"These characters are so full of passion and heart--their romance is what happily-ever-afters are made of." --Brenda St. John Brown USA Today bestselling author
The Knockout Rule, an all-new steamy slow burn standalone romance from bestselling author Kelly Siskind is available now!
Growing up with an adoring father for a boxing legend isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. It looks more like hospital visits, bloody noses, and cracked ribs.
Isla Slade now works as a physiotherapist, helping athletes heal their bodies. Except for boxers. She has no interest in reliving the stress of her teen years. Dating someone in the boxing world? She’d rather snort wasabi powder.
Until she meets Preston Church.
Preston manages heavyweight boxing darling Brick Kramarov. A brute who’s built tougher than his name, with a cocky attitude to boot. She wants nothing to do with either man, but her father begs her to help them prepare for a huge Vegas fight.
She doesn’t expect Preston to recite romantic poems and slowly break her resolve. His fascinating mind gets under her skin, even if his star athlete reminds her how much she hates boxing.
Too bad it’s Brick coaching Preston how to woo Isla, falling for her from the sidelines. Once she finds out, she’ll have to decide if she can risk loving another man who puts it all on the line for the knockout.
One-click this sexy slow-burn romance today!
Each book in the Showmen series is STANDALONE:
*New Orleans Rush
*Don't Go Stealing My Heart
*The Beat Match
*The Knockout Rule
Download your copy today!
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Apple Books: https://apple.co/2KMx3bQ
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“Don’t let the resistance pull your arms forward at the top,” Isla told him. “Keep your hands in line with your ears.”
He repeated the movement, noting her suggestions, sweat gathering along his neck. “Like this?”
“Exactly. Take it slow.”
She crouched next to him, the closest they’d been all session, and his stomach swooped. Fucking swooped, like he was a love-struck teen. The sensation divided his focus, part of it staying on the rope in his hands, a fraction diverting to her proximity, another locked on his reacting body. She shifted positions slightly, seemed to hesitate, then she placed her hand on his back.
Forget divided. All his attention zeroed in on that one spot. Isla. Hand. Hot. So much heat concentrating where she touched. He leaned back a bit, couldn’t control his body’s urge to ask for more. More contact, more Isla.
Her fingers spread wider. “Don’t overarch your back,” she said, her voice lower, breathy. “Sit straighter.”
He paused with the triceps rope at his chin, fixed his posture and turned his head, bringing them almost nose to nose. “Like this?”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. His thighs flexed.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Like that.”
The moment lingered, sexual tension vibrating between them so thoroughly he was surprised the walls didn’t shake. And he was pissed. Angry at their circumstances. Upset for Isla and all she’d dealt with in her life. Mad that the easy friendship they’d developed had devolved in a matter of hours to broken sentences and awkward glances. None of it was okay.
Determined to salvage something from this mess, he worked through his next rep with slow precision, keeping his back straighter, his arms at the correct angle. At the end of the rep, he said, “What do you call spending the afternoon with a cranky rabbit?”
Isla made a startled sound, a muffled kind-of-laugh. From the corner of his eye, he caught the hint of a smile. “I don’t know,” she said.
“A bad hare day.”
Her tentative smile grew. “Have I told you your humor hovers at a grade-one level?”
“Have I told you that you have no sense of humor?”
“I wouldn’t know. I usually tune you out.”
He chuckled at that, turned his head toward her, bringing their lips dangerously close again. Her hand was still on his back, maintaining his posture. Her thumb moved, a small stroke he felt everywhere. They breathed deeply at the same time, their chests expanding like their hearts were reaching toward each other.
Then they got back to work. Less awkward this time. They talked more easily. Joked occasionally. Everything out of Isla’s mouth sounded like foreplay to him: move slower, hold that position, yeah like that. But he somehow found his focus, stayed attuned to his body’s needs and pains, assessing when muscle fatigue meant a break was due. Neither of them crossed the invisible line they’d drawn. They were once again patient and physiotherapist, no different than during their early sessions. But everything was different.
A small-town girl at heart, Kelly moved from the city to enjoy the charm of northern Ontario. When she’s not out hiking with her husband or home devouring books, you can find her, notepad in hand, scribbling down one of the many plot bunnies bouncing around in her head.
Her novels have been published internationally.
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Lovebug, an all-new witty and emotional standalone romance from bestselling author Erin Mallon is available now!
My name is Mabel, the girl who “wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Of course I wouldn’t.
I’m an entomologist for goodness’ sake.
I work in a nature center.
Bugs are my jam.
It’s the humans in my life who are starting to get me down. I’m used to them calling me sweet and innocent. I can even handle them calling me naive. But when they lie and keep secrets from me? That's when my proverbial pincers want to come out.
Trouble is, I'm not the girl who fights back.
Not until a handsome groundskeeper with a dirty mouth and secrets of his own shows up and lights all sorts of fires in me.
In the bug world, the female is always the fiercest. The praying mantis doesn’t worry about being a “good girl.” Nope, she follows her instincts no matter how crass or crude they may seem to others.
Turns out I could learn a thing or two from her.
I’m not necessarily looking to tear anyone’s head off, but after decades of being nice, it's high time for me to return to nature and unleash my wild side.
Download your copy today!
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I check to make sure all kids and counselors are settled safely and the craft is underway, then start a slow walk to where the man is crouched down and working with a wrench.
I have absolutely no idea why I choose this approach, but I whip around the water fountain in a sort of sneak attack, and shout, “Hi!”
His body jerks as though I’ve startled him. Because clearly, I have. I smile and wave. Even though he’s right in front of me.
He turns and looks behind us as if he’s unsure I’m actually speaking to him. I’m noticing this happens a lot when I greet people. Calliope told me once that I approach strangers with “unearned familiarity,” and it freaks them out. Friendliness freaks people out? I’m not sure what to do with that information.
“Yes you, silly!” I say.
His full attention is trained on me, but he doesn’t say a word. I’m starting to think the kids were right, and this guy actually doesn’t speak.
“Hey you,” I breathe.
Was that my voice I just heard? I don’t say “hey you” in that shouty way people do when they’re trying to get your attention outside the grocery store for leaving your cart abandoned in the lot instead of in the assigned cart area—not that I would ever shout at someone or leave a cart abandoned in a lot. No, the “hey you” I give him is that breathy sort. That shy, smiley sort. The kind of “hey you” people say when they know you so deeply and truly that they almost never say your actual name because they don’t need to. Who else could they possibly be speaking to at that moment except... you. You. You. Wonderful, precious, irreplaceable you. Not that I’ve ever been the recipient of such a “you.”
“Did you need something?” he asks.
He speaks! Oh wow, he speaks!
His voice is... gruff. That’s the only way to describe it. Is he annoyed? Nah, it’s probably just his voice. I’ve heard of perpetual bitch face. Maybe he has a perpetual bitch voice? But he’s a guy, so I guess to be accurate, it would be called a perpetual bastard voice?
“Before we begin, let it be known that I don’t think you’re a bastard. Or a bitch.”
“I was just thinking that you sound like a bastard, but I bet that’s just the way your vocal cords operate. They’re probably just prone to a gruff, bastardy tone.”
“No. You had it right the first time. I am a bastard.”
“Gotcha! So. How are you? Your name is ‘The Wall’? I mean, they call you ‘The Wall’? What is that short for? Walter? Walton? Wallmeranian?” I rattle off some suggestions.
“Wallace,” he huffs.
“Gotcha. Big fan of Wallace and Grommit?” I ask.
“Gotcha. Can I call you Wally?” “No.”
“Gotcha. Hey, do you think I say gotcha too much?”
“Yes,” he says definitively.
“Gotcha. Thanks for the feedback. I’ll work on that. Hey, wanna hear something silly?”
“Cool, here I go. My kids... not my biological kids—though I do hope to have some of those one day, how about you? Sorry, don’t answer that. That’s an invasive question. See those teenagers over there who are completely unrelated to me?” I point in April and Dante’s direction where they are decidedly not focused on their kids and are instead “hiding” behind a pavilion post watching my flailing interaction. I wave to them. “Hey, guys!” They ignore me and look off in random directions as if they’re suddenly fascinated by all the glorious nature around them. “I’m training them as CITs this summer. That’s right, I’m chief of staff this year! I mean head counselor. And well, the thing is, they’re... well... they’re afraid of you.”
He goes back to working on the fountain as if he’s giving up on his conversation with me.
“Isn’t that ridiculous?” I start giggling uncontrollably. “Fine by me,” he says.
“What’s fine by you?”
“That they’re afraid of me.”
“Oh.” I feel my head jerk back. “Really? But if they’re afraid of you, they’ll keep avoiding you and making up stories about you instead of taking the time to really get to know you.”
“Perfect. Love that plan,” he says and swipes some sweat off his brow.
I’m not sure how to respond to this man.
“Besides,” he continues, “you’re afraid of me too.”
Erin Mallon's debut romantic comedy novel, Flirtasaurus, releases in July 2020. She is an award-winning narrator of over 450 books and an accomplished playwright and producer in New York City. She has written over 40 plays, which have been produced Off-Broadway and all over the country, including These Walls Can Talk, a raucous theatrical love letter to the romance audiobook community. She lives in a little yellow house on the outskirts of NYC with her husband and Three J's.
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