New Release + Release Blitz: Broken Bridge by Nana Malone

 

One miscalculation.

One misstep had cost me everything. I lost my sister and my wife.

I will burn down the world to get them back. Even if I have to become someone they fear.

Forget vows, forget brotherhood. All I have left is rage. I have made promises I intend to keep.

I will right the wrongs of The Elite, ensure vengeance for Emma, even if it costs me my soul.

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Tracey’s Review

Never let it be said that Nana Malone cannot bring it. BROKEN BRIDGE, the final book in the Speak No Evil Trilogy, satisfied in every single way, and, dang it, left me wanting more, all at the same time.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, from Bridge and the Lords to Emma to Darcy to the mums, do their part to bring this story full circle, through all of the twists and turns, to an OMG conclusion. Questions are answered, hearts mended, and the whole gang does what they do best to put all of the pieces together and get the bad guys.

There is still, of course, all of the passion and secret society intrigue that makes this story unmistakably Nana’s, as well as visits from old friends that had me grinning. All in all, I can’t think of a better way to have ended this ride, other than to have it go on and on and on…you get what I’m saying. If you still haven’t met the London Lords and all of their cohort, stop messing around and read these books! You will love every page. ❤️

 

USA Today Bestseller, Nana Malone’s love of all things romance and adventure started with a tattered romantic suspense she “borrowed” from her cousin.

It was a sultry summer afternoon in Ghana, and Nana was a precocious thirteen. She’s been in love with kick butt heroines ever since. With her overactive imagination, and channeling her inner Buffy, it was only a matter a time before she started creating her own characters.

While she waits for her chance at a job as a ninja assassin, in the meantime Nana works out her drama, passion, and sass with fictional characters every bit as sassy and kick butt as she thinks she is.

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New Release + Release Day Blitz + Excerpt: Two Wedding Crashers by Meghan Quinn

 

 

 

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AMAZON US | AMAZON UK | AMAZON CA | AMAZON AU

 

 

I don’t know what love is anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

Except I haven’t felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem–but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

That’s how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I’m a pro. I can handle this.

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I’m doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don’t think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

 

 

 

“What brings you to Key West, Beck?”

I feel like that’s a question I should have asked a while ago but with the whole naked hotel room exposure—which I have yet to tell my friends about—and the sweatshirt burial, we haven’t had a real chance to get to know each other. Not that I’m complaining all too much. What I know about Beck so far is that he’s a gentleman and likes to have a good time, even if that means torching a sweatshirt and sending it on it’s way.

There aren’t many people I know who would stand there, hand over heart, talking about the thread count of a sweatshirt while fake crying.

The corner of my lips pull up just from the image of Beck wiping “tears” from his eyes with the back of his index finger.

“Do you want the truth, or do you want a fabricated lie that will cause you to fall madly in love with me?”

Chuckling, I answer, “Both.”

“Fair enough.” Beck pushes his foot against the sand below us, sending the hammock into a relaxing swing. “Want the truth or the lie first?”

“Hmm, how about I guess which is which.”

“Ah, things are about to get exciting.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together. “Okay, reason number one.” He clears his throat. “I’m attending a wedding this coming weekend, a wedding I wasn’t invited to, but my friend begged me to attend because he wanted to bone his wife without children around. It doesn’t make sense, but hey, I’m a good friend so here I am.”

Errr, that’s eerily familiar. I swallow a little harder than expected. There is no way he’s crashing a wedding like me. That’s only something a desperate author does in order to find signs of love again. “Okay, reason number two.”

“My sister is getting married this weekend and I’m giving her away. Our dad passed away a few years ago from a heart attack, and even though we’d been estranged for two years, she asked if I would be a part of her wedding. So here I am.”

Silently he swings us, my mind whirling with what the truth could be. Both stories were told so effortlessly, so he’s either a really good liar, or some kind of con artist. I should be scared. I should go to my hotel room right now, wishing Beck a good night, but I don’t, because I’m intrigued by this man. Behind the good looks and intelligence, there’s something beneath the surface, something dark that makes understandable the age in his weathered eyes.

Because of that, I go with option number two. It seems the most plausible, because who really crashes weddings? Only crazed women with the tendency to sit in a bush with a notepad and pen and take notes while staring at couples and listening in on their conversations.

Research and all, it comes at a high price, like spikey branches to the tush.

“Hmm, I’m going to go with reason number two.”

He nods and says, “I knew you were going to say that, but you’re pretty little self is wrong. I don’t even have a sister.”

Stunned, I prop myself up as best as I can on the loose woven thread of the hammock and stare him down. “You’re here to crash someone’s wedding?”

He winces. “Uh, yeah, kind of.”

“Unbelievable.” I shake my head in disbelief and lie back down.

“Now before you judge me and give me a lecture about RSVPing—”

“I’m not judging you.” I turn toward Beck, the hammock making the shift slightly difficult. “I’m just a little . . . surprised.”

“I don’t plan on eating any food.” He bites his bottom lip. “That’s a lie. I plan on eating a lot, but hey, I’ll bring the party to the dance floor. If anything, I’m bringing them the gift of dance, so you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“I’m not mad.” I laugh, still surprised. “I’m just trying to comprehend this.” Looking him square in the eyes, I say, “I’m here crashing a wedding as well.”

This causes Beck to sit up, his brawny chest straining the fabric of his shirt. He intently studies me, his eyes flitting back and forth until he finally asks, “You’re serious? You’re really crashing a wedding?”

I press my lips together and nod.

A sharp laugh escapes Beck as he lies down on the hammock and sends our swing into more of a frenzied movement. “I’m just going to assume, given our luck of baby puke, naked encounters—”

“I knew you saw boobs.”

“I didn’t see . . . ah hell, what’s the point? I totally saw your tits and fuck, woman, they’re hot.” I blush . . . horrendously, my face heating up along with every vein in my body. “But like I was saying, with our luck, we’re going to the same wedding.”

Clearing my throat, trying to move past the part where Beck just made my nipples harden and pop out like turkey thermometers, I lamely say, “Yeah, that would be our luck.”

“Let me guess, wedding is on Saturday at The Hemingway House.”

Cue another rush of heat to eclipse my body. “The one and only.”

He nods and lies there silently for a second before saying, “So what you’re telling me is that I have a date for the wedding Saturday night.”

Not expecting him to say that, I laugh out loud and for some reason say, “I’m wearing teal, in case you want to match and take couple pictures. You know, might as well do the whole couple thing up, right?”

This garners, a deep, low, rumble of a laugh from Beck. “Thank God I packed grey pants with a white button-down. There won’t be any kind of clashing in those couple photos.”

“Nope, not even in the slightest.”

 

 

 

 

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

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Excerpt Reveal + Pre-Order: Two Wedding Crashers by Meghan Quinn

 

 

I don’t know what love is anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

Except I haven’t felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem–but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

That’s how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I’m a pro. I can handle this.

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I’m doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don’t think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

ADD TO GOODREADS

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Crystal-blue ocean shines below me, and if I wasn’t so scared of Zoey and her repercussions for being late, I would take the time to appreciate Mother Nature. Instead I hurry into my room, flop my suitcase on my bed, unzip it, and grab my toiletries.

Not taking a second longer, I strip down, leaving my gross airplane clothes on the floor, and practically skip to the shower where I stop mid stride.

In the shower stall is a black razor, with accompanying shaving cream. That’s odd. Is that courtesy of the hotel? This place is fancy, but not that fancy. Spinning on my heel, I turn toward the sink behind me and spot a white and green toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and men’s cologne. Shit, turning toward the room, my eyes frantically roam the space, spotting a black suitcase in the corner.

Shit, shit, shit.

Naked, I cover my breasts with my arm and open the closet door only to come face to face with a few hung-up shirts.

Yup . . . I’m in someone else’s fucking room.

And whoever this room belongs to is the neatest person ever because who honestly lines up there toothbrush and toothpaste tube perfectly on the counter?

Reaching for the phone, I call down to the front desk.

“Mr. Wilder, how can we assist you?” Oh yeah, totally not in the correct room.

“Uh, yeah, hi, this is Rylee Ryan. I just checked in. I was given the key to room 625 and it seems to be occupied.”

“Oh dear, let me check.” There is a pause on the phone and then the lady comes on the line again. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss. Ryan. We have you in room 626. Would you like to come down here and grab a new key?”

Is she kidding? The trek it took to get over here ate up enough of my time. I can’t possibly take a shower if I have to run back to the lobby, grab a key, and run all the way back here.

“Would you mind bringing it to room 625? I have dinner plans and have to get changed.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll send someone up with a key right away.”

“Thank you.”

I hop around naked, eyeing my pukey clothes on the floor and the shower in the other room. Twisting my lip to the side, I try to decide what to do. I can be super quick, like really fucking quick. I just need to scrub the puke and throw on a dress, simple. Two minutes tops. The water doesn’t even have to be warm. I’ll write a polite note to Mr. Wilder—whoever that is—leave him five dollars as a kind gesture and quietly leave. No problem with that. Right?

Right.

Turning on the shower, I hop in before the water can warm up and hiss from the frosty temperature. I douse soap all over my hands and scrub my neck and body vigorously first, which normally I would wash my hair first but . . . puke. Once I’m satisfied with the amount of scrubbing, I wash my hair, condition it in a minute, do one more soap scrubbing all over my body before rinsing and turning the shower off. Two minutes.

Just in case Mr. Wilder is sitting outside the bathroom, I peek my head out the door, towel wrapped around my body, and call out, “Hello?”

When there is no response, I check that the coast is clear then strut to my suitcase and find a simple black sundress. Not bothering to look for underwear or a bra—I really don’t need one with my perky B-cups—I lay out my dress and dry off.

Hopefully Mr. Wilder doesn’t mind me using one of his towels or his room for that matter. He’s probably some old dude away on his golfing vacation. I hope I don’t give him a heart attack.

I drape my towel over the bed and run my hands through my naturally wavy, black hair. This will have to do. Picking up my towel one more time, I scrunch my hair, trying to soak up all the water just as the hotel door swings open, light blaring through, a tall, dark silhouette shadowed in the doorframe.

I still, frozen from the tips of my toes to the hand scrunching a towel in my hair.

Toned calves and legs are covered by black board shorts, slick to his thighs, a bulge prominent. Narrow waist where his board shorts ride low on his hips, a black shirt dancing across his broad chest, cinching sleeves cuffed over his biceps, and a V-neck providing a glimpse of how far his tan extends. Head cast down, eyes transfixed on his phone in front of him, he doesn’t notice the naked girl standing in the middle of his hotel room. He stuffs his keycard in his back pocket and looks up, startled.

I scream.

He grumbles something unintelligible as I point out the obvious. “Ahhh, my boobs are naked!” It might be a little concerning that I consider my boobs to be the only things naked at this point.

As quickly as I can, I cover my body, towel making a poor attempt to hide my girly bits.

The man turns away, covering his eyes with his arm while muttering, “Oh shit.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, struggling with my towel. I know damn well the man in front of me must be Mr. Wilder, and this is in fact his room, and I’m the one intruding, but I still feel the need to place the blame on him for walking in on me naked.

“Grabbing my sunglasses,” he says, his voice terrified but also deep and rumbly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Still trying to cover myself, I scramble to grab my dress and back up to the bathroom. “Washing my neck,” I answer, nervously, boobs swaying with my erratic movements.

Eyes still covered, he keeps his back toward me but straightens up. “Washing your neck? Is that code for some kind of weird Key West thing?”

I back into the bathroom and make quick attempt of putting my dress over my head and righting it so everything is covered up. Hair still damp as well as my body, I step out into the room and clear my throat, dress sticking to my damp skin. “No, it’s not code for anything. I really had to wash my neck.”

“And you chose my room to do that in, because . . .”

Bending down, I shove my dirty clothes in my bag and zip up, giving Mr. Wilder the heads-up that I’m dressed. At least he’s a gentleman . . .

When he turns around, he eyes me up and down, his gaze curious and heated when he sees just how hard my nipples are from the cold shower . . . and the unexpected peep show.

“I didn’t choose your room to take a shower in.” I move my suitcase to the floor and pull up the handle. “The hotel gave me the key to this room by mistake, and since I had puke on my neck from the airplane—long story—I decided to take a quick shower while I waited for my room. I apologize for taking up your space, but I think we’re skipping an important detail here.” I cock my hand on my hip. “You saw me naked.”

“No, I didn’t,” he retorts rather quickly, despite the slow grin that spreads across his face.

I’m calling bullshit. “You totally saw my boobs.”

“I really didn’t. Your scream scared the shit out of me. I didn’t have enough time to see anything before you covered up.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, I ask, “You promise you didn’t see anything?”

“Promise.”

Hmm. “Okay, because being hotel neighbors and all, that would be extremely awkward if you saw me naked.”

“Good thing I didn’t then.” He rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do. Finally he reaches out to the desk next to him and holds up his black Ray Bans. “Just needed my sunglasses.”

 

 

 

 

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

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