NAmazing Race, Quest 1, Stop 2!!!

That’s me!!!

I’m so excited to be part of the NAmazing race, which takes you on a fun journey through some awesome New Adult novels!

Here’s mine! SUBJECT TO CHANGE….


Joey made her dad a deathbed promise that she would become a doctor, and dedicate herself to fighting the very cancer that took his life. There’s just one problem -three years into her pre-med classes, she’s struggling to stay on top of the curve, let alone prove she’s dazzling enough to earn a spot in an Ivy League medical school. In a Hail Mary move, she throws a basic Business 101 class into her semester schedule, banking on a perfect score to boost her GPA.

That is, until she’s paired for a final project with Hawk, the bartending, motorbike-riding, gorgeously bedheaded loser who falls asleep in class and communicates in one-word sentences.

Hawk does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, which sets Joey on edge – in every possible way. As they get to know each other, her urge to scream at him is curbed only by her fantasies of tearing his clothes off. Soon those fantasies become reality, and Joey realizes Hawk makes her feel more fully herself than any of the rich boys her mother and sorority sisters approve of.

But the promise to her father hangs over her head, and the harder Joey tries to succeed in her chosen career, the faster everything falls into a hopeless tailspin of bad grades, broken promises and guilt. It doesn’t help to have Hawk sitting like a devil on her shoulder, insisting she should be free to live however she wants to live – like he does.

The only thing Joey knows is that her neatly organized life is crushing her – and Hawk’s bad attitude might be the only thing that can save her.



Barnes and Noble:

And for the next stop on Quest 1, go visit my good friend Denise Grover Swank! Best of luck!

Denise Grover Swank –


The First Two Chapters of SUBJECT TO CHANGE!!!

Subject to Change is coming out in just TEN DAYS!!!

I’m beyond excited, and I just can’t help it – I have to give you the first two chapters right now!

If you like what you see, please enter the giveaway for an eARC of Subject to Change and four other New Adult titles releasing the same day, here on Facebook or here on my blog.

Thank you so much! Hope you like!




portrait of young  coupleChapter 1


Before I even put pencil to paper to start my homework, I dug out the tiny container of replacement leads and set them beside me on the desk. I’d be needing a new lead — and a huge eraser — soon enough.

An empty space stared up at me from my homework sheet, and I tapped my pencil anxiously on the desk as soon as I started reading the question. At what pH could histidine best be precipitated and filtered from a solution of amino acids? I sighed, letting the breath puff out my cheeks before it escaped my lips. I understood the words in the problem, but how to actually solve it? No frickin’ clue.

I massaged my temples with one hand while flipping through my notebook with another, trying to replay what the professor had said about this type of problem and match it up with my notes. Unfortunately, the answer only came to me in bits and pieces. I’d have to go back to the textbook to try to fill in the blanks.

It probably didn’t help that I was more in love with the idea of being a doctor than the classes it took to actually get me there. I freely admit that my daydreams were centered around all the medical drama TV shows I’d devoured. I’d be able to help people — really help them. Maybe, once I was a resident, I would avert some medical crisis that only I would see because I had a fresh, open mind. Maybe I’d figure out a mystery disease haunting some little kid, and his mom would cry tears of happiness. Maybe I would finally meet that hot doctor, and he’d kiss me in the supply closet or in the on-call room between shifts. That was part of the med-show drama, too, so why not? There were certainly no decent guys here at Temple. They were all cocky douchebags who didn’t know how to use their tongues for anything worthwhile.

I put down my pencil; quickly scanned the symbols, letters, numbers, and exponents I’d scrawled there; and then flipped to the back of my textbook.

Yep. Wrong in almost every way.

I let my forehead fall on my open book and tried to stifle a groan. I’d made it through the first semester of Orgo with a B, but Orgo II was a famous weed-out class, picking off wannabe med school students like the flies we were. If I couldn’t get a decent grade, I would suck at the MCAT. If I sucked at the MCAT, I wouldn’t get into med school. And if I couldn’t get into med school… Well, I had to get into med school. I just had to.

I was in year three of one of the most rigorous pre-med programs in the country and — despite hours and hours of studying — still only scraping by on straight Bs and the occasional devastating C. I freaking hated every second I spent with the numbers and the formulas, but I got through by telling myself it would translate to hands-on time with patients soon enough.

Which is why, when I saw a girl across the library working from the same text, her pencil flying over her notebook, I wanted to both stalk her and strangle her at the same time. I desperately needed friends who were in my classes to help me have some kind of a life even while I was constantly studying. But I just couldn’t swallow the idea of having a friendship framed by endless digits and parentheses and equal signs.

That hot doctor and steamy night wouldn’t be so unwelcome, though.

I started to pack up my stuff, my thoughts drifting to how I’d expertly pull off that hot doctor’s white coat, when a small paper rectangle fluttered out of my planner onto the desk.

I snapped it up in my fingers and, even though I knew what it was, took a minute to look at it anyway. A casual picture of my dad and me, one summer afternoon at the park. I could still read half of the “Dr. Daly” embroidered in the corner of his white lab coat, the rest of it obscured as he scrunched my scrawny body into a hug. I was a fifteen-year-old with a swinging ponytail and cutoff shorts, and he had round, smiling cheeks and all his hair. Six months before he was diagnosed with cancer.

Two years later, he was gone, leaving my mom, my two older sisters, and me with a house, a retirement account, and a huge trust fund designated for one purpose only: Joey’s medical school. Stage III stomach cancer had snuck up on Dad, even though he was one of the country’s leading oncologists. We’d spent long weekend days in his hospital room, cracking jokes about all the signs he’d somehow missed.

Except I don’t think that either of us really thought they were funny.

I’d never forget the tears that dripped off my cheeks and the tip of my nose the day he told fifteen-year-old me that he was going to pay for medical school.

“I won’t see you graduate, Miss Josephine,” he’d said, “but I can leave you something to see you through it. You won’t ever have to worry about that.”

Money had been the least of my worries then — I had just wanted Dad to live — but if he couldn’t be here now, I was damn sure going to fulfill our pact. I was going to complete medical school and figure out how to do even more for cancer patients than he had in his career. The Daly Legacy, as he called it, had been in force for decades — I’d be the fourth generation of doctors on his side of the family.

Which would be great if I didn’t feel like the Organic Chemistry textbook was sucking my soul out and holding it tight in its crackling binding every time I opened it.
I let out a deep, shaking breath as I crammed the damn gigantic textbook into my bag. I hoisted it to my shoulder with a grunt, but as I leaned across the desk to grab my keys and phone, the pack suddenly felt lighter.

My head whipped around to see my best friend Cat grinning at me. Cat, with six full inches on me and some insanely buff arms, was holding my bag up from the bottom.

“Need some help with that?” she joked.

“Actually, yeah,” I replied. “Want to carry it home for me?”

“Sorry, babe. I’ve got this monstrous thing to haul around.” Cat swung what looked like a giant, flat, brown leather briefcase onto the table. “I wish I could work on this damn portfolio at the house, but the tables aren’t big enough.”

“What about the studio?”

“It’s even farther away from the house than the library, and it’s too damn cold to lug this any farther.”

“Well, was it worth it?”

Cat grinned and plopped down in the chair I’d just left. “Yeah, want to see?”

I was so exhausted, all I wanted to do was go home, but the sparkling smile in Cat’s eyes was so infectious that I agreed. Cat spent the next ten minutes hauling out sketch after sketch of gorgeous clothing, painstakingly drawn in pencil. Even though purple rings swooped under her eyes and her hair was tied up in a messy bun with pencils sticking out all over,  her eyes had that same dance to them that they did when she was getting ready to go out with Nate or when she was psyched for a sorority party.

“These are all for your classes?” I asked, trying not to sound too wistful.

“Yeah. Professor Anderson is a fucking slavedriver.” But her glowing face didn’t match her words. Cat was exhausted and exhilarated by her work at the same time.

A wave of jealousy crashed over me, consuming me for just a moment. When I thought of my Orgo textbook or mixing formulas in chem lab, my skin felt crawly, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball in the corner and sob.

I would kill to love my major the same way Cat loved hers, especially since I had at least four more years in the classroom before I could start fighting cancer, one patient at a time. Still, even if I didn’t love it, I’ had to finally make Dad proud.

But how the hell was I going to do that if just getting through my Anatomy homework made me want claw my eyes out and wish I could be a witch doctor in Belize? At least there I could go lay on the beach.

Before I could stop it, a huge sigh escaped me, and Cat’s eyes jerked up.

“You okay, Joey? Too much work?”

I tried to smile, but I just felt the skin at the corners of my eyes crinkle. My best effort. “I don’t think it’s too much for normal people…but I suck at this.”

Cat’s forehead scrunched. “Not possible. You’re a future Doctor Daly. And you got a decent grade in Orgo last semester, right?”

“If you call busting my ass studying for 40 hours a week to scrape by with a B ‘decent,’ then yeah.” I didn’t mention that I could practically feel the class curve climbing up beneath my feet and the kids who were always at the front of it laughing at me over their shoulders. I hated intense competition like that, even if my smart mouth hid it.

It would have been one thing if I was struggling in classes but liked the subject matter. Or if I wasn’t too wild about the classes themselves but was up for the challenge of solving problems. The fact that I hated everything about my pre-med major meant I was doing what I’d always done as the resident-good-girl-second-child-and-generally-book-smart one in my family — exactly what was expected of me.

“Well, you only have — what? Three years, right?” Cat asked, hoisting her portfolio down from the desk.

“Four. Then residency and research and…”

Cat’s eyes were worried. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“I promised my dad,” I replied, a hard lump forming in my throat. “This was all he wanted.”

“Oh, Jo,” she said, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “He probably didn’t want you to be stressed and exhausted either.”

“I’m not all the time,” I protested. “Only when I’m studying.”

Cat raised an eyebrow and stared at me. “Which is all the time.”

“No. Like now, for instance, I’m going to walk home with you.” I rubbed my temples and tried to push down the feeling in my chest that said Cat was right and insisting on following through with all the promises I’d made to Dad was wrong. Mostly because, when that feeling was gone, nausea and panic over having no frickin’ clue what else I would do with my life took its place.

“Let’s get out of here.” I slung my backpack over both shoulders, and we trudged to the double doors.

Cat swiped at her cell phone, scanning her texts. “Apparently, Nate’s at the house with pizza, and he says all the girls are looking at him like they’re hungry.”

“Hungry for him or the pizza?”

She winked and pushed a door open for me. “Probably the pizza, but I can never been too careful.”

“True story.”

I’d always thought big, muscly guys like Nate were my type, since those were the kinds all my sorority sisters loved in movies and pinned to their Internet boards. I didn’t know if it was because Cat was my best friend or what, but I never felt that spark of attraction when I saw her boyfriend.

Just another thing that’s not the way you thought it would be, my brain mocked.

I told it to shut the hell up and listened to Cat chat about all the kinds of pizza Nate could make. Anything was better than thinking about Organic Chemistry.


Chapter 2


If there was anything I dreaded more than a second semester of organic chem, it was the introductory level business class I was being forced to take. At the beginning of that semester, Temple had decided that even science majors had to take a third-level writing class, and this business class fit the bill. I chose it because it was the only one that fit into my schedule — at a completely ridiculous eight thirty in the morning.

I actually didn’t mind the time all that much — strictly speaking, I was a morning person, waking up at 6 o’clock without a problem and falling asleep by midnight most evenings. When I was eight years old, I’d started accompanying dad to his practice for early weekend appointments, helping him sort through files and stock supply cabinets. One week, Dad was busy with his first patient while his second came into the waiting room. I kept her entertained for almost twenty minutes. That day Dad told me I had a great bedside manner and would make a wonderful doctor. Since then, that was all I’d ever wanted to do.

Having some business knowledge might help me set up a private practice one day — something Dad had always dreamed of doing but abandoned because oncology at a big hospital was more lucrative.

But my real reason for taking it was I knew general education classes were easy and the Orgo, Anatomy, and Stats courses that crowded the rest of my schedule spelled trouble for my semester GPA. An easy A would come in real handy.

So here I was, at the butt-crack of dawn, trying to find something cute to wear that would also keep me from freezing my ass off. The building where the class would be held was one of the newer, sleeker ones the University used to impress incoming freshmen. For the same reason, it was nestled deep inside campus at the far edge of a quad, a quarter mile away from any bus stop or road.

Which meant I had to seriously bundle up.

I flung open my closet door and sighed. The ratio of scuzzy clothes to anything cute in my closet since the beginning of freshman year had become embarrassing. Cat always said I looked good in anything, but I seriously doubted my uniform of t-shirts and yoga pants or worn jeans and sweaters was super attractive. When I did manage to get away from my schoolwork, I borrowed a top, trendy jewelry, or sparkly shoes from one of my Kappa Delta sisters.

What would a girl who’s serious about business class wear?

There were a couple of button-down shirts and even a simple dress with clean lines, but January in Philly called for a sweater. Sighing, I finally settled on a cardigan, clingy jeans, and some classic black boots my sister, Julianne, had given me for Christmas.

I glanced at the clock and frowned. All the time spent agonizing in front of my closet, combined with oversleeping — again — left zero minutes for my hair. I pulled it up in a ponytail. On the way out, I passed a mirror and rolled my eyes at my own reflection. Despite the cute little heel on my boots, I might as well be going to Thanksgiving dinner at the frickin’ Kennedy’s house. All I needed was a strand of pearls.

Yeah, this was prep school, goody-two-shoes fashion at its finest, but I didn’t have time to change now. The bus that stopped half a block from our house was merciless to anyone half a minute late and running after it.

Exactly seventeen minutes later — I always checked my watch every time I went anywhere new so that I knew exactly how long it took to get somewhere — I slumped, relieved, into a classroom desk. I was four minutes early, and one of only three students there — the other two were freshmen from the looks of them, with their huge backpacks and anxious glances at the University’s central website, looking for a syllabus.

Which, now that I thought about it, I hadn’t done. Dammit. I pulled out my laptop and got it fired up while I blew into my frozen hands, then pressed my fingers to my cheeks. The wind out there wasn’t messing around, and it had left any exposed skin red and cold to the touch.

Winter was going to suck if it kept up like this, especially with how far our sorority house was from the actual campus. Nice price to pay for the cutest and newest house in University City, I thought, rubbing my hands together. We’d moved into it at the beginning of my sophomore year, and the walk was only enjoyable in the nicest of weather.

Three minutes later, I’d regained feeling in my fingers, and most of the chairs behind me had filled up. I always sat near the front of the class because I had an addiction to my smart phone and needed the watchful eye of the professor to keep me focused in class.

Just one more reason I wasn’t cut out for pre-med.

I scolded myself for the thought, took a deep breath, and sat up straight in my chair just as the professor walked in. His eyes swept us, and his face fell just a bit before it molded into a soft smile. He was young — couldn’t have been older than thirty — and looked in surprisingly good shape for an academic, with his shoulders filling out his button-down shirt pretty decently. Dirty blond hair brushed against the upper rim of his glasses. He glanced at the clock and cleared his throat.

“Eight thirty on the dot then.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the soft British accent that came out of his mouth. From the way half the other girls in the class sat up and tossed their hair when they heard it, I could tell I was one of the few who hadn’t developed an insta-crush on him.

“As you can imagine, each semester one of us draws the short straw to teach the early morning Introduction to Business class. Suffice it to say, for the last six weeks, my colleagues have been calling me Shorty, a nickname I fail to appreciate on several levels.”

There was a chorus of giggles from behind me, and I rolled my eyes.

“You can call me Professor Simon or Rob, if it suits you better. Either way, I grade the same.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. The fact that this guy was friendly and knew how to crack a joke and so far hadn’t tried to look down any of the female students’ shirts already made him leaps and bounds better than a majority of the professors I’d had.

Professor Simon explained that attendance would be worth 15 percent of our grades, then read through the list of students in the class, marking us off as we raised our hands in response.

“Right,” he said, nodding at the group of us. “Just missing one today. Now, if you’ll open your syllabi…”

Just then, the door banged open, and a guy with wildly messy dark hair, heavy boots, and a ratty backpack filled the doorway. Even standing there, he looked like he could pass out at any minute, either from boredom or disinterest. What kind of insane individual would wear only a t-shirt and jeans in this weather? He was either stupid or crazy. Or both.

As he strode into the classroom, the scent of stale cigarette smoke followed him in a cloud. My stomach sunk when I realized where he was heading — to the only empty seat left in the class. The one right next to me.

He took a hard look at me when he slid into the chair, staring right into my eyes. I had no chance to think about just how bold that was because when their ice blue color flashed at me, it felt like a knife in my chest and the thrill of riding a rollercoaster all at the same time. I thought eyes like that only happened on models and movie stars in magazine photo shoots and, even then, only because they were Photoshopped.

It was so far beyond cheesy, but this guy’s eyes took my breath away.

Too bad the stench of smoke on his clothes did the same thing and not in a good way. I couldn’t help it — I turned to the side and coughed. When I looked back at him, he was leaning back in his seat, sliding his heavy black boots far out in front of the desk.

“William Hawkins?” Professor Simon asked, peering down at him.

The guy yawned. “Hawk,” he said. “Just Hawk.”

And with that, he leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head there, like speaking those three words had been all the effort he could handle for the day. When he buried his face in his arms like a pillow, I glimpsed the edge of some dark ink snaking along the skin just under the collar of his shirt. I leaned forward the slightest bit to see it before I caught myself and sat upright again, my face burning hot.

Professor Simon’s eyebrows shot up as he regarded Hawk for a second, and then he said, “Mr. Hawkins reminds me of a very important point on the syllabus. I am relaxed, but not so relaxed that I tolerate students strolling into class late. I expect you early or on time if you have any hope of passing with an ‘A.’”

The guy’s shoulders twitched up, and a small noise came from his buried nose. I couldn’t tell whether it was a snort or a laugh. Maybe both. Either way, it meant that he didn’t give a shit.

Whatever. I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose at the stale cigarette smell still lingering in the air. I wasn’t going to spend a single extra second worrying about this loser piece of trash.

“I know that fifteen weeks in a semester sounds like a lot of time right now,” Professor Simon said, “but it’s not at all. You’ll need to start thinking about your final projects this week. There are forty of you, and each project will include a 20-minute presentation, meaning we’ll need three-and-a-half class sessions to get through them all.” He turned back to the desk and took his laptop out of his bag.

I did the math in my head, and my hand shot up almost before the calculations were done. “No,” I said when he looked at me. “That would be for twenty of us.”

Realization flashed over his face. “Yes, twenty pairs. It’s a group project.”

I hated group projects more than anything. It made me twitch to think that someone else was partly responsible for my grade in a class, especially when grades were everything when it came to med school admissions. I scanned the room, mentally cataloguing my classmates. Hopefully, I’d be paired with one of the more responsible-looking underclassmen or maybe — ooh! — there was a tallish guy with a nice jaw, I noted approvingly. He was wearing sweats, but if he swapped them out for jeans and shaved…

Holy shit. My total lack of a boyfriend and/or sex life was showing.

Plus, I should probably pay attention to the details of the project. I tried to hold back a sigh and tuned back in to what Professor Simon was saying.

“…a business plan for the business of your choice. Present it to the class, and they’ll decide how much from the general pot of money to give to you. And that’s about all you need to know!”

Shit. I’d missed his whole intro to the project. I scrolled through the syllabus to see if it was in there, but all it said under “Final Project” was “To be discussed in class.”

Shit. At this point, I just had to hope that my partner had taken good notes — and it seemed most of my classmates had been because they were winding down from some mad keyboard tapping. Everyone except Hawk, whose head still rested on the desk.

“I’ve already matched you all with partners using a randomization software program so pay close attention. Just raise your hand as I call your name so you and your partner can find each other after class. You’ll want to meet as soon as possible because this project, if done well, will take several planning and work sessions.”

As Professor Simon called names and I watched hands go up around the room, the supply of responsible-looking underclassmen and other suitable partners dwindled before my eyes. He had called out a dozen pairs and then fifteen and then eighteen before it became clear who the randomization program had paired me with.

“Josephine Daly…” I was almost afraid to raise my hand. There were only three people left who hadn’t been paired off. “…and William Hawkins.”

From the smoky, sleeping, gorgeous-eyed pile of humanity that was William Hawkins, two fingers waved up once, then went back down again.

“Now,” Professor Simon said, “you’ll need to bring your idea for a business and a basic introduction with your reasoning for why this could be lucrative to next week’s class. Every step should be collaborative, so no trading jobs. Business is about working together and exchanging ideas and skills. Is that clear?”

A defeated breath whooshed out of me. Of course. Of course this would happen to me. As if there was nothing else ruining my semester.

The rest of the class passed quickly enough. Professor Simon wrote some definitions on the white board, assigned us to subscribe to the Wall Street Journal, then let us out ten minutes early.

All around me, people gathered their bags and pulled out their cell phones, crossing the classroom to exchange phone numbers with their project partners. I packed up my bag, sighed audibly, and stared at Hawk, still a heap of arms and head on his desk. My stare lasted one, two, three long seconds before I stood up and walked over to him. Only then did I hear the deep breathing of someone who had fallen fast asleep.

Frickin’ great.

Gingerly, I reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. Which — holy hell — was solid muscle. My fingers accidentally brushed just under the sleeve of his t-shirt, moving it up a bit and revealing even more ink. I yanked my hand away, shocked both by the smooth, warm, hard feel of his skin and the fact that I had actually touched it.

His head jerked up, and he sucked in air while blinking. “Oh, Christ. Did I seriously fucking fall asleep?”

Something about the completely boyish shock on his face mixed with the swear word made me laugh out loud. “You did. Do you remember the part where we were matched as partners on the group project?”

He yawned and swept his eyes down my body. I tugged at the edge of my cardigan, wishing I’d worn my usual plain t-shirt for no reason that I could identify.

“You’re Josephine?” His eyebrow quirked again. “Guess that makes sense.” He grabbed the strap of the dingy backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

Something made me propel my short frame after him. “Yeah. Joey, actually. And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He turned around and shrugged. The smell of cigarette smoke was back. I wrinkled my nose.

“Josephine is the kind of name a girl like you would have.”

My mouth dropped open, but he continued right over the words I wanted to say but hadn’t been able to form — or think of — yet.

“So you want to meet to work on this project, is that right?”

“Um, yeah. The sooner, the better.”

He just kept staring at me, waiting for me to say more.

“Um…we could go to the library?” Why was I stumbling so much? Probably his basic lack of social capability. “Tomorrow? I’ll be there all night.”

The corner of Hawk’s mouth quirked up in a smile, and my cheeks burned when I realized what I’d just said and how he had interpreted it. I pulled an eye roll to cover it up. “What time can you get there?”

He yawned again and turned toward the door. “I can do quarter after eight, earliest. Okay with you?”

“Yeah, I…I guess.” By the time I’d stuttered out my answer, he was already halfway down the hall.

“Wait — where?” I asked.

“At the library, like you said,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll find you.”

I shook my head and threw my hands up in the air. “Okay…” I called lamely back.

One second later, he’d left the building.


eARC Giveaway – FIVE June 25th releases!!! Including mine!!!

Hi, you sexy beasts. Yes, you. You love well-written, romantic, funny, and HOT New Adult books, right? Well, I have great news…FIVE of those very things are being unleashed into the world on June 25th! And I want you to have a chance to read one early. (Because I love you, of course!)

Just click on the below Rafflecopter link and follow the instructions! Easy peasy! Good luck! *kiss kiss*

a Rafflecopter giveaway

PICTURE PERFECT’s in the Amazon Top 100!!!!

We did it, you guys! You all helped spread the word about Picture Perfect and its little sale two weeks ahead of Subject to Change’s release, and now it’s sitting pretty at #82 in the Amazon Kindle store!

I’m awed and so, so grateful! I promised you all a kissing-in-the-rain scene from Subject to Change (Joey’s story, out 6/25) if we made it, so here it is! Thank you, so much, again!!!


“Look, I’m sorry I was late, okay? But since I’m a grown-up, sometimes I have grown-up things to deal with, and I’m late to class. Nothing I could do.” His tone had a condescending edge that made me feel like I was a little kid and he was my preschool teacher, which only multiplied my rage. “But you should be happy. I gave him the idea, and it’ll be fine.” He turned to go again.

“What exactly will be fine about this, Hawk? You can’t just half-ass your way through life. That divey bar is never gonna make any money, and even if it could, being a stupid cook there isn’t going to give you enough business sense to make it happen.” I had no idea where the words were even coming from, hadn’t ever consciously thought those things before, but now, they spilled out. “Besides, nothing gives you the right to fuck over my grade in a class I actually care about.”

“You? Care about this class? You told me you were only taking it to fill a GEC. I’m the one who actually works. At a business.”

My words ripped out in a scream. “Could you pay attention for one frickin’ second? I care about all my grades. I have to. Med school?” I pointed to myself, only realizing after I did it what a douche I must have looked like. Even though at this point I really didn’t give a shit. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean? I work, too, Hawk.”

He snorted. “Okay, sure. But I actually do care about this class. The whole thing — not just the grade. You’re lucky I even put your name on the project since — ”

“Could have fooled me,” I snarled back. “Maybe if you showed up on time for once I’d believe you.”

Hawk’s face fell, and his eyes grew dark. “Seriously? Some of us have to worry about shit other than classes. Don’t be such a princess.”

“Don’t you start with me. You were the one who signed up for a class this early. Set your damn alarm and come in on time.”

His gaze became hard again. “I was late. Big deal. It wasn’t my fault. Not this time anyway.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to say something more. There was no way I was accepting “it’s not my fault” as an excuse.

His stare was colder than the air eddying around is. “It’s none of your business, but it was family shit, okay? I’ll make sure nothing else disturbs your precious project that you don’t give a shit about except sort of do.” He walked over to his bike and swung one leg over.

“Our project! And your idea! You’d better damn well be planning to be awesome.”

“Please,” he said. “I may be running late, but I’m always awesome.”

I rolled my eyes, and he just stood there, smirking. I pulled out my phone and flicked my gaze to him. “Give me your phone number so this doesn’t happen again.”

He hesitated for a second and then motioned for my phone. After a few taps, he handed it back to me.

Even the way he gave me his phone number was assholish.

“God, I just…whatever. Fine.” I mumbled, taking it from him as I avoided his eyes by shoving it back in my bag. “Since I don’t know what your problem actually is and it’s none of my business, please try getting your shit together just a few minutes before the next time we decide to meet.” I spun on my heel and made it five steps before a huge, freezing raindrop splashed on my head, followed in the next two seconds by a dozen more. And then, before my brain could even process it, nearly-frozen rain was slicing through the air. My thin sweater would be soaked through in barely a minute.

And I didn’t even have an umbrella. Of course this day would get worse. Of course.

 “Shit!” I dug in my bag for some paper to shield my head, even though I knew it would be useless.

Hawk revved the bike. “Get on!” he called, his voice breaking up through the noise of rain slamming the ground.

“No, I’m fine!” I shouted, waving him off. Shit. I was already soaked, and I had to be at the hospital to shadow Doctor O’Donnell in forty-five minutes. I’d have to get all the way home to change and take care of my dripping hair and melting makeup first.

In a split second, the bike had rolled up on the sidewalk beside me.

“You can’t just drive on the sidewalk, Hawk!”

 “Who’s gonna stop me?”

I just stared, swiping at the rain that was covering my face, numbing it from making any expression.

“Obviously, you need to go home and change before you do anything else,” he continued. “Let me take you.”

He unstrapped the helmet from his head and put it on mine. Rain streaked down over the clear plastic face plate in wildly divergent rivulets. “Come on. You don’t want to be a late loser like me.” He rolled his eyes again. It was like blank-faced and eye-rolling were the only two expressions this guy had.

But he had a point. There was no way I could be late to Doctor O’Donnell’s office. Not after last time. I looked down at my shoes, which were well-soaked by now, and nodded. His white t-shirt was soaked with rain, too, and when he leaned forward to grasp the handlebars, I saw at least six distinct muscles in his back flexing and stretching.

Holy. Shit.

More heat crept into my cheeks, and I focused on steadying my breathing.

“Come on,” he motioned, reaching back and catching my hand. At the moment his warm skin touched mine, I was mesmerized. He had to have been some kind of a magician because I swore that, as hard as I hated this guy, in that moment, I would have agreed to stay on that bike with him for the whole afternoon — our warm bodies touching and being drenched in freezing rain — without a second thought. When he gave my arm a tug — not hard, but gentle, patient — I snapped out of it. I swung one leg over the bike almost automatically. The same thrill of my front pressing up against his back rushed through me, except intensified by the rain, by the urgency, by the anger-fueled words we’d just hurled at each other. I was intensely aware of my crotch pressed against his butt, my breasts smooshed up against his muscled back.

I had to snap out of it or lust for this guy whose head I wanted to tear off would make me fall off the bike.

He flipped up the visor of his helmet and half-turned his head toward me. “Scoot forward.”

When he spoke, shivers rattled through my spine. Probably because it was cold. The rain was freezing, so I shivered. Totally normal.

Then, after one second of me not obeying, he grabbed my arm and pulled me forward, then placed my hand on his stomach.

“Hold on tight,” he said against my ear again. More shivers.

Holy. Hell.

He pulled out onto North Broad Street, and as we cruised through University City, my fingers dug into his abs. I didn’t move them and tried not to feel up what was underneath the thin, short-sleeved shirt he wore, but dear Lord in heaven, it was impossible. My unintentional first-sight suspicions about Hawk were right. Not only was he solid muscle, but those muscles were so clearly defined I probably could have drawn them by touch.

The thoughts hit me before I could stop them — how badly I wanted to scoot the shirt up and run my hands over the ridges of abs just underneath. And when I thought that, pictured his face in my head and where his hands would be traveling on me at the same time, I heated up so much that the cold rain didn’t affect me a single bit.

We couldn’t have been on that bike for more than eight minutes, but it was the hottest eight minutes I’d had in years.

Yeah, that was really sad.

When he pulled up in front of the house and the bike stopped vibrating, I tried to move my legs — and couldn’t. They were too shaky for me to even comprehend stepping down and swinging the opposite leg over. Was it the anger or the rain, the fear I’d be late or simply the closeness to Hawk?

What was this guy doing to me? Clearly, I hated him and wanted to jump him at the same time. Which totally made sense.

Even though I didn’t want my hands to leave Hawk’s stomach, I also didn’t want to add any more complexity to this thing than there already was. So I sat up straight, slowly pulling my hands back. I steadied myself with one hand on the seat behind me and hooked the fingers of the other inside the bottom of the helmet, desperate to have something non-weird to do with them.

“You okay?” he asked, looking back, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I just…bike legs, maybe. I feel a little shaky.”

Hawk snorted. “Most people don’t have that problem.” He dismounted the bike, kicked out the kickstand, and helped me off.

“I’m not most people.”

Hawk gave a rough, short laugh. “No, you sure aren’t.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demanded. I had a few minutes until I absolutely had to be inside, and the rain had slowed to a trickle. I was not letting this guy get the last word in this argument, which was strange. Josephine Daly, the one who wore cardigans and flats to class and never said a mean word to anyone, would have let this conversation die long ago.

His eyes softened with a slight smile as he reached up to remove the helmet. “Well, this makes absolutely no sense. I’m pretty sure you’re an entitled little prep, and I shouldn’t like you,” he said, his fingertips brushing under my jaw and then down my neck. “But I kind of do.”

Without warning, without any indication he was going to do it besides a hard look into my eyes, he stepped forward and kissed me. His warm lips were unexpectedly soft, covering mine cautiously, and making an oasis of burning heat in the middle of the freezing rain.

I gasped the slightest bit at my heart dropping into my stomach, at the world starting to spin around me. I should have stepped back, slapped him, and threw the helmet at his feet. That’s what Josephine would have done.

But Hawk wasn’t kissing Josephine — he was kissing Joey. So instead, I pressed in. Not only that, I grabbed both sides of his face, raking my fingertips through his hair. Water poured over both of us, but when my lips parted and our tongues tangled together for two, five, ten seconds, I didn’t give a shit.

Finally, I broke away to stare at him, gasping, dizzy, lost in the insane moment that just passed. My whole body shivered, wishing it could go back and relive the most amazing kiss I’d ever had a thousand times. Hawk’s breaths were heavy and water dripped from his hair, but he just stood there, never breaking eye contact.

The smile growing on his face must have matched mine.

We stood there for two heartbeats longer. Then he said, “See you later, Josephine.”

He pulled the helmet down over his head, was on the bike in a flash, and brought it roaring to life with the flick of his fingers at the ignition.

My hand flew to my cheek. “Oh my God — the project! When?”

“You’re the one who has my number. It’s your move. ” The smile remained, his eyebrows flicked up, and then he was gone.

So much for not making things complicated.


Subject to Change by Alessandra Thomas, out 6/25!
Can’t wait!!!


How Reading and Writing Romance Changed Author Laurelin Paige’s Life

A touching and important guest post from debut author Laurelin Paige (scroll to the end for her info, darlings!)

I’m a girl who bloomed early, so to say. I was into hearts and flowers and sex from the minute I discovered what it was. My Barbie dolls only got dressed so they could undress each other and have sex.

Such precocious antics were frowned on in the conservative religious town I grew up in. I learned to feel “dirty” about my sexual thoughts. So despite my natural tendency to be a sexual being, I stifled my impulses and tried to fit into the culture of my upbringing.

I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty with a guy I picked up at a party. It wasn’t how I’d wanted it to happen, but after so many years of stifling my sexual identity, I lost control. And I felt dirty because that’s how I was taught to feel.

This was how my sexual experiences went after that: get turned on, have sex, feel guilty. I hated myself for anything sexual I did.

Even after I was married, I wasn’t comfortable with sex. It deeply affected my relationship with my husband. Our sex life was, um, not good.

Until I started reading romance novels.

No joke. Reading and then writing romance changed how I felt about sex. It changed how I felt about me. My confidence soared.  And it one thousand percent changed my relationship with my husband for the better.

I think about my experience and the similar stories I’ve heard from other women when I write. I feel a responsibility to betray sexual relationships as honestly and naturally as possible, and in detail, even. Because I know that the books I write have the power to change people.  Hopefully I’m giving back to others what was given to me—confidence and pride in, not only my sexual self, but in myself in general.

Laurelin Paige is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching Mad Men and the Walking Dead, or dreaming of Adam Levine. She is represented by Bob Diforio of D4EO Literary Agency. Her debut contemporary romance FIXED ON YOU is out June 24.


Twitter: @laurelinpaige




Book Description:
Stalking and restraining orders are a thing of Alayna Pierce’s past. With her MBA newly in hand, she has her future figured out – move up at the nightclub she works at and marry the manager, David. He’s perfect for her because, although he’s attractive, he doesn’t get her all turned inside out and upside down like some other men have. It’s a safe plan, one that assures she’ll remain in control of her obsessive love disorder.
But what Alayna didn’t figure on is Hudson Pierce, the new owner of the nightclub. He’s smart, rich, and gorgeous – the kind of guy Alayna knows to stay away from if she wants to keep her past tendencies in check. Except, Hudson’s fixed his sights on her. He wants her in his bed and makes no secret of his plans to seduce her. Avoiding him becomes impossible after he offers a business proposition Alayna can’t turn down and she’s drawn further into his universe, unable to resist his gravitational pull.
Soon Alayna’s charmed by Hudson in every way possible and the control over her old behaviors slip. When she learns Hudson has a dark history of his own, she realizes too late that she’s fallen for the worst man she could possibly get involved with. Or maybe their less than ideal pasts give them an opportunity to heal each other and finally find the love their lives have been missing.

Cover Reveal – HOW TO DISCIPLINE YOUR VAMPIRE by the fabulous Mina Vaughn!

I met my friend Mina Vaughn right around the time I started getting ready to publish NA, and she had her silly, dirty, BDSM manuscript on submission. She is sweet, sassy, and pretty dirty, too. I love her to bits. 

Well, guess what? That silly dirty manuscript about schoolteachers and vampires SOLD to Pocketstar (Simon and Schuster!) Time flies, chickadees, and today is that book’s cover reveal! I can’t WAIT till this little gem hits shelves.

Here’s all you need to know:

Cerise Norrel, Type A substitute teacher by day, is ready to quit
being a Domme. Despite her best intentions, none of her partners can
keep up with her scene fetish and attention to detail—let alone her
demand that they have a costume and set waiting every afternoon by the
time she’s home from school.

Over a dozen potential subs have left her in the past year, but just
when Cerise thinks it’s impossible—that she’ll have to go back to
vanilla relationships, or be alone forever–she meets William, who
wants to make all her fantasies come true. He turns her home into a
geisha’s dream apartment, a concert hall with a grand piano (which he
uses to play an original composition while wearing a tuxedo), and even
rents an abandoned loft for a zombie apocalypse scene—complete with
canned goods.

But there’s something strange about William. Well, a lot of strange
things. He must be absurdly rich, since he can afford to provide
extravagant costumes and props on a daily basis without having to
leave work early. He must be insane, since he puts up with Cerise’s
over-the-top demands. And most importantly, he doesn’t redden when
he’s spanked, and his skin is as cool as satin sheets. When Cerise
discovers she’s become domme to the infamous “Chilly Willy,” as he’s
known throughout BDSM urban lore, she begins to find out there’s a
whole lot more to her handsome submissive than a creative mind and a
hard body.

And when it’s William, ironically, who starts pressing Cerise to give
him the kind of commitment she’s never given anyone, it’ll take
everything she has to work through her issues, confront her past, and
learn to be vulnerable.

 Doesn’t that sound AWESOME??? 

And now for one of the coolest cover reveals I’ve ever seen – a quick little vid! (If you can’t watch the vid, I pasted it below, don’t worry.) Without further ado….


Mina Vaughn is an international woman of mystery and a shoe whore with a heart of gold. When she’s not writing her unique brand of silly smut, she’s plundering Sephora for any pin-up girl makeup she can find. Mina’s debut novel, an erotic comedy entitled How to Discipline Your Vampire is about a punishment-seeking vampire who meets a quirky Domme with a serious role play fetish, coming out August 19, 2013 from Simon and Schuster’s Pocket Star.


Pre-Order for only $1.99.  That’s less than your morning coffee!  Trust me, the buzz from this will last a lot longer.  😉

Or add it to your Goodreads TBR:


The Perfect Picture

A few weeks ago, I chose my avatar to post on Amazon and Goodreads. I sifted through picture after picture to find one that would work, but I finally settled on this:


I realized I chose it because it encapsulates all the things that are my idea of me at my “Perfect-” My gorgeous red hair, lots of natural light, the peace and calm to write, and, of course, being in bed (come on, you guys knew it was coming.) Yeah, I’m super foxy, and those are all the things that make me feel like it.

SO why am I gloating all about this perfect, perfect picture of me? Because I’m wondering if you’ll let me see yours.

I want to see your Perfect Pictures. The pictures that make you most proud of your body, your work, who you are. I want to see you in evening gowns or footie pajamas, sports uniforms and gardening clothes and hijabs, hiking boots or lingerie or sweats.

Perfect Picture

Licensed for Creative Commons by Queen of the UniverseLicensed for Creative Commons by Sean DeReilingerLicensed for Creative Commons by Sean DeReilinger

Perfect picture1

Licensed for Creative Commons by Andrew Ferguson

Show me skin, or don’t, I don’t care. I’ll think you look perfect, because it’s your perfect picture. (Just no private parts, please, my publicist will have a heart attack.)


Licensed for Creative Commons Use by Rachel A.K.


Send me your perfect picture (to, and if you can, tell me why you love it so. Tell me what it says about you, what it makes you feel about  yourself.

I’m gonna pick the ten that make me cry the most (because I’m a crier, you guys,) and then my gorgeous readers are going to pick their five faves. I’ll be giving out copies of my debut New Adult novel, PICTURE PERFECT, as well as some other goodies, as prizes.

Thanks for playing. I can’t wait to see YOUR perfect pictures.

PICTURE PERFECT’s One Week Out $.99 sale!

Hello, you gorgeous darlings!

You have made Picture Perfect‘s first week out in the world so incredible! By its third day on the market, it rocketed to the #122 best selling position on Amazon, and little old me has been one of the top 100 best selling authors for days!

So, we’re throwing a little party, this little book and me. For a limited time only, Picture Perfect is on sale for just $.99! So, if you were thinking of grabbing it, or recommending it to a friend, now’s the time.  Just click here to run over and snag your copy for less than a dollar.

Thanks again, darlings! This has been one of the best weeks ever.

Help PICTURE PERFECT reach the Amazon top 100! (please?)

I can’t even believe I’m writing this.

In its third official day out (today!) my debut New Adult novel PICTURE PERFECT reached the #169th best selling slot on Amazon!!!!

(Yeah, that’s the expression on my face right about now. Complete and total shock that anything this awesome is happening.)

So, gorgeous readers, I need your help with something. I really want to see my sweet, sexy “fat girl book” find its own little spot on the Amazon top 100.

I don’t have much to offer you, but I think you might like what I *do* have – MORE CAT AND NATE SCENES!!!!

When we hit the top 100 (yes, you and me together) I’ll release a cut epilogue scene from Cat and Nate’s Spring Break back to California. There’s an old camp cabin, a picnic on a mountain, some horseback riding, and…well, if you know Cat and Nate, I’m sure you can guess what else will be in there *cough*SMEX*cough*


So, spread the word, my loves! I can’t wait to show you that scene! And most of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH for helping us get this far! You all are incredible.

(Oh! And click here to buy Picture Perfect for just $3.99 on Amazon! Thank youuuuu!)



Picture Perfect is Now Available!!!

Hello, my gorgeous friends.

I told you a few weeks ago I told you exactly why I was so proud to write Picture Perfect – a book about a girl in college struggling with body image – a so-called “fat-girl book.” I think a lot of us can identify with not feeling comfortable in our own skin.

Today, I’m so excited that Cat’s journey to learning about love – both for herself and others – and all the steamy stops along the way – is NOW AVAILABLE via Amazon and Barnes and Noble!!!!

Buy at Amazon

Buy at Barnes and Noble

And here’s what superstar Lyla Payne, author of Broken at Love, has to say about it: 

“Picture Perfect is an engaging story about not only finding love, but finding ways to love yourself. It made me cry, then smile through my tears, and has earned a permanent place in my heart.” -Lyla Payne, bestselling author of Broken at Love.

I hope you enjoy reading, you stone-cold foxes! If you do, don’t forget to leave a review where you bought it and everywhere else too! It’s the best way to give an author a hug, kiss, or sexy wink.