When Ten is traded to the team, his carefully organized world is thrown into chaos. Nine years younger and his best friend’s brother, he knows Ten is strictly off-limits, but as soon as he sees Ten’s moves, on and off the ice, he knows his heart could get him into trouble again.

US - http://amzn.to/2scv9X1

** sorry, this is a Kindle promotion that Amazon US set up, not us ... 

#Rainbow Snippets - October 7

Rainbow Snippets is a group for LGBTQ+ authors, readers, and bloggers to gather once a week to share six sentences from a work of fiction–a WIP or a finished work or even a 6-sentence book recommendation (snippets are 6 sentences long–one for each colour in the Pride flag). You can find all the snippets by clicking here.

Today's Snippet is from First Season, the second book in the Harrisburg Railers Hockey Series co-written with V.L. Locey.


I’d had two clients before this, big companies with interesting problems, where my lectures on sensitivity awareness had been well received. I could handle rough feedback, crappy tweets, Facebook discussions about inappropriate shit, but they were corporate clients, not hockey players.

It was me and them.


Talking one-on-one with hockey players and the support network around them about how it was okay for one of their players to be sleeping with their coach. Also that gay was good, love was love, and oh yeah, could they stop tweeting shit about anything to do with gender, politics, and sexual orientation, to name three things on my list.


The Book - OUT NOW

Layton wants success, Adler wants a family. How can love make both these things possible?

Layton Foxx works hard for what he's achieved. The condo, the career, the chance to make his mark...it's all down to the sacrifices he's made. With tragedy in his past, he doesn’t want or need love. Then he meets Adler Lockhart, the extroverted, sexy winger for the Harrisburg Railers, and abruptly he can’t avoid love even if he wanted to.

Adler Lockhart has had everything handed to him his whole life. Cars, villas, cash, college tuition at the finest Ivy League schools. The only thing he doesn’t have is parents who care, or the love of a good man. Then Layton walks into his privileged life and shows him what real love can be like.

Harrisburg Railers Series

Changing Lines (Book #1)
First Season (Book #2)
Deep Edge (Book #3)
Poke Check (Book #4) WIP

Per i pomeriggi di pioggia


Un libro della serie Il curioso ricettario di Nonna B

Robbie MacIntyre gestisce un piccolo ufficio postale nel vecchio edificio di quella che era una stazione ferroviaria nella periferia della sonnolenta Barton Hartshorn, a nordovest di Londra. Rimane sbalordito quando la proprietaria, Maggie, una sua cara amica, gli lascia in eredità non solo l’ufficio postale, ma anche l’intera stazione.

Il resto dell’eredità va a uno scrittore americano, Jason Young. Quando l’uomo si trasferisce nel paesino, Robbie rimane frastornato dall’attrazione che prova per la persona che avrebbe più diritti di lui sulla stazione.

A quel punto compare una scatola, che contiene varie prime edizioni rare e un ricettario. Tutto inizierà ad avere un senso solo quando gli ingredienti segreti di una particolare ricetta saranno finalmente svelati, portando alla luce un amore che si è interrotto settant’anni prima.

Traduttore: Emanuela Graziani

Rilasciato il 10 ottobre 2017

Acquistabile presso


Capitolo 1

“ALMENO CI hai provato, Robbie.” Doris mi diede dei colpetti leggeri sulla mano con il suo solito fare rassicurante. Non avevo bisogno di rassicurazione. Mi serviva che quella cavolo di torta venisse bene. Insomma, quanto poteva essere difficile non mandare qualcosa a puttane, quando avevo la ricetta davanti a me?

Punzecchiai con la forchetta quello che era rimasto della torta con la salsa di mele. Il pasticcio emise un chiaro puah mentre collassava su sé stesso attorno al grosso buco che era comparso in qualche modo durante la cottura.

“Ho seguito la ricetta.” E l’avevo seguita davvero, alla lettera. Ogni singola tazza di farina e cucchiaio di burro, ogni cucchiaino di noce moscata… avevo perfino fatto dei calcoli per sapere a quanto corrispondevano due terzi di una tazza rispetto a una intera. Doris mi diede un altro colpetto sulla mano e annuì nel suo modo più confortante.

“Maggie ha fatto questa torta per quasi novant’anni. Non ti deve per forza riuscire bene la prima volta.”

Il petto mi si strinse per il dolore, che si attorcigliò dentro e attorno al mio cuore. Maggie Simmons era stata la ragione per cui ero rimasto in quel paesino. Quando tutti i miei amici se ne erano andati per trasferirsi in città o anche nella cittadina accanto, io ero quello che era tornato a casa con una laurea in arte e nessuna idea su cosa farci e poi era rimasto. Tre anni di studi, laureato con il massimo dei voti ed ero perso. Maggie mi aveva bloccato vicino alla cabina telefonica un lunedì mattina, parlandomi, senza darmi modo di intervenire, del suo cairn terrier, che continuava a rannicchiarsi tra le mie gambe mentre lei chiacchierava, la pelle del guinzaglio che mi si avvolgeva attorno ai pantaloni. Ricordo chiaramente quel giorno come il momento in cui la mia vita cambiò.

“Ho comprato il vecchio edificio della stazione ferroviaria,” aveva spiegato, e io dovevo aver risposto qualcosa di molto educato. Ero sempre educato, e Maggie mi piaceva. Dopotutto, lei non era soltanto un’istituzione a Burton Hartshorn, era anche un’indomabile forza della natura e aveva un braccio con cui faceva dei lanci perfetti. Se dovevo essere onesto, mi aveva spaventato anche un po’. Ricordo la frutta marcia che aveva tirato contro di me e altri due amici con una precisione millimetrica quando ci aveva beccato a cercare di rubare le mele dal suo piccolo frutteto. Il fantasma del dolore sul viso a causa del colpo della mela mi aveva fatto premere le dita sullo zigomo e reprimere un sussulto.

“Sto costruendo una biblioteca,” aveva aggiunto.

“Dove?” Di certo non lì a Burton Hartshorn, trecento anime che abitavano una zona poco conosciuta? Perché ci sarebbe servita una biblioteca quando potevamo andare a Buckingham per usare quella che c’era lì? Ricordavo l’eccitazione per la gita alla biblioteca con mio padre, nella sua scintillante Ford Mondeo. Le biblioteche sono file e file di scaffali che si allargano a macchia d’olio, pieni di ogni libro immaginabile; non sono posti minuscoli in culo alla luna.

“Non proprio una biblioteca,” mi aveva confidato in quel giorno d’estate. “Potremmo spostare lì l’ufficio postale quando Silvia andrà in pensione, a Natale, e ci sarebbero dei tavoli, tè e caffè da un piccolo bancone, e un’area lettura con grossi divani comodi. Potremmo organizzare un programma di scambio di libri e forse pubblicizzarlo con la scuola.” Ricordo l’espressione assorta sul suo viso. Anche allora, dieci anni prima, era vecchia. Beh, vecchia come appare qualsiasi persona sulla settantina e ottantina a qualcuno appena uscito dall’università.

“Sembra una bella idea.” Allora mi era sembrato di liquidarla con una falsa lode, e forse era stato così. Quello che aveva proposto era veramente una bella idea. Non ero mai tanto felice come quando avevo il naso in un libro, del tè accanto e forse un paio di biscotti al cioccolato su un piatto. Aggiungeteci della pioggia contro la finestra ed ero in paradiso. Certo, un fidanzato accanto a me, con la testa nel mio grembo, sarebbe stato la ciliegina sulla torta. All’improvviso, qualsiasi cosa Maggie mi stesse dicendo si era mischiata con la fine recente di un amore universitario.

“Beh, volevo parlarti,” aveva continuato, sottolineando ogni parola con uno strattone al guinzaglio del cane, finché il groviglio attorno alle mie gambe non era stato così intricato che non sarei mai riuscito a muovermi. “Adesso sei tornato, e mi serve qualcuno che gestisca questo posto. Non guadagneresti molto, bada bene, ma ci sono delle stanze all’ultimo piano e potresti farne ciò che vuoi.”

“Prego?” avevo chiesto, stupito.

“Mi piace tua madre,” aveva detto, un po’ impaziente. “Mi ha detto che sei senza radici, e che costruire qualcosa attorno ai libri e alla storia e alla famiglia sarebbe stata un’idea eccellente. Ha suggerito una piccola area adibita a galleria per i tuoi dipinti, e penso che sia un’idea adorabile.”

Vorrei essere stato in grado di concentrarmi su ciò che c’era di positivo in quella frase, ma ai tempi ero riuscito solo a provare rabbia verso mia madre che credeva che non avessi radici. Solo perché restavo a letto fino a tardi la mattina e mi stavo fissando con i programmi TV del pomeriggio non significava che non le avessi. Solo perché in quel momento non stavo dipingendo non voleva dire che non avrei potuto farlo se avessi voluto. Giusto?

Con un ultimo strattone del guinzaglio mi ero liberato dalla costrizione della pelle, ma non mi ero allontanato. Maggie mi stava tentando con un lavoro. Doveva essere così. Mi ero lanciato un’occhiata intorno per vedere se qualcuno ci stesse osservando. Lo sguardo mi era caduto sulla bellissima, vecchia stazione. A forma di elle, era vicina allo scavo profondo dove una volta la Great Central Main Line faceva correre i treni a vapore da Londra a Manchester. Accantonata negli anni sessanta, la stazione era andata in rovina finché un birrificio non aveva cercato di trasformarla in un pub. Non so come diavolo avessero pensato di costruirsi una clientela con il Red Lion dall’altra parte del paesino. Non era durato molto, e negli ultimi dieci anni o giù di lì la stazione era stata data in affitto, con un avvicendamento rapido dei locatari.

“È un posto bellissimo.” Maggie sembrava nostalgica.

Il tetto coperto di paglia aveva bisogno di essere riparato, le finestre bianche dovevano essere ritinteggiate, e la porta blu scuro mostrava tre mani scrostate di sfumature diverse. E il giardino era selvatico. Non solo per le erbacce, ma anche per lo sfoggio magnifico di verde e oro autunnali che non mancavano mai di farmi fermare a guardare. Non che i fiori mi piacessero così tanto, ma tutto l’effetto, con il tetto di paglia e le finestre con le lastre montate su piombo e l’aria generale di abbandono, in qualche modo catturava la mia immaginazione.

“Proprio bellissimo.”

“Ho ereditato dei soldi e l’ho comprata, è giusto che tu lo sappia. È mia in modo permanente, un piccolo posto che potresti trasformare in una casa.” Aveva parlato in modo cauto e mi stava fissando con un’espressione determinata.

“Vuole che gestisca l’ufficio postale?” La vita reale si era rimessa al passo con la mia fervida immaginazione, nella quale restauravo tutto da solo quella che una volta era la stazione trasformandola proprio in ciò che voleva Maggie. Grosse querce proteggevano dal sole il giardino sul retro, e l’edera si estendeva dalla costruzione principale a un piccolo ampliamento degli anni settanta con dei lucernari. Immaginai di strappare l’edera fino a esporre la bellissima muratura originale in mattoni di quella stazione straordinaria.

“Non solo l’ufficio postale,” aveva continuato lei. “Francobolli, pacchetti e posta, e un piccolo negozio che offra beni essenziali. Come bustine da tè, latte, senape e Marmite.”

Non avevo fatto smorfie per la strana combinazione di ciò che Maggie pensava fossero beni essenziali. Anche se odiavo quando finivo la Marmite e il mio toast restava privo di quella crema a base di estratto di lievito. “Senape. Marmite. Okay.”

“E il bar,” aveva aggiunto. “Con una piccola biblioteca, bei libri e tanti romanzi. Forse qualche DVD. Quando potresti iniziare?”

Ero rimasto lì immobile per un po’, poi mi ero anche accucciato per fare le coccole al cagnolino solo per prendermi del tempo per pensare. Nessuno sapeva quanti soldi avesse Maggie, ma lei ovviamente ne aveva abbastanza per pensare di comprare il vecchio edificio che una volta era stato la stazione di quella linea ormai in disuso. Non era un tipo solitario che nascondeva i soldi, ma non era neanche appariscente, e nessuno sapeva molto su di lei. Era la spina dorsale solida e calibrata di quel paesino benché in qualche modo restasse riservata. Il suo cottage, chiamato giustamente l’Apple Tree Cottage, con il suo frutteto, era proprio al centro della vita della piccola comunità, di fronte al laghetto delle anatre e alla piazza del paesino. Il cottage stesso risaliva a trecento anni prima e, quando ero piccolo, si vociferava che Maggie avesse la stessa età.

“Ho un colloquio all’ospedale per gestire l’archivio dei pazienti. Domani.” Volevo che si rendesse conto che avevo delle opzioni.

Lei aveva annuito. “Bene, bene. Non è proprio adatto a te, però, eh?”

Io? Bloccato in un ufficio con dei computer? No, non mi ci sentivo portato, ma pagavano bene e c’era una mensa per il personale con gli sconti. L’affitto a mia madre, benzina nell’auto, soldi sufficienti per comprarmi birra e materiale per disegnare, e sarei stato felice. A parte sacrificare otto ore al giorno per cinque giorni a settimana a quel lavoro brutto ma sicuro, ecco.

Non so cosa mi spinse ad accettare. Ma davanti a me si allineavano all’infinito lunghe giornate estive in cui non avrei avuto idea di cosa volevo fare, e non desideravo proprio accettare quel lavoro d’ufficio. Volevo del tempo per dipingere, vivere e fare qualcosa di speciale.

“No,” avevo risposto poi. “Posso iniziare subito.” Quelle parole l’avevano fatta sorridere, e prendere quella decisione è stata la cosa migliore che io abbia mai fatto.

Ecco come era andata allora, e ormai erano passati quasi dieci anni, durante i quali ero stato la presenza principale in quel posto speciale. Estirpare l’edera per rivelare la storia era stata la parte facile. Rifornire di merce, fare interventi di manutenzione, raccogliere fondi… quelle erano state le parti difficili. E tutti i giovedì mattina, Maggie veniva con le sue amiche, che conosceva tutte da sempre, e si sedeva con loro a parlare e bere tè, si scambiavano libri e rendevano il mio mondo un posto perfetto.

La mia arte era buona, avevo anche venduto alcuni pezzi e guadagnato abbastanza da mettere via qualche soldo dopo essermi comprato una macchina. Non so per cosa stessi risparmiando. Probabilmente in vista di quello stesso futuro nebuloso che avevo sempre cercato.

Poi c’era stato l’ultimo mese. La fine era arrivata all’improvviso. Maggie non era venuta al suo incontro di chiacchiere e torta del giovedì, ma era passata a trovarmi il venerdì seguente e mi aveva detto a bruciapelo che il suo tempo era scaduto e che a novantun anni aveva fatto la sua parte. Aveva lasciato la stazione e l’aveva legata a un qualche tipo di strano contratto di proprietà per il futuro, e quel lascito era importante per lei tanto quanto le sue creature.

L’avevo ascoltata parlare, e ogni parola si era annodata dentro al mio cuore a formare un’assurda palla di dolore, ed era rimasta proprio così. Il giorno in cui avevamo seppellito Maggie Simmons era stato soleggiato e luminoso. Le quattro settimane passate da allora erano state le più strane della mia vita. Non avevo un ragazzo al momento. Anzi, se dovevo proprio essere onesto con me stesso, non ne avevo avuto uno vero da oltre un anno. L’ultimo, Josh, basso, biondo e subdolo, era stato quello che mi aveva fatto passare la voglia di uomini per un’eternità. La sua abilità di rovinare tutto mi aveva lasciato diffidente e stanco dell’ambiente, delle sere fuori, del bere e del ballare e del mettersi in mostra. Volevo solo pace, volevo il mio paesino nella campagna del Buckinghamshire e volevo leccarmi le ferite e trovare quello giusto.

“Stai bene?” chiese con dolcezza la signora Patterson. Ritornai di colpo al presente e rimisi a fuoco lo sguardo sulla torta. Quella con la salsa di mele era una delle torte cotte al forno più richieste di Maggie nel piccolo bar. Assieme a un antico bollitore che fischiava e a dei bellissimi piattini e tazze di porcellana spaiati, la torta era parte di Maggie e del negozio: era gustosa, pezzetti di mela e una vena di cannella in ogni boccone, sempre perfetta. Lei aveva scarabocchiato una ricetta per me andando a memoria, ma ovviamente qualcosa doveva essere andato storto.

“Volevo solo fare qualcosa di carino.” Quello era il primo giovedì dopo il funerale che si erano di nuovo incontrate tutte. Ormai cinque invece di sei, c’erano state lacrime e risate ricordando i bei tempi. Era così che Maggie avrebbe voluto essere onorata dalle cinque donne che si definivano amiche.

“E noi ti vogliamo bene per questo,” disse la signora Patterson. “Maggie avrebbe riso,” aggiunse con un occhiolino sfacciato. La signora Patterson era senza dubbio una a cui piaceva flirtare. Un paio di nodi dentro di me si sciolsero gradualmente, e io liberai il respiro che mi si era incastrato nel petto. Erano lì a parlare di Maggie, a ricordarla, e anche se era fallito miseramente il mio tentativo di fare lo stesso, non aveva importanza. In qualche modo, durante la preparazione di quella cavolo di torta di mele, ero passato dal dolore all’accettare la perdita della donna a cui guardavo con lo stesso affetto che avevo per mia nonna.

“Sì.” La punzecchiai di nuovo, e la torta si sgonfiò ancora di più. “Avrebbe riso.”

Quando se ne andarono erano quasi le cinque, e io ripulii e lavai le stoviglie e le posate. Ogni pezzo di porcellana aveva il suo posto nella piccola cucina, e mi rilassai sul serio solo quando fu tutto in ordine. Probabilmente avevo bisogno di uscire quella sera. Sarei potuto andare a Northampton, avrei potuto incontrare Tim o Jack, amici dell’università, o anche Anna, una mia compaesana, che era stata la mia complice quando eravamo ragazzini liberi di riempire di divertimento ogni giorno dopo la scuola.

Svuotai la teiera dall’acqua che era rimasta e la rimisi sui fornelli. In qualche modo calcolai male la distanza e il fondo produsse un rumore metallico sulla piastra del fornello, la vibrazione dell’urto che mi correva lungo il braccio.

“’Fanculo,” sbottai, perché era quello che faceva ogni essere umano quando degli oggetti inanimati gli si ribellavano. Nessuno chiese cosa c’era che non andava, nessuno lo avrebbe fatto. “Che triste bastardo del cazzo, a parlare da solo,” borbottai.

Poi, con la convinzione che quella serata sarebbe migliorata con la birra e degli amici, salii fino alla mia camera da letto con la vista sugli ettari di campi verdi. Sarei uscito e avrei celebrato la vita di Maggie a modo mio: prendendomi una signora sbronza e parlando di cavolate con chiunque mi fosse stato a sentire.

Mi feci la doccia, scambiai parecchi messaggi con Jack su quale pub fosse il migliore e decisi cosa mettermi. Erano ormai quasi le sette. Trovati chiavi e portafoglio, chiusi a chiave l’edificio della stazione e mi diressi alla macchina, notando che a un qualche uccello bastardo era sembrata una grande idea battezzare i lucidi sportelli color argento.

“La storia della mia vita.”

Hump Day Interview - Annabeth Albert

It's that time of the week again and time for another Hump Day Interview. Today we have Annabeth Albert in the hot seat...

How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?

I wrote 5 books before finally selling. All those will live forever under my bed as they were where I learned the craft and grew as a writer. In terms of books that WILL be out—right now I have a finished novella and a finished novel, both of which will be out Spring 2018. I’ve got a partial that I may return to and then my current work in progress which is SEAL book #6.

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

A novella of around 40k takes me around a month from start to finish, and then around a week of solid edits. A 80k book takes around two months, and then around two weeks of edits and proofs.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?

Editing continues to be the best money I spend because my editors push me with every book to be a better writer. As a new writer, springing for some of Margie Lawson’s courses, especially Deep Editing, really helped me and I rec those courses to all new writers looking to up their editing and revision game.

What is your favorite childhood book?

Tied between Anne of Green Gables and These Happy Golden Years.

If you could be any animal in the world, what animal would you be and why?

I’d be peacock, proud and colorful and unique.

For your chance to win Annabeth's Trust With A Chaser (Rainbow Cover #1) just answer this question...what was your favourite read in September? 

Tender With A Twist (Rainbow Cover #2) - OUT NOW

Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK

One kinky wood carver. One younger chef looking to try new things. A series of lessons that bring both men more than they bargained for…

Curtis Hunt has made a name for himself as a chainsaw wood carver, winning national competitions and operating a small business in Rainbow Cove, Oregon. As winter whittles away his tourist traffic, his goal is just to survive the season and try to not get lost in grief for his dead lover. It’s been two years, but he’s sure he’ll never be over the love of a lifetime. However, his body has a certain restlessness that he doesn’t quite know how to calm.

Logan Rosner knows a thing or two about restlessness. It’s what drove him to Rainbow Cove to be a chef at a bar and grill run by his friends. And it’s what drives him to a single sizzling encounter with the local legendary lumberjack. Both men get far more than they expected and learn that first impressions aren’t always accurate…

But when Logan proposes a series of sexy lessons, Curtis must decide how much he’s willing to risk. He knows he can’t afford to get attached to Logan’s good cooking, his easy smiles, or his caretaking, but he keeps going back for more, even as deeper emotions become involved. Soon, Curtis must decide whether to risk his heart again or risk losing Logan for good

Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer. The #OutOfUniform series joins her critically acclaimed and fan-favorite LGBTQ romance #Gaymers, #PortlandHeat and #PerfectHarmony series. To find out what she’s working on next and other fun extras, check out her website: www.annabethalbert.com or connect with Annabeth on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Spotify! Also, be sure to sign up for her newsletter for free ficlets, bonus reads, and contests. The fan group, Annabeth’s Angels, on Facebook is also a great place for bonus content and exclusive contests.

Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two active children.

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Changing On The Fly: The Second Period - Various Authors

The Book

Changing on the Fly is a celebration of romance, featuring four M/M stories about hockey players falling in love on – and off – the ice. All proceeds from the anthology will be donated to a charity that supports inclusiveness in athletics.

The anthology will be available starting in October 4, 2017, for a limited time only.

It includes the following stories:

Head in the Game by Jeff Adams
Second Chance at Love by Heather Lire
Rookie Moves by V.L. Locey
Secrets by Rj Scott

Jeff Adams’ – Head in the Game

After a disastrous breakup, pro hockey defenseman Roger Jacobson’s game is slipping. With his contract up for renewal he has to do something quick because his fourteen-year career is on the line. Roger returns to his hometown to work with his old coach, while helping run the summer hockey camp. But Dylan Baker, a handsome graduate student and the coach’s son, proves to be a romantic distraction that Roger couldn’t have anticipated.

Can Roger’s trip home fix his game and mend his broken heart?

Heather Lire’s Second Chance at Love

Growing up in Holiday, Vermont Zach and Tony were best friends. After high school, they drifted apart as their lives and careers took them in different directions. When they run into each other on vacation they fall back into the easy friendship they’d had as kids.
The one thing they didn’t expect was the sexual tension between them. As they explore these new feelings for each other they discover that sometimes the last person they expected fall for is their Second Chance at Love.

V.L. Locey’s Rookie Moves

It’s been three months since New York Nightwings superstar center and captain, Riley Zeally, came out. The glare of the media has been incredibly bright but Riley’s used to dealing with the spotlight. His boyfriend, Keiffer, isn’t. The intense scrutiny of being at the side of such a huge sports star is proving to be incredibly stressful for the one-time hustler.

Details about his former life on the streets is now common knowledge, his life with Riley is under a magnifying glass, and his past is about to step out of the shadows in an even bigger way. Can a rookie in the ways of the press and professional athletics survive the pressure of sharing his life with the league’s most famous gay player? Will the tentative new love Riley and Keiffer share fold under the weight of fans and fame?

RJ Scott’s Secrets

Benji is 'the' skater in the league who brings down the height average. Coming in at five eight, he's used to players chirping at him all night about his height.

Including the sexy defenseman for the Carlisle Rush, Avery Lester, with his stunning eyes and his cute smile.

When Benji makes a single inappropriate comment about Avery's ass, everything goes to hell. Add in Avery’s heroics during a hate crime, and things just go from bad to worse.

Abruptly it's not his height Benji has to worry about, but the chance that his closely guarded secret is shared all over the Internet.

Can love find a way, or will keeping secrets tear Benji and Avery apart?

Newsletter Sign Up

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Should I even be doing this? #BadTranslations

This week has been kinda stressful, mostly to do with a french translation of Back Home. In an attempt to get as many of my books out to a french market as possible i made the decision to take on another translator and it all kind of went tits-up (english'ism for *wrong*).

Things to bear in mind:

  • I have weekly, sometimes daily, emails/PMs/requests asking for my books to be in other languages, not just French, German and Italian.
  • I am desperate to get my stories into other languages so that readers who don't know English can read them. I want everyone who wants them to have access to my stories. What author wouldn't want that?
  • I have luckily found translators for French, Italian and German translations. People I trust (Benedicte Girault for French, Claudia Milani for Italian, Chris McHart for German).
  • All of my books, to date, that have been translated have sold enough to cover their fees and cover art. Some have been wildly successful, some have just broken even.
  • I want to keep the rights for my books - all of them. As far as I am concerned, unless I have no choice then I want to keep the rights to all my books, because trusting publishers is something I don't do much of anymore. Not after getting ripped off by Silver and ARe, and then messed around by Totally Bound (Pride).
  • I don't speak French.
  • Or German.
  • Or Italian.
  • Or Spanish.
  • In fact I only got a CSE grade 2 in French (and only Brits over the age of 46 will remember CSE's LOL)
When I pass on a book to be translated, there is an incredible amount of trust that I have to have in the translator. When the book is released, it is reviews that inform the quality of the translation.

When a book gets every other review calling on it as being a translation that was full or errors or that didn't flow, then as an author you begin to worry. Back Home is an older book, was the flow of the translation wrong because the writing in it is nine years or so old? Have other translation companies  deliberately commented on the book to make the translator of the book seem bad (believe me, I've seen this happen before)? Was the translator not a good one?

I don't understand. I don't know how to talk to the translators, or the readers. I rely completely on them knowing English, because as I said before, I am crap at languages. I feel lost, and uncomfortable, and i don't like it.

So, should I stop getting future books translated? Is it completely naive of us English authors to go about getting a translation done when we have no means of controlling the end product?

Because that is how I feel, out of control with it all. 

I am lucky enough that each of my translated books have sold really well, and the investment in them is one for the future, just like my audio books are.

Where does the buck stop? With me as the original author of the books? With me for contracting a translator out of my comfort zone? Me for not speaking french? Or is it with the translator?

Because believe me, the reason I get so sad about all this is that really the buck stops with me. 

Hump Day Interview - V.L Locey & RJ Scott

It's Hump Day again and today in the hot seat it's ME and V.L. Locey my partner in crime writing the Harrisburg Railers series.

What do you think is the most rewarding thing about writing M/M versus other genres?

V.L.: For me the most rewarding thing about writing M/M or LGBTQ+ is that I can touch lives and hopefully open eyes. I recall being at a book event in the town where I now live. It’s a very rural, Republican, conservative, Christian small town. While at this event a young woman and her friend walked up to my table and looked at my LGBTQ+ books. She then asked if she could give me a hug. I was happy to oblige. After the hug, she and her girlfriend told me that my print books had been the first LGBTQ+ books that they had ever seen in the area. They were beyond thrilled to see that SOMEONE was writing stories about the gay community. There may have been a few tears that day, all joyous.

Do you ever abandon a draft partly written and just move on? Do you keep a file of plot ideas?

V.L.: Not generally. Most of my ideas play out well for certain length stories. Some are great for shorts or novellas but not meaty enough for a novel. So, I write the short or novella. I do have one file now for story ideas that I want to write for another M/M hockey collection. 

RJ: I never abandon a draft – I always finish what I started, I’m very linear like that. I have so many ideas all the time. I keep some cuttings from the newspaper, links to pages on the Net, and I love National Geographic will I keep copies of if anything inspires me.

What did you edit out of this book?

V.L.: Not much that I recall. We had to tweak some names here and there, but there were no huge revisions we had to make.

What was your hardest scene to write?

RJ: Any sex scene is hard for me to write. LOL… That is why I love writing with VL, she inspires me! I also find it very draining to write emotional scenes, because I get so involved in them J

V.L.: Probably the one where Adler – who I wrote – called his mother and was brushed aside. That one was tough because all he wanted was some love from his parents. There was also another scene toward the end where Adler was lost and wandering the city that was hard to pen.

Which writers inspire you?

RJ: Jordan L Hawk, Eli Easton, Marie Sexton, Victoria Denault

V.L.: Gosh, so many! My coauthor RJ for sure. She’s so savvy and smart, skilled at her craft, and can pluck my heartstrings so well. Her sexy scenes are things of beauty! One of my most inspirational authors is Mark Twain. When I first started writing I kept a picture of him by my writing area to remind me that it’s not necessary to have a college degree to be a successful author.

What is the funniest thing that has happened to you recently?

RJ: When Petronella gave me a birthday present – confirmation that bull semen had been donated in my name to farmers in Africa. Such a cool present… but so funny.

V.L.: Aside from the countdown conversation the other day, probably when I was sitting at the table writing – innocently I may add – and a stinkbug flew into the side of my head. There was a great deal of flapping and cussing and dancing before the bug was out of my hair. Afterward I thought it was hilarious.

You loaned your car to a friend, forgetting there's something stashed in there you don't want anyone to find. What is it?

RJ: My vinyl copy of the Jason Donovan album from 1989/90 or so.

.: Oh uh...my Dr. Who/Torchwood DVD’s? I’m very boring and vanilla. Sorry for the mundane reply.

What was the last gift you gave someone? 

RJ: That’s a hard one, it was my 50th birthday and so it was me getting the gifts – so lucky. Our daughter was 21 in July, and we gave her jewellery and money and we went away for the weekend to a place called Center Parcs. Awesome weekend.

V.L.: I gave my daughter some new dishtowels and washcloths for the new pad she’s moving into soon.

You step outside and find a lottery ticket that ends up winning $10 million. What would you do? 

RJ: Oh wow, that is a hard one. I would feel very lucky and would like to think that I would try and track down the real winner. I would feel too guilty not to! If I couldn’t track them down then a lot of the money would go to charity!

V.L.: Faint. Then dance. Then go buy stuff and plane tickets.

Write the first sentence of a feature profile of you in a book magazine.

V.L. Locey. Gay romance author, chicken herder, sipper of coffee, and lover of men in long overcoats. 

For your chance to win and copy of First Season (Harrisburg Railers #2) answer this question...What is the funniest thing that has happened to you recently?

First Season (Harrisburg Railers #2) 

Layton wants success, Adler wants family, how can love make both these things possible?

Layton Foxx works hard for what he has. The condo, the career, the chance to make his mark, is all down to the sacrifices he has made. With tragedy in his past, he doesn’t want or need love. Then he meets Adler Lockhart, the extroverted, sexy winger for the Harrisburg Railers and abruptly he can’t avoid love even if he wanted to.

Adler Lockhart has had everything handed to him his whole life. Cars, villas, cash, college tuition at the finest Ivy League schools. The only things he doesn’t have are parents who care or the love of a good man. Then Layton walks into his privileged life and shows him what real love can be like.

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.

Website: http://vlloceyauthor.com/
Blog- http://thoughtsfromayodelinggoatherder.blogspot.com/

First Season (Harrisburg Railers #2) - OUT NOW!

Cover by Meredith Russell

The Book

Layton wants success, Adler wants family, how can love make both these things possible?

Layton Foxx works hard for what he has. The condo, the career, the chance to make his mark, is all down to the sacrifices he has made. With tragedy in his past, he doesn’t want or need love. Then he meets Adler Lockhart, the extroverted, sexy winger for the Harrisburg Railers and abruptly he can’t avoid love even if he wanted to.

Adler Lockhart has had everything handed to him his whole life. Cars, villas, cash, college tuition at the finest Ivy League schools. The only things he doesn’t have are parents who care or the love of a good man. Then Layton walks into his privileged life and shows him what real love can be like.

Buy Links

Paperback Links

Harrisburg Railers Series 

First Season (Book #2)