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When Mine to Protect was released in 2022, I had no idea I'd develop a full series around the Amato family. Now two years later, the Blood and Bourbon series has wrapped and I've been inspired to write an extended ending for our beloved first couple--Alister and Ariana. Mine to Protect can be read and enjoyed without the following extension, but if you loved these characters as much as I did and want to see even more of their happily ever after, keep reading. And, for more mafia romance set in New Orleans, read Mine to Tease (available now) and Mine to Love (coming February 11, 2025) Part 1: Alister Sophia out did herself. She’s turned our typically all-white ballroom into a winter wonderland. Dimly lit crystal chandeliers reflect on the shiny white floors, almost like little snowflakes. While Christmas trees decorated with ornaments in shades of pink and red and adorned with diamonds, pearls, and lace surround the perimeter of the room. It’s magical, glamourous, and somehow still cozy. It is the perfect setting for our family’s reunion. Sophia and Cassio make the rounds, greeting the guests with large and shiny smiles. This is their homecoming just as much as it’s mine. And, with her pregnancy, who knows when they’ll be back in New Orleans after the holiday? My cousin, Damon, dances with his wife while Gio tends to his love at their private home, away from all the fuss. Away from the fuss is where I’d like to be. The only reason I agreed to let Sophia host this extravagant party is because I’d hoped it would be more than a party, more than a Christmas Ball, more than a reunion of sorts for my family. I’d hoped it would be a celebration of mine and Ariana’s love. The eight caret emerald cut ring I’ve chosen for Ariana weighs heavy in my pocket. The priest I invited waits anxiously by the catering station. Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to think tonight could be our wedding or to even think that after all this time, Ariana would heed my invitation. That she would still love me, still choose me. I shake my head as worrisome thoughts make my cheeks hot and my throat constrict. I have to get out of here. Loosening my bowtie and unbuttoning the top button of my dress shirt, I hurry out the back entrance of Laroux House, grabbing a glass of bourbon from a passing tray as I do. My insides burn as I down the beverage while galloping down the concrete steps towards the quieter gardens. I need as much space between me and that party as possible. I never did like these loud affairs, but tonight’s festivities irk me in a different way. If Ariana doesn’t come, then this whole night is nothing more than a painful reminder of the love I’ve lost—the life I was too careless to preserve. A year—it was too long. While Ariana was never far from my heart, perhaps the distance I put between us was too damaging to overcome? I collapse onto the bottom step as reality sinks in. What if it was all for nothing? Well, not nothing. I know I did the right thing by giving up my crown, by stepping away from the Mafia. I haven’t exactly adjusted to this new way of life yet, but it certainly seems to suit Damon and Gio. And they were always far more receptive to the ways of the Mafia than I. But if my new life is a life without Ariana, then I don’t want it. I might as well be back in Europe, off the grid. My shoulders sink and I lower my gaze to the gravel beneath my feet. That is until the sound of a horse’s hooves draws my attention. Part 2: Ariana My chest flutters with nerves so intense it feels as if my heart may beat right out of my chest. Perhaps I was wrong to think this gorgeous dress—made of white tulle and red velvet—is from Alister. Perhaps I was wrong to assume he’s returned. But only he would sneak into my apartment and leave a gift and invitation in such a dramatic fashion. I lift my shaky fingers to the diamond and ruby necklace resting heavy on my chest. He’s done this before—right before he left New Orleans, to be exact. And if the invitation was from Gio or Sophia, it would’ve just been a text. No, I can feel it. Alister is back. He’s come for me, just in time for Christmas. That thought has my lips spreading into the biggest of smiles. I wonder if he looks the same? I wonder if he smells the same? I wonder what the past year has been like for him? I wonder if I’ll be able to speak at all when I see him? All I want is to throw my arms around him, squeeze him tight, and never let him go. And yet, there’s a little pit in my stomach that lets me know I’m scared. What if this is just another let down? What if, after all this time, we feel like strangers to one another? What if reality doesn’t compare to all the fantasies I’ve concocted in my head over the past year of what our reunion would be like? Perhaps, worst of all, what if we don’t make it? What if all this longing, hoping, praying—all the heartache I’ve held onto and lived in for the past year—ends up being futile? What if we were never truly meant for happily ever after? What if we were just meant to help each other—he to help me find my mother’s killer and my true family and me to help him solve the mysteries of his past and inspire him to live the life he’s always felt was just out of reach? What if we’ve already served our purpose? As brave of a face as I put on, as much as I bury myself in my work and pretend I’m fine, my heart can’t take that kind of defeat. It’s then that the horse-drawn carriage slows and the exterior of Laroux House peeks through the trees lining our gravel path. I take a deep breath, knowing all the questions will soon be answered, even if I’m not prepared for the truth. But, as the sound of footsteps—quick and relentless—reach my ears, all the anxiety in me instantly calms. Alister stands before me, breathless with flushed cheeks. There is a nervous quiver to his lip as his eyes widen with anticipation as he takes me in. His expression mimics the desperation gnawing at my insides and I know—he’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed him. “Allow me,” he says then, extending his hand to help me from the carriage. Suddenly, I feel warm and my lips draw into a calm smile. I place my hand in Alister’s—our embrace is simple and yet it feels like home. He feels like home. Though the moment is short as he switches the position of his hands and pulls me from the carriage with surprising quickness and force. The movement pulls me from the metaphorical sleep I’ve been in for the past year and wakes me to reality, the reality that finally includes him. He really is back. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he says, pulling me tightly against him. In his arms, everything feels just as it used to be . He smells the same, like cinnamon. He looks the same—black as night hair with golden brown eyes that seem to glow. Even his facial hair is groomed exactly as the last day I saw him. In his arms, it’s like no time has passed at all. It’s like we’ve been frozen in a Christmas snow globe, placed on a shelf. And now, we’ve come back to life, thawed, despite the chilly December air nipping at my skin. “You made me wait for you an entire year. The least you can do is wait an hour or two for me.” My reply is more coy than I truly feel. I want to crawl inside his skin and stay there, inside his safety and warmth forever. Though, perhaps, the more realistic solution is to have him crawl inside me. “I’m going to have my hands full with you, aren’t I?” he asks. I tilt my head to the side with narrowed eyes. “Did you expect anything less?” Alister shakes his head and brings his finger to my chin. The subtle movement steals my breath. It’s then that he brings his lips to mine and all words, all senses, fail me. My body goes limp in his arms as we kiss each other desperately. He bites at my lower lip while I invade his mouth with my tongue. He tastes the same as when we shared our first kiss—like bourbon. Somehow that taste makes this feel even more real. Tears well in my eyes and I wrap my arms around his neck, deepening our kiss. My forehead aches with all the words I wish to say, all the pain I’ve endured in his absence, and all the hopes I have for the future. My body has just as much of a reaction to mine and Alister’s reunion as my heart. “Ariana, my love,” Alister says, his voice raspy as he breaks our kiss. “Yes.” My voice is nothing but a whisper as my eyes still closed, drip tears. “Sweetheart, I’m going to need you to look at me.” I nod, eyes still closed, as my face contorts with all the emotion I’ve held inside the past three-hundred and something days. I break. These aren’t dripping tears, they are puddles flooding down my face. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know this time apart was hard. I know you’re hurting and you’ve been hurting. I’ve been hurting too.” Alister pulls me tight against him and holds me while I shake. Softly, he plants a kiss amongst my raven-colored locks. “But that’s all over now, okay? The wait is over and now, now, we can truly live. We can be together. We can have our happily ever after. If you want it, it’s yours. And so is this.” With one arm still wrapped tightly around me, I open my watery eyes to find Alister reaching for something in his pocket. I gasp. Quickly, I wipe the remnants of tears from my eyes and watch as he pulls a little box from his pocket. “Is that?” I look from the box to Alister with my mouth agape. He nods. It’s then that his eyes gloss over with tears of his own. “This ring, this home, and my heart are all yours—if you want them? If you can find it in your heart to give me a second chance, I promise to spend the rest of my life making your days happy and filled with love. I promise you everything, Ariana Valentine, because you deserve everything.” Alister doesn’t even wait for my answer before slipping the giant ring onto my finger. To no surprise, it fits perfectly. He knows me—he knows me as if I am his most prized possession and I am. “If I want?” I repeat his words. “Alister Amato, I want nothing more than to be yours.” Part 3: Alister Hand in hand, Ariana and I walk into the ballroom. Little does everyone know we’re now married. Sophia will be pissed she missed the opportunity to plan us an extravagant wedding. Gio won’t exactly be happy he missed the occasion either. But he’s needed at home and I couldn’t wait a moment longer to make this beautiful woman my bride and my wife. Now, I can’t wait to get her to my—our—bedroom. As we cut across the dancefloor, Sophia and Cassio make eye contact, lifting their glasses to us. Ariana and I smile at them. Sophia never doubted us for a moment. Even when I second guessed things, or perhaps even Ariana struggled to remain hopeful, Sophia remained certain. Without her, our union wouldn’t be possible. None of what happened over the past year would’ve been. Damon, Gio, and I have all joined her and Cassio in the realm of happiness. It’s a strange place I never thought I’d get to visit, let alone take up residence in. But, now that I’m here, I never want to leave. “Excuse me, sir. I’m Aidan Cro—” I bristle as Josephine’s proxy king approaches, stopping Ariana and I in our tracks right before we reach the marble staircase. “Impeccable timing, Cross,” I say, maneuvering Ariana away from him. “For the foreseeable future, I’m unavailable. Should that change, I’ll let you know.” I leave him with a wink, assuring him I’ll find him if he needs a lesson or two on how to run this city. But, with Gio’s plan unfolding—the one that includes Zane, Xander, and the others—I don’t think that’ll be necessary. “Now, where were we?” I ask, turning to Ariana as I guide her up the stairs. “Taking it all in,” she says, turning to face the Christmas extravaganza beneath us. She watches the dancing couples sway around the dancefloor, the children shake the presents beneath the trees—wondering what’s inside. She even spots her dad and her extended family amongst the crowd. “We can stay, if you’d like. There’s no rush for what happens next when we have the rest of our life.” “No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It’s just…” I know what she’s thinking without her saying it. She was alone for so many years—all her life, truly. She never had a family and spent years wondering why her mother was murdered so brutally when she was so young. She questioned everything, never finding peace, never having anyone to rely on. It’s nice to know I could give her everything she’d been missing—peace, happiness, a family, a support system—just as she’s given me everything that always evaded me. We truly are meant for each other. And, as I squeeze her hand and cast my eyes out upon the crowd, same as her, I see the light our love has allowed to break through the clouds that once covered my world in shades of gray. “I know,” I whisper then. “I feel it too.” She squeezes my hand in return and then shifts her attention to me. “Now, I’m ready to feel something else. I’m ready to feel you.” Her words steal my smile and have my eyes dancing across her body. I admire the way her raven-colored hair shines. Her long, thick curls are pulled neatly into some kind of an up-do. I can’t wait to mess it up. Her delicate heart-shaped face is so sweet and innocent-looking, I almost feel bad for the things I’m about to do to her. But the playfulness hidden deep in her gaze and the mischievousness etched in her brows let me know she’s up for the challenge. It’s then that I bring my hand to the bodice of her strapless ballgown. I rub the delicate lace between my fingers as an excuse to brush my hand against her chest. She lowers her gaze and watches my hands, perhaps questioning how far I’ll go within full visibility of our guests. Don’t worry, mi amore. I protect what’s mine and you are mine—in every sense of the word. “You remember what I told you the first time we did this?” I ask. “The only time,” she corrects. “How could I forget?” “Repeat it to me now,” I command, gliding my hand down the curves of her breast and waist. As my fingers reach her hip, I tug her toward me with force. She gasps, but loves every second of it. “ I love you. Whatever happens next, I want you to remember that. ” I nod. “And what else did I tell you?” Ariana closes her eyes as I bring my lips to her neck. She moans. “Say it, wife. I need to make sure you remember.” “Alister, I trust you not to—” “Say it, please .” I pull away from her then and look her in the eyes. “I have waited an entire year to have you in my arms, in my bed, an entire year to feel you. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t know if I can control myself enough not to.” Ariana shakes her head. “Alister, I’m just as eager for this as you are. My body craves you. I’m wet right now, ready for you to take me in ways I can’t even imagine. So, if you need me to say it, I will. But the same goes for you. Alister, I crave you so desperately I’m afraid I may hurt you. If I do, tell me and I’ll stop. ” She glides her hands up my chest, then slyly unbuttoning two more of my buttons so half my chest is exposed. “ Or have me make it up to you after in any way you choose .” She leans forward and kisses my bare skin. “ Whatever you do, don’t forget I love you. ” I bring my hand to the back of her neck as she kisses the place just above my heart. “Thank you,” I whisper. And without further delay, I scoop her into my arms and carry her the rest of the way up the stairs. In unimaginable ways? Hmm, lucky for her, I have an extremely vivid imagination. Part 4: Ariana Alister shoves me against the bedroom door, kissing me ferociously as he fumbles with the knob. Any chill the winter air left on my skin has vanished, chased away by the heat of passion radiating between us. Once—we’ve only done this once before. That one memory of us was all I’ve had to cling to, all I’ve had to keep me company at night while he’s been away. Now, with him in my grasp, my heart races with anticipation. My legs tingle with excitement. And my dress itches my skin, ready to be stripped from me. Alister holds me by the throat as his tongue invades me. There’s a possessive sting to his touch and yet, it only makes me open my mouth wider. I want all of him. Every inch of his tongue. I want it slithering down my throat until I can’t breathe. The door gives way behind me and Alister steadies me by the back of my neck. He breaks our kiss and I take him in. It’s the moment of silence before the ravaging. The first time we did this, we took things slow. We savored it. We savored each other. We examined every inch of each other’s bodies, took note of every scar, every freckle. It was a moment to last a lifetime. But, tonight—nothing about this will be slow. No, tonight will be raw, rough, and relentless. As the glow of his brown eyes darkens and his gaze drifts from my face to my breasts, I take a step back into the all-black, dimly lit bedroom. Alister’s jaw tightens as I take another step. With his shirt nearly half off already, he shucks out of his suit jacket, leaving it on the hall floor before crossing the threshold of his bedroom. His eyes slowly drift up my body once more as he slams the door closed behind him. I take another step back, inching my way toward the bed as Alister moves toward me. He’s like an animal, a lion stalking his prey. I quite like feeling like the innocent lamb headed to the slaughter. I want him to take me, claim me, unleash himself on me. And, once I’ve felt him, once my flesh has been marked by him—quite literally—I will return the favor. Alister tugs at his shirt with such force, the remaining buttons scatter across the floor as he throws the garment aside. As my knees bump against the edge of the bed, I gasp and find myself cornered, ready for the taking. Alister’s eyes narrow into slits as he comes closer. Reaching for his belt, he discards it. Next, he removes his pants. By the time he reaches me, he is completely naked. He stands before me, even more chiseled than before. The sight of him gives new weight to the words he had me recite. Alister has always been strong, large, muscular, and capable of inflicting pain. And while I never back down from a challenge—perhaps it’s the FBI agent in me or the restless spirit inside me that’s been fighting for her life since she was young—but this Alister, I’m not sure if I can stand toe to toe with him. He might actually hurt me. “Now, it’s your turn,” he says, his breath tickling my neck. Without warning, he spins me around so that my back is to him. His movements are so quick and forceful, I lean forward and brace myself against the bed with my palms. I pinch my eyes closed, unable to ignore the yearning between my legs. My vagina aches for him. And I’ve never been more wet. My slick desire pours out of me as Alister brings a knife to the laces of my corset bodice, slicing through them with ease. The knife clangs against the hardwood as he throws it to the side. Within seconds, he has my gorgeous—now destroyed—dress at my ankles. That was my wedding dress. As Alister plants a kiss to my ass, covered only by the tiny fabric of my white lace thong, it finally hits me. We’re married. Today was my wedding. That was my dress. And this is my husband. This is my life! How I began today and how I’m ending it is nothing short of whiplash. My heart aches with tears I wish to cry but refuse to. Not now. I have the rest of my life to reflect on our crazy rollercoaster of a love story. But tonight, tonight, there is no room for thoughts or tears. Only love. Only passion. Only him and all the deliciously wicked things he plans to do to me. Picking me up from behind, Alister throws me on the bed. I’m left in nothing but my thong, high heels, and the glittering necklace weighing heavy against my chest. There’s something erotic about it. I feel sexy. I feel like this could be my new uniform within the confines of our home. Alister smirks as he joins me in bed, positioning himself between my legs. “What’s that look for?” I ask. “Nothing, my love. I’m just appreciating my stunning wife.” I smile, though it’s quickly stolen from me as a moan escapes me. Alister kisses my clit through the lace of my panties. Kisses, nips, licks. He toys with me until my legs shake. “My dear husband, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will kill you.” My words rip through me, raspy and desperate, as I grab hold of Alister’s thick hair. He laughs. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we? I just got you back.” Alister breaks my hold and removes my underwear in one quick motion. Adjusting himself overtop of me, he brings his hand to my throat. Yes, that’s it—claim me. I gasp as he enters me and chokes me at the same time. Despite how wet I am, it takes my body a moment to adjust to him. It’s been too long. I’m too tight. He’s too big. This is all too much and yet, it’s everything I want. “I’m never losing you again,” he says then as he thrusts in and out. “You’re stuck with me forever, Ariana Amato.” I nod, my tears finally escaping me as Alister’s grip around my neck leaves me gasping for air and his relentless, powerful thrusts have my insides tightening. Part 5: Alister Ariana’s pussy feels like home. I’ve been back in New Orleans for a week now and yet, this city, this room—nothing has been able to ease the emptiness inside me like her presence, like her pussy. I thrust in and out, finally releasing my grip on her neck as her face turns red and her arms shake as she lay beneath me. “I love you,” I whisper as she catches her breath. “I love you too,” she says. Her words let me know she’s okay and they give me the encouragement to proceed. Lifting one of her legs and placing it on my shoulder, I deepen my thrusts. She cries out and pinches her eyes closed. “God, you feel amazing,” I hiss. The way her body wraps around me is addictive. As much as I fear I may hurt her, I may hurt myself if I give in to my every craving for her. She wraps her arms around my neck to remain in place as my body jolts her on the slippery sheets. “Good girl.” Redirecting my desperation to her breasts, I pull her nipple between my teeth. I suck her hard, grazing my teeth over her sensitive bud to intensify the desire coiling inside her. We’ve got a long night of fucking ahead of us, but I can feel that she’s close to her first orgasm. After choking her so intensely, I decide to grant it to her. “Alister, Alister,” she says, tapping her fingers against my back as if she’s quite literally tapping out. Hmm, makes me remember our first dual out by the pool. Submission isn’t a word in Ariana Valentine’s vocabulary. But, it seems my wife has a changed heart. “Cum for me,” I command before taking her other nipple into my mouth. She hisses. Oh, is this one more sensitive? She shakes her head as if fighting her orgasm. “Don’t worry, mi amore. We’re just getting started. I just really want to see you lose control. I want you to release all the cum you’ve been keeping inside for me this year. And then I want to slurp up every drop before filling you with my own.” Ariana’s body tenses beneath me. Her core tightens and her hips lift. They strain against the bed as she adjusts herself, exposing her clit to more friction. Her insides grip my dick tightly and it takes everything in me to fight against my own release. And then, with rapid breaths turned to screams, Ariana cums. I gasp and grunt as her vagina squeezes and pulses around me. Her body pulls me in as if she wants to milk me for cum, the same as I pound her for hers. I can’t keep the satisfied grin off my face as this gorgeous spit-fire of a woman bends to my will and my body. As she finally settles, I kiss away the sweat droplets on her forehead and remove myself so I can follow through on my promise. Ariana is still gasping for air as I bring my mouth to her pussy. She cries out as I drag my tongue over her tender flesh. “Mmm, you taste like heaven.” I flick my tongue over her entrance, cleaning her of cum. As I finish, I kiss her clit softly and the look on her face lets me know it won’t be long before she’s ready for round two. But first… I crawl up her body and bring the tip of my dick to her perfect lips. “Open for me, wife.” Now Ariana is the one smiling. She opens for me and I fill her with my dick. She gags as she does her best to suck as I fuck her throat. I watch her closely as I slip in and out of her, making sure I don’t suffocate her. Yet, seeing her like this—beneath me, struggling to take all of me and yet desperate to—is just what I need to fill her throat with my cum. Ariana is my equal in every way—strong, smart, full of fire and love. She will challenge me and I her. And, like me, she will rise to every challenge. I don’t just have a wife. I have a partner, a queen—even though I’ve given up my throne. As I pull myself from her and kiss the cum dripping from her lips, I know the rest of my days will be an explosion of our love and passion, our loyalty to one another. They will be happy. I am happy—now that I’m home. THE END...AGAIN (: Writing this series has been incredible. The characters of Alister and Ariana, Sophia and Cassio, Damon and Ana, and Gio and Darcy will forever live inside me. And I hope you will carry them with you as well. The Blood and Bourbon series is my first full-length series to complete but it certaintly won't be my last. Be sure to check out the final Blood and Bourbon novel , Mine to Love , when it releases in February 2025. And subscribe to my newsletter or follow me on Instagram to keep up with what's coming next.

It's time to get to know the amazing April and Emmett. These characters, this world, this town have me by the heartstrings. I feel like I am this book and this book is me. Not everyone will understand that because I don't always share how my personal experiences influence my writing. But just know...this book is special. I hope these first two chapters give you and idea of what's to come and make you eager to read the rest of April and Emmett's story-- coming July 1st. Note: This first look is unedited but will be perfected before release. (: Chapter 1: April As I whip my school bus turned tiny home through the curvy, tree-lined roads toward the small town of Magnolia, Louisiana, I am reminded of how this all began. No, not the hurricane that ravaged my own small town in Georgia, inspiring a life of rebuilding old, forgotten places. I am reminded of my life’s first tragedy. My mother died in a car accident on a road not so different from this one before I was old enough to truly remember her. What I know of her and her death comes from stories my father told me. Her death was the catalyst that led to me being raised by a single father and all that came with it—a love for construction, an incredible sense of humor, undying optimism, a robust laugh—at least, before it was stolen from me—and the dream we shared. After practically growing up on a construction site, eager to spend every minute with my dad, the plan was for me to get a degree in business. After I graduated, he and I would travel the country doing just as I am now—breathing new life into old properties and small towns. It was a dream born of loss, love, and hope—the loss of my mother which created an inseparable bond between me and my dad, the loss of our home to Hurricane Emily, a love for small towns, and the hope of happiness my dad refused to let go of despite everything we endured. It was a hope he infused in me. It is that hope that keeps me going and in pursuit of our dream, despite my life’s greatest tragedy—the one that took him and my hearing from me. I suck in air as I reach an unexpected sharp turn. Biting my lip to the point of tasting blood, I hit the brakes and hook a hard right. The speed limit is thirty-five, so, thankfully, I’m not going fast enough to flip. Try telling that to the anxiety tightening my chest as a small white car suddenly stops in the road ahead to avoid a collision. I exhale as I narrowly squeeze past them. Welcome to Magnolia , a small sign reads just up ahead. Fittingly, it’s framed by small Magnolia trees and a variety of white flowers. It marks another sharp turn toward the left. Jeez.  These streets were not designed with buses in mind. After ten years of traveling through small towns with tight historic districts, you’d think I’d be used to it. Nope. The bus is a necessity rather than a pleasure, especially for someone with driving anxiety. It houses all my tools, and since my work keeps me on the move, it’s cheaper than renting a room for the months each job takes. Some of the places I visit, including Magnolia, don’t have such accommodations. My task here is to create that accommodation. By turning Magnolia into a destination, rather than a pass-through town, the other small businesses here can thrive. I get a glimpse of them as I hook the left, slowing to a crawl to take in the town’s offerings before continuing to my site. The town itself appears no larger than two city blocks. Maybe three, if I’m being generous. There are no traffic lights. Just one main road that juts off in a few different directions. The grassy Magnolia Square centers the town and is anchored on the north and south ends by a beautiful, little white church and Fincher’s General Stor e. Lining the sides of the square are a few other businesses— Myers’ bookstore, Magnolia Blooms flower shop—how fitting— Gallaspy’s antique gallery, a bakery and coffee shop, Luke’s Diner  , and more. There are nods to the state’s French history in the antique streetlamps scattered about, in the pastel paint colors chosen by some business owners, and in the antique brick comprising the structures. Similar to the French Quarter in New Orleans, all the buildings connect and share walls aside from the church and General Store. Unlike the French Quarter, they embody the country aesthetic commonly found in farming towns like this one. I love it. Truthfully, there are more trees and flowers than buildings. Magnolias, of course, larger pine trees, a few oaks. The town looks like a little gem hidden amongst the hills and forests of North Louisiana. It’s so small, it’s as if we’re not even supposed to be here, and it’s far enough off the main road that you’d never find it unless you were looking for it. And yet, the moment you discover it, it has a calm energy you wish you could live in forever. At least, that’s what courses through me, settling my lingering anxiety. Everything feels so quaint and relaxed—quiet. And while sometimes, for me, the quiet can be suffocating. I find it even more disorienting to be in congested, fast-paced environments. With so much life buzzing around me, so many conversations being had that I’m not a part of, bigger cities make me feel left out. I suppose that’s a feeling I had even before losing my hearing. I’ve always been an introvert, quiet, shy. Coming from a small town, it was common to spend most of your time with your family. But I never really found a way to branch out in college. I had few friends and went on fewer dates. Now, with this communication barrier, it’s even harder to make connections. I can’t help but wish I would’ve found my voice sooner. Maybe my life would’ve been different if I’d branched out, taken more chances, instead of clinging to my dad and his dream. Maybe I wouldn’t have been in the truck that night. I still would’ve lost him, but I wouldn’t have lost my hearing as the glass around me shattered, invading my ear canal and destroying my eardrums. But even as the bitter taste of regret tinges my tongue, it is brief. I will never regret the time I spent with my dad. The year of travel and renovations that we had before that tragic night was the best year of my life. And, as much as I wonder, how my life as a thirty-three-year-old woman would be different if I’d never lost my hearing, the truth is, this dream was just as much mine as it was my dad’s. I would still be doing the same thing. I would still exist on the move and on the outskirts of the world. And I would still struggle with making connections. Maybe that acknowledgment is what keeps me from being bitter. The day I lost my dad was the day my world went quiet. But maybe it always was. Maybe it was always meant to be. Pulling myself from my thoughts, I focus my attention back on the town. I see very few cars and even fewer people walking along the sidewalks. Glancing at my watch, I note the time. Ah! It’s lunchtime. And I know enough about the Southern summer heat to know that midday is not the time anyone wants to be outside. It’s then that two men exit the building with the pastel blue storefront— Luke’s Diner.  I can’t help but analyze them. I studied Magnolia before choosing this as my next job. But pictures and even the architecture only tell half the story of a place. The people? That’s the other half and these two are my first to encounter. At the sight of my bright-purple-painted bus, they both stop and stare. They’re both tall with dark hair, though the one closest to the road is more muscular, with biceps so big they look as if he could crush my head. He becomes the object of my fixation as I slowly pass by. Dressed in a white t-shirt, stained with God only knows what, and dark wash jeans, he looks at me with an intimidating glare. Maybe it’s the sun shining in his eyes. Or, maybe he’s just one of those people who are wary of newcomers or change. Yeah, I’ve encountered a few of those. The one downside to being a stranger working in small towns where everyone knows everyone is everyone wants to know you. Whether they have good intentions or not, small-town residents like to talk. While it’s still better than the big cities where everyone is talking around you but not to you, the pressure to communicate can sometimes be overwhelming. And I’m not sure if I blame my barrier or my shyness more. Regardless, if the people of Magnolia are anything like my first impression of Mr. Grumpypuss, I’ll plan to keep mostly to myself. As my watch vibrates on my wrist, alerting me of my upcoming turn, I gasp and, once again, swing a hard left as I nearly miss it. My tires skid as I turn off the paved road onto a gravel one leading out of town toward the woods. My backend nearly collides with the electricity pole as I do. Okay, focus, April. You’re almost there. I give myself an internal pep talk as my heart thumps in my chest and numbness threatens my legs. I nod to myself as I focus on reaching my destination. At this point, car accidents on curvy, country roads seem tethered to my bloodline. Not today, Satan. Not today. Chapter 2: Emmett The summer sun beams down, hot and blinding, as Luke and I continue our conversation outside the diner. It seems the thieves and vandals who’ve been terrorizing the towns around us have finally made their way to Magnolia. It’s a shame. Magnolia used to be a place you could leave your doors unlocked at night and your keys in your truck. Crime was something you saw on the news and in movies, not in your backyard. What’s most frustrating is that the people doing this aren’t even from here. Little do they know, we take care of our own. Which is why Luke has given me the warning. He knows I’ll look after not just my sister, mother, and niece but anyone who needs help. These punks will soon learn—Magnolia is not your playground. Although, as a bright purple school bus creeps through town, I suddenly feel like I’m back in school. “Who the hell or  what the hell is that?” I ask, squinting beneath the sun’s glare. Luke turns in the direction of the bus. It’s then that I notice the writing printed onto the purple exterior— Purple Bus Construction.  “Well, that explains it.” “What?” Luke asks. My suspicious gaze follows the bus as the woman driving it nearly wrecks turning onto the road which dead ends at an estate I didn’t even know existed until a month ago. Small towns like Magnolia are no strangers to secrets and hidden things, but an entire home, abandoned in a part of the woods that hasn’t been accessible for over fifty years? How does something like that go unnoticed? Perhaps it’s not that it went unnoticed, rather ignored. The question is why? And why, suddenly, is this woman hellbent on reviving it? How did she even know about it? Then again, how did my mom? “You remember I told you my mom asked me to clear off some land?” Luke nods. “Well, it was for her. About three miles from here, deep in the woods, there’s an old house. I say, house . It’s more like an antebellum mansion. And whoever Ms. Purple Bus is is planning on renovating it. At least, that’s what my mom says.” The more I think about it, the more curious I get. I wasn’t surprised when my mom asked me to clear a way to the property and bushhog the brush surrounding it. Our farmland connects to it. We have the equipment needed and she’s no stranger to a kind gesture. But the question still stands, how did she know about this place? My mom isn’t exactly the Southern social butterfly type. “Hmm. Well, that’s interesting. And nice. Maybe it’ll be good for the town.” I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek. Lots of things would be good for Magnolia, lots of things that will never happen. The biggest of which would be going back in time, back before the bar came about, back before my dad fell in love with alcohol, and before the crash that wrecked not just vehicles but the whole town, taking three lives with it. “Right, well, she’s going to have her hands full. The place is huge and covered in mildew and vines. Lord knows the roof will need to be replaced. And then what after? Your diner is the busiest place in this sleepy town. I can’t imagine that changing anytime soon.” Luke pulls the dishtowel from the front pocket of his plaid shirt and smacks me with it. “Maybe you should offer her your services instead of being a killjoy. Put that engineering degree to good use,” he suggests. I smirk and move toward my truck. “Yeah, I gave up on that dream a long time ago, friend. Take care.” “You too.” It’s a short drive from the diner back to the barn, but I take the long way to avoid the cross stamped into the dirt in the crook of a certain curve. My avoidance was once a coping mechanism. Now it’s become a character flaw. Seventeen years ago, I left Magnolia. That sounds like such a long time ago it makes me feel old. Hell, maybe I am. Though, the reason why I left still feels as fresh on my skin as it did the day my dad slung his fist into my jaw. I was fifteen when I realized my dad had a problem with alcohol. Though, talks with my mom let me know it existed long before then. When a bar opened just a few miles out of town, his problem only worsened and became harder to hide. But, like the abandoned house in the woods no one speaks of, everyone turned a blind eye to my father’s drinking, including my mother. As I neared graduation and prepared to leave Magnolia, I feared for her and my sister, Emerson. While he’d never threatened them, I saw the anger and aggression building inside him. It started with kicking a tractor tire. That turned to handling the cattle a little too roughly. Things escalated from there. Perhaps because he and I worked so closely on the family farm, I was primed to notice. Perhaps because I was a man, he chose not to conceal himself as much. Regardless of the reasons behind his behavior, his drinking, my dad was becoming someone I no longer recognized. And I no longer felt safe leaving my mom and sister in his care. So, at eighteen, I confronted him. I asked him to get help. That was the day his aggression turned toward me. It was a fight that left me with no choice. I couldn’t make my mom divorce him. I couldn’t take my sister away. All I could do was leave. So, I did. After graduation, I left Magnolia with no plans to return. I got a degree in engineering and began working as a general contractor in a city a couple hours away. But I barely got the foundation of my new life laid before I had no choice but to return. In my absence, my father’s alcoholism continued unchecked. He was drunk when he crashed into the Boone family, killing a husband and wife and their teen daughter. The sole survivor was their son, a classmate of Emerson’s, who wasn’t in the car. That was the day our family secret, our family shame became too deadly to ignore. Lives were lost and eyes were opened, not just to our family’s secrets but to the lies behind the facade of Magnolia’s perfection. Suddenly, rumors of infidelity and divorce rates skyrocketed, more kids started getting into trouble, the pastor was caught stealing church funds, a coach was found sleeping with underage girls, and unexpected deaths were suddenly revealed as overdoses and suicides. All these things had existed right underneath our noses. And, just like my family hid my father’s addiction, it became obvious others had been hiding these atrocities too, because to speak, to hold accountable, to bring the dark to light ruins the facade—the lie we told ourselves. Is that why my mom wouldn’t leave my dad? She didn’t want to ruin the image of a perfect family, of a perfect Magnolia? I’m thirty-five now and this town hasn’t felt like home in the ten years since I’ve been back. It’s not that people blame us for what my father did. Maybe Noah Boone does, but he left town shortly after—never to be seen or heard from again. It’s just…now that Magnolia is stained, now that so much pain has bled into these streets and into our hearts, it just doesn’t feel the same. I  don’t feel the same. I don’t even know what it means to be Emmett Calhoun anymore. Dust trails behind me and gravel crunches beneath my tires as I reach the barn. It’s just after one in the afternoon and I still have two pastures to rake. It’s going to be a long one, though not unlike any other. It’s not that I hate my life, my work to maintain the family business, or even Magnolia. I love being a present uncle to my niece, Eleanor. Farm work can be enjoyable and there are still small projects that pop up requiring construction. And I care about this town and keeping it from slipping even further into darkness. That’s why these thugs roaming around piss me off so much. It’s just… I feel disconnected from myself, from my parents, my childhood, my future. Disconnected, stagnant, paralyzed. I think a part of me died the day my dad hit me, and I was forced to defend myself. Another part shattered when Emerson called me in tears informing me of what he did. In some small way, I felt responsible because I couldn’t stop him or help him. I also felt betrayed, hurt, and ashamed. How could the person I love so much do this? Become this? How could my father love a substance so much he let it steal his entire life from him—his son, his family, and his freedom? It’s a kind of abandonment I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from. And so, the only thing that keeps me grounded, keeps me moving—even if just in a circle—is being the opposite of him. With that resolve, I hop out and head toward my tractor. The smell of fresh cut hay tickles my nose as the sun beats down on my tanned skin. I’m here because I refuse to abandon my family the way he did. Though, as Luke’s words come to me, I’m reminded of the life I once had, the job I loved—all the thoughts, hopes, and dreams I avoid even more than memories of the past. I won’t abandon my family. But have I abandoned myself? Make sure you're following me on Amazon so you don't miss this release or go ahead and preorder your ebook now.

You Can Feel It In The Silence is the first book in the upcoming Magnolia Blooms duet. Releasing on July 1st, 2025, this novel is a complete standalone. 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘀 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗜𝘁 𝗜𝗻 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀? This novel is short and sweet, compared to my other works. It's going to be a perfect summer read to give you all the feels and spice, with a little healthy dose of suspense. It's an effort in escapism. I'm showing off the best of small-town life with festivals, fairs, and farm life scenes. Not to mention supporting characters you'll love and town secrets you'll want to uncover just as much as our protagonists. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁? You can expect to cry, swoon, and rejoice as Emmett and April find the love they've always deserved in one another. This book is so sweet. Yet, it hits home on so many levels. I think readers will relate to some of the emotional struggles Emmett and April face, including their abandonment wounds, fear of taking a chance on love, fear of losing the person they love, and confronting parental neglect. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹? I love the scene of them in the bathtub. Makes me think of 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, except this one is steamier. But my fave microtrope is how they create their own signs for quick communication. April is deaf and Emmett makes it a priority to learn her. This is just one of the ways their emotional intimacy and relationship develops. It was something unexpected that just came out as I was writing. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗔𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗹'𝘀 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆? April's mom passed in a car accident before she was old enough to remember her, leaving her to be raised by her single dad. She grew up on a construction site and fell in love with the process. After April and her dad lost their home in a hurricane, they set out to travel the country, restoring old, forgotten places in small towns like theirs. But another car accident took April's dad from her and her hearing. After recovering, April sets out to keep the dream alive. Ten years later, it brings her to Magnolia in the hopes of restoring an old inn. It's there that she meets Emmett and realizes the inn isn't the only thing in need of restoration. Her heart has been broken by loss. Emmett will give her everything back she's lost--a family, a home, love . 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗘𝗺𝗺𝗲𝘁𝘁? You'll love how patient Emmett is. In this way, he reminds me of Gio. But I think you'll also love how rough he can be. The spicy scenes in this novel are rivaling some of the hottest I've written. I'll let you be the judge of which book is spicer...this one or Mine to Love. 𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿? There was a moment of inspiration for this novel, but what really made me fall in love with the idea is realizing how little words matters. How many times do we as women express our needs and desires in relationships only to be ignored or lied to? Our words don't matter and neither do his. What's most telling is someone's actions. How do they show up? How do they make us feel safe? How do they make us feel loved? Do they put in the extra effort when things aren't easy? While there is still dialogue in this novel, I wanted to write a novel that puts the emphasis on the character's actions and the feelings those actions evoke. I wanted to write an MC who hears his FMC, even though she can't speak or hear him. I wanted to write a novel that portrays healthy and intentional communication--learning someone in order to love them better. I hope this novel encourages women to focus on how they feel in relationships rather than on what they're told. Let's stop falling for pretty lies or men who don't hear us, see us, or learn us. We all deserve to be loved the way Emmett loves April. With that said, this story isn't one-sided. No true love story is. April supports Emmett and loves him in ways he's been missing. They're both the missing puzzle piece in each other's stories and together, theirs is beautiful. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗲𝘅 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗳 𝗙𝗠𝗖? It's amazing! Firstly, we all have things that make us unique. One of April's unique qualities is that she is deaf and mute. It doesn't alter her ability to enjoy or engage in sexual activity. She has an amazing sex life with Emmett. As a writer in this situation, it's important that the characters communicate consent--especially when they're first crossing lines. And I think I handle that perfectly. Communicating consent where verbal communication isn't an option requires them to be hyper-focused on their partner's body language and eyes. Honestly, it's a beautiful thing, because how many men are so focused on their pleasure that they don't stop to consider if their partner is comfortable or perhaps has changed their mind? And just because verbal communication isn't something April engages in, that doesn't mean we don't hear her inner thoughts through her narrative. And Emmett still engages in both verbal and nonverbal communication during these intimate scenes. So, the reader still gets everything she wants, including those spicy lines like, "Cum pretty for me." 😏 PREORDER "YOU CAN FEEL IT IN THE SILENCE" now on Amazon!

Enjoy this first look at You Can Always Come Home , Magnolia Blooms Book #2 , featuring Emerson Calhoun and Noah Boone. This standalone, small town x second chance x sports romanc e is coming Fall 2025! TW: alcoholism, DV, child/teen trauma Chapter 1: Emerson I flinch as I hear the front door slam closed behind my father. I peel my eyes from my notebook and laptop to glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s half past midnight. Hmm, he’s home early. While it will be nice to fall asleep knowing he made it home alive, relief is the last thing coursing through my body. I tug my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them as I listen to the symphony of grunts, growls, and breaking glass as he stumbles through the house. My father is an alcoholic. He spends his days working on our family farm. At least, he tries to. Sometimes he’s too hungover from the night before to climb the steps into the tractor cab. The one thing he does do, without fail, is go to the bar. It’s a few miles out of our small town, yet it’s more his wife than my mother. More his child than I ever was. Though my father’s drinking is only half of our tragic story. My head snaps toward my bedroom door as my father’s footsteps stall just outside it. I gasp and quickly fumble for the remote to turn off the fairy lights draped across my canopy bedframe. Please, please. Not tonight. I learned recently that locked doors aren’t allowed in this house, which leaves me with no defense against his drunken tantrums. And while I haven’t done anything to make my father angry, that doesn’t mean anything. When he’s drunk, he’s unpredictable. The one time I did lock my door, because I was studying, he pounded on it so aggressively, threatening me, until I finally gave in. He said he’d rip the door off its hinges and spank me silly. I’m seventeen. Though, when he does acknowledge my existence, he doesn’t treat me like it. To him, I’m either seven or forty-seven. Emerson Calhoun doesn’t exist behind his bloodshot, glassy eyes. No. I’m invisible, only not nearly enough. He went on to accuse me of having a boy hidden in my room. Why else would I have locked the door? He searched every inch of the twelve by twelve square I call mine. He ripped the covers off my bed, tore the green curtains from the wall. He destroyed my little woodland-themed haven. And when he found he was wrong, that my virginity was still intact, he finally turned his attention to me. Tears drip down my cheeks as I get the lights off. Left in darkness, I relive the encounter with my dad and wonder who his victim will be tonight. That night, he wrapped his hand around my throat—not to hurt me, just so that he was sure I was paying attention. At least, that’s what he said, despite the marks his fingers left on my skin. He told me there’s no such thing as love  and that I can’t trust anyone . He looked around at all my books, which he’d ripped from the shelves. I cried as he tore the pages from my favorite one. He said, “I know you like to live in fairytales, but this is the real world, Emerson. And the real world will break your heart.” I wanted to say, “Is that why you did it first?” But I knew better. My father has never hit me, but I know he’s capable. His violence is what drove my older brother, Emmett, away. His aggression is what has my heart racing while anxiously watching my doorknob for movement. As my father’s boots pound against the hardwood floor as he continues down the hall, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I pinch my eyes closed and sink my head between my knees, as if it’ll cancel out what happens next. My mom went to sleep hours ago. It used to make me sad, maybe even a bit angry that she didn’t seem to care whether my dad made it home alive or not. Hell, maybe she doesn’t? Maybe I should stop caring too? But, now that I’m older, I know the truth. She goes to bed early—with the help of pills that make her no help at all when my father takes his frustrations out on me—because it’s the only time she is at peace. Peace from the sadness that clings to her. Peace from the darkness that follows my dad wherever he goes. My mother is as much of a ghost as my father is. Or perhaps I’m the ghost, the one floating in silence, doing my best to escape the living. Some nights, my dad falls asleep quietly—not even bothering to discard the clothes that smell like whiskey and cigarette smoke. Other nights… As the sound of his voice drifts from their bedroom, I know it’s time to reach for my headphones. Shuffling through the songs on my iPod, I opt for Avril Lavigne’s “My Happy Ending.” Like the lyrics of the song state, I wonder if I’ll ever get mine—if I’ll ever get out of Magnolia, like my brother. He left almost seven years ago and hasn’t been back since. I don’t blame him. I just wish he’d taken me with him. Now, all I can do is follow in his footsteps. Turning back on my fairy lights, my small room illuminates with a warm glow. I spend my time at home here, while making sure I spend most  of my time out there. I cast my gaze out my bedroom window, finding nothing but darkness. Though I know what’s beyond it—the forest, wildflowers, bunnies, squirrels, and birds that prove to me my father is wrong. Love does exist , even if not between these walls. And so, while I made my room look like the world I love—with a moss colored rug, floral print wallpaper, ivy, moss, and blush pink flowers draped over my bed, and dark green curtains that hang from the ceiling like trees—I dream only of escaping it. I dream of a world where I don’t anxiously await the arrival of a man who doesn’t love me, a man who scares me, a man who yells and tries to make me as hopeless as he is. I dream of a world where I feel safe, where I don’t feel the need to lock my door, a world I don’t want to escape and  a love that makes me smile instead of tremble. My books— fairytales —allow me to believe a world like that, a love  like that, could be mine. My books will also be the bridge that gets me there. Returning my attention to my laptop, I continue my studies until my yawns overtake me and my eyelids are too heavy to remain open. It’s not that I hate my hometown. Magnolia is a beautiful place. It’s just this house. It’s never felt like home. One day , I will have one of my own. One day , I will have my happily ever after. As the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day, I’m in no rush to pack up my belongings. School is another of my havens. My teachers may not know what goes on at home, but they do know I’m looking for every opportunity to pad my college applications. I may not feel comfortable standing in the spotlight, not that my classmates would vote me in as class president or anything close to it. I’m as invisible here as I am at home, only receiving attention when I’m trying to avoid it. Still, I’m quite the involved Magnolia Mallard. I work for the school newspaper and yearbook, which gives me the perfect excuse to attend various school functions—sporting events, dances, banquets. All things my father would never allow if it weren’t for academic purposes. I’m also a member of the Students Against Destructive Decisions (SADD) club and have just signed on to assist with ACT Prep. The busier I stay, the better. And while my grades are good enough to get me into any school of my choosing, I still don’t want to take any chances. With my dad’s drinking, I’m not really sure what our financial situation is. A scholarship is my only hope for getting out, for finding home. With all the other students flooding the hallway, I finally stand from my desk and pull my book and binder into my arms. Today is Tuesday, which means it’s off to the computer lab to work on a story for the paper. Though, just as I wave goodbye to Ms. Ashley—my favorite teacher—a loud beep draws my attention to the intercom overhead. “Ms. Ashley, is Emerson still with you?” “Yes, she is,” she replies, raising her brow. Mine furrow in confusion. Never in all my life have I been called to the office and I know I haven’t done anything to deserve it. Unless…  The cafeteria lady did give me a second warning today. My balance is overdue and she can’t give me a pass anymore. I hope it’s not about that. That would just be embarrassing. Worse than embarrassing, they’d probably call my parents or send a letter home, which would only result in some form of argument or lecture. Regardless of which parent got the notice, they’d be mad I didn’t say anything sooner. I just…don’t feel comfortable talking to them, which is probably why I don’t feel comfortable talking to anyone else. An invisible wallflower—as much as I loathe it, I like it. “Please send her to the baseball field. Coach Wilkins wants to speak with her.” What the—? Chapter 2: Noah The warmth of the September sun is accompanied by a welcome breeze as I stand atop the pitcher’s mound. The pine trees surrounding the field sway, filling my ears with the sounds of rustling leaves. I pinch my eyes closed and savor the serenity of this moment. Come February, when our season officially begins, this field won’t be so quiet. The stands will fill with parents and friends who want us to win almost as badly as we do. They’ll curse at the umps while coaches yell, and opponents will whisper trash talk from the bases behind me, creating a symphony of chaos that only hones my focus. Imagining it—my final season—makes me smirk. I can’t wait to end my high school pitching career with a hunk of gold hoisted over my shoulder. We were so close last year. This time, I’m not letting the championship slip through my fingers. But this, this moment, might be just as sweet. Perhaps because I know, even though baseball won’t end with my graduation from Magnolia High, the simplicity of the sport will. Opening my eyes, I hike my leg and use my body weight to propel the ball directly into my catcher’s mit. As the ball connects with the leather, the snap echoes around us, bouncing off the tin roofs of the nearby spectator stands. It’s through the metal benches of the stands that I see her. Emerson Calhoun walks from the parking lot, up the hill toward the field, with confusion etched on her perfect face. The sight of her gives me another reason to smile. Evan tosses the ball back to me as I move from the mound toward the dugout. “Where ya going?” he calls out. “I’ve got to cut it short today, man. See ya tomorrow.” Reaching the dugout, I discard my mit and ball on the maroon-painted bench and use the back of my practice tee to wipe the sweat from my face. Baseball isn’t my future, but it is the vehicle that will get me there. Scouts have been watching me since my freshman year when our starter got injured and I had to step in to win us our first championship in over twenty years. I’ve led competitive teams here at Magnolia ever since. And now, those scouts are offering scholarships— with one caveat. While another championship will only sweeten the deal, it’s not necessary to get me into college. A halfway decent ACT score is. My test is in December and I want it aced before the spring semester so that I can give all my attention to the team. Enter Emerson. She’s the smartest person I know, though I don’t know her nearly well enough. We’ve attended the same school and church our entire lives. But she always keeps to herself, usually with her head buried in a book. And while I’m used to studying people, mostly my opponents, I’ve never been able to figure her out. She’s…she’s a mystery—a beautiful riddle I’d love to solve, perhaps even more than my upcoming test. As I round the dugout and head over to where she and Coach Wilkins talk in the bleachers, saliva pools in my mouth. My nerves draw a fresh sprinkle of sweat from my pores. The reaction my body has to this little girl is nothing new. She’s had me in a tizzy every day since we were seven-years-old and she handed me a flower on the playground. That was before she became shy or just uninterested in the world, in me. Though, it’s never quite made sense to me. I’m a solid three feet taller than her and probably weigh more than twice her body weight. And I’m a genuinely confident guy—calm under pressure, disciplined and dedicated when it’s something important to me, and easy-going when I need to be. All of these qualities make me a good friend, pitcher, and leader. So why does she intimidate me so much? And is it really intimidation or just the nerves that come with wanting to impress the one girl who couldn’t care less? Coach Wilkins is talking when I reach the two of them, but I don’t hear a word he says. My eyes are trained on Emerson. I watch closely as the breeze lifts her wavy, brown-blonde hair and flings it over her shoulders. Her scent drifts to me, as do her hazel-green eyes. My breath catches as I meet her gaze, though I still manage to offer her a shaky half-grin. While her captivating scent of raspberries and violets lingers, her gaze does not. She quickly returns her attention to Coach, leaving me with a blank expression and desperate for more. She reminds me of a nymph, like the ones in the book we read in middle school. She’s dainty-looking with a heart-shaped face and slender frame. But there’s something powerful and inquisitive about her almond-shaped eyes and slightly arched brows. As distant, or disinterested, as she may appear, she’s very much present—registering everything one may think goes unnoticed. Perhaps that’s why she makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not just that I don’t know her, but I don’t know what she thinks of me. Both are things I hope to change, which is why, when Coach suggested ACT prep, I demanded Emerson be my tutor. As much as I want to win— and I will —I can leave high school behind without another championship. But I can’t leave without knowing her. She’s held my fascination all these years. And I may not be as smart as her, but I’m smart enough to know that won’t change just because our zip codes do. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then,” Coach says, drawing my attention from Emerson’s lips. He stands abruptly for someone who wasn’t paying attention, and leaves the two of us alone— alone  with Emerson Calhoun. Shit, fuck, damn. This has never happened before. Instinctively, I shove my hands in my pockets. At least I try to. Forgetting I’m wearing baseball pants, the movement ends in nothing but an awkward exchange that draws Emerson’s eyes to my groin. She blushes and smiles as I play off the movement by tossing my arms behind my back, interlocking my fingers. Her smile is contagious and somehow is the antidote to the nerves and awkwardness her presence evokes. Okay, so she doesn’t hate me. That’s good to know. “So, my schedule is pretty flexible at the moment. What days work best for you?” She asks, while flipping through her binder with her pen at the ready. “ Every day, ” I quickly answer. She looks up at me then, her brow arched. Her dark lashes threaten to hide her gorgeous eyes. How dare they? “Uh, I mean, I could use a lot of help. I think the more often we meet, the better. And my schedule is pretty flexible too, until the spring.” “Hmm,” Emerson hums. She sits down on the metal bleacher where Coach Wilkins was sitting, and I take the excuse to get closer to her and sit beside her. She glances in my direction as my knee bumps into hers. “Sorry,” I mutter, sliding approximately two inches to the left. She wordlessly returns her attention to her printed-out calender, which I see is full of scribbles in various colors. “ Jeez.  Flexible, huh? I don’t see a blank space for another—” Grabbing her binder from her, I flip through the pages, finding each month until May marked in similar fashion. This girl is busy! No wonder she never has time for socializing, for me . “I have a system,” she says, allowing me custody of her prized possession. “The things written in red  are important deadlines, like due dates for classes, the yearbook, and the newspaper. Things written in black  are homework assignments or related to my study schedule. Purple  is for things that could pad my college application like volunteering. Green  is for when I tutor online and  pink  is for flowers.” “ Flowers? ” I look at her in surprise. “Yeah, I um, I like flowers.” Suddenly, her voice gets quiet. Hmm, she seems more comfortable talking about her schedule, or should I say school , than herself. “So, um…” she reaches for the binder, but I don’t let go of it. “What’s your favorite flower?” As the question crosses my lips, I’ve never wanted to know something more. Emerson looks between me and the binder once more. Letting out an exasperated sigh, her cheeks go taunt and her lips press into a flat line. She redirects her attention to the empty baseball field in front of us and I wonder why my simple question no longer feels simple. My brows furrow as I watch her. I have a younger sister, so I know how girls can be. They’re both strong and soft and everything in between. Seeing Emerson’s softness in this moment makes me realize I’ve never seen it before. She’s always projecting strength, even in her solitude. I wonder why. “My favorite flower is the Louisiana catchfly. Not because it’s the prettiest. It’s actually a little ugly, considering all the other species to choose from.” I smile at her remark. There’s something cute about her direct assertion. “But…of all the flowers there are, it’s the one that most reminds me of me.” My eyes narrow as she lowers her gaze to her hands now clasped in her lap. She fidgets with her fingers and I nearly reach out to stop her, to tell her she’s the furthest thing from ugly, but as she opens her mouth to speak, I dare not interrupt her. “I was out walking one day when I discovered it. It’s a small scarlet-colored wildflower that acts more like a wallflower. It’s easy to miss and prefers to grow in the forest, surrounded by pine trees—like me.” She smiles to herself then. “The only reason I noticed it is because of the butterflies it attracted. I guess that’s the other reason it’s my favorite. Seeing the butterflies hovering around it, appreciating it for what it was, it gave me hope that one day I’d find my people too, or they’d find me—notice me amongst the more impressive surrounding me.” I bite my lip to suppress the word vomit readying to spew from me. Emerson sighs as I direct my attention to the field. We sit in silence. This girl, this beautiful, intelligent, undoubtedly impressive girl thinks she’s the equivalent of some ugly little flower that only thrives in the most obscure parts of the world. She feels invisible and unwanted and suddenly, my entire view of Emerson Calhoun shifts. All this time, she hasn’t been disinterested. She’s been scared, insecure. She’s felt like an outsider or wallflower, as she puts it. Little does she know, she’s the furthest thing from invisible. She’s been the sole object of my desire for years. I could kick myself for never speaking with her until now. She just needs love. She just needs to feel seen. She needs a butterfly to hover near her and appreciate her for everything she is. As absolutely elementary as it sounds, I want to be her butterfly. I want to be the one that shows her she’s not a wallflower. She’s worthy. Emerson reaches for her binder once more, but I tighten my grip. She lifts her head as I turn to face her. Our faces only inches apart, I give her the same look I do my teammates when I need them to listen closely. Her lips part as she takes in my narrowed, intense gaze. “Emerson Calhoun, you are anything but invisible, unimpressive, unwanted, and ugly. You are the most impressive person I know. It’s why I requested you by my tutor. I wouldn’t have anyone else.” That statement is true in more ways than one. “And you are…” I shake my head, allowing my eyes to study her face up close. “A kind of beautiful that only exists in mythology. Hopefully, over the next few months, I can teach you to believe that.” Tears well in Emerson’s eyes, but she quickly stands, walking away before I can catch them. I push myself up off the bench, but don’t follow as she puts several yards between us. Maybe I was too intense. Maybe I said too much. Just because I’ve held my interest in her inside all this time, it doesn’t mean she’s ready to receive it. As far as I know, today is the first day I’ve crossed her mind. And even that was forced upon her. When she returns to me, her tears are gone and her strong, reserved expression has returned. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday. We can meet after school three days a week until your test, leaving you at least two days for pre-season training.” I nod. There are so many other things I want to say, so much more I want to know. Why is her self-view so low? Why doesn’t she let anyone in? Did my words make her uncomfortable? “Can I have my binder back now?” She asks. Again, I nod. Grabbing her things from the bleacher, I take the few steps toward her and hand her her belongings. I’d offer to walk her to her truck, but the tautness in her cheeks and slight tremble in her fingers tells me she needs space. She doesn’t feel comfortable breaking in front of me yet, in letting me see the real her. Today, I got a glimpse and I’m no longer interested. I’m invested. As she walks away, I watch her as she does. Senior year objectives: score high on the ACT, win the state championship, and love my wallflower into embracing her worthiness. Chapter 3: Emerson Noah’s words wrap around me like a warm hug as I walk from the main school building toward the cafeteria. The warmth his kindness granted me is welcome as an early-fall breeze swirls around me and nips at my exposed collarbone. Yet, I don’t quite know what to do with it. I don’t know how to receive his words and warmth, which he surprisingly noticed based on his promise to make me believe him by semester’s end. I shake my head. Pulling my binder tighter against my chest, I slow my pace, allowing the throngs of fellow high schoolers to continue on the gravel path ahead of me toward the barn-turned-lunch-hall. The truth is, it’s more than his kindness I don’t know how to receive. It’s him. Noah Boone is the town golden boy, Mr. Popular, or should I say Mr. Magnolia . He’s a literal baseball star and has been ever since our freshman year. Even before his crowning moment, he was the most handsome boy in school. Tall with dark blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, he’s a classic kind of handsome. In his own words, we’re from two different worlds. Mine is a world of mythology and fairytales, a world of solitude and escapism. He is grounded in the real world. Except, unlike my father’s assertion, Noah Boone’s reality is one that basks in the glow of the morning sun, not the darkness of bitterness, disappointment, and addiction. He wears a kind smile instead of sunken shoulders. He spends his days surrounded by friends, his ears full of chatter and laughter. I spend my days surrounded by trees or classmates who don’t even register my existence. I’ve become so accustomed to it, I no longer hear their conversations—only the constant hum in the background that reminds me I’m not alone, but I am. I’m always alone . Resting my head against the brick wall of the schoolhouse, I sigh. Noah Boone and I walk two very different parallel paths, despite sharing the same small town our entire lives. Yesterday, they finally collided. And now, I don’t know how to feel. He called me… beautiful . He spoke to me as if he saw me, or at least a version of me that only exists in my dreams. All these years, I’ve felt invisible, or perhaps I’ve made myself invisible, feeling it safer. But I’m not, at least, not to Noah. That notion surprises and scares me. Of all the people to be noticed by, to be seen by him feels…good. While there are a million other words I’d like to use, good  feels the safest. It doesn’t convey too much excitement. It doesn’t hold any expectations. It acknowledges that his attention feels nice, for now. But just as the winter winds chase away the warmth of summer, semester’s end will rip away any warmth being in Noah’s presence grants me. His attention, this feeling , won’t last. It’s not reliable. It’s not… real ? I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s a small glimpse of what’s to come when I finally make it out of here. Regardless, being seen by Noah scares me, because I don’t know what else he’ll discover. The reason I keep myself so busy? The reason his words brought me to tears so easily? The reason I don’t want to go home? The reason I want to leave this place and never return? He can’t know the truth. No one can. But how can I hide from him when his eyes are so piercing, so, so…magically mesmerizing? “There you are, my little wallflower!” I jump as Noah sneaks up behind me. As my head snaps toward him, he casually takes my books and binder in one arm and wraps his other around my shoulders. Before I can even register what’s happening, we’re moving down the Magnolia-lined gravel path toward the white-painted barn. When I say we , I mean the two of us and several of his baseball buddies. I glance side to side, noting their confused expressions. All but one of the guys seems as thrown as I am. The one who isn’t surprised and offers me a warm smile is Evan Henderson, Noah’s best friend and catcher. Nerves swirl in my stomach and I look straight ahead without returning his smile. It’s there, at the entrance of the cafeteria, that I see a group of girls staring at me with nasty scowls. It’s the same group who tends to follow Noah everywhere he goes and who thought it’d be funny to share a story of my father’s drunken escapades they’d heard from their parents with our entire P.E. class. Apparently, my dad became so inebriated, he fell asleep on the pool table at the local bar and peed himself, staining the green velvet. It’s stories like that that make me worried for my father’s safety, that allow me to feel some sense of relief when he finally makes it home. Even though his arrival is swiftly followed by a sense of dread. As my cheeks blush bright red in embarrassment and nausea continues to coil inside me, I come to a sudden stop. No way in Hell am I eating lunch with those girls. And with my father’s recent obsession with my non-existentent love-life, I realize even Noah’s presence could lead to confrontation, just a different—more dangerous—kind. Noah matches my step, remaining with me while the rest of his friends continue on to their fan club. “You okay, Ems?” he asks. His voice is low and steady. It carries the same gentleness, warmth as his words yesterday. His grip on my shoulder tightens, allowing me a moment to register how it feels to be touched by him. And the warmth between us as our bodies inch closer helps calm my stomach. That  and his scent. I suppose it was masked by sweat yesterday. But today, he smells of pepper and amberwood—a spicy earthiness that only adds to the natural warmth and groundedness he exudes. Okay, I lied.  The feeling Noah Boone’s presence grants me is more than good . Though, as I look up, meeting his sweet gaze, I know his presence in my life is dangerous—not just because of the emotions he evokes, but the attention he draws. One day , my reality will be more like Noah’s. One day,  I will step out of my books and into the sun. But, for now, I just need to survive senior year. And the best way for me to do that is to remain in the shadows, the shadows of this school and  of my home. “Noah, I…I can’t be seen with you,” I say, taking a step back. As I do, I slip from underneath his arm and immediately miss his touch. That’s a problem, a big one. But one thing at a time. “Uh, okay…” Noah stands up straight, almost rigid, as confusion contorts his features. He looks wounded, as if I’ve slapped him. “No, no, I’m sorry.” I wave my hands awkwardly. “It’s not you. It’s just…” I bite my lip and glance back at the crowd of on-lookers from the entrance of the cafeteria. Two different worlds—one where even my screams wouldn’t be noticed and his every word is memorialized in their brains. “Emerson, are you okay?” Noah asks again. This time, his voice carries more power, more authority. His tone draws my attention back to him as an all-too-familiar sense of fear crawls up my spine. After spending so much time analyzing my father’s every move, I pick up on subtle shifts in body language, tone, and demeanor with ease. Noah’s tone makes him appear more commanding, though the concern I find in his eyes reminds me of his gentleness, reminds me he isn’t my father. He won’t hurt me, at least…I don’t think he will. “My dad, um, my dad is very…” Struggling to find the words, I lower my gaze to our feet. Noah places his finger just underneath my chin and prompts me to look at him when I speak. There’s something nice about it as well as something unnerving. “If word got back to him that I was hanging out with any  boy, it wouldn’t be good for me. So, it’s best we keep our distance aside from when we meet for tutoring.” Noah holds my gaze a few seconds longer, his ocean eyes studying mine. Like I said, he may not hurt me, but he’s dangerous. Finally accepting my answer, he pulls back and his energy shifts from heavy to playful. “Ah, I see. You’ve got a protective pops. Strict boundaries are probably a necessity when he’s got a daughter as stunning as you.” Noah hands me back my books. Our fingers brush as he does. The subtle touch along with his compliment steals my breath. I want to tell him protective  is the last word I’d use to describe my father, but instead I force a smile and nod. It’s a trick I learned from my mother long ago. “Alright, well ladies first. I promise to walk behind at a safe distance.” Noah takes a big step back and motions for me to walk ahead of him. I do, but remembering my overdue balance and  the lunch lady’s last warning brings me to another sudden stop just before the cafeteria entrance. “Oh, I’m actually not hungry,” I lie. I place my hand over my stomach, praying to God it doesn’t betray me by growling right here and now. As my insides feel like they’re ripping apart, I realize maybe all that nausea could’ve been more hunger pains than nerves. “I’m just going to head to the patio,” I say, moving past Noah to head around the side of the cafeteria. “Are you sure?” He asks. Jeez!  Does this boy ever just accept what he’s told? I nod without another glance. One, I don’t want him to see the lie in my eyes. Two, I’m exerting way too much energy here. If I’m this hungry now, how on earth am I going to make it through two hours of ACT prep with him after three more hours of school? “Alright, well, see ya later!” He calls after me. Chapter 4: Noah I replay my interaction with Emerson as I mindlessly push my tray down the aisle of lunch ladies. I’m vaguely aware of their smiles and kind words as they pile my plate high with today’s menu—baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and garden veggies. I guess I can’t be upset at her for wanting me to keep my distance, although it will make it harder for me to get to know her, help her,  love her. After our talk yesterday, I’d planned on asking her to hang out this weekend and be my date to the Homecoming dance. But it sounds like she’s not allowed to date at all. Maybe her father’s overprotectiveness is why she keeps to herself so much. “Have a good day, dear,” the lunch lady with the short salt-n-pepper hair says as she scans my student ID. “You too, Mrs. Maggie.” I leave her with a big smile and then make my way to the guys. That is until Emerson is mentioned. “Alright, that’s the last of um. Thank God the Calhoun girl isn’t here today. I would’ve hated having to turn her away,” Mrs. Maggie says, presumably to another cafeteria worker. I turn around, my brow arched. Why would they? “But it’s policy. Her balance is just too overdue.” “Probably because her daddy spends all their money on the Devil’s juice. Evelyn hired my grandsons to handle most of the farm work last summer. They’re still helping out now as they can. I guess she can’t count on her husband to do anything and that son of hers—” another worker goes on. “Makes you wonder why he left,” Mrs. Maggie says in a hushed, yet knowing tone. I don’t like gossip, which is why this is the first I’m hearing of this. Maybe there’s more to the story when it comes to Emerson’s father. I was sure I saw her hesitate when she was describing him, but I don’t know her well enough to pinpoint a lie. She’s so guarded. But she’s more than that, isn’t she? I remember the way her fingers trembled yesterday as she asked for her binder back. And the way she jumped when I snuck up on her today. The way she became uneasy in a large crowd. The way she tried to avoid eye contact when I demanded to know if she was okay. The way her voice shook when she started speaking of her dad. I thought it yesterday and now I’m all but certain. Emerson is scared. The question is why and of who? “What’s the balance?” I ask, setting my tray on the nearest countertop. Mrs. Maggie and the other lunch lady look open-mouthed between each other. Clearly, they didn’t realize I was listening. “I’m sorry, honey. We shouldn’t have been speaking like in front of you. Go on and enjoy your lunch,” Mrs. Maggie says. I take a step forward, pulling my wallet from my back jean pocket. “Emerson Calhoun is a friend of mine, and I’d like to pay her overdue balance. Is that not allowed?” As I approach the computer lab, I pause, admiring Emerson through the glass windows before entering. She sits at the same computer she always does—the last seat in the row furthest from the door—wearing a v-cut plum-colored quarter-sleeve with a black lace camisole underneath. That black lace is eye-catching, although the entire point is to offer more coverage, protecting her modesty. So I’ve learned from my younger sister. But after what I overheard in the cafeteria, I want to unravel her modesty. I want to undress her mind and learn her naked truth. In fact, it’s imperative, because I can’t focus on anything else and I do have a test to prepare for. Entering the computer lab, Emerson’s eyes immediately meet mine. As she piles her wavy hair on top of her head in a messy bun, she lets her pen slip from between her lips. “You’re late,” she says. Her tone has a bit of bite to it and it makes me smile. She must be warming up to me. “I had to make a pit stop.” I round the corner of the aisle and Emerson’s eyes drift lower, taking in the to-go box clasped in my hand. The heat radiating off it leaves a subtle ache in my palm, but I wanted to make sure everything would still be warm for her. Her mouth drops open and her eyes glaze over. Though, only for a second, before she catches herself. “Well, I hope you can multi-task. We’ve got a lot to cover today.” She quickly turns away from me, her lips pressing into a flat line. It’s then that I notice her hand resting over her stomach and the hollowness of her cheeks. My heart aches for her and any smile her presence usually brings abandons me. I take the few remaining steps to close the distance between us. Sliding my backpack off my shoulder, I move her keyboard out of the way and steal her ACT prep book. “ Hey! ” she protests. As her dark brows narrow and I watch the hazel in her eyes glisten with fire, I realize she isn’t warming up to me at all. She’s just starving. Gently, I place the box of the ballpark’s finest—Frito pie with chili, cheese, and jalapenos, an extra long hot dog with the fixings on the side, extra links, and a Hot Pocket—in front of her. I watch her closely as she realizes the food is for her. She bites her lip and her cheeks go taunt. As tears well in her eyes, I glance toward the entrance to make sure no one followed behind me. Thankfully, we’re alone as Emerson breaks. And this time, she doesn’t run away. She doesn’t hide from me. “Come here,” I whisper, sinking down onto the chair beside her. Our thighs touching, I wrap my arm around her shoulders. With a gentle tug, Emerson takes my cue and rests her head in the crook of my neck and her hand on my thigh. It’s not long before her tears seep through my grey polo. The damp sensation on my shoulder and the way her body trembles against mine only makes me pull her tighter to me. Softly, I move my fingers up and down her arm to soothe her. I have so many questions, so many concerns. But, in this moment, silence, presence— nourishment —is what she needs. After a while, Emerson’s breathing slows. Her body stops shaking as her tears cease. As she lifts her head, her teary eyes meet mine. “How did you—?” She stops herself, perhaps not wanting to admit the truth about why she didn’t eat lunch today and  all the other truths that accompany it. “ Why  did you?” Her voice cracks as her eyes drift down to her growling stomach. I take a deep breath, considering my words carefully. I don’t want to confront her. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I want her to open up to me because she wants to, because she feels safe to , not because I overheard something I shouldn’t have. But…if she is truly afraid—afraid of her father— or suffering because of his financial mismanagement, I can’t just turn a blind eye. This is greater than my desire to get to know her romantically. This is friendship, and friendship is the heart of humanity. “I just…didn’t feel comfortable with you not eating. From the sounds of that stomach, I’m glad I followed my instincts.” I manage a playful smile and press my finger beneath her chin to draw her attention back to me. “Besides, you mentioned you tutor online, which I’m sure you get paid for. It only seems fair you’re compensated for our sessions as well.” Her cheeks blush and her lips draw into a half grin. She sighs and her shoulders sink in relief, which only makes me more concerned. “Well, I do get compensated for our sessions, just not monetarily. But…thank you. I honestly needed this,” she says, turning her attention to the box. I wonder which will be her favorite. “Clearly,” she motions toward her face, still damp from tears, as she uses the plastic fork to dig into the Frito pie. I smirk. That’s my favorite too. “Was that really the reason for your tears? Hunger? Not that that isn’t a good enough reason. In fact, you don’t need an excuse to cry at all. I just want to know if there’s something else?” Emerson snaps her head toward me as she takes a big bite. “Some other reason for your emotions, why you skipped lunch?” Emerson’s brows narrow. Shit!  So much for not pushing her. “I’m not implying anything.” Yes, I am. “I’m just curious, curious about you.” Emerson swallows slowly as she looks toward the blacked-out screen of the computer in front of her. “Well, I don’t understand your curiosity, but to answer your question—PMS can be a real bitch. You should know. You have a sister.” She takes another bite. This time of her hot dog, which she’s slathered in ketchup and relish. Seeing her eat makes me feel better. I’ll have to pay a visit to the concession stand at the field more often for her. “Oh, so you’ve been keeping tabs on me?” I tease her. Her cheeks—full of hot dog—blush. “You’re Noah Boone. Everyone knows you.” Once she’s swallowed, she leans back in her chair and faces me. “Uh uh, eat ,” I command. “Or do I have to feed you?” I reach for her fork and scoop another heap of Frito pie onto it. “I can manage,” she says with a little laugh, taking the fork from me. As she does, her body relaxes and her face glows, this time not because of embarrassment or forthcoming tears. I think she’s starting to relax. “There you go. That’s a good girl,” I cheer her on as she swallows another bite of Frito pie and tears into the Hot Pocket. She laughs and rolls her eyes, which only makes me like her more. She’s… warm , once she lets her guard down. And her warmth, her presence and authenticity, makes me feel— good . However simple that word is, the feelings I have when I’m around her aren’t. Perhaps she can teach me some new words, so I can better articulate my feelings. “And everyone thinks  they know me. I want you to actually know me. And I want to know you, Emerson.” “ Why? ” Her brows furrow in confusion, her attention remaining on the food in front of her. “Because I like you.” The words come out without my thinking. There’s no hesitation in them, although they surprise us both. I know I like Emerson. I’ve liked her forever. But…I’m surprised I said it so plainly, so quickly. We haven’t even begun our tutoring sessions yet. She could walk away before we even get started, before she has a chance to truly know me, fall for me the same way I’m falling for her. Maybe I messed up. “But you don’t know me,” she says then. Her voice is quiet as she lowers her fork and turns to face me. I can practically see the wheels churning behind her eyes. “We’ve established that,” I say matter-of-fact. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. Lowering her eyes to her thighs, she says, “This is…confusing.” I tilt my head to the side. “Is it though? Why wouldn’t I like you? Why wouldn’t I want to get to know you? You’re gorgeous, smart, driven, and kind. These are all things I know from simple observation. I can’t imagine what else there is to discover with an up-close exploration.” Exploration? That’s a good word and one that gets my brain thinking about everything else there is to explore—mentally and  physically. Emerson shakes her head once more and I can see her walls going back up. The glow leaves her cheeks, and the smile vanishes from her lips. She sinks into her chair rather than sits in it proudly, welcoming the kindness and compliments I offer her. In fact, it seems my compliments make her uncomfortable more than anything else. She doesn’t understand them or think she deserves them because she doesn’t see herself the way I do. Suspecting her home life isn’t as good as it seems, I assume that’s why. There’s a difference between being shy and guarded. Emerson Calhoun is definitely hiding something, a secret that isn’t hers but hers to keep. “The only thing you  need to explore is that prep book.” She nods past me to where I hold her textbook hostage. “I will. But, to respond to your earlier comment, I am  a good multi-tasker. I can learn you and this at the same time. Now, pick your poison, princess.” I open my backpack and withdraw various drinks and packaged snacks, again from the concession stand. “Something tells me you’ll like these.” I hand her a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos. “You don’t take no  for an answer, do you?” Emerson sighs in exasperation. “I do, but you never said no .” “ You never asked me a question. You only assured me of what you  want.” Ah! She’s right. Now it’s my smile that wavers as I lower my gaze. I suddenly feel deflated. Both because I know there’s a very good chance she’ll say no  and because I let the curse of popularity win. I consider myself a grounded and humble guy. I know the difference between attention and genuine friendship, even love. Which is why, despite being surrounded by people all the time, I call very few friends and don’t entertain the flirty entourage. Yet, it’s obvious being used to getting what I want has granted me a certain level of confidence in my interactions with Emerson, confidence now gone. While I no longer find myself intimidated by the beauty in front of me, my chest aches knowing whatever I’d hoped to start may end with that two-lettered, one syllable word. “Okay, Emerson Loreali Calhoun,” I say, sitting upright and directing my attention back to her. As I do, her lips part and her face appears to mirror the uncertainty of my features. “With respect to whatever rules your father may have, is it alright with you if I get to know you?” There it is. A yes  or no  question awaiting an answer that will change the course of my senior year, perhaps my entire future, for better or for worse. “How do you know my full name?” She asks quietly, and I break out in a fit of nervous laughter. I’m over here with bated fucking breath and an aching heart and she’s worried about me knowing her full name? “ Jesus, Ems . We’ve co-existed our entire lives. I remember the name of your pet frog from second grade. And that’s still not a no .” I raise my brow and lean forward in my chair. Emerson blushes as I close our proximity and rest my palm on her knee. My touch seems to soften her. The tension in her shoulders relaxes as well as the tautness of her cheeks. “Fine,” she whispers. “We can get to know each other.” I toss my hands over my head, wearing a beaming smile, as I’ve just scored the winning homerun. Though, truthfully, this moment feels sweeter than any championship ever has. Standing, I crouch over her and wrap my arms around her, giving her a massive hug. She laughs. “Oh, so you want to get to know me too, huh?” I say into her ear. “Good to know.” I inhale her intoxicating scent, fighting the urge to nip at her neck. Instead, I opt for the safer option and plant myself back in my chair. Emerson shakes her head with a glowing smile. As she logs back into her computer, she playfully asks, “Why are you so annoying?” “ Annoying?  Hmm, what about me do you find annoying, sweetheart?” I ask, rubbing my palm up and down her back. Shit . Maybe she was right. How am I supposed to focus on the ACT when I’ve got her sitting next to me? Emerson looks at me then, and I see the truth in her eyes when she says, “Nothing, Noah. I don’t find one thing about you annoying. I just…am confused by you and afraid.” Her voice gets quiet towards the end. Noting the truth in her expression now makes it easier for me to recognize the times when she hasn’t been honest. “Of me or…?” “Of…everything,” she admits. “Being seen makes me uncomfortable. I learned long ago that it’s safer to remain invisible.” I bring my hand to her cheek and caress her soft skin. I want to know the story behind that cruel lesson. I want the name, the face, and the facts. But, more than anything, I just want her to feel safe and that starts with me being patient, calm, and trustworthy—not me forcing her to reveal her deepest wounds before she trusts me to hold them. “You don’t have to be afraid, Ems. You’re safe with me. And if there is something else going on, something you don’t feel comfortable telling me now, it’s okay. When you’re ready, I’ll be here and whatever you tell me—” I stop myself. I want to say her secrets will remain between us, but I’m not sure I can make that promise. “Thank you for not lying to me,” she says softly as I move my hand from her cheek to intertwine our fingers. Emerson’s eyes drift, watching as I squeeze her hand. “Because you know, if there was something to tell, you couldn’t keep it to yourself.” THE END...FOR NOW. Emerson and Noah's story is coming this fall to Amazon . Follow me on Amazon, Instagram, or subscribe to my mailing list to make sure you're notified of the release. In the meantime, have you read the first book in my Magnolia Blooms series? You Can Feel It In The Silence is available to preorder now and will release on July 1st!

Meet Emmett Calhoun and April Scott... "You can feel it in the silence--when you're loved, when you're home." Welcome to Magnolia, Louisiana, a small town desperate for a fresh start after tragedy. Newcomer, April has made it her life’s work bringing old, abandoned properties back to beauty. It was a dream first instilled in her by her father after they lost their home in a hurricane. Since then, April has lost much more—both her parents and her hearing. April’s life has been quiet for far too long. The only comfort she finds is in her work. That is until she meets the farmer next door, Emmett Calhoun. Emmett is driven by two things—responsibility to his family and a desire to never become his father. Reluctant to allow himself a taste of something new, Emmett avoids helping April with the renovation until he simply can’t. When he finally agrees to help, more than the historic inn gets a fresh start. April hears Emmett, sees him, more than anyone else ever has. Emmett learns and loves April in a way no one else has ever been willing to. Together, they find the silence isn’t so quiet. Together, they tear down the walls guarding their hearts and open their minds to new possibilities for the future—to new dreams, to new love. And the town of Magnolia enters a new chapter of togetherness. Tropes: deaf/ mute, virgin FMC, protective farmer next door MC, close proximity, slow burn turned spicy, found family, small town, healing love story TW: loss, grief, PTSD, alcoholism (not MCs) This novel is a complete standalone and releases on July 1st. Emmett and April's story is a perfect combination of sweet and spicy. This novel features wholesome town events, tractor rides, stargazing, pet goats, nostalgic letter writing, and tons of love. We even see the two of them develop their own signs for quick communication. But it's not without some truly panty-soaking spice. Our MC Emmett is a total tease and loves to please. He also likes things a little rough, but is forced to restrain himself when he learns his love is a virgin--at least, at first. Emmett and April's sexual relationship has been fun to explore because it is a time of exploration. Emmett wants April to know her pleasure matters too and he makes sure to show her all that's possible. April is eager to learn and embrace her power. Beyond the sexual exploration this novel features, both April and Emmett have deep wounds from tragic pasts and the town of Magnolia has its own secrets and scars. You Can Feel It In The Silence features a subtle mystery subplot as April discovers the history behind the inn she's come to renovate (and the identities of the star-crossed lovers at the center of the mystery). Emmett makes some discoveries of his own. Overall, You Can Feel It In The Silence , is sure to be a well-rounded read full of romance, emotion, spice, solved secrets, and more. Check it out this summer, releasing July 1st!

I've been getting some questions about the interconnectivity of the 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘯  series. So, here are all the answers and recommended reading order. 🖤 Each novel is a complete standalone and is slightly different when it comes to spice and suspense levels. 🌹 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭  (book 1) is a slow burn, only one spicy scene, the most suspenseful, and has a mystery subplot. 🖤 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 (book 2) is a kinky, spicy, banter-filled, close proximity, enemies to lovers mafia romance. It is light on the suspense/ mafia conflict but does include one very dark scene that may be triggering to readers. 🌹 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞  (book 3) is a perfect combination of spice, romance, and dark themes. While this novel is a slow burn, it is the spiciest of the three. The mafia conflict is light; however, due to the FMC's traumatic past, it is a dark novel, and comes with several trigger warnings listed in the book and description. 🖤 Because all of these novels have a slightly different vibe, you may like one and not the other. When I hear someone say they probably won't read the rest after reading 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵, I'm like noooo. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 was my very first mafia romance to write as I was transitioning away from a mystery-heavy romantic suspense duet. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞  𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 🌹 These novels can be 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑. I personally feel, if you are just now discovering this series, it could be cool to read them in reverse order--𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, and finish with 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵. 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞  𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. After reading 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦, you're probably going to want to read the others. 🖤 When it comes to the mafia conflict, many readers note it is light in Mine to Tease and Mine to Love . That's because doing certain things would've contradicted the first book. The mafia conflict is interconnected across all three books; however, it's not prevalent enough in books two and three to confuse anyone. The main purpose of this trilogy is the love stories developing between the characters. 🌹Another thing to note is length. Mine to Protect is the longest of the three (125,000 words). Mine to Tease is the shortest (99,000 words). Mine to Love is a happy medium at (110,000 words). 🖤 If you're looking for a spicy, quick, weekend read, I'd jump into Mine to Tease . 🌹If you're looking for a read that's going to break your heart and put it back together, I'd go for Mine to Love . A Final Note: All three of the Blood and Bourbon mafia romance novels are being turned into audiobooks coming to ACX, Amazon, and Audible this fall.