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Hi I'm Janna and I am a book whore! I started this blog after being a part of another for years. While being a big blog may be nice I like to stay true to me having a love for books, that's why I blog. I love books and I want to share that love with my readers of this blog. I love to read, books are my escape and a huge part of my life besides my husband and two children. I am honest and sometimes sassy in my reviews but never mean. Some of my favorite authors include Kristen Ashley, Penelope Douglas, T.M. Frazier, M.N. Forgy, Rachel Van Dyken, Meghan March and Vi Keeland to only name a few!

Please note that I am the ONLY reviewer on the blog beyond a few guest reviews. It has been brought to my attention that people not associated with my blog have been requesting ARCs please if you ever question a request please email me at the blog's email.


Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Release Blitz! Gent By Harloe Rae



Raven Elliot blasts into town like a wrecking ball—striking and devastating.
With a few simple words, my reliable routine crumbles to dust.

“Is this seat taken?”

I could close my eyes and let her voice wrap around me like a lover’s caress.
But this isn’t that kind of story.
And I’m sure as hell not that kind of man.

She hovers in my space, batting her lashes and smiling shyly.
The glimmer in her sapphire eyes is a promise of peace.
But I’m not falling for it.
And Raven doesn't take the hint.

What starts as a battle of wills, explodes into a turf war.
She stands directly in my path everywhere I turn.
No matter how hard I shove, she won’t budge.
Raven seems dead set on driving me insane.
But I was here first.
And I’m not going down easy.

After all, no one ever taught me how to treat a lady.
I was in the mood for an enemy to lovers, asshole hero kind of book. And man did I find what I was looking for in Gent. I couldn’t put this down, from the very beginning I was hooked. I had been in a dark romance mood for a while and Gent was a nice distraction from the dark romance kick I had been on.

To say Trey was a massive ass to Raven is an understatement but I couldn’t help but love him still. Raven and him at times were like oil and water, the two just did not mix personality wise but the chemistry between them was unmistakably hot. Raven is sweet to Trey’s nasty.  She balances him out and slowly she gets to know the Trey underneath the asshole personality. You may think you won’t like Trey but get to know him, there is more to him and it is that more that has you loving him. Of course Trey does something stupid, don’t all men, but I sort of understood his reaction even if I wanted to throttle him with a wrench. I liked Raven’s character, how she saw the best in things when most wouldn’t have even tried to look deeper.


I hope we get books for the secondary characters we were introduced to as well as more from Trey and Raven because I want more! Gent is a book I really enjoyed and think needs to be on your TBR lists for sure!






99c for a limited time!

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

Free in Kindle Unlimited




“Listen, babe—”
She holds up her hand like a stop sign and for some reason, having her interrupt doesn’t bother me.
“Did you just babe me?” Her question is all sass.
“Sure did, sweetheart. Call ‘em like I see ‘em. Don’t pretend to be offended. We both know why you’re over here talking to me.”
Her face turns an adorable shade of pink. “First, stop with the nicknames. Second, are you for real? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t see any issue. You’re the one disrupting my quiet evening.”
“What the… I mean, seriously? I want to sit down and this is the only available spot. You honestly think I came over here to hit on you?”
Her ridiculous question doesn’t deserve a response. My glare matches hers as I silently explain my opinion on the matter. My expression must tell her everything she needs to know.
“Wow, you’re an asshole.”
“You’re the third woman to call me that tonight. Be careful, I might get a complex.”
“Aw, poor baby. I’d hate to dent your fragile ego,” she snips with a curl in her lip.
“There’s nothing fragile about me. Don’t worry. I’m hard and solid. Wanna feel?” I ask and pat my abs.
She nods to my hands. “No, thanks. I’d hate for you to rub off on me.”
“Does the grease under my nails bother you? Princess is afraid of getting a little dirty?”
“Do you get a rise out of being mean?”
I lean against the bar and cross my arms. “I don’t get many complaints. You’re not from around here, so I’ll fill you in—the ladies love me.”
“Pretty sure I saw Barbie McCleveage storm off after chatting with you. She didn’t look too satisfied.”
“Now who’s using nicknames? Jealous much?”
“Hardly,” she huffs.  
I smirk before checking out her rack, being extremely obvious about it. Pushing her buttons takes away the tension from earlier, replacing it with a surprising ease. Fighting with her is the most nonsexual fun I’ve had with a woman in a long time. Wonder how she’d react if I called her ma’am.
“All right, all right. You’ve broken me down. I was set on not having any company tonight, but for you, I’ll make an exception. If you insist on standing here, blabbing away, I’ve got far better uses for that luscious mouth. My place isn’t too far away,” I suggest while waggling my brows. My behavior is over the top, but what can I say? She’s bringing out the best in me.
Her lips part in shock. This stranger just stares at me, and I’m sure she’s about to turn away… or slap me. Either way, mission accomplished.
But this chick is full of surprises.


Also by Harloe Rae


FREE for a VERY limited time!!

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

Always free in Kindle Unlimited


Author Bio

Harloe Rae is a Minnesota gal with a serious addiction to romance. She’s always chasing an epic happily ever after.

When she’s not buried in the writing cave, Harloe can be found hanging with her hubby and son. If the weather permits, she loves being lakeside or out in the country with her horses.

Harloe is the author of Redefining Us, Forget You Not, Watch Me Follow, and GENT. These titles are available on Amazon.


Author Links

FACEBOOK PROFILE / PAGE 

Cover Reveal! Truly Yours By Mia Miller



Release Date: June 19, 2018

We crashed into each other like the moth and the flame.

For years, we've been best friends.

I told him all my secrets and I believed I knew his.

In camp, I thought he was the most beautiful boy in the world.

In high-school, I promised him my virginity.

On our first day of college, I had three revelations:

He's a jerk.

He doesn't care.

I don't even know him.





Author Bio

Mia Miller started writing as a getaway from a taxing day job in a multinational corp. A lover of all things romance since forever, Mia tries to find a little bit of a love story even in zombie movies. She likes her book boyfriends Alpha and her novels naughty.

Nowadays Mia can be constantly found typing away, with her Dogo Argentino at her feet. Mia brings to her readers books in the New Adult and Contemporary Romance genre.


Author Links

Chapter Reveal! A Wish For Us By Tillie Cole



From the author who brought you A Thousand Boy Kisses comes the new emotional novel, A Wish For Us.
A story of music. A story of healing. A story of love conquering all.


Nineteen-year-old Cromwell Dean is the rising star of electronic dance music. Thousands of people adore him. But no one knows him. No one sees the color of his heart.

Until the girl in the purple dress. She sees through the walls he has built to the empty darkness within.

When Cromwell leaves behind the gray skies of England to study music in the South Carolina heat, the last thing he expects is to see her again. And he certainly doesn’t expect that she’ll stay in his head like a song on repeat.

Bonnie Farraday lives for music. She lets every note into her heart, and she doesn’t understand how someone as talented as Cromwell can avoid doing the same. He’s hiding from his past, and she knows it. She tries to stay away from him, but something keeps calling her back.

Bonnie is the burst of color in Cromwell’s darkness. He’s the beat that makes her heart skip.

But when a shadow falls over Bonnie, it’s up to Cromwell to be her light, in the only way he knows how. He must help her find the lost song in her fragile heart. He must keep her strong with a symphony only he can compose.

A symphony of hope.
A symphony of love.
A symphony of them.





Cromwell
Brighton, England
The club pulsed as the beat I was pouring into the crowd took over their bodies. Arms in the air, hips swaying, eyes wide and glazed as my music slammed into their ears, the rhythmic beats controlling their every move. The air was thick and sticky, clothes slick to people’s skins as they crammed into the full club to hear me.
I watched them light up with color. Watched them get lost to the sound. Watched them shed whoever they’d been that day—an office worker, a student, a copper, a call-center worker—what the hell ever. Right now, in this club, most probably high off their faces, they were slaves to my tunes. Right here, in this moment, my music was their life. It was all that mattered as their heads flew back and they chased the high, the near nirvana I gave them from my place on the podium.
I, however, felt nothing. Nothing but the numbness the booze beside me was gifting me.
Two arms slipped around my waist. Hot breath blew past my ear as full lips kissed my neck. Spinning my final beat, I grabbed the Jack Daniels beside me and took a shot straight from the bottle. I slammed the bottle down and moved back to my laptop to mix in the next tune. Hands with sharp fingernails ran through my hair, pulling on the black strands. I tapped on the keys, bringing the music down low, slowing the beat.
My breaths lengthened as the crowd waited, lungs frozen as I brought them to a slow sway, readying for the crescendo. The epic surge of beats and drums, the insanity of the mix that I would deliver. I looked up from my laptop and scanned the crowd, smirking at seeing them on the precipice, waiting . . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .
Now.
I slammed my hand down, holding my headphones to my left ear. A surge, a thundercloud of electronic dance music plowed into the crowd. Bursts of neon colors filled the air. Greens and blues and reds filled my eyes as they clung to each person like neon shields.
The hands around my waist tightened, but I ignored them, instead listening to the bottle of Jack as it called my name. I took another shot, my muscles starting to loosen. My hands danced over the laptop’s keys, over my mix boards.
I looked up, the crowd still in the palm of my hand.
They always were.
A girl in the center of the club drew my attention. Long brown hair pulled back off her face. Purple dress, high necked—she was dressed nothing like everyone else. The color surrounding her was different to the other clubbers—pale pink and lavender. Calmer. More serene. My eyebrows pulled down as I watched her. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t moving. She was still, and she looked to be completely alone as people crashed and pushed around her. Her head was tipped up, a look of concentration on her face.
I built up the pace, pushing the rhythm and the crowd as far as they could go. But the girl didn’t move. That wasn’t normal for me. I always had these clubbers wrapped around my finger. I controlled them, in every place I spun. In this arena, I was the puppet master. They were the dolls.
Another shot of Jack burned down my throat. And through another five songs, she stayed there, on the spot, just drinking in the beats like water. But her face never changed. No smile. No euphoric high. Just . . . eyes closed, that damn pinched look on her face.
And that pink and lavender still surrounding her like a shield.
“Cromwell,” the blonde who was all over me like a rash said into my ear. Her fingers lifted up my shirt and tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Her long nails dipped low. But I refused to tear my eyes away from the girl in the purple dress.
Her brown hair was starting to curl, sweat from being sandwiched by clubbers taking its effect. The blonde who was one step from wanking me off in full view of the club snapped my fly. I keyed in my next mix, then grabbed her hand and threw it away from me, snapping my fly closed. I groaned when her hands slid back into my hair. I looked at my mate who had spun before me. “Nick!” I pointed to my decks. “Watch this. And don’t mess it up.”
Nick frowned in confusion, then saw the girl behind me and smiled. He took my headphones from me and moved to make sure the playlist I’d set up played on cue. Steve, the club’s owner, always let a few girls backstage. I never asked for it, but I never turned them down either. Why would I refuse a hot bird who was up for anything?
I swiped my Jack off my podium as the blonde smashed her lips to mine, pulling me back by my sleeveless Creamfields shirt. I wrenched my mouth from hers, replacing it with the Jack bottle. The blonde dragged me into a dark spot backstage. She dropped to her knees and started again on my fly. I closed my eyes as she went to work.
I sucked on the Jack as my head hit the wall behind me. I forced myself to feel something. I glanced down, watching blond hair bounce below me. But the numbness I lived with every damn day made me feel virtually nothing inside. Pressure built at the base of my spine. My thighs tightened, and then it was over.
The blonde got up. I could see the stars in her eyes as she looked at me. “Your eyes.” She reached out a finger to trace around my eye. “The strangest color. Such dark blue.”
They were. Coupled with my black hair, they always drew attention. That and the fact that I was one of the hottest new DJs in Europe, of course. Okay, maybe it was less to do with my eyes and more to do with my name, Cromwell Dean, gracing the headline spot on most of the biggest music festivals and clubs this summer.
I zipped up my fly and turned to see Nick spinning my next mix. I cringed when he failed to transition the beats like I would have. Navy blue was the backdrop to the smoke on the dancefloor.
I never hit navy blue.
I brushed past the girl with a “Thanks, love,” ignoring her hiss of “Prick” in response. I took my headphones off Nick’s head and put them on my own. A few taps of the keyboard later, the crowd was back in the palm of my hand.
Without conscious thought, my eyes found their way to the spot where the girl in the purple dress had stood.
But she’d gone. So had the pale pink and lavender.
I threw back another shot of Jack. Mixed another tune. Then zoned the fuck out.
*****
The sand was cold under my feet. It may well have been the start of summer here in the UK, but that didn’t mean the night wind didn’t freeze your balls off the minute you stepped outside. Clutching my bottle of booze and my cigarettes, I dropped down to the sand. I lit up and stared at the dark sky. My phone buzzed in my pocket . . . again. It’d been going off all night.
Pissed off that I actually had to move my arm, I pulled out my mobile. I had three missed calls from Professor Lewis. Two from my mum, and finally, a couple of texts.
Mum: Professor Lewis has been trying to get hold of you again. What are you going to do? Please just call me. I know you’re upset, but this is your future. You have a gift, son. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start this year. Don’t waste it because you’re angry at me.
Red-hot fury shot through me. I wanted to throw my phone in the damn sea and watch it sink to the bottom along with all this messed-up shit in my head, but I saw Professor Lewis had texted too.
Lewis: The offer still stands but I need an answer by next week. I have all I need for the transfer except your answer. You have an exceptional talent, Cromwell. Don’t waste it. I can help.
This time I did drop my phone beside me and sank back into the sand. I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart.
My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .
“What do you hear, Cromwell?” my father asked.
I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. “Piano. Violins. Cellos . . .” I took a deep breath. “I can hear reds and greens and pinks.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face. “You hear colors?” he said. But he didn’t sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. “That’s good,” he said, his voice kind of deep. “That’s very good . . .”
My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasn’t from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right.
Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summer’s early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker.
She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but then—
“You’re the DJ,” she said.
Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress.
She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang.
She sounded like my mum.
A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasn’t much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didn’t know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.
“I’d heard of you,” she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ.
“Good for you,” I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped she’d piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldn’t take any more noise.
“Not really,” she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress I’d noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. “I’ve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.” She shrugged. “Decided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.”
I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didn’t like the smell.
Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet.
I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didn’t want anyone to see.
No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin.
I didn’t need this kind of crap.
“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.”
She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden.
“Your music has no soul,” she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness.
I sucked on my cigarette. “Yeah? Well, them’s the breaks.”
“I’d heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.”
I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. “It’s called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.” I held out my arms. “You’ve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?” I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto.
I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadn’t talked that much to anyone in . . . I didn’t know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. “And turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?”
The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under.
“What do you feel when you mix your music?” she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me.
Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. “I don’t feel.” I cracked one eye open when she didn’t say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin.
“Then that’s the problem.” She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. “The best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.” Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant.
Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadn’t expected her harsh comment. And I hadn’t expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like she’d taken a butcher’s knife and sliced her way through my soul.
My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, “Go back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where it’s felt.”
“Dorothy was from Kansas.” She glanced away. “I’m not.”
“Then go back to wherever the hell you’re from,” I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart.
I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didn’t want to go back to my mum’s house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldn’t find me here and kick me off the beach.
With my eyes closed, I said, “Thanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decks—all at nineteen—I think I’ll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.”
The girl sighed, but she didn’t say anything else.
The next thing I knew, the sun was burning its light into my eyes. I flinched when I opened them. The screech of swarming seagulls slammed into my head. I sat up, seeing an empty beach and the sun high in the sky. I ran my hands down my face and groaned at the hangover that was kicking in. My stomach growled, desperate for a full English breakfast with copious cups of black tea.
As I stood, something fell from my lap. A blanket lay on the sand at my feet. The blanket I’d seen beside the American girl in the purple dress.
The one she’d been wrapped in last night.
I picked it up, a light fragrance drifted into my nose. Sweet. Addictive. I glanced around me. The girl was gone.
She’d left her blanket. No. She’d covered me with it. “Your music has no soul.” A hard clenching feeling pulled in my stomach at the memory of her words. So I chased it away like I did anything that made me feel. Caging it deep inside.
Then I took my arse home.


Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.

After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.

Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.

Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.

When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.


Author Links



Cover Reveal! The Naked Truth By Vi Keeland

TNT_Title_Black

RELEASE DATE: Monday, July 23, 2018
TNT_FullCoverIt was just a typical Monday. Until the big boss asked me to make the pitch for a prospective new client. After two years on shaky ground at work because of my screw up, an opportunity to impress the senior partners was just what I needed. Or so I thought… Until I walked into the conference room and collided with the man I was supposed to pitch. My coffee spilled, my files tumbled to the ground, and I almost lost my balance. And that was the good part of my day. Because the gorgeous man crouched down and looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive, was none other than my ex, Gray Westbrook. A man who I’d only just begun to move on from. A man who my heart despised—yet my body obviously still had other ideas about. A man who was as charismatic and confident as he was sexy. Somehow, I managed to make it through my presentation ignoring his intense stare. Although it was impossible to ignore all the dirty things he whispered into my ear right after I was done. But there was no way I was giving him another chance, especially now that he was a client…was there?
TNT_FrontCover

Photo/Cover Details

Photo Credits: Mondadori Portfolio/Paolo Stella ARTeProduction/Jonathan Segade Model: Simone Bredariol - D’men - www.dmanagementgroup.com Cover Designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative


**Watch out for a special excerpt sneak peak of The Naked Truth on July 18th!!**


PURCHASE LINKS
ibooks: https://apple.co/2xliFQZ Add to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2kuv7V6 **No Amazon ebook preorder. Will go live on Amazon on release day. Sign up for Vi’s mailing list and/or text alerts now and be the first one notified when it goes live! https://www.subscribepage.com/i6h3o5 - Text the word BOOKS to 77948 TNT_NameBar

91FFBs19XQL._UX250_About the Author: Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles have appeared in over ninety Bestseller lists and are currently translated in twenty languages. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.

Sign up for Vi’s mailing list: https://www.subscribepage.com/i6h3o5

Do you like texts better than email? Receive text notices of Vi’s new releases by texting the word BOOKS to 77948 You will ONLY receive a text when a new book goes live - no other messages at all!

Find Vi here

Facebook Fan Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/ViKeelandFanGroup/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Vi-Keeland/435952616513958 https://www.facebook.com/vi.keeland Website: http://www.vikeeland.com Twitter: @vikeeland - https://twitter.com/ViKeeland Instagram: @Vi_Keeland - http://instagram.com/Vi_Keeland/ Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6887119.Vi_Keeland

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Release Blitz! Clutch By Jack Davenport




The Burning Saints Motorcycle Club is the only family Clutch has known, and violence his only stock and trade. Humanity has handed him nothing but pain struggle, and he’s come to expect even less from it. As an orphan, he’s always found it easier to bond with machines than with people. Now his club family is in danger of losing its way, its identity, even its very existence.
Dr. Gina Gardner is newly single, completely unprepared to mingle, and as it turns out, cannot sing and safely operate a motor vehicle at the same time. What she craves is time away to figure out what she wants. What she just might get, however, is a detour to what she needs.
When Clutch and Gina find themselves at the same crossroad will they speed by each other, collide in a fiery crash, or blaze a new trail together?




'






Jack Davenport is a true romantic at heart, but he has a rebel’s soul. His writing is passionate, energetic, and often fueled by his true life, fiery romance with author wife, Piper Davenport. A musician by day, his unique perspective into the world of rock stars provides an exciting backdrop for his new romance series.
He currently lives with his wife and two kids in the top left corner of the United States.



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