Book Sale with Excerpt – Bedazzled

Bedazzled Free 52019

 

She’s fiercely independent. He’s thwarted by tradition – Can a brush of her hand be their brush with fate?

Bedazzled3

A woman with everything to gain.

Keeli Larsen craves success on her own terms. She has no support and less money, but she has talent and big dreams. Determined not to return to the family farm, this is Keeli’s last chance to make it. It’s also her final opportunity to connect with the out-of-her-league, gorgeous man in the penthouse office – her very own Prince Charming. Although they have never spoken, a crowded elevator, a chance encounter, and a misplaced hand are about to change everything.

 

A man with everything to lose.

Billionaire and sexy hunk, Wyatt Lyons Howe IV is on track to inherit a family empire he doesn’t want. With dreams of his own, Wyatt is suffocating under generations of family expectations and traditions until a brief moment and a brush of a hand set Wyatt on a crash course with love. Can Wyatt turn his back on his heritage to pursue his goals following the lead of this fiery redhead. Can he forfeit his wealth for freedom? Fearing Keeli is a down-on-her-luck artist looking for a bankroll, Wyatt doubts her motives. He’s been burned in the past but can’t resist the temptation. He is bedazzled.

 

A challenge accepted.

Wyatt is seduced by Keeli’s spirit and the sizzling chemistry between them. Used to getting what he wants, Wyatt determines to make Keeli his own. But first he must outsmart a scheming fiancé, oppose his family and friends, overcome his doubts, and walk away from his wealth and power. And, of course, he must win her heart.

 

If you love sassy women and strong sexy men overcoming all odds on their road to romance, buy this steamy page turner, and meet the first of the Beguiling Bachelors.

 

***Bedazzled has been freshly edited and revised ***

 

Bedazzled Buy Link:

bedazzled teaser 2

 

An Excerpt from Bedazzled:

 

The chatter in the elevator lightened her mood immediately, reminding Keeli of all the people who had started with only a few dollars and a dream. In many cases, they had made it without knowing the language or customs of their adopted country. By comparison, she had many advantages and instantly felt better about her choice, more confident about moving forward on her own. Mr. Weinberg let her take many of her pieces with her when she left his employ. There had been no severance check, of course, but the ready inventory was a gift. Keeli let the renewed confidence surge through her body, standing straight and looking ahead. Watching her step, careful not to bump anyone with her parcel, Keeli stepped into the divide and moved toward the back.

 

That was the moment she saw HIM. He was the best thing – by far – about working in this building. She was standing face to face with the virile, gorgeous, sexy man she saw in the elevator regularly. Well, almost face-to-face since he was at least 4 or 5 inches taller than her statuesque 5’10”.

 

He was what she would miss most about this job – these random opportunities to ride the elevator and watch him, getting to stand close, allowing her imagination to run wild with fantasies – all starring him, of course.

 

Most of the time, he hid mysteriously behind a pair of Wayfarers, but the rain today afforded Keeli a chance to admire the intelligence and concentration in his azure eyes. He stood with his shoulders back, head towering over everyone’s Looking up, Keeli locked eyes with his, his mouth lifting in a half smile. Keeli shyly dropped her head as a blush rose to her cheeks and her heart sped up. She knew the smile was just politeness. She wanted so much more. She wanted him to notice her the way she noticed him, feel about her as she did about him.

If only he had the same visceral reaction that Keeli had to him, perhaps he would have spoken to her by now. She could not overcome her shyness to initiate a conversation, but if he longed for her as she did him…obviously, he was not interested. Now she would never see him again. Her disappointment was way out of proportion; he was a stranger. But he had this pull on her. Instead of thinking of him as a stranger, she thought of him as hers.

Hers. What a laugh. Wake up Keeli!

 

Everyone noticed him – man and woman alike. She saw it on elevator rides and when he traversed the lobby. Yes, he was particularly tall, a few inches over six feet. However, it was more than his height that drew the eye. He was compelling, confident, and assured. He was beyond handsome with his chiseled features, thick wavy hair and well-muscled body clad in custom suits. Keeli was drawn to him like a bee to honey. She had seen other women catch his eye, seen them smile and flirt easily. She was overwhelmingly shy when near him, preventing her from ever making him ‘hers’.

 

They crossed paths at the coffee kiosk or in the elevator at least once a week. She knew she was projecting her own desires, but sometimes it seemed to her that he was seeking her out. Even so, Keeli never exchanged more than a polite “hello” and he was always polite, but aloof. Although she longed for some reason to speak more than pleasantries, she was unable to move past that invisible barrier she felt between them.

 

Why, oh why is facing forward considered appropriate elevator etiquette? I just want to stare at him one last time. Today needs to be the day to think of something to say, some witty conversation opener. You are running out of time.

 

Her brain searched now for a reason to speak, knowing it was her last chance. Instead, she reluctantly turned to face the doors. He was standing so close, lazily leaning his shoulders against the back wall. She felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, goosebumps traveling up her arms in response to the moist heat. She was rocked by her immediate, erotic reaction.

 

Reigning in her body’s response, Keeli reminded herself that the warm breath was a result of proximity, not desire. She was a non-entity to him and had been for the16 months she had worked there. His polished appearance, custom suits and elegant leather briefcase contrasted with her wild red hair, shabby jacket, scuffed boots and faded Old Navy dress. He epitomized class and privilege; she embodied shabby chic. Maybe not even chic – just shabby. She could never bridge the gulf.

 

madison michael author photo

Madison Michael is an indie publisher, blogger and the author of the Beguiling Bachelor Series as well as the novella Desire & Dessert, from her sizzling B&B Billionaire Bachelor series.

A Chicago native and hopeless romantic, Maddy was raised on Chicago culture, fairy tales, great literature and swashbuckling movies. Maddy employs that history, writing steamy contemporary romance novels set against the sumptuous backdrop of Chicago’s elite society.

After receiving a BA in Journalism from the University of Illinois and an MBA from Loyola University of Chicago, Madison abandoned her writing to find her way in the corporate business world. Daughter of a librarian, it was inevitable that she would return to the world of books.

Maddy writes from high above Chicago where she can stare at its gorgeous skyline or the shores of Lake Michigan surrounded by feline assistants. When she is not writing,, Maddy can be found lost in a book, fighting for the rights of the mentally iil or dining on Chicago’s famous cuisine. Hot dogs and pizza, anyone?

 

Social Links:

 

Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/Madison-Michael/e/B01EVUGG6G/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Excerpt – The Billionaire Boss Next Door

 

The Billionaire Boss Next Door, an all-new hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

 

My new boss has it all. In spades.

 

Gorgeous green eyes? Check.

Hard-and-sexy body? Check.

Intelligence? Check.

Success? A big fat billionaire… Check.

 

Too bad I haven’t started out on the best foot.

 

My big mouth has already turned him against me, and tempting good looks and success aside, Trent Turner is no peach either. He’s stubborn and thick-headed, and son of a fruitcake, he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the hotel business.

 

With him running the development of the new Vanderturn New Orleans Hotel and me doing the design, our work relationship is far too intimate for two people who absolutely despise one another.

 

But that’s not all.

 

See, he isn’t just my billionaire boss from hell. He’s my new neighbor, too.

 

Same city.

Same building.

Same floor.

 

Trent Turner is my billionaire boss next door.

 

Holy moly, let’s hope my career—and hormones—can survive.

 

Disclaimer: If you generally love to suffer, hate fun of any kind, and are allergic to laughter, this book is not for you.

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Vy4KOk

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TBBND

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2uEva5S

Feet Under Books! (2)

It only takes five minutes inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in bed.

I do not got this.

I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working out, and I’ll never be good at working out.

I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know what to do with me.

Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.

I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.

The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license.

I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But, it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do.

Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”

Huh?

I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have.

He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest.

It’s a seat. For asses.

A seat for sweaty, workout asses.

Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.

“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.

Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.

Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.

With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there by Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.

Hip. Abduction.

Do I need aliens to use this thing?

Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.

No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!

The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.

I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.

After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.

Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.

Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.

I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.

Busted.

Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.

Shit.

His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.

I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.

Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.

I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.

“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”

He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”

Oh no, he did not just say that….

“I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

He nods knowingly.

“And setting up my music,” I continue.

He hums.

“I’m just about to catch my stride.”

“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green as fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”

What. The. Fuck.

Who does this guy think he is?

“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.

“All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.

Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?

“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”

Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?

Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”

He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”

“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”

Ugly décor? Really?”

How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.

“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”

Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.

Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.

“Well…” I pause and scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”

His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect features of his face. Goddamn this ugly hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.

“What did you say your name was again?”

Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.

Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with…

Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.

“I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”

“Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot.

“Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was just pretending to work out.”

Because you know what dicks can do?

They can go fuck themselves and wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned.

Suck on that, workout Romeo.

 

 

About Max Monroe:

A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.

 

Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far. ​

 

Connect with Max Monroe:  

Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/max-monroe

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK

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

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/

Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining their mailing list today: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/newsletter

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Excerpt – Fixing Us

 

Fixing Us, an all-new romantic standalone from Miranda Elaine is available now!

 

Gabriel Starr is the love of my life, even if he breaks my heart time and time again.

Like a fool, I keep going back, so I’ve made a promise to myself—one final night and then I’m done.

 

One night of passion.

No pressure. Most importantly, no future.

 

One month later, a positive pregnancy test tells me different.

 

Our only option is to raise this baby as friends, but how can we make it work when we can’t even keep our hands off each other?

 

We finally have the chance to be the family we never imagined we could be.

But first we need to focus on Fixing Us.

 

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2EmFGnJ

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/FixingUs

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2CvJ1Q5

Feet Under Books! (2)

Finally, after what feels like a millennium, the door opens and Dr. Mallard enters, smiling. He’s an older man who is always overly happy. I like him, even if I find his cheerfulness somewhat off-putting at this exact second.

“Mrs. Simms, how exciting to have you here today. This must be your husband.” He walks over to Gabe, who stands, hand extended.

“Sorry, no,” I chime in. “Definitely not my husband.”

“My fault,” he apologizes. “Your boyfriend. This is a new age. Lots of people in lifelong relationships nowadays without marriage.”

           Awkward.

           “Nope,” I say, popping my P with a bit more attitude than intended. “We aren’t together.” I look over at Gabe, who’s holding his laughter in and I silently yell Help me!

           “Just got her knocked up,” Gabe finally speaks. “Classic fairy tale story of ex-sex turning into a baby. Turns out those silly condoms serve a purpose and really shouldn’t be skipped. Who knew?”

           “Seriously!” I yell while shooting him daggers with my eyes. All he does to respond is shrug his shoulders and give me an evil grin.

           “Okay, Miss Simms, if you can lie back and put your feet up we can check on this little miracle,” Dr. Mallard finally says as the nurse pulls the stirrups out and helps me assume the position.

           Even if you don’t want your ex-boyfriend back you still always want them to think of you as the sexy one who got away, not the girl nude and exposed with her legs in the air while a doctor probes her. Great, fucking great.

           “Sure.” I lie back and my head jerks to Gabe. “But you stay north of the equator.”

           “Not a problem, Leigh.” He smiles at me. “But it ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.”

           “Well, it’s definitely something you’re never seeing again,” I snap back at him, causing the nurse to let a small chuckle escape.

           I try to act cool by the fact that the doctor seems to think sticking a huge wand up me is perfectly normal.

           Thump thump. Thump thump.

           Our bickering immediately stops. The room is dark and the monitor next to me is lit up.

           “Is that—” Gabe starts.

           “That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the doctor interrupts. “And if you look over here, you see that small little bean shape in the middle there.” He points to the picture on the ultrasound machine. “That’s your baby. It’s currently approximately the size of a raspberry.”

           “Wow,” Gabe and I both somehow say at the same time.

           We finish the appointment with a plethora of information. Gabe is quiet and the silliness that existed in the examination room is gone. We check out and walk side by side. Neither of us bringing up everything we need to discuss.

           Does him showing up mean he wants to be involved? Does he assume we will get back together? Can we even do this together? Do I want to?

           All the questions are running rampant in my head and instead of saying a single one of them I simply say, “I’ll let you know when I have another appointment.”

           “Thanks.” He holds the door to the building open, letting me walk outside, him close on my heels. “I want to be here for you and our child as best as I can.”

           I nod, but my mind is still back in that office with that beautiful baby. My baby.

           “We ought to talk, Leigh.”

           “You’re right. But today I got to hear my—our, baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Let’s not ruin it, okay?” We’re standing in the middle of the parking lot, neither of us moving to our respective vehicles.

           “Okay, but soon.”
MirandaElaine
About Miranda

Miranda is a loving wife and barely surviving mother of three occasionally good kids. Her hobbies include lying to herself about the calories in donuts and banana pudding, as well as running out of excuses when procrastinating. She’s been an avid reader since she was a young girl. Whether she’s by the pool, curled up in bed, or hiding in the closet, as long as she has a book in her hands she’s happy.

 

Connect with Miranda

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/authormirandae

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormirandaelaine/

GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2r6CGEi

Stay up to date with Miranda by joining her mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/dtnc1P

Excerpt – Cheap Trick

 

Cheap Trick Ebook Cover

 

Cheap Trick, a full-length, friends-to-lovers/fake fiancé, standalone romance novel by New York Times bestselling author Emily Goodwin is live!

 

Danielle Cross has spent her whole life running from breakups and troubles. She’s never stayed in the same place for long…until now.

 

The moment she walks through the doors of Logan Dawson’s bar, there’s an attraction between them neither can deny.

 

And when Danielle needs a date to her sister’s wedding, Logan is the man for the job. A cheap trick to fool her family is a small price to pay for a weekend in paradise.

 

Playing pretend is easy. The hard part? Trying to convince yourself the feelings are only fake.

 

Download your copy today or Read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

 

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2HnDA8V

Amazon Worldwide: mybook.to/CheapTrick

 

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/30c2HTj
Feet Under Books! (2)

Excerpt:

 

“Lightweight.” I feel the couch sink down as Logan sits down at my other side.

“Hey,” I grumble, slitting my eyes open. “I actually had like three drinks and a shot tonight. That’s a lot.”

“It is. I’ll change that lightweight to a lush then.”

“Asshole.” I try to throw a pillow at him but just end up smacking him in the face. I push myself up and laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Now you’ve done it.” Logan grabs another pillow and chucks it at me. Dexter gets way too excited and pounces on Logan, with one of his large paws landing right between his legs. Logan doubles over in pain, and I laugh even harder.

“Who’s the asshole now?” he chokes out.

“Don’t call Dexter-Wexter an asshole,” I gasp in fake shock and slip my fingers under Dexter’s collar, gently pulling him back and off the couch. I get up to grab the pillow I threw and trip when Dexter tries to do a flying leap back onto the couch.

I don’t know how he moves so fast, but I’m grateful he did. Because I’m still too drunk to have a good reaction time, and I’m about ready to fall backwards onto the glass coffee table.

Logan’s arms fold around my waist at the last second. He pulls me to his chest and straightens up. I have one hand on his chest and the other is gripping his bicep. Which is strong. Firm. Warm, just like the rest of him.

A second passes, and we’re still standing there like this. I splay my fingers over his chest and turn my head up, looking into his brown eyes. Inhaling deep, my breasts crush against his body. His hand that’s on the small of my back inches lower, and his fingertips press into my waist.

Heat flashes through me, unlike anything I’ve felt around him before. I’ve worked hard to keep these kind of reactions from happening, but my whiskey-soaked mind has lost all its will right now.

“You okay?” he asks, though by now it’s obvious I am.

“Yeah. Lost my balance.”

“No shit.”

I purse my lips and go to shove him away. Dexter is on the floor behind him now, and Logan trips over the dog and falls back onto the couch, taking me down with him. That same heat ripples through me again, making my skin break out in goosebumps. My heart lurches and is beating so fast I’m sure Logan can hear it.

I should push him away.

Run and hide.

I definitely shouldn’t be inching closer, taking note of the way his cologne smells, or the fact that his shirt is pulled up a bit, exposing a few inches of his abdomen.

I shouldn’t want more.

Our eyes meet and I part my lips, feeling my heart beating faster and faster in my chest. I know one kiss is all it will take to change things between us, and the thought terrifies me.

My life has been one mistake after another, and each seems to try its damnedest to outdo the last. I love what we have between us. Logan is my best friend. I don’t want to mess that up.

But Lord have mercy on me right now. His heart is hammering along with mine, and he looks at me with an intensity I’ve never seen before. One that heats me from the inside out, melting the panties right off me. My face is moving slowly toward his, eyes zeroed in on his perfect lips. He closes his eyes, long lashes coming together, and inhales, pushing his chest up against mine.

 

About Emily:

 

Emily Goodwin is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of over a dozen of romantic titles. Emily writes the kind of books she likes to read, and is a sucker for a swoon-worthy bad boy and happily ever afters.

 

She lives in the midwest with her husband and two daughters. When she’s not writing, you can find her riding her horses, hiking, reading, or drinking wine with friends.

 

Emily is represented by Julie Gwinn of the Seymour Agency.

 

Connect with Emily:

 

Facebook: www.facebook.com/emilygoodwinbooks

Instagram: www.instagram.com/authoremilygoodwin

Bookbub: http://bit.ly/2EPLbu3

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2tCZn28

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2pEHdf8

 

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Excerpt – A Perfect Lie

 

Title: A Perfect Lie

Author: Lisa Renee Jones

Release Date: May 14, 2019

ABOUT A PERFECT LIE

Secrets. Lies. A man. There’s always a man. And there’s always a truth to be told. 

PL1

I’m Hailey Anne Monroe. I’m twenty-eight years old. An artist, who found her muse on the canvas because I wasn’t allowed to have friends or even keep a journal. And yes, if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m that Hailey Anne Monroe, daughter to Thomas Frank Monroe, the man who was a half-percentage point from becoming President of the United States. If you were able to ask him, he’d probably tell you that I was the half point. But you can’t ask him, and he can’t tell you. He’s dead. They’re all dead and now I can speak.

BUY A PERFECT LIE

Amazon US → https://amzn.to/2PUIGLj

Amazon UK → https://amzn.to/2PUBNtq

Amazon CA → https://amzn.to/2PRbsMI

Audible → https://adbl.co/2TJMTb1

iBooks → https://apple.co/2p09PB4

Nook → http://bit.ly/2MrIqB5

Kobo → http://bit.ly/2NCgK18

 

PL2

EXCERPT

“Can I join you?” he asks, motioning to the table.

 

There’s interest in his eyes, the kind a man has for a woman, but who knows, maybe it’s real or maybe it’s not real. Maybe he knows who I am and sees a path to power and fame. The way Tobey wanted me for money and power, right up until the moment I’d called his number aka his agenda; thus, he has not called me since I left. Maybe Harvard will lie even better than Tobey did. Maybe Harvard will at least kiss better than he did, and the lies would taste like temptation rather than convenience. At least then, if I’m used, I’ll enjoy being used.

 

Whatever the case, it’s clear I might actually be angry with Tobey and that aside, the interest that Harvard has shown in me, must be controlled before my Denver sanctuary is destroyed. “You can join me,” I say, “but only because I’m trying to save the rest of the place from the attorney in the house.”

 

I am pleased when Harvard laughs, where Tobey would have scowled, proving that Harvard has a sense of humor, which is rare for those in my life. I’ve barely completed this thought when he moves forward and claims the seat next to me, not across from me, settling his briefcase on that chair instead. In the process, his leg brushes my leg and for the briefest of moments, I’m transported back to the place that I’m now trying to forget: to Austin, to Drew’s leg next to mine, his wink, and I do now what I did then. I jerk back. If Harvard notices he doesn’t react. “Since we haven’t been formally introduced,” he says, resting his naked hands on the table. “I’m Logan. Logan Casey.”

 

“Logan Casey,” I repeat trying to ground myself in the present, at least for now, but some part of me is still swimming in that memory, which naturally has me wondering if this man is a shark in the water around me. “Two first names,” I add. “Sounds like your parents fought over who got to pick your first name. Did they draw straws for which choice became your middle name?”

 

“You’re actually right on target,” he says, laughing again, and it’s a nice, masculine laugh, and oddly this thought feels familiar while Logan does not. “No one has ever guessed that,” he adds. “My mother won the name war. The women always win. Speaking of names. Do you have one?”

 

“Hailey Anne Pitt,” I say, “and in my house, my father won the name war.” Because in my father’s world, I add silently, the women don’t win the wars. At least, not that he knows, not in an obvious way. I’ve learned this well.

 

“Well then, Hailey Anne Pitt,” he says, “what’s a Stanford girl like you, doing in a place like this? You’re a long way from school.”

 

I’m smacked in the face with a lesson I’ve long ago learned and forgotten with this man; strangers do not always remain strangers and all offhanded remarks can come back to haunt you. “That was a joke,” I say, shutting the door connected to my real life, and a path that leads to my father. “I hate attorneys, remember?”

 

He narrows his eyes on me, and for no reason other than instinct, I believe he’s looking for a lie that he won’t find. I’m simply too well-taught from birth, too skilled at being more than one person to allow such a detection. Well that, and the fact that I really do hate attorneys, which is why I’ll be a good one.

 

“That was a joke?” he confirms.

 

“Yes,” I say. “Are you amused?”

 

“Yes, actually. I am. What does a lawyer-hating smart ass like yourself do for a living?”

 

“When not busy taunting those who went to law school,” I say. “I’m an aspiring artist.” Both honest answers, if you put a “was” in front of the “aspiring artist” which I’d thought that I’d come to terms with, but the knot in my stomach says I have not.

 

Logan motions toward the art room. “Your career explains why you ended up here.”

 

“I guess it does,” I say, as this place serves me well to reconnecting to the Pitt part of my life, which is a place I really need to be right now, for all kinds of reasons.

 

“Are you good?” Logan asks, as if he’s read my mind.

 

My father’s words answer him in my head. Art is useless unless you’re famous, he used to say often, because of course, it was inconceivable that I might be good enough to be famous. “Art is like movies and food,” I say, shoving aside that bad memory. “Good is subjective.” I don’t give him time to reply. I ping the conversation back toward him. “What kind of law do you practice?”

 

“Corporate,” he says, and this time he pings back to me. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

 

“Yes,” I say simply. “Do you?”

 

“I bought a building a few years ago where I live and work which means this is my home turf, and why I know you’re new here.”

 

“I am,” I say and since he’s clearly going to ask for details, I quickly preempt with an on-the-fly story. Actually, it’s the suggested story, Rudolf included in my file. “I came here for a job, and my new boss owns a house he’s rented to me for dirt cheap.”

 

“And what does an artist do but create art for a living?”

 

“I’m working for a private art acquisitions firm. I now hunt for treasures for a living.” This lie is actually my dream job that I’ve never been allowed to entertain. 

 

The horror flick loving waitress delivers my coffee and brownie. “Thank you,” I say, because every politician’s daughter has manners beaten into her.

 

“No problem,” she says, “but if you come to your senses and want a better version of that coffee, just shout.” She eyes Logan. “I already know you want a crappy tasting coffee, on endless pour and a chocolate chip cookie. Coming right up.”

 

“Thanks, Megan,” he says, giving her a wink that I don’t classify as flirtatious, just friendly, and Megan is gone.

 

“Obviously you’re a regular,” I comment, “and they even like you.”

 

“And they like me,” he confirms, “despite knowing I’m an attorney.

 

“Because you’re good looking and use it to your advantage.”

 

He arches a brow. “You think I’m good looking, do you?”

 

“Oh, come on,” I say, crinkling my nose. “Everyone thinks you’re good looking. I’m simply stating a fact. We use what we have and those of us that are smart, know what we have.” I move on from what is really quite inconsequential. “Why work here, not at home, or in the office?”

 

“I find I get a lot of work done with a cookie, coffee, and no access to streaming television,” he explains.

 

No one in my D.C. crowd would make an admission of being human and distractible. Some people in my situation might take comfort in that fact, but I don’t. Logan’s an attorney, and my gut, which I’ll confirm with research, says he’s a powerful one, the kind that radiates toward my father. Maybe that’s a coincidence and maybe it’s not. Maybe he’s testing how well I execute my cover story. The possibilities are many. Though in all fairness to Logan, perhaps I’d lean toward his innocence, if not for the laundry list of recent events such as Tobey being gay and the FBI agent, who is likely working for my father, that I slept with to prove I was a) still desirable and b) not a killer.

ABOUT LISA

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT series.

 

In addition to the success of Lisa’s INSIDE OUT series, she has published many successful titles. The TALL, DARK AND DEADLY series and THE SECRET LIFE OF AMY BENSEN series, both spent several months on a combination of the New York Times and USA Today bestselling lists. Lisa is also the author of the bestselling WHITE LIES and LILAH LOVE series. 

 

Prior to publishing Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by the Dallas Women’s Magazine. In 1998 Lisa was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.

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