Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Choosing Happy Cover Reveal

 Madison Buchanan’s life has imploded…

Her husband left her for his nineteen-year-old intern, leaving her alone and faced with starting over in her forties. With the help of her feisty best friend, Madison reinvents herself, armed with a new look and open to new possibilities.

Sean Taylor is gorgeous, fun, and young—very young…

He hasn’t had the best of luck. Sean’s track record with women is less than stellar, but when he walks into The Den one day, he just can’t help but be captivated by a dark haired beauty with the sad eyes and killer legs. She’s a little older, but he doesn’t discriminate. More than anything, he wants to be the one to make her smile.

Sean personifies the only thing that has eluded Madison all of her life—joy…
It was meant to be a fling, something fun, with no strings and zero drama, but Sean wants something more, and Madison is just not ready. She’s lived by the rules her family, her friends, even her boss have laid out for her, but her new life is not what she expected. Being with Sean opens feelings she never thought she’d experience.
The the demands of her family and her job throw her boring, simple life into chaos, and Sean is no exception…
Madison is left with a choice. Give in to the expectations of the world around her—or choose to follow her heart and be happy.
But choosing happy is so much harder than it seems.



Samatha “Sam” Harris lives near Baltimore, Maryland with her husband David and daughter Ava. Born in Florida, she migrated north which most people agree was a little backwards. She has been an artist all of her life, a Tattoo Artist for more than ten years, and a storyteller since she was a kid.

Sam has a slightly unhealthy love for Frank Sinatra, classic movies, and Jazz and Blues music, but her first love will always be reading. From Romance, to Thrillers, to Historical Fiction and everything in between, she loves to become a part of the story. As a writer she tells the stories that she would want to read.

Twitter: @samathaharris08 ~ Facebook ~ Goodreads ~ Amazon Author Page

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Somewhere In Between
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Tuesday, August 30, 2016

J.S. Scott

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 About The Book

As an extreme-sports mogul, billionaire Micah Sinclair is comfortable taking risks. But nothing—and no one—has ever challenged him like Tessa Sullivan. He’s fascinated by the woman who’s overcome so much, including the loss of her hearing. The petite blonde dynamo, a small-town restaurateur on the Maine coast, is the most courageous person he knows, and he wants her in his bed. Now all he has to do is convince Tessa to explore their desire.
After a lifetime of loss, Tessa’s finally come to terms with her limitations. Or she would, if a certain sexy businessman weren’t pushing her to want more. And to want him. All her remaining senses are clamoring for her to touch, taste, and feel. But her doubts tell her to go slow when their passion gets too hot.
Micah’s determined to prove to Tessa that she can still have everything she’s ever wanted, including his love. But will she listen to her head—or her heart?

Teasers 














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J.S. Scott is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of steamy romance. She's an avid reader of all types of books and literature. Writing what she loves to read, J.S. Scott writes both contemporary steamy romance stories and paranormal romance erotics. They almost always feature an Alpha Male and have a happily ever after because she just can't seem to write them any other way! 

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Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Sugary Sweets Release Blitz!

.                                                       SugarySweetsebookWrap
Sugary Sweets NOW LIVE
#99cents Release Sale
Synopsis
Zara James never expected to fall in love, leaving the hopeless romantic lifestyle to her friends. She also never imagined she’d be expecting a baby and married to the one guy she fought so hard to keep at arm’s length. Faced with life’s challenges of insecurities, pregnancy hormones, and the pressures of being a new wife in the burbs of Atlanta, Georgia, Zara tries to master them one cupcake at a time. Well, that is until her world is turned upside down by one accident that could change everything.
Hatcher James knew his smart-mouthed wife was the only woman for him years ago. He just had to figure out the correct formula to make her fall in love with him. Putting together the perfect mixture of intimacy, spice, and frosting might just do the trick, and bring joy to both of their lives. As Hatcher tries to come up with the right ingredients, will all the hard work end in smoke or will they conquer life’s hurdles together, one tasty treat after another? Sugary Sweets continues the Taste of Love series as we join the gang for some comical scenes, life challenges, friendship, and most of all, love covered in sugar.
Sugary Sweets Teaser updated
About the Author
International Bestselling Author, A.M. Willard is a true believer of soul mates, and happy ever afters. She enjoys reading, sailing, and of course writing contemporary romance, and romantic comedy with some saucy scenes. Releasing her first novella of the One Night Series on April 12, 2014, has sent her on a new journey in life.
Sugary Sweets Now Live
Available Now!
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Amazon CA → http://amzn.to/2b6eewh
Coming on Nook, and Scribd soon!
Connect with A.M. Willard
Frosted Sweets Vol 1 of A Taste of Love Series is currently #FREE on #Amazon
Frosted Sweets FREE Teaser
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Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Sugary Sweets by A.M. Willard cover reveal!

Sugary Sweets Cover Reveal HTML Sugary Sweets - Cover Reveal by A.M. Willard
Sugary Sweets A Taste of Love Series Vol 2 A.M. Willard
#Preorder #iBooks #99cents #romcom
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Blurb:
Zara James never expected to fall in love, leaving the hopeless romantic lifestyle to her friends. She also never imagined she’d be expecting a baby and married to the one guy she fought so hard to keep at arm’s length. Faced with life’s challenges of insecurities, pregnancy hormones, and the pressures of being a new wife in the burbs of Atlanta, Georgia, Zara tries to master them one cupcake at a time. Well, that is until her world is turned upside down by one accident that could change everything.
Hatcher James knew his smart-mouthed wife was the only woman for him years ago. He just had to figure out the correct formula to make her fall in love with him. Putting together the perfect mixture of intimacy, spice, and frosting might just do the trick, and bring joy to both of their lives. As Hatcher tries to come up with the right ingredients, will all the hard work end in smoke or will they conquer life’s hurdles together, one tasty treat after another?
Sugary Sweets continues the Taste of Love series as we join the gang for some comical scenes, life challenges, friendship, and most of all, love covered in sugar.
Teaser Alert:
Sugary Sweets Teaser 6
About A.M. Willard
10155917_384814168347331_3753473325574257599_nInternational Bestselling Author, A.M. Willard is a true believer of soul mates, and happy ever afters. She enjoys reading, sailing, and of course writing contemporary romance, and romantic comedy with some saucy scenes. Releasing her first novella of the One Night Series on April 12, 2014, has sent her on a new journey in life.
A.M.'s passion for writing started at a young age, but with the love and support from her husband of nineteen years pushed her to follow her dreams. Once she hit that first publish button, she hasn't looked back. Publications available from A.M. Willard include the Chances Series, Love on the Screen, Fading Memories, Hearts in Florence, and A Taste of Love Series. She's also had an article published in the Writer's Monthly Review Magazine and accepted into the Romance Writers of America organization in May of 2015. A.M. Willard was born and raised in the Panhandle of Florida, but resides in Savannah GA with her husband, son, two cats, one rotten dog, two goats and her six chickens. Yes, we said chickens and goats...
Pre-Order Now for #99cents
SugarySweetsFullWrap
Where to Find A.M. Willard
Frosted Sweets Vol 1 in A Taste of Love Series
Amazon US → http://amzn.to/2auVdQF
Amazon UK → http://amzn.to/2b251r2
Amazon CA → http://amzn.to/2aH4NmT
This tour is provided by Nell's PR & Marketing
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Saturday, August 13, 2016

Excerpt of Results May Vary by Bethany Chase

RESULTS MAY VARY by Bethany Chase
Chapter 1
We two, you know have everything before us, and we shall do very great things—I have perfect faith in us. —Katherine Mansfield to John Middleton Murry, May 18, 1917
There are these two little words I know, that we all know; we learn them so early that we can’t remember when we did. They have a gravitational attraction to each other, I would say: the one word love, and the other word story. ’Cause you can have a story without love, sure; but when it comes to the kind of love you fall in, whether it’s a slow glide or a blind plunge over the edge . . . you can’t have a love without a story.
I thought I knew mine.
Adam and I had promised we would grow old together, and we had already started to. The finest creases had etched them- selves into the tender skin at the corners of his eyes, delicate as spider silk. They weren’t visible most of the time; only in our bed, when the sunlight elbowed in on us and my eyes opened to his face. I remember brushing my fingertips against them, the morning of the day I found out, in the stillness after I switched off my alarm. I remember the little pat on the butt he gave me as I hurried out the door to work. The way he nodded when I reminded him to be ready to leave by two, so we could make it to the city on time.
Because the thing that kills me the most, when I think about that day, is how damn eager I was to get there. The three of us were spilling along the Chelsea sidewalk through the early evening warmth, dodging across Twenty-first Street in front of an oncoming delivery van, hurrying to the gallery because the opening had started twenty minutes ago and the crowd around the photographs would be starting to thicken. I was walking so fast that I stubbed the toe of my favorite wedges on a piece of fractured concrete, and the ugly scratch across the beige leather made me so irritated, because at that moment, it was the most upsetting thing I could imagine going wrong all evening.
I had been looking forward to it all week. A trip into the city with Adam: the long drive from the Berkshires, down the lush green tunnel of the Taconic Parkway, then meeting up with Jonathan for this gallery opening, followed by dinner at some new restaurant in the Meatpacking District that one of Jonathan’s chef buddies had opened. I could hardly wait for the people watching: the gallerinas with their sleek ponytails, and the col- lectors, and the wannabe collectors, and all the other art world acolytes who would be idling around the party, drifting up to and away from conversations like fireflies in my yard. I would wear my new sundress and bask in the familiar pleasure at the pride Adam took in me when we were out together. After the meal, we’d stumble home to our little walk-up apartment at one o’clock in the morning and fall asleep after some tipsy sex, lulled by the distant horns of the cabs on Ninth Avenue.
And, of course, I was excited to meet Patrick, the photographer whose show it was—I’d had a migraine the night of the party for his representation with Jonathan’s girlfriend’s gallery a few months back, though I’d made Adam go without me. I’ve thought about that, since: whether things would have turned out differently if I’d been by Adam’s side that very first night. I’ve wondered it more than once. I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d missed the night of the opening, too. But the thing about what-ifs is that you can drive yourself crazy, spinning your thoughts around and around until you’re dizzy; and for all that, you only ever end up in the same place you’re standing. All you can work with is what happened. What might have happened only haunts you.
So the night of Patrick’s show, I was hurrying.
Beside me, Jonathan was hurrying, too; his girlfriend was going to be pissed at him for being late, because Jonathan is the kind of man you want to show off when you’re dating him. Look what I snagged! I captured him myself, from the wild.
But Adam, I remember, was quiet. I wonder now what was shuffling through his brain as we careened toward the party. He must have been nervous. His mind must have been one long unsettled stutter of It’s going to be fine; he’s not going to say any- thing. He has no reason to say anything. He won’t say anything. He wouldn’t. He won’t. I honestly believe that Adam had no idea what was about to happen, because as selfish as he is, as heedless and self-indulgent and emotionally greedy as I now know him to have been, he has never actually been mean.
It seems strange now that I didn’t notice how quiet he was being, but of course there’s no reason I would have paid it any particular attention on that particular walk on that particular evening. I do remember, though, that he didn’t laugh at the comment Jonathan made about Patrick’s name when we spotted it on the poster in the gallery’s window.
“By the way,” Jonathan said, pointing at the poster, “Patrick Timothy? Alicia told me his real name is Patrick Rubinowitz. But apparently that didn’t sound cool enough.”
“WASP-washing one’s ethnic surname is a time-honored tradition, Jonathan,” I said.
“Yeah, for actors and musicians. Artists are usually a little more real than that.”
“Maybe you just don’t understand,” I said. “Your last name is five letters long.”
“True,” he said, and swung open the door to the end of my marriage as I knew it.
It was quite a big deal, this opening. Patrick Timothy—or Patrick Timothy Rubinowitz, as his birth certificate would have it—was the (latest) toast of the New York art scene. Only twenty-five years old, he was being hailed as the next Mapplethorpe; in the year or so since he’d started coming to people’s attention, he’d been universally anointed by everybody who mattered as photography’s Next Big Thing. In an artistic landscape where for so long the focus had been on what could be done with the digital, Patrick was obstinately old-school. Critics fawned over his impeccable classical technique, the richness of light in his images, the depth of contrast and range of tone he coaxed from his film. And, of course, the beauty of his compositions.
The rooms of the gallery rattled with activity. Voices and laughter ricocheted off the walls and polished concrete floor, competing in volume with the Vampire Weekend song blazing out of the speakers. The crowd was exactly as I had expected: gallery girls, their equally polished but not-quite-as-artsy friends who roamed the space like nervous gazelle, and legions of downtown chicerati in Warby Parkers and high-water trousers. Next to me, a cat-faced woman flung bangled wrists wide and exclaimed to her damp-looking assistant, “This photograph . . . is . . . stunning. I have to have it for the Zolkows’ dining room. Saskia . . . will . . . love it.
As I reached for a second glass of cold sauvignon blanc from a passing server, Jonathan poked the side of my waist. “Easy now, darlin’. Don’t want you gettin’ blitzed before we even make it to dinner.”
I smacked his hand away and seized my wine. Jonathan has been teasing me about overdrinking for the last fifteen years, ever since the night my freshman-year roommate introduced me to vodka—cleverly concealed in cranberry juice—and my stomach rebelled several hours later by rejecting the vodka and the cranberry juice all over the floor of Jonathan’s dormitory bathroom. Since my roommate had disappeared into the filthy bedroom of one of the rectangle-shaped football players with whom Jonathan had been assigned to share a suite, Jonathan was the one who shepherded me back to my room across campus and somehow, out of that ignominy, our friendship was born.
I turned to see if Adam needed another glass, but he was scanning the room for something, or someone.
“Babe, wine?”
He shook his head without looking at me. “Nah, I’m good.” “What about this photo?” I said, pointing to the one the decorator had been so enamored of. “Do you agree that Saskia . . . will . . . love it?”
But instead of the eager humor I’d expected to send him leaping into the game, all I saw in his face was confusion.
“Never mind,” I said, and stepped closer to the photograph I had been studying. Shenanigans with his honest Jewish name aside, Patrick was extravagantly talented. The subject of his work was bodies. Sometimes his own, sometimes other people’s, but, in this exhibition at least, they were all men. There were a few images of Patrick with his subjects, too—nothing played for shock value, simply snapshots of the interaction between two bodies, some more overtly sensual than others. The emphasis was on the shapes created: the contrast between two different tones of skin, or the negative space defined by the curve of a hand. Patrick presented the swells and dips and curves and ridges of the human body as a landscape, in lush black and white. Most of the images were close-ups, rendering the subject almost abstract—here the arch of a flexed calf, there the graceful terrain where the shoulder merges into the neck. I wondered: Did he already have the compositions in his mind’s eye when he pressed the shutter? Or did he set the camera to keep shooting over the space of a few breaths, and then go back through the negatives to see what arrested his attention?
A voice behind me interrupted my scrutiny. “Hey, guys.” Patrick himself was standing arm in arm with Jonathan’s girlfriend Alicia, or, should I say, Patrick was tolerating Alicia while she dangled off him, giggly and friendsy-wendsy. Aside from his unquestionable talent, it was easy to see why people got so worked up about him—the kid was beautiful. He had the kind of face that cried out for magazine editorials: full lips, arresting cheekbones, puppy-dog brown eyes with curving lashes, smooth tan skin. A slightly cleft chin added dimension to his otherwise regular bone structure. This was a face that could launch a thousand crushes.
There was an awkward moment while I waited for Jonathan or Adam to introduce me, then I gave up and offered my hand. “Hi, I’m Caroline, Adam’s wife. It’s great to finally meet you.”
“I’m glad to meet you too,” Patrick said. His handshake was firm, and it lingered. “You had a headache the night of the party, right?”
“I did. But I’m in fighting shape this evening,” I said, lifting my wine glass briefly. “Your work is remarkable. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Agreed,” said Jonathan. “Incredible stuff, man.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said. He was studying me so intently that my skin prickled with self-consciousness. It wasn’t a sexy stare— Patrick’s artwork broadcast resolute disinterest in women—but there was a curiosity about it that I wasn’t expecting. The guy was looking at me like I was a foreign exchange student who’d showed up in the middle of homeroom. In a Stormtrooper outfit. “You had a little help showing it off,” whined Alicia in a way I suppose she thought was cute, and bumped her hip against him chidingly. Patrick didn’t remotely strike me as the kind of gay man who calls his female friends “gurlfriend” and swaps catty observations from behind fruity cocktails, but apparently Alicia had never gotten that memo, because she was trying to make it happen. The predictable effects of Jonathan’s Tennessee growl and rugged, unstudied masculinity had led me to dub him “the Panty Blaster” by the end of our freshman year—and when he got lazy, he tended to end up with physically ripe but intellectually low-hanging fruit. And then we all suffered.
“Indeed I did,” Patrick said, favoring Alicia with a lazy smile. His eyes drifted to Adam, like he was expecting something.
“It’s great,” said Adam, flicking his gaze to Patrick briefly be- fore returning it to the gallery floor.
“Thank you, Adam,” murmured Patrick, after waiting a beat to see if my husband would elaborate. “Well, if you guys will excuse me, I need to continue with the mix and mingle routine. Please go ahead and drink all of our wine.”
After he drifted away, I resumed my study of the photographs. They really were something special. The museum where I worked, MASS MoCA in northwest Massachusetts, didn’t ac- quire artwork for a permanent collection, but a vital part of my job as a curator was to keep my eye out for developing talent to potentially showcase in an exhibition.
“Hey, Alicia,” I said, tapping her on the arm. “Can we talk a little shop for a few minutes?”
“Suuuure!” she breathed, as if I’d offered her a free first-class flight upgrade. And it belatedly occurred to me that, of course, this was why I had been invited here tonight . . . not because I was Jonathan’s friend. Because I was a museum curator. And now I was trapped arm in arm with her as she wheeled us around the gallery, pointing out some of her favorite pieces, extolling Patrick’s talent, his craftsmanship, his vision.
“You know what?” she whispered conspiratorially at one point. “There are a few other photographs I want you to see. Patrick didn’t want us to put them in the main show, but I don’t know why, because I think they’re some of his strongest work.”
My interest was piqued, as it was meant to be. “Sure, yeah, I’d love to see them.”
“Come on, follow me!” she said, and towed me toward the back office of the gallery.
“Top secret,” I mouthed to Adam, as she pulled me past him, and he instinctively moved as if to come with us. Just as he detached from his group, though, he was hailed by a filmmaker friend of his mother’s. I smiled to myself, knowing how the un- satisfied curiosity would itch him.
Inside the storage room, the noise of the party was muffled. As I watched Alicia in her tight dress and Louboutins struggle to manhandle a couple of large, crated canvases out of the way, I almost felt bad for her, but . . . best to let her handle them. Wouldn’t want to be held liable if I damaged anything.
“Aha!” she said, tugging forward a crate with a number of mounted, unframed photographs inside. “Here we go.”
As soon as she lifted the first print out of the crate, I could tell that these were different—and I could see why Patrick had wanted to withhold them from the main show. Although, curiously, he’d had no problem turning them over to the gallery for sale. They were similar to the rest of the collection in that they were beautifully composed nudes, but these had a different character. Gone was the frozen, art-directed style of the other photographs; these were vivid, active. Full of erotic tension. As with the other images, none of these overtly depicted sex; their power derived from what was implied, yet not shown. Patrick could only have taken them in the midst of making love with his partner—the images crackled with sensuality.
“Oh wow,” I said, feeling at once turned on and uncomfortably voyeuristic. Which, of course, is exactly how Patrick intended the viewer to feel. The face of his lover was cropped from all of the photos; curiosity tickled like a feather on my skin.
“I know, right?” said Alicia. “They’re something.”
“They are,” I said. She was reaching the end of the stack now. I was pretty sure none of these were going to be right for the museum—we didn’t shy away from nudes, obviously, or erotic undertones, but these were probably too strong to be hung in a family-friendly museum. The photographs in the main show were better suited. But still, I wanted to see all of them. I wondered what Patrick’s partner felt about these intimate images being put up for sale—if he even knew.
A burst of laughter and conversation broke my concentration as the door opened and Adam poked his head inside.
“What are you girls doing in here?” He sounded irritated, almost strained.
“I knew you couldn’t wait until I came back. Alicia’s showing me some of Patrick’s other work,” I said. “Come see.”
Hesitantly, he walked forward.
“Aren’t these amazing?” I said. “Probably a little too risqué for the museum, but they’re so powerful.”
He nodded so faintly I wasn’t sure his head had even moved.
Come on, I thought. You cannot be this weirded out by the sight of two guys together.
Alicia pulled one more photograph from the case. It was another arresting image: Patrick’s partner was leaning diagonally across the frame, his body cropped between chest and thighs. He was caught in a half-turning motion, tension pulling the side of his torso as he moved. Patrick was kissing him, just above his hip, and one of his arms was bent in a V across his partner’s body, down and up. I studied the lines of Patrick’s arm, the way his skin made such a bold stripe of contrast across his lover’s body. The shutter had frozen him in a breathtakingly sensual moment of the kiss—I could see the negative space between his arched lips and his partner’s skin.
And then, I noticed it. A little blob of a birthmark, floating under the right side of the partner’s ribs, almost out of sight. As if someone had daubed him with a paintbrush, just the slightest little touch, leaving behind the shape of a checkmark.
“Hey, Adam,” I said, laughing. “Check it out, this guy has a birthmark exactly like yours! Isn’t that—”
But when I turned and saw my husband’s face, the words piled up in my throat. He was staring at the photograph in shock, his face knotted with horror. It wasn’t some other man with an oddly identical birthmark in Patrick’s photograph.
It was Adam.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Calling All Chick Lit Lovers!

thursday chick lit

CALLING ALL CHICK LIT LOVERS!!!

A new Facebook group for Chick Lit book lovers has started called - Thursday Night Chick Lit Book Club and is hosted by the books' authors! This group allows fellow Chick Lit lovers to gather and talk about a different chick lit book on every Thursday! Be sure to join!!

I know how much people dislike being added to Facebook groups without their permission so be sure to Request to Join - HERE!!!

How it works: Meet your favorite chick lit authors every Thursday night from 7-8 pm central time to discuss the evening's chosen book. Don't feel pressured to read every title; show up for the books you've read, skip the rest. Discussions very likely WILL include spoilers. There's a printable pdf under the Files tab in the Facebook Group with a list of upcoming titles. The author of each week's book will serve as that week's moderator, getting the discussion rolling and answering your questions about their book, via the book's event page.

Here's our August reading list:

Hope to "see" many of you on these upcoming Thursdays!

Any questions, just ask! 

 

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Wedding Bell Blues by Caroline Fardig


Enjoyed this book. Liked the characters and the story flow. Great read. Hard to put the book down. Highly recommend.  
Lizzie Hart’s crazy love life has been leading up this moment…when she finally gets to marry Blake Morgan. But with their luck, will they make it to ’til death do us part before the wedding even starts? 

It’s June in the small town of Liberty, and that means it’s wedding season. Faster than you can say “I do,” the social height of the year turns deadly as a sadistic killer begins targeting couples on what should be their happiest day. 

The terror begins as a groom keels over before he can get through his vows. The clever killer frames Bethany McCool, the dead groom’s ex, for the murder. Lizzie knows her friend Bethany is innocent, so she enlists the help of her fiancé, Blake, and sets out to find the real killer. But as the mayhem intensifies, the duo realizes they’re going to have to partner up with the police this time instead of trying to do all the sleuthing on their own. 

As if they don’t have enough to do, Lizzie and Blake’s big day is fast approaching, and neither of them can wait to tie the knot. Lizzie’s domineering mother has taken over the planning for the wedding, but even she can’t hold everything together as one by one the florist, the baker, and the caterer start pulling out over safety concerns. With the string of violence threatening to ruin their happily ever after, Lizzie and Blake must rush to find the killer before they become the next victims.


August 1 – Shannon’s Bookish Life – Review
August 1 – The Phantom Paragrapher – Review
August 2- Fiction Dreams – Q&A
August 4 – Chick Lit Goddess – Excerpt
August 5 – Kelly’s Nerdy Obsession – Review
August 5 – Turning Another Page – Review
August 8 – Evocative Book Reviews – Excerpt
August 10 – Granny Loves to Read – Review
August 10 – Novel Escapes –Excerpt
August 12 – Authors and Readers Book Corner – Excerpt
August 12 – Jersey Girl Book Reviews – Review
August 15 – Chick Lit Plus – Review 



About the Author

Caroline Fardig is the author of the Java Jive Mysteries series and the Lizzie Hart Mysteries series.  Fardig’s Bad Medicine was named one of the Best Books of 2015 by Suspense Magazine.  She worked as a schoolteacher, church organist, insurance agent, funeral parlor associate, and stay-at-home mom before she realized that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Born and raised in a small town in Indiana, Fardig still lives in that same town with an understanding husband, two sweet kids, two energetic dogs, and one malevolent cat.

Read more: http://www.carolinefardig.com/media/



Social Media

Twitter:  @carolinefardig
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2apXnEE
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31223353-wedding-bell-blues



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Thursday, August 4, 2016

What Happens at the Beach by T.A. Williams. Review and Excerpt!

Enjoyed this book. Liked the characters and story flow. Fun book to read. Highly recommend. Given copy for honest review.


What Happens at the Beach…
Excerpt E

‘You know you were saying you wanted there to be some sort of treasure map, or at least talk of a treasure that the goodies and baddies in your book start investigating?’ He nodded. ‘And you wanted me to come up with an idea of where they could have found that sort of document? Well, I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve got a suggestion for you: the Inquisition.’
‘The Inquisition? You mean the Spanish Inquisition? How big a part did they play in the crusade?’
‘Not really the Spanish Inquisition. That developed later, but interestingly enough, it was the crusade against the Cathars that saw the birth of the Inquisition, and the originator of it was indeed Spanish.’ He looked up in interest as she explained. ‘A saint, no less. Dominic Guzman, later to become Saint Dominic, who founded the Dominican order; it was they who became the inquisitors.’
‘Monks in a holy order actually became torturers?’ Mark sounded appalled. ‘So you’re saying they might be the source of the secret document?’
‘The inquisitors kept meticulous records. They actually supplied most of the documentation we have today about the Cathars. There are interrogations, confessions, sentences and so on. For your purposes, the records of the Inquisition could well be the source of the information about the treasure.’
‘That sounds brilliant.’ He was thinking hard. ‘Maybe my main character could be a history professor who happens upon something as he’s going through some old records and that sparks the whole thing off. The baddies get to hear about it and he finds himself on the run.’
‘Or she finds herself on the run.’ Natalie couldn’t help throwing that in for balance. He looked up in surprise.
‘Of course, that’s it. Brilliant idea, Natalie. Stuff Indiana Jones. My main character’s going to be a woman.’ He glanced across at her, a light smile on his lips. ‘In fact, she could be a tall, very beautiful, half English, half French girl with the lightest blue eyes.’
Natalie liked the sound of very beautiful, but she did her best to keep her face expressionless. ‘Of course, this being a novel, there could be no reference to real people in it, for fear of legal action? Or am I wrong?’
He was smiling more broadly now. ‘All right, she can be a five-foot-nothing brunette with hairy arms and brown eyes. Would that do?’
She was smiling back at him by now. ‘You’re the writer. You call the shots.’