Monday, February 26, 2018

Release Blitz: ONE LAST TIME by Corinne Michaels


One Last Time by Corinne Michaels 

Release Date: February 26th, 2018 Genre: Contemporary Romance


From New York Times bestselling author, Corinne Michaels, comes a new heartwarming standalone romance.

I’m getting really good at cutting my losses.
First, the husband. Divorcing him was the best decision I ever made. But between single-parenting and job-hunting, I can’t catch my breath. When a celebrity blogging position falls into my lap, I’m determined to succeed.
That is, until I get my first assignment and actually see Noah Frazier for the first time . . . practically naked and dripping wet. My heart races and I forget how to form complete sentences. His chiseled abs, irresistible smirk, and crystal blue eyes are too perfect to be real. So, what do I do? Get drunk and humiliate myself, of course.
I’m ready to forget the awkward night, yet Noah has no intention of allowing me to move on. Instead, he arranges for me to write a feature on him, ensuring a lot more time together. One embarrassing moment after another, one kiss after another, and before I can stop myself, I realize—I’m falling in love with him.
But when the unthinkable happens, can I even blame him for cutting his losses?
What I wouldn’t give for just one last time . . .


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Meet Corinne:
New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestseller Corinne Michaels is the author of nine romance novels. She’s an emotional, witty, sarcastic, and fun loving mom of two beautiful children. Corinne is happily married to the man of her dreams and is a former Navy wife.
After spending months away from her husband while he was deployed, reading and writing was her escape from the loneliness. She enjoys putting her characters through intense heartbreak and finding a way to heal them through their struggles. Her stories are chock full of emotion, humor, and unrelenting love.

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Thursday, February 22, 2018

Confessions of a Romance Author

“What is the first piece of creative writing you remember creating?”

This was asked today in a writing group I belong to, and I didn’t have to think hard at all to come up with the answer. My mind immediately flashed back to seven-year-old me, sitting in my bedroom and frantically adding the last few touches of color to my very first “book” before catching the bus to school. 
Created on lined notebook paper and bound with staples, it was beautiful. 
It was a masterpiece. 
It was … a short story about a giant piece of broccoli who was a detective.

Coming soon to a book store near you … 
Detective Broccoli Written and Illustrated by Kimberly Lewis

It sounds about as awesome as it was. I’d taken one of earth’s most despised vegetables, popped him in Sherlock Holmes attire, and set him off on a mission to help a poor little girl find her missing text book so she wouldn’t be late for school (spoiler alert: it was on her bed the whole time).

This memory, although light-hearted and super fun, kind of hit me hard though. I’d been so proud of that little book, took it to school that same day, and presented it our librarian who then had me read it aloud for story time. I still praise that woman for providing me with confidence from her ongoing encouragement to write/draw more. Up until her time of retirement, there was a little teeny tiny section dedicated to my work on our school’s library shelves. But the thing that hit me hard about this memory was how I’d been so freakin’ fearless back then.

Y’all … I wrote a book about a self-aware vegetable and showed it off like it was a NY Times Bestseller!

It took a lot for me to write my first book as an adult and even more for me to share it with people. Why? I’ll tell you why, and I’m sure you already know the answer: Fear. I was no longer confident and fearless. I was scared out of my mind for people to read my stuff.

“What if they hate it?”

“What if they totally bash my book?”

“What if they liked it?”

“What if I can’t pump out books fast enough to keep readers interested in my writing?”

Welcome to the mind of an author.

Now, by all means, I am no expert on giving writing or publishing advice. I’m still learning myself here. But thinking about my first creative story and then my first published story really got me in the mood to throw out what advice I can give, and I’m about to tell you—advice I’ve repeated to myself a lot over these last few years.

Embrace the fear. Embrace the mistakes. Embrace the “I’m doing the best I can with the time I have”. Take it and learn from it, because no matter what anyone tells you, every success story has a failure in there somewhere.  Failure means you tried. Failure means you were at least brave enough to put yourself out there—brave enough to take the lesson and use that information to better your craft.

Bottom line, if you’re an aspiring author, or even an established author in a bit of a slump: 

Don’t give up J


Monday, February 19, 2018

Today Only!


Grab WHAT'S LEFT OF ME on Amazon for FREE!

From bestselling author Kimberly Lewis comes the heart-gripping story of a sweet second chance at a hidden love...

Four years ago, my world fell apart. There was no “goodbye.” No explanation. So I moved on—unwilling to let the heartache consume me—and learned to cherish the memories for what they were and not what they could've been. I thought my heart had mended, and that I was happy.

But I was wrong…


Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Blog Tour: LIVING OUT LOUD by Staci Hart

Living Out Loud-Blog tour.jpg

Living Out Loud, an all-new emotional standalone from Staci Hart is available NOW!


Bestselling author Staci Hart brings you another installment of the Austen Series, inspired by the works of Jane Austen, with a heartfelt contemporary retelling of Sense and Sensibility.

When Annie Daschle arrives in New York City, the only thing she can control is her list.

Not her father’s death or the loss of her home. Not the hole in her heart or the defective valve that’s dictated so much of her life. But she can put pen to paper to make a list of all the ways she can live out loud, just like her dad would have wanted.

See the city from the top of the Empire State Building: Check.
Eat hot dogs on the steps of The Met: Check.
Get a job at Wasted Words: Check.

What wasn’t on her list: Greg Brandon. And just when she thinks she’s figured out where to put him, everything changes. In the span of a few staggering heartbeats, she finds herself her caught in the middle of something she can’t find her way out of, with no clear answers and no rules.

List or no list, she realizes she can’t control anything at all, not even her heart.

Not the decisions it makes, and not the moment it stops.



We chatted as we walked down Fifth to the bike rental station and unlocked one of the blue bicycles. And a little while and one park bench later, we were walking through the park in search of a grassy stretch off the beaten path.
We found what we had been looking for—a space lined with trees, somewhat shielded from the rolling, open knoll by boulders jutting up out of the grass.
“This looks good,” I said, lowering the kickstand before taking off my backpack.
She pulled off her bag, looking nervously at the bike as she took a seat in the grass. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her cheeks and forehead, her face a little pale.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked, eyeing her.
She smiled—her favorite way to answer. “It looks worse than it is. Promise.”
I frowned. “Really, maybe the bike is too much. Maybe we can do this after your surgery.”
“Greg, I’m fine. Come sit by me for a minute.”
I kept my arguments to myself and sat next to her.
“The cool air feels so nice,” she said, gathering up her hair and pulling it over one shoulder, exposing her neck.
“When they fix your heart, will you still feel like this?”
“No. I should be able to do anything physical I want within a few weeks of the surgery.”
My brows drew together. “Really? After open-heart surgery?”
“Really. It’s not like a heart transplant or anything. The hardest part of my recovery will be the incision and the fusing of my sternum back together.”
A shudder tickled its way down my spine at the thought of a bone saw opening her rib cage. “What all will they do to your heart?”
“Close the hole, repair my valve. I’ve had open-heart surgery before, but I was too little to remember anything about it. The scar is the only proof that it happened. Well, that and my mother’s stories. But this shouldn’t be too hard on the muscle itself, just some sutures when it’s all said and done. My body will work a lot more efficiently once the surgery is complete—like, immediately. I just have to get through the whole split-ribs thing,” she said with a little smirk. “All right, I feel better. Are you ready?”
She looked better. Her cheeks and lips were tinged with color, and the waxy quality her skin had taken on was gone.
“Ready when you are.”
We got to our feet, and I stepped to the bike to lower the seat. Once it was down, I waved her over.
“Come here and see if this works.”
She climbed on cautiously, her feet on the ground and her hands gripping the handlebars. The seat was probably too low, but I figured it’d be better for her center of gravity—plus she could stop herself easier if she tipped.
“Okay,” I started, one hand on the back seat and my other on the handlebar next to her hand, “I’m gonna hang on and hold you steady while you pedal.”
She shot me a worried glance. “And if I fall?”
“You get up and try again.”
She laughed, not looking convinced.
“Don’t worry; you’re not going to hurt yourself on the grass, but I’m not going to let you fall. I’ve got you, okay?”
With a deep breath, she nodded once. “Okay.”
“All right. Put your feet on the pedals.” My grip tightened when the balance was all on me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” she echoed with determination.
“Now, pedal.”
She did, moving us both forward, the bike only wobbling a little bit under her.
“Good, let’s go to that tree. Just keep it slow like this.”
Her tongue poked out of her lips, her hands white-knuckled on the handlebars until she got to the tree. And when she smiled, it was with more confidence.
“I did it!”
I laughed. “You did. Come on, let’s go back. Ready?”
She nodded, and we took off again. This time, she wobbled a little less, speeding up until I had to trot next to her to keep up.
When we stopped at our backpacks, she cheered. “Again!”
“All right,” I said on a chuckle. “I’m just gonna hang on to the back this time. And…go.”
I did just that, my hands on the back of the seat, the handlebars swerving a little but nothing she couldn’t correct. And then I let go.
She didn’t notice, wholly focused on staying upright, and I kept jogging, pulling up beside her. When she glanced over, I held my hands up in the air and wiggled my fingers.
Her face opened up with joy, and a whoop passed her lips—just before she swerved into me.
A string of expletives hissed out of me as I tried to grab her, but it was too late. She tumbled into me, bike and all, taking us down to the cold grass.
Annie was lying on top of me, her hair tossed across her face. The ground was cold and damp under me, and the handlebar of the bike was jammed into my ribs, but I barely even noticed. Not with Annie sprawled out across my body, her green eyes sparkling and her laughter ringing in my ears.
My own laughter met hers like an old friend.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sweeping her hair out of her face to tuck it behind her ear.
She flushed but made no move to pull away from me. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.”
We watched each other for a moment through the rise and fall of my chest, the movement carrying her like a rocking ship. And then she giggled again, climbing off me before reaching for the bike.
It was then that I began to fully comprehend the depth of the trouble I’d found myself in. 


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About the Author
Staci has been a lot of things up to this point in her life -- a graphic designer, an entrepreneur, a seamstress, a clothing and handbag designer, a waitress. Can't forget that. She's also been a mom, with three little girls who are sure to grow up to break a number of hearts. She's been a wife, though she's certainly not the cleanest, or the best cook. She's also super, duper fun at a party, especially if she's been drinking whiskey. From roots in Houston to a seven year stint in Southern California, Staci and her family ended up settling somewhere in between and equally north, in Denver. They are new enough that snow is still magical. When she's not writing, she's reading, sleeping, gaming, or designing graphics.


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