The Close-Up, an all-new riveting and emotional Hollywood Renaissance/HOOPS novella from New York Times bestselling author Kennedy Ryan and 1,001 Dark Nights is available now!
What began as a tiny flame when we were young now threatens to consume us.
I met Nazareth Armstrong when I was eighteen years old. From the beginning, my brother warned me to stay away from him. Told Naz to stay away from me.
Our hearts didn’t listen.
I shared one magical night under the stars with my brother's rival, thinking it was the start of a once-in-a-lifetime something.
But one awful moment ended it all.
Years later when we meet again, we’ve both pursued our dreams, lived a little, found success…but never found love. What began as a tiny flame when we were young now threatens to consume us. I’m more drawn to Naz than ever, but his complicated history with my brother makes whatever this could be…nearly impossible.
But Naz accepts impossible as a dare.
Through his clever maneuvering and dogged determination, I find myself on a yacht with him and his friends cruising through the Mediterranean. It’s a whirlwind set ablaze. Away from reality, surrendering to the tender heat of his touch, I forget that everything could burn.
*This is the love story of Takira, who first appears in Reel, book 1 of the Hollywood Renaissance series. Characters from the HOOPS series also make appearances, but you do not have to read any of those books to enjoy this one.
**Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you'll enjoy each one as much as we do.**
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Keep reading for a look inside The Close-Up!
Naz has abandoned his cabin completely and has spent every night over the last week with me. Why front? He brought me here, and we can’t get enough of each other. I’m glad we’re on this yacht with a bunch of couples who also can’t get enough of each other because we’d be pretty obnoxious otherwise.
He’s rich as hell and could shower me with material things. And he does. At every port, I find some keepsake from the local shops he’s left for me in the room—an ankle bracelet, clips for my hair, diamond earrings. There has been no shortage of gifts, but the real gift has been his attention. The way he cares. The man bathes me. He wraps my hair up at night. He washes my face. I don’t know what this is, but I feel spoiled. Doted on. Adored. At first I was like…is this cringe? Is it weird? But then I recalled all those times when I didn’t feel valued in a relationship. All those times a guy disrespected me by looking at other women all night. All those times I didn’t feel this almost embarrassing amount of single-minded focus from a man who’s determined I’ll know how much he enjoys me. How much he likes me. Cherishes me, even. He’s constantly pulling me onto his lap. We sneak away from the group anytime the mood strikes us. Last night at dinner, he fed me from his plate.
From his plate.
Who am I right now?
I’m that girl, living out a fantasy on a half-a-billion dollar yacht floating on dreams along the coast of Italy. Forget Black girl magic. This is pure sorcery, and if it’s a spell, we’re both under it.
About Kennedy Ryan
USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author, Kennedy Ryan and her writings have been featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour, Cosmo, TIME, O Mag and many others. A RITA® and Audie® Award winner, Kennedy writes empowered women from all walks of life and centers those who have found themselves perennially on the margins of traditional storytelling.
Her Hoops Series (Long Shot, Block Shot and Hook Shot) and All the King's Men Series (The Kingmaker, The Rebel King and Queen Move) have been optioned for television.
An autism mom, Kennedy co-founded LIFT 4 Autism, an annual charitable initiative, and has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for autism families. She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son.
Connect with Kennedy
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*****
Smartasses, an all new hilarious rom-com collection featuring sexy nerds falling in love from 12 bestselling authors, is out now!
There’s nothing better than a sexy nerd!
Except maybe 12 of them!
12 nerdy heroes!
All the feels!
Because what's hotter than a sexy nerd?
Twelve of your favorite Rom Com authors bring you a new anthology
celebrating geeking out and falling in love.
Featuring Smartass Stories by:
Avery Flynn
Erin Mallon
Helena Hunting
Jana Aston
Jiffy Kate
Karen Grey
Kayley Loring
Krystyna Allyn
Penny Reid
Sara Ney
Sonali Dev
Susannah Nix
Fall in love today for 99 PENNIES!
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***Smartasses Anthology is available for 99 cents until August 30th!
Keep
Keep reading for a look inside Smartasses: a Sexy Nerd Anthology!
NOT JUST A CRUSH by Helena Hunting
The blustery wind pushes me through the door and causes a swirl of flakes to follow me. As soon as I’m clear of the door, she tries to close it. But the wind is strong, and she’s . . . tiny. The kind of tiny I associate with the girl on top of the cheerleader pyramid or those creepy semi-life-sized dolls they sell in department stores. It’s clear she’s using her full weight against the door, yet she’s losing the battle.
I lift a hand over her head—I don’t have to reach high to accomplish that—and push it closed. She stumbles forward a couple of steps, and her toe catches on the doormat. She recovers herself and spins around, her face a shade of pink I associate with embarrassment.
She takes three large steps to the side, putting a few feet of distance between us. She pushes her glasses up her nose and glances from the door to me and back again. “Good fucking God, are you part bear? You’re huge.” Her hands flail around in the air, then find each other, then part again.
“Maybe you’re just small?” I offer.
My breath puffs out in the air with each exhale, and so does hers. It’s freezing in here. Which explains why she’s wearing a parka, a beanie, a scarf, and a pair of giant mittens. All in matching shades of pink. She looks like a chewed-up wad of bubblegum with a face and limbs.
“Having trouble with the fire, then, Princess?” I motion to the hearth where the fire sits unlit.
She crosses her arms. “My name is Dahlia, not princess.”
“Dahlia?” I echo.
I inspect her closer. It can’t be . . .
Dahlia is not a common name. Tiny Dahlias with long, dark wavy hair and almond-shaped eyes so dark it’s nearly impossible to see where her iris ends and her pupils begin seem even more rare. But the odds seem . . . implausible.
“Yeah. Like the flower.” She pushes her glasses up her nose again with her mittened hand and goes back to crossing her arms.
And I stand there, like an idiot, and keep staring. Because it is her.
Dahlia Forest.
Seriously, that’s her name.
And I had the biggest fucking crush on her in high school.
Like seriously, the biggest fucking crush.
But I was on the football team, and she was a mathlete. We ran in different circles. I was a giant asshole with even bigger asshole friends, and she was a gorgeous nerd. One of my best friends back then, who I still talk to now, used to make fun of her all the time. It was juvenile. And dickish. I didn’t participate, but I also didn’t stop him. Which makes me just as bad, if not even worse.
So far, she hasn’t recognized me. It’s been four years. Maybe she won’t recognize me at all. Maybe I wasn’t on her radar in high school. Maybe she was too busy being a fucking genius to notice the jocks. Although she did tutor a couple of my teammates along the way.
I realize I haven’t replied to the whole flower comment or responded in general. “Looks like you had some trouble starting the fire.” I thumb over my shoulder.
“I never got the fire-making badge in Girl Scouts.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic.
“Have you unpacked anything yet?” Man, my conversation skills need a serious workout.
“No, I was too busy trying to earn my fire-making badge.” Her nose is pink from the cold, and her cheeks are already flushed, but the way she ducks her head tells me she’s pretty damn embarrassed by her lack of fire- making ability.
I nod once. “All right. Well, let’s grab your bag and get you out of here.” “Out of here?” she parrots.
“Yeah. I’ll take you back to town. Set you up at the motel.” I take my gloves off because my hands are starting to sweat. The great thing about my jacket is that it keeps me warm in subzero temps. The bad part is that now that I’m no longer facing -30 degrees and a face full of snow, I’m over here sweating my balls off even though it’s pretty freaking frigid in here.
“Motel?” Her nose wrinkles. “Why can’t I stay here?”
“You can, but they’re gonna close the roads soon, and when they do that, you’ll be stuck here until they open them again.”
“Close the roads?” Apparently, she’s trying out for the role of parrot tonight.
“Yeah. Unless you missed it, there’s a blizzard happening out there. We’re getting another twelve to eighteen inches between tonight and tomorrow afternoon. If I don’t get you off the side of this mountain soon, we’re both going to be stuck here until the storm is over and they’ve had a chance to plow the roads.”
“Oh, my God. How long will that be?”
I shrug. “Could be a couple of days, could be a week.”
“A week?” Her tone is dog whistle shrill.
“It’s a big fucking storm.”
*****
Pen Pal, an all-new riveting dark story full of twists and turns from international bestselling author J.T. Geissinger is available now!
I’ll wait forever if I have to.
The first letter arrived the day my husband was buried. It was postmarked from the state penitentiary, and contained a single sentence:
I’ll wait forever if I have to.
It was signed by Dante, a man I didn’t know.
Out of simple curiosity, I wrote back to ask him what exactly he was waiting for. His reply?
You.
I told the mystery man he had the wrong girl. He said he didn’t. I said we’d never met, but he said I was wrong.
We went back and forth, exchanging letters every week that grew increasingly more intimate. Then one day, the letters stopped.
When I found out why, it was already too late.
Dante was at my doorstep.
And nothing on earth could have prepared me for what happened next.
next.
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Excerpt
It’s raining as my husband’s casket is lowered into the hole in the ground. Raining hard, as if the sky itself is about to rip in half like my heart has.
I stand motionless under an umbrella with the other mourners, listening to the priest drone on about resurrection and glory, blessings and suffering, redemption and the holy love of God. So many words, and all so meaningless.
Everything is meaningless. There’s a Michael-shaped hole in my chest, and nothing matters anymore.
That must be why I feel so numb. I’m empty. Grief has blown me apart, scattering my bones into a desert wasteland where they’ll bake in silence under a merciless sun for a thousand years.
A woman behind me quietly weeps into her handkerchief. Sharon? Karen? A colleague of Michael’s who I met at a long-ago faculty party. One of those awful holiday work parties in a school auditorium where they serve cheap wine in plastic cups and people stand around making awkward small talk until they’re drunk enough to say what they really think about each other.
Sharon or Karen behind me told Michael he was a prick at that party. I can’t remember why, but that’s probably why she’s crying now.
When someone dies, you start counting all the ways you failed them.
The priest makes the sign of the cross over his chest. He closes his Bible and steps back. I walk slowly forward, bend down to grasp a handful of soil from the pile to one side, then toss it onto the closed casket.
The wet clump of dirt makes an ugly hollow sound when it lands on the gray lid of the coffin, an uncaring splat of finality. Then it slides off, leaving a smear of brown behind like a shit stain.
Abruptly, I’m shaking with anger. I taste ashes and bitterness in my mouth.
What a stupid ritual this is. Why do we even bother? It’s not like the dead can see us mourning them. They’re gone.
A sudden gust of cold wind rattles the leaves in the trees. I turn and walk away through the rain, not looking back when someone softly sobs my name.
I need to be alone with my grief. I’m not one of those people who likes to commiserate over a tragedy. Especially when the tragedy is my own.
When I open the front door of the house, it takes a moment for me to register that I’m home. I have no recollection of the drive from the gravesite to here, though the blank spot in time doesn’t surprise me. Since the accident, I’ve been in a fog. It’s as if my brain is blanketed in thick clouds.
I kick off my shoes and leave them under the console table in the foyer. Tossing my wool coat onto the back of a kitchen chair, I head to the fridge. I open the door and stand looking inside as rain drums against the windowpanes and I try to convince myself I’m hungry.
I’m not. I know I should eat to keep my strength up, but I have no appetite for anything. I let the door swing shut and press my fingers against my throbbing temples.
When I turn around, I notice the envelope on the table next to the fruit bowl. It sits by itself, a white rectangle with neat handwriting and a stamp that reads “LOVE” in red letters.
I know for a fact it wasn’t there when I left.
My first thought is that Fiona must’ve brought in the mail. Then I remember she cleans the house on Mondays. Today’s Sunday.
So how did it get there?
As I cross to the table and pick up the letter, a rumble of thunder rattles the windows. A sudden gust of wind whistles through the trees outside. The eerie feeling intensifies when I read the return address.
Washington State Penitentiary.
Frowning, I tear open the edge of the envelope and pull out the single sheet of white unlined paper inside. I unfold it and read aloud.
“I’ll wait forever if I have to.”
That’s it. There’s nothing else, except a signature scratched below the words.
Dante.
I flip the page over, but it’s blank on the other side.
For a fleeting moment, I think the letter must be intended for Michael. That idea gets tossed aside when I realize it’s addressed to me. That’s my name right there on the front of the envelope, printed in neat block letters with blue pen. This Dante person, whoever he is, meant for me to receive this.
But why?
And what is he waiting for?
Unsettled, I fold the letter into thirds, stuff it back into the envelope, and drop it on the table. Then I make sure all the doors and windows are locked. I draw the drapes and blinds against the wet gray afternoon, pour myself a glass of wine, then sit at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope with a strange feeling of foreboding.
A feeling that something’s coming.
And that whatever it is, it isn’t good.
About J.T. Geissinger
J.T. Geissinger is a #1 internationally bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. Ranging from funny, feisty rom coms to intense, edgy suspense, her books have sold over five million copies and been translated into more than a dozen languages.
She is a three-time nominee in both contemporary and paranormal romance for the RITA® Award, the highest distinction in romance fiction from the Romance Writers of America®. She is also a recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book and the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy.
She’s a Southern California native currently living in Nevada with her husband and rescue kitty, Zoe.
Connect with J.T. Geissinger
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*****
What happens when I begin to fall for my new husband...?
The Beauty and the Beast Box Set, a scorching-hot dark mafia romance collection from bestselling author L. Steele is available now!
"Run my Beauty... If I catch you, you are MINE..."
Michael Byron Domenico Sovrano
The Capo of Sicily's notorious Mafia company.
My father owed him,
so he took me to repay the debt.
And married me to further his own ambitions.
I hate him, I am determined to resist him.
But what happens when I begin to fall for my new husband...?
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About L. Steele
L. Steele loves to write romance novels featuring dangerous men and feisty women. She enjoys trading trivia with her filmmaker husband, watching lots and lots of movies, and walking nature trails. She lives with her family in London.
Connect with L. Steele
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