Book Blitz & Excerpt: The Ghost Hunter and her Guy + Giveaway

Ghost Hunter and Her Guy

The Ghost Hunter and her Guy, by Larissa Vine

Book 4 in the Women on Top series

Word Count: 39,346
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 161



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Book Description

A love so strong, it’s supernatural.

When medium Jolene Gray is offered a lucrative contract as a psychic on a television show, she jumps at the chance. The money will pay for her spiritualist meetings that help connect people with their departed loved ones…and she’ll get to work with smoking-hot TV director Red MacFarlene. Jolene’s life is woefully lacking in romance. It’s hard to have a boyfriend with her spirit guide, Iris, always in her head.

This is Red McFarlene’s golden ticket, an opportunity to direct an episode of the phenomenally popular TV series Canada’s Most Haunted. By doing this, Red hopes to launch a new career directing movies like his sickeningly perfect brother. Bonus—the show’s ghost hunter is the gorgeous and gifted Jolene.

As filming starts on a famously haunted farm, a place steeped in tragedy with a history of vengeful ghosts, Jolene senses that the spirits want something, but her guide is blocking them from her, and she’s also sidetracked by her steamy romance with Red.

The ghost activity increases, though, and soon it’s not just the TV show that’s at stake. To face the specters and protect Red from dangerous paranormal forces, Jolene must ignore the voice in her head, and listen to her heart…before it’s too late.

Reader advisory: This book contains references to death and violence.


Jolene raced up the steps of the Mountain View Evangelical Baptist church and into the entrance area, dodging a few of the latecomers. She approached Eion, the head of the British Columbia Spiritualists’ Society, sitting at a trestle table with the collection box. He looked like he was on safari in a white linen suit. His gray cravat matched his steely hair.

He shot Jolene a pointed stare. “You’re nearly late.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the buses,” she panted. “How is it in there tonight?” She jerked her head toward the hall.

“We’ve got a full house as always,” Eion said. “I thought the heat would deter them, but it hasn’t.” He rattled the collection tin at an approaching couple then switched his attention back to Jolene.

“Go wait in the wings,” he said to her.

She hurried past him along the corridor into the room at the back, where she took off her purse then wound the strap around a metal hanger on the coat rail. She ducked into the tiny washroom. At once, Iris, Jolene’s spirit guide, started up in Jolene’s head. “Where’s your comb, lovie? Please tell me that you brought your comb. A pretty girl like you can’t be seen like this.”

Jolene rolled her eyes at Iris then checked her reflection in the mirror. It was true. People had often said that she was pretty with her big mouth, streaky blonde hair and slanting eyes. But Iris was right. At the moment, she did look a mess. Her hair hung in sweaty strands around her face.

She combed it with her fingers then hurried to the side of the stage and peered out from the wings. Her throat tightened. The hall was full like Eion had said. All the two hundred and fifty folding metal seats were occupied, and some people stood around the sides.

She and Eion had been running this meeting every Wednesday for the past two years. It had taken them a while to find a venue. All the nearby community centers had been booked and most of the churches that they’d approached hadn’t wanted to host her show. Some people viewed what she did as close to witchcraft. But then Eion had discovered this place and so every Wednesday, once Jolene had finished her shift at the hospital, she would change out of her scrubs and jump onto the bus. At first, the meetings had been small, but word had spread and, week by week, the numbers had grown.

A ripple of applause rang out from the crowd. Jolene realized that Eion had stepped onto the stage from the other side of the wings. He stopped in the center by a table and chair that had been set up for her. A microphone rested on a stand, set to chair height.

“Welcome, everyone,” he began.

There was a squeal of feedback, and Jolene flinched.

“My name is Eion Hughes”—Eion soldiered on—“and I run the Spiritualists’ Society of British Columbia. Now, I’m sure you don’t need me to introduce our guest. The waiting is over, ladies and gentlemen. Here’s the lady who’s brought so much comfort to many people…Jolene.”

The clapping grew louder. Jolene’s heart quickened.

Eion climbed down the steps to the front of the hall and fetched the roving mic. Drawing a breath, Jolene walked onto the stage. She stopped in the middle and stared out at the sea of faces. As she sat down on the chair, a hush fell over the audience. Jolene felt their anticipation in her chest. She knew that some people had traveled for hours to see her and that some showed up week after week, desperate for a message that never came. What if there aren’t any voices?

“It’s okay, lovie,” Iris said. “Calm yourself. The spirit world will look after you.”

Jolene licked her dry lips then spoke into the mic.

“Hello.” Her voice was shaky. “First, I need you to know that this doesn’t always work. Sometimes those in the spirit world don’t want to talk, and I can’t make them. You have to encourage them. This will only happen if you join in. And it’s done through love. You’ve got to open your hearts and let the love flow. Okay, so let’s see what I have here.”

A clamor of spirit voices sprang up in her head. Jolene smiled. Everyone spirit-side wanted to have their say. There was going to be no problem tonight. But they were all speaking at once in an unintelligible jumble. Male and female voices overlapped and undercut each other.

“Relax,” Iris piped up. “Tell them you’ll get to all of them. Focus on the quiet man.”

Jolene slowed her breath and tried to shift through the din. A man was speaking. His voice was softer than the rest and she sensed that he’d just passed.

“It’s Todd.” His voice was faint. “I’ve got a message for Judith.”

Is there a Judith in the audience?” she called.

She looked around the hall. No one acknowledged her, and she felt a lurch of fear. People were going to start calling her a fake at any second. Then, two rows from the back, a hand went up.

“I’m Judith.” A woman in a headscarf got to her feet.

Eion walked to Judith’s row. He reached past several people and handed her the mic. She was in her forties and had a tight, pinched face.

“Wood. I’m getting something about wood,” Jolene continued. “Do you live in Woodland Road?”

“Woodland Way,” Judith said.

“That’s right.” Jolene nodded. “I’m not getting that,” she said to Todd. “Sorry, come closer to me, not to your mom. Todd wants you to know, Judith, that you mustn’t worry about the insurance money.”

A moan fell from Judith’s lips. “Then it’s all right?” she asked.

“It’ll be paid by the end of July,” Todd said.

Jolene relayed the message to Judith who sat, smiling.

“Okay.” Jolene cleared her throat. “Now I’ve got a man coming in. I think he said his name was Craig. Does anyone recognize someone called Craig? Wait a minute. It’s Shirley he’s looking for. Shirley Black.”

A woman near the front row raised her hand.

“Can you stand up, please?” Jolene said.

The woman stood up. “My name’s Shirley, but it’s not Black.”

“And do you have a son called Craig?” Jolene asked. “He’s sixteen, right?”

Shirley’s eyes filled with tears and she nodded.

“He said he saw John recently and that you were talking about him.”

Shirley gasped.

“Sorry,” Jolene said. “I can’t hear him anymore.” The jangle of other voices had become too loud.

Tell her to wait,” Iris said. “I’ll get him back.” Jolene imagined Iris elbowing her way through the rabble, maybe jabbing people with her knitting needles, then dragging Craig to the front. Suddenly, Craig was talking again.

“How did you pass, Craig?” Jolene asked Craig aloud.

Shirley gave a shuddering sigh into the mic.

“You’ve got some of his hair in a locket, haven’t you?” Jolene said to Shirley, who nodded.

“And how did you pass, Craig?” Jolene repeated. “He said he had cancer.”

Shirley gave a tiny nod. Jolene sensed that it was taking all her self-control to not break down.

“He says you’re going on a holiday, aren’t you?” Jolene said.

“I don’t know,” Shirley replied.

“He says ‘Wherever you go, I’ll go with you’,” Jolene said.

Shirley started to cry and laugh at the same time.

The session continued with Jolene and Iris working as a team. Iris cajoled the quieter spirits and reprimanded the bossy ones, and Jolene passed on the messages to the audience.

An hour later, Jolene left the stage to a rousing storm of applause. She headed to the room at the back and collapsed onto the bench. She felt drained and her stomach hurt. When she channeled the spirits, they used up the energy from her solar plexus. Iris, who Jolene guessed was exhausted too, stayed silent.

Eion appeared with two mugs of tea, one of which he pressed into Jolene’s hands. She took a sip and made a face. It was so sweet. She could have stood a spoon up in all the sugar.

“Did you hear about April?” Eion asked, sitting.

Jolene shook her head. April was also a medium at the Spiritualists’ Society.

“Last Tuesday, she was sent to a house,” Eion said. “The owner was having incredible trouble with a spirit. So April went to calm the spirit and do you know what happened?”


“The spirit followed her home. I mean, honestly. She should have known what to do.”

“What’s that?” Jolene asked. Her mind was still on the meeting, and she was only half interested.

Eion blew on the steam from his mug. “If you look around a spirit’s place, they sometimes feel that they have the right to visit your place too. Before she left, she should have said to the spirit, ‘Go away. Don’t follow me.’”

“And that would have been enough?”

“It works like a charm. Did you see we were past capacity tonight?”

“Wasn’t it great?”

“We were over the fire regulation limit,” Eion said. “If it gets like that again, I’ll have to close the doors early.”

“What?” Jolene stared at him in horror. “But you can’t turn people away. You just can’t. Did you see how happy that woman was when she heard from her son? We’ll have to find a bigger hall.”

“I’ve tried and there aren’t any. I spoke to the priest here, and he said that this church is also free on Monday nights. Maybe you could run two meetings a week.”

“I can’t cut another shift. I have to make the rent.”

“You should never worry about money,” Eion said briskly. “The spirit world will always provide.”

It was easy for him to say, Jolene thought, with his waterfront house in West Vancouver and his comfortable cushion of retirement savings.

They drank their tea. Sometime later, when Jolene’s strength had returned, she said goodbye to Eion and left the church. As she walked down the steps, the sun was sinking low in the rose-colored sky. It was a gorgeous summer evening and the whole of Vancouver seemed to be on heat. She passed a couple who were making out at a bus stop. The man’s hand was high up inside the woman’s top. They seemed so in love—or was it lust?—that Jolene’s heart twisted. She wished that she had someone to share her life with, but it was tricky when she had Iris.

Iris had appeared on Jolene’s eleventh birthday and had announced that she would be Jolene’s spirit guide. Even after all these years, Jolene still knew little about her, which was surprising considering that she never shut up. Jolene had learned that Iris came from a fishing village in the West Country of England and that she’d lived in the Victorian era and had passed from tuberculosis when she was eighty-two. She’d spent her time baking scones and knitting while her husband Fred had been catching cod at sea.

Jolene imagined Iris to be stout from all the baking and with well-defined jaw muscles from talking too much. She pictured her in an ankle-length dress and an apron with her gray hair pinned, primly, on top of her head.

All of Jolene’s medium friends had spirit guides too, but theirs were a lot cooler and considerably more chilled. Juanita had Romanov, a Russian dissident. Sophia had a philosopher. Although Jolene loved Iris, she wished that she wouldn’t interfere quite so much. It was hard to get anything done—let alone have a romance—with a chatterbox grandmother living inside her head.

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About the Author

Larissa Vine

British-born Larissa Vine spent way too long traveling before settling in Vancouver, Canada. Now she lives close to the ocean and the mountains with her ever-patient family and her army of cats. Larissa tries to write what she loves to read – books which are tender, cheeky, even dirty sometimes. Books which are, above all…fun!


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Book Blitz & Excerpt: Bound to Remember + Giveaway

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Bound to Remember by Alexandra Alan

Word Count: 15,038
Book Length: NOVELLA
Pages: 63



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Book Description

Meeting an old flame is about to tie her in knots…

Most first kisses don’t end in stitches.

True, kissing in high school can be far from perfect, but when Annie Carver is finally courageous enough to make out with Nicholas Liu, there should have been stars and trumpets, not broken glasses and a collapsed closet.

Ten years later, Annie still thinks about Nick. Although she’s been through her share of difficult relationships and sexual awakenings, she can’t help but wonder about the sweet boy who blushed as she helped him with homework assignments and whose name she wrote in her notebooks.

A concert is the last place she expects to run into him. It’s easy for them to connect…and even easier for her infatuation to return. In the last ten years, Annie’s changed—she’s discovered how much she enjoys bondage. Her ex saw her kinks as a flaw, but will Nick be willing to push his limits, or is this one relationship that’s bound to remain a memory?


Tonight was a perfect night.

Most summer evenings were so humid that they left a layer of tacky sweat on already heated skin, and mosquitoes targeted any exposed limbs with all the determination of a pack of war generals. Any movement other than a slow walk made sweat bead along temples and armpits, which, of course, further attracted said mosquitoes.

Not this night, though.

There was a crisp chill in the air, just sharp enough to hint at approaching autumn, and a lazy breeze cooled damp skin. Couples milled about under warm streetlamps and shared bites of ice cream. Fireflies dodged frantic children with Mason jars, and the sound of laughter bonded with the smell of tart beer from bars that had opened their doors to let the evening inside.

It was, without a doubt, a perfect night.

Annie Carver couldn’t have cared less about any of it.

A herd of screaming, gyrating people surrounded Annie in a venue where saxophones blared loud enough to destroy the eardrums of the uninitiated.

And she absolutely fucking adored it.

Annie had always loved ska music. She loved the lyrics, the thud of bass, the wild scream of the trumpets, the peppy riffs that—even if the singer belted about the injustices inherent in the political landscape—were done alongside a beat that didn’t so much encourage dancing as mandate it.

Okay—Annie hadn’t always loved ska. That might have been a lie. There had been a time, a good solid thirteen years or so, where she had gone about thinking the best music was the kind in which someone wailed into a microphone about the unfairness of life and the inhumanity of humanity. There had been mention of souls in there, somewhere. Vampires might have made an appearance, too.

Then ska had come along, swooping in and carrying her out of that meaningless pit like any good storybook hero would do, except it hadn’t done so with a sword and a noble steed, but with syncopated guitar riffs and checkered high-top sneakers.

In the tiny venue, buffeted by stale air and the blast of brass, Annie tightened her grip on her plastic cup of cheap beer and raised it above her head as she shouted the lyrics to the song’s whirlwind finale.

One of her friends elbowed her in the side, and Annie started. She had been so involved in the music that she’d forgotten for a moment they were with her tonight.

Lee nudged her again and pointed at the mosh pit. “That looks scary,” he shouted over the riotous cheering. “Who goes in there? Masochists?”

“Sometimes,” she shouted back.

Charlie appeared at her side. “What are we talking about?”

“Mosh pit.” Annie pointed at the swirling flow of thrashing people.

“More spit? Who has more spit??” Lee shouted.

Mosh pit,” Annie said again, and jabbed her finger in emphasis.

Charlie blinked as someone in the pit shrieked. “What?”

It took a full second, but she managed not to drag her hand down her face in exasperation. She tried to keep in mind that this was her friends’ first show. They hadn’t needed to figure out the technicalities of being in a mosh pit with orthodontia or lie to their parents about where they’d gotten their split lip. Neither Lee nor Charlie had spent enough money on tickets that, if combined, could be a down payment on a comfortable home.

And really, it was quite sweet that they’d wanted to come tonight. This wasn’t exactly a good time for Annie, what with the bad breakup memories of last year, so when she’d mentioned this show, they’d jumped at the chance to join her.

We’ll keep you company!” Lee, the man who did not appreciate large crowds, had said.

How different could it be?” Charlie, the man who frequented opera and baroque ensembles, had said.

They seemed to be doing fine, though Lee jumped whenever someone screamed, and Charlie covered his ears with his hands at every opportunity.

Annie leaned in and shouted a few words into Lee’s ear.

“Oooh,” he said in response. “So you just run around and punch people?”

It was too loud for anyone to hear her scandalized gasp, because that was like simplifying all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica into the phrase “Robots doing stuff.”

Annie made a tight spinning motion with her beer cup. “You don’t run in the pit. You skank around violently and with great enthusiasm.”

Lee blinked at her in an unsyncopated way that spoke of the two beers he’d already had tonight, then asked Charlie, “Did you get any of that?”

Charlie turned to Lee. “What?”

The band kicked off another song, the mosh pit roiled once more, and Annie had to hold a hand around her ear so that she could listen to Lee.

“She says they’re not running, they’re being angry sluts,” he said with a drunken giggle.

The yelp he made when Annie elbowed him was loud enough to hear over the blasting notes of the saxophone.

She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the pit. Everyone there was having so much fun. Limbs flailed, heads thrashed, faces turned up to the stage in something nearing rapture. There was one tall dark-haired someone, catching her eye only because of the height of his jumps, who danced as if he were summoning demons of joy with his body. He looked like he was having so much fun.

Annie wanted to have that much fun, and she couldn’t see it happening if she stayed all the way over by the grungy, beer-stained wall.

When they’d arrived, she’d felt obligated to keep away from the most dangerous part of the venue, thinking that if she returned with a black eye, the sight would frighten Charlie and Lee away from ska shows for the rest of eternity.

Despite Charlie’s improvised ear protection and Lee’s general confusion, they were starting to nod in rhythmic appreciation of the band. Lee was even making a minimal effort to dance.

Annie didn’t want to ruin this for them. She watched as Lee pulled one of Charlie’s hands away from his ears and held it tight, then gave his boyfriend a warm smile. It’s good to try new things in a relationship. Wasn’t that what she’d read in a magazine somewhere?

Her stomach flipped in the disappointed, leaden sort of way she’d grown used to whenever she thought about how things had ended a year ago.

She’d tried. Really. She and Trevor had been stagnant for several months, and when Annie had taken the magazine’s advice—try something new, talk about your fantasies, change up the bedroom routine—Trevor had become a lot less stagnant. Really mobile, actually. He’d practically flown out of both her apartment and her life.

Her sigh was lost in the din. She turned to the stage and watched the brass musicians aggressively try to out-blow one another for only a few seconds before Lee tugged at the sleeve of her shirt.

“That girl is wearing the same pants as you!” he shouted, pointing at a woman twenty feet away. “You should sue!”

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About the Author

Alexandra Alan

Alexandra lives in Colorado with her partner and two very strange cats. Her nerdiest experience was when she had a heated discussion about Star Wars during a game of Dungeons & Dragons. Though she’s always on the lookout for more hobbies, some of her favorites are drawing, knitting, archery, rock climbing, brewing mead, and scrimshaw. The most badass she has ever felt was when she took jousting lessons for a year. She has never met a bad pun she hasn’t adored, and loves to read books that make her heart race. Follow Alexandra on Twitter.


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Book Blitz & Excerpt: So Not My Type + Giveaway

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So Not My Type by Amelia Kingston

Book 4 in the So Far, So Good series

Word Count: 58,680
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 240



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Book Description

An endearingly irreverent love story.

To Jackie Ryan, insults are foreplay and love is war. What the feisty redhead lacks in stature, she makes up in attitude. She’s made more than one grown man cry and she’s damn proud of it. Little does the rowdy barista know she’s about to meet her match in the shape of a walking, talking pair of starched khakis.

When unassuming Eddie Jaworski stumbles into a quirky coffee shop, he isn’t expecting a battle of wits with the maniac behind the counter. Still, he can’t help but be intrigued by the endearingly irreverent human enigma. She’s brash, but considerate. Closed off to most, but fiercely loyal to a few. Everything is a joke, except those things that are sacred. Jackie doesn’t trust easily, and if he wants to get close, he’s going to have to work for every inch. Good thing he’s up for the challenge.

But Eddie has a secret—one he didn’t mean to keep—that’s going to tug at the delicate strings weaving the pair together. When everything begins to unravel, Jackie must decide just what she’s willing to risk for love.


“You can get out of my way or you can die. The choice is yours. You’ve got to the count of ten,” I crow into the mic of my headset. I love this game. Destroying egotistical douche canoes in Rule Them All is one of my all-time favorite things. And I’m good at it. I was born to dominate this computer world with an iron fist.

“That time of the month, Trix?” the snotty, barely post-pubescent voice of S3Xk!ng69 rings in my ear. He must be new.

Wrong choice, dipshit. A wicked smile twists my red-stained lips.

“One. Two. Ten. Time’s up.” With a few keystrokes my digital army squashes my enemies with brutal efficiency.

“Holy shit.” The woeful cry is music to my ears. “I was just playing around.”

“Awww. Poor baby. Next time you feel like playing I suggest you stay the fuck away from Woman’sWorld.”

Yes, I named my make-believe country Woman’sWorld. And yes, I have zero remorse in exterminating pests like this one. He can’t say I didn’t warn him. Rule Them All is not for the timid or insecure. It’s a dog-eat-dog world with player-controlled countries clawing at each other to get to the top. To be the best. My gamer handle is DominaTrix for a reason.

“Wow Jackie, that was harsh,” my best friend chastises me in our private video chat. Elizabeth is a bleeding heart. I love her to death, but she wants to think the best of everyone. Truth is, some people are just assholes. A little bit of humbling goes a long way.

“He had it coming,” her boyfriend, Austin, chimes in. I’d nearly cut his balls off last year when he broke Elizabeth’s heart. Believe me, he had it coming too. I think he’s still trying to get on my good side. I promise I have one. It’s just reserved for a very select group of truly amazing people. The rest of the world can fuck right off.

“Thanks, Man Meat. But I don’t need your approval.” I flip off the camera with a simper. He chuckles, and Elizabeth groans.

“Don’t you have to work in like three hours?” she asks.

I glance across my small studio apartment to the clock on the milkcrate that serves as my nightstand. The bright, abrasive, orange 3:00 silently scolds me.

“Shit. Guess tomorrow’s going to be a bitch.” I shrug, hugging one knee up to my chest, resting my chin on it, and grinning at my best friend through the camera.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Did you at least finish your submission for the contest?”

My gaze darts up to the dozens of half-finished designs taped up on nearly every square inch of wall space.

“Almost,” I lie.

“Almost?” She calls me out with the same disappointed tone my mom uses. The sound is like a tiny needle poking me in the eye.

“Yeah, almost. As in just about. Nearly.”

“As in no.”

“I’ll finish it tomorrow.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and we both know it.

Every year E.B. Jericho, one of my all-time favorite sci-fi writers, holds a contest to design the cover art for her latest release. And every year I promise myself I’ll enter. I have a million and one ideas, but I always let the deadline for submission pass me by. I’ve been torturing myself for months trying to come up with a unique design, but nothing seems right. The fact that this is the last book in the series makes it that much more important.

“You better. You’ve got this thing on lockdown.” Elizabeth’s faith in me is unwavering, despite the fact that I’ve never actually had any paid graphic artist work.

I glance over to my long-forgotten drafting table, now housing junk mail and yet-to-be-folded laundry. I haven’t used it or any of my hundreds of dollars’ worth of design software since I gave up on starting my own graphic design business a couple years ago. In the six short months after I dropped out of college, I realized selling my art meant selling a piece of my soul with it. I was a used car salesman every time I tried for a commission. I’m really talented, I swear. Trust me. Rejection after rejection poured in until I just stopped trying. After a long morning of slinging coffee, doodling cover design ideas is all I have the energy for.

“You’ve read every one of his books, what? Like a dozen times?” Elizabeth asks.

Her books and at least a dozen,” I correct her.

No one really knows who E.B. Jericho is. She’s a notorious recluse, but Elizabeth and I have a standing bet on the author’s gender. She goes with odds, seeing as how seventy-five percent of sci-fi writers are men. I am convinced E.B. is a woman. She’s too clever and witty not to be. If we ever met, we’d be hetero-lifemates. Instant besties for sure.

“All right, kiddos. I better get my beauty sleep.” I blow a kiss at the screen.

“Night, Jackie,” Austin’s deep voice announces.

“Night. Love you, babe,” Elizabeth chirps with a sweet smile.

“Love you too.”

I click off the camera, toss my glasses onto my desk and shut down my computer. Stretching my arms up and taking a long, deep breath, I sweep my eyes over the design ideas splattering my walls again. Not one of them is good enough. It’s so late it’s early, but my mind is still racing. The idea of submitting a design to be judged by someone I truly admire makes me nauseous.

I grab my sketchbook and sprawl out in my tangled mess of an unmade bed. Closing my eyes, I picture Persei Rivera, the main character from E.B. Jericho’s Sins of Tomorrow series. She’s a space smuggler and the most kickass character of all time. She’s standing tall in front of her ship, Phobos, a Hellhound-class light space cruiser. Her grease-stained cargo pants are tucked into lunar-dust speckled boots. Her father’s old leather bomber jacket is zipped up to keep out the chill on the darkside of the deserted space rock where she’s currently stowing cargo. The wind blows her raven-black hair in thick waves behind her, and her pale skin appears nearly translucent. The low light from a distant sun glints off the laser pistol strapped to her hip. Her arms are crossed, and the edge of her mouth is quirked up in a devious challenge. She’s the Dirty Harry of space. She wants you to try something. Punk.

In my mind, the sight is clear as day. I spring my eyes open and stare down at the blank page. Two strokes of my pen and it’s already gone wrong. I rip the page out of my sketchbook, crumple it into a tiny ball and toss it across the room with a huff. I try again, but I can’t get the angle right for Phobos. She’s an impressive ship, and I made her look like a bathtub toy! Another page ripped out. Another discarded failure.

Over and over again, I doodle the same intergalactic scene until my eyelids get heavy and I pass out in a heap of crumpled paper.

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About the Author

Amelia Kingston

Amelia Kingston is many things, the most interesting of which are probably California girl, writer, traveler, and dog mom. She survives on chocolate, coffee, wine, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order.

She’s been blessed with a patient husband who’s embraced her nomad ways and traveled with her to over 30 countries across 5 continents (I’m coming for you next, Antarctica!). She’s also been cursed with an impatient (although admittedly adorable) terrier who pouts when her dinner is 5 minutes late.

She writes about strong, stubborn, flawed women and the men who can’t help but love them. Her irreverent books aim to be silly and fun with the occasional storm cloud to remind us to appreciate the sunny days. As a hopeless romantic, her favorite stories are the ones that remind us all that while love is rarely perfect, it’s always worth chasing.

You can find Amelia at her website and follow her on Pinterest.


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