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Book Blitz: Borrowed Treasure – Jessica Tastet

Congratulations to author, Jessica Tastet on the release of her latest novel, Borrowed Treasure! Read on for more info and a chance to win a digital copy of the book!

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Borrowed Treasure

Publication Date: April 13th, 2021

Genre: Womens Fiction/ Clean Romance

Publisher: Dandelion Wish Publishing

Sissy Ames has been driven to succeed her entire life. On her own, she’s turned her Bittersweet Café into a success, and she’s rebuilt a friendship with her cousin Harper after years of going it alone, but her past bad judgement in trusting Hunter Wells during their relationship continues to cast shadows on the future she’s trying to build for herself.

Hunter Wells has been coasting through life, working at the family business and creating the life that his family expects for him. He’d once hoped for a different existence, but he’d been forced to move on and make do after Sissy Ames had ended their three-year relationship without an explanation.

Even in their small town, the two have managed to avoid each other, but then Hunter’s fiancée, Sissy’s nemesis, disappears after a suspicious confrontation, leaving them both looking like likely suspects. The only hope they have of clearing their names and figuring out what led to the disappearance is to find the one item that drove them apart two years ago: The Ames BORROWED TREASURE.

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Sissy Ames ducked behind the ostentatious flower arrangement with its oversized lilies and Hyacinthian sprays shooting out at unnatural angles. The thickness hid the center of the room but exposed her to the tableclothed tables lining either side where the overdressed elite of Thibodaux and its surrounding areas sat. Tonight represented everything she typically avoided, mainly so that she could stay out of the proximity of the woman commanding the center floor. Why her arch nemesis must flit around the ballroom gloating about her latest accomplishment was beyond Sissy. That woman’s pretentious fake smile and sickly-sweet voice had followed Sissy wherever she went in the large ballroom until her hands had begun to shake and her jaw to ache from the clenching.

Harper, her cousin, approached from the buffet table near the rear of the room. “The lobster bisque’s edible.” Holding out a tiny plastic bowl towards Sissy, Harper shrugged bare shoulders in defeat. Although the food lacked appeal, Harper certainly stunned in the black skintight number Sissy had sent over for her to wear tonight. Sissy had been right to prod the usually casual attired woman into vintage satin as it hugged her hips and showed off the curvy body that Sissy unfortunately did not possess. Sissy had inherited her mother’s straight form among other genetics she wished she could trade in.

Accepting the ecru soup, Sissy’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Cecelia Domangue, the bane of her existence since they were fifteen years old and fighting over president of student council. Currently, the petite blonde in a fuchsia Valentino stood chatting with a town councilman and the sheriff, her fake laugh chiming her existence from twenty feet away.

Sissy ran a clear plastic spoon through the watery consistency of the bisque. In her head she mentally critiqued the recipe’s minimal usage of cream. “Anything has to be better than that beef dish.”

Narrowing her emerald eyes, Harper twisted her lips and flashed Sissy a familiar look. Sissy’s cheeks warmed. Her resentment must be showing.

Sissy had submitted a bid to cater the fundraiser tonight in an attempt at a business expansion, but her bid had been accepted under condition. As the serving contract had been awarded to Cecelia’s restaurant Twilight Fare, Sissy would have to submit her recipes to Cecelia for approval and preparation. As if Sissy would ever turn over her recipes to the woman who’d opened a restaurant blocks over in her continuing effort to encroach on every aspect of Sissy’s life. Even if Sissy’s own Bittersweet Café catered to a different crowd than Cecelia’s Twilight Fare, that woman had branched right into catering which Sissy had cautiously tested the waters only a month before Cecelia had gone full blown into advertising her own services.

Harper glanced away to scan the room, and Sissy returned to the soup, which she knew she could have done better. “How long do we have to stay?”

Discarding the bowl, Sissy picked up her champagne glass from the table instead. At least they’d bought the good stuff. “We need to be sure the right people see our faces, but besides from that, the committee already has our hundred bucks a head, so I don’t think they care if we are here an hour or close the place down.”

Tonight’s fundraiser for the Downtown Revitalization committee had the special purpose of raising money to spruce up the downtown area with seasonal decorations to help promote the Christmas festival. The event had filled the local university ballroom with the social society of the small-town area and all its neighboring towns to be sure. As part of the committee, Sissy had aided in promoting the event, even though Cecelia’s recent addition to the committee had managed to sway votes and shut her out of the menu selections.

Harper picked up her own glass from the table and sipped. “I see a few local lawyers from Emmett’s last mixer. I’ll go over and say hello. If I’m lucky, I may get home early enough to speak to Emmett before the different time zones mean he’s sleeping.”

Sissy had Cecelia in her crosshairs, and she waited for her to prance to another unsuspecting guest, so she could emerge from behind the flowers that Sissy had voted against. Currently, Cecelia stood near Rudy Klingman, councilman for her district, who dropped in every Wednesday for a number six special, and she’d promised to propose streetlamps to him on behalf of the committee. Distracted, she asked Harper. “Any indication when he’s going to return from New York?”

Harper shrugged. “He says the case should wrap up in a day or two. I believe he’s enjoying it way too much.”

Sissy waved Harper’s doubt away with her champagned hand. “Pish, Emmett will be home soon, and you two will be making me sick with your sweetness.”

Harper smiled, her olive complexion flushing. “Okay, no arguing with my date tonight, especially since you drove. Let’s make our rounds and be out of here in thirty minutes.”

Sissy nodded and raised her flute in the air as if to toast. “That’s a plan I can drink to.”

Harper clinked her glass against Sissy’s, and then they departed into the mingling crowd.

Avoiding Cecelia’s group, Sissy slunk over to Suzy Rhodes, greeting a few of the lawyers and two judges that frequented her business for lunch during the week. In her two-piece blue suit, Suzy stood removed from the invitees, her eyes watching everyone. Her stance hadn’t changed since high school although she’d updated her attire to pant suits and cut her hair into a short bob she tucked behind her ears. Back then, she’d taken photos for the yearbook and everyone had wanted her attention to get within the pages. Today, she wrote a monthly column in the local entertainment magazine, specifically a review of local eateries. Sissy had attempted getting the café featured for months now, even sending a personalized gift certificate two months ago. The woman had never responded to the invitation nor shown up as even a patron, but Cecelia’s Twilight Fare had been prominently featured, not only as a food review but as a front-page feature on up and coming restaurant owners.

Suzy Rhodes smiled, her cheeks dimpling as Sissy approached. “Why, Sissy Ames, I’m surprised to see you at a swanky function like this. Not your usual soiree, huh?”

Plastering a smile on her face, Sissy drew upon her southern manners she knew lay beyond her desire to give the woman a good tongue lashing. “Since my café is located in the center of downtown, I have a vested interest in its revitalization efforts.”

Laughing airily, Suzy’s eyes wandered the room as if bored with the conversation. “Right, that’s true, your little café is down there. I never remember it’s there.”

Sissy raised an eyebrow, holding her glass closer to her lips. “I know. I’ve invited you several times as part of that little column of yours, but you have yet to accept my invitation.”

A short, fierce laugh escaped as Suzy’s eyes met Sissy’s. She returned to her survey of the room just as quickly though. “My lord Sissy, I can’t accept every invitation I receive.”

“Hmm.” Sissy scanned the room, her eyes naturally falling upon Cecelia, who stood facing Chef Homme from Le Homme, the elegant downtown restaurant. The two’s expressions revealed deep, serious conversation—too serious for a social mixer. “Is that why your material has been repetitive?”

Suzy’s stance shifted. “Excuse me?”

Sissy smiled, tilting her head. “Oh, I thought you were just so busy that you recycled material from the same four restaurants. Everyone has been talking.”

Sissy continued smiling as Suzy’s eyes lit with anger. The dark haired, flat nosed woman bit her tongue though. They’d all been raised too southern to truly speak their minds at events such as these.

“Well, it was nice running into you,” Sissy said, bowing her head in exit. “But I see a city council member I need to have a word with about lamp posts.”

Sissy pivoted, feeling a surge of confidence from the conversation. Moments ago, she’d hid behind hideous flowers to avoid her high school tormentor, but they had grown up, even though some didn’t behave as if they had. Cecelia and even Suzy hid behind country club houses and designer labels still, making others feel as if they didn’t measure up in the circles they all moved in. She had to remind herself in their vicinity that she was proud of her downtown renovated apartment and scavenged consignment finds.

Spotting Cecelia ahead on her path though, she pivoted and turned the other way to avoid her. She told herself that with her new found attitude, she would probably lose her southern manners and regret it later.

Her attention lingered too long over Cecelia, and when she turned, she hit a wall of black cashmere and white softened woven cotton. Reaching her hand out, she pushed herself away, inhaling the masculine smell of sandalwood and musk. From his chest hugging shirt, her eyes followed the Italian silk woven tie in its beautiful pastel green and yellow swirl pattern. The feminine color selection had been a brave choice for a function such as this where the men showcased their masculinity and their pocketbooks. So, he either didn’t know better or his power came with his name.

She continued on up to his tie’s perfectly anchored knot and landed on the chiseled jawline and soft brown, waiting eyes of Hunter Wells.

Her nose flared as she inhaled deeply, an awareness of their nearness. She took a step back.

“Excuse me.” Sissy felt her cheeks burn as the back of her neck flushed.

A light flickered in his warm chocolate eyes.

“Of course.” Hunter nodded, and his lip twitched. “How have you been?”

Hearing her heart pound in her throat, Sissy straightened her spine, bracing herself for the old anger to return, but his nearness tempered any old residual anger.

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About the Author


Born and raised in Raceland, Louisiana, near Bayou Lafourche, Jessica Tastet uses the places and people of her childhood to create the backdrop of her fictional South Louisiana town in her Raleigh Cheramie series as well as her Treasure Trilogy.

An avid reader, she began writing stories in the sixth grade. The result was a mystery story she promptly shared with all her family and whoever she could convince to read it. She learned the first of many valuable writing lessons with this endeavor: don’t draw your characters too close to real-life people. Since then. she has earned her editing certification from the University of California and an MFA in Creative Writing from National University in California. Presently, she resides in her hometown with her husband and five teenagers where she works with Curriculum for the local school district.

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Book Blitz: The Demon of Yodak – Adria Carmichael


I’m happy to share YA Dystopian novel, The Demon of Yodok! Read on for book details and a chance to win a signed hardcover edition. Oh and for all of you book reviewers, you can request a copy of this exciting book from R&R Book Tours!

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Demon of Yodok

Genre: YA Dystopian

A highly addictive Young Adult Dystopian Survival series that will keep you glued to the pages.

JUCHE [dʒuːtʃe]

Just when Areum, daughter of a privileged family in the totalitarian state of Choson, thought she was free from her personal prison, her world collapses around her as her family are taken away in the middle of the night to a hell-like camp in the mountains where people who have strayed from the righteous path are brutally re-educated through blood, sweat, tears and starvation.

There she has to fight for survival together with the family she hates and is forced to re-evaluate every aspect of her life until then – her deep resentment toward her twin sister; her view of her father in face of the mounting evidence he is a traitor with the blood of millions of fellow countrymen on his hands; and even her love and affection for the Great General – the eternal savior and protector of Choson, whom she had always considered her true father.

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About the Author

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Adria Carmichael is a writer of Young Adult Dystopian fiction with a twist. When she is not devouring dystopian and post-apocalyptic content in any format – books, movies, TV-series and PlayStation games – she is crafting the epic and highly-addictive Juche saga, her 2020 debut novel series that takes place in the brutal, totalitarian nation of Choson. When the limit of doom and gloom is reached, a 10K run on a sunny day or binging a silly sitcom on a rainy day is her go-to way to unwind.

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Blog Tour: Empire’s Legacy – Marian L Thorpe*

Lena is a skilled hunter, but beyond the need to kill for food, weapons are a man’s domain – until
one day a soldier arrives in her village, pleading for fighters. Accepting his challenge, she steps
into a new life, one of battle, intrigue and politics, where actions have deadly consequences. Her
survival – and that of her country – depends on her prowess with knife and bow, her quick wit, and
a journey into unimagined lands to confront a lost Empire of immense power.

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My books are historical fantasy in that they are historical fiction of an imagined world, one that is
close to Britain, Northern Europe, and Rome, but isn’t any of them. A world where a society evolved differently after the Eastern Empire left, where one young fisherwoman answers her
leader’s call to defend her country, beginning a journey into uncharted territory.
After two careers as a research scientist and an educator, I decided it was time to do what I’d always really wanted and be a writer. As well as my novels, I’ve published short stories, both on-line and in chapbook format, and poetry. I’ve done public readings at several juried venues, including
the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival. My life-long interest in Roman and post-Roman European history
provided the inspiration for my books, while my other interests in landscape archaeology and bird-
ing provide background. Walking across England from the Irish Sea to the North Sea with my sister also had a major influence on the Empire’s Legacy trilogy!
I also oversee Arboretum Press, a small publishing imprint run as a collective. Right now, I’m writing Empire’s Heir, the next book in the series.

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Arboretum Press Vocamus Press

When Fél had led us into the village—if a cluster of huts was a village—we had been fed, clothed,
stared at by children and adults, questioned. Fél, acting as our translator, convinced the headwoman
to give us an empty hut at the edge of the village: it was dilapidated and damp, its mud-and-wattle
walls crumbling, but easy enough to repair. I suggested we simply pitch our tents inside it, out of the
wind. The work of repairing the building seemed too much for a brief stay.
Fél had shaken his head when I proposed this. “There is nowhere for you to go, Lena,” he had said.
“Today’s weather is just the start: snow will come in the next week, and then a hard and killing frost,
turning the ground to iron. And then more snow. Autumn Festival will barely be over in the Empire
when it is winter, here.”
I had not known what to say. I had expected to travel for—how long? I hadn’t thought about
winter, not really, expecting that once we had left the mountains behind we would leave the cold
behind too. I thought how stupid that was: even the grasslands south of Tirvan were fierce and
inhospitable in the winter. But how should I have known to expect a winter that came so soon?
“But can we stay?” Cillian had asked. “Can your people support two more mouths over the winter?”
“You can hunt, can you not?” Fél had replied.
“Yes, for small game,” Cillian answered. “Lena is experienced with larger animals.”
Fél sat back on his heels beside the fire. “The women of the Kurzemë do not hunt. That is a man’s
“But I will not be a woman of the Kurzemë,” I said. “We need a place for the winter, not
“Where will you go, in the spring?”
“East, across the plain,” I answered.
“Into the dead lands?” he asked. “We do not go far into them, only to a meeting place in the
summer. There is little there to sustain life, and stories of huge bears on the plain.”
I glanced at Cillian. “What lies beyond the mountains and the seas,” I said softly.
“That story?” Fél said. He shrugged. “They are your lives. If you can hunt, you can stay. I will try to
explain, to Grêt, the headwoman.”
“Lena.” He turned to me. “What skills have you, so I can be precise?”
“I fished, at Tirvan,” I said. “I am good with the hunting bow and the bird bow, and I can wield a
sword. And a knife, in warfare or defense.”

“None of which are women’s skills here,” he replied. “Is there nothing you know that belongs to
the skills of women, of hearth or healing?”
“A little of healing,” I said. “My mother was a healer and a midwife, but I was not her apprentice.
What I know is very slight. And all the things I can do are skills of women, in the Empire.”
“Perhaps,” Fél said. “But you are not in the Empire any longer, nor will you ever be again. That may
sound harsh,” he added, “but it is only truth, and a truth which you must accept. So you both must
begin to learn the skills of a new life.” He stood. “I will speak to Grêt.” He turned to go, then hesitated,
looking down at where we sat. “Are you together? Paired?”
“No,” I said. “Travelling companions, friends, nothing more.”
“Better that you let it be thought you are together,” he said, “if you do not want the attentions of
every unmarried man here. Or woman,” he amended, looking at Cillian. “Grêt already assumed as
much when she offered the hut: I suggest you do nothing to change that assumption.”
The hut, built of woven willow branches between upright posts, packed with mud and hair, needed
a lot of repair. Fél brought his wife, Kaisa, and between them they taught us how to weave the
branches and add the mud. Cillian proved adept at the weaving, his long fingers interlacing and twisting the thin branches rapidly and precisely. I packed mud and wool.

Grêt, the headwoman, had made Fél bring me to her. She had listened in silence, then spoke to Fél
for some time. I didn’t think she sounded happy.
“Grêt says,” Fél told me, “she has heard of women like you: you belong to the huntress. She’s a
goddess, here,” he added. “You can keep your weapons and use them, but there will be a price. You
will not mix with the other women, although you will guard them, sometimes. If you do a man’s work,
you must act like a man.”
“Which means?”
“You will be expected to hunt, and guard the sheep, and guard the women if they go far from the
village. There are wolves here, and bears and other dangerous creatures. You will not join in the
women’s rituals.”
Grêt shot another question at Fél. “She is asking about Cillian. Why he would want a woman like
you, who does not tend his hearth and bear him children.”
“Tell her she must ask him.” I wasn’t going to try to invent a story for him.
He walked back to our hut with me. “You will need sleeping furs,” he said. “We have extras; Kaisa
will bring them to you. She will not shun you, but she will need to be careful, or the other women will
shun her too. You are choosing a hard road for the winter, Lena.”
Grêt may have said I would hunt with the men, but the men had other opinions. Especially Ivor, I
learned: he refused to have me with him. Eryl, a man of Cillian’s age who seemed to be in charge after
the aging headman, Ludis, simply shrugged. “You can hunt with me, or Audo,” Fél told me. “I am going
to show Cillian our bow tomorrow; come with us, if you like.”
I considered. Cillian’s status here mattered, too. “No,” I said. “Perhaps I’d better not. Is there
something else I can do?”
“Audo always likes company when he checks his snares,” Fél said. “He’s slow, you realize. Up here.”
He tapped his head. “But you can go with him.”
Two heavy furs lay inside our hut when I returned, dark, shiny fur. Bear? I dragged them over to
the sleeping platform. No-one slept alone here in the winter, Fél had said casually; children were
sent to sleep with the elderly and unmarried youngsters shared beds with brothers and sisters or
cousins. I was glad that Cillian and I were used now to sharing sleeping space. Even a few weeks
earlier, he would have been uncomfortable.
For the first ten days I wondered if we’d made a mistake. The mild days suggested we could have
kept moving. But overnight the weather changed: we woke to find snow up to our ankles, and more
falling. After that, it was clear we had to stay.
Fél continued to act as translator and mentor, guiding us both through the expectations of the
Kurzemë’s daily life. He had taught Kaisa, his wife, some of our common language, so she too could
speak to us, a bit. But, unsurprisingly, Cillian began to learn the language quickly, and when at night
we discussed what we’d learned about the Kurzemë, he taught me new words, so that I too began to
understand what was said and could ask and answer questions.

Cillian had adapted to the larger hunting bow with ease. For someone who hadn’t touched a bow
until only a few months earlier, he had become proficient rapidly, to my private chagrin: I thought
he might be as good as I was, and I had taken years to be skilled. He joined the hunting parties
regularly, for deer at this time of year. The carcasses were brought back to be butchered by the
women, the meat being smoked for winter food. I could help with this, and did, to Grêt’s grudging
approval. I had no skill in working the hides, although my secca, sharper than the women’s knives, proved useful in cutting the skins.
The grain harvest was another place I could contribute, joining in stooking and tying grain:
scything was a skill I had never mastered. Nor could Cillian, to Ivor’s derisive laughter, although I
noticed he found reasons not to spend much time at the hard, back-breaking work. Even children
gleaned grain from the cut fields, the older boys killing both the rabbits and rats that lived among
the stalks with well-aimed stones thrown from leather slings. As at Tirvan, the autumn hunt and
harvest were a time of communal labour, punctuated by evenings of food and merriment. It had a
familiar feel that both reassured me and made me remember what I had lost.
Only one thing, or rather, one man, made me truly uncomfortable. I could handle being an outsider,
not really accepted by either the women or the men. Ivor, however, was another matter.
The problem had begun with guarding the sheep. Eryl led the guard; Ludis was too crippled and
infirm now. He had asked me to join the men near the sheep pens one afternoon: a wolf had been
seen, unusual at this time of year. He strode up beside me, his broad, open face smiling. He carried
two bows and two quivers of arrows.
“Grêt tells me you are to guard,” he said. “I thought, maybe Lena needs a bow. I know you have
one, but it is meant for birds, yes? So I brought one for you to use.”
“Thank you, Eryl,” I said. “That was thoughtful.”
“You should shoot it a few times, get used to it,” he suggested.
“I will,” He was right: with an unfamiliar bow, I wouldn’t be much use. Several other men and a
couple of older boys had grouped themselves around something on the hillside. One of them, I saw
with an inward shiver, was Ivor.
“Eryl, here,” one called. I followed him over to where the men stood. Eryl crouched in the dusk,
looking at the ground. “Wolf scat,” he said, “fresh this morning. A young one, probably, pushed out of
its pack.” He turned to me. “Have you ever seen wolf scat, Lena?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t. All the wolves had been cleared out of our part of the Empire, although
older women had stories of them raiding our sheep, too.” I crouched beside him, ignoring the other
men. This was information I needed, and Eryl was the best tracker in the village. “How do you know
it’s wolf scat, and not dog?” One of the boys made a derisive sound.

“Mostly from the little bones in it, and the amount of fur. And it comes to a point, see? Dogs shit
more like people,” he said, “or at least like people when there’s lots of meat to eat.” He turned his
head back and forth. “The wind is off the mountains, so expect it to circle around, come at the sheep
from below. I want good archers down that side. You, Ivor, and you two.” He named two more men.
“Lena,” he said, handing me a bow. “Show me what you know.” There was no hesitation, no
reluctance: this was a commander, assessing a recruit. I took the bow—it was of middling size,
intermediate between my big hunting bow and a birdbow—found the grip, tested the spring in the
wood. I felt the men watching me.
“What am I shooting at?”
“See the scar, on the trunk of that big oak?” I followed where he pointed. Ahead of me, uphill and
a good distance away, a white patch gleamed in the sun. Not an easy shot, but not too difficult, either.
I nocked an arrow and drew, judging the pull. I released. The arrow hit the tree, but well below
the scar. I heard a laugh. I shifted my stance slightly, thought about the wind, and shot again. This
time the arrow hit the scar squarely, not dead centre, but close enough.
“Do it again,” Eryl said. I did. “Can you hit a running animal?” he asked.
“I can,” I replied. “I have hunted deer, with a larger bow. And birds and small game, of course,
travelling over the mountains.”
“Then I want you down where the wolf is likely to come.” A sound of protest came from one of the men. Eryl turned. “I make the decisions, Karel,” he said.
“Eryl,” Ivor said, “the wolf will not come until dark. Shall we have a contest, to ensure your choices
of the best archers are correct?” This was insolence, said to the hunt leader.
“You saw Lena shoot,” Eryl said mildly.
“A contest anyway? To pass the time?” Ivor suggested.
“All right,” Eryl said. “To pass the time. The same scar. Ivor, your idea, so you shoot first.” I
wondered at this: why had Eryl given in to Ivor?
Ivor took his stand, raising his bow. A left-handed archer, I noted: not common. He aimed and
released. His arrow hit the top left of the scar. He frowned and shrugged. Karel took his place, hitting
the scar a bit lower, still to the left.

All the men hit the scar, and not all on the left side. Eryl, who shot just before me, hit almost exactly
in the centre. I had watched carefully, not just the men, but the movement of treetops and lower
shrubs in the wind. There was, I judged, a gusty wind off the hillside, unpredictable, swirling above
the ground.
My turn. I nocked, drew, and waited. I watched the shrubs near the oak, still holding on to a few
red leaves, leaves that showed their silver undersides when the breeze blew. When all I could see
was red, I let the arrow fly.
It lodged itself in the oak immediately beside Eryl’s, to the laughter of one or two men and a string
of invective from Ivor. Eryl turned on him.
“You wanted this contest,” he growled. “Your shot was worst of all. I misjudged earlier when I told
you where to guard. Go above the pens, instead.”
I thought this was why Eryl had allowed the contest, but if I had been leading here, I would not
have humiliated Ivor publicly. But the Kurzemë had their own customs, and Eryl outweighed Ivor by
We did not see the wolf that evening. Replacements came to relieve us some hours later. I walked
back to our hut, the new bow in my hand: Eryl had told me to keep it. I heard footsteps behind me;
turning, I saw Ivor and Karel on the path. I frowned. What were they doing here, at this end of the
village? I stopped, dropping my hand close to my secca, always on my waist.
“Do you want something?” I asked.
“You are devanī, my mother says,” Ivor said. Belonging to the goddess of the hunt, it meant.
“So they say.”
“Devanī should share themselves with all men, for the good of the village and the hunt.”
“Devanī choose where the huntress’s blessings are bestowed,” I said, thinking quickly. “A good
hunter has no need of her intervention.”
“Then you let Audo touch you?” Ivor sneered.
“Audo is not a hunter.” Not a good answer.
“Two boys have their manhood ceremony soon. A devanī should lie with them to make them
skilled hunters.”
“You are not the vēsturni, Ivor,” Cillian said from the path ahead of me. “You trespass in areas that
do not concern you.” He stepped closer, his bow in his hand.
“You tell me what does not concern me, stranger?” Ivor spat. Karel had said nothing.
“I tell you that I am the same as a vēsturni, in my own land, and that Aivar knows that. We speak
of many things. Lena is devanī, yes, but she is also mine. Be careful, Ivor.” Cillian was taller than Ivor,
and older, and there was authority and warning in his voice. Ivor hesitated.
“Do you forget my father is headman? You too should be careful.” He turned, stalking off into the
night, Karel beside him. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve made an enemy there. I outshot him in a contest this afternoon.”
“Unwise,” Cillian said mildly. We had begun to walk back to the hut.
“I know. I realized that afterwards. I will try to make it look like a lucky shot if I can.”
“My apologies for claiming you as mine, Lena: I had no time to think of anything else.”
I laughed. “I didn’t mind. It’s what we want the village to believe, isn’t it?”
“I dislike implying I have control over you.”
“You did it for my safety,” I pointed out. “Why were you out, anyhow?
“I don’t know, really. I’m not guarding tonight. But I was uneasy about you for some reason, so I
came to meet you.” We had reached the hut. Inside, the fire burned low, the pot of water we always
left beside it steaming slightly. “Tea?” Cillian asked.
“Yes, but I can make it,” I said. We drank a steeped mix of leaves and berries. I unstrung the new
bow and coiled the bowstring, putting it on a shelf before pulling off my outdoor tunic. I changed
boots for indoor slippers of deerskin; beside me, Cillian did the same. I ran a hand across his
shoulder. “Thank you again.”
I made the tea, and we sat by the hearth to drink it. The hut was cool, and would be cold soon, but
there was enough warmth by the fire for a while. “Has Aivar said anything about what Ivor
suggested?” I asked.
“Could you ask him? I don’t want to ask Grêt. I’m not sure she’d tell me the truth.”
“I can. But you wouldn’t consider it?” He sounded shocked, I thought.
“Of course not! But if there is any such expectation, I’ll need to make up a different ritual to replace
it, one I can say is from my land. I could probably handle kissing each of the two boys instead.” I
sipped the tea. “There is an equivalent goddess in Linrathe, you said? Do you know anything about
“Sorham, really, not Linrathe. I will have to think. She is not widely acknowledged, and there is
little written about her. I can probably remember more about Casil’s goddess, and the Kurzemë will
not know the difference.” He finished his tea. Standing, he offered me a hand up. “It’s getting cold.
We should go to bed.”
We readied the hut and ourselves for the night. The hut would be cold, but not so cold that under
the furs of the bed we needed to sleep closer to each other than the space demanded, for which I was
glad: I still damped down desire, mostly successfully. I saw no sign that he was aware of my feelings.
Given what he’d told me, I did not expect him to share them.

GRAND PRIZE: One (1) physical copy of Empire’s Legacy by Marian L Thorpe – US/CA/UK Only

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Book Blitz: Weasel Words – Dale E. Lehman


Today we’re celebrating the release of crime caper, Weasel Words by Dale E. Lehman, with an exclusive excerpt and a chance to win a print copy of the book!

Weasel 2Weasel Words (Bernard and Melody Capers Book 1)

Expected Publication Date: February 15th, 2021

Genre: Humor/ Crime Fiction

Between them, Bernard and Melody Earls have looks, charm, brains . . . everything but money. That’s why they steal from the rich and give to themselves. So when Alexander Hamilton Plaskett hires them to nick a silver statuette of a pine marten from his brother Paul Revere Plaskett, they’re happy to oblige. But it won’t be as easy as it looks. For one thing, the little beast is guarded by Fitzroy Fortresses, the best security system money can buy. For another, the five Plaskett siblings are obnoxious buffoons. Still, a job is a job, and this one may offer more than it appears.

At least, that’s Bernard’s theory. The pine marten isn’t particularly valuable, so why do the Plasketts contest its ownership so fiercely? To find out, he and Melody insinuate themselves into the Plasketts’ world and enlist a college geek to hack the unhackable Fitzroy system. Failure means poverty. Discovery means prison. And the biggest obstacle to Bernard’s brilliant schemes? Melody’s penchant for running off-script!

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Bernard had to admit to some fascination at the floorplan being revealed in shaky lines by Ruggles’ quaking hand. If it proved at all accurate, he could use it to plot his movements almost to the second. “Pretty good for having seldom been there,” he commented.

Ruggles tapped his temple. “Muskrat trap.”

“Not much gets away from one of those, huh?”

“Not much the size of a muskrat. Bears would be another matter.” The butler set the pen down and pushed it and the napkin back to Bernard. “And you are walking into a den full of bears, Mr. Earls. If you ask me, Bear Trap Falls is aptly named.”

“Bears and one weasel. Got it.” Bernard tucked the napkin and pen into an inside pocket.

“Do you take this matter at all seriously?”

“Very seriously, Mr. Ruggles. Seven thousand dollars plus expenses seriously.”

Ruggles gave Bernard’s suit careful scrutiny. Admittedly it wasn’t a Christian Dior, but surely it didn’t warrant that dismissive smirk. “Do you consider that a large sum?”

“For a few hours’ work, sure.” Bernard performed a quick burst of mental math. “It equates to an annual salary of over four and a half million, you know.”

Had he been standing, that revelation would have rocked Ruggles back on his heels. Sitting on the bar stool, it nearly dumped him backwards onto the floor. He grabbed the edge of the bar just in time and righted himself. “I didn’t realize that.”

“Oh yes, there’s good money in my business.” If only, he didn’t add, we could actually work something approaching full time. As it was, they were lucky to pay the rent some months.

The bartender returned and slid a plate of cheese fries in front of Bernard. “Hot,” she said. He thought she probably had been, a decade or so back, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Melody, not then and not now, so he didn’t give her a second thought.

“Just relax,” he told the butler, who didn’t seem capable. “Here. Drink your drink and eat some of these. They say the bacon is real good.”

Ruggles watched the bartender move down the bar to another customer. “No doubt you wish to inspire confidence.” He pulled a fry from underneath the mass of gooey yellow, then held it as though it were poison while it dribbled cheese all over the bar. “So why am I more terrified now than when I came in?”

Bernard shook his head and shoveled a few fries into his mouth.

The bacon, it turned out, was nothing to write home about.

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About the Author


Dale E. Lehman is a writer, veteran software developer, amateur astronomer, and bonsai artist in training. He principally writes mysteries, science fiction, and humor. In addition to his novels, his writing has appeared in Sky & Telescope and on With his wife Kathleen he owns and operates the imprint Red Tales. They have five children, six grandchildren, and two feisty cats. At any given time, Dale is at work on several novels and short stories. Visit Dale at for information on his books, activities, and more.

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Book Blitz: Love Him Hate Him – Chris Bedell


Today we are celebrating the release of Chris Bedell’s latest novel, Love Him/ Hate Him! Read on for more details!

LHHM digital coverLove Him/ Hate Him

Publication Date: February 16th, 2021

Genre: YA Thriller/ LGBQT

Publisher: Willow River Press

17-year-old Connor doesn’t believe his best friend’s death was an accident. Falling down the stairs was random, and Connor can’t help but wonder if someone might’ve pushed her…

Determined to find out the truth, Connor starts his own investigation. Along the way, he discovers Evelyn’s affair with a married man and thought she was pregnant before she died. Connor thinks he’s found her killer, but an airtight alibi forces him to look in a new direction. Perhaps closer to home.

Complicating the situation more is Connor’s own secret – an unexpected hook up with Evelyn’s twin brother, Liam, at a party the previous spring. Afterward, Liam goes on a homophobic rant and punches Connor, leaving him confused. His confusion deepens when, after Evelyn’s death, Liam apologizes and they start to hook up secretly.

Liam is trapped between his attraction to Connor and his abusive father. Connor struggles with his growing attraction for Liam. Their secret rendezvous are fun, but if Connor is going to have more with Liam, he’ll have to be honest about his feelings and his suspicions on who killed Evelyn. Will either survive the truth coming out?

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Available on Amazon!

About the Author

My previous publishing credits include Thought Catalog, Entropy Magazine, Chicago Literati, and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, among others. My debut YA Fantasy novel IN THE NAME OF MAGIC was published by NineStar Press in 2018.

My 2019 novels include NA Thriller BURNING BRIDGES (BLKDOG Publishing), YA Paranormal Romance DEATHLY DESIRES (DEEP HEARTS YA), and YA Thriller COUSIN DEAREST (BLKDOG Publishing). My 2020 novels include my YA Thriller I KNOW WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED (BLKDOG Publishing), YA Contemporary I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN (Deep Hearts YA),  YA Thriller BETWEEN LOVE AND MURDER (Between The Lines Publishing), YA Sci-fi DYING BEFORE LIVING (Deep Hearts YA), and YA Thriller LOVE HIM/HATE HIM (Between The Lines Publishing). I also graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2016.



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Published Today: Photographed in the Writer’s Room – Michelle L.E. Price

Former TV star Brandi Tyler’s big screen debut crashed and burned amid rumors of an affair with her
married co-star…

Now, she wants nothing more than to quietly slink away from Hollywood. When she’s offered an opportunity to get out of town and work on a project involving the photographer that launched her career, it seems like the perfect escape! Unfortunately for Brandi, her famous face makes hiding out even a huge city like Houston a little tricky.
When the celebrated photographer’s son offers to let her use his home for privacy, it seems like everything is falling into place. Little does she know that Michael Ames a gorgeous best selling author, and he comes with the package!

As Brandi makes her way through old photographs and new scandals, Michael struggles with his next project, and they both fight the growing attraction between them.

Maybe a posse of new girlfriends, some Texas-sized boozy brunches, and a little private time in the writer’s room will help this leading lady find her path back onscreen. And, if she can just picture it, maybe this time she’ll even find love?

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About the author

Born in Montreal but raised in New England, author Michelle L. E. Price has been writing as long as anyone can remember. An avid reader who was on the verge of losing her mind as a mom to two small children, Michelle began writing her first book, Hidden in the Writer’s Room, as an escape… at least her characters would do exactly what she told them to do and she could always count on a
happily ever after ending.

She also enjoys wine, re-watching 90’s sitcoms and occasionally running,
but heavily relies on writing to stay sane. Michelle is a firm believer that laughter and love are the best parts of life.

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Book Blitz: Six Strings – C. Billie Brunson


Today we’re celebrating the upcoming release of C. Billie Brunson’s genre-bending novel, Six Strings – Available on February 16th!

SStrings Digital coverSix Strings

Expected Publication Date: February 16, 2021

Genre: New Adult/ Magical Realism

Publisher: Liminal Books

Carl Percival (Percy) VanNess inherits a guitar from his father. He’s intent on learning to play and wants to use it as a roadway to fame and riches. But this guitar is not as benign as it appears. In fact, the music produced when it is played incites anyone within earshot to murder whomever is in sight.

Troubles escalate when Carl lets his buddy Peyton borrow the Gibson. Next, Mat, Peyton’s older brother, gets caught up in the same diabolical intrigues surrounding the instrument.

Only Stacey, Carl’s enduring sweetheart, is aware and seems immune to the Gibson’s evil persuasion. Is this due to some latent magic she holds within, dumb luck, or something else entirely?

Can she, with the help of her loyal Lab, Diva, convince her friends to let go of something they cherish before it tears their friendship apart? Might two Djinn token seekers who are after the guitar to fulfill their own agenda put the brakes on her efforts?


“Carl, this is dope. You got some sick strings right here. I’m serious, bro.” Peyton said, picking up the guitar to admire it up close and test its weight.

“Well, duh. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?” Carl replied, feeling almost giddy with pride.

“I heard. Didn’t get it, though.” Peyton improvised a few notes. “But I do now.”

“You can’t help but to.” Watching his peer strum a few more chords caused a possessive anxiety to rise within Carl and he ran his hand through his hair. It wasn’t long before he felt impelled to intervene. “Enough, newbie. Hand it over. Let the pro show you how it’s done.”

“Hold on, bro. I’m rippin’ some sweet sounds.”

Carl took a deep breath in an attempt to ease the tension that resulted from seeing his precious Charlene perform so sweetly for another. “You’re not too bad. H-how’d you learn to play?”

“My big brother had a guitar for a while. We used to take turns foolin’ around with it. Then, he lost it over a stupid bet,” Peyton said, pausing for only the few seconds it took to say the words.

“Aw, tough luck, Man.”


“Right. Fine. Now hand her over. It’s my turn.”

Peyton played on as if he didn’t hear. With eyes closed, he reveled in the sumptuous notes coming from the guitar. Shoulders dancing, his head bobbed in time with the rhythm.

Indignant over being ignored and at the way Peyton’s fingers seemed to grope his precious girl, Carl raised his voice in a near growl. “I’m warning you, Peyton. Better not try me. For the last time, hand her over.”

“Just hold on, bro. I’m ‘bout to throw it dowwnn!”

Unwilling to bear or listen to what that meant, Carl turned, scanning his room for a more assertive means of getting his demand across. A sturdy desk used for homework and other projects offered a mess of school work paraphernalia, among this lay an opened box of pre-sharpened writing pencils.

Without sparing a thought about his next move, Carl stepped over to the desk and pulled a pencil from the package. Holding the pencil like a crazed butcher, he pivoted while lifting the pointed end high. His eyes zeroed in on Peyton’s jugular.

Peyton kept playing, his eyes closed in blissful ignorance of imminent and fatal assault.

Carl drew the uncommon weapon in his hand back and up high as he could, making no sound or alarming movement.

In the next second, the door swung wide and Stacey burst in, coming close to hitting Carl with the door. Startling from his violent mission he dropped the pencil. He deftly shoved it somewhere out of sight with his foot.

“Okay. Where’s this guitar you–Oh, right here. Wow! Carl, you weren’t kidding. This is sooo nice.’”

Peyton jarred from his plucking revelry. “Yeah, uh, ain’t it though? And it sounds amazin’.” Turning to Carl he begged, “Dude, you gotta let me borrow it for a few days.”

“Nope, I don’t gotta. And I won’t.” Carl said reaching and grasping the neck in one hand. “You can let go of it now.”

Instead of conceding, Peyton tightened his grip on the instrument and replied. “What’s the big deal? I promise I’ll bring it back.”

“You don’t need to promise ’cause I’m not lending it.”

“How ’bout if I pay you? A buck a day.”

“No thanks.”

“Two, then.”

“No way, man. She’s not for hire.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, then.”

“Yep. Take it or leave it.”

“I thought you was my bro. But, I guess yer nothing but anotha punk.”

Instead of responding, Carl simply jerked the Gibson free of Peyton’s grasp.

Peyton protested. “Heeey! What the hell? What’s yer problem, fool? Somebody need to show you what it means to share?”

“Yeah? And I guess you think you’re the guy for it.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Bring it, then.” Carl quickly set the guitar aside and turned back to Peyton. He clinched his hands into two stumps of rage and raised them up to punching level. “We’ll see who can teach who.”

They faced-off and moved in a tight, threatening circle.

Stacey rolled her eyes as she broke between them. “Before the two of you throw any punches, I think you should know I’m not impressed.”

Carl and Peyton both let down their guards at the statement. Each looked at Stacey with questioning expressions.

Stacey explained. “I mean if you want to impress a girl with your beat-down skills, at least let the fight be over the girl. Am I right?”

Carl scoffed. But he did move away from Peyton. He picked up the Gibson, slung the strap over a shoulder so she could hang comfortably at his front and sat down on his bed.

Peyton stood grumbling and staring at his feet a few seconds before plunking down onto the small chair beside the desk.

Stacey parked herself on the bed next to Carl. “There. This is good. Way better than getting all to’e up over a guitar. A pretty awesome one, for sure. But it’s still only wood, strings and a few metal knobs—that’s all.”

Carl rushed to correct her viewpoint. “Carlotte’s not just any ol’ guitar. She’s way better.”

Stacey scoffed. “Charlene?”

“Yes, Charlene,” Carl said. “What’s funny ‘bout that?”

“Yeah, Stacey lots of guys who play guitars name ‘em. Mat named his Maxine,” Peyton said.

“And Mat is?” “Who’s Mat?” Stacey and Carl both asked at the same time.

“My brother.” Peyton cleared his throat and made a show of not looking at Carl. “Who knows how to share things.”

Stacey cut off Carl’s low growl. “Whatever, Peyton.” She looked at Carl. “But what makes you say this guitar—I refuse to call it any name—‘better’ than any other one?” She held up a hand. “Wait. I know. Your plan is to use it as a babe magnet, huh? I know how you boys think,” she said, narrowing her eyes in a reproving glare.

“It might be a tired ol’ plan but…Sure. Why not?” Carl teased, giving Stacey a mischievous nudge. “Besides, it gave you enough reason came by today, didn’t it?”

Crossing his arms, Peyton said, “Yeah. Well, havin’ a guitar to catch a girl’s attention is one thing. It’s another to really know how to play? That’s what the honeys go for.”

Stacey said, “I hate to be a…uh, ‘honey.’ But, Carl, can you play something for me? Please?”

Foregoing a verbal response, Carl stood and faced her, purposefully presenting his backside to Peyton.

After making a show of loosening his arms, his shoulders and flexing his fingers, Carl launched into the captivating tune he’d mastered that morning in the garage.

Within seconds, the ambience of the room shifted as he progressed through the melody. Though the light coming through the lone window in the wall behind him did not dim, a cold, sinister presence invaded the air.

Stacey hugged her body and rubbed her hands over her arms against the chill as she tried to listen to Carl’s playing. Movement at the edge of sight caused her to look across at Peyton. She watched with a perplexed frown as he pulled out a drawer to retrieve a pair of heavy-duty scissors meant for cutting poster board or thin plastic sheets. Her frown deepened as she surmise the sleepless, nightmarish parody developing before her eyes.

Peyton pushed up from the chair and took a step in Carl’s direction, holding the scissors ready for effective spiking.

At last determining what she saw was legit instead of crazed illusion, Stacey flung her arms out in alarm. She gesticulated a frantic warning and yelled, “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?” But the frigid, melodious aura swallowed her voice.

Carl, intent on performing as he was, misinterpreted her actions as encouragement. He played with more vigor.

Stacey reached the point of leaping from the bed to tackle Peyton when bone-cracking thumps sounded against the window.

Carl stopped playing the song mid-refrain.

Peyton jolted and stepped back as though hit by some invisible stun gun. His attention went to the scissors he held in his hand. For a brief moment, he stood staring down at the now deadly-weapon-turned-crafting-tool and then twisted around to lay it on the desk. He turned back, wiping the palm of his hand on his clothes as though to clean away something vile.

Stacey sat on the edge of the bed huffing and puffing in relief when their gazes locked and she sensed the passing of his moment of murderous insanity.

Oblivious because he’d turned his attention towards searching out the source of the thumping noise, Carl said, “Oh, my dreamcatcher fell.” Then he stepped over to retrieve it from the floor and hang it back on the nail in the wall.

“Uh-huh.” Stacey said. “But…no. It couldn’t have made such a loud sound by landing on the floor.”

“What are you talking about?” Carl asked.

Stacey said, “I think the noise came from the….” Her words trailed off when she noticed the window.

She gasped at the splatter of blood already drying on the sun-drenched pane.

Grab yourself a copy from Amazon on February 16th!

About the Author


Billie Brunson enjoys writing novels that don’t necessarily fit in any genre “box.” Six Strings, is her second published book, the first of which is Heart of Malice (2015) and she has a number of other manuscripts in the pipelines.

Born in Chicago, IL, C Billie Brunson lived for several years in Indiana and, later, Iowa before moving to Arizona in the 1990s where she has settled in Scottsdale. She’s the mother of two and loves all animals, especially cats.

If you want to connect, you’ll catch her on Twitter more so than any other social media platform.

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Published Today: Preserved – Fiona Sherlock

She’s stuck in the past, the killer wants to immortalise his future.

When a local farmer announces on
social media that he has discovered a bog body in Ardee, the world’s historians are keen to explore
the secrets of the life and grisly death of the victim.

Antique journalist January Quail is fighting to keep her newspaper job and uncovers far more than she bargained for. The victim is actually a recent murder, and January uses her nose for the truth to investigate the
County Louth town. From shopkeeper to the publican, everyone is a suspect, but when the Gardai can’t find the killer, can January?

Once she sets down the liqueur glass, January gains the confidence of the lead garda investigator.
Within days, the case unravels into a much more dangerous situation with a killer on the loose.
Despite the risk, January is electrified that this newest discovery has come at the perfect time to inject some colour into her flailing career.

January relinquishes her old ways to fight for survival, abandoning her antiques column and vintage corsets to solve a cryptic crime that has the experts puzzled. This woman who longs to lives in the past must now fight for her life in the present.

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Fiona Sherlock is a crime writer from Bective, in Ireland. Her murder mystery games are played across the world. She also writes poetry and prose but cannot stay away from a good murder.

After spending a decade in Dublin working in public relations and journalism, she moved to the country for mid-day fires and elderflower champagne.

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Book Blitz: Kingdom of Jior – Wendy L. Anderson


Great news Fantasy lovers! The Kingdom of Jior series by Wendy L. Anderson is now available as a digital box set! See details below and enter the giveaway for a chance to win the box set for yourself!

image005Kingdom of Jior Box Set

Publication Date: February 10th, 2021

Publisher: Infinity Publishing

Experience adventure, fantasy, and magic in this collection of novels combing all the five books of the Kingdom of Jior epic fantasy series.
Discover a race neither human nor demon. The Ny-Failen are from the Heavens. Led by King Forlorn Icefall of Jior, these beautiful shape changing creatures live, love and battle to survive in the world of the humankind.

Available on Amazon

About the Author


Wendy L. Anderson is a Colorado native and mother of two boys. She has an English Degree from Regis University and writes books, short stories and poetry. Wendy is a devout reader of the classics, fantasy, sci-fi and historical fiction. She has decided it is time to write down the fantasies from her own mind. Writing about everything from fantastical worlds to the stuff of her dreams she takes her stories along interesting paths while portraying characters and worlds she sees in her mind’s eye. Her goal is to deviate from common themes, write in original directions and transport her reader to the worlds of her creation.

Wendy L. Anderson | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads

To enter for a chance to win The Kingdom of Jior box set (digital), click the link below!

Giveaway is open to everyone and will close February 13th!

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Blog Tour: Father & Sun – Ross Victory


Welcome to the blog tour for Father & Sun by Ross Victory! Read on for more details!


Father & Sun

Publication Date: December 20th, 2020

Genre: Contemporary Fiction

Some say family is everything. Some say family are just people we’re assigned to at birth.

Trey Amana, a forty-something, hardworking father of two, discovered his dad’s death five years ago on the day after Christmas. Although Trey has grieved and prioritized his health, holiday music and decorations trigger painful memories. To take the final step toward healing the loss while saving extra cash for his holiday-obsessed kids, Trey decides to close his late father’s storage unit once and for all.

Trey discovers a journal written during his father’s college years. His dad, Art, reveals an outrageous family secret driving Trey into a wormhole of suspicions. With family members en-route to Trey’s home, Trey is burdened by the need for answers while somehow producing a hospitable Christmas.

Father & Sun explores how secrets and well-meaning motivations from the past can have a counteractive generational impact.

Father & Sun contemplates life in the shadows or life standing on the Sun (owning one’s truth), speaking to the passing of the torch from father to son, what it means to be honorable, and the spiritual, emotional, and mental effect on heirs.

Core topics: Family, Generational Curses

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About the Author

Ross Victory Smile

Ross Victory is a singer/songwriter turned author from Southern California. After the back to back loss of his father and brother, Ross dove into self-discovery and healing practices, which reignited his passion for writing and music production. Ross uses his unique voice and social intersections to inspire and entertain listeners and readers through Urban Adult Contemporary music, and literature, with a focus on non-fiction and thematic novelettes and short stories.

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Blog Tour Schedule

February 8th

Didi Oviatt (Spotlight)

Rambling Mads (Spotlight)

@esmeralda_lagiggles18 (Review)

February 9th

The Faerie Review (Spotlight)

@tabz_talks_tales (Spotlight)

Book Dragons Not Worms (Spotlight)

February 10th

Book Review Crew (Spotlight)

Breakeven Books (Spotlight)

Dash Fan (Spotlight)

February 11th

@brendajeancombs (Spotlight)

Tsarina Press (Spotlight)

@booknerdkat (Review)

February 12th

Bonnie Reads and Writes (Spotlight)

Nesie’s Place (Spotlight)

Reads & Reels (Spotlight)

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