Thursday, September 22, 2016

Ten Days in August by Kate McMurray

From the Lower East Side to uptown Manhattan, a curious detective searches for clues on the sidewalks of New York—and finds a secret world of forbidden love that’s too hot to handle…

New York City, 1896. As the temperatures rise, so does the crime rate. At the peak of this sizzling heat wave, police inspector Hank Brandt is called to investigate the scandalous murder of a male prostitute. His colleagues think he should drop the case, but Hank’s interest is piqued, especially when he meets the intriguing key witness: a beautiful female impersonator named Nicholas Sharp.

As a nightclub performer living on the fringes of society, Nicky is reluctant to place his trust in a cop—even one as handsome as Hank. With Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt cracking down on vice in the city, Nicky’s afraid that getting involved could end his career. But when he realizes his life is in danger—and Hank is his strongest ally—the two men hit the streets together to solve the crime. From the tawdry tenements of the Lower East Side to the moneyed mansions of Fifth Avenue, Nicky and Hank are determined to uncover the truth. But when things start heating up between them, it’s not just their lives on the line. It’s their love…

As those who follow my reviews will know, I am a HUGE historical buff and love historical fiction, so when Ten Days in August caught my eye it was a no brainer that I would give it a try.  I am so glad I did because it is an amazing read, the characters, the mystery, the romance, and the attention to historical detail, well any one of them would have had me hooked but when you have them all it's a spectacular ride to Reader Heaven.  The connection between Nicky and Hank may be instantaneous but that doesn't mean it will be easy, add in a killer and the heat wave, it will most definitely not be easy.  As a Wisconsinite from a small farming community, I understand and respect the power of Mother Nature, but to find her the main character in a book added to the authenticity of the era and trust me, the heat wave is a huge factor here because the heat can grind on you and make a tense situation volatile. I always love discovering a new author, I look forward to checking out Kate McMurray's backlist.


A small black dog with wild eyes ran up Broadway, snapping and snarling at passersby. As women shrieked and men hopped out of the way, a cry of "Mad dog!" echoed through the crowds out strolling, trying to find relief on a hot day.

The saloonkeepers and police officers from City Hall to Houston Street knew Jerry the dog; he would wag his tail and beg for scraps and get a head pat before jogging from one saloon to the next. Most considered him a harmless little tramp. But today, something was wrong. He ran for the open front door of a bank, alternately panting and growling. When the attendant tried to kick Jerry out of the way, Jerry bit his foot and ran inside. Someone said, "Look out, Mac! He may be mad!"

The panic inside the bank caught the attention of bulky Officer Giblin, who hauled out his gun and eyed the little dog. Jerry's gaze darted around the room as he slobbered all over the floor.

Officer Giblin brandished his gun, but didn't want to do anything rash. He poked at the dog with his nightstick, trying to ascertain if he really was mad. The dog snapped and lunged for the nightstick. That was all the evidence Giblin needed. He aimed his gun.

"Not in here!" one of the clerks shouted. "Think of the ladies present!"

Giblin nodded. "All right, you mangy rascal." He chased Jerry out of the bank. Once they reached the street, Giblin aimed his gun and fired. The little dog rolled over dead instantly. The crowd cheered.

Hank Brandt watched from a few feet away with some amusement as Officer Lewis ran across the street. He fired his own gun into the dog's head.

"Thank you, Lewis," said Hank, pulling off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "He was just as dead before you fired, but we appreciate your attention to detail."

Lewis thrust out his chest. "I just dispatched with a mad dog in my precinct."

"So you did." Hank wasn't completely convinced the little dog was mad so much as suffering from the effects of the day's extreme heat, even more relentless than it had been the day before. "Congratulations, Lewis. You killed a dead dog."

Lewis muttered an oath and walked away from Hank, so Hank decided to continue on his way to the precinct house.

"Extra, extra! Heat wave taking over the city!" crowed a newsboy, thrusting a paper at Hank.

"I'm living it, kid," Hank said. Still, he tossed a nickel at the newsie and took a paper. The unbearable heat dominated the headlines, although a story below the fold complained about Police Commissioner Roosevelt blustering about saloons being open on Sundays again and gave an update on the trial of a woman accused of chopping her husband into bits before dumping the remains in the East River. The World had no qualms about declaring her guilty.

Hank had some doubts, given that he'd worked the case. He still suspected her lover, a married man who delivered ice. Maybe the city had decided the ice was too valuable to spare him for trial.

Hank was sympathetic. Dear Lord, it was hot. The air around him was thick and rancid. Simply being outside was like walking around with eight blankets draped over his shoulders. The street smelled of rotting food and horse manure.

Ah, New York in the summer.

He arrived at the precinct house on East Fifth Street, where the whir of the overhead electric fans drowned out all other noise, and still the fans weren't doing much beyond blowing papers around. It smelled slightly better inside, but it wasn't any cooler.


Hank wasn't even at his desk yet and already someone was trying to get his attention.

He sighed and turned his attention toward his colleague and sometime partner, Stephens, who stood there with his arms crossed.

"Would you like for Roosevelt to give you a lecture?" said Stephens, glaring at Hank's bare forearms.

Hank had forsaken a jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. Not that it worked. Stephens, of course, wore his full uniform. The collar of his coat was soaked with sweat. Hank wondered what Stephens hoped to achieve by suffocating under all that wool.

"It's amusing to me that Commissioner Roosevelt thinks any man could wear a coat in this weather. If he wants to discuss proper attire, he can do so when the weather cools off." Hank pulled his handkerchief out of his pockets and mopped his brow again.

Stephens balked, but recovered quickly and said, "We have a new investigation. That is, now that you've decided to grace us with your presence."

"It is too hot for sarcasm, Stephens. What is the case?"

Stephens puffed out his chest and made a show of pulling a wad of crumpled paper from his jacket pocket. He consulted his notes. "Murder at a resort on the Bowery."

Hank glanced back toward the front entrance to the precinct house. Taking on a case would mean investigating, which meant going back outside. The last thing Hank wanted to do was go outside. Not that the precinct house was cool and comfortable as such, but Hank reasoned if he sat very still, he might be all right. He turned back to Stephens. "Which resort?"

Stephens looked at his tattered papers. "Club Bulgaria."

Hank schooled his features. He wondered if Stephens knew of the reputation of this particular club. Not that Hank had ever been there. He'd merely been tempted.

"Any other information?" Hank asked.

"Not much. Officers who arrived at the scene first talked to the club owner briefly, but he didn't seem to know anything. The body is still there. A few of the staff from the club have been made to wait there for our arrival."

Hank could only imagine how putrid the body must smell in this heat. "Well," he said. "No sense standing around here dripping. Let's go."

Nicholas Sharp — stage name Paulina Clodhopper — stood outside Club Bulgaria in his street clothes, smoking the last of a cigarillo. It was doing nothing to calm his nerves. He tossed the butt of it toward the street and rearranged the red scarf draped around his neck. It was too hot for such frippery, but he had an image to maintain, and besides, the police were on their way. He wanted to look somewhat respectable. Really, though, Nicky would have much preferred a long soak in an ice bath while wearing nothing at all.

The sun blared down on the Bowery and it smelled like someone had died — which, Nicky acknowledged, had happened in truth — and it was nearly unbearable, but he couldn't stand inside any longer. Not with Edward laid out on the floor like ... well. Nicky didn't want to think of it.

A man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and an ugly brown waistcoat, his hands shoved in his pockets, walked down the street toward Nicky. The man beside him must have been boiling inside his crisp police uniform.

The man in uniform looked Nicky up and down with an expression of deep skepticism on his face. "Are you Mr. Juel?" His tone indicated his real question was, Are you even a real man?

Nicky bristled. "No, darling. He's inside."

The man in shirtsleeves said, "You work here?"


This man was really quite attractive, in a sweaty, disheveled way, although Nicky supposed there was no way around that in this weather. The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and then pulled the dusty bowler hat off his head, revealing dark brown hair, cut short. He wiped his whole face from his damp forehead to his thick mustache before he dropped the hat back on his head. There seemed to be a strong body under the wrinkled clothing, but it was hard to tell. Still, this man intrigued Nicky. His companion in the uniform was blond and bearded and looked considerably more polished, but in a bland way. The disheveled man was far more interesting.

"I'll take you in to see Mr. Juel," Nicky said. "That is, if I could have your names."

"I'm Detective Stephens," said the uniformed man briskly.

"Hank Brandt," said the man in shirtsleeves.

"Acting Inspector Henry Brandt," Stephens said. "Honestly, Brandt, there are protocols."

Brandt grunted and waved his hand dismissively at Stephens. To Nicky, he said, "And you are?"

"Nicholas Sharp. Come with me." He led the police officers inside.

Julie waited in front of the door to the ballroom. He stepped forward and introduced himself, standing tall but fussing a bit more than necessary — "This is such a terrible tragedy, nothing like this has ever happened here before, I am still in such a state of shock!" — his voice growing increasingly shrill as he spoke. Nicky might have believed him if this had been the first act of violence perpetrated at Club Bulgaria.

"Can you tell us what transpired, Mr. Juel?" asked Detective Stephens, the picture of proper politeness, although it was Brandt who pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket.

"I did not know the fate of poor Edward until I arrived this morning."

Nicky glanced at Brandt to ascertain his reaction. Julie was lying just as sure as he had a receding hairline; he rarely left the club. Nicky knew for a fact Julie had been sleeping in his office at the back of the club for nearly a week, ever since his lover had thrown him out of their Greenwich Village apartment. Nicky didn't know for certain, but he also suspected poor Edward had been lying on the floor of the ballroom for some time before Julie had deigned to notice him.

"And where were you through all this, Mr. Sharp?" asked Brandt.

Nicky adjusted his scarf. "I went home just after midnight last night. I arrived back at the club about an hour ago, where Mr. Juel confronted me with the news that poor Edward had departed the earth."

Brandt nodded. "What exactly is your occupation here?"

"I entertain the guests."

Brandt pursed his lips. "You entertain them."

"I sing," said Nicky.

Brandt's eyebrows shot up. "Right. So. This Edward, is he a friend of yours?"

Nicky kept hoping Julie would intervene, but he stayed resolutely quiet. Nicky wasn't quite sure what the best answer to these questions would be or how much information he should give away willingly. He said, "He also entertained the guests. In a somewhat different capacity."

Brandt turned toward Stephens and said, "Would you go take a look at the ballroom? I'll follow along in a moment."

Stephens nodded and proceeded into the ballroom. Julie trailed after him.

Nicky shivered, alarmed now that he was alone with Mr. Brandt, who removed his hat and took a step closer to Nicky.

"Tell me honestly," said Brandt. "Edward was a working boy."

Nicky sucked in a breath. Brandt stood close enough for Nicky to smell him, a sour, earthy scent, the fragrance of someone who had spent too much time stewing in his own sweat on a hot day.

"Yes," Nicky whispered.

"And you are as well?"

"No. I only sing."

Brandt grunted. "I'm not here from the vice squad. I do not wish to toss anyone in jail unless they killed your friend Edward. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. And I am being honest. Edward was a working boy. I sing on stage a few times a week." Nicky pointed toward the ballroom. "That's all."

"You sing."

"Yes. And to answer your next question, last I saw Edward was last night. He was entertaining a guest. They went to the back. I do not know what happened after."

Brandt must have been astute enough to discern Nicky's meaning, because he jotted something down on his pad. "What did this guest look like?"

Nicky closed his eyes to try to picture him. "He had dark hair. He was quite tall. Thick mustache. A very fine suit of clothes, much nicer than the sort the guests here usually wear."

Brandt scribbled in his notes. He said, "Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"They went to the back and never returned?"

Nicky didn't quite know what to make of these questions. Clearly, Brandt was worldly enough to know how a club like this worked, so he must have known the back rooms behind the ballroom at Club Bulgaria were where men went to have sex with each other. Edward would have sidled up to a man like the one Nicky had seen him with last night and seen the money dancing before his eyes. He would have taken the man in back for a ... financial transaction. And then?

"I'll be honest and tell you I didn't think much about Edward hanging on the arm of some man from uptown. This fancy dressed man was slumming, which is hardly a novel occurrence. Usually the bourgeoisie come down here to gawk and feel superior, but occasionally one of the boys here does get his claws in one. It wasn't strange enough for me to take notice."

"Except for his clothes."

"Yes, well. I quite liked the cut of the man's jacket and spent a brief, wondrous moment imagining I could afford to purchase such a thing."

Brandt nodded. "In other words, Edward may just have emerged from the back room unscathed after entertaining this man, but if he did, you did not see it." He stepped toward the ballroom. "Come with me."

"Oh, no, darling. I couldn't possibly. I've spent far too much time with poor Edward today as it is."

"Fine. Stay here, then. Don't leave. I'm not done talking to you."

"Your wish is my command."

Brandt narrowed his eyes. He probably didn't appreciate Nicky acting flippant, but Nicky knew of no other way to manage such a situation.

Nicky watched Brandt walk into the ballroom. When the voices of the men inside rose, Nicky found a spare chair to sit in. There was nothing to do but wait.

For nearly a year, Police Commissioner Roosevelt had been trying to cure the city of vice. Standing in the middle of a tawdry ballroom, Hank could see his point. There was something particularly sad about this room. Hank glanced toward Stephens, who he knew thought cleaning up the city was a worthy goal, and maybe it was. Hank did not believe it was an achievable one. The city was too far gone, perhaps. And its residents liked their vices.

Hank imagined this ballroom had once been grand. There were the remnants of a forgotten era everywhere: sculptural touches carved into the ceiling and a series of murals painted on two of the walls. On the other hand, the murals were somewhat vulgar and depicted men in various states of undress lounging about in parks or, in the case of one of them, in the ruins of Ancient Rome. Hank supposed the murals were supposed to be titillating, but there was something strange about them. Hank was no art scholar, but these were not quite right, as if they were a parody of art and not art itself.

Artistry and architecture aside, though, the ballroom inside Club Bulgaria was worn and filthy. The wooden floor was stained and scratched, the stage curtains were threadbare, and the sculptures were chipped or broken.

Stephens stood frowning as he took in the room. They hadn't discussed it on the walk over to the club, but Stephens was no greenhorn. He had to have known to expect a dance hall or brothel at least — the residents of New York did not come to this neighborhood to see Shakespeare — but he might not have known that this was a fairy resort. This was precisely the sort of place that would send him into fits. If Stephens was trying to hide his revulsion, he failed badly.

Hank knelt and took a closer look at the body. There was something vulgar about the dead man, too, something that made him blend in with his sordid surroundings, and not just because he was dead. Hank recorded every visible detail in his notes. The dead man wore a stained shirt and black trousers. A smudge of some kind of grime stained his cheek. His hair was unruly. There was powder on his face and some sort of rouge on his cheeks, which kept the paleness of death at bay.

Not to mention, there was a knife wound in his chest.

Hank turned to Mr. Juel. "Mr. Sharp mentioned seeing this Edward go off with a wealthy-looking man. Did you happen to see this man?" Juel shook his head. "No, Inspector. I wish I had. Do you know what it will do to my business if word gets out this kind of violence could be perpetrated at my club? If that man is responsible for this, I want him caught! I want —"

"No need for theatrics," said Hank.

"No need? Why, just three weeks past, a man was killed outside Paresis, and what did the police do? Nothing. One more dead prostitute, eh? The working boys who walk along the Bowery at night are inverted and less than human, are they not? Why should the police bother to investigate?"

Author Bio:
Kate McMurray is a nonfiction editor. Also, she is crafty (mostly knitting and sewing, but she also wields power tools), she plays the violin, and she dabbles in various other pursuits. She’s maybe a tiny bit obsessed with baseball. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with a presumptuous cat.



To Dance Again & Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor by Hebby Roman

Titles: To Dance Again & Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor
Author: Hebby Roman
Series: Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor: Snowbirds #2
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Dates: To Dance Again: December 11, 2015
Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor: March 12, 2015

To Dance Again
They say a woman never forgets her first love, and Maricel Cardona hasn't forgotten Ramón Morales. She remembers dancing all night in Ramón's arms to the sensual beat of their homeland, Puerto Rico. When her family forced her to move to the States, she didn't know she was carrying Ramón's child.

A self-made multi-millionaire, Ramón hasn't forgotten Maricel and the passion he felt, dancing with her. Now, at the pinnacle of his success, he's withdrawn from the world to safeguard his own secret. A secret that, if revealed, would change his life forever.

Reunited after twenty-seven years, will the high school sweethearts get a second chance at love or will their secrets tear them apart?

Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor
“What’s a forty-year-old virgin doing in a predicament like this? Looking for a husband but not because she wants one. Shy and inexperienced, Esmeralda Garcia is terrified to be dating and would rather stay at home with her three cats. But her late father’s will decrees she must marry or forfeit her orchard, her only means of support.

Hank McCall, as a romantic prospect, leaves a great deal to be desired. Twice divorced and older than Esmeralda, he wants to enjoy his semi-retirement and avoid being entangled in a long-term relationship again.

Scarred by their pasts and challenged by the gap in their ages, Esmeralda and Hank struggle with their mutual attraction and growing affection. When Hank is faced with losing Esmeralda or surrendering to her yearning to have a real family, their fates hang in the balance.”

To Dance Again
Placing his glass on the coffee table, he half-turned toward her. “When did you realize you loved me? And what kind of love is it? Are you in love with me as a man or as a fond memory?”

Her head pounded. Too much booze. Too many questions. 

Why was he doing this—giving her the third degree? And who gave him the right, rubbing her nose in it? Fury flooded her but rather than stay and fight, she wanted to run away. She needed to get away from him, like when they’d been driving. 

But she wouldn’t run. Not this time. Instead, she threw caution to the winds. “I’ve always loved you, Ramón, from the very beginning, since we were kids.”

He crossed his leg and ran his hand down the pleat of his pants, as if to smooth it. His action was so controlled, so cool and collected, she wanted to scream. 

“You could have fooled me,” he said. “You went to the States with your parents and never looked back. I begged you to return and marry me. You kept putting me off.”

“You mean you couldn’t wait. Your impatience and pride got the better of you.” She took a deep breath. “You were supporting your mother, for heaven’s sake. We both needed degrees to survive.”

“Did we? We were young and in love; we would have gotten by.” The tone of his voice was uncommonly hard, unforgiving as stone.

So this was it. He wanted her to pay for an ancient wrong? But he'd been in the wrong, too; he hadn't known how much she'd needed him.

Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor
“Aren't you going to ask me inside?” Esme asked.

“No, I'm not,” Hank replied.

“Why not?” The stricken look on her face almost undid him.

“Because I got a contract job and need to make an early start tomorrow.”

“Oh, that's nice.” She smiled. “I'm happy for you. But I thought work was secondary and money was no object.” She trailed her fingertips along his jawline.

He kissed the palm of her hand. “It is, but I do have to live.” Then he grinned and admitted, “And it's for a friend and he's given me a rather aggressive deadline.”

“How aggressive?” She settled her hands on his shoulders and massaged them with her fingers.

He tilted his head to one side and said, “Mmmm, that feels good. Don't stop.”

“Can I come in and give you a more private massage?” Her dark brown eyes glittered in the half-light thrown from his porch lamp.

He grinned. “I wish. I've got a two-day deadline. I'll probably start tonight, not even wait until tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She stopped massaging his shoulders and let her hands stray down his chest. “I understand, especially if it's for a friend.”

“Good, but when it's done, I want to see you again.” And he did.

He hated being without her, hated missing her, trying to fill up his lonely days. Esme was a force of nature, a quiet and unassuming force of nature, but for him, she was special. After what Melanie had done to him; he hadn't known if he was capable of caring again. And two failed marriages to boot. You'd think he'd learn and give up.

But Esme was like no other woman, not even his first wife, who'd also been innocent and naïve when they'd started dating. He couldn't say what was so special about Esme, but he knew how he felt. As if he could see himself spending the rest of his days, making her happy.

Good Lord, was he falling in love with her?

“I want to see you again, too. When would be convenient?” she asked.

He frowned and tried to get his bearings. What had he said and what was she answering? Then he remembered. But the thought that he was falling in love with a woman he'd never been intimate with had blanked out his thoughts, stolen his reason.

“Uh, yeah, I think I need to work the weekend, but then I should be free. I'll give you a call.”

She grabbed the lapels of his shirt and stroked down, smoothing them. “Uh, Hank, I had an idea.” She smiled. “But I don't want you to think I'm being pushy or trying to get you to work more. I, uh, after today, I—”

“Spit it out.” He grinned back at her. “I'll take what you say with a grain of salt.”

She shook her head and her pink tongue snaked out between her teeth. Seeing it, he almost groaned. He leaned closer, wanting to kiss her again.

“My father used to say that but in Spanish.”

He pulled back. “I'm not certain I want to remind you of your father. I know I told you how old I am today, but still…”

Author Bio:
Hebby Roman is the multi-published author of both historical and contemporary romances. Her first contemporary romance, SUMMER DREAMS, was the launch title for Encanto, a print line featuring Latino romances. And her re-published e-book, SUMMER DREAMS, was #1 in Amazon fiction and romance.

Hebby is a member of the Romance Writers of America, and the past president of her local chapter, North Texas Romance Writers. She was selected for the Romantic Times "Texas Author" award, and she won a national Harlequin contest. Her book, BORDER HEAT, was a Los Angeles Times Book Festival selection.


To Dance Again

Esmerelda and the Second-Hand Suitor

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The Surrendered by Case Maynard

Title: The Surrendered
Author: Case Maynard
Genre: Dystopia, Young Adult
Release Date: September 20, 2016
Publisher: Blaze Publishing
After a financial collapse devastates the United States, the new government imposes a tax on the nation’s most valuable resource—the children.

Surrendered at age ten—after her parents could no longer afford her exorbitant fees—Vee Delancourt has spent six hard years at the Mills, alongside her twin, Oliver. With just a year to freedom, they do what they can to stay off the Master’s radar. But when Vee discovers unspeakable things happening to the younger girls in service, she has no choice but to take a stand—a decision that lands her on the run and outside the fence for the first time since the System robbed her of her liberty.

Vee knows the Master will stop at nothing to prove he holds ultimate authority over the Surrendered. But when he makes a threat that goes beyond what even she considers possible, she accepts the aid of an unlikely group of allies. Problem is, with opposing factions gunning for the one thing that might save them all, Vee must find a way to turn oppression and desperation into hope and determination—or risk failing all the children and the brother she left behind.

Reading of Chapter 1 by author

A sinking feeling washes over me. “We’re going to Meadowood.”

He responds without opening his eyes, “I want answers.”

I start to argue that this will be a fool’s errand, but in truth, I want the same answers he does. “Do you think the man who rescued Oliver was with the Southies?”

“I don’t know who else it could’ve been.” He sits up and stretches. “It must’ve been them, and I want to know why they changed the plan without informing us. The Master and his Regulators got to the rooftop very quickly after I fired that shot. I have to wonder if someone told them we were there.”

“You think the Southies took Oliver to get the combination and then set the Regulators on us? Why would they do that?”

He rubs his face. “It doesn’t make any sense. But something’s not adding up.”

I ponder this, thinking about my brother’s strange plea. “I know you think I’m insane, but I can’t help but feel like Oliver knew someone was going to take him; I swear it felt like he was speaking to me when he said not to interfere. But that doesn’t make any sense, either. He’s been behind the fence for years.”

Cason yawns and tries to shake off the effects of the Papaver. “I don’t think you’re crazy; his message did seem odd for someone who was about to hang for a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t know, but hopefully he’ll be at Meadowood and you can ask him yourself.”

My mood elevates as I realize I may only be hours away from a reunion with my brother. The pain in my arm forgotten, I try to concentrate only on this knowledge, confident we’ll have our answers soon enough. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for earlier. You could’ve just turned me over to the Master and walked away, but you didn’t. I’m grateful for that.”

I feel a little embarrassed as soon as the words leave my mouth. Normally I’m not one to share my feelings, but the Papaver Flower makes me breathless and lightheaded and loosens my tongue.

He reaches for me, careful not to jostle my splinted wrist, and pulls my face to his. “I’m probably going to ruin that sentiment by telling you the Master would never have let me go anyway, but know this—” he runs the pad of his thumb along my lower lip and meets my eyes “—if everyone else in the entire world leaves you to fend for yourself, if your father, your mother, your brother disappoint you, if God himself decides you aren’t worthy . . . you’ll still be able to count on me. I’ve got your back, Vera.”

Author Bio:
With over 20 years’ experience in the legal and medical fields, Case Maynard decided to trade in her briefs and reports to write the stories that have been floating around in her head since childhood. She lives with her two teenagers and husband in South Georgia, while maintaining a long-distance liaison with her oldest daughter and partner in crime in Alaska. When not writing, she enjoys reading as often as possible, binge watching anything good on Netflix, and all things NCAA football (Go Noles!). You can learn more about Case and her stories on her website.



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