LATEST NEWS & UPDATE:

*breathes into a paper bag* Howdy, y'all! It's only THREE (I just counted them on the wall calendar next to my face) weeks until Edith and Apollo are released out into the world and I'm SO excited for you to get them in your hands!

For those of you who aren't in my reader group on Facebook, I wanted to let you know that I'm going to the US (Florida) in September for a conference (yay!) if you're waiting for a chance to sign up for signed paperbacks... I got you, boo.

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For those of you who missed last week's chapter one teaser, I've included it againt his week, when you get to the bottom of it, you'll find this week's teaser - chapter TWO. Y'all, the amount of messages I got when people read chapter 1 last week made me gleeful, I'm thrilled that so many of you are so excited for Edith and Apollo <3

Chapter 1

Edith

(December 26th)

Working out beyond exhausted and with a carb hangover was not my best idea ever. I’m on the struggle bus, and there’s a sixty five percent chance that I’m going to puke. Maybe even seventy. As I finish my last set of leg presses at the gym, I regret the decisions of past Edith.

It’s all Apollo’s fault.

It’s always Apollo’s fucking fault.

It was his stupid Christmas party last night that led me here.

The grumpy bastard himself grumbles at the free weights he’s lifting across the room. His teeth are gritted, exertion clear on his face, a thin sheen of sweat coating his biceps and seeping through his tank top. Despite the permanent funk of body odor lingering in the gym, I can’t help but admire the lines of my ripped best friend.

I hate him.

Usually, he keeps his festive celebrations to a single Christmas Eve party, but this year one shindig wasn’t enough for the prince of darkness and his fancy pants siblings. So I ended up breaking my own rule and staying out late two nights in a row. I rarely drink, special occasions only. But I did go a little crazy with the carbs over the past couple nights, and my body really doesn’t like me for it. In fact, let’s go ahead and make that a seventy five percent chance of puking.

There’s no room in my life for vices, only dancing. And apparently my best friend, Apollo de la Peña, local hockey god with the name of an actual god. He counts as a vice too. Because something about him prevents me from saying “No, Apollo. I’m staying home tonight with a hot bubble bath and a great read.”

The man in question stands about twelve feet away from my machine doing arm curls next to the weight rack in front of the mirror.

I’ve known him for years. He’s like an annoying brother, but even I can appreciate the definition in his arms as he raises the weight up and down. He also has the perfect hockey bubble butt. The shiny material of his fancy shorts stretch across his ass, and I’m in the perfect position to ogle.

Ballet boy butts are similar to hockey butts in being excessively muscled, but ballet butts are a little sleeker, a little more heart shaped from the way they work. Also, dance belts and tights means it's all butts all day in my world. I’m generally blind to the ballet butts but something about his hockey bubble butt catches my attention in those shiny short shorts.

He pauses his set, cocking his head, a couple stray beads of sweat dripping from his nose. “You checkin’ out my ass?”

And the rest of him, but I’d never tell. He’d never let me live it down. Plus, it’s kind of weird letting my eyes linger on any piece of him that’s currently exposed and rippling with exertion. I shrug, bring my knees up toward my chest before pushing the plate back to the machine. “What can I say? I know a fine ass when I see one, Señor de la Peña.”

He glares at me, muttering something to himself as he wipes down the weight and replaces it on the rack. Picking up his bottle from the floor, he tips it at me. “Almost finished? Or should I do something else?”

Sure, he’s sweaty, but he’s bright and seemingly ready to do another workout without missing a beat.

Jerk.

“Almost dead, you mean.” I wince. It’s best to quit while I’m only a little behind.

“My insides hate me. There’s every chance I’m going to boot up over your way-too-extra car on the way home.”

Despite being a fancy-pants rich boy, he lives a relatively normal life. That is, until it comes to where he lives and what he drives. We live in the most expensive building in downtown Cedar Rapids.

There’s no way I could afford the apartment I live in by myself. My parents, on the other hand, are loaded and spend most of their time sailing the world on expensive yachts and drinking Champagne that tastes like paint thinner.

Not together, however, never together. The last time my parents were in the same room together there was a shift in the earth’s tectonic plates that caused rumblings across three continents. Mom’s on her second marriage, Dad likes the carefree life and women barely older than me. But who am I to judge?

When I told them where I wanted to live, they didn’t bat an eyelid. In fact, less than a week later I had the deed to the apartment with my name on it in hand, and the key to the place across the hall from my best friend.

Is it guilt money? Or more that they just have so much of it that they don’t care what they do with it, or what I do with it either? Either way, I’ll take it.

“No one forced those garlic knots down your throat, princesa.” His intense stare bores into me. But his grumpasaurus ass doesn’t scare me.

I don’t even bother to roll my eyes at the more than decade-old nickname. When we met, it was Halloween, and I was dressed like a Disney princess. He’s called me princess ever since. It grates on any woman he dates which makes me love it just a little bit. But I’d never tell him that out loud either.

Jabbing my finger his direction, I scowl at him. “Lies. You did.”

He smirks at me, shrugging. “You need to learn to let your hair down every now and then.”

Yet again, I don’t dignify him with a response. He knows how I feel. We’re both semi-professional athletes in our prime. And by semi-professional, I mean not-at-all professional, but working toward it. That’s the end game for both of us.

Despite being a Neanderthal hockey player, Apollo gets it. He understands why I’m strict with my diet, why my body is a temple, and why even on the day after Christmas, I’m at the gym.

He really gets it. It’s why we work so well together as best friends. Since everything in the entire universe is designed for couples, we get a meal prep box delivered once a week and take turns cooking dinner. Every Sunday, we batch cook our lunches for the week ahead, and when we hit the gym, we almost always go together.

I wipe down my machine, swipe my water bottle from the floor and follow him toward the exit, pausing over the trashcan by the door as my stomach lurches.

“I hate you,” I grumble, holding out my bottle for him to take while I clutch the sides of the garbage can.

He waves my drink at me. “Hydrate. Mind over matter. Let’s go home and get some food into that stomach.”

At the mention of food, my stomach heaves, and I spew like the kid from the Exorcist. Apollo grunts behind me, shuffles—probably to put the drinks down—before he rubs my back. “Light weight.”

I can’t help but laugh, despite the acid burning a trail up my chest. He knows I’m anything but. Ballet dancers might look beautiful and fragile on stage, but underneath all that delicate tulle is nothing short of a gladiator.

His—albeit sweaty—hand rubbing concentric circles on the small of my back is soothing. But ugh. I fucking hate throwing up. This is one more reminder that binge eating is not worth the carb hangover. Or the bloating. Or the shits. Or the constipation.

“Never again.” I say it every time.

But bread tastes so damn good.

“You said that last time.” He chuckles, removing his palm from my spine. “Let’s get you home. Window open and a bag in your lap. No puke in my new car.”

He didn’t need a new car. In fact, the matching SUVs he and his brothers all drive are barely, what, a year old? But he “felt like a change,” so he bought a sporty... something. He claims it’s not sporty. He says it has a five star safety rating, it’s built for comfort not speed, but when girls and cops see him driving by, they totally think he’s a little boy racer. It turns heads almost as much as his ego does.

The only person in Cedar Rapids to get pulled over more than him, is his older sister Athena. And that’s because she rarely drives at speeds less than a hundred. I’m only exaggerating a little, too. The woman is terrifying.

I’m now regretting his choice of vehicle. He opens the passenger door for me, and I groan. The seats are practically on the ground in this thing. It was leg day. My legs are like fucking jelly. How the hell am I supposed to squat and get all the way down there?

“Maybe I’ll walk.”

“¡Ay! Princesa.” He shakes his head as he pulls his door open with a growl. “So fucking dramatic. It’s like you’re a performer or something.”

I give a flourish with my hand before flipping him off.

“You belong on the stage.”

“I belong in the fucking shower. I stink.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to say.”

If I had something to throw at him, I would. But I don’t, so I grunt and groan as I lower myself into the bucket seat. “You’re pretty stinky yourself, you know.”

Before he moves, he points at the water bottle. “Hydrate.”

“Shut up and drive, rich boy.” Reaching for the radio, I elbow him. Thankfully, we have the same taste in music, so there’s no argument over who gets to listen to what. We have one rule when we’re together in the car, and that’s if we sing, it’s loud and proud.

As I reach for the volume button, his phone rings in the cup holder. The name “Papá” appears on the screen. I can almost hear Apollo’s eye roll. He stares at the phone, indecision flickering across his face.

“What’s his problem this time?”

Apollo shrugs, his stare not moving from the screen.

I silence his ringtone, give his thigh an I’ve-got-you-boo pat, and crank up the tunes. Apollo starts the car, his shoulders softening. I’ve been around long enough to know that el príncipe de las tinieblas, the prince of darkness, and his father have a challenging relationship. And sometimes that means I run interference, for everyone’s sake.

The base rattles through my seat as Apollo starts nodding his head in time with the music. I don’t recognize the song, but that rarely stops us from singing along. We’re epic at making shit up. Confidently.

He lowers the volume enough to be heard over the thumping music. “Did you go on that date last week? You never said anything.”

I never said anything because when I tell him I’ve been on a date, he spends his time dissecting it and telling me what went wrong. What I did wrong, how I scared the guy off, or how the guy is an asshole, or how the guy would end up being an asshole.

For once, I wanted a minute to enjoy a nice date, with a nice guy, without Apollo going all He’s Just Not That Into You on me.

I’ve seen the old movie, and while it would potentially make my life a hell of a lot easier if Apollo was criticizing all my dates because he was secretly in love with me, he really isn’t. He enjoys being a dick. A grumpy dick at that. And rude. A grumpy rude dick. How am I even friends with this man? I’m a fucking delight.

For someone so perfect to look at, he has a list of crappy qualities a mile long. He’s lucky I love him.

Sighing, I nod. “I did.” I move to turn the music back up, bumping his leg in the process, but he nails me with his infamous side eye.

“Not good?”

“No, it was good.”

“Not great?”

I shrug, but stay quiet.

“Where’d he take you?”

I smother a laugh. “The Taco Depot.”

He slows the car to a stop at a red light, and if life was a Gif, right now he’d be the Latina woman “gasps in Spanish” because his hand flies to his chest as his mouth drops open. “You’re shitting me?”

Like I said, he’s so fucking extra.

I can’t help it, I’m all out laughing at the disgust painted across his dark features. “He’d never been to Guac n’Roll and didn’t want to try somewhere new.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I really wanted tacos.” It’s totally a big deal. Abuelita de la Peña makes the best tortillas in the entire world, and let’s not even start on her tres leches cake.

He answers with a grunt, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “How was it?” His question is begrudging, cautious, and laced with contempt. His family owned Guac n’Roll is a local institution in Mexican food.

I love rattling him, though, so I lean into it. “Fucking delicious. Best I’ve had.”

His jaw drops, his head spins to me, and I reach over to push his chin up so his mouth closes. “I’m kidding, el príncipe de las tinieblas.” I drop my voice. “If you tell Abuelita I even joked about that I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

When he started calling me princess, I returned the favor by asking his twin brother, Artemis, how to say prince of darkness in Spanish. Apollo pretends that it bothers him, but he loves it. It suits his life vibe. Tall, dark black hair, dark brown eyes, and brooding. Lots and lots of brooding. Like a Latino Derek Hale from Teen Wolf.

“You know nowhere beats your Abuelita’s tortillas.”

He nods, the light changes to green, and he pulls forward into the intersection. The screen of his phone lights up with another call from his father, but we both ignore it. He doesn’t need that ball ache right now.

Blinding lights catch my attention out the passenger side window, but before either of us can process what’s happening, or react, they charge into us at speed.

Glass explodes into shards as the metal frame of the car buckles, searing pain envelops my entire body, and somewhere in the distance someone’s screaming.

By the time I realize it’s me, everything’s going dark.

Chapter 2

Edith

I might be dying.

Bright lights tease the edges of my awareness drawing me back to consciousness. Everything’s blurry, blinding, and hurting so fucking badly.

The pain isn’t a dull ache, it’s a sharp stabbing, it’s a deep burning, it’s an all-consuming, body ache that hurts so bad even breathing causes pain.

I’m cold. I think I’m still in Apollo’s car, but I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel right.

Liquid trickles down my forehead, and I can’t move to check whether it’s water, gasoline, or blood. I don’t think I want to know.

I move my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out from my slightly parted lips.

Something shifts to my right, and pangs of white-hot pain radiate down my leg.

The faint sound of sirens in the distance call to me. Are they real sirens? Or metaphorical sirens signifying my dwindling time here on earth?

I don’t know. From the pain south of my waist, it could be either. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth so whether or not the sirens are real, the blood certainly is.

And it’s the last thing I hear before the darkness takes me again.

Apollo

***

My head is throbbing.

I don’t think I’m really hurt other than the ache in my temples and at the back of my skull. My leg is trapped under the crumpled dash, but I can wriggle my toes, my fingers, and other than something dribbling down the side of my face, I think I’m good.

Fuck. Lady luck was clearly on our side tonight.

Flexing my fingers once more, I nod. Yeah, I definitely think I’m good.

The seatbelt chafes on my neck as I turn to Edith.

Fuck. My blood freezes in my veins. No. No, no, no, no, no.

There’s blood all over her face, her eyes are closed, and her whole side of the vehicle is buckled in on her.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

A bolt of pure panic shoots up my spine, stealing the breath from my lungs.

This isn’t good. She’s not good.

“Edith?”

Nothing. Not a wheeze, a whimper, a sigh. Zero.

Fuck.

I yell her name, and when she doesn’t reply, I scream at her, louder this time, desperate to wake her up, but it doesn’t work, and I can’t twist myself in my seat enough to reach for her. I’m helpless. And I fucking hate it.

Focusing on her body, I wait for any telltale signs of life, but her chest doesn’t rise and fall.

An icy, consuming dread threatens to suck me into panic.

Edith

***

I can’t breathe.

My teeth chatter as I shiver. Someone’s mumbling something next to me, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s like I’m under water.

Where’s Apollo? Wasn’t he with me?

Oh my god... is he dead?

I try to move, to turn to see if I can find him, but all that greets me is bone-deep agony. A scream rips from my raw throat before my eyes roll back, my head lolls... darkness.

***

A cold hand slides into mine but doesn’t squeeze. “Edie?”

Despite the shivering, warmth spreads through my limbs. I’m not alone. My prince of darkness won’t let me die alone.

“Edie? Can you hear me?”

I don’t think the noise I make is anything resembling coherence, but it seems to prompt excited movement, which only makes everything hurt more.

Another scream. I think it’s mine.

Apollo

***

Tears course down my cheeks as I stare at the busted screen on my phone. I can’t reach Edith’s either, but I bet hers is fucked up too.

We’re upside down in the middle of an intersection. Sirens wail in the distance, closing in on our position, but unless someone else called 9-1-1, they aren’t for us.

I swallow down the bitter-tasting panic at the back of my throat and risk another glance at Edith. She made a noise a couple seconds ago, and her fingers flinched when I held her hand. She’s not dead, but how much longer she can hold on for? With every second that passes, her life hangs in the balance.

A juddering sob escapes from me, and I cram my fist into my mouth in a vain attempt to silence my fear. It doesn’t work, though the bite of pain through my muscles is comforting.

I should be strong. I should be calm. I should step up for her in this moment.

She needs me. But I think my best friend is dying. And if she dies, part of me will die too.

Another sob seeps out between my clenched knuckles as her fingers curl around my hand.

“Apollo?”

“Sí, princesa?” My blood chills at the anguish in her voice as she says my name, while relief unfurls in my shoulders that’s she’s still alive and breathing. She’s speaking, that’s a good thing, right? And she at least remembers my name. Also good.

“I’m here.”

“Don’t leave me.” Her heavy, terror-filled eyes meet mine, as my heart slices into pieces in my chest. “Don’t let me die alone.”

My mouth moves, telling her she has to stay with me, telling her she’s not going to die, and that she has to fight, to live. But it doesn’t look good as her eyes roll back in her head. My mouth might be telling her one thing, but my stomach sinks, and my rational brain kicks in. I’m not sure I believe the things falling from my lips to comfort her.

She’s bleeding, her eyes are glassy when she can open them, and she’s so fucking pale I can almost see through her skin. She really might be dying.

And there’s literally nothing I can do to stop it.

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Justin

I thought I’d left my past in Minnesota when I moved to Iowa, but it was right there waiting for me.

Long blonde hair, curves in all the right places, and a death glare that hits harder than a slap shot to the solar plexus. On the ice, I’m a pro at blocking shots, but Savannah Bowen has slipped behind all my defenses and made a home in my heart.

I had no intention of revisiting the past, but when she’s damn near everywhere I go, I’m a goner.

Savannah

Hell freakin’ no.

It doesn’t matter that Justin Ashe is seven feet tall and sexy as sin, or that I’ve had a crush on him for years. He cheated on my best friend in high school, and that makes him off limits.

I can’t be with him, but damn, it’s impossible to stay away from him. Girl Code says uteruses before duderuses.

He’s supposed to be my enemy, but the more I see of him, the blurrier the lines get.

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Welcome to the Minnesota Snow Pirates, where skilled and sexy mother puckers’ lives get turned upside down by strong and badass heroines. Curl up with your next book boyfriend today.