Publisher's Week – Boroughs Publishing Group
Yesterday we visited new worlds and alternate realities, where everything is at risk for the ultimate prize - true love. Today, on our last day *sigh* of our Publisher's Week, we are going to tug at your heartstrings. Yep, no Romance is complete without having to dab at a few tears.
To safely raise her daughter, Samantha Hollister must join wounded U.S. Army veteran
Morgan released the safety on the gun and pointed it at the floor.
Vandalism on a construction site was nothing unusual.
But this kid won dumbest delinquent of the century—having his lights on, no stealth at all, just tromping around making enough noise to raise the dead.
Morgan could give him a few lessons.
"Now," he started. And the kid turned and ran for the door. "Fuck."
Morgan was fast even with only one leg, and he leapt and brought the intruder down. He thumped the kid against the floor once, which made him moan. Morgan lifted him by the scruff of his dark hoodie and set him on the straight-backed rocking chair in the corner. Skinny kid, taller than he'd thought.
With his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, he frowned.
"Look. I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone was here."
Holy Mother. The voice was female and as familiar as his own. Samantha Hollister sat in front of him, stark fear in her shadowed eyes.
Years of friendship came flooding back. Days at the creek. Afternoons with the whole gang, eating Mrs. Hollister's cookies on this very porch. Working together in the afternoons, and her sweet young body, his for one summer before…
He shook off the memory of her touch even as his body responded to it. The good was so easily followed by the bad and a burst of anger dammed the flood of memories. "Why the hell did you run? First lesson in breaking and entering, never run. Jesus, I could have shot you, Samantha."
He wouldn't have…but he could have.
Morgan hopped over to his bed and sat. With jerky movements, he disengaged his .45 and locked the safety. The gun went back up on the windowsill above his cot, and he reached under the bed for his leg and strapped it on below his knee. "Nothing to say now, eh?"
"Are you going to tie me up?" Her voice shook.
He couldn't quite see her in the dark. "Tie you up?" He shook his head… then thought about tying her up. He cleared his throat. "What the F? Why would I tie you up?"
She paused, and the quiet caught his attention before she blew out a breath. She'd be licking her lips, a nervous habit he remembered well. "Oh, um. Just…the sound of Velcro. I thought. I wasn't sure. Maybe you were going to call the police and wanted to restrain me until they got here."
But he was caught up in the memory of her lips. He remembered a lot of things about Samantha. And the resentment he'd buried years ago rose from its perfectly happy resting place.
Meeting Miss Mystic
Zoë got up and padded to the kitchen, the phone still attached to her aching, tender ear after two solid hours of talking to Paul. The clock on her microwave read 12:05 a.m. She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine, pouring herself a small glass.
"It's after midnight here," she said. "I'm having a glass of wine."
"You pour yourself a glass. I've drunk a whole pitcher of tea in the past two hours, so I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"
"Yeah, of course," she said smiling. She felt her cheeks flush as her thoughts swiftly moved…there. He was going to the bathroom. He was going to open his pants and pull out his—
Zoë swallowed a big gulp of wine, wishing she could divert her thoughts. Instead her mind insisted on its present course, subtly changing the dynamics of the fantasy to include her sitting on the edge of his bed as he unbuttoned, then unzipped his pants, pulling them down and off his bare feet until he was just wearing boxers in front of her. She'd lean forward and hook her thumbs into the waistband of the shorts, pulling them down slowly so she could—
"Huh? Yes! I—I mean, yeah, um, I'm here."
"A little," she sighed, placing her half-finished wine glass on the coffee table and lying back on her couch, switching ears. "I lit candles in my living room an hour ago so the light's soft and warm in here…and I don't have air conditioning, but I opened the windows and there's a breeze tonight. The air's still misty from the rain earlier and it makes the smell of the sea even stronger. You know that brackish, tangy, salt water smell?"
"Mmm," he murmured. "I know it well."
"It's heavy tonight. Thick," she whispered.
"Holly." He said her name softly.
Better as a Memory
Atlanta image consultant Victoria Sharpe is about to give a makeover to the man who broke her heart in college, and a do-over to a love that always should have been.
Go the hell away.
Maybe if he just ignored the pounding on the door it would stop. And maybe ignoring the pounding in his head would make that disappear, too.
Max let hot water sluice over him as he leaned against the wall of the too-small shower stall. He had kissed her, damn it. Breathed heavy in her ear and played grab-ass like a randy teenager. She had handled the situation with far more aplomb than he deserved and had made a polite exit. Instead of reminding him of their purely business relationship, she should have kneed him right in his uncooperative groin.
Now Max was engaging in a game of regrets. He had few regrets in life, but two of them were staring him right in the face. First was his refusal of his mother's offer to let him live in the guest apartment over their garage. The living area alone exceeded the square footage of his entire studio apartment. He'd managed on his own since he'd dropped out of college, so why not continue standing on his own two feet?
The second regret was having that third—or was it the fourth?—glass of Scotch the previous night. At midnight, the Scotch might have been able to drown out the memory of Victoria's body against him, but now he was paying dearly for trying to run away from the truth that she still wielded incredible power over him, though she was clueless that she did.
When the water finally began to run cold, Max twisted the faucet handle to the off position and stepped out to let the cool morning air jolt him awake. Even in an alcohol-induced haze, he'd had trouble sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her alarmed expression when he'd had her backed up against the wall. Every time he closed his eyes, he could also swear he smelled the fresh, floral fragrance she wore and feel her body against him, soft, warm and willing. When sleep finally came about six a.m., the alarm clock abruptly interrupted it two hours later.
On behalf of everyone at Boroughs Publishing Group, THANK YOU, Kayelle for a fabulous week!
Are you an author? Fantastic. We adore authors. We're seeking submissions from writers who can deliver the emotional punch readers crave. Space cowboys, gargoyles, the hunk next-door and crusty cops welcome. Boroughs Publishing Group will not limit your imagination; we encourage creative freedom. Stick to the tropes of the genre or push the envelope, as long as you're providing well written incredible story-telling we're game. Read more: http://www.boroughspublishinggroup.com/submit
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