Saturday, December 21, 2013

COVER REVEAL






Spencer Jacobs thought his life was pretty damn perfect. He had a good job, a long-time girlfriend, and a bright happy future ahead. That is, until that fateful night when he walked in and saw the ultimate betrayal between the woman he loved and his own twin brother. After having his heart ripped open by the two people he trusted most, Spencer fled his hometown in search for a new life. 

Befriending Tucker Wade in this sleepy town had proven to be a good thing. Tucker had given him a job and a new beginning. He thought he needed time to heal, but even after the two years, he still hadn’t gotten over the pain of what that night had cost him. Spencer doesn’t believe that he will ever be able to trust anyone again with his heart, let alone to ever love again.  That is, until the fateful day Lexi Allen walked in his life. The spunky redhead had the ability to bust down that fortress he had built around his heart, leaving him questioning everything he thought he ever knew about himself.

Lexi Allen has never been in love. She has always held out for that special person, that special someone that she can give her whole heart to. The day hunky Spencer Jacobs walks in her life, she quickly realizes that he just may be that person. The only problem is, he’s broken and he can’t offer her anything more than a good time. 

Will Lexi and Spencer ever find someone to love?  






Cover Designed by Melissa Gill @ MGBookCovers



Remember Love (The Forever Love Series #1)

They say you can never go home again. Brenna James is about to finish her final year of college when a visit home could change everything. Fate was pushing her towards her childhood best friend, Tucker, leaving Brenna no other option than to remember memories from a time once forgotten. Can Tucker slip himself into her heart? Will he be able to show her his feelings? The biggest question is, can Tucker help Brenna remember love?

The book has sexual situations and language intended for ages 18 & up.

Purchase Links:
Amazon US: http://goo.gl/7FiKs4
Amazon UK: http://goo.gl/Fj8yI3
Amazon CA: http://goo.gl/GQz7FE
Amazon AU: http://bit.ly/1jbGHQq
iTunes: http://goo.gl/m0sV1r
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1aV9lig
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/HxKUgp


                                                Trailers:                                                  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUUZHuUa1mQ (FGBB)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJrI73mDCjA (CRU)


Cover Designed by Melissa Gill @  MGBookCovers



Excerpt from Someone to Love:
(unedited and subject to change)

When I go to sit on the end opposite him, he reaches out and gently grasps my wrist pulling me down beside him, causing my heart to start fluttering in my chest. I feel his hand on my ponytail pulling the holder out and dropping it in my lap. Then his fingers are gently running through my hair.

“So what happens after you graduate?” he asks while looking straight in my eyes.

“I’m not sure yet. I could teach art or try the sell my work.” I shrug because I have no idea what I want to do yet.

“Have you ever showed your work?”

“I will be this summer. I’m going to an art show in Tennessee.”

“Sounds like fun.” He replies.

His body tenses just enough for me to notice, and then his hand tightens in my hair, slightly tugging it. I have to take a deep breath just to hold in the groan that wants to come out.

“You could go with me, if you want.”

“Maybe.”

Well that’s better than a no.

That was also the end of our conversation. Spencer used his grip in my hair to turn my head to face him. Our mouths meet and it wasn’t a sweet “hi, nice to meet you” kiss. It was a “I want you naked now” kinda kiss.
Before I know what I am doing, I am straddling his waist with my hands on each side of his head.

He doesn’t release my hair as he devours my mouth. His other hand is running down my back to my hip and back up. We kiss for what feels like hours and I’m crazy with desire. I feel his hand slip under the waist band of my pants and grip one bare butt cheek. Spencer groans and then his mouth leaves mine and my head is pulled back exposing my neck to him.
Spencer runs his tongue down my throat to my collar bone. He pulls my lower body closer to his connecting our centers together, and now it’s me that’s groaning. I press closer to him and began to rock my hips against him. He squeezes my ass hard again, before taking his hand to push up my shirt and expose my breasts to him. He fondles one breast in his hand while taking the nipple of the other in his mouth. I am about to come just from this.

“Spencer,” I pant out his name, my breath is seriously short right now. I’m surprised I got that much out.

“Yeah?” He says against my breast as he runs his tongue around my nipple.

“More.”

That’s it, that’s all I can say. I feel so needy and know he’s the only one that can put out this fire he’s started. I let go of his head and start tugging at his shirt, I want to feel his skin against mine. He releases me long enough to get it over his head. We probably shouldn’t be doing this yet, but damn I can’t seem to stop. I want more; I need more.  I stand up and kick off my shoes and push my yoga pants down, leaving me in nothing but my thong. Spencer stands up in front of me looking down, his eyes searching mine. I guess whatever he found there was enough for him. He kisses me hard and deep and the next thing I know I’m hoisted over his shoulder and he’s moving, hopefully heading toward his bedroom.



About Riley Rhea

Riley Rhea is your typical country girl, born and raised in the Bluegrass. In the last 30 something years, she has successfully brought into this world 3 children, which may or not be claimed by her, depending on their behavior.

Riley enjoys reading, spending time on the farm and quiet afternoons when those who call her mom leave the house. Riley also loves country music and drools over Luke Bryan. Riley’s biggest fears are crickets and banks.

Not just an avid reader, Riley is an active blogger and reviews many books during the span of a week when she isn’t writing about her loveable and sexy country boys.

She’s always had a background in writing, her mother being an author, and one day, out of the blue, 2 characters popped into her head and wouldn’t shut up. After some advice from a good friend, Remember Love was born.

Thank you all for taking time to get to know Riley a little better. You can always find her on Facebook if y’all want to chat a little more.


Riley Rhea’s Stalker Links:

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/RileyRheaAuthor

Blog:
www.rileyrhea.com

Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7213472.Riley_Rhea

Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/author/rileyrhea

Twitter
www.twitter.com/RileyRheaAuthor

Pinterest:
www.pinterst.com/RileyRhea1 


Tuesday, December 17, 2013


 Forever & Always  and After Forever
(The Ever Trilogy)
Jasinda Wilder
Expected Release: Dec. 20th, 2013
Hosted by: The Book Avenue
Join the Release Party Here




Ever,

These letters are often all that get me through week to week. Even if it’s just random stuff, nothing important, they’re important to me. Gramps is great, and I love working on the ranch. But…I’m lonely. I feel disconnected, like I’m no one, like I don’t belong anywhere. Like I’m just here until something else happens. I don’t even know what I want with my future. But your letters, they make me feel connected to something, to someone. I had a crush on you, when we first met. I thought you were beautiful. So beautiful. It was hard to think of anything else. Then camp ended and we never got together, and now all I have of you is these letters. S**t. I just told you I have a crush on you. HAD. Had a crush. Not sure what is anymore. A letter-crush? A literary love? That’s stupid. Sorry. I just have this rule with myself that I never throw away what I write and I always send it, so hopefully this doesn’t weird you out too much. I had a dream about you too. Same kind of thing. Us, in the darkness, together. Just us. And it was like you said, a memory turned into a dream, but a memory of something that’s never happened, but in the dream it felt so real, and it was more, I don’t even know, more RIGHT than anything I’ve ever felt, in life or in dreams. I wonder what it means that we both had the same dream about each other. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You tell me.

Cade
~ ~ ~ ~

Cade,

We’re pen pals. Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. I don’t know. If we met IRL (in real life, in case you’re not familiar with the term) what would happen? And just FYI, the term you used, a literary love? It was beautiful. So beautiful. That term means something, between us now. We are literary loves. Lovers? I do love you, in some strange way. Knowing about you, in these letters, knowing your hurt and your joys, it means something so important to me, that I just can’t describe. I need your art, and your letters, and your literary love. If we never have anything else between us, I need this. I do. Maybe this letter will only complicate things, but like you I have a rule that I never erase or throw away what I’ve written and I always send it, no matter what I write in the letter. 

Your literary love,

Ever


CHAPTER ONE 

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

~ CADEN ~

It’s always the hands that mess me up. I can never get the fingers right, somehow. It’s something about the proportions between the knuckles, and the way the fingers are supposed to curve when at rest. I had an entire sketchbook full of failed attempts. 

Even at that moment, in the passenger seat of Dad’s F-350, I was sketching out another attempt. My tenth so far, and we weren’t even to Grayling yet. This one was the best yet, but the middle knuckles of the last two fingers looked awkward, like they’d been broken. 

Which gave me idea. I glanced over at Dad, who was driving with his left hand, the right resting on his thigh, fingers tapping to Montgomery Gentry on the radio. 

“Dad?” A sideways glance and a raised eyebrow were the only acknowledgement I got. “You ever broke your fingers?”

“Yeah, broke most of my left hand, matter of fact.” Dad took the wheel with his right and showed me his left hand. The knuckles were bulbous, the fingers crooked. “Didn’t get ’em set right, so they’ve always been kinda fucked up.”

“How’d you break ’em?”

The fingers in question scratched at a shaved scalp, the stubble of a receding hairline whisking under his nails. “Me and your Uncle Gerry were out in the back forty, riding the fence line, checking for breaks. My horse got spooked by a snake. He threw me, ‘cept my hand was tangled in the reins. Dislocated most of my fingers. Then, when I hit the ground, his hoof landed on the same hand, broke the middle two pretty good. Your Gramps is a hardass, and I knew he’d wallop me good if I came back without the job done. So I set the broke fingers best I could. There was a busted fence post, see, way out at the far corner, and Dad’s prize Thoroughbred kept getting out. Gerry and I fixed the break and went home. I never told Dad about my fingers, just had my mom wrap ’em for me. Never really healed right, and even now when the weather’s shitty my hand aches.” 

I’d heard the stories of my father’s childhood growing up on the Wyoming horse ranch that had been in the Monroe family for several generations. Every summer of my entire life had been spent on that ranch, riding and roping and tagging and birthing and breaking. Gramps didn’t accept excuses and didn’t tolerate weakness or mistakes, and I could only begin to imagine what it had been like growing up with Connor Monroe as a father. 

Gramps was a tall, silver-haired, iron-hard man. He’d served in both Korea and Vietnam before returning to work the ranch. Even as his grandson, I was expected to pull my weight or go home. That meant up before dawn, to bed past sunset, the entire day spent out in the field or in the stables, rarely even sitting for lunch. At fourteen, I was tanned, muscled, and, I knew, hardened to the point of looking older than I really was. 

Dad had been the first Monroe son to pursue a career away from the ranch, which had caused a decades-long rift between him and Gramps, leaving Uncle Gerry to take over running the ranch as Gramps got older. Dad left Wyoming after high school, moving to Detroit on his own to become an engineer. He’d started on the floor of a Ford plant, assembling truck frames and attending night school until he’d completed his degree, and eventually he’d been promoted to the engineering department, where he’d worked for the last twenty years. Despite his decades as an engineer, Dad had never really lost the wild-edged intensity of his upbringing.

“Why the questions about my fingers?” he asked. 

I shrugged, tilted the drawing into his line of sight. “I can’t get these damn fingers to look right. The last two look messed up, and I can’t fix it. So I thought I’d make ’em look broken, on purpose.”

Dad glanced at the drawing and then nodded. “Good plan. The relationship between your angles and curves is off, is your problem. I’m more of a draftsman than an artist, but that’s my two cents.”

I made a surreptitious study of Dad’s broken fingers again, adjusted the knuckles on the pencil-rendered hand, making them look misshapen and lumpy, then worked on the tips of the last two fingers, curving them slightly to the left, zigzagging the fourth finger to resemble Dad’s. When I was done, I held up the drawing to show him.

Dad cut his eyes to the drawing and back to road several times, examining critically. “Good. Best one yet. The index finger still looks a little goofy, but otherwise good.” He punched a button on the truck’s radio, bypassing the commercial that was airing in favor of a classic rock station. He turned it up when Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” came on. “I think this summer art camp will be good for you. Interlochen is one of the best art schools in the country.”

I shrugged, bobbing my head to the beat, mumbling along with the lyrics. “It’s weird to not be going to the ranch.”

“Gramps’ll miss your help this summer, that’s for sure.”

“Will he be mad at me for not going?”

Dad shrugged. “He’s Gramps. He’s always mad about something or at somebody. Somethin’ to stew on gives him reason to get up in the morning, I think. He’ll get over it.”

“He didn’t get over you moving to Detroit,” I said, spinning my pencil between his fingers.

“True. But that’s different. Every Monroe boy since before the Civil War has lived and died on the ranch. I broke a family tradition going back a hundred and fifty years.”

Conversation faded after that, and I watched the road and the corn fields and the blue sky spotted by puffs of white, listening to Jimi Hendrix singing “Purple Haze” and twist the guitar strings into shrieking banshees. I-75 eventually was replaced by M-72, and I felt myself nodding off. A while later, I blinked awake and Grand Traverse Bay sparkled off to the left, a dozen sails flashing white in the distance.

“Thought we were going to Interlochen?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. The bay was farther north.

“No rush. Thought we’d grab some lunch before I drop you off. Ain’t gonna see you for a while, you know.”

We ate at Don’s Drive-In, a retro burgers-fries-and-milkshakes kind of place, small and cramped, red plastic-leather booths, chrome table edges, and black-and-white checkered tiles on the walls. We didn’t talk much, but then we rarely did. Dad was a reserved man, and I’m a lot like him. I was content to eat my burger and sip my shake, worrying internally about spending an entire summer around a bunch of artsy kids I didn’t know. I’d grown up around silent, hard-bitten cowboys, men who chewed tobacco and swore and could—and often did—go days without much more than a grunt or two. I knew I was a talented artist, as capable with pens and pencils as with paint. What I wasn’t good with was people. 

“Don’t be nervous, son,” Dad said, apparently reading my mind. “Folks are folks, and they’ll either cotton to you or they won’t. That was my mom’s advice to me when I left for Detroit. Just be you. Don’t try to impress anyone. Let your work stand for itself.”

“This isn’t like school,” I said, dragging a fry through ketchup. “I know where I fit there: alone in the corner, with my notebook. I know where I belong on Gramps’s ranch. I know where I belong at home. I don’t know where I belong at an arts camp.”

“Wherever you are is where you belong. You’re a Monroe, Caden. That may not mean shit to anyone else, but it should mean something to you.”

“It does.”

“Well, there you go.” Dad wiped his fingers with a napkin and sat back. “Look, I get it. I grew up surrounded by thousands of acres of open land, all hills and horses, rarely seeing anyone but Mom and Dad, Gerry, and the other hands. Even school was the same kids from kindergarten to graduation. I knew everybody in my world, and they knew me. When I moved to Detroit it was scary as hell. Suddenly I was surrounded by all these buildings and thousands of people who didn’t know me or give a shit about whether I made it or not.”

“People confuse me.” 

“That’s cause most people don’t make a damn lick of sense, if you ask me. Women especially. Trick with women is to not try and figure them out. You won’t. Just accept ’em as they are, and try to go with the flow. Good advice for life in general, really.”

“Do you understand Mom?”

Dad let out a rare laugh, but I didn’t miss the way the corners of his eyes tightened. Things had been strange and tense around the house lately, but neither Mom nor Dad was the type to talk about what was bugging them. “I’ve known your mother for twenty-five years,” he said, “and been married to her for twenty-two. And no, I still don’t understand her. I know her, I get her, but I don’t always understand the way her mind works, how she comes up with ideas or arrives at her conclusions or why she changes her mind so goddamn much. Makes my head spin, but that’s how women are and that’s how she is and I love her for it.” 

All too soon, Dad was paying the bill and the truck doors were slamming and we were hauling down US-31 toward Interlochen. The ride was quick, and then Dad was parking and unstrapping my duffel bag from the bed of the truck and handing it to me. We stood toe to toe, neither of us speaking or moving.

Dad pointed to the rows of tiny wooden cabins. “That’s the cabins. You know which one you’re in? ”

“Yeah, number twenty.”

“Alright then. Well, guess I’ll be going. Gonna be a long drive without you snoring in the passenger seat.” 

“You’re just turning right back around and driving home?” I asked, then immediately hated how childish and whiny that had sounded.

Dad lifted an eyebrow in reproach. “You’re here for three weeks, Cade. You expect me to sit on the beach and twiddle my thumbs for a month? Your mom needs me home, and I’ve got projects to finish at work.”

I felt the question bubbling up, coming out, and couldn’t stop it from emerging. “Is—is everything okay? With you and mom?”

Dad closed his eyes briefly, breathed in slowly and let it out, then met my eyes. “We’ll talk when you get home. Nothing for you to worry about right now.”

That sounded oddly like an evasion, which was entirely out of character for my gruff, straight-talking father. “I just feel like things are—”

“It’s fine, Caden. Just focus on having fun, meeting new people, and learning. Keep in mind that this is three weeks out of your entire life, and you don’t ever have to see these people again.” Dad stuck his left hand into his hip pocket and wrapped his right arm awkwardly around my shoulders. “I love you, son. Have a good time. Don’t forget to call at least once, or your mom’ll have a hairy conniption.”

I returned the embrace with one arm. “Love you too. Drive safe.”

Dad nodded and turned back toward his truck, then stopped and dug into his back pocket. He pulled out a folded square of $20 bills and handed them to me. “Just in case.”

“I’ve been saving my allowance,” I said. Dad always expected me to earn money, never gave it for free.

“It’s…just take it.” 

I stuffed the money into my hip pocket and shifted my weight. “Thanks.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” I waved once, and watched Dad drive away. 

I’d spent months at a time away from my parents, lived on Gramps’s ranch for months at a time. Goodbye was nothing new. So why did this one feel so unsettling?

Follow the Promo Tour tomorrow to read Ever's POV 


New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or reading. 

Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liliana Hart and Bella Andre. 

She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York City and Toledo, Ohio. 

You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a cupcake. 

Jasinda is represented by Kristin Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.




Monday, December 16, 2013

Thanks, That Was Fun Blog Tour 


Book Description
 October 7, 2011

“Compelling and laugh-out-loud funny. The whip-smart dialogue, sharply drawn characters and unconventional ending make it a satisfying read for anyone who is single, heartbroken, in love, or in between.”  -- S. Parker Ross, author of "City Zen"

"...like gossiping with your closest girlfriends over a bottomless glass of wine. The characters are well-developed and the plot oddly suspenseful. I read it in two sittings, mesmerized by Nash’s ability to illustrate a very complicated and emotional time in this young woman’s life, without pontification and with plenty of humor."  --Angela Weldon

Jordan Lockhart is a struggling artist who is 30, underemployed, oversexed, and screwed up. She’s coming off a disastrous streak of drunken night stands and dead-end relationships when she rekindles a romance with ex-boyfriend Mark Chaplin, “the one that got away.” Against her better judgment, Jordan soon finds herself falling once again for Mark, a quirky, charming, pot-smoking massage therapist. The sex is great, their chemistry is red-hot, and just when it seems that their romance might actually work this time around, Jordan discovers that Mark has also fallen in love…with his cute bisexual neighbor.

Heartbroken, Jordan seeks solace in boozing it up with her motley crew of friends: Dean, an overweight, lovelorn librarian, Genna, a banker on a perpetual search for Mr. Right, and Iris, a single mother who views parenthood as somewhere between a part-time job and a hobby. Jordan bitterly swears off men and relationships to focus on her art and her budding alcoholism. Then she meets Louis.

Louis Avery is a twenty-year-old artist and devout Catholic with movie-star looks and “an ass like Brad Pitt.” Jordan falls hard for Louis, who enjoys her affections but strives to concentrate on his paintings and remain chaste, much to Jordan's chagrin. When Louis announces a plan to move to the wilds of Alaska to live “the natural life," Jordan hatches a desperate, hilarious plan to convince him to stay. 

"Thanks, That Was Fun" is a frantic modern love story with laugh-out-loud dialogue and compelling characters that remain with you long after you’ve turned the last page.


Now available for purchase via:

Amazon US:Thanks, That Was Fun
Amazon UK: Thanks, That Was Fun
Barnes & Noble:Thanks, That Was Fun
Smashwords: Thanks, That Was Fun

Dreamcast

Louis

 

(Louis)
(Jordan)




(Dean)



(Mark)

(Iris)

PLAYLIST for Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Nash

"Lover, You Should've Come Over" -- Jeff Buckley
"God Help the Girl" -- God Help the Girl
"A Little Sugar in My Bowl" -- Nina Simone
"A Question of Time" -- Depeche Mode
"Trip Through Your Wires" -- U2
"Dancing Barefoot" -- Patti Smith
"Falling is Like This" -- Ani Di Franco
"Broken Hearted Savior" -- Big Head Todd and the Monsters
"Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" -- Stars
"Disconnect the Dots" -- Of Montreal
"Flying High Again" -- Ozzy Osbourne
"Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" -- Elton John
"Sunday Morning Coming Down" -- Johnny Cash
"The Part You Throw Away" -- Tom Waits
"Thanks That Was Fun" -- Barenaked Ladies
Chapter 3 "Stepping Out"

            “Okay Jordan,” Iris says. “Point me toward the most fucked up guy in the room so I can get this over with.”
“You’re on your own tonight, sis,” I tell her, scanning the gallery. “I don’t recognize anyone here. They must all be Herron people.”
            “Look, there’s the Skipper.” Iris deadpans, pointing with her glass at a rotund, white-haired man in a black turtleneck. He’s clutching a whisky glass in his fat fingers and talking enthusiastically to a skinny blonde, who looks like she’d rather be receiving an enema.
            Iris cranes her neck, searching the room for Genna.
            “I don’t see Genna--oh Jesus, are those elbow patches on that jacket?”
            I follow her gaze past the Skipper, where a lanky man in a turd-colored corduroy blazer is standing with his back to us, chatting with a pale redhead.
            “Yep, those are elbow patches. He’s going for that junior college professor look, I think.”
            “Lord, the fashion crimes you see at these things.” Iris shudders. “That’s gonna drive me to drink.” She swallows the last of her wine.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the guy in the corduroy jacket seems eerily familiar. It’s something in his stance and demeanor, something that’s giving me a déjà vu feeling in the pit of my stomach. I raise my wineglass to my lips, obscuring my face from view as I squint across the room, trying to get a better look at him.
            “Jordan, what are you staring at?” I hear Iris say.
            I take a large swallow of Merlot just as the corduroy guy turns to the woman on his left, giving me a full view of his profile.
            “Holy shit!” I gasp, sucking wine into my windpipe.
            “Are you okay?” Iris says, thumping me on the back. “Jesus, what happened?”
            “That guy over there, I used to go out with him,” I stage-whisper.
            “Who?”
            “The corduroy jacket,” I say.
            “Patches?” Iris cackles loudly. “You used to go out with him?”
            “Shhhhhhh!” I hiss. “That’s Mark. I’ve told you about Mark before,”
            “Mark,” Iris repeats blankly. “Oh, Mark,” she nods slowly. “Yeah, weren’t you like, majorly in love with him at one point?”
            “I can’t believe he’s here,” I say, ignoring her question. “This is too weird.”
            “What, seeing him at an art opening?” Iris says. “Why is that weird? Do you know how many men I’ve slept with in this room?”
            This revelation prompts concerned looks from two women admiring a nearby glass vase.
            “Say that a little louder. I don’t think everyone heard you,” I tell her.
            Iris stares openly at Mark while I cringe behind her.
            "I hate to break it to you, but he’s not cute at all. I don’t see why you’re freaking out,”
            “It just caught me off guard,” I say, “I haven’t seen him in two years.”
            “Are you going to talk to him?”
“What am I going to say?”
            “I don’t know…ask him why he’s wearing my father’s corduroy jacket from 1983."
            “Shut up. You’re not helping anything,” I take a slow drink from my glass, trying to steady myself.
            “You’re shaking like a crackhead!” says Iris. “I don’t believe you. Just grow some balls and go over there.”
            “I can’t. I don’t want him to think I noticed him first,”
            “Oh my God,” Iris rolls her eyes. “Jordan, it’s happened. You are officially lame.”
            Genna reappears then, a bemused smile on her face.
            “Okay, number one, where did you and the waiter run off to, and number two, how big is he?” Iris says.
            “Number one, we were over by that steel sculpture-which is his-and number two,” Genna pauses, shooting a disdainful glance at Iris, “I have no idea. He has a wedding ring, anyway.”
            “So?” Iris shrugs.
            Genna cocks her head. “No. Uh-uh. I am not about to be the other woman,”
            “If it’s not you, honey, it’ll be someone else,” says Iris, shaking her head.
            “This argument sounds mighty familiar,” I say, rolling my eyes at both of them.
            “You guys are tight-asses,” Iris proclaims. “I need a cigarette.”
            “Hold on, I’ll join you in a minute,” I say, looking over her shoulder at Mark, who is now engaged in an animated conversation with Ty and his big Afro.
            Iris huffs, tossing her head in frustration.
            “Oh, come on, I’m not standing around with my thumb up my ass until that dork notices you.”
            “What dork?” asks Genna.
            “Mark’s here,” I tell her.
            “Mark who?” she says loudly.
            “Shhhhhh!” I hiss, and Iris cackles.
            “Remember, the massage therapist?” I say.
            “The one who was really good in bed?” Genna asks, eyes wide. “Wasn’t he an asshole or something?”
            “Of course he was an asshole. Jordan dated him,” Iris says.
            Genna and I both look at her.
            “Excuse me, I think you’re the one with the asshole fetish, hon.” I say.
            “Yeah, one word: Frank,”
            Iris just shakes her head.
            “I’m going for a smoke. Screw you both."
            Genna turns back to me.
            “Well, where is he?” she asks excitedly.
            “He’s over there in the brown jacket, talking to the dude with the ‘fro.”
            Genna squints in his direction.
            “That’s Mark?” she asks, looking puzzled.
            “Okay, I know. He’s not George Clooney.”
            “No, he’s kinda cute.” Genna said. She looks at me, then back over at Mark. “He’s cute in that nerdy sort of way that you go for.”
 “Yeah,” I agree, smiling wistfully.
            “So are you going to talk to him?”
            I hesitate. “I think so. I’m nervous, though.”
            “Have some more wine."
            “Yeah, liquid courage. That’s what I need.” I look around for the waiter. “Where’s your man?”
            Genna shrugs.
            “I dunno. Maybe refilling his tray. Do you want me to go get you a glass?”
            “That’d be great,” I say, still not wanting to move.
            “Okay, I’ll be back. Deep breaths."
            I watch Genna’s retreating form, chewing my nails, then turn and pretend to study the giant stone vagina.
            “Well, how are you doing, young lady?”
            I turn, startled, to stare into the big red face of the Skipper.
            “Good,” I manage to gasp.
             “Oops, sorry-didn’t mean to frighten you there,” he chuckles, and reaches out to squeeze my forearm. I look down at his hand, wondering why I’m being groped by the doppelganger of a dead sitcom star.
            “Oh, that’s okay, you didn’t,” I say, laughing artificially along with him.
            He studies me, his eyes narrowing.
            “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Oh good Lord. What a time for one of these. I try to force another weak smile, knowing for sure that at least I’d never slept with the guy.
“Um,” I fumble. Okay, elderly artsy guy, I think, searching for a possible connection. “Do you-know my mother?” I ask.
He looks vaguely insulted. “Ed O’Malley,” says the Skipper. “I monitored the Stone Sculpture class last spring.”
            “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.” Okay, now I’m remembering him. He used to leer at me creepily when I would go in to check on the Wednesday night Stone class. “I, uh-I guess I just didn’t recognize you without your safety goggles.”
            The Skipper coughs out a loud, wheezy laugh, and I fidget with my glass uncomfortably.
            “I was actually working on this piece during that time,” he says, gesturing toward the giant stone vagina. So this is his work. That makes sense.
            “Yes, it’s very nice,” I say robotically.
            The Skipper rubs his chin and looks at his masterpiece, then at me.
            “You all by yourself tonight?” he asks my breasts.
            I open my mouth to answer, scanning the room for Genna or Iris. They’re nowhere in sight.
            “I’m here with some friends and my boy-“
            “Jordan?”
Suddenly Mark is standing next to the Skipper, smiling at me with wonder and amazement.
“Hi,” I squeak.
He doesn’t answer right away; he just stands there for a moment in his brown corduroyed glory, his eyes crinkling up as he takes me in, grinning with approval. I stare back at him paralyzed.



~Angie’s Review~
3 Stars - Just Not My Thing
Thanks, That Was Fun, was just not my type of read. I didn’t connect with the characters and I found the plot lacking. I understand that this is to be a story about a young woman’s journey; however, Jordan just pissed me off. Jordan is 30 years old, and has no real motivation in life. She lives on her own, and works among artists while struggling to become one herself. The problem here for me, I found Jordan extremely immature, and lacking any type of self confidence. Her relationship with Mark is enough to make you want scream.  I did not care for Mark or his annoying neighbours.
Jordan’s friends are probably the highlight of the book, they are comedic relief. The best scenes in this book take place between Jordan, Dean, Genna, and Iris. Jordan almost transforms into another person in these scenes. I adore her, among her crew. The dialogue between these four is hilarious and entertaining to say the least. Enter Louis. I liked Louis and I will admit, I rooted for Jordan’s and his relationship to succeed. 'Cause I am, if nothing else, a hopeless romantic.  My issue here is that even as a reader, I could not see these two together long term. POLAR OPPOSITES! Jordan is very sexually active and Louis is a virgin. That’s right I said virgin, and devout catholic. I had a hard time even trying to reason their relationship working in my head. Jordan drinks, smokes, curses, and openly admits love and emotional connection is not her prerequisite for sex. 
The writing in this book was great; I just could not emotionally connect with Jordan. Her thought processes, her childish behaviour, her tirades, her lack of self worth, it baffled me. She does redeem herself by the end, that being said, I was left sitting there going, WTF??? That’s it??? I understand the message here, the vision of the author in the end, I truly did. However, in the end, as a reader I just felt cheated. I wanted more. The point where the book ended, felt unfinished and unsatisfying.
I want to say that I hate writing negative reviews. This book had positive points for sure. Thanks, That Was Fun, was well written and had great flow. The humour was the shining point in this story, for sure. Honestly, I find it hard to really love a book, when I can’t connect or understand the main character. Jordan baffled me, until I hit the 80% mark. Because of this, I give Thanks, That Was Fun, 3 stars.





About the Author:

Originally from Indianapolis (Kurt Vonnegut's hometown), Andie Nash is the author of Thanks, That Was Fun, available on Kindle and Smashwords.
She is currently working on a sequel to Thanks, due out in early 2014.
She lives in Reno, NV with her husband and their two cats.

Contact Andie:

http://www.andiepants.blogspot.com/

Sunday, December 15, 2013

**COVER REVEAL**





Invisible Synopsis

They found each other.  Then the killer found them.

Detective Jackson “Jax” McKenna walked into a psychologist’s office and found that the doctor bears a striking resemblance to his first love, Lainie, who disappeared ten years ago after their disastrous first date ended in violence.

Dr. Elizabeth Parker is really Elaine Wilson, Jax’s Lainie.  She’s been in hiding since the night that changed both their lives.  Jax discovered the truth when the killer let Lainie know he’d found her.  When Jax and Lainie go into hiding to keep Lainie safe, old feelings resurfaced as the killer threatened their lives.  Can Jax save Lainie and help her stay Invisible?


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