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At long last, the holidays are over and my kiddo is back to school. The decorations are all down and back in storage, and I'm back at my desk in earnest. I'm invigorated and excited about what's coming down the 2024 pipeline.

Last week I gave you the big picture release schedule for the coming few months. It's not everything I'm hoping to release, but those three books have current preorders.

Keep scrolling for chapter one of Raffi and Tori... firstly, here's the deets one more time in case you missed them:

Lighting the Lamp

Main Tropes:

College Hockey romance

Amnesia/Memory Loss

Secret Baby

Second Chance Romance

Other points to note:

Gone for her

FMC hates hockey players

No 3rd act break up

Reconciliation of Family

Wears his number

Miscommunication and Misunderstanding

Child brings them together

FMC likes giving bl0wj0bs

Golden retriever/Cinnamon roll

MMC speaks ASL

Blurb:

The night she’ll never forget is the night he can’t remember.

Tori

How dare he act like we’ve never met?

I thought we connected, but after a steamy one night stand, the hockey hot shot ghosted me, leaving me with nothing but wounded pride and two pink lines on a stick. And not the hockey kind.

Well, not this time, bud. You fooled me once, and I’m never giving you a second chance to fool me again.

We don’t need you.

Raffi

She’s not a forgettable woman, so why does she insist she knows me?

One look at her son and it hits me like a slap shot to the chest. The resemblance is undeniable.

How can I convince the mother of my child to let me be part of their lives, when I don’t even remember her?

Chapter 1

Victoria

Three years ago

“Victoria Barnett?”

“Yeah?”

“Ma’am, you’re under arrest.” The cop towers over me, hands planted on his hips, lips in a grim line, brow wrinkled with a scowl. His starched, navy-blue shirt pulls over his broad shoulders, and a pair of shiny chrome handcuffs dangle from his index finger.

He doesn’t move. His expression doesn’t change. There’s a challenging glint in those dark, almost black eyes.

Some of my classmates shift in their seats. Someone—I bet it’s my best friend—is giggling so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if she pisses her pants. Bet she paid for my warrant in this whole charade.

The early afternoon sun shines off the cars in the parking lot, making me squint. There’s no use fighting it. I can’t even say I have classes to attend. After this one, my afternoon is wide open. And from the bemused smirk on my teacher’s face, he’s in cahoots with my best friend.

Instead of arguing, I offer my wrists to the law enforcement officer with a heavy sigh.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

Someone snorts behind me, and it takes all my strength not to flip him off. I guess this is my punishment for coming home. Or perhaps for leaving in the first place.

I’m not sure what I was thinking. Moving out of state for college wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. I mean, it was, until my no good, piece of shit, jock boyfriend banged his resident adviser. Repeatedly. In the quad for all to see.

Combined with the worst homesickness I bet anyone has ever felt in the history of the world… Well, let’s just say, I’m glad the University of Cedar Rapids let me come home.

When I pull myself to my feet, the police officer cuffs my hands behind my back. Someone whispers something I can’t quite make out. I let my head drop forward, then the cop’s enormous hand grips right above my elbow as he starts to half-walk half-drag my ass out the door.

I should have known.

I should have invested in the “get out of jail free” card that was dangled in my face this morning. But I took the risk. Do the crime, do the time—isn’t that what they say?

I was arrogant to think I’d get away with it, that my friends would let me just slide back into the space I created when I left them for a hot-shot hockey player.

But here we are. It’s all in good humor and for a good cause, so I shouldn’t be too upset about it. Even if it’s mildly inconvenient.

After he folds me unceremoniously into the back of a squad car, the officer settles in the front seat and hits a button. An ear-piercing siren fractures the air around me, swallowing my groan.

This can’t be happening.

Heat consumes my body as we do a couple laps of the university at a snail’s pace. It’s almost like the cop wants my peers to point and stare. A couple guys wave their “get out of jail free” cards at me through the window, and despite my hands being cuffed, I most definitely flip them off.

When we pull up to the doors of jail, my stomach grumbles. I skipped lunch. Playing catch up on college work plus the whole life I “abandoned” hasn’t been fun, but I’m nothing if not determined.

There’s a granola bar in my backpack, back at my desk, but that’s not helpful to me right now. And I bet Officer Scowly didn’t bring snacks on this adventure.

At the front desk, there’s a “mugshot” of me sitting next to some paperwork. My whole body cringes. I don’t know where they got the photo, but it’s a doozy.

Could have sworn I deleted it from all my socials. I hope Mom doesn’t see it—she’d never let me outside again. Her darling daughter doesn’t do such crass things as drink liquor or leave the house scantily clad.

The mean-muggin’ receptionist offers me a pen, and I shrug. I’m good, but I’m not write-with-my-hands-cuffed-behind-my-back good. Keys jingle behind me, and my wrists are freed from their cold, hard prison.

I rub at my hands, because isn’t that what everyone does when they get released from metal handcuffs? Sue me. I’m leaning into the cliché.

I fill in the paperwork, accept the wholly unflattering bright orange jumpsuit and the list of phone numbers with another sigh, and turn to face my gated fate. There’s about a dozen pretty lifelike looking prison cells in a horse-shoe-shape around the space that could be a gymnasium or an event space depending on the decor.

Today, it’s a prison. With an intake desk, a receptionist, and metal rail cells lining the room.

Thankfully, my cell is otherwise unoccupied. It’s just me. Will my luck hold out? I’m not taking my clothes off in front of these people, so I jerk the onesie over my clothes before reviewing the list. My best friend’s name is printed in tidy black letters across the top of the page next to her number.

Should I even bother making my phone call?

Would anyone come to my rescue?

My best friend, Jazz, howls with laughter when the call connects.

Bitch.

If this whole debacle wasn’t for a charity, I’d give her a piece of my mind right about now.

“What’s the slammer like, Vic? Has anyone made you their bitch yet?”

My lips twitch. And I don’t fight the eye roll this time. “Just pay my damn bail.”

She snorts. “Nope.”

“The fuck you mean, nope?”

As soon as the cop appeared at my desk in class, I suspected she’d been the one to pay for my warrant. The cackling behind me in class only partly gave it away. At only ten bucks a pop to get someone arrested, she’ll probably have half the school thrown into fake jail before the day’s done.

She laughs again. “You’re stuck, Vic. There’s no way out. No one is coming to save you.” She sniffs, and something brushes against the speaker like she might be wiping away tears of utter hilarity from her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter who you call, I’ve made sure you can’t get out.” The crack of hands slapping together with glee meets my ears through the phone speaker.

Groaning, I drag a hand over my face. “You paid to keep me here the whole time?”

“And then some.” Her voice is laced with delight. “It’s all for a good cause.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It is. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend an hour of study time in a cage looking like an exotic bird in this damn orange suit.

“Get comfy. You never know. Maybe your Prince Charming will get sent to prison too, and you’ll live happily ever after.” Her voice breaks on the last line as she dissolves into even more frenzied laughter.

I suppose it could be worse. She could have not given a shit that I left Iowa at all. If sending my ass to prison for a fundraiser is as much punishment as I’m going to get, I guess I should shut up and do my time.

“Fine.” I huff out a puff of air. “But no princes. No more men.”

“They aren’t all like that enormous dickwad you ran away to Colorado with.”

Prickles of pain radiate through my chest like each of her words lands a direct hit as a fresh wave of heat sears the back of my neck. I’ve known Jazz since we were awkward teens at band camp, but I’ll never get used to her being so…on the nose.

“No more men.” I’m resolved. Really. I am. No dick is worth a broken heart.

“How about no more hockey players.”

“Fine. No more hockey players,” I repeat with a firm nod.

And I mean it.

Movement to my right pulls my attention outside my fake cell. Fresh prisoner meat approaches the check-in desk. If the light didn’t catch his super dark hair I’d say it was black, but it’s got hints of red in it. Is he a redhead too?

His lopsided smile with a glimmer of mischief doesn’t work on the woman at reception—she still processes him into fake-jail—but I bet he gets his way more often than not.

“Vic?” Jazz is on the other end of the phone. I’m glad she can’t see me drooling over whoever the guy walking toward my cell right now is. I’m already retracting my “no more men” manifesto for this one. I can put my man hating in temporary time out.

His smile lights up the room, which considering it’s January in Iowa is pretty hard to do. And he’s not even smiling directly at me.

“Vic?”

“Gotta go.” Hanging up, I attempt to smooth out my unruly auburn curls with my palms. I should have washed it this morning, dammit. Matted pre-wash-day curls are the worst.

Actually, a bright orange jumpsuit on a redhead is the worst.

There’s no fixing this.

My phone buzzes on my thigh.

Jazz: Did Prince Charming show up?

Victoria: No. But I do have a cellmate.

Jazz: Is he cute?

The air in the makeshift cell changes as he plops down on the bench about a foot to my left.

“No hockey players, eh? Someone do you dirty? I know some people. We could make sure they never find his body.” He crosses his long, muscular legs at his ankles, and stretches back, tucking both hands behind his head as he leans against the wall.

Jazz: He’s cute, isn’t he?

The weight of his stare on my face makes me turn to look at him. His blue eyes dance with delight and appraisal. My dude must have hit his head if he thinks his Prison Chic look is going to get him anywhere.

Victoria: No.

Jazz: Maybe your time together in the big house will change your mind.

My stomach growls so loudly the woman at the desk glances over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses, and no amount of silent praying makes the ground open up and swallow me.

The guy beside me pats his stomach. “I could go for some food too, now that you mention it.”

Getting to his feet, he flashes me another grin before making his way to the bars. He’s pulled on his jumpsuit halfway, over the top of his jeans and graphic tee. It hangs limp around his waist. Somehow he makes it work.

“Sy?” My cellmate taps the bars, jerking his head at someone I can’t see. I don’t know how they got real life cells assembled in the local community center, but they’ll need a truck or something to pull them down again.

The real cop who fake-arrested me comes into view.

“Pass my backpack?”

The straight-faced officer quirks a brow. “Do I look like your fucking servant?”

“Please?” Even with his back to me, I can tell he’s smiling.

With a grunt, Officer Sy turns away and after a beat or two comes back with an army green canvas bag. He opens the cell door, hands over the bag, and closes it again, smug satisfaction settling on his face as he secures the lock in place.

“Thanks, Sy. ’Preciate it. Tate been picked up yet?” The broad-shouldered hottie with his back to me jerks open the bag and sticks his arm inside.

Stifling a giggle at how much he looks like Mary Poppins right now, his arm disappearing almost all the way inside the canvas bag, I avert my gaze.

“Not yet. I get to pick him up later.”

I sneak another glance in their direction at the tone of the officer’s voice. Something almost menacing crosses his face as my cellmate chuckles, his shoulders bobbing. I’m missing an inside joke, but whoever Tate is, he seems to have pissed off this cop. He’s going to take great pleasure in locking him up, even if it’s fake jail.

When my cellmate turns back to me, he’s holding something in my direction. “Here.”

I’m almost sure there are sandwiches in the brown paper bag within arm’s reach. And it’s tempting. But just because he has a beautiful face, a strong jaw, and blindingly blue eyes doesn’t mean I’m going to eat any old thing he hands me.

As though reading my mind, he sinks back onto the bench next to me, drops the pack at his feet, and opens the paper bag in his hand. Pulling out two halves of a sandwich, he makes yummy noises. Loudly.

After taking a huge bite out of one half, he beams at me. How does he even make eating a brown bag lunch look sexy?

Is he having an orgasmic experience right now? The bliss on his face would lead me to believe he is.

He slides closer, until his thigh touches mine, then offers the other half to me. With a growl of encouragement from my digestive system, I relent despite realizing that it’s peanut butter and jelly. Having it damn near every day as a kid has made me generally not a fan.

Mom worked three jobs just to make ends meet, and when those ends met, PB&J was the flavor of the month. Every month. But something’s different about this one. Something extra. An x factor I can’t place.

“It’s honey.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, then he sucks it into his mouth with a low moan. It's an incredibly intimate touch from a stranger without any buildup of mutual attraction or flirting beforehand.

He didn’t even hesitate before doing it, and I’m too perplexed to jerk away.

Am I horrified? Turned on? I’m not sure. His close proximity is stifling even as the scent of cinnamon and peanut butter overpowers my senses.

“What is?” The words catch in the back of my throat. I’d love to say it’s the thick peanut butter coating the inside of my mouth, but something’s bewitching about this guy that suggests I need to put as much distance between us as I can.

“My secret ingredient.” His gaze flickers to my lips for a beat longer than is probably acceptable before resting on my eyes again. “I drizzle honey on it. Sometimes I sprinkle sea salt, but this one,” He waves his half-eaten sandwich at me. “This one has honey.”

“Oh.” My body sags as he sits back to finish his sandwich. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening right now. I’m not this doe-eyed, breathless fool when it comes to guys.

Sure, I dropped my life and moved to a school I had no interest in to support my hockey-playing boyfriend, but that’s beside the point. In this moment, I’m not letting my vagina get the better of me. I’m in control. Me. Not my hormones. Not this grinning man-child with sandwiches in his backpack. Me.

He clears his throat, drawing my attention to another sandwich outstretched in his hand. He’s already plowing through his half.

“You just carry sandwiches around, waiting for the perfect picnic opportunity?”

He shakes his head. “Did I expect to be incarcerated with a beautiful woman today? Absolutely not. Am I mad about it?” He shrugs. “Also no.” He polishes off his sandwich with another bite. “But I’m always prepared.” He pauses before hurling an exaggerated wink my direction. “For snack time.”

Pretty sure tiny pieces of bread spray from my mouth as I snort out a laugh. “Does that line ever work?”

He’s hitting on me, right? While I’m not in the market for another relationship quite so soon after breaking up with Mark, I’m not averse to having a hot, one-night stand with my fellow prisoner.

Another head shake precedes him pulling two bottles of water from his bag and pointing one at me with a lazy grin. “Never tried it before today.” This guy is so laid back he should be horizontal. I’ve never met someone who smiles as much either.

I suppose if my face looked like that when I smiled, I would smile as often as he does too.

He gestures at the phone in my lap. “Not making any more calls to escape lock up?”

“I’m stuck here for the duration, I’m afraid. Forty-nine minutes and counting.” I wave my screen at him.

He chuckles. “I think you’ll find that’s one hundred and nine minutes and counting.”

My stomach drops. Two whole hours? Motherfucker. I thought it was an hour.

His chuckle deepens into a laugh, shaking the bench under our butts. “Don’t look so happy about it.”

Ugh. I don’t even have my books to do some studying. “You think your buddy Officer Sy would go grab my books from school?”

The open water bottle destined for his mouth pauses in mid-air as he gasps. “You mean you don’t want to spend the rest of the next two hours in my wonderful company?” He lowers the bottle with a sad shake of his head and clutches his chest with his free hand. “I’d be offended, but you don’t know how awesome I am yet.”

The way he says “yet” makes something tingle in my stomach.

“And he’s my buddy Tate’s brother. Sawyer. Actually hates being called Sy.”

“So naturally that’s what you call him.” I nod as though it makes perfect sense.

“Naturally.” He twists the cap on his bottle. “It’s a sign of affection. He’s probably too busy doing important cop things to run and get your books.”

At my sigh, he nudges my knee with his. “Don’t sweat it. I’m not so bad once you get to know me.”

“What about you?” I return his nudge. “Aren’t you calling your boy squad to be rescued? Surely a guy like you can raise a hundred bucks in no time.” I imagine he has droves of friends. Even if ten of them give ten bucks a piece into the pot, he could be out in fifteen minutes, twenty tops.

He watches me patiently until I turn so I’m staring straight into his captivating eyes. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be, Firecracker.”

Preorder it now!

Until next time,

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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.