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Showing posts with label EXCERPT Reveal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label EXCERPT Reveal. Show all posts
Thursday, August 27, 2026
Thursday, July 24, 2025
Title: Denim & Diamonds
Authors: Penelope Ward & Vi Keeland
Genre: Standalone Contemporary Romance
Release Date: July 27, 2025
Excited about Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward’s
upcoming release, Denim & Diamonds?
READ CHAPTER ONE NOW!
Ugh. My aching head.
I lifted it from the pillow and looked around the room. Where the hell am I? This was definitely not my room at Sierra Wellness Center, and why the heck are my eyes burning so much? I must’ve left my contacts in last night. I blinked a few times, attempting to get rid of the dryness. It helped, but when my vision came into focus, I found myself staring into the eyes of…a giant moose.
“Holy shit!” I jumped from the bed and landed on my ass on the hard floor.
Clunk-clunk. Click.
Clunk-clunk. Click.
My grandfather had loved old westerns, so I knew the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped and cocked. I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my hands into the air. I might’ve also peed my pants a little. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”
“What the hell, Red?” a deep, throaty voice growled. “I’m not going to fucking shoot you.”
I peeked one eye open and found a bearded man standing on the other side of the bed wearing a pair of boxer shorts and holding a gun. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Well, then stop pointing that thing at me!”
“Sorry.” He lowered it. “What the hell did you scream like that for?”
I blinked a few times. “Who the hell are you?”
“Jesus Christ,” the guy mumbled. “You don’t remember last night?”
My eyes bulged. Last night? Oh my God. Did I sleep with this lumberjack? I looked down and was relieved to find I still had all my clothes on, boots and all.
The guy shook his head. “You’d remember it, sweetheart. Trust me.”
“What?”
“You just checked to see what you were wearing, so I’m guessing you were questioning whether we had sex. We didn’t. And if we had, you’d remember it.”
“Why is that?”
The corner of his lip twitched. “How’s your noggin?”
The pain I’d felt when I first opened my eyes came roaring back with a vengeance. I reached for my head. “Who are you, and what the heck did I drink last night?”
Lumberjack bent and lifted the mattress, casually tucking the rifle between it and the boxspring.
“Is that where that gets filed?” I asked.
His lip twitched again. “It is. And an extra dry martini, shaken not stirred, with a lemon twist, dash of orange bitters, and two bleu cheese olives.”
I felt my nose wrinkle. “What?”
“You asked what you drank last night. That’s what your prissy order was. Though that’s not actually what you drank.”
“A dry martini is not prissy.”
“In this town it is, especially the way you order it.”
“What did I drink if my order was too prissy for you?”
“Vodka.”
“With?”
“Ice.”
“No wonder my head is killing me. Why would you give me that?”
Lumberjack’s eyebrows shot up. “Because you asked for it when I told you I didn’t have orange bitters, bleu cheese olives, or lemons, and I was all out of vermouth.”
“You told me you didn’t have it? So you’re who…the bartender?”
He frowned. “Yeah. I’m the bartender. Is that below your standards or something? I also own the place.”
“I didn’t mean it like that… I just…” I shook my head and looked around the room. For the first time, I realized the moose wasn’t alone. He had friends—a deer with big antlers, a bear, and some other thing I thought might be an elk. “Did you kill all these animals?”
Lumberjack folded his arms across his broad chest. “Is that a problem?”
“I’m guessing for them it was.”
He walked around the bed and held a hand out to me—I was still sitting on the floor. I hesitated, and he shook his head. “It’s my hand, sweetheart. Not my dick.”
My nose scrunched up. “Crass much?”
“Rather be crass than condescending.”
I put my hand in his. “I am not condescending.”
“No?”
“No.”
He helped me to my feet. “If you say so.”
I brushed my clothes off. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”
Lumberjack pointed. “Maybe while you’re in there, you can pry the stick out of your ass.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re rude.”
He sighed. “Just go do what you gotta do, Red.”
“Red. That’s original.” I attempted to lift my chin into the air and keep a bit of my dignity as I walked to the bathroom. But the screech I let out when I shut the door was anything but dignified. “Umm…Lumberjack?” I was afraid to move.
Footsteps came closer on the other side of the door. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Did you know there’s a giant dog in your bathtub?”
“I did indeed.”
The Saint Bernard tilted his head at me, curiously. “You could’ve warned me.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then, “Hey, Red?”
“Yeah?”
“Oak sleeps in the bathtub.”
“Is Oak the dog?”
“Yep.”
“Does he bite?”
“He sleeps in the bathtub because he’s afraid of his own shadow. I think you’re safe.”
“Great,” I mumbled.
I had one of those bladders that got overly excited once it saw a toilet, so I didn’t have time for any more small talk. I walked to the porcelain throne and peed while the giant dog stared. Fitting. I had a moose and deer watch me sleep.
Oh, and it turned out I actually had peed my pants a little. This morning just kept getting better and better. I slipped my thong off, flushed, and went to the sink to wash my hands. Looking up, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Oh God. I didn’t look much better than the poor mounted heads. My auburn hair was plastered to one side of my face with what might be drool, puffy green eyes were streaked with red lines from not taking out my daily wears, and dark raccoon circles rimmed underneath. I washed up and did my best to fix my hair and face, but there wasn’t much that could make this hangover look any better than it felt.
At least when I opened the bathroom door, the smell of fresh coffee wafted through the air. I found Lumberjack in the kitchen—which technically was also the bedroom and living room in his studio apartment. His back was to me, so I took a moment to appreciate the view. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, and what looked like a pretty muscular ass under those boxer briefs. He was tall—super tall, actually, maybe a foot bigger than my five foot four. Definitely not my normal type. I tended to go for a runner’s body—lean and trim, whereas this guy could best be described as burly.
Without turning around, he pointed to the counter next to him. “Coffee’s there. And I figured you could use some Motrin.”
“God, yes. Thank you.” I walked over and lifted the steaming mug. “You wouldn’t happen to have any creamer, would you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Milk?”
“Nope.”
“So I guess dairy-free cashew creamer blended with oat milk is out of the question?”
He looked over at me, frowned, and went back to what he was doing without saying a word.
I brought the mug to my lips. “Okay then…”
Lumberjack poured a second coffee in silence while I swallowed two Motrin with scalding black coffee. When he was done, he leaned a hip against the counter and looked at me.
“How many vodkas did I drink last night?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Three maybe?”
“The bar had dark paneling, right?”
“Yep.”
I attempted to fit together the bits and pieces of things I could remember. “And a jukebox? I remember putting on Taylor Swift. But then it broke, I think?”
Lumberjack smirked. “I have a secret kill switch behind the bar that cuts the power. Usually have to use it at two AM when drunk fifty-year-olds put on Billy Joel and sing along. I cut you off the third time you played ‘Shake It Off’.”
“Not a Swiftie?”
“Don’t mind her. But I didn’t like the way some of my patrons were looking at you while you were dancing.”
“How exactly were they looking at me?”
He tipped back his mug and drank. “You probably shouldn’t go out by yourself and get hammered.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re a fucking lightweight. And the wrong person could’ve taken you home.”
I sighed. He had a point. I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but I didn’t feel unsafe here with him. “You’re right. Thank you for taking care of me.”
He nodded once.
“It’s just been a really bad week.” I shook my head. “A really bad few months, actually.”
“Is that why you’re at that bougie mental hospital?”
I frowned. “Sierra Wellness Center is not a mental hospital. It’s a voluntary wellness facility.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Are you famous or something?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because a lot of celebrities have come through town to spend time there since it was built three years ago.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “I’m not famous. My handbags are maybe, but not me.”
“Handbags?”
“I own Amourette, the purse company.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I don’t think they would style well with your moose head and shotgun.”
“Guess that stick was too far up there to pry it out in the bathroom, huh?”
“I was trying to be funny.”
“You’re about as good at that as you are drinking.”
I smiled. “What’s your name? Or should I just continue to call you Lumberjack, like I have been in my head since I woke up at gunpoint?”
“Name’s Brock.”
“Huh…”
“Huh what?”
I shrugged. “It fits you.”
“And what’s yours?”
“February.”
His brows jumped. “Like the month?”
“Exactly like the month.”
“Who names their kid February?”
I sighed. “We don’t have time for the story of my mother.” But speaking of time… I looked around for a clock. “What time is it anyway?”
“Eleven.”
My eyes widened. “In the morning?”
“Well, you didn’t knock out until four, so it’s not like you slept that long.”
“God, I’m screwed. My ladder is definitely going to be gone by now.”
“Your ladder?”
“That’s how I snuck out. My room is on the second floor. I paid one of the maintenance guys to leave a ladder at my window, but he said he’d have to get rid of it before the sun came up.”
“Why do you have to sneak out? I thought you said the place was voluntary?”
“It is. But if you leave, they discharge you from the program. And if I get kicked out, I’m screwed.”
“How are you screwed?”
“It’s a long story. But I have a board of directors at my company, and there’s this dumb morality clause in my contract and… Let’s just say this is my punishment for doing something stupid.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But it sounds like you’re in deep shit.”
I laughed. Maybe I needed the mental health timeout more than I wanted to admit. “How far away from Sierra are we?”
“About a mile.”
“Oh good.” I gulped back the rest of my coffee. “I should get going.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“It’s okay. I can walk if you just point me in the right direction.”
He looked down at the boots I’d slept in—the cute, knee-high leather ones with chunky four-inch heels. “I’ll drive you.”
Okay then.
Brock’s apartment was on the second floor. When we got down to street level and stepped outside, I realized where we were. “You live above the bar?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s convenient to get to work.”
There were two pickup trucks parked in the driveway on the side of the brick building. Both had decals that read Hawkins Log Cabins. Brock opened the passenger door on the bigger of the two trucks and offered a hand to help me get in.
“Thank you.”
The temperature had really dropped overnight, and I only had on a flimsy silk dress. Brock got in, started the truck, and noticed me shivering. He peeled off his flannel and held it out to me. “Truck’s diesel. Takes a minute for the heat to warm when it first starts.”
I waved him off. “It’s okay.”
“Lean forward.”
Not sure why, but I followed his instruction. Brock wrapped his flannel around my shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and felt good, so I slipped my arms into it. “Thank you.”
“Yep.”
“Do you work for a company that builds log cabins during the day?”
He shifted the truck into reverse and backed out of the driveway. “Own it.”
“I thought you said you owned the bar?”
“I do. Also own the grocery store in town and the laundromat.”
“That’s a weird combination of businesses.”
He shrugged. “Economy went to shit a few years back, so the logging mill in town closed down. No work meant no cash to spend in the grocery store or laundromat, so those closed down, too. I had a little bit of money I didn’t need from an inheritance, so I bought what I could to help people get back to work.”
“That was very noble.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone helps each other.”
“That does not happen in Manhattan.”
“And that’s one of the many reasons I’ve never been there.”
“You’ve never been to the City? But you live in Maine, and it’s only a ten-hour drive or a two-hour flight.”
He shrugged. A few minutes later, we pulled up to the entrance of Sierra Wellness Center. There were some people milling around out front, so I ducked.
“Do you think you can drive around to the back of the building? That’s where my room is. Maybe people will see this truck and just assume you’re doing some work here.”
Brock waved as he drove up the long driveway.
“Who are you saying hello to?” I asked.
“Fuck if I know. Not even quite sure how the hell I got roped into keeping you at my apartment.”
“Roped in?” I felt offended. “I’m sorry if I was such a hassle.”
He looked over at me. “You were.”
“How was I a hassle?”
“You play shitty music, wouldn’t tell me where you lived to take you home, and I had to carry you up the stairs where you proceeded to snore the entire night.”
I did snore. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” The truck made a turn, and Brock slowed to a stop. “The coast is clear from the coppers. You can get up from down there now.”
“Thank you.”
Of course the ladder I’d used to climb out last night was no longer there. I looked around for something—anything—nearby to use to climb in. But it was just us and a shitload of trees fifty feet away. I nibbled on my fingernail. “Do you think you can pull up to that third window? Maybe I can reach it if I stand in the bed of the truck.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“Well, do you have a better solution?”
He mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t catch, but pulled the truck next to the third window. We both got out and looked up.
“Shoot,” I said. “It’s too high. This isn’t going to work.”
“I seem to have heard that somewhere before.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You don’t have to be so cocky about it.”
Brock shook his head and walked around to the back of his truck. He lowered the rear gate and climbed up, then extended one hand and pointed to the bumper with the other. “Put your foot on there, and I’ll pull you up.”
“But I’m still not going to be able to reach the window.”
“Just do it.”
My foot had barely touched the bumper when Brock hoisted me into the bed. He walked over near my window and kneeled down on one knee. “Get on my shoulders. I’ll lift you.”
“Are you sure? I’m not as light as I look.”
“I lift logs bigger than you all day long.”
“Okay…”
Brock held out a hand, and I climbed up to sit on his shoulders, trying to be as ladylike as I could while wearing a dress. But once I was on, he didn’t move. “Am I too heavy?”
“Nope.”
“Are you afraid you’re going to fall?”
“Nope.”
“So why aren’t you moving?”
He cleared his throat. “Are you…not wearing underwear?”
Oh.
My.
God.
I wanted to die. I’d completely forgotten that I had taken off my pee-peed underwear earlier in the bathroom. Here I was, legs over this man’s shoulders with my vagina pressed against the back of his neck. I started to swing my leg off to get down, but he gripped my ankle.
“We made it this far. Might as well finish.”
I covered my face. “I seriously want to die right now.”
Before I could say anything else, Brock climbed to his feet. I wobbled but stayed on. “Go ahead,” he said. “Stand on my shoulders, and you should be able to reach.”
“Do you promise not to look up?”
“I managed to not turn around and bury my face between your legs, so I think we’re in the clear.”
Oh my. That gave me a visual. Me facing the other way, my legs dangling down big, burly lumberjack Brock’s back, while he buried his face in me…
“Anytime now,” Brock grumbled.
“Oh—right.”
Luckily, my window was still open, and when I stood on his shoulders, it was easy enough to climb in. After, I stuck my head back outside. “Thank you for…everything.”
He chuckled. “Take care, Red.”
I stayed at the window and watched Brock the burly lumberjack get back into his truck. As it pulled away, I felt oddly sad. Though people here had to be looking for me by now, so I grabbed a change of clothes from the drawer and ran into the bathroom to get dressed, only to realize I was still wearing Brock’s flannel. It wasn’t even off when someone knocked at my room door. Shit. “I’ll be out in a minute!”
I finished changing as fast as I could, then scooped all the clothes from the bathroom floor and opened the cabinet under the sink. As I tossed everything inside, something dropped to the floor. A little book. My dress didn’t have pockets, so it must’ve come from Brock’s flannel. I reached for it and thumbed to the first page.
“Oh…this is interesting.”
***
BLURB
When the board of directors of my company mandated that I go to a wellness facility in small-town Maine to recharge, that shouldn’t have included:
1.) Using a ladder to sneak out of the bedroom window at night and going to the local bar.
2.) Getting so drunk that the bar owner brought me upstairs to sleep it off in his bed.
3.) Waking up staring at the taxidermy moose head on said bar owner’s wall.
4.) Falling for said bar owner who was the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
But Brock Hawkins was so much more than just the hot bar owner. He owned half the town, built log cabins with his bare hands, and was apparently the most eligible man in all of Meadowbrook.
He was also a cinnamon roll despite his seemingly rock-hard exterior.
And the last man I should’ve been falling for—because my time in this small town was limited.
I had to head back to my life in New York City, one that was the complete opposite from the kind Brock lived.
He was denim. I was diamonds.
The problem was, the sexy lumberjack wasn’t the type of man who was easy to walk away from. Hell, I couldn’t even part with his plaid shirt that had become a constant fixture wrapped around my shoulders most days, let alone think about erasing him from my life.
A life with Brock, though, would have to be all or nothing.
Go big or go home.
I just didn’t realize that choosing to go big might also mean getting my heart broken when Brock’s life took a turn neither of us saw coming.
PENELOPE WARD
Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of contemporary romance.
She grew up in Boston with five older brothers and spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor. Penelope resides in Rhode Island with her husband, son, and beautiful daughter with autism.
With millions of books sold, she is a 21-time New York Times bestseller and the author of over thirty novels. Her books have been translated into over a dozen languages and can be found in bookstores around the world.
VI KEELAND
Friday, June 13, 2025
Title: Someone Knows
Author: Vi Keeland
Publisher: S&S/Emily Bestler Books
Genre: Standalone Thriller
Release Date: June 17, 2025
Take a sneak peek at SOMEONE KNOWS.
You know you want to...
A voice behind me catches me off guard. “Put hers on my tab, please, Willow.”
I expect to find the mullet man when I turn, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Instead, there’s a tall, handsome—albeit too young for me—man with a deliciously crooked smile. That smile widens, unveiling a set of cavernous dimples. Oh my.
“You are definitely not from around here,” he drawls.
I swivel and face him for a better look. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Because the girls from these parts drink one of three things: White Claws, High Noons, or Jack and Coke. And the third I keep away from because that means they’re going to wind up sloppy drunk.”
“I suppose the reason I don’t drink any of those is because I’m a woman, not a girl.”
Dimples looks me up and down. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet mine. “You sure are.”
I chuckle. He’s corny and over the top, but something about him appeals to me. It could be the confidence. There’s nothing I’m drawn to more than a confident man. Which is why Sam isn’t the first cop I’ve dated.
“What’s your name?” I tilt my head. “Or should I just call you Dimples?”
“Name’s Noah.” He smiles, flashes those things like a weapon, and holds out a hand. “And you are?”
“Elizabeth.” I put my hand in his, but instead of shaking, he lifts my knuckles to his lips and kisses just above them.
“Pleasure. Where you from, darlin’?” He waves his hand. “Wait. Let me guess.”
“This should be interesting . . .” I cross one leg over the other. Noah’s eyes drop to follow before looking up unapologetically and wagging a finger at me.
“I bet you’re from New York City.”
“Indeed I am. What gave it away?”
“You just have that look about you.”
“And what look is that?”
He grins. “Like you can eat a man alive.”
“Considering you’re standing here and just bought me a drink, I take it you enjoy being eaten alive?”
“I don’t mind it.” He leans in, putting his mouth next to my ear, and whispers, “But I’m a gentleman, so I’ll always do the eatin’ first.”
The bartender interrupts, which I’m grateful for because this young’in has got me all hot and bothered. She places another drink in front of me and lifts her chin to Noah. “You want your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
She raps her knuckles against the bar twice. “Coming right up.”
Noah slides into the seat next to me and scoots it over a few inches until his knee is touching mine. “So what brings a city girl down to these parts?”
“I’m visiting family.” I pick up my drink and take a healthy swig, watch the man next to me over the glass. “Tell me, how old are you, Noah?”
“Old enough.”
“Old enough for what?”
He grins again. “Anything you want to do.”
I chuckle. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
Over the next hour, Noah and I talk. Surprisingly, we have a lot in common—even though I did the math when he said the year he graduated high school and know he’s ten years younger than me. Noah is a writer. He pens a sports column for the Louisiana Post, but he wants to write a novel
someday. He has a degree in journalism from Tulane, runs half marathons, and is willing to travel for a good meal at a restaurant. He’s read Tolstoy and Faulkner, but prefers to read Stephen King on a night when the wind is howling. And he’s currently remodeling his house all by himself, rather than hiring people.
After my third drink, I’m relaxed enough to forget the reason I’m down here for the first time since crossing the state line. But my gut tells me the man next to me could make me forget my name for a while. So even though I rarely take up with a man under forty, I decide to make an exception. Noah excuses himself to go to the men’s room, and I wait a few seconds, then hop down from the bar stool and follow.
I look around to see if anyone is watching before opening the door and slipping inside. Noah is facing the urinal. He doesn’t turn until he hears the clank of the lock. When he does, his eyes go wide.
I grin. “You can finish up.”
He chuckles and turns around. “Haven’t even started yet. But suddenly I think it can wait. Whatcha doin’ in the men’s room, beautiful?”
“Seeing if you’re worth going home with.”
★★★
Excited? We are too!
RELEASING
JUNE 17th!
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AUTHOR BIO
Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles are currently translated in twenty-seven languages and have appeared on bestseller lists in the US, Germany, Brazil, Bulgaria, Israel, and Hungary. Three of her short stories have been turned into films by Passionflix, and two of her books are currently optioned for movies. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.
AUTHOR LINKS
Friday, May 2, 2025
Title: Jilted
Author: Vi Keeland
Publisher: Bramble/Macmillan
Genre: Standalone Contemporary Romance
Tropes: Wedding Meet Cute/Pro Athlete Hero
He Falls First/Cocky Hero
Release Date: May 6, 2025
Take a sneak peek at JILTED.
You know you want to...
“And this is Wilder. Your partner for the ceremony.” She wagged a finger at him. “Be nice.”
He smirked. “I’m always nice, love.”
Ooh . . . Those eyes come with a British accent.
The groomsman, whose name was apparently Wilder, gave me the once-over. His eyes dropped down to take in my dress, then raised to the top of my head, where the fascinator that looked more like mangled horns sat protruding from my skull.
“You had on a different dress earlier. So the accident must’ve happened recently then?”
“Accident?”
He smirked and motioned to the fascinator. “I’m assuming there’s a giant wound under there, since you thought it was a good idea to put that dress on instead.”
“Are you joking?” My hands flew to my hips. “Who insults someone they just met like that?”
“Actually I was.” He grinned. “Joking, I mean.”
“Well, it wasn’t very funny. Do you think I want to be wearing this . . . this . . .” My arms flailed around. “Costume?”
The maître d’ walked over. His eyes flashed down the hall and back. I suspected he was looking for the bride. “Is everything alright over here?” he whispered.
“Fine.”
He gestured to the door. “People are waiting for the ceremony to start. The walls are thin.”
I took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course. Sorry.”
My eyes slanted to the guy standing next to me, my partner, it seemed. He still wore a shit-eating grin and looked pretty proud of himself. But while I continued to scowl, I took a moment to check out the rest of his face, since I hadn’t been able to move past his eyes earlier. Square jaw, defined cheekbones, flawless tanned skin—I wasn’t sure if Bridezilla made the men get spray tans too, but his coloring was too golden bronze to have come from anything other than genetics. Not to mention, he was tall—a weakness of mine—with broad shoulders and . . . I inhaled. Damn, the fucker smells good, too.
I’d been so busy checking him out, I hadn’t realized he’d watched me do it. When my eyes met his again, he raised a brow. “Like what you see?”
Ugh. Cocky and rude. I plastered on a fake smile. “Yes, what a shame something so pleasant doesn’t come with a matching personality.”
★★★
Excited? We are too!
RELEASING
MAY 6th!
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AUTHOR BIO
Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles are currently translated in twenty-seven languages and have appeared on bestseller lists in the US, Germany, Brazil, Bulgaria, Israel, and Hungary. Three of her short stories have been turned into films by Passionflix, and two of her books are currently optioned for movies. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.
AUTHOR LINKS
Friday, April 11, 2025
Title: The First Lost Boy
Series: The Shadows of Neverland Duology
Author: Casey L. Bond
Genre: New Adult Fantasy Romance (Peter Pan Retelling)
Dust Jacket/ Paperback Cover by Melissa Stevens of @TheIllustratedAuthor
Hard Case / Naked Hardback
Cover by @TheFairyFinn
Edited by Stacy Sanford/ The
Girl with the Red Pen
Publication Date: May 2nd, 2025
Hosted by: Lady Amber’s PR
Blurb:
Stars see everything and forget nothing. And sometimes they meddle far too much.
Ava has no idea who she is or how she got on the unfamiliar island Peter Pan keeps insisting is her home, the place she’s safest. But there are shadows in his cunning eyes and something within her screams out a warning that he can’t be trusted.
When Belle learns that her sister is alive, she leaps at the chance to work with Hook, his crew, and their siren ally to free Ava from Pan’s grasp. She thought that with their help, she’d have time to save Ava before her secret was discovered…
She was wrong.
When the sinister truth slithers its way between the tentative truces formed, some friendships and alliances buckle while others break. But if everyone doesn’t work together to accomplish the seemingly impossible, and fast, all those trapped in Neverland’s gravity will be lost to an insidious darkness forever.
Can Hook and Ava find one another and manage an escape? Or will they be consumed by the malicious shadow and forget one another forever?
Casey Bond lives on a rural farm in West Virginia with her husband and their two beautiful daughters. She writes phoenixes – gloriously flawed and morally gray characters that fiercely rise from the ashes of their circumstances. World building is one of her favorite hobbies, along with stamping metal jewelry, swimming, and enjoying the beauty of nature. She thinks thunderstorms are better than coffee and that watching a meteor shower is the closest thing to magic you might ever see. She’s a firm believer that every amazing book needs a world you want to wrap yourself in, a character you want to win, and a love you would fight for.
Casey is the award-winning author of When Wishes Bleed, Gravebriar, and House of Eclipses.
Author Links:
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Peter beams when we reach a broad tree proudly standing in the middle of another clearing. It’s been stripped of wood from its wide roots to its lowest branch, which is high enough off the ground that I wouldn’t be able to reach it even if he boosted me up. In the smooth, pale grain, names have been carved. There are so many I can’t count them all.
I circle the trunk, reading as many as I can make out. Some are barely visible, having been carved too shallowly. Others have been slashed through. “Whose names are these?”
Peter begins circling the trunk opposite me, but he stays in step with mine so I can only see his face every time he moves forward, losing sight of him again when I move away. My heart beats faster at the look he gives me.
I can’t decipher it, or him, for that matter.
His motives, intentions, and whims still aren’t clear. Like the murky way he answers a question that only displaces the truth’s surface.
“They’re the names of the Lost,” he finally answers.
“Who are the Lost?” I glance at him, waiting for him to explain.
“Everyone who’s called Neverland their home at one time or another has carved their name in the bark.”
There are so many, yet I’ve only seen a handful. Where are all the others? “Why do you call them ‘Lost’?”
“Because that’s what anyone who steps foot on Neverland becomes,” he says cryptically.
“So… I’m Lost?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest.
He grins and nods. “Of course you are.”
“Should I carve my name here with the others, then?” I tease.
“You already have,” he replies, eyes glittering with mischief.
“Where is it?” I ask. “I don’t see Six.”
“Perhaps you’ll recognize it when you see it.”
His challenge sparks my curiosity and the air between us. I let my thumb trace one of the gouged-out names. “Why are some of the names damaged?”
Peter smiles at the question the way he smiled at the corpse yesterday and I fight to suppress a shudder when he tells me, “We strike through the names of the dead.” He pulls a long blade from his waistband. “I thought you might want to do the honors.”
He lightly drags the tip of the knife around the tree and I follow, stopping when the tip of the blade touches the first of [REDACTED] haunting letters.
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