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Review: Wildflower Wedding With a Killer Reception

6/25/2019

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This is my first time reading any book in This Sisters Texas series, and I was a bit wary (as I always am) of reading any book out of order of a series. I am indeed a completist. With that said, I am pleasantly surprised to say that I did not need to read the other books in the series to thoroughly enjoy this book! In fact, it made me curious about the other books and I just may visit them at a later time.

I did have a bit of a feeling that I was falling into the middle of a story in starting Wildflower Wedding, but it didn't take me long to catch up! Madison is two weeks away from her wedding. She's set to marry Brash deCordova, the town's designated "hottie" police chief. This, in itself, is already a huge thing for the couple, but that isn't the only important event happening in Madison's life at the moment! Madison is not necessarily a detective, but she is someone hired to research things for clients, etc. This brings about a whole lot of problems for the to-be Mrs. deCordova.

I think the reason I was able to delve into this book so easily is because it resembles greatly a cozy mystery novel. I don't know if some people would consider this a cozy, but I didn't from first hearing about it. I honestly didn't have an impression like that about it. Once I started reading, however, I couldn't help but think that it gave me familiar feelings like that of a cozy: a protagonist thrust into semi-detective mode, family and relationship issues and events, and the ultimate thrilling end (with a twist!).

Author Becki Willis does a fantastic job of getting the reader to not only become interested in the story, but truly become invested in these characters. All the characters were so well-rounded and fit into the story exceptionally well. Each character has their part to play, and they most definitely come together to form the larger than life story. I was intrigued by the twists and turns throughout - wondering how each piece could possibly fit with the other. Willis' writing left me guessing and once I thought I had "it" - I found out I seriously didn't (haha). It would be very easy for any story to become overwhelmed by the number of characters and storylines, but Willis is able to balance these extremely well. It was this balance that left me rooting for Madison to get to her wedding day, laughing at Brash's disgust at being plastered all over the media (shirtless!), and cringing along with Derron at...well, you have to read to find that one out. Willis' writing kept me submerged in this story because so many things keep me going! From the mystery behind Nigel's family and the death of certain characters, to the eagerness to read about the ever-blooming love between Madison and Brash - it all kept me turning the pages until the very end.

So, all in all, read this story for its thrills, and care about it for its loving, fun - and sometimes twisted - characters.

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Excerpt Reveal: Applied Electromagnetism

6/24/2019

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Applied Electromagnetism
Chemistry Lessons #4

Release Date: July 2, 2019

SYNOPSIS

A business trip with the office hottie turns into the road trip from hell.

Adam Cortinas may be gorgeous, but he’s made it clear he can’t stand Olivia—and the feeling is one hundred percent mutual. Too bad, because in order to bring the company’s new power plant online, they’re stuck with each other for the next week.

When their travel plans go horribly awry, Olivia finds herself stranded in the middle of nowhere with Adam, AKA the bane of her existence.

He’s in her space and in her head. All the forced proximity is driving Olivia insane. That’s the only explanation for these FEELINGS she’s suddenly having.

But it doesn’t change anything. They still hate each other.

Right?

Applied Electromagnetism is the fourth full-length novel in a series of standalone rom-coms about women in STEM, and the follow-up to 2019 RITA Award Finalist Advanced Physical Chemistry. Each book in the series features a new couple with their own HEA and can be read in any order.

GOODREADS LINK:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/45310560-applied-electromagnetism

PREORDER LINKS:

AMAZON US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QSSP2JV
AMAZON UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07QSSP2JV
AMAZON CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07QSSP2JV
AMAZON AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07QSSP2JV
APPLE: https://books.apple.com/us/book/applied-electromagnetism/id1460037147
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1131279355?ean=2940156463305
KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/applied-electromagnetism-1
GOOGLE PLAY: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Susannah_Nix_Applied_Electromagnetism?id=QMmSDwAAQBAJ

About the Author

Susannah Nix is a RITA-nominated romance author who lives in Texas with her husband, two ornery cats, and a flatulent pit bull. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, knitting, watching stupid amounts of television, and getting distracted by Tumblr. She is also a powerlifter who can deadlift as much as Captain America weighs.

AUTHOR SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/susannahnix/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/susannahnixauthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Susannah_Nix
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/susannah_nix
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/susannah-nix
Web Site: http://www.susannahnix.com/

OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES
- Remedial Rocket Science (Chemistry Lessons #1)

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0721MYNL5
Apple: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1383979971
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/remedial-rocket-science-susannah-nix/1128682243
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/remedial-rocket-science-1
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=Xo9aDwAAQBAJ

Intermediate Thermodynamics (Chemistry Lessons #2)

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074HLQHPP
Apple: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1384176371
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/intermediate-thermodynamics-susannah-nix/1128682201
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/intermediate-thermodynamics-1
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=Yo9aDwAAQBAJ

Advanced Physical Chemistry* (Chemistry Lessons #3)

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07958H7M8
Apple: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1384178964
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/advanced-physical-chemistry-susannah-nix/1128682175
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/advanced-physical-chemistry
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=Zo9aDwAAQBAJ
* 2019 RITA Award Finalist in Mid-Length Contemporary Romance

Excerpt

Someone was banging on Olivia’s motel room door in the middle of the night.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been going on, because it was hard to hear over the storm raging outside. The wind had picked up considerably since she’d fallen asleep, and the roar of it was punctuated by a deafening crash of thunder.

She grabbed her phone off the nightstand to check the time and saw that it was after midnight. When she tried to turn on her lamp, she discovered the power was out.

The pounding on her door resumed with renewed vigor, accompanied this time by Adam’s voice. “Olivia! Wake up and open the fucking door!”

Relief flooded through her. She used her phone to light her way to the door and fumbled open the locks.

Adam stood outside in the rain, barefoot, in nothing but the jeans he’d been wearing earlier. “Were you asleep?” he asked incredulously. “How the hell can you sleep through this thunderstorm?” The parking lot lights were out behind him, as were the diner’s lights and the lighted sign for the motel.

A flash of lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating the rain blowing nearly sideways outside. Olivia stepped back so he could come in out of the elements, which was when she noticed he had his suitcase with him. “What’s going on? Why do you have all your stuff with you?”

He ran a hand through his hair and droplets of water flew everywhere. Several of them hit Olivia’s arm, leaving pinpricks of cold on her skin. “A tree limb got blown down and punctured the roof. Water started coming through the ceiling of my room.”

She went to get him a towel. “Shit. Is your laptop okay?” Priorities were priorities. Clothes could be replaced, but they needed both their laptops in working order tomorrow.

“Yeah, the leak was in the bathroom, so most of my stuff is okay.”

“That’s a relief.” She handed him a bath towel and pointed her phone’s light at the floor, trying not to watch as he dried off his bare torso. “Not that it’s good your room sprang a leak, but it’s good it wasn’t over the bed or something.”

Adam grunted as he ran the towel over his head, leaving his hair sticking up in spikes. Another crash of thunder rattled the window, and Olivia wondered how she had managed to sleep through all this racket. She must have been dead exhausted.

“Yeah, that’s the good news,” Adam said grimly as he draped the towel around his neck like an athlete in a locker room. “They don’t have any empty rooms because of all the people stranded by the storm.”

“Oh.” Olivia was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra and Adam was shirtless and soaking wet in her motel room—that was now their motel room, if she was correctly interpreting the situation.

“So I need to share with you.” Adam’s eyes drifted to the room’s only bed behind her.

Olivia swallowed down a wave of nervous panic. “Of course,” she told him, forcing nonchalance into her voice. “Of course you can.”

It was an emergency, and in an emergency you had to make do. Even if it meant sharing a bed with a gorgeous coworker you were totally obsessed with who didn’t like you back.

She could do this. It was a big bed. This would be fine.

Belatedly, she realized they’d been staring at each other without speaking for a weirdly long time, and her nervousness multiplied, filling her stomach with a small swarm of bees.

Adam seemed to become aware of the awkwardness at the same moment she did and turned abruptly away, dragging his suitcase into the far corner of the room. Using his phone as a light, he bent to unzip it and rummaged around inside. “I’m gonna go change into dry pants, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. Totally.” She waved him toward the bathroom door. “Make yourself at home. You can just shove my stuff aside if it’s in your way.” As the words left her lips, she suddenly remembered all the wet clothes she’d left hanging in the bathroom to dry. Both her bra and her underwear were hanging from the shower rod, right at eye level.

Adam disappeared into the bathroom, and Olivia waited for the inevitable wisecrack about her display of intimate apparel, but it never came. He was either too polite to comment on her underthings or too tired.

She tried not to imagine him on the other side of the bathroom door, confronted by her lingerie as he unfastened his pants and pushed them down his narrow hips, peeling the wet denim off his legs, leaving him in nothing but his underwear.

Assuming he even wore underwear.

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Chapter Reveal: Handle With Care

6/21/2019

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helena Hunting

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

Social Media Links:

CHAPTER 1

WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?

WREN

slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack mountain man who looks like he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes too small. He’s intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been pulled up into a haphazard man bun thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl, however, makes him about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet, here I am, sidling up next to him.
He glances at me, eyes bleary and not really tracking. He quickly focuses on his half-empty glass again. Based on the slump of his shoulders and the uncoordinated way he picks up his glass and tips it toward his mouth, I’m guessing he’s pretty hammered. I order a sparkling water with a dash of cranberry juice and a lime.
What I could really use is a cup of lavender-mint tea and my bed, but instead, I’m sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous, obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals are on the same kind of slippery slope.
“Rough day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its contents. It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been watching him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move. While he’s been sitting here, he’s turned down two women, one in a dress that could’ve doubled as a disco ball and the other in a top so low-cut, I could almost see her navel.
“You could say that,” he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost slits. I can still make out the vibrant blue hue despite them almost being closed. They move over me, assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress with a high neckline and a hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not nearly as provocative as Disco Ball or Navel Lady.
“That solving your problems?” I give him a wry grin and tip my chin in the direction of his bottle of Johnnie.
His gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at him. Or what I can see of his face under his beard, anyway. 
“Nah, but it helps quiet down all the noise up here.” He taps his temple and blurts, “My dad died.” 
I put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy on my part since its half-genuine, half-contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.”
 He glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim is off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a handful of napkins to mop up the mess.
“I’m drunk,” he mumbles. 
“Well, I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, considering the way you’re sucking that bottle back. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask for a straw in the first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer in there if you want tomorrow morning to suck less.” I push my drink toward him, hoping he doesn’t send me packing like he did the other women who approached him earlier.
He narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?”
“Cranberry and soda.”  
“No booze?” 
“No booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
 He picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his mouth. His eyes crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake up with you beside me?”
I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Shit, sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m so wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed tonight. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then motions to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I go with semi-affronted, since it seems like somewhat of an insult. “Good to know.”
“Dammit. I mean, I think you might be hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I think you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times. “You have nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.”
This time I laugh—for real—and point to the bottle. “I think you might want to tell your date you’re done for the night.”
He blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.”
He makes an attempt to stand, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he stumbles into me and grabs my shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa. Sorry. Yup, I’m definitely drunk.” His face is inches from mine, breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Beyond that, I get a whiff of fresh soap and a hint of aftershave. He lets go of my shoulders and takes an unsteady step back. “I don’t usually do this.” He motions sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a three drink max guy.”
“I think losing your father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool. Despite being tall for a woman, and wearing heels, he still manages to be close to a head taller than me.
“Yeah, maybe, but I still think I might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly unsteady, swaying while standing in place. I take the opportunity for what it is and thread my arm through his, leading him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s get you to the elevator before you pass out right here.”
He nods, then wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance. “That’s probably a good idea.”
He leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the two stairs leading to the foyer. There’s no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down, but I drape one of his huge arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own around his waist, guiding him in a mostly straight line to the elevators.
“Which floor are you on?” I ask.
“Penthouse.” He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to the black doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.”
“It’s probably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated penthouse elevator.
He stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into a furrow. “I can’t remember the code. It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles forward and presses his forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his thumb with the sensor, but his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing.
I settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank. Or a superhero. For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems pretty harmless and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m also trained in self-defense, which would fall under the by any means necessary umbrella. “Can I help?”
He rolls his head, eyes slits as they bounce around my face. “Please.”
I take his hand between mine. The first thing I notice is how clammy it is. But beyond that, his knuckles are rough, littered with tiny scars and a few scabs, and his nails are jagged.
“Your hands are small,” he observes as I line his thumb up with the sensor pad and press down.
“Maybe yours are abnormally big,” I reply. They are rather large. Like basketball player hands.
“You know what they say about big hands.”
I fight not to roll my eyes, but for a brief moment, I wonder if what’s in his pants actually matches the rest of him. And if he’s unkempt everywhere, not just on his face. I cut that visual quickly because it makes me want to gag. “And what do they say?”
His eyes crinkle again, and he slaps his own chest. “Something about big hands, big heart.”
I bite back my own smile. “Pretty sure you’re mixing that up with cold hands, warm heart.”
His brow furrows. “There’s a good chance.”
The elevator doors slide open. He pushes off the wall with some effort and practically tumbles inside. He catches himself on the rail and sags against the wall as I follow him in. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this right now.
He doesn’t have to press a button since the elevator only goes to the penthouse floor. As soon as we start moving, he groans and his shoulders curl in. “I don’t feel so good.”
Please don’t let him be sick in here. If there’s one thing I can’t deal with, it’s vomit. “You should sit.”
He slides down the wall, massive shoulders rolling forward as he rests his forehead on his knees. “Tomorrow is going to suck.”
I stay on the other side of the elevator, in case he tosses his cookies. “Probably.”
It’s the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. Or at least it feels that way, mostly because I’m terrified he’s going to yak. Thankfully, we make it to the penthouse floor incident-free. On the down side, now that he’s in a sitting position, getting him to stand again is a challenge. I have to press the open door button three times before I can finally coax him to his feet.
In the time between leaving the bar and making it to the penthouse floor, the effects of the alcohol seems to have compounded. He’s beyond sloppy, using the wall and me for support as we make our way to his door. There are two penthouse apartments up here. One on either side of the foyer.
He leans against the doorjamb, once again fighting to find the coordination to get his thumb to the sensor pad. I don’t ask if he needs my assistance this time since it’s quite clear he does. Once again I take his clammy hand in mine.
“Your hands are really soft,” he mumbles. 
“Thanks.”
 The pad ashes green, and I turn the handle. “Okay, here we go. Home sweet home.” 
“This isn’t my home,” he slurs. “My cousin’s family owns this building. I’m crashing here until I can get the fuck out of New York.”
I scan the penthouse. It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern furniture, like two different tastes crashed together and this is the result. Aside from that, it’s clean to the point of looking almost like a show home.
The only sign that someone is staying here is the lone coffee cup on the table in the living room and the blanket lolling like a tongue over the edge of the couch. I’m still standing in the doorway while he sways unsteadily.
He tries to shove his hand in his pants pocket, but all he succeeds in doing is setting himself off-balance. He nearly stumbles into the wall.
“Thanks for your help,” he says.
He’s back in his penthouse, which means my job is technically done. However, I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself, or worse, asphyxiate on his own vomit in the middle of the night, and I’ll be the one catching heat if that happens. I’ll also feel bad if something happens to him. I blow out a breath, annoyed that this is how my night is ending.
I heave his arm over my shoulder and slip mine around his waist again, leading him through the living room toward what seems to be the kitchen. There’s a sheet of paper on the island, but otherwise it’s spotless.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
We pause when we reach the threshold. “Which way is your bedroom?”
He looks slowly from right to left. “Not that way.” He points to the kitchen. It’s very state of the art.
I guide him in the opposite direction down the hall, until he stumbles through a doorway, into a large but simply furnished bedroom. Once we reach the edge of the bed, he drops his arm, spins around—it’s drunkenly graceful—and falls back on the bed, arms spread wide as if he’s planning on making snow angels. “The room is spinning.”
“Would you like me to get you a glass of water and possibly a painkiller for the headache you’ll likely have in the morning?” I’m already heading for the bathroom.
“Might be a good idea,” he mumbles.
I find a glass on the edge of bathroom vanity—which is clean, apart from a brand new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. I run the tap, wishing I had a plastic tumbler, because I’m not sure he’s in any state to deal with breakable objects. I check the medicine cabinet, find the pills I need, shake out two tablets, and return to the bedroom.
He’s right where I left him; sprawled out faceup on a massive king-size bed, legs hanging off the end, one shoe on the floor beside him. I cross over and set the water and the pills on the nightstand.
I make a quick trip back to the bathroom and grab the empty wastebasket from beside the toilet in case his night is a lot rougher than he expects.
I tap his knee, crossing my fingers he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have painkillers for you.”
He makes a noise, but doesn’t move otherwise.
I tap his knee again. “Lincoln, you need to wake up long enough to take these.” I cringe. I called him by name, and he didn’t offer it to me while we were down at the bar. Here’s hoping he’s too drunk to notice or remember. His name is Lincoln Moorehead, heir to the Moorehead Media fortune and all the crap that comes with it. And there’s a lot of it.
One eye becomes a slit. “Every time I open my eyes, the room starts spinning again.”
“If you drink this and take these, it might help.” I hold up the glass of water and the pills.
“’Kay.” It takes three tries for him to sit up. He tries to pick the pills up out of my palm, but keeps missing my hand.
“Just open your mouth.”
He lifts his head. “How do I know you’re not trying to roofie me?”
I hold up the tablet in front of his face. “They don’t say roofie, so you’re safe.”
He tries to focus on the pill and then my face. I have my doubts he’s successful at either.
His tongue peeks out to drag across his bottom lip. “The cameras in the hall will catch you if you steal my wallet.”
I laugh at that. “I’m not going to steal your wallet, I’m going to put you to bed.”
“Hmm.” He nods slowly and opens his mouth.
I drop the pills on his tongue and hand him the glass, which he drains in three long swallows. “Would you like me to refill that?”
“That’d be nice.” He holds out the glass, but when I try to pull away, he covers my hands with his. His shockingly blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment they’re clear and compelling. Despite how out of it he is, and how much he resembles a mountain man, or maybe because of it, I have a hard time looking away. “I really wish I wasn’t this messed up. You smell nice. I bet your hair is pretty when it’s not pulled up like that.” He flops a hand toward my bun. “Not that it’s not pretty like that, but I bet if you took it down, it would be wavy and soft. The kind of hair you want to bury your face in and run your fingers through.” He exhales a long breath. “I haven’t had sex in a really long time, but I feel like I would have zero finesse if I tried right now.”
I smile and turn away. In the time it takes for me to refill his glass, he’s managed to get one arm out of his suit jacket. He’s made it most of the way onto the bed, feet still hanging off the end, but he’s on his back, which is not ideal.
I set the glass on his nightstand, along with a second set of painkillers, which I’m assuming he’ll need in the morning, and give him another nudge. “Hey.”
This time I get nothing in the way of a response. I poke him twice more, but still nothing. He can’t sleep on his back with how drunk he is. He needs to be on his side or his stomach with a wastebasket close by.
I can’t in good conscience leave him like this. My options are limited. I shake my head as I kick off my shoes and climb up onto the bed with him. This is not at all what I expected to be doing when I brought him back up here.
I stare down at his sleeping form. His lips are parted, they’re nice lips, full and plump, even though they’re mostly obscured by his overgrown beard. His hair has started to unravel from its man bun, wisps hanging in his face. He has long lashes, really long actually, and they’re thick and dark, the kind women pay a lot of money for. His nose is straight and his cheekbones— what I can see of them—are high. With a haircut, a beard trim or complete shave, and a new suit that actually fits, I can imagine how refined he’ll look. More like a Moorehead than a mountain man lumberjack. I shake my head. “I need you to roll onto your side, please,” I say loudly.
Nothing. Not even a grunt.
I pull on his shoulder, but he’s dead weight. Leaning over him, I make a fist and give him a light jab approximately where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.”
And roll he does, knocking me down and turning over so he’s right on top of me. We’re face-to-face. Good God, he’s heavy. His bones must be made of lead. He shifts, one leg coming over both of mine. I push at his knee, but his arm swings out and he wraps himself around me on a low groan, pinning my arm to my side. He’s like a giant human blanket.
“How did this become my life?” I say to the ceiling, because the man lying on top of me is apparently out cold.
I try to wriggle free, I even yell his name a bunch of time before I give up and wait for him to roll off me. And while I wait for that to happen, I replay the conversation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that took place forty-eight hours ago and put me in this awkward position underneath her drunk son.
I’d been standing in Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was dead. It was shocking that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was always so healthy and full of life.
Gwendolyn, his wife—now a widow—stood stoic behind his desk, papers stacked neatly in the center.
“I’m so very for your loss, Gwendolyn. If there’s anything I can do. Whatever you need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant because I couldn’t imagine how my mother and I would feel if we lost my father.
Gwendolyn’s fingers danced at her throat as she cleared it. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your kindness, Wren.”
“Let me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.”
She took a deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine. “I need your help.”
“Of course, what can I do?”
“My oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the funeral, and he’ll be staying to help run the company.”
A hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Everything from Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references had been with fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as it was Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln through her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how difficult Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone else, particularly his brother.
“Transitioning Lincoln.” Gwendolyn rounded her desk. “You’ve managed to turn around Armstrong’s reputation in the media during the time you’ve been here. I know it hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be difficult to manage.”
Difficult to manage is the understatement of the entire century where Armstrong is concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic proportions. He’s also a misogynistic, narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to deal with for the past eight months on a nearly daily basis—sometimes even on weekends.
My job as his “handler” has been to reshape his horrendous reputation after his involvement in several scandalous events became very public. It wasn’t a job I necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject the offer, but my mother asked me to take the position as a favor to her since she’s a friend of Gwendolyn.
Beyond that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past decade. When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our relationship forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of trying to help repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which was ridiculously high, also didn’t hurt. Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly every single charitable foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my interests lie, it seemed like a smart career move.
“Since you’re already working with Armstrong and things seem to be settled there for the most part, I felt it would make sense to keep you on here at Moorehead to work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for several years. He’s nothing like his brother, very altruistic and focused on his job, rather than recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.”
I fought a scoff at the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a reference to the fact that Armstrong couldn’t seem to keep his pants zipped when it came to women.
Gwendolyn pushed a set of papers toward me. “It would only be for another six months. And of course, your salary would reflect the double work load, since you’ll still have to maintain Armstrong in some capacity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.”
“I’m sorry, what—”
Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she stepped back. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your willingness to take this on. As soon as your contract is fulfilled, you have my word that I’ll give you a glowing recommendation to whichever organization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in starting your own foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if you’ll stay on a little longer for me.” She dabbed at her corner of her eyes and sniffed, then tapped the papers on the desk. “I already have an agreement ready and an NDA, of course. Everything is tabbed for signing.”
I’m pulled back into the present when Lincoln shifts and one of his huge hands slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he pushes his nose against my neck, beard tickling my collarbone. He mutters something unintelligible against my skin.
I’m momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee him in the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi-aware that he’s fondling me. Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room.
I elbow him in the ribs, which probably hurts me more than it does him. At least it gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I roll off the bed and pop back up, smoothing out my now-wrinkled dress. My stupid nipples are perky, thanks to the attention the right one just got. Probably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since I started working for the Mooreheads eight months ago.
I hit the lights on the way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on the counter. It’s a list of important details regarding the penthouse, including the entry code. I nab my purse, snap a pic, and head for the elevators.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long six months.

From Handle With Care. Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting and reprinted with
permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.

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Review & Playlist: Patron Saints of Nothing

6/17/2019

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Patron Saints of Nothing
by Randy Ribay

Synopsis

A powerful coming-of-age story about grief, guilt, and the risks a Filipino-American teenager takes to uncover the truth about his cousin's murder.

Jay Reguero plans to spend the last semester of his senior year playing video games before heading to the University of Michigan in the fall. But when he discovers that his Filipino cousin Jun was murdered as part of President Duterte's war on drugs, and no one in the family wants to talk about what happened, Jay travels to the Philippines to find out the real story.

Hoping to uncover more about Jun and the events that led to his death, Jay is forced to reckon with the many sides of his cousin before he can face the whole horrible truth -- and the part he played in it.

As gripping as it is lyrical, Patron Saints of Nothing is a page-turning portrayal of the struggle to reconcile faith, family, and immigrant identity.

Review

This is the first book I read by Randy Ribay and believe me when I say that I will be looking for any others Ribay may have in his background. Patron Saints of Nothing is a heartbreaking novel about family, grief, anger, and the immigrant experience. The story is about Jay, a Filipino-American who finds out her Filipino cousin Jun has been murdered under the "leadership" of President Duterte and his misleading "war on drugs". Jun travels to the Philippines to find out what exactly happened to his cousin and why everyone is so quick to stay quiet about it.

Jay's story is first full of confusion and lack of motivation for the future as he deals with graduating high school and going off to college. He finds his world turned upside down with the news of Jun's death. Jay and Jun corresponded via snail mail with Jun being the more motivated one to stay in touch. After his death, Jay wonders if there was anything he could have done to help his cousin. His grief mixes with the pain and anger of no one wanting to talk to Jay about how Jun died. The family secrecy, including denying Jun a proper burial, along with the belief that Jun was murdered has Jay traveling to the Philippines. While there, Jay finds that his uncle, Jay's dad is a supporter of Duterte and his "war on drugs". What follows is Jay's experience of being Filipino-AMERICAN and how much that experience separates him from his family's homeland.

This book was whirlwind of a read because of how much emotion was entwined in its pages. It is a complicated family drama while also being a snapshot of what some, if not most, immigrants have to experience in one way or another throughout their lives.

Below you'll find a playlist that will only touch a bit on the emotions I felt while reading this book - feel free to comment with your suggestions. And don't forget to pick up this book tomorrow when it releases!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0bmN42pwk3Um3nPFQIGSsG

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Review: How We Disappeared

6/14/2019

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How We Disappear
by Jing-Jing Lee

Synopsis

Singapore, 1942. As Japanese troops sweep down Malaysia and into Singapore, a village is ransacked, leaving only two survivors and one tiny child.

In a neighboring village, seventeen-year-old Wang Di is strapped into the back of a troop carrier and shipped off to a Japanese military brothel where she is forced into sexual slavery as a “comfort woman.” After sixty years of silence, what she saw and experienced still haunts her.

In the year 2000, twelve-year-old Kevin is sitting beside his ailing grandmother when he overhears a mumbled confession. He sets out to discover the truth, wherever it might lead, setting in motion a chain of events he never could have foreseen.

Weaving together two time lines and two very big secrets, this stunning debut opens a window on a little-known period of history, revealing the strength and bravery shown by numerous women in the face of terrible cruelty. Drawing in part on her family’s experiences, Jing-Jing Lee has crafted a profoundly moving, unforgettable novel about human resilience, the bonds of family and the courage it takes to confront the past.

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