Spotlight: Trash the Dress by A.B. Medley

One woman's trashed dress is another man's gift.

Scarlett Shepard knows something is off.

With her wedding day fast approaching, she chalks it up to nerves. But when her fiancé's mistress stands up and objects at the ceremony, the wedding is definitely off.

Before she can get herself out of the church, her gaze connects with Zander Bailey, the grumpy but hot photographer hired by the groom's family.

Much to her surprise, he follows her outside with a proposal of his own.

A photoshoot--to trash her dress.

Accepting his offer, she tries to remain lighthearted in the wake of the heartbreak weighing her down, and suddenly this fun distraction turns into a not-so-innocent night of passion between them.

Weeks later, when what Scarlett believed to be food poisoning turns out to be a surprise neither of them expected, they are both forced to reconcile their past and their own jaded hearts to become parents.

Scarlett won't accept Zander's affection out of obligation or a sense of duty, which forces him to face a deep-rooted fear he hasn't vocalized--his love not being enough.

Can Scarlett and Zander choose love when three hearts are at stake?

Trash the Dress is a standalone. Grumpy/sunshine vibes. Surprise pregnancy. Happily-ever-after.

Buy on Amazon | Paperback

About the Author

A.B. Medley lives in Tennessee with the love of her life and three sons. Her husband stole her heart when she was sixteen and their relationship is one of those meant to be love stories you find in magazines and novels.

She is a dental hygienist who loves to read and has always dabbled in writing. When she's not making people's smiles shine, she enjoys belting out songs with her boys, dancing, raspberries, baseball, and anything vintage. Like any proper Tennessean, Sundrop is her drink of choice.

She loves her family and friends fiercely and believes in always chasing your dreams.

Deception in the Truth is her debut novel—but as she nurtures her love for writing romance stories, her list of released books continues to grow.

You can find all the latest through her newsletter, reader group, and social media.

Connect with A.B. Medley: https://abmedley.com/contact/

Spotlight: The Jewel of the Blues by Monica Chenault-Kilgore

November 19, 2024

Graydon House Trade Paperback

Set in the sparkling 1920s jazz era, The Jewel of the Blues pulls back the curtain on all the romance, danger and drama in the bustling backstage life of a young performer.

Billed as the Little Girl with the Big Voice, blues singer Lucille Arnetta Love always dreamed of life under the lights. From traveling family gospel band to lead singer in a riotous vaudeville troupe, Lucille is on the rise. But a devastating family secret, one that’s poised to shatter every dream she’s ever had, casts an inescapable shadow over Lucille’s career.

Decades ago, a botched robbery ended in a suspicious death—and all signs point to Lucille’s own father as the culprit. It’s a secret that Lucille’s family is determined to keep buried—even from Lucille herself. For a time, a fresh start feels possible, especially when Marcus Williams, Lucille’s manager—and sometimes paramour—sets her up with a band to tour the country: Miss Lucille’s Black Troubadours. Lucille’s dream of seeing her name in the bright lights of Broadway may happen yet, if she and the Troubadours can endure the highly competitive, rocky road to fame.

Beneath the dazzling glamour of the vaudeville scene lies a wicked underbelly, as drinking, gambling, salacious love affairs and racial tensions compete to dim Lucille’s shining star. And when shady figures from her father’s past emerge, their thirst for revenge threatens to silence Lucille’s career—and the sultry singer herself—for good.

Excerpt

1

Evansville, Indiana
1906 

“Straaaw-ber-ries… Fresh pa-lumms… Suc-cu-lent fresh fruits and vegetables! Cuu-cumbers!” Hank Love swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead before singing out the next verse. “Get your nice, plump straaaw-ber-ries here!” 

Caught in the rapture of the heat and white streaks of baking sunlight, the sweet perfume rolled off the peaches, plums and strawberries. To get Caesar, his steadfast silent partner for the day, to take a couple steps forward, Hank patted the horse’s hind parts. Caesar bobbed his head in compliance and pulled the fruit cart deeper into the cooler alley and out of the sun. The handmade sign advertising Fresh Fruit and Produce posted at the alley’s entryway, along with the wafting fresh fragrance of the fruits and vegetables, would be enough to entice buyers to his makeshift stall. It wasn’t quite noon, and the city streets were filled. But, unfortunately, only a few passersby took the steps off the sidewalk to inspect Hank’s display. 

Hank took a rag out of his pocket to wipe his forehead that was now peppered with beads of sweat. The heat wasn’t the only cause for Hank’s perspiration—it was also worry. He had to sell as much as he could today because he desperately needed money to pay for his tenancy. So far, it didn’t look promising. He had never missed a payment, but he couldn’t count on any leniency from the landlord—not here in Evansville, Indiana. The landlord made no bones about wanting him off the property that Hank and his family had worked for all the years they’d stomped their feet across the dirt. He, his wife, Evelyn, their baby girl, Lucille, as well as the rest of their blood and extended family that lived under the same roof, never lacked for food; they ate what they grew. But coming up with the money to keep the little family on the plot of land had become increasingly tough. Most times Hank was able to put aside his worry and leave it in God’s hands. Month after month, He never failed him. But this month was promising to be a test of faith because the money just wasn’t there. 

Evansville had become a sundown town. There was a law on the books that colored folks had to be off the road before dusk or risk going to jail—or worse. So Hank needed to sell what he had while the sun was still in the sky, and in enough time to be home by sunset to avoid trouble. There had been racial skirmishes in nearby cities as of late. He, along with his neighbors, raised their voices to protest, but city leaders refused to hear their case. They also included the threat of coming to every Negro’s home within the city limits to discuss the law in detail. Despite the veiled intimidation, the protests continued. Until the law was overturned, Hank didn’t want to take any chances of being a victim of repercussions. 

A stray black cat shot through the alleyway. Startled, both Hank and Caesar jumped. Then Hank froze in his tracks. Following the cat’s trajectory was the progressive padding sound of boots striking cobblestone coming from the street. Hank turned slowly, intending to chase off a random kid who sometimes tried to steal from him, but the sharp click of metal told him he needed to take a different course of action. 

The top of his head went cold when he caught sight of a shotgun barrel pointed directly at him. At the other end of the gun were the steady gray eyes of a grimy white man leaning against the back of the wagon. Caesar danced from side to side from the unexpected weight of the stranger. 

“Whoa boy,” Hank whispered as he gently patted the horse and kept his eyes on the shotgun. The horse’s muscles vibrated, and Hank could tell Caesar’s nervousness matched his own. 

The man pushed away a bushel of cucumbers that went rolling across the ground. “Boy, you better do exactly what I say or today is gonna be your last day.” He hopped in the back of the wagon, kicking aside a box of peaches. A few tumbled over and their rose-colored bottoms hit the stones. 

Caesar threw back his head, gave a deep-throated whinny and jerked the wagon forward. 

The man wriggled his way between the boxes and bushels and lay down flat against the wagon bottom. From clenched teeth, the man squeezed out, “Now, let’s get going—and just ’member I’ve got this gun aimed right at the back of your head.” 

Hank saw the man was bleeding. A growing red stain spread across the front of his jacket, but the man made no effort to conceal his wound. He kept both hands on his shotgun and held tightly to a large sack tucked under his arm. A piercing staccato of gunshots suddenly rang out from the main street and reverberated against the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. Hank whipped his head toward the entrance of the alley and saw the silhouettes of men in long coats with long guns and bags in their arms, whizzing past. In their wake was a chaotic commotion of gunfire, shattering glass and people screaming and shouting. Even from where he stood, Hank could see that the men who raced by looked just like the man who was now hidden from sight, wrapped around bushels and boxes of produce, tucked away in the back of his wagon. 

Caesar suddenly bolted, grapevining his hooves from one side of the alley to the other, tugging on his reins with the intent of escaping the noise. The frightened horse lunged against his reins in every direction, and each time the wagon tipped from one side to the other, sending heads of lettuce and tomatoes flying to the ground. The wagon swayed deeply until it finally flipped over—along with its passenger—crashing against the cobblestones. Spooked even more, Caesar dragged the overturned wagon farther into the alleyway, which dead-ended into the back of another building. 

Hank peered through the capsized wagon’s splintered planks. The man, buried in a rubble of produce, grunted and wheezed. “Get me out of here, nigga! Help me…” 

Hank could see the man’s eyes rolling back into his head. The corner of a broken wagon slat was embedded squarely in the man’s chest. His pleas for help faded against a cloud of footsteps and the grinding sound of vehicles from the street. Hank looked up from the recesses of the alley to see people running in one direction—toward whatever happened—or seeming to chase the new motorized police wagon that had barreled past. Hank couldn’t imagine what possibly occurred to draw such a stream of curious people, but he knew his bleeding passenger had a hand in it. 

Hank peeled back broken wood to try to free the man. It was then the sack that the man had held firmly pressed against his body caught Hank’s eye. It was partially hidden under pieces of fruit and splintered wood. He wasn’t sure what drove him to do it, but Hank slowly reached into the mass of rubble and tugged at the corner of the sack. It was heavy. When he received no resistance—an assurance that the man was dead or close to it—he yanked the bag to release it from between sharp edges of broken slats. Property of Second National Bank and Trust appeared across the bloodstained cloth. Hank looked toward the street. Still, no one came to his rescue or even seemed to notice him. He managed to stuff the sack under his arm inside his jacket. Watching the wagon for any movement, he moved slowly toward Caesar, who calmed at his touch but bucked to give the wagon a final hard kick. 

A shotgun blast exploded from the wagon. Hank fell backward. A spray of splintered wood and pulpy fruit flesh splattered his face. Hank felt searing pain rip through his skin leaving a trail from his cheek to the top of his head. From that point, all Hank heard were the muted sounds of Caesar’s hooves stomping at the ground and screams coming from somewhere in the far distance. All he could see was a blur of purple, orange and red until it faded to black. 

When Hank regained consciousness, searing pain shot from the top of his skull and a hot stream of blood stung his eyes. He winced as each of Caesar’s four legs hit the ground. He held his head, which felt like a heavy sack filled with cotton. He couldn’t recall how he unhitched and mounted the horse or when he left the remnants of his wagon along with the dead man in the alley. He couldn’t remember how he ended up on the silent road leading away from town. Although the road in front of him was a blur, he knew the horse would find his way back home. 

***

When he could no longer focus, Hank let Caesar make his way down the roadway at his own pace, allowing the pain take over and send him back to unconsciousness. When he opened his eyes again, through a gauzy haze Hank saw the small white clapboard church he called home in front of him. He took a deep breath and fell against the horse’s neck, relieved. Through a peephole of light, Hank could barely make out a neat dirt path leading to a prim white two-story house with four windows. White sheets pinned to a clothesline whipped in the light breeze. He slid to the ground, leaning against the side of the building. Hank’s heavy limbs seemed plastered to the spot. The grass was cool and wet beneath him. The bag had fallen open and gold coins spilled out over his legs and the grass that he now saw was tinged red with blood. 

His head rang with a hymn that climbed octaves, piercing through the bright blue sky. It was the beautiful soprano voice of his wife, Evelyn, accompanied on the piano by her father, Reverend John Pike. Her operatic high notes stung, or maybe it was the big black rowdy bees that were buzzing around the windowsill above his head. 

Am I in heaven? Hank thought. 

As if to answer his question, Hank patted the hard ground before digging his fingers into the earth. Pushing hard against the ground, he lifted his body, attempting to stand. He succeeded only a few inches until his knees gave way and he collapsed. 

“Daddy!” A barefoot little girl ran up to him but stopped short a few feet away at the edge of the building. A rustling of skirts followed closely behind the child. 

“Hank! Hank!” Evelyn knelt beside him, delicately touching his face to examine the extent of his injuries. “What happened, Hank? Where’s the wagon?” Jumbled thoughts spilled out in a collage of sentences. “I… I gotta go back… Evelyn, they be looking me…them fruit is gonna spoil… They’re gonna hang me for sure…” 

“Hank, you’re talking gibberish. What’s all this?” Evelyn picked up the bag and a shower of coins fell to the ground. “Where did you get this money?” The little girl, sensing fear and confusion, started to cry. 

Hank mumbled, “Is that my baby…my little angel? C’mere, Lucille.” He weakly waved his hand, motioning the child to come closer. “C’mon over and hug yo’ daddy.” 

The child hesitated at first, but then bounced over, flung her body into her father’s lap and proceeded to pick up a handful of gold coins. “Daddy, are you hurt?” 

Hank winced, gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath before responding in an even tone. “I’m all right, girl. I ain’t hurt.” 

“Good. But what happened to you? You look hurt. Are you sure? I love you, Daddy.” 

“Ah, now that’s the sweetest sound I’d ever wanted to hear.” 

“Get out the way, Evelyn. Let me get this man to the house.” Reverend Pike rounded the corner. The reverend was a commanding figure both in stature and voice. When he spoke, anyone in earshot did exactly as they were instructed. Evelyn stepped aside. 

Reverand Pike bellowed, “Can you stand, Hank?” 

Evelyn instructed the child to go to the kitchen to help the cook. She then joined her father and wrapped Hank’s arm over her shoulder to help lift her husband up the stairs. They reached the stairs to the house, and Hank could no longer lift his leg. His head throbbed and his sight was fading. 

***

Hank, having passed out again, awoke in a gray fog. Wrapped tightly in starched sheets and under a pile of quilts, Hank wrestled with the covers until he freed his arms and torso enough to sit up. He touched the damp, sticky, blood-spotted bandages that were wrapped around his head and half of his face. The slow-moving mechanism in his head ground gears trying to piece together the previous events. Through the haze of cotton gauze, Evelyn’s face came into view. Her knitted brows and lined forehead told him all he needed to know—that he must look like he was on death’s doorstep. Hank shifted his body, swiveled out from underneath the stiff sheets and blankets, but the pain held him locked in his spot on the bed. 

“Don’t even try to move, Hank. Rest. You need to rest. We can talk about what happened later.” “Evie, wipe them frown lines from your face. Don’t worry. I’m all right.” He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks to blow away a wave of dizziness. “Ooo, it feels like you pulled a shade down over my eye. He hovered his hand over his left eye. “It feels like sharp knives are poking me in this eye, but I can still see pretty good out of this one.” He gently patted the right side of his face to lightly rub tears running from his good eye. “Yep, I can see my sweet angel.” He tried to give her a smile, hoping it would ease his wife’s fears. “How long have I been out?” 

“Hank, you haven’t been laying here long at all. It’s only been about a half hour or so since we brought you in here and cleaned you up. Now, please lay still till we can get a doctor over here to have a look at you.” 

“Ain’t gonna be no doctor. No need.” Grimacing, a thunderbolt of pain shot through Hank’s head and he plopped back against the headboard. 

“How you doing, Hank?” The reverend’s deep voice cut through the conversation. 

“I’m trying my best to keep him still, Father. Did you find anything out?” 

Before answering his daughter, Reverend Pike leaned in close to whisper into Hank’s ear. “They gonna be looking for that money, Hank.” 

Hank nodded feebly. “But they don’t know I have it. Wasn’t nobody in that alley but me, Caesar and a dead man that’s buried underneath the wagon.” 

“That dead man was one of them bank robbers. Right before we found you, Zeke came running up here saying that the police are looking for three men who took all of Second National’s money. They shot up Main Street and killed some innocent folks as they escaped.” 

Evelyn jumped in. “Robbers? Dead man? Hank, what have you gotten into?” 

Hank stayed silent. Reverend Pike continued, “I don’t want anyone to pin nothing on you. In this town they’ll kill you. Just like that, no questions asked. For safekeeping, we’ll give that money to the freed spirits for now.” 

The reverend was referring to a crawl space under the third pew where only decades before many a black family hid, lying flat on their backs until they were safe from slave owners who ventured north of the Mason-Dixon line in search of their escaped property. 

“In the meanwhile, you and Evelyn can go visit her sister in Kentucky. Eliza Beth and Harper will take good care of all of you.” 

Hank said softly, “No, Rev. I’m not going back that way.” 

“Think about it Hank. You and Evelyn will be safer going down there than staying here.” 

Hank held a hand to his head. “Evelyn, can you go get me some cool water, please? Rev, I need to talk to you for a minute.” 

“Hank, there’s a pitcher of water right by your bed. There’s no need for me to leave.” 

Hank grimaced as he squeezed out, “Woman, please.” Evelyn sniffed, turned and marched out of the room. As she retreated, Hank, having regained some of his strength, recounted the course of events that occurred downtown in the side alley. 

Reverend Pike stayed silent, hovering over Hank as he listened. “Hank, you’ve always been such a determined man. I knew you would break down barriers to get what you wanted. That’s one of the reasons I allowed Evelyn to marry you, even though you didn’t have a penny in your pocket. Her mother, on the other hand, would’ve wanted her to marry into high society—God rest my sweet Delilah. But my Evelyn chose you to love, so I let her. I did that because I believed your ingenuity, devotion to hard work and to the Lord would keep my daughter living a comfortable and safe life.” 

“Rev, I’m doing the best I can.” 

When Evelyn returned with a new pitcher and a mason jar filled with water, she found the two men nodding their heads in agreement as if there was nothing left to do but execute a plan. A plan that started with packing up the wagon and heading south, and staying with relatives until things died down. The immediate flight would be framed as a trip to visit family and a mission to spread the gospel to the small churches along the trail. 

Reverend Pike hugged his daughter and left the room, leaving the explanations to her husband. “You mean we’re running away? But you didn’t do anything. Why can’t we just return the money and explain to them how it came into your possession? You can say you found it, that is, if someone asks.” 

“You know exactly why, Evelyn. This ain’t the time or place to think that them folks are going to be rational. Besides, no matter what happened, it will be an excuse for them to kick us off the property, endangering your father and the church we built here. I can’t put you and Lucille in danger like that.” 

She quickly spit out, “Well, you already done that, haven’t you? I overheard something about a dead man, a bank robbery and…and just look at you! I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. You and my father have got it all wrong, keeping things from me. I deserve to know—and have a say in what we do and where we go.” 

After a beat, Evelyn began snatching up the family’s belongings, jamming them into suitcases and carpet bags. She marched from one side of the room to the other, turned and stomped to the dresser, then over to the closet. Her heels dug sharply into the wood floors as if intending to leave a mark. The swish of her apron, skirt and petticoats accented the staccato drumbeat of her steps. “Well, for how long, Hank? And why can’t we just take the train like civilized people?” 

The reverend wanted them to take the train but Hank, being cautious, knew that the family traveling by train down south would make them an easy target to spot if someone just happened to be looking for them. The safest bet to go unseen would be by wagon. Reverend Pike reluctantly offered Jupiter, the dapple-gray workhorse, when Hank insisted Caesar stay behind. 

“No time for that, Evie. Now get some things together so we can head down to your sister’s. We don’t need a lot, just a few things to tide us over for a few weeks.” He knew as he said it that he was lying. 

“Why? What’s the rush? First, you need to see a doctor about your eye and that gash in your head. What about the farm? What about—” 

Hank stopped her midsentence. “Enough with the questions! Get Lucille and let’s go. You got to trust me here, Evie.” 

“I do, husband. I really do. I don’t want to argue. Before God and everyone who loves me, I said my vows to honor our marriage. I’ll go with you anywhere. But Hank, this has gone too far.” 

Peering between strips of gauze, Hank watched the tall, robust woman he’d been married to for over ten years paced back and forth in front of him. She was taller than him, even when she was barefoot. From the view of the bed, she looked even taller. Like her father, she cut a commanding figure. The tight bindings of her apron could barely contain her. The thick, wavy hair piled on top of her head could hardly be restrained by her movements, and spindles of curls dropped around her face. The woman’s smooth walnut brown skin bore a tinge of red across her freckled cheeks. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, and he understood her anger, but he needed his wife to just go along with him. When she finally stopped pacing, a sure sign that the peak of her anger had passed, Hank dropped his head as if it was too heavy to carry. 

Evelyn softened when she saw her husband’s hands pressed against the sides of his face. Still, not quite ready to give up the fight, she continued her protests. “But what about Father? He’s gonna be left here by himself. He’s not going to have a wagon, or a horse or anyone to help with the farm.” 

“The church folk will take care of that. We’ll take Jupiter and leave Caesar so your daddy will have a plow horse. Rev will be okay. Going to your sister’s was your father’s idea anyway. I didn’t agree with him at first, but now I do…one hundred percent.” 

She asked quizzically, “My father told you that we needed to go back down south? I can’t believe that. If it wasn’t for the church and my sister, Daddy said he would never go down south ever again. Besides, sis don’t even know that we’re coming.” 

“She will soon. Your daddy will take care of that. He’ll get word to her in his own way. You know we know how to send messages faster than the government.” 

Hank was now sitting up and pushing himself off the side of the bed. He stiffened and slowly turned his head from one side to the other, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to the darkness and heaviness on the left side of his head. Evelyn rushed to his side to help him stand but he brushed her off. “We’ll take the unpaved roads down to the river. We’ll rest a bit at the Quaker house, then take the ferry over to Kentucky. You know the route.” 

“I haven’t been that way since I was a child. A whole lot of things have changed since then,” she grumbled. 

“Evelyn, my dear wife, please just trust me,” Hank begged. “Both you and Lucille need to come with me. This is important. I’m doing this to keep you and Lucille safe. The Rev too, but I know hell will freeze before your daddy leaves this place. Someone is going to be coming soon. Maybe it’s the sheriff or some other crackers, but they’re going to be looking for me. They know money is missing and they know that one of the men who had a hand in taking it is dead in my wagon. They’re going to have a lot of questions and no matter how I answer them, they won’t be satisfied. I know it. You don’t want to know what they might do if they find me.” 

Evelyn stopped. Her eyebrows rose and her large brown eyes widened. “If you’re so set on going and not telling me the whole story, then maybe you should go by yourself!” 

“Evelyn, I got caught up in some bad action and I did something on impulse. You have to believe that what I did, I did for you and Lucille. On the way down to the Ohio River, I’ll explain everything. You’ll see why. We’ll come back after a while, and we’ll have everything we ever wanted after that.” 

Deep down, Hank knew not a soul would believe the pieces of the story he could remember, but many would understand his motivation. Even his wife would be hard-pressed to believe he took part in a plan to break the law. Apart from his participation in the demonstrations about Evansville’s sundown laws, he had traveled a straight and narrow path to stay alive. 

So when it came time for questions from his closest kin, the police and a group of county sons, Hank and his family were already gone.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Monica Chenault-Kilgore was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio and currently lives in Edison, New Jersey. She is a graduate of The Ohio State University School of Journalism. Her published works include Liberty and Justice for All…Profiles of Middlesex County African American Veterans of WWII and the Korean War which is available in the public library. She formerly worked as a Contributing Reporter for The Home News Tribune and The Courier News newspapers.

Author Website: https://monicachenaultkilgore.com/ 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Author-Monica-Chenault-Kilgore/100086717748781/ 

Twitter (X): https://x.com/monicaCKilgore 

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

Spotlight: Off the Bench by Tiffany Noelle Chacon

(Sports in the Sunshine State RomComs, #2)

Publication date: November 19th 2024

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Austin Taylor, once an undrafted free agent and a third-string quarterback, was never supposed to be the starting QB for the Tampa Bay Bucs.

Except now, he is.

Dani Marshall, the Bucs’ data analyst whiz, is all in—betting her career, and even her car, on Austin’s success. The real challenge? Keeping her heart out of the game.

Austin

When the achingly gorgeous Dani Marshall shows up in my tiny Ohio town to sign me to the Bucs, I can’t say no. I expect to ride the bench in obscurity for my entire NFL career. What I don’t expect is to become the starting QB in my first month—or to end up as a viral GIF, tripping over my cleats.

Dani’s betting on me, but I’m starting to think her faith might be misplaced. The closer we get, the more her walls stay mile-high—even as I’m being pulled to her as surely as the moon pulls the tides.

Dani

Research shows that spending time together and sharing personal goals increases the likelihood of developing romantic feelings by 30%. (I will not be part of this statistic. I will not be part of this statistic. I will NOT be part… oh crap.)

After I sign Austin Taylor to the Bucs, I make it my mission to stay away from him—he’s too attractive for me, and, as an absolute rule, I don’t date athletes. Not after what happened last time.

But when I make a bet with my work nemesis over Austin Taylor’s performance, my car is on the line. Now I have to get involved.

The problem? The more I work with Austin Taylor, the more afraid I am that he’s going to steal my heart.

This is the first novel in the Sports in the Sunshine State RomCom series: a collection of interconnected, clean sports romances, each featuring its own unique love story. While all books are linked, they can be enjoyed as standalones. You’ll enjoy high-action sports sequences, sizzling chemistry, with no cursing or smut.

Excerpt

This scene picks up after the NFL draft, where Austin did not get drafted. His two friends, Omar and Caleb, take him out to try to cheer him up.

As I peruse the new photographs in my buddy Omar’s bar, my eye catches on a girl walking into the bar. She’s tall and elegant, gliding as if she’s not even touching the ground. I find myself taking in every detail of her, because I can’t help it. Her braids are caught in a twisting bun at the top of her head. Her almond-shaped eyes are assessing the room, as if she’s looking for someone. Her dark cheekbones shimmer with a mesmerizing blend of girl magic that I don’t understand. I admit I linger a little too long on her full lips. Her long neck reminds me of a dancer—she’s as graceful as a ballerina. I’ve only gotten to her shoulders when Caleb notices my perusal.

“Ask her to come over here,” he says, mouth full with chicken wings.

I force my eyes from her, feeling greedy for more. I push my IPA away, wondering if the pull I feel toward her is more a product of the alcohol rather than some kind of supernatural tug she has.

“I’m not going to go just talk to some random girl who’s clearly here to meet someone else.”

“Maybe she’s here to meet a hunky football player,” Omar says with a smirk.

I snort, but don’t speak the words that come to my mind: I’m not a football player anymore.

And it’s the first time since the draft ended that I’ve felt a deep twinge of grief. I may have convinced myself that I’m content with how things worked out, but I’ve been a football player my whole life. I don’t know how not to be a football player. I sigh and half-heartedly dip a chip in the artichoke dip when I realize Caleb and Omar are still looking at me expectantly. “Guys, I’m not going to go talk to her. It’s just not who I am.”

“Tell me, exactly, what you are, man. Because I don’t get it.” Omar’s got that fire in his dark brown eyes that always makes me a little uncomfortable, like he’s about to start a fight. “From where I’m sitting, it seems like you’re just someone who lets opportunities slip from his fingers without a fight.”

“Dang, bro, chill,” Caleb says to Omar as he reaches for more nachos.

“It’s fine,” I say.

Omar plants his hands on the table, standing. “It’s not fine.” And then he walks away.

“Who got his panties in a bunch?” I mutter.

“He’s overcompensating for your lack of feelings over the draft thing,” Caleb says in a fleeting moment of insight. I grunt and return to my IPA. But I just about spit it out when I realize Omar’s gone over to talk to the girl. I mutter under my breath as I set the IPA back on the table, where it sloshes over the edge, getting beer all over my hand. I scramble for a napkin, keeping my focus on wiping up my mess as I sense Omar and the girl walking over to our table.

When she’s beside us, I finally glance up. Looking at her up close takes my breath away, and I’m pathetically speechless.

“Austin Taylor?” she says as I’m momentarily distracted by the mesmerizing way her lips move. Then I’m confused about how she knows my full name.

“Uh, yeah?” I’m struck next by how closed off her features are. This girl didn’t come over here to flirt with a guy—and the realization cuts almost as deep as my football future.

Then, she says the craziest words I’ve ever heard: “My name is Dani Marshall and I’m here to sign you to the Tampa Bay Bucs.”

Want to find out what happens with Dani and Austin? Pre-order Off the Bench here. While you wait, read the first two chapters on my website here.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Tiffany LOVES love. Married to her middle school sweetheart, this award-winning novelist adores writing stories with heart, humor, and depth. As a five-time national equestrian champion, she loves sports romances with heart-pounding action sequences and a whole lot of sweet romance. She received her Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa. A homeschooling mama, she lives in Tampa with her husband and their two wild and crazy sons. She loves hearing from readers and would love to connect with you on any social media platform at authortiffanynoellechacon or on her website at tiffanynoellechacon.com.

Connect:

https://tiffanynoellechacon.com/

https://www.facebook.com/groups/tiffanynoellechaconreaders

https://www.instagram.com/authortiffanynoellechacon/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/29597570.Tiffany_Noelle_Chacon

Spotlight: All The Other Me by Jody Holford

Perfect for fans of The Rehearsals by Annette Christie and What Might Have Been by Holly Miller, All the Other Me is a poignant story of what it means to come to terms with who you are-- and who you can be.

Isabelle Duprees is one of Forbes' most powerful self-made women and has built a reputation as one of New York's savviest investors and sharpest advisors. With a penthouse overlooking Central Park, an open invitation to any event she wishes to attend, and a weekly date with a man who won't ask too much of her, Isabelle's carefully curated life is exactly what she wants.

Until it isn't.

After her estranged sister shows up, circumstances--and too much champagne--have Isabelle Googling herself, only to discover three other women her age, with the same name, birthdate, and familiar features.

Too curious not to follow this rabbit hole, Isabelle and her sister embark on a road trip that leads them back to their hometown--and possibly each other. On the way, they seek out all the other Isabelles and find each one of them living a life that could have been hers if she'd made different choices.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Jody Holford is a multipublished Canadian author. She writes contemporary romance and cozy mysteries, and she also writes under the pen name Sophie Sullivan. Her book Ten Rules for Faking It received the Canadian Book Club Award for best romance in 2022 and her book AGuide to Being Just Friends won the Canadian Book Club Award for best romance in 2023.

Spotlight: A Tainted Heart Bleeds by Sophie Barnes

House of Croft, Book 2

Historical Mystery/Thriller/Romance

Date Published: 10-29-2024

He’ll never forgive her deception, or the hold she still has on his heart…

Adrian Croft’s worst fear has been realized. His wife, the sweet woman who swept past his every defense, is a cunning spy working against him. Forced to play a dangerous game where one wrong move could see him destroyed, he must unravel her secrets while hunting a far more sinister threat.

Samantha knew her decision to marry her target would come at a price. Now, having lost her husband’s trust and affection, she’ll do whatever it takes to win it all back – abandon past loyalties, spill her secrets, and catch a killer. But will it be enough to undo the damage?

Excerpt

Chapter One

London, August 15th, 1818

Lady Eleanor dropped onto the stool in front of her vanity table. Exhausted from entertaining dinner guests with her parents, she looked forward to climbing into the soothing comfort of her bed. 

Something pushing against her leg made her lower her gaze to Milly, the miniature poodle her parents had gifted her with for her sixteenth birthday. Rising onto her hind legs, Milly shifted her paws to better press her damp nose against Eleanor’s thigh, her stubby tail wagging with eager affection.

Eleanor chuckled and scooped the pup into her lap. She raked her fingers through Milly’s fur, scratched her a few times behind one ear, and allowed her to settle comfortably in her lap. 

“Are you ready, my lady?” The question was posed by Audrey, Eleanor’s lady’s maid. A short woman with dark brown hair and eyes to match, the servant was five years Eleanor’s senior and possessed a positive outlook to match her own. 

Eleanor glanced at her and smiled in response to the warmth she found in Audrey’s eyes. “Yes. Please begin.”

Audrey raised the comb she’d collected earlier and drew it through Eleanor’s hair. Molly snuggled farther into the circle of her arms, nails scratching a little at Eleanor’s lap as she repositioned her legs.

Eleanor sighed and sent her bed a longing glance. The coverlet had been folded back to display the crisp white sheets that beckoned. It would be good to climb between them and let the weariness seep from her body.

Molly’s curls compressed beneath the weight of her hand as Eleanor stroked the fluffy fur. Glancing up, she caught Audrey’s gaze in the mirror, her thoughts returning to the charity visit she’d planned for tomorrow. “Maybe you’re right about the brown woolen spencer. I never wear it, so I might as well include it in the donation.”

“Are you sure?” Audrey set the comb aside and collected a glass bottle containing Warren & Rosser’s Milk of Roses lotion.

The question was a legitimate one since Eleanor had argued against the suggestion yesterday when she and Audrey had prepared the box that would go to St. Augustine’s Church. The spencer had been a gift from her aunt three Christmases ago. It was undoubtedly lovely, but every time she’d put it on she felt it didn’t quite suit her.

“Yes,” she said, her mind made up. “There’s no sense in it taking up space in the wardrobe when it can keep someone less fortunate warm.”

Audrey dabbed a bit of lotion on Eleanor’s face and began rubbing it in with wonderfully soothing circular motions. “I’m always impressed by your kindness, my lady.”

But was she always kind? Guilt gathered in Eleanor’s stomach, becoming so heavy it felt like a block of lead. The choice she’d made for herself – for her future – had not been easy. She hated how selfish it made her feel. 

Yet she managed to smile and pretend Audrey’s comment was welcome. “Thank you.”

Audrey responded with a smile of her own and proceeded to plait Eleanor’s hair. The peaceful activity calmed her mind. She allowed herself to focus on what was to come, instead of worrying over the past.

She’d had her say, and in so doing, she’d paved the way to a new adventure.

A surge of excitement filled her breast at this thought. Everything would be fine. All she needed was rest. The maid finished her ministrations and tidied up. Eleanor set Molly down and climbed into bed. The mattress sagged beneath her weight, the cool sheets inviting her to sink deeper.

“Would you like me to close the window before I go?” Audrey asked.

“No. Leave it open.” The afternoon sun pouring into the room several hours before had made it unbearably warm and stuffy. She couldn’t sleep like that.

“I’ll bid you good night then, my lady.” Audrey called for Molly to join her and the dog complied without question, knowing full well that a walk and a treat awaited.

“Good night,” Eleanor replied, “and thank you for your help.”

The maid left and Eleanor reached for her book. This was her favorite time to read, when all was silent and there was no risk of being disturbed. She opened Pamela and flipped to the spot where she’d left off the previous evening.

A gentle breeze streamed through the window, toying with the curtains. Distant laughter reached her ears. It was followed by a horse’s faint whinny. Eleanor’s eyes grew heavy. The book began sagging between her hands.

She yawned and it felt like only a moment had passed before she was startled by a loud noise. Her eyes snapped open, adjusting and observing. The light by which she’d been reading had burned itself out. Her book had slipped from her grasp. She must have fallen asleep.

Light flashed beyond the window. A resounding boom followed. The curtains flapped with wild abandon while rain poured down from the heavens. She blew out a breath and went to close the window. It was just a storm. No need for alarm.

Barefooted, she padded across the Aubusson rug and noted that parts of it were now damp from the rain. She leaned forward through the window’s opening, her abdomen pressing into the sill, wetting her nightgown as she reached for the handle.

Her hand caught the slick wood and she pulled the window shut. A welcome silence followed, cocooning her from the elements. Pausing briefly, she watched water streak down the smooth window pane, saw lightning flash across the sky.

Intent on returning to bed, she took a step back, prepared to close the curtains, and froze when her toes connected with something unpleasant. Not just water, but a thick and squishy substance of sorts. But how could that be? Confused, she dropped her gaze, but the darkness was blinding. She’d need a candle or an oil lamp in order to see.

She straightened and started to turn, her aim to locate the tinderbox she kept on her nightstand, when a pair of large hands captured her throat. She opened her mouth, attempted to scream, but couldn’t even manage a gasp as the fingers dug deeper and cut off her breath. 

Terrified, she stared at the window, at her own blurry figure reflected in the wet glass, and the larger man standing behind her. Tears welled in her eyes. She clawed at the hands that gripped her, kicked her attacker’s shins, and did what she could to wriggle free.

None of it worked. 

He was much stronger than she, and her strength waned with each breath she was denied. Her heart fluttered desperately. It begged her to keep on fighting. But it was no use. 

She had already lost

#

Chief Constable Peter Kendrick removed his hat as he entered Orendel House. Given the circumstances, a somber atmosphere wasn’t surprising. But the gloom he encountered in the elegant foyer was unparalleled. 

Servants stood near the walls, slumped like wilting plants. Maids wept while the male servants stared into nothing, their stricken expressions underscoring the horror they’d woken up to. Even the butler struggled to speak when he offered to take Peter’s hat, his voice cracking before he averted his gaze.

“Where are the earl and countess?” Peter asked.

The butler gave his eyes a quick swipe and straightened his posture. “In the parlor with their…remaining children.” Someone sobbed and the old man’s expression twisted with grief. “As you can no doubt imagine, this is terribly difficult for them. They asked me to show you upstairs.”

“Very well.”

He followed the butler, one step at a time, a couple of Runners at his back. They arrived on the landing, their footfalls muted by the plush carpet lining the hardwood floor. A few more paces and then…

The butler paused and gestured toward a door. “Through there. I realize I ought to come with you, but… Do you mind if I remain here?”

“Not at all.” Peter reached Lady Eleanor’s bedchamber doorway and froze. A sick feeling caught hold of his stomach. Ghastly didn’t come close to describing the scene he beheld. This was the sort of thing that could make men lose all hope in humanity. It was…barbaric. 

“Good lord,” murmured Anderson, the Runner standing at Peter’s right shoulder. 

Anderson’s colleague, Lewis, only managed a faint, “Excu…” before he bolted for the stairs, no doubt hoping to make it outside before he vomited.

Peter swallowed and took a deep breath, then entered the room. It hadn’t been so long ago since another young woman’s body was found – the last in a series of brutal murders that left him baffled for more than a year. But that killer was dead, so it couldn’t be the same man who’d acted here.

Besides, this was different and shockingly worse.

He clenched his jaw, reminded himself that he had a job to accomplish. There was just…so much blood. It felt like the room was bathed in it. And the victim…

Forcing himself to employ an analytical mindset, he considered her position on the bed and the clean blanket draped over her torso and legs. 

“I’ll need the usual sketches,” he said.

“Already working on it,” Anderson told him, his voice gruff.

“You may want to wait a moment.” Peter studied Lady Eleanor’s face and the empty eye sockets that seemed to mock him. “Until I’ve removed the blanket.”

“Sir?”

“It doesn’t belong. Someone placed it here after the fact, no doubt to protect her modesty.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “If you’ll please shut the door.”

A firm click followed and then, “Why would the bastard take her eyes?”

“I don’t know. Could be a trophy of sorts. There’s no telling what goes on in such vile creatures’ heads.”

Slowly, with respect and consideration directed toward the poor young woman whose body lay on the bed before him, Peter folded back the blanket and shuddered. Whatever nightgown she’d worn to bed was gone, her naked body left on display. 

Air rushed into Peter’s lungs on a sharp inhalation. She’d been stabbed too many times to count, as though her attacker hadn’t been able to stop. And her neck – the skin there was a bright red shade.

Swallowing, he surveyed the rest of the room while Anderson kept on drawing. 

A vase lay on the floor near one of the windows, smashed to pieces. The flowers were strewn across the Aubusson rug. They’d probably ended up there during a struggle. Peter lowered himself to a crouch, his fingertips testing a dark brown stain and feeling the wetness. Mud.

“Take notes too, will you?” Peter retreated until he’d reached the bedchamber door. He grabbed the handle. “And cover her with the blanket once you’re done. I’ll question the servants in the meantime.”

#

The parlor was made available for interviews, each servant introduced to Peter by the butler as he showed them into the room. Peter considered the latest arrival. Audrey was her name. Short in stature, with mousish features and lackluster hair, she’d been Lady Eleanor’s lady’s maid. 

“I…I don’t…” Audrey gulped. 

She dabbed at her watery eyes again. Her handkerchief looked heavy and wet. Peter handed her a fresh one and gave her a moment to try and collect herself. Not easy, he realized, since she’d been the one who’d discovered her mistress’s body when she’d gone to rouse her.

“Did you always wake her in the mornings?” Peter gently asked.

A nod accompanied trembling lips. “She was always so…active. Liked making the…the most of each day. Today… Oh dear. Please forgive me.”

“It’s quite all right,” Peter told her and waited once more for the woman’s tears to abate. “Take your time.”

She swallowed, licked her lips, and seemed to straighten a bit. “We planned to visit St. Augustine with a few donations. My mistress…she was so very kind I…I don’t understand why anyone might have wanted to hurt her.”

“So you can think of no enemies?”

“None.”

“No hopeful suitors she might have spurned?”

Audrey shook her head. “She’s engaged to Mr. Benjamin Lawrence. They were supposed to marry three months ago, toward the end of April, but his horse-riding accident forced a postponement.”

Peter recalled news of the tragedy. The event had turned the young man into a cripple. He’d lost the use of his legs. “She still meant to go through with it, despite what happened?”

“Of course.” Additional tears slid down Audrey’s cheeks. “My mistress loved Mr. Lawrence and intended to stand by him. That’s the sort of person she was.”

And yet, the nature of her death suggested someone had loathed her beyond all reason. Peter made a few notes in his notebook, his pencil scratching the paper with quick and efficient strokes. 

“Thank you, Audrey. That will be all for now.” He accompanied her to the door and called for the next servant. 

Again, his thoughts wandered back to the murders that took place earlier in the year. Those women had all seemed like proper young ladies. Friends and family had vouched for them. Yet they’d each had a secret that had gotten them killed.

In all likelihood, Lady Eleanor had secrets too. If he was to figure out who killed her, he’d have to discover which of hers had led to her death.

#

There was no greater nuisance than murder. 

It was hard to predict how one would play out. Killing Lady Eleanor had been messier than he’d intended. Perhaps because he’d allowed himself to get carried away. 

His lips curled. At least he’d had the foresight to stash a change of clothes for himself at St. George’s burial ground. Returning home covered in blood would not have helped him get away with the crime. As he intended to do.

Hands shoved into the pockets of a clean pair of trousers, he stood by his bedchamber window and watched the London traffic go by. 

He had no regrets. She’d deserved every part of what he’d done.

His attention focused on the carriages filling the street and on the people hurrying by. It was the busiest hour of the day, when men of consequence made their way to Parliament while those who belonged to the working class went off to start their jobs.

Bow Street would have its hands full this morning. He casually wondered if they were examining Lady Eleanor’s body right now and where the clues they discovered might lead them.

Spotting a young girl who carried a crate of eggs on her head, he tracked her as she walked along the opposite side of the street. A man coming the other way nudged her shoulder as he pushed past her, but failed to disrupt her stride.

She threw a quick glance toward him then stepped off the pavement and hurried between two carriages, making her way to this side of the street. 

A couple of street urchins came from the left at a run, most likely fleeing someone whose pocket they’d picked. Leaping into the street at the same exact time as the girl with the eggs attempted to exit, they crashed into her, tripping before regaining their balance and sprinting onward while she was sent reeling.

Down went the crate and all of her eggs, straight into the gutter.

Not one person stopped to inquire about her wellbeing. She was invisible to the crowd – just another lowly individual doing her best to scrape by. Too much trouble for the middle or upper class to get involved with. Too time consuming for the rest.

And yet, as he watched the poor wretch try to salvage the few eggs that somehow remained intact, there was no doubt she’d prefer her situation to Lady Eleanor’s at the moment.

He watched the girl until she’d gathered whatever she could and continued along the street, vanishing from his view before he turned from the window. His gaze went to his bedside table and he crossed to it, retrieved a small key from his jacket pocket, then dropped into a crouch.

With adroitness, he set the key in the lock of the door beneath the drawer and turned it. The door opened and he reached inside, retrieving a jar that he held up against the bright morning light. 

A pair of eyes contained in a clear solution stared back at him while his lips twitched with amusement. The last time they’d talked, Lady Eleanor had insisted she’d no desire to see him again. 

It was a wish he’d been more than happy to fulfill.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Hardcover | Paperback

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes writes historical romance novels in which the characters break away from social expectations in their quest for happiness and love. Having written for Avon, an imprint of Harper Collins, her books have been published internationally in eight languages. With a fondness for travel, Sophie has lived in six countries, on three continents, and speaks English, Danish, French, Spanish, and Romanian with varying degrees of fluency. Ever the romantic, she married the same man three times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.

When she’s not busy dreaming up her next swoon worthy romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, practicing yoga, baking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.

Connect:

Website: https://www.sophiebarnes.com/sb/

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

Twitter: https://x.com/BarnesSophie

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5400052.Sophie_Barnes

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/sophiebarnes/

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

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sophie-barnes

Spotlight: The Maui Effect by Sara Ackerman

Publication Date: November 19, 2024

Format: Trade Paperback

Publisher: Harlequin Trade Publishing / MIRA

Taylor Jenkins Reid meets The Hundred Foot Wave in this dazzling new romance by USA Today bestselling author Sara Ackerman.

'Iwa Young’s life is high in the Maui rainforest. As a field biologist, she’s happiest in company with trees and birds and waterfalls. When a developer arrives with plans for a so-called Eco Resort in the middle of a forest full of endangered species, 'Iwa puts all her energy into the fight to protect it. But a chance encounter threatens to distract her. His name is Dane Parsons, and he’s a big wave surfer from California. 'Iwa has a few unbreakable rules, and at the top of her list: Never Date A Surfer.

Dane Parsons is part of an underground group of big wave riders and his connection to the ocean runs deep. When he meets 'Iwa he can’t get her out of his mind. But 'Iwa wants nothing to do with Dane until he offers to help protect her beloved forest and waterfall. Always on the hunt for the ultimate ride, Dane suddenly glimpses something even greater, but just out of reach.

In this thunderous love story, we travel deep into the Maui rainforest and hop across the globe from Maui to Mavericks to Portugal, chasing waves the size of nine story buildings–where the unthinkable is always just one breath away.

Excerpt

THE BLUE ROOM

Dane

Pe’ahi, Maui, January 3, 2012

The Hawaiian ocean was more blue than he remembered, and it smelled faintly of salt and sea foam. Dane sat on his surfboard watching rays of sun pierce the surface and descend into the depths. Farther out above the trench, the water shone indigo, and inside over the coral shelf, a dappled turquoise. Bathwater warm, smooth as blown glass, deadly. There were sounds—a light splash, the low rumble of whitewater meeting rock on the shoreline—but he didn’t hear them.

Someone is going to die.

An old man on the cliff had spoken these words to him just as he was scrambling down the rocks to get in the water, and he was having a hard time shaking it off. The man was thin as a twig and wrinkled, with a shock of white hair against his sun-beaten skin. A complete stranger. He touched Dane’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, pinning Dane in place for a few seconds, before he pulled himself away. His shoulder still burned.

Now he focused on the horizon and matched his breath to the rise and fall of the swells. Reaching down with both hands, he scooped up water and splashed himself to cool off. The air was thick with a salty haze, windless, hot and lazy. Usually by this time—early afternoon, the waves were blown out and ragged from the wind. But today was perfection. Even the locals were saying the conditions were epic.

All he needed was one wave.

The Maui offshore buoys showed an afternoon pulse, which meant that the swell could get even bigger before it faded away. No doubt it was a gamble to paddle out on his biggest board, a mint green beauty, but risk was his thing, the only constant he knew. While most people moved away from risk, Dane had always sought it out. Not consciously, but looking back, he had been the kid to climb the tallest tree, skateboard down the steepest road or take the highest jump on his bike, and later, often the only one to paddle out on those winter days when the whole horizon was closing out.

He checked his watch. Eighteen minutes since the last set rolled in, but it seemed like days. He could feel the island behind him, a massive volcano with a dollop of white snow on her peak, but he refused to look. Never turn your back on the sea. Anyone raised around the ocean knew this.

Four minutes left in the heat and Dane had nothing to show for it. He had missed the only rideable wave on the last set by being too far out. His last hope was the tide. It had just bottomed out, and now began to fill back in, the whole ocean heaving toward the island. All he could do was wait. Mother nature called the shots out here, there was no way around it.

Two minutes left and he was starting to sweat, when he noticed a bump on the horizon. He stood up on his board to get a better look. Definitely a set. Kicking his board out in front of him, he fell back in the water and crossed himself. This was it. Sliding back onto his board, he adjusted his vest, took a deep breath and started paddling toward the horizon.

A live wire ran under his skin, electrifying every cell, every muscle. It was a familiar feeling, and it meant game on. The first wave in the set rose up like a liquid mountain and began to feather, but already he could tell it wasn’t the one he was waiting for. Too small and a little too west. Let someone else have it. When he reached the top of that one, he got his first look at what was coming—a blue wall of water taller than a small building and farther out than he had thought possible. Lined up perfectly and swinging straight for him.

He scrambled to position himself a little deeper as the wave moved in and lifted him up and up. And fricking up. He turned and went for it. At the top, he hung for a second as he looked down the vertical face of water, half wishing he had wings. Beyond the point of no return, he jumped to his feet and dropped in. The first few seconds were a free fall and he was poised with arms out, as if in flight, while his board miraculously stayed under him. He managed to level out and picked his line. From behind, the lip hurled and thundered and created a bus-sized barrel, spitting out at him.

Still high up on the wave, which felt ready to pitch him at any moment, he felt the burn in his legs, his lungs, his eyes. Spray from the barrel chandeliered down on him and began to blot out the sun and everything else. If this beast closed out, he was done. He’d be held down on the reef for at least a few waves and then washed into a frothy cauldron of whitewater and boulders at the bottom of the cliffs.

Someone is going to die. The words came to him again in a flash, then disappeared. Today was not his day to die.

The avalanche of water behind him was creating its own wind, but he managed to stall for a few seconds in the barrel before getting shot out in the spit. Time slowed, and the outside world slipped away. A feeling of euphoria came over him. Saltwater ran in his veins and he looked down on the scene from a bird’s-eye view. Albatross or petrel or booby. When he hit the shoulder of the wave still standing, his arms shot up skyward and he fell back, landing with a splash in the very water that could have easily taken him. The horn sounded a few moments later, signifying the end of the heat.

The crowd in the channel went crazy; he heard them even underwater. Jet skis, boats, boards, camera guys swimming—all rushed toward him. People yelling, hooting, clapping, cheering. Shirtless men and bikini-clad women. Not a wetsuit in sight. And there was no need to see the score, or the video. Their reaction told him everything he needed to know.

Excerpted from THE MAUI EFFECT by Sara Ackerman. Copyright © 2024 by Sara Ackerman. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Hardcover | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Sara Ackerman is the Hawai'i born, bestselling author of historical & romance novels set in the islands. Her books have been labeled “unforgettable” by Apple Books, “empowering & deliciously visceral” by Book Riot, and New York Times bestselling authors Kate Quinn and Madeline Martin have praised Sara’s novels as “fresh and delightful” and “brilliantly written.” Amazon chose Radar Girls as a best book of the month, and ALA Booklist gave The Codebreaker’s Secret a starred review. Find out more about Sara and her books at www.ackermanbooks.com and follow her on Instagram @saraackermanbooks and on Facebook @ackermanbooks.