Category Archives: Blog Tour

I can feel my sister Amanda’s breath on my neck as she leans in. “There are a lot of single women on this trip.” She says it casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. Which, given the number of times I’ve heard this refrain, or one like it, she could be.

“Glamping appeals to women.”

“Are you sure it’s not those photos of you Lucy plastered all over your marketing materials? And how did she get you to take that shirtless one?”

“She snuck up on me,” I growl. “She blindsided me.”

Amanda snickers. “I figured.” She hmms. “I think they’re here for the eye candy.”

“No one goes on a three-day camping trip for the eye candy.”

“Sure they do,” Amanda says. “I mean, not everyone, but there’s gotta be, statistically, say, five percent of every trip that’s in it for the chance that you’ll share your tent.”

“Can it, Mandy-pants,” I say, invoking the most forbidden of all nicknames, the one coined by her nemesis in eighth grade.

I don’t even really feel guilty about it.

And Amanda, of course, is unfazed. You don’t grow up the second youngest of six kids, and the only girl, without developing an extremely thick skin. “I’m just saying, Clark. If you were a little more friendly—”

“Who says I’m not friendly?” I growl.

“Grunting in a woman’s general direction doesn’t count as being friendly.”

“I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”

“That you’re human?”

So I grunt in Amanda’s general direction because anything else I say might encourage her.

For the thousandth time, I think about how, a while back, I told my brother Brody that if my sister and mom didn’t lay off on the matchmaking and attempts to get me “back in the saddle,” I was going to hire a fake girlfriend.

It wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Not that I’d ever do something like that. I don’t lie, omit, or cheat, and that would be a falsehood on an epic scale.

And almost as much as actually being involved with another woman, it would feel like a betrayal of Emma, my late wife.

Amanda clears her throat, tilts her head, and eyes me in the mirror. “Jessa Olsen is pretty.”

God damn it. Sometimes I think my sister can read my mind. And not in a good way.

Jessa Olsen is pretty.

Earlier today, I lost an internal battle and let myself take the hungry second look at Jessa I wanted. I let my eyes linger on her wavy medium-brown hair, her lush mouth—with its little bow to the upper lip. I paused there for a long moment, contemplating that mouth, then had to move on so we wouldn’t end up with one too many tents on this trip. But that didn’t really help, because the rest of Jessa is just as beautiful. She has clear skin, brown eyes, and just a few freckles scattered on her slightly upturned nose. A tall, slim, strong body.

Small, perfect tits! my utterly predictable dick chimes in.

“She’s married,” I tell Amanda.

“She’s divorced.”

“What?” Damn. It popped out before I could stop myself. Showing curiosity about a woman around Amanda is dangerous.

And sure enough, one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows flirts with her hairline. “Her husband cheated on her.” She frowns. “It was big Rush Creek gossip for a while.”

I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”

She tilts her head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Amanda’s breath brushes my neck again. “Suffice it to say, it wasn’t pretty.”

I ride a wave of sympathy for Jessa—there’s nothing worse than public humiliation, especially when it’s unearned.

I’m lying, by the way: I want to know. I want to know the whole goddamned story.

But I’ll never hear it from Jessa’s mouth, because I’m never going to sit down with one of Emma’s friends and have a heart-to-heart. Too fucking weird. If—and I do mean if—I ever date again, it’s not going to be someone Emma was friends with.

Amanda takes a deep breath. “Clark,” she says, super gently. “We worry about you.”

“Well, quit that shit.”

“You’re 33. You can’t just be celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Who says I’m celibate? For all you know, I’m getting it on nightly.”

I’m not, for anyone who’s keeping track. There have been a few one-nighters over the past two years, all billed ahead of time as one-and-done. Everyone got what they signed up for, and if the experience left me numb, no one knew except me.

That’s how it’s going to be from now on, because I can’t do it again. Love like that. Lose like that. And know that if I’d done things differently, she might still be here.

Amanda catches my eye in the mirror, and I see the moment where she realizes I’m, for real, struggling.

She bites her lip. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Excellent choice.”

But I say it without heat. Because she’s my sister, because if I know anything in life it’s that she and my brothers and my mom love the shit out of me, and because, well…

Because I’m a fucking hypocrite.

Because ever since I allowed myself that second look at Jessa Olsen, I’ve been wishing for another one.

Vivien:

I scrambled down from the back of the ambulance and moved out of the way so the sexy, bleeding fighter could step up and climb inside. His weight caused the rig to dip. He sat down on the stretcher, his head nearly touching the ceiling, and lifted an arm to inspect his wounds on that side. By my count, there were at least four large gashes that would require stitching. Which meant I got to touch.

I looked from his torso to his face and forgot how to breathe. He was staring at me now, but his eyes didn’t look human. Were they glowing silver?

Frozen like a deer in the headlights, we stared at one another for long seconds. I swayed, suddenly light-headed.

“Breathe, female. I will not allow anyone to harm you.” Even as he bossed me, Wolf looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive and spit out my bones. Truth be told, I wasn’t opposed to the eat me alive part of the scenario, as long as he started in the right place.

Yes, he was sexy. More than that. A god. A warrior. And his huge cock seemed to be reaching for me through his thin shorts. But I was no young virgin. I was a woman. A professional. And I did have my pride. This part of town, reminding people of that fact was important if one wanted to survive.

“I can take care of myself.”

“No, you will not. Not anymore.”

What. The. Hell?