Howdy y'all,

I'm going to keep it short and sweet today because my editor has sent Savannah and Justin back to me, and it's pedal to the floor to get it done and uploaded in time for release next month. In exchange, I've sent book two, Ares and Eloise, her direction to sit nice for a couple of weeks until my next editing appointment. I have book three, Apollo and Edith, plotted and ready to write, but my current WIP is a short story for a holiday anthology later in the year - if I don't write it next, I'll lose track of the timeline and my friend Erika will spank me (and not in the fun way!)

I can't believe I'm finally ahead. It's only taken, like, two and a half years to get back on track. Being ahead is where I prefer to be. It's where I do my best work, and where all my creative juices get to fester.

Ew. Okay, percolate.

Festering juices aren't what anyone wants to hear about.

I'm not really sure that percolating juices are much better, but it is what it is.

Two things for you this week: first things first, my preorders suck for book 1 in my new series. I'm really not sure why, and I'm starting to get a complex, but I can assure you that Justin and Savannah are absolutely delightful. If you want to grab the preorder for Freezing the Puck which releases in just four weeks, go here. If you're a KU reader and you're waiting for it to drop in Kindle Unlimited, you can add it to your TBR, here.

Next, I wanted to share this absolute gem of a video combo.

For Christmas, my husband bought me front row center tickets to see a comedian I love called Neil Delamere. He's Irish, he's quick on his feet, he's hilarious, and he called on me from the front row, right off the bat at the start of his gig. Okay, he called on Col, but once he got my name, home town, and career out of me, well... let's just say I was the gift that kept on giving during his show.

Neil has shared two video clips from the show. I wish he'd release the whole thing, but I'm sharing what I have.

Video #1 of Lasairiona getting roasted at a comedy show

Video #2 of Lasairiona getting roasted at a comedy show

That's it from me, I've got to get back to the writing cave! And don't forget to check the recs below - there are some HOT, HOT, HOT new releases this week. I've already read my soon-to-be coauthor Melissa's new release Dirty Devil and just for the record - I licked him first! ;)

For those of you here for chapter 3, hold on to your hats, Justin and Savannah are back! Don't forget this is unedited and subject to change :)

Chapter 3

Justin

(Current day)

Yup. I’m that asshole. The one driving everyone in the coffee shop to the verge of losing their collective shit as I tap my pen frantically against my notebook.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

I’m starting to annoy even myself. But I also can’t find the off switch. The tapping is helping my thought process. Or so I’m telling myself anyway.

I’m trying to make a list. Not just any list, but a list of steamy romance novels to wow my teammates with.

My announcement to the team that I’m starting a steamy romance book club—Get Lit, brilliantly named if I do say so myself—was met with less than steamy reactions. In truth, it was quite a tepid response. But they’re my brothers, and they support me and my aspirations to be a New York Times, USA Today, or Wall Street Journal bestselling author someday, so they swallowed down their reticence and got on board the smut train.

Okay, so I had to bribe them with better-than-porn sex scenes and good eats while they read—which is why I’m at Bitches Brew sampling their extensive offerings while I compile my list. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before, it’s a gem, and I dig their explosion of hot pink and down to earth quirky vibe.

Research. That’s why I have two plates of sugar topped with sugar, with a side of sugar sitting in front of me. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I promised the team delicious treats, and I promised them literary greatness. I groan.

GTFO—Cedar Rapids’s best kept secret pie shop—and Bitches Brew might have us covered for gastronomic delights—those vagina waffles might be the closest some of those idiots come to a pussy this year—but picking the books they’re going to read... that’s entirely on me. They’ve got to be good, great even.

I need to find one book a month for the next ten months, and other than adding my upcoming release—which is yet to be written or edited, but that’s another problem entirely—I find myself stuck. I have too many talented indie author friends that I could showcase. And while I love all of their work, I need to impress.

As a collective, the team isn’t sold on the idea. Not on the book club, not on indie published books, not on romance novels, so I’ve really got to sell it. My goal is to change their mind on books, on indie published books, and on love. Some of those fuckers are cynical AF and need a little romance in their lives. Okay, a lot, but I can’t perform miracles.

I tried asking them what kinds of things they want to read, but since romance isn’t their jam, I was met with blank stares, shrugs, and skepticism. They have no ideas about tropes, or subgenres, so it’s just me; me, my notebook, my now-cold Barbara Chai-sand tea, and some scrawled notes about my boys and what I think they’d vibe with.

Since I write sports romance, that box has been filled. I need to pick a suitable rockstar romance for our budding musician, Raffi. A billionaire romance for the de la Peña twins Artemis and Apollo. Their younger brother, our rookie netminder, Ares requested a good LGBTQ+ story to read, and I’m eager to deliver.

Tate is from Texas which obviously means I need a cowboy romance, and two of the guys on the team plan to enlist after graduation so I want to include a military romance as well. Scott loves sci-fi; I’m sure I can find him a sexy space-based, alien romance to enjoy.

Maybe I’ll throw in a romantic suspense for good measure, a bodyguard romance. And for the last two months I could do a romantic fantasy and a paranormal romance—by that time they’ll have learned to trust my judgment and won’t argue when I hand them a magic touched book that requires suspended belief.

I’ve got this.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes drift back to the girl from the counter whose card didn’t work. She’s sitting with her back to me, and it somehow feels deliberate.

Her long, honey-blonde hair is braided and hanging over her shoulder, stray tendrils falling around her face and her bangs straying dangerously close to her eyeballs.  She’s wearing a hunter green UCR sweatshirt that hangs to her mid-thigh, leggings, and calf-length boots with a fur lining.

More interesting than her clothes, however, is the fact she had a copy of my last book hugged against her chest and seemed shameless about being seen reading it in public. I’m here for it. It was on the tip of my tongue to offer to sign it for her but she was very clearly mad at what feels like my existence.

At first I couldn’t tell if she was pissed at only me or the entire universe—if my card declined unexpectedly, I’d be pretty unhappy too. But it didn’t take long to figure out that she’s not only mad at me, she’s big freakin’ mad.

Why would someone be mad at someone else for helping them out of a bind at the checkout?

Her spine is taut as she sits in her seat chatting to Athena de la Peña, sister of two—I guess three now that Ares is on the roster, too—of my teammates. Is that where I’ve seen her before? Athena is renowned for hating hockey, so it’s unlikely I’ve seen them together at a game, but maybe at The Den post-game?

She looks familiar to me, but I can’t place her.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

Does she always sit so stiffly?

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

Is she always so mad when strangers offer to pay for her coffee?

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

She shifts in her seat, as though she can feel my gaze on her back. Her attitude at the coffee bar suggests I should know who the hell she is, but no amount of racking my brain is coming up with an answer which makes me mad that she’s mad.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.

It’s the principle of the thing. Being mad at a stranger’s kindness is dumb. And I’m sure my own ire is misdirected frustration at my current overwhelm, but she feels like a good enough target for it.

I write ‘enemies to lovers’ under ‘brother’s best friend’ on my list of tropes as my phone vibrates on the table making my cup clink against the saucer.

It’s work. The on-campus bookshop The Book Bin. I’m tempted to watch the call ring off and go to voicemail, but I just can’t. When my phone rings, I have to answer it. Telemarketers love me.

“Hey Frieda.”

“Justin, how goes the word count?”

She knows I’m behind, and she knows I’m on a deadline. That Amazon countdown clock waits for no one. She also knows I need the occasional kick in the balls to get my shit together.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck.

“That good, huh?”

“I get stuck on the same part of my outline every damn time.”

She laughs. “And every damn time it all comes good in the end. Quit yer moaning and gimme my next happily ever after already.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “What’s up?” There’s no way this is a social call, she’s not that kinda boss, and she’s not calling to check up on my progress on my current WIP, either.

There’s a long pause before she speaks again. I scrawl ‘forced proximity’ under ‘enemies to lovers’ while I wait for her to talk.

“I know you’re super busy...”

Understatement of the century. Between school deadlines, author deadlines, and my part time job in The Book Bin, I’m running on fumes. I’ve even been contemplating pushing my pre-order out a bit to give me some breathing room, but God knows I need those royalties sooner rather than later.

“...but we need a couple of shifts covered if you can manage the extra hours.”

“No luck filling the open position?”

Her sigh probably carries with it an impressive eye roll. One I’ve been on the receiving end of many times over the past couple months. “I thought I had it covered, but the guy who aced the interview never showed up for his shift. He totally ghosted me.”

My head lolls back as I take in the bright lights on the ceiling. We both know I’m not going to say no. “When do you need me?”

As I scribble down the three shifts Frieda needs me to cover, movement draws my attention back to the blonde-haired stranger who looks like Elsa—right down to her ice queen temperament. If she wasn’t so stand offish, I’d have offered to buy her dinner just so I could stare across the table into those sea-blue eyes and at her perfectly pink, pouty, Cupid’s bow lips.

When I hang up with Frieda, I add ‘fake dating’ to my list of tropes to consider for Get Lit. I’m starting to feel a little better about the idea so I take a shamefully large bite of my donut.

“He cheated on my best friend in high school okay? Drop it.” Her voice cuts through me like a warm spoon through ice cream. Then her words register and I feel like I’ve been soaked by a bucket of ice water.

Cheated.

High school.

The donut in my mouth turns to dust as I chew. She’s talking about me. I know it. And as though her words are a lightning bolt into the depths of my memory, I also know who she is now, too. Though she changed her hair, I’m kicking myself for not recognizing those bottomless green-blue eyes of Savannah Bowen.

Her best friend, Molly Morrison, was my girlfriend in high school, and of course Savannah believes the narrative that Mol told her, told everyone. Justin Ashe is a cheating asshole, Justin Ashe kissed another girl at Applebee’s, Justin Ashe broke Molly Morrison’s heart.

I absently rub at my jaw. That brick-wall of hers, Finn O’Brien, left me with some bone-deep bruises that night when she fled Applebee’s like her ass was on fire. I never wondered why it was him and not her brother Will who beat the shit out of me for ‘cheating’ on her. It was written all over his face, clear as day.

I heard through the hockey grapevine that Finn finally found his balls and made a move on her after all these years. Good for him. It’s about damn time. He’s loved her forever.

No one beats the shit out of someone over a woman if they don’t love her. Everyone knows that. Everyone it seems, except Molly and Finn. It took them a while to put the pieces together.

I shake my head, irritation prickling my skin like needles. The whole damn school heard only half the story, no one cared to hear mine. And the girl I kissed hadn’t said a goddamn word in my defense either. Of course she wouldn’t, she wasn’t the home-wrecker, I was the asshole cheater.

I thought I’d left all that behind in Minnesota, but here we were. Savannah is telling Athena, who was undoubtedly going to tell one or all of her fucking brothers about my misdeeds and my past would be dredged up all over again.

If anyone would give me a hot fucking minute to explain myself, they’d maybe realize I wasn’t a soulless, heart breaking monster, just a naive boy, trying to do a good thing, for a damsel in distress. 

Preorder now!

Until next time,

Have you joined my reader group yet? If not, then head over to: Margaritas, Men and Mischief with Lasairiona. As the name suggests, it's a place for my readers to chat about all things romance - with a healthy dose of sarcasm, sharp wit, conversations comprised entirely of GIFs, sneak peeks, giveaways and a plethora of memes. It's one of my absolute favorite places on the internet and I'm really enjoying getting to know readers that bit better over there. Don't be shy - we don't bite... much! Come on over!

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.