Cover Designer: Rebel Edit & Design
Reminded me a little of that old Brawny commercial, the lumberjack guy… He probably has abs to match, the kind you can bounce quarters off. Try and do that off mine and you’d need heavy equipment to excavate it.
Sometimes my stubborn drive for independence gets in the way of common sense.
You’re pretty smart for middle-aged, wannabe sideshow headliner.
Freya Barker is my go-to source and rocks it like no other. She is better than the mailman as she consistently delivers superbly written and engaging tales that are each richly laced with a unique and indelible cast of worn, flawed, yet realistically drawn characters, who never fail to ensnare my cold heart. Every-single-time! I have cherished and coveted each and every one of her captivating series. A Change of View was an active, eventful, and insightful tale with mature characters, real-life family issues, and a tattered protagonist in dire need of a fresh start. Written from my favorite dual POV, the premise was solid, the storyline was relevant and well-crafted, and the writing was emotive, keenly observant and cleverly insightful. Yet the endearing and oddly matched characters were the heart and soul of the piece. While we begin with and witness Leelo’s steady growth and I applauded her evolving backbone while facing so many unusual challenges; Roar was a complete and unquestionable delight, I adored him in totality but most of all for his secret words which were nothing short of genius.
I slap my thigh where a mosquito just bit me. I wipe at another one that lands on my arm, and pretty soon the buzzing is loud around my head, and I’m frantically waving my hand around my face. A blood-sucking army is out tonight, and I scramble to my feet, snatch up the now empty bottle, and hustle toward the sanctuary of my house.
My heart lodges in my throat when I see a figure detach itself from the shadows of the porch.
“Was wondering how long it would fucking take before you came running.”
I bend over, gasping to get air in my lungs, when I hear the voice.
“I swear, Riordan Doyle…one day you’ll be the death of me.”
“Not what I had in mind,” he chuckles easily, as he grabs my arm, drags me inside, and out of the way of the charging mosquitoes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, as he takes the bottle from my hand, sets it on the counter, and pulls me into my living room. There he drops down on the threadbare couch and tugs me down beside him. “I thought you went home?”
“I did,” he confirms, throwing his arm over my shoulder and tugging me to his chest. “And I was just putting my feet up on the coffee table when I realized I didn’t want to be there.”
“No,” he repeats. “Couldn’t relax. Started thinking about this…thing…between us. And you know what? Waiting for the right time is for the fucking birds.”
“It absolutely fucking is,” he says with conviction, curving his free hand along my jaw and turning my face toward him.
His hazel eyes are almost black in the scarce light of my living room, his heavy-lidded gaze roaming my features before settling on my lips.
“I’m thinking right now sounds like the right time.”
I can feel the deep rumble of his voice down to my toes, and my own drops a few octaves lower as well.
“You do?” I mutter breathlessly as his head bends down.
It’s clear from my distinctly unimaginative responses that my brain cells have signed off for the day. I’m starting to sound like a goddamn parrot, but Roar doesn’t give me time to linger on that thought. His mouth is already on mine and his tongue is demanding entry.
One moment I’m tucked beside him on the couch, and the next I’m on my back, Roar’s heavy frame covering me, his lips still firmly fused to mine. Good God the man can kiss.