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Howdy y'all,

How goes the summer holidays? I'm pretty sure we've had rain every, single, solitary day since the kids got off school on June 30th, and it's miserable. Some of that has been severe flooding - not just a little shower. With an only child in particular, it's a bit of a nightmare trying to keep him entertained.

We're coping, though (just!) Play dates and summer camps and more screen time than I'm comfortable with him having, but I've got a double whammy release coming up two weeks apart from each other.

In case you missed it, Crashing the Net comes out August 24th (stay tuned for the first chapter just to whet your appetite!) and two weeks later, Control (Book 1 in my Protocol series) is released on September 7th!

A little more housekeeping if you'll permit me. I'm going to the US in September for a conference (yay!) if you're waiting for a chance to sign up for signed paperbacks... I got you, boo.

Order signed paperbacks

In other news, my dear friend, Author/narrator Lili Valente lost her home in the Vermont floods, so we're trying to help her out a little. Pre-order When it Pours, a flood relief rom com, buy audio direct, or read her series in Kindle Unlimited to help support her as she rebuilds!

Pre-order wherever you like to read:

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3O1rvqO

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3O1rAe6

Googleplay: https://tinyurl.com/d9rcz8fe

Kobo: https://tinyurl.com/4u4ccm22

Nook: https://tinyurl.com/3tu5k2v7

Apple Books: https://apple.co/3K3mL32

Truth or Dare: Tell the One-Who-Got-Away that you're still madly in love with him OR spend the night trapped with him in a hunting lodge that's about to be swept downstream? Ha! Trick Question. I get to do BOTH! Because when it rains, it pours...

Alright, I think I've made y'all wait long enough, right? Who's ready for Chapter one of our first De la Pena twin brother's story? Check out the first chapter of Edith and Apollo's story, Crashing the Net, now:

Crashing the Net

Chapter 1

Edith

(December 26^th)

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.

Preorder Crashing the Net, now.

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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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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.