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It's getting so close to releasing (that's what he said!) so I wanted to swing by and share another sumptuous little (unproofed) teaser chapter with y'all.

So... Who's ready for chapter two?

Chapter 2

Penelope

Tate draws my attention back to him as he places the guitar next to him on the couch and stands up. He hesitates, pausing as though he’s waiting for my permission.

“You do?”

He nods once, and a lock of hair slips down his forehead.

“I’m not ready for you to kiss me.”

His face falls.

“Yet.”

Hope and heat flicker through his eyes, and he sits down again, picking up his instrument. “Okay, Pitstop. Hit me. What else you got?”

“Pitstop?” I scrunch my face up in confusion.

“You know... Penelope Pitstop?” When my face tells him I don’t actually know, he continues. “She’s a cartoon character from an old cartoon that was remade a few years ago. Wacky Races? Dastardly and Mutley?”

Those two are vaguely familiar, but I make a mental note to look up this Penelope Pitstop chick when I get home.

“Who’s your favorite artist?” I keep probing. I’m past wanting to find his flaws, and now I just want to know the answers to all my questions.

“The Beatles.”

Epic choice. Damn. I was hoping he’d pick someone I hated.

He levels me with a deadpan face, pointing his finger at me again. “Your turn, ‘cause that one’s fucking important.”

Swallowing, I steel myself. “Stevie Nicks.” Everyone always makes fun of me when I say it out loud because what college kid likes Stevie Nicks.

He nods, a slow smile taking over his features. “Nice. Great choice.”

Huh. I guess a guitar player who loves the Beatles and plays the Animals can at least appreciate Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Macs mark on musical history.

When his fingers move again, his tone has changed. It’s not The Animals he’s playing this time, it’s the opening notes to my favorite Stevie Nicks song, Landslide.

My stomach tightens. I can’t not sing. I can’t not let the music seep into my skin and take over my body. I can’t ignore the tug of the notes on my vocal cords.

So I don’t.

Without taking my eyes off his, I sing along with him. And he never takes his eyes off mine, either.

It’s like... musical foreplay. And I am fucking here for it.

We don’t get far in the song before he sets the guitar aside so he can walk closer to me. I keep singing. The warmth of his body makes mine tingle as he inches toward me.

“I want to kiss you.”

My breath stutters, but somehow, I keep singing. The way his eyes hold me, the heat flickering in his beautiful, green-gray eyes, his masculine scent invading my nose... it all makes my heart thump faster.

I want him to kiss me, but something makes me pause. Maybe it’s wanting to hear him say it again. There’s a heavy pause charged with anticipation when the lyrics die on my lips.

“Come on, Pitstop. Say yes. Let me kiss you.” He’s almost whining. Like finding a connection with someone who has musical talent is as hot to him as it is to me.

A musical spy. Huh. There’s one that hasn’t been done before. Has it? If not, someone should write a movie about that. Or a book. Or a book that gets picked up by Netflix and turned into a movie adaptation. The books are always better.

His gaze flits to my lips as I sing, like he’s mesmerized by the lyrics falling from my lips. The heat in his eyes is back, and the way he looks at me like I’m consuming his entire being drives me wild.

Heat pools between my thighs, and without checking I know my nipples are hard enough to shred my bra.

Okay, fine. Maybe not that hard, but they sure as hell aren’t that far away.

I nod.

He cups my face with his palm. It’s softer than I expect.

I stop singing.

He moistens his lips.

I suck in a breath.

His head comes toward me, but I start. Cracking him in the face with the top of my head.

“Ow. Fuck!” He covers his face with his hand. “What the hell?”

I hold my hands up.

“Still not ready?”

I shake my hand. “I need to check something first.”

He pulls his hand away from his nose and looks at his fingers like he’s expecting to find blood. “What’s that?” His face is reddening from where we connected.

“Do you have a fat fetish?” I’ve found it’s something I need to ask. My last boyfriend was a feeder. And love-bombed the shit out of me with my favorite chocolate truffles for months before my therapist pointed out what might be going on.

True enough, when I started losing weight, he left me for a bigger girl.

Tate’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide. “What?”

“Do you have a fat fetish?” It’s a simple enough question.

“We haven’t had a date yet and you’re asking about my kinks. Awfully presumptuous of you, wouldn’t you say, Pitstop?”

When I stay silent, he shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “And I’m kinda pissed at my gender that you even have to ask that.”

I like his answer. “Are you a feeder?”

He tips his head. “I will feed you if you’d like. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“Feeders enjoy the fantasy of helping someone else gain weight.” I purse my lips.

“If you want to gain weight, gain weight. If you don’t, don’t. It’s none of my business either way.”

I like that answer, too.

“But no, I don’t feed people to help them gain weight.”

He looks at my mouth again, like he’s contemplating a third attempt but is afraid of, well, probably me.

“You’re not going to steal my underwear and sell it on the internet?”

He erupts into laughter, stalling out when he sees my face. “Wait. That’s a real thing? Someone did that to you?” He searches my face. “Who the fuck did that to you? I’ll kill him.”

The fire that lights up in Tate’s eyes escapes his body and dances across my skin. I’m definitely not telling him the ‘who,’ but the ex before my most recent ex was a doozy.

I have a habit of choosing terrible men. Maybe it’s something I put out into the atmosphere? I don’t pick that emotional scab too much because I know where it leads. My greatest nemeses, vulnerability and insecurity that I have no time to indulge simmer deep below the surface.

“This is a lot of questions to grant me one kiss, Penelope.”

I’m not sure I like when he uses my real name. I wasn’t sure when he started calling me Pitstop, either, but now it’s kinda stuck.

What can I say? I’m an enigma.

“I need answers before I let you fall in love with me.” I study his face as he processes the words.

He points at himself. “I’m... falling in love with you?”

I nod.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

Another nod. “And I need to make sure you’re not going to try to make me fatter, or skinnier, or sell my underwear, or take pictures of my fat rolls while I sleep, or any other fat-kink-adjacent shit I have absolutely no time for.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards as the twitch of a smile threatens to spread across his face. “Before I fall in love with you?”

I shrug with a tilt of my head that makes the giant-ass taco wobble. “Happens every time.”

He appraises me with his eyes. “I bet it does.” There’s no sarcasm or irony in his tone. He holds his hands up. “Not one to kink shame, but none of those are my jam. I just have a thing for pretty girls with great tits and a good sense of humor.”

He leans closer. “Now. If I try to kiss you are you going to head-butt me again?”

“You’d probably like it.”

He wobbles his head back and forth like he’s trying to deliberate, and I get bored of waiting so I grab the edge of his fabric blue ghost costume and jerk him toward me.

It’s as though I take him by surprise at first, his body tenses, but once my lips meet his, it’s game on. He wraps his arm around me, splaying his palm on my shoulder and pressing me against him. With his free hand, he cups my face, stroking my cheekbone with the side of his thumb as he slow-kisses me like he has all damn day.

I loop my arms around his neck, lowering my defenses just a tad, just enough to open my mouth and let his tongue slide between my lips. He’s cautious at first.

Does he think I’m going to bite his tongue off? Maybe I will.

It’s not a screen-worthy kiss by any means, but it is life altering. I’ve never been kissed like this. It’s like he’s taken all of his emotions from the depth of his soul, bundled them up, and is transmitting them through his lips.

He takes his time. With each soft flick of his tongue against mine our mouths find a rhythm together. There’s no teeth clinking, our noses don’t get in each other’s way, and when he changes direction, I counter without issue, like our kiss is a practiced dance we’ve been doing together for years.

Except it’s the first time.

Is this my last first kiss?

It couldn’t be. No one’s that good, right?

He’s hot and all, but is he really all that?

It’s unlikely that he’s Mr. Right, but he could very easily be Mr. Right Now.

When he tips my head back to deepen the kiss, I sigh into his mouth.

When his hands roam my body like he’s already mapped out the terrain, I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face. He’s touching me, holding me, kissing me like he owns me, like he’s not intimidated by my size, like he’s not afraid of my prickly exterior—I don’t think it’s prickly, it’s just what I’ve been told—like he doesn’t give a flying fuck who’s watching.

It’s refreshing, like the first snow fall of winter, or rain after a long and dry summer, and to be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about not needing to take the lead. It’s weird, might even be nice. I’ll have to make him kiss me again to find out.

He moans into my mouth and nibbles on the tip of my nose as he pulls back from me. “Hmmm.”

“What?” A sliver of self-doubt creeps into my chest.

“It didn’t happen.”

“What didn’t happen?” I look down at his pants, and he’s very, very obviously turned on so something definitely happened.

“I didn’t fall in love with you.” He smirks. “Yet. Guess I’ll just have to keep kissing you until I do.” He kisses me again, with even more confidence than the first time. He’s playful, instead of our tongues brushing against each other, he teases me with his lips, nipping at mine, making me work to get my next kiss.

If he wasn’t covered in a giant piece of cardboard, I’d grab the neck of his shirt and force him close. Couldn’t he have found a cloth version of the costume to make attacking him with my tongue easier?

Sounds like poor planning if you ask me.

“I like kissing you.” He says between little pecks on my lips.

“Do you? Because right now you’re just frustrating me.” I huff out a heavy breath.

He laughs. “I might like doing that too.”

“I might see if I like kneeing you in the nuts.”

He shakes his head. “I brought protection.” He gestures at his costume, then wiggles his eyebrows like he’s not really talking about wearing a giant, flimsy ghost over his body.

He pulls back again, forehead crinkled in a frown. “Wait.”

I roll my eyes. “It might take a little longer than two kisses, you know. I’m not that good.”

He chuckles, then hands me his phone. “Put your number in. I can’t take the risk we’ll make out all night, and then you run away and ghost me.”

Pointing at his costume, I shake my head. “I think it’s obvious who the ghoster will be.”

“Come on, I can’t talk to you if I don’t know how to reach you. And you can't make me fall in love with you if we never talk again.”

I raise my brow at him. The idea of leaving here and not talking to this guy again makes me feel some kinda way. I don’t like it. So we exchange numbers, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom while Tate goes to get drinks.

Standing in line for the restroom, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen comes out of the door almost walking straight into me.

“I love your dress.” She points at my costume. “Belle is the best Disney princess.”

“I know, right? All those books.”

The girl nods. “Oh. Hey.” She points at me. “Didn’t I see you chatting to Tate Myers?”

Whatever else she says, I can’t hear. My ears pop like I’ve changed altitude as nausea grips my stomach in an iron hold. It can’t be.

Myers.

It’s a common name, right?

There’s no way.

Except every cell in my body tells me there is a way, and that it’s not simply coincidence. I stumble away from the girl who’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.

“You went really pale, are you okay? Did you drink too much? Do you need to sit down?” She’s following me toward the front door where I stumble out onto the porch, make my way through the sea of college bodies bumping and grinding against each other, and down the steps out into the yard.

When I make it to the end of the street, I pull out my phone, open a search browser, and swallow hard. I’m sure I’m over reacting. I’ll look him up, clear things up, and be right back in that room staring at his dreamy green-gray eyes and swooning over him playing his guitar for me in no time.

I type in Tate Myers University of Cedar Rapids.

It takes less than a second to confirm he’s a hockey player.

My stomach hardens.

It takes less than another second to confirm his father is a famous former NHL pro hockey player.

I’m going to be sick.

And once I see his dad’s picture, the final nail in the fuck-him-never-again coffin gets hammered into Tate’s coffin.

Tate’s father, Chris Myers, is the asshole who hit my Dad on the ice, ended his career, and tipped over the first domino that resulted in my parents getting a divorce.

And I had his tongue in my mouth and his cock pressed against my body.

I touch my mouth, then scrub at my lips like I can get his taste, his scent, the feeling of his mouth still pressed against mine off me.

I might not have known who the fuck he was when I let him touch me, but I do now. And I know something else, too.

That fucker will never kiss me again.

Preorder Dropping the Mitts, now!

Blurb

Love can blur even the fiercest of rivalries.

Penelope

When I kiss a guy dressed as Pacman at a party, it feels like fate. But fate must have a twisted sense of humor—because falling for the son of the man who ruined my family was never part of the plan.

Tate Myers, star hockey player and my sworn enemy, ignites a hate in me that’s hotter than any slapshot. Yet the heart wants what it wants—even if it means crossing every line I’ve drawn.

Tate

Getting snubbed by a chick dressed as Taco Belle at a party sucked almost as much as taking a slapshot to the face. My jaw and my world shatter, but the tall, curvy goddess next door keeps me afloat with her pranks.

I have no idea why she hates me, but right now, I hate myself, too. This is my second chance at making her fall for me, and I’m determined to win her over.

Can love conquer a bitter rivalry born on frozen ground, or will family feuds tear them apart?

Lace up for a scorching clash of romance and redemption in the rink of second chances.

Preorder Dropping the Mitts, now!

Until Thursday,

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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.

Welcome to UCR hockey, where fierce AF heroines and hot as puck heroes find their hockey ever afters. If you pucking love college hockey romance series, you’ll adore UCR Raccoons hockey.

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Read Freezing the Puck, today!

Bookish. Bold. Beautiful. And entirely out of his league.

On paper, all-American boy next door, Lincoln Scott, has it all. But behind his slap shots, straight-A report card, and easy going charm, Linc hides a secret only his best friend knows.

When he attempts to return a misplaced bra, a wrong number gets him way more than the hook-up he bargained for. No one has ever looked beyond the star hockey player, until the mysterious woman he can’t stop texting sees him for who he really is.

Does Linc have the skills off the ice to keep up with her? Will he follow in his father’s footsteps? Or will he step out from the shadows and chase his dreams?

If you’re pucking obsessed with Helena Hunting, Pippa Grant, and Elle Kennedy, you’ll love this hilarious, hot-as-puck, secret identity, opposites attract, curvy girl sports romance. Two for Interference is a full length standalone with no cheating, cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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.

Read Two for Interference, today!