Superhero single mum Cath always puts other people first. But now that she’s seen her son safely off to university (phew!), life seems a little, well…empty.
So when Cath unexpectedly discovers some letters written by her great-grandfather during the First World War, she decides to take herself on an adventure to France to retrace his footsteps.
Cath expects to spend her holiday visiting famous battlefields and testing out her French phrase book. What she doesn’t anticipate is that her tour guide, the handsome Olivier, will be quite so charming! Soon Cath isn’t simply unearthing the stories of the past – she’s writing a brand new one of her own, which might end up taking her in a very unexpected direction…
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
I never swear. Ever. But if I did, Hells Angels would blush at the words I’d choose right now.
I’d let him move in about six months ago while he got himself back on his feet, but so far he’s not displayed any signs of getting a job and moving out, and he only uses his feet to walk to the pub.
My comfy nude-coloured pants are from a multipack from the clothing department at work and the mismatched bra is a plain black jersey style. It isn’t even underwired. I could be a poster girl for ‘Agent Preventer’, the lesser-known underwear-brand-slash-birth-control guaranteed to put off even the most amorous of men.
We each get one chance at life, and if this vast number of gravestones represents something it’s how precious life is.
It’s like flying ant day in my stomach.
Being together is like pain relief, so, I suppose we need to see one another for medicinal purposes.
My Review:
It Started With a Note was a pleasantly entertaining and engaging read that hit all the feels from amusing humor to sweet romance and on to poignant and respectful remembrances that stung my eyes and put hot rocks in my throat more than once. I adored the character and become more than a bit besotted with Olivier, he was such a sweet and thoughtful man. I want one just like him and seem to be experiencing an intense urge to wander the French countryside and stalk tour coaches in search of a hot travel guide. I was totally cheated by my last excursion, as the guide I was assigned appeared better suited for Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley, and I don’t mean that in a complimentary way. I scooped two new addition to my Brit Word List with over–egging – to overdo or exaggerate; and a bit of a doss – which is slang for an easy piece of work or convenient place to sleep.
Author Bio
Victoria Cooke grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters and when she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in her hand, she loves working out in the gym and traveling. Victoria was first published at the tender age of eight by her classroom teacher who saw potential in a six-page story about an invisible man. Since then she’s always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first romantic comedy novel, ‘The Secret to Falling in Love,’ in 2016.
Cooke’s third novel, Who Needs Men Anyway? became a digital bestseller in 2018.
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Publisher: Park Row; Original edition (January 29, 2019)
In this electrifying psychological thriller, a high-powered sociopath meets his reckoning when he’s accused of the brutal murder of his mistress.
Did he kill Charlie Doyle? And if he didn’t…who did?
Peter Caine, a cutthroat Manhattan defense attorney, worked ruthlessly to become the best at his job. On the surface, he is charming and handsome, but inside he is cold and heartless. He fights without remorse to acquit murderers, pedophiles and rapists.
When Charlie Doyle, the daughter of the Manhattan DA—and Peter’s former lover—is murdered, Peter’s world is quickly sent into a tailspin. He becomes the prime suspect as the DA, a professional enemy of Peter’s, embarks on a witch hunt to avenge his daughter’s death, stopping at nothing to ensure Peter is found guilty of the murder.
In the challenge of his career and his life, Peter races against the clock to prove his innocence. As the evidence mounts against him, he’s forced to begin unraveling his own dark web of lies and confront the sins of his past. But the truth of who killed Charlie Doyle is more twisted and sinister than anyone could have imagined…
“A.F. Brady delivers a knockout sophomore effort. Peter Caine has a very Patrick Bateman air about him, and the whole story sizzles with sinister madness and incessant tension right to the last page. Not to be missed.” —J.T. Ellison, NYT Bestselling author of Tear Me Apart
“A smart, nuanced and spine-chilling portrayal of a sociopath walking among us… Brady’s depth of knowledge and skillful hand make us root for him in spite of everything he may—or may not—have done. Once a Liar is a thriller you won’t soon forget.” —Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
“Brady is a master of intense characters and riveting storylines.” —Kaira Rouda, bestselling author of Best Day Ever and The Favorite Daughter
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
Claire has been living in my house for eight years, but I still can’t fully acclimate to cohabitating with another human being with her own will and own needs… I still stumble over her things, crash into her when she stands between me and my destination and I can never remember how she takes her coffee.
I realize that I am lying to myself as much as I’m lying to everyone else. I’m not in control, and I see now that I never have been. I’ve just lied so much that I believe myself.
“You, sir—” he leans forward and bores a hole in my face with his penetrating eyes “— have a monster inside of you. The only question is, can you keep it contained? That is up to you and you alone.”
My Review:
I was enthralled by this deviously clever tale of Peter Caine, a highly successful and brilliant criminal defense attorney who had become as contemptible and loathsome as the wealthy yet repulsive criminals he represented. Peter didn’t start out that way but had become morally bankrupt, a prolific liar, a social fraud, a manipulative and narcissistic sociopath, and an atrocious human being. He had callously abandoned his child and avoided having any type of relationship with him, seeing his mere existence as a nuisance until deciding that taking custody of his motherless child would be good for his image. He put on a performance when required in public but he had long ago buried his emotional self and selfishly found human interactions to be an arduous waste of his energy. But was he a murderer? I couldn’t decide, but I really didn’t think so as he seemed too arrogant and emotionally lazy to have committed such a passionate act, although… he might well have if he felt his well-crafted persona was threatened.
Peter was despicable and I despised him, deeply; yet the wily wordsmith known as A. F. Brady wove such a beguiling tale I was incapable of putting my Kindle down. Her word voodoo was far too strong. I was captivated, too invested, hopelessly intrigued, and deeply engrossed. I couldn’t tear myself away from this cunningly contrived story and read it in a day. The storylines were adroitly plotted, insidiously sly, and quickly sucked me into the vile vortex of Peter’s inner musings. I don’t believe I even took a full breath until the last page. It was wicked good!
About A. F. Brady
A.F. Brady is a New York State Licensed Mental Health Counselor/Psychotherapist. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology from Brown University and two Masters degrees in Psychological Counseling from Columbia University. She is a life-long New Yorker and resides in Manhattan with her husband and their family.
A cryptic message from an old friend leads Joe Grabarz to an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of the South Downs. But Joe is too late, someone else has got there first: his friend is dead, and all the evidence points to him.
Ten years ago the farmhouse was the scene of three infamous murders when a young boy killed his mother, father, and little sister. Now an adult, he was released from prison with a new identity. Could he be involved? The farmhouse also sits on valuable land, fought over in a struggle between building houses and drilling for shale gas. But could it really be worth killing for? Whatever is going on, Joe knows one thing for sure: his friend’s murder is just a tiny part of it.
To bring the killer to justice Joe must dig up the past, and reckon with his own, because no matter how hard you work, it never goes away.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
He had a strong nose with a bridge that could support haulage, a jaw that could grind stones, and a face that rested in a scowl.
He didn’t reply for a couple of minutes, going over the story in his head, different wrinkles twitching as though his face was being prickled with electricity.
That look could boil an egg.
We’re not all carnivores… not all the time. It’s the lifecycle of a lawyer, Mr Grabarz: you start out with morals, then pretty soon you have to pay your rent so you sell them, then before you know it you’ve got a Mercedes on the drive and you desperately try to buy them back.
She had a mass of curly red hair that spilled out in all directions, and wore a purple one of those fashionable but comfy Scandinavian jumpers under a blue Anorak. In the middle of it all sat the sort of face that instantly inspires friendly feelings. They should make her as a cuddly doll for children who can’t sleep.
My Review:
It Never Goes Away picked up three years after the end of the last book and Joe had been quite prosperous in between as he was enjoying a nicer apartment, better wardrobe with Italian leather shoes, a nice new office with associates, and was driving a Jag. He feared he had gotten soft, and too bad for him, this tale was none stop danger and high activity with car chases and crashes and running for his life from violent criminals while also dodging the police. The story has as many twists and turns as a nest of snakes and was as complicated as the highly compelling characters of Joe and his arch nemesis, Max. I will admit to falling into a fuzzy state of confusion more than once, but I’d follow the enigmatic Joe through a blizzard as he is like my mailman – he may occasionally be late but he always delivers.
New additions to my Brit word list include prang – which is British informal for a car crash; and near the knuckle – a risqué joke, typically about sex and likely to offend. Mr. Google was unable to help me with the idiom of a man being “far too wet” but I am assuming it means wimpy. But you know what usually happens when I ass/u/me…
Author Bio
Born in Brighton, I went to school in here, worked many jobs here, and have never lived anywhere else. I first started writing at school, where I and a group of friends devised and performed comedy plays for assemblies, much to the amusement of our fellow pupils. The young ones would cheer (and the old ones would groan) as we stepped up onto the stage, the buzz was tangible. It has been with me ever since.
As an adult I have written a short comedy play that was performed at the Theatre Royal Brighton in May 2014 as part of the Brighton Festival; Daye’s Work, a television pilot for the local Brighton channel; and won the Empire Award (thriller category) in the 2015 New York Screenplay Contest. I published my first novel, You Can’t Make Old Friends, in 2016; my second, Choose Your Parents Wisely, in 2017, my third, The Benevolent Dictator, in 2018, and now my fourth, It Never Goes Away, in 2019. When I’m not writing books, I’m writing about writing, books, and film on Medium.
My inspirations as a writer come from a diverse range of storytellers, but I have a particular love for the works of Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Joel & Ethan Coen, Arthur Conan-Doyle, Daphne du Maurier, Alfred Hitchcock, Bryan Fuller, Ira Levin, Quentin Tarantino, Robert Towne, JRR Tolkien, and many many more books and films beside. If you can’t find me, or I’m not answering my phone, I’m probably at the cinema.
It’s been three days, and now everyone in Brighton is looking for her. There is an army of police searching, her picture is on every front page, and the public can’t get enough of it. Gangs of good citizens are going door to door, turning their neighbors’ houses upside down, but still, no one can find her.
For Brighton’s No.1 Private Detective, Joe Grabarz, it brings back too many memories of his first case, another missing girl, when he learned too many lessons the hard way. No one was going door to door then. No one cared. But her mum and dad weren’t nearly as photogenic, nor quite so saintly.
It’s a lesson Joe learned long ago that has come back to haunt him: choose your parents wisely.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
Despite being only fifty-something she had the coiffured helmet of hair you expect to see on a pensioner. Hairsprayed to the point where it could be removed in one piece and swapped for something different. Except that it couldn’t, of course, because if it could there was no way you would choose that one. I could see why her husband had left her, I couldn’t live with that hair either.
I had broken my oath to stay calm. In fact I had probably broken a record for the fastest broken oath in history. But that was just a practice run. From now on. Again: I will stay calm.
I’ve always known there was something wrong with me. They say the secret ingredient when making a baby is love. I’m what you get when you leave it out.
This was a place where in twilight elves lurked and fairies larked. But right now, rich people were lurking and larking instead.
My Review:
Thomas Trott has provided another compelling and clever read which was a bit dark, twisted, and complicated, while also smartly crafted, quickly paced, and cunningly plotted. Choose Your Parents Wisely involved three mysteries and two timelines. The timelines narrated his first and most recent cases, each with missing children, and were despairingly similar. The third mystery involved his questionable parentage, which I was never quite certain if the background info was accurate or a possible shakedown. The two timelines were not clearly delineated, nor were they always easily differentiated, which was occasionally frustrating but I was up for the challenge as I adore Mr. Trott’s stylized writing, oddly compelling characters, sardonic humor, and the stealthily placed levity he deftly laced among the tense and dangerous situations our tarnished hero, Joe Grabarz, found himself in. I am enamored with Joe; he appears to be a tried and true smart ass, yet he has a soft heart. Joe would quickly agree to my first observation but would hotly deny the later. I adored his witty banter and snarky quips; even his meaningless conversations often appeared to be amusingly combative. Lucky me, I have one more grand adventure ahead with the enigmatic shamus as I have the newest installment, It Never Goes Away, patiently idling on my new Kindle.
Author Bio
Born in Brighton, I went to school in here, worked many jobs here, and have never lived anywhere else. I first started writing at school, where I and a group of friends devised and performed comedy plays for assemblies, much to the amusement of our fellow pupils. The young ones would cheer (and the old ones would groan) as we stepped up onto the stage, the buzz was tangible. It has been with me ever since.
As an adult I have written a short comedy play that was performed at the Theatre Royal Brighton in May 2014 as part of the Brighton Festival; Daye’s Work, a television pilot for the local Brighton channel; and won the Empire Award (thriller category) in the 2015 New York Screenplay Contest. I published my first novel, You Can’t Make Old Friends, in 2016; my second, Choose Your Parents Wisely, in 2017, my third, The Benevolent Dictator, in 2018, and now my fourth, It Never Goes Away, in 2019. When I’m not writing books, I’m writing about writing, books, and film on Medium.
My inspirations as a writer come from a diverse range of storytellers, but I have a particular love for the works of Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Joel & Ethan Coen, Arthur Conan-Doyle, Daphne du Maurier, Alfred Hitchcock, Bryan Fuller, Ira Levin, Quentin Tarantino, Robert Towne, JRR Tolkien, and many many more books and films beside. If you can’t find me, or I’m not answering my phone, I’m probably at the cinema.
Blacklisted by the police. Being sued by a client. And broke. Things can’t get any worse for Brighton’s No.1 Private Detective, Joe Grabarz.
That’s when his best friend’s body washes up on the beach.
Could it really have been ten years? What happened? How could his life have ended like this? He needs answers.
But with the city in the grips of organized crime, and struggling to deal with an influx of legal highs, who cares about just another dead drug dealer?
Joe, that’s who. After all, you can’t make old friends.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
I’ve been on the beach at two a.m. and found it just as packed as during the day. Full of people lighting pointless disposable barbecues and pouring vodka into a watermelon for no good reason.
I must be off my game. Being around her was like putting a magnet next to a compass.
‘I love lawyers.’ I smiled as genuinely as I could pretend, ‘Estate Agents. Politicians. Anyone who makes me feel like I have scruples.’
He was wearing a polo-neck with some kind of symbol over the left breast. What symbol doesn’t matter, just the presence of a logo seems to say “I can afford to buy nice things, unlike you”, although a lot of the time it just says “I have more money than sense.”
I have never felt scruffier than when I walked inside those doors. The way the guy on the reception desk’s eyes bulged when he saw me I might have been a marauding crackhead about to chow-down on his limbs.
You know, most people grow up to regret bullying people. The other people are psychopaths. If I was charitable I’d say he hadn’t grown up yet.
You were as thick as thieves then, and look at you now: still thick and still thieves.
My Review:
I have a new author to fangirl and lucky me, I have two more of his books to read already loaded on my shiny new Kindle. I am totally enamored with the cunningly talented Thomas Trott, his agile writing style was top-shelf entertainment with sly snark, colorfully amusing descriptions, prickling intrigue that continually jabbed at my curiosity, and compelling characters who were tattered and besmirched yet remained endearing with a battered but not beaten vibe. I frequently smirked and occasionally cringed, yet I didn’t want to put this captivating tale down despite the periodic gruesome finds and crime scenes, as the quirkiness of the character’s inner musings and unusual encounters kept beckoning to me. Mr. Trott is surreptitiously sneaky and cleverly slipped in wry humor in the most unexpected places; I bet he is a total caution at parties. And score – I have three new additions to my Brit word list with: half-inch – which is to steal; chav – a subculture of aggressive hooligans who wear designer clothes; and nonic – a conical shaped pint glass used in British pubs.
And now a moment in memoriam of my beloved faithful servant, Redhot. Sob, I am heartbroken to report I had to lay my precious red Kindle to rest (in a tissue lined box and placed in a bottom drawer). My dear Redhot apparently expired from exhaustion and could not be revived despite repeated attempts at defibrillation. Her canary blonde replacement was immediately placed into service and was dubbed as Ms. Bombshell. Bombshell has been primed with Mr. Trott’s next Brighton adventure, Choose Your Parents Wisely.
Author Bio
Born in Brighton, I went to school in here, worked many jobs here, and have never lived anywhere else. I first started writing at school, where I and a group of friends devised and performed comedy plays for assemblies, much to the amusement of our fellow pupils. The young ones would cheer (and the old ones would groan) as we stepped up onto the stage, the buzz was tangible. It has been with me ever since.
As an adult I have written a short comedy play that was performed at the Theatre Royal Brighton in May 2014 as part of the Brighton Festival; Daye’s Work, a television pilot for the local Brighton channel; and won the Empire Award (thriller category) in the 2015 New York Screenplay Contest. I published my first novel, You Can’t Make Old Friends, in 2016; my second, Choose Your Parents Wisely, in 2017, my third, The Benevolent Dictator, in 2018, and now my fourth, It Never Goes Away, in 2019. When I’m not writing books, I’m writing about writing, books, and film on Medium.
My inspirations as a writer come from a diverse range of storytellers, but I have a particular love for the works of Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Joel & Ethan Coen, Arthur Conan-Doyle, Daphne du Maurier, Alfred Hitchcock, Bryan Fuller, Ira Levin, Quentin Tarantino, Robert Towne, JRR Tolkien, and many many more books and films beside. If you can’t find me, or I’m not answering my phone, I’m probably at the cinema.
For attorney Mick McFarland, the evidence is damning. And so are the family secrets in this twisty legal thriller from the Amazon Charts bestselling author of A Criminal Defense.
When crime lord Jimmy Nunzio is caught, knife in hand, over the body of his daughter’s lover and his own archenemy, he turns to Mick McFarland to take up his defense. Usually the courtroom puppeteer, McFarland quickly finds himself at the end of Nunzio’s strings. Struggling to find grounds for a not-guilty verdict on behalf of a well-known killer, Mick is hamstrung by Nunzio’s refusal to tell him what really happened.
On the other side of the law, Mick’s wife, Piper, is working to free Darlene Dowd, a young woman sentenced to life in prison for her abusive father’s violent death. But the jury that convicted Darlene heard only part of the truth, and Piper will do anything to reveal the rest and prove Darlene’s innocence.
As Mick finds himself in the middle of a mob war, Piper delves deeper into Darlene’s past. Both will discover dark secrets that link these fathers and daughters—some that protect, some that destroy, and some that can’t stay hidden forever. No matter the risk.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
If you’re suggesting he agree to be conscripted into witness protection, I just don’t see Jimmy Nunzio letting you move him to Iowa to sell fire insurance.
I don’t need to spend any time thinking about him. He does enough thinking about himself for all of us.
I never met people who could talk so much without saying anything. It felt like they were blowing words into the air to fill up the space between us.
Mick can tell he’s having a good time dragging out the tale. “I feel like a marlin,” Mick says. “You’re pulling me in, letting me out, pulling me in.”
He couldn’t incite the Philadelphia jury any more skillfully than if he flashed pictures of Nunzio urinating on the Rocky statue.
My Review:
A Killer’s Alibi was an active and compelling read with a near constant series of surprising twists and turns before culminating into an ending I never saw coming. It was ingenious, devilishly clever, and tautly written. This was my first exposure to the talented word skills of William L. Myers, Jr. and I was awed by his devious plotting and compelling storytelling. The complex storylines were maddeningly paced, skillfully crafted, and involved two separate investigations and trials employing the same law firm, each with myriad conundrums and laced with tetchy witnesses who seemed incapable of giving a straight answer. I devised and cast off a notebook full of theories but would never have arrived at the final conclusion. It was stellar.
About William L. Myers, Jr.
William L. Myers, Jr., is the author of the bestselling Philadelphia Legal series, which includes the #1 Kindle bestseller A Criminal Defense, An Engineered Injustice, and A Killer’s Alibi. A Philadelphia lawyer with thirty years of trial experience in state and federal courts up and down the East Coast, Myers has argued before the United States Supreme Court and still actively practices law. Myers was born into a proud working-class family; graduated from the University of Pennsylvania School of Law; and now lives with his wife, Lisa, in the western suburbs of Philadelphia.
Title: HWY 550 Author: Freya Barker
Genre: MC Romance Release Date: February 17th, 2019 Hosted by:Buoni Amici Press, LLC.
Special Agent Luna Roosberg lives and breathes her job. Who needs a personal life when work is so rewarding? When a new case sends her to investigate a local motorcycle club, covering as the president’s new flavor of the week, the lines between professional and personal quickly start to blur. Although the Arrow’s Edge MC stays mostly on the right side of the law since Ouray took the gavel, the appearance of the feds at their gate can still rattle his cage. When a string of robberies points squarely in Ouray’s direction, he’s forced to cooperate and put the blonde, prim and proper half-pint on the back of his bike. With pressure mounting both in—and outside—the club, Ouray no longer knows who he can trust, except the woman who is shaking up his life—and stirring his blood.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
On my best day, I’m not the most sociable person, and this afternoon required me to use up my quota of nice for the week.
I swear the man is probing for my tonsils, his tongue is so far down my throat, and all I can do is go along for the ride.
I’ve turned to putty in her hands. Lovesick bastard. Never thought I’d catch that particular disease, but here I am, gaining on fifty and drinking the Kool-aid, so to speak.
I’ve always been clear on what I don’t want— so it doesn’t take a lot for me to know when what’s in front of me is exactly what I’ve been holding out for.
My Review:
I was engaged and engrossed in this intriguing and entertaining tale of romantic suspense featuring an uptight and petite FBI agent with something to prove and a burly MC club President with a soft heart for street urchins and ugly dogs. Sounds like a highly unlikely pairing but they were tossed together when a string of violent robberies appeared to be framing Ouray and the MC and Luna was the best choice as the agent to send undercover. The line between professional and personal was quickly smudged and gradually blurred before being totally erased. But, really, how could she resist a big-hearted and magnetically sexy man who rescued children and handled her with wizened respect, patience, and sizzling hot kisses?
I adored this sassy couple as well as the large group of likable and oddly compelling secondary characters on both sides of the law. The multiple storylines were active and cunningly paced while taunting and stimulating my curiosity with cleverly contrived suspense when all the while a steamy romance and sweet rescue of a preteen runaway with his own special needs were progressing right along. Freya Barker just gets better and better.
Freya Barker inspires with her stories about ‘real’ people, perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy.
She is the author of the Cedar Tree and Portland, ME Series, the Northern Lights Collection and the Rock Point Series. She is also co-author of the SnapShot Series.
To see Freya’s complete backlist, or to find out what is coming down the pipe, visit freyabarker.com.
19-year-old Sean hasn’t seen his father since he was twelve. His mother has never really explained why. An argument with her leads to his moving to the other side of the country.
Martin, his father, has his life thrown into turmoil when the son he hasn’t seen in nearly eight years strolls back into his life immediately killing his dog and hospitalizing his step-daughter.
The one thing they have in common is the friendship of a girl called Rhiannon.
Over the course of one summer Sean experiences sexual awakenings from all angles, discovers the fleeting nature of friendship and learns to cope with rejection.
Martin, meanwhile, struggles to reconnect with Sean while trying to delicately turn down the increasingly inappropriate advances of a girl he sees as a surrogate daughter and keep a struggling marriage alive.
Gap Years is an exploration of what it means to be a man in the 21st Century seen from two very different perspectives – neatly hidden inside a funny story about bicycles, guitars, and unrequited love.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
I would rather be in the same place as she is than not – I think that’s the very definition of romantic love. Or stalking.
I am being taken over by some kind of unaccustomed machismo, I can almost feel the testosterone waking up from its long sleep, trying to remember what to do.
I am a product of my upbringing. I grew up in Devon in the 1970s, where diversity was something to do with crop rotation.
Luckily, I am aware of my own hypochondria. When I was ten, my mum took away the old medical dictionary I found at a jumble sale after I insisted I had bubonic plague.
I trawl employment websites in search of an alternative but nothing ever seems verifiably better. The grass may always be greener on the other side, but the bridges are fiercely guarded by trolls.
‘Okay, I get it,’ she says. ‘I won’t try it on again. I can wait.’ She looks slyly up at me from under thick eyelashes. ‘Or maybe find myself some kind of… substitute, to tide me over.’ I don’t think I want to know what that means, but I’m assuming batteries.
My Review:
I stumbled upon this wily author and became an instant fangirl after picking up his last wickedly clever novel, TheCraft Room. His smirk-worthy humor was again delivered with ninja-like stealth and conjured keen visuals of the outlandish and ridiculously amusing situations and scenarios the wondrously odd characters are either experiencing or imagining. Written in a dual POV of Sean, a socially awkward, somewhat oblivious, sexually confused, and aimless nineteen-year-old male and Martin, the estranged father he had recently sought out. They had nothing in common other than DNA. The narrative was highly entertaining and uniquely engaging while generally consisting of anxious inner musings, oddly befuddled exchanges, wittily narcissistic insights, and canny observations that were rife with self-effacing humor. All the characters were endearingly quirky train wrecks and profanely talented in the use of creative expletives. I adored their odd allure and awaited the imminent implosion of all that combined dysfunction – my patience was duly rewarded. I am enamored with the talented scribbler Dave Holwill and unrepentantly covet his peculiar characters, clever wordplay, and highly original vulgarities. He has mad skills.
About the Author
Dave Holwill was born in Guildford in 1977 and quickly decided that he preferred the Westcountry – moving to Devon in 1983 (with some input from his parents).
After an expensive (and possibly wasted) education there, he has worked variously as a postman, a framer, and a print department manager (though if you are the only person in the department then can you really be called a manager?) all whilst continuing to play in every kind of band imaginable on most instruments you can think of. Gap Years is his third novel – following on the heels of Weekend Rockstars and The Craft Room, and he is currently working on the fourth (a folk horror set in his native mid-Devon) and a sequel to Weekend Rockstars.
Don’t miss the new delightfully uplifting book from the author of A Recipe for Disaster!
A second chance at love…
When globe-trotting Emmy first fell for first-aider William on a freezing New Year’s Eve, she really believed that their love would go the distance.
But when she returns to Australia, her letters start to go unanswered and her emails bounce back unread, Emmy decides it’s time to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and start afresh in London.
So she’s shocked when William walks in on her very first day at her new job! Even worse, he’s hotter than ever. But why did he disappear for so long? What has he been hiding? And could this really be their second chance at falling in love…?
Perfect for fans of Carole Mathews, Mhairi McFarlane, and Carrie Hope Fletcher.
My Rating:
Favorite Quotes:
‘Do you need money? I’ve got some money. What about condoms. Josh, have you got any spare?’ … ‘No, I don’t need money, it’s fine. And I certainly don’t need Josh’s contraceptives.’ He tutted. ‘It’s not like it’s been used, Em.’
Are they rated five-star? I’ll have you know I cannot possibly lower my standards after the holiday I’ve had. Farting boys and vomit-stained shoes, infidelity-inspired fights, and cheap souvenirs are nothing to sniff at.
‘All the sunscreen in the world can’t protect this pale English skin, baby. Look at it, it’s…’ ‘… alabaster?’ I tried. ‘Well, I was going to say porcelain, but alabaster sounds less like a toilet, doesn’t it?’
You’ll be well chuffed to know I delivered a baby today. Well, not technically mine. I didn’t birth it, nor did it come out of me, but I happened to be in the right place at the right time… Hats off to any woman that ever wants to put their body through that because I am completely okay with being a boy right now. If I kept a gratitude journal, it might read something like this: Today I am grateful for: my penis. W
Things weren’t great in the land of real estate… Her boss had given her the stink-eye more than once when she’d delivered the news that the Hawes property in Chelsea was a no-go, and that the buyers in Kensington had backed out quicker than a one-night stand running for the bus.
He’s a peach, Em… A peach that’s fallen to the ground and is riddled with worms.
My Review:
I smirked my way through this refreshingly crisp and delightfully written tale. The writing was loaded with plucky humor, sharp wit, and clever banter, and I adored Ms. Missen’s lively and endearing characters. The unique storylines were active, well-paced, keenly engaging, and held my interest throughout while prickling my curiosity with a bit of intrigue. How many love stories start with a punch in the face to the female lead?
About the Author
Belinda Missen is an award-winning and best-selling author, screenwriter, and freelance writer from Geelong, Australia. She lives with her car-obsessed, but wonderful husband, two loopy cats, and more books than she cares to count.
In late 2017, Belinda signed a six-book contract with HQDigitalUK (HarperCollins). A Recipe for Disaster was released in August 2018. An Impossible Thing Called Love appeared by magic in November 2018.
Motion, the first in the all-new Laws of Physics Trilogy from Wall Street Journal and New York Times bestselling author Penny Reid, is available now!
One week.
Home alone.
Girl genius.
Unrepentant slacker.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Mona is a smart girl and had everything figured out a long time ago. She had to. She didn’t have a choice. When your parents are uber-celebrities and you graduate from high school at thirteen, finish college at seventeen, and start your Ph.D. program at eighteen, you don’t have time for distractions outside of your foci. Even fun is scheduled.
Which is why Abram, her brother’s best friend, is such an irritant.
Abram is a talented guy, a supremely gifted musician, and has absolutely nothing figured out, nor does he seem to care. He does what he feels, when he feels, and—in Mona’s opinion—he makes her feel entirely too much.
Laws of Physics is the second trilogy in the Hypothesis series; Laws of Physics parts 1 (MOTION) & 2 (SPACE) end with a cliffhanger.
Talking to her was like arguing with a flat-earther. Ignorance plus arrogance is why we can’t have nice things!
Gabby was a nebulous assemblage of unscrupulousness and exasperating nonsense, and we’d likely never be friends again, but she was undoubtedly charming when she wanted to be.
My Review:
I am awed, enamored with, and flummoxed by Penny Reid. She is the only wordsmith I know who could simultaneously create tension and levity with prunes, Moby Dick, and whale poop. She has stunningly strong word voodoo and magical storytelling skills that mesmerized and fuzzed my sense of reality and time as I somehow lost an entire afternoon to Mona and Abram, and I didn’t even swear at the abrupt cliffhanger, which is so unlike me. I just may have slipped into a mild fugue state on the final page of Motion, I don’t seem to have the words to propel myself from this limbo and fear I may remain in this slightly dazed predicament until the next installment hits my Kindle. Please hurry, Ms. Reid.
My stomach rumbled, long and loud, and I pressed my hand against it. Grunting into the darkness, I tossed off the covers and stood from Lisa’s bed. Food on my mind, I slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The kitchen was dark, but instead of flipping on a light—which might’ve alerted Abram as to my whereabouts . . . which he probably didn’t care about so long as “Lisa wasn’t doing anything crazy”—I crept on quiet feet to the fridge and opened it.
Momentarily dazzled by the bright light within, it took several seconds of squinting and blinking before the scant contents became visible. I frowned. In addition to the pizza box, two suspicious-looking containers of Chinese takeout, and various condiments, I found: shredded cheddar/jack cheese blend, a zucchini, a half a pint of mushrooms, and hot salsa. Opening the hot salsa, I smelled it, and then I dipped my pinkie inside and tasted it while examining the lid. It looked, smelled, and tasted fine.
Placing my finds on the island counter, I shut the fridge. The sudden extinguishing of the bright light meant that the kitchen was now pitch black. Shrugging off my lack of sight, I extended my arms and blindly felt my way over to the pantry until my hands connected with the torso of a person.
A person.
A PERSON!
I jumped back on instinct, my leg hitting one of the stools at the island counter and sending it crashing to the ground. My heart in my throat, I screamed, turned, and darted forward, but my feet tangled with the felled stool and I pitched, bracing myself for a gravitational collision with unseen wooden bars and a granite stool top.
But then strong arms caught me, deftly spinning and lifting me into the air. Cold dread rushed through my body, tensing every muscle. I couldn’t think. I didn’t think. Instinctively, my legs and fists pumped, fighting against my captor. Rocks in my throat as I readied another scream, a hand covered my mouth just as I belted it out.
“Whoa! Calm down. It’s me.” Abram’s voice at my ear soothed, his bulky arm a tight band around my torso, my back to his front, my feet not touching the ground. “Calm down. Shhh. Calm down.”
Hot breath teased my hair and neck, and I stilled, relief at discovering it was Abram didn’t quite chase away the viral panic still attached to my hemoglobin, coursing through my veins. I shook. I was shaking. And I was gasping through my nose, greedy for air.
Perhaps he heard or felt my strained breathing because his arm loosened, lowering my feet to the ground, and his hand covering my mouth slid away. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I said, not sounding convincing. Truth was, I felt like throwing up. “Can you, uh, let me go?”
His arms immediately fell away and I stupidly rushed forward, once more crashing into the stool.
I heard Abram mutter a curse under his breath just as he caught me again, lifting me off the ground again, and saving me—again—from another gravitational collision. This time he turned us away from the stool and carried me across the room.
I didn’t fight him this time. In fact, I relaxed into him. Wired and exhausted, but mostly embarrassed, I allowed myself to be transported without protest. We left the kitchen and I was finally able to see dim outlines of furniture and walls, courtesy of the streetlamp illumination spilling through the windows of the living room.
Abram carried me to my mother’s favorite piece of furniture in our house, a gold velvet chaise lounge said to have once belonged to Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Bonaparte. Depositing me on the soft surface, Abram crossed to one of the Tiffany lamps and pulled the chain, bathing the room in soft blue and yellow, colored light filtering through the stained glass.
He then returned, knelt in front of me, one hand on my leg, the other cupping my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, cleared my throat, unable to lift my eyes higher than his black T-shirt, and said again, “Yes.”
He blew out a breath, pushing his fingers through my hair. By doing so, he forced my chin up and caught my gaze. That wrinkle of worry appeared between his eyebrows, and his very pretty eyes—which glowed and sparkled like polished amber cabochons—moved between mine.
“You really freaked out.”
I stiffened, gritting my teeth and yanking my head back, out of his reach. “I didn’t know you were there.”
Watching me with watchful watchfulness, he let his hand drop slowly until it rested on my left leg, next to his other hand which covered my right knee. “I said your name—twice—when I walked in.”
“I didn’t hear you.” I glanced from his eyes to where his palms were hot on my skin. “And I couldn’t see. I’d just shut the fridge, my eyes hadn’t adjusted.”
“Did you think I was a robber?” His left eyebrow lifted as did the side of his mouth, just a hint.
Clearly, he was trying to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, I still felt shaky. And embarrassed.
“I- I didn’t think,” I admitted, releasing an unsteady breath. “I wasn’t thinking. Sorry I fell.”
“No need to apologize. It wasn’t like you could help it.”
“Yeah. Gravity can be such a downer.”
He made a light, laughing sound. “What?”
“Uh, nothing. Whatever.” No physics jokes!
His frown returned, his fingers flexing slightly on my legs. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Reaching for his hands, I removed them from my knees, setting them away. “I’m really fine. I just don’t like—”
He glanced at my knees. “Being touched?”
“When it’s unexpected.” I crossed my arms.
“That makes sense. But your reaction, even after you knew it was me—” He paused and sat back on his heels, as though debating how to continue and finally settling on, “It was a big reaction.” Abram continued to study me with his big, pretty, knowing brown eyes. “Hey, I would never hurt you.”
I winced, just a little, my gaze falling to my knees where his hands had been. I wanted to huff a laugh and roll my eyes, maybe say something like, I know, don’t be ridiculous.
But the word “Okay,” small and fragile sounding, slipped out instead. I immediately wished it back, because I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know why I’d said it, and I hated not knowing.
Get ahold of yourself, Mona. Pull it together. You are fine. Nothing happened.
Meanwhile, he continued his examination of me, I felt his stare, assessing my downturned face. “Out of curiosity, and no big deal if you don’t want to say, but did something happen to you this last year?”
My back straightened and I sucked in a slow, deep breath before asking calmly, “Like what?”
“You’re very . . . different than you were before.”
“Because I don’t want you touching me?” I tried to infuse my words with challenge, strength—wanting to shake off any earlier impression of weakness—and mostly succeeded. Peeking at him, I gauged his reaction from behind a hastily built wall of dispassion.
But then Abram dropped his chin to his chest, a massive grin lighting his features, and the fragrance of him hit me. My lashes fluttered as though he’d blown dust in my eyes, penetrating my wobbly wall of dispassion and sending it crumbling to the ground.
God, he smelled so good, and—unlike visual stimuli—I couldn’t stop whatever cascade of relaxing, soothing, melting awareness smelling his scent set off. Unthinkingly, I leaned forward an inch, chasing and inhaling the smell of him while he cleared his throat, like he was trying not to laugh.
Why he was fighting a laugh, I didn’t know, but the apparent genuineness of Abram’s struggle to subdue his grin only served to increase his attractiveness.
A moment later, he lifted his eyes and they connected with mine. He’d conceded to a shy smile. It was quite a smile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?” I parroted dumbly. What were we talking about? And would it be weird if I buried my nose in his neck?
“Yes. You not wanting me to touch you means that you are very different now than you were before,” he explained.
I appreciated the completeness and thoroughness of his sentence.
My cheeks were hot. I pressed my hands against them while I examined him with suspicion. What was he doing to me?
“How so?” I asked, hoping to keep him talking so I could hunt down the splintered pieces of my concentration.
His eyebrows pulled together as his shy smile became a smirk. “You’re telling me you don’t remember?”
“Tell me your version of events,” I demanded, side-stepping a lie and still holding my cheeks.
“Uhh . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, peering at me like I both confused and amused him.
I was used to confusing people, but not amusing them. My cheeks burned hotter.
“Do you even remember?” I pushed, knowing my tone was belligerent.
He made a sound like he was choking on a laugh. “Yes. It’s hard to forget waking up to a naked girl in my bed.”
Jaw dropping, my eyes grew to their maximum diameter.
Naked. Girl. In . . . bed?
“Are you serious?” I whispered, my mind darting in all directions, attempting to form a reasonable hypothesis for Lisa’s behavior and coming up completely empty. Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath.
He shook his head, giving me an astonished once-over. “You honestly don’t remember?”
My mouth opened and closed as I struggled to speak, but it was no use. I was too . . . I was too many things. Shocked. Confused. Incredulous. ANGRY.
LISA!
What had she been thinking? She’d been eighteen! How would she have liked waking up to find a strange, naked, eighteen-year-old boy in her bed?
I was beyond shocked. I was horrified. I was electrocuted by the reality of my sister’s brazen-slash-creepy quotient, because I couldn’t imagine doing anything in the same sphere of possibility. I was beginning to believe that if my twin and I were represented by a Venn diagram, our only areas of overlap would be physical. A minor sliver of shared corporal characteristics, and that was absolutely it.
“Lisa?”
Blinking at Abram, and promptly becoming tangled in his searching gaze, I realized he was still there. And I was still here. And my hands were still pressed against my cheeks as I warred with what I now identified as hot mortification.
What else could I do? I shot to my feet and marched out of the living room, dropping my hands and running up the main staircase.
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Best Selling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
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Author Bio 
A.F. Brady is a New York State Licensed Mental Health Counselor/Psychotherapist. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology from Brown University and two Masters degrees in Psychological Counseling from Columbia University. She is a life-long New Yorker and resides in Manhattan with her husband and their family.
