When you’re a blacklisted preschool teacher and somehow end up coaching the worst team in the NHL, it’s shaping up to be the crappiest Christmas ever.
We’re adding an NHL head-coaching job to the Yule log dumpster fire of my holiday season.
I lost my apartment and had to move back home for the holidays.
My mom sneaks into my bedroom to watch me sleep because she “can’t help it. I missed my little girl so much, Ellie!”
And my day-drinking granny has declared herself the team’s new equipment manager so she can ogle hockey butts in the locker room.
The last thing I need is twenty-two adult toddlers with blades on their feet and bad attitudes for Christmas.
Captain Fletcher Sullivan? He’s the worst, with his muscles and his sneer, turning every practice into The Grinch on Ice.
Between breaking up fights, hosting snack time, and bailing my goalie out of jail, I have no time for Christmas cheer—or for the cocky, absurdly ripped team captain who thinks I don’t belong in the NHL.
Yes, I played on the women’s national hockey team.
Yes, I lift weights.
And yes, I will pick up a six-four hockey player and put him in time-out if he doesn’t follow directions.
There’s no Christmas miracle coming to save us. We lose. A lot.
But armed with Goldfish crackers and juice boxes, I’m going to turn this team of ragtag hockey players into winners.
“I don’t want everyone to blame me when we get creamed.” I sink in my chair.
My dad kneels in front of me and grabs my hand. “Exactly! So do the press conference, say you have another job offer, and this will all be over.”
“No wonder they kept trading your ass around when you were a goalie!” Granny Murray makes a rude noise. “You’re a quitter and a narc.”
Angie comes in with my phone that’s ringing and ringing.
I don’t recognize the number, though it’s a Maplewood Falls area code.
“It’s the press.” Angie waves the phone at me. “Tell them you won’t do interviews unless they pay you.”
“Ooh! Yeah, then we can go shopping,” Maxine squeals.
“Aunt Babs already bought you clothes, sweetie.” Mom smooths my hair down.
“Don’t talk to the press,” my dad begs.
“Nate,” my mom tells him, “let me make you some herbal tea.”
“Food!” my little brothers wail.
“For God’s sake,” my dad curses.
I answer the phone.
“Speaker,” Maxie whispers. “Put it on speaker.”
“Hello?” My voice is hesitant.
A loud, irritated male sigh echoes around the kitchen as everyone watches breathlessly. “Candy Cane?” I can practically hear Fletcher roll his eyes. “I mean, Coach Candy Cane.”
I grimace. “About that…”
“You better not be flaking out,” the deep voice warns. “You have the keys. We’re freezing our nuts off out here.”
Author Bio:
I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.
When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile! So many books...
You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at my website.
Sign up for my newsletter so that you can get information about new releases, giveaways, and more!
She's sworn off musicians. He's a rock star trying to go country. What could go wrong?
Darian Mercer’s rock career crashed and burned with his band Reverend Sister. Now he’s hiding out in Nashville, playing dive bars and trying to forget everything that went wrong. The last place he expects to find his next song is at The Songbird, where venue owner Rye Hayes has spent three years keeping other people’s dreams alive while burying her own.Rye doesn’t perform anymore. She books acts, pours drinks, and raises her ten-year-old daughter. When Darian takes her unfinished melody and turns it into something she couldn’t write herself, she’s pissed. She’s also intrigued.Their collaboration starts as one song, one session. But music has a way of breaking down walls neither of them meant to build. When Darian’s past catches up and the industry comes knocking, they’ll have to decide what matters more: playing it safe or taking the risk that could destroy them both.Some songs are worth the fight. Some aren’t.
Heidi McLaughlin is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of The Beaumont Series, The Boys of Summer, and The Archers.
Originally, from the Pacific Northwest, she now lives in picturesque Vermont, with her husband, two daughters, and their three dogs.
In 2012, Heidi turned her passion for reading into a full-fledged literary career, writing over twenty novels, including the acclaimed Forever My Girl.
Heidi's first novel, Forever My Girl, has been adapted into a motion picture with LD Entertainment and Roadside Attractions, starring Alex Roe and Jessica Rothe, and opened in theaters on January 19, 2018, and is now available on DVD & Digital.
Caroline O’ Connell is here to tell us about her contemporary romance The Champagne Crush, Les Femmes series.
There's also a great giveaway.
_________________________
The Champagne Crush
Caroline O’ Connell
(Les Femmes Series)
Publication date: September 16th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
For fans of Emily In Paris (on Netflix). “Pop the cork on this sparkling romance where champagne dreams and career schemes collide in the vineyards of Napa and the glamour of New York. Catherine Reynolds is ready to reinvent herself, but a flirty CEO, fizzing ambition, and a splash of betrayal shake up her plans. From vineyard drama to high-stakes PR, love and bubbles rise to the top. Perfect for fans of witty banter, slow-burn tension, and second chances with a twist.” —Los Angeles Book Review
Catherine Reynolds has enjoyed a life of luxury, but her diplomat parents have cut her off financially, leaving her flat broke. She is determined to turn things around and gain her independence—so, when an old family friend offers her a lifeline as a PR consultant for his sparkling wine company, she jumps at the chance. But working with Chris McDermott, the company’s sexy, stubborn president, is anything but easy.
A purist at heart, Chris clashes with Catherine’s glitzy marketing flair; still, the chemistry between them is undeniable. As they travel from New York to Napa, Paris, and the Champagne region of France, their partnership blossoms amid high-stakes industry rivalries and a launch that could make or break them.
When sabotage threatens to shatter their dreams, Catherine must dig deep to prove her worth. With the dazzling unveiling of their new sparkling wine in Bordeaux in jeopardy, will she and Chris overcome the challenges of the past and present to secure their future—and find love in the process?
Catherine rode up front with Frédéric. The short drive from Trianon to Hautvillers, a picturesque “high village,” took them up a narrow, winding road barely changed for centuries. Along the route, they passed well-preserved ancient buildings, some displaying forged-iron signs from a different era. Frédéric pulled up to the Abbey of Hautvillers. The small historic church overlooked fields of vineyards in the valley below.
“For Champenois,” Frédéric said, “this is considered the birthplace of champagne. Other regions were experimenting with sparkling wine, but this was the place in France, in Champagne.”
He led them to a patio where an ice bucket and three flutes sat on a small table. “Let’s take a moment to savor a good French champagne, while I tell the story.” He pulled a bottle of Moët’s Dom Pérignon out of the ice bucket and opened it. “It’s appropriate to drink this champagne, since Moët & Chandon named their prestige blend after Dom Pérignon.” He filled the flutes. “Let’s toast.”
Frédéric began. In 1668, a young Benedictine monk, Pierre Pérignon, became cellarmaster of the Abbey at Hautvillers. Dom was a title given to certain Benedictine monks, so he was called Dom Pérignon. At the time, the abbey was making still wine.
Hautvillers, in the Falaises de Champagne, has a cool northern climate. Pérignon noticed when the weather turned warm in spring some bottles of wine became effervescent. By accident, they had gone through a second fermentation, creating bubbly wine. Through trial and error, Pérignon determined that wine yeast went dormant in cold temperatures. In spring, the remaining leftover yeast initiated another fermentation, creating the bubbles.
“We’re talking about a lot of bubbles,” Frédéric said. He explained the bottles couldn’t withstand the additional pressure. Many bottles shattered or the wood plugs popped out, causing spillage. Eventually, Dom Pérignon came up with a cork plug to hermetically seal the bottles, trapping the bubbles in.
“There were still many broken bottles,” Frédéric laughed, “until they devised a way to make stronger bottles.” Future champagne producers learned how to create the millions of bubbles in each bottle by adding yeast to the blended still wine for the second fermentation.
“A sip to celebrate this monk and his gift to the world.” Frédéric lifted his flute. Chris thoroughly enjoyed Frédéric’s description. Catherine seemed mesmerized and made a few notes.
“Pérignon devoted his life to the abbey until he died in 1715,” Frédéric said. “And now, let’s pay our respects.” He led them into the small church to view Dom Pérignon’s tombstone.
They walked back to the car in contemplative silence. Frédéric checked his phone. “We have time to drive by the church in Reims, if you’d like to see it.”
“I’d love to,” Catherine said. “My parents were married at Notre-Dame de Paris, a similar Gothic cathedral.”
Traffic was light. They arrived in Reims, the capital of Champagne, thirty minutes later. Frédéric pulled up to the plaza in front of the cathedral. He gestured to the edifice. “This church has an important historical significance in France. Starting in the thirteenth century, it was chosen for the coronation of French kings”—he paused—“for six hundred years.”
“That’s a long time,” Chris said.
“One of the most famous coronations was the crowning of Charles the Seventh in 1429, attended by Joan of Arc. Jeanne d’Arc, in French,” he added. “Unfortunately, not long after, she was captured by the English and put to death for helping French fighters during the Hundred Years’ War.”
“Sad story,” Catherine said. She stepped out of the car and took a few photos of the facade.
When she got back in, Frédéric drove a few miles to their destination. It was clear the main business of Reims was champagne. Markers indicating numerous champagne houses, including Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot, popped up along the route. Right before the approach to Les Crayères, they passed a sign for Pommery Champagne.
Frédéric pulled into a parking spot. “We’re here.” He got out of the car to see them off.
“Thank you, Frédéric, for making us feel so welcome,” Chris said. “You’ve been a great host and guide.” Chris shook his hand, and Catherine and Frédéric shared air kisses on both cheeks.
“You’ll have to visit us in New York sometime,” Catherine said.
“It’s my dream to go to the US,” Frédéric said. “En tout cas, I will see you in Bordeaux in June.”
“Yes, in two months,” Chris said.
As they walked up to the entrance, Chris stifled the urge to hold Catherine’s hand. She gave him his tie and pulled out a multicolored scarf that she wrapped around her neck.
Chris admired the breathtaking classic French château set in the midst of lush parkland. Yves texted he was running late, so they opted to wait in the bar. After perusing the carte of champagnes by the glass, Chris chose Pommery. Appropriate, since the château was built by that family. A brochure on the table relayed the history.
Les Crayères was built for Louise Pommery, the Duchess of Polignac, in 1904. Decades later, it became a twenty-room château for guests, boasting a gourmet restaurant and luxurious rooms overlooking manicured gardens. One reviewer called it “a Versailles in miniature . . . the stuff of honeymoons and weekend-away liaisons.”
Their flutes were served cold, the way he liked it. They tapped glasses before taking their first sips, very much in sync, like a couple. Chris was starting to sag after a busy day preceded by an early run, but Catherine seemed like the Energizer bunny; that is, if said rabbit wore a short slim dress showcasing killer legs, which he now knew could run like the wind.
Catherine set her glass down. “This is good champagne. Smart choice for the setting. The Pommerys built a lovely château.”
“This place is pretty spectacular,” he agreed, then couldn’t resist adding, “I know who I want to bring here for the two-night stay I won in the auction.”
—
Excerpt from The Champagne Crush by Caroline O’Connell,
courtesy of SparkPress, an imprint of The Stable Book Group.
Author Bio:
CAROLINE O’CONNELL has written five travel guides and numerous travel articles for magazines, newspapers, and websites. Her Romance In Paris guide has won widespread praise: “There is no better person to guide you through Paris than Caroline” — Peter Greenberg, the Travel Detective, radio host, and Travel Editor on CBS-TV. And Library Journal raved — “Reading this breezy but informative guide to Paris is like having a series of conversations with a well-traveled friend…”
Her debut novel, THE CHAMPAGNE CRUSH: A Romance Novel (Spark Press), is due out on September 16, 2025.
Hire a hitman to take out my cheating ex? It was an eggnog-fueled mistake, I swear!
On Christmas Eve, my perfect fiancé stands up at the altar to declare his pure undying love… for my evil stepsister.
Cue public humiliation, a ruined wedding, and me crawling back to my small hometown to work minimum wage at my granny’s Christmas café.
Just living the holiday dream.
But I refuse to show up sad and alone to my cheating ex and man-stealing stepsister’s engagement party.
I’ll be devoured by gossipy small-town vultures.
So I do what any rational woman would: empty her bank account, max out her credit cards, and hire a high-end escort with the Merry Christmas package.
Too bad I mess up the number and accidentally hire… a hitman.
Oops.
This is why I hate making phone calls.
I realize I’m screwed when Talbot Wynter crashes the party all combat boots, dirty jeans, and washboard abs.
He feels me up, drinks all the booze, flirts with my grandmother, then tries to off my cheating ex in his hotel room.
I scream and make him stop him because I may or may not still pathetically have feelings for my ex.
Talbot thinks I’m insane.
He might be right.
But his company has a strict no-refunds policy.
Now I’m stuck dragging this six-foot-five, potty-mouthed menace of an ex-Marine to Christmas tree cuttings, gingerbread baking, and holiday parties—
All while he tries to convince me to let him take out my ex so he can go snowboarding.
But what if my ex is moved by the holiday spirit and realizes he still loves me and comes home for Christmas?
Or, he would if I could just get this hitman out of my bedroom… and my panties.
Holiday hamster-wheel victims assemble! We’re dodging holiday drama, downing peppermint schnapps, and fending off meddling grandmothers with boundary issues and a death grip on our dating lives. This standalone holiday romantic comedy is packed with chaos, Christmas cookies, and a filthy-mouthed bad boy (and that’s not steel in his pants) guaranteed to leave you swooning under the mistletoe. Happily ever after and holiday cheer guaranteed!
“Wait, where are you going? I thought we were having sex,” I wail as he opens up the window and swings one leg out.
“Excuse me?” He swivels back inside and pulls off the black mask. “Why in the hell would I have sex with you?”
“Are you kidding me right now? Are you fucking—because you’re a fucking prostitute.” I’m sobbing now. “And I paid you a fuck-ton of money to pretend to be my boyfriend and to have sex with me.”
His mouth drops open.
It would be funny if all my money weren’t gone.
“Gumdrop.” He jumps back into the room, the soft shoes silent on the carpet. “You did what?”
“You’re a high-end escort, but you really don’t live up to the promise.” I sniffle.
I’m fishing for more mini bottles. Talbot slams the fridge door.
“You really have drunk too much.” He cups my face. “Gumdrop. You paid me to assassinate your ex, Austen Langley. Remember?”
“Assassinate? Like kill, kill? Or just like, you’re going to glitter-bomb him?” I squeak.
“Yeah, ‘Grandma gets run over by a reindeer’ level of dead.”
My knees collapse, and I plop down on the floor like Christmas cookie dough.
“I did a… you’re a… I hired an…”
“Assassin?” He unzips the black bag and pulls out the biggest gun. Like, comically large. Movie-villain large. Plus three knives and what might be a torture device along with zip ties and duct tape.
My stomach twists.
“I prefer hitman,” he says, cheerful, like we’re chatting over wine and charcuterie. “Assassin sounds a little bougie. I just kill people and make it look like an accident.”
“I’ve made a huge mistake,” I groan.
“For Austen,” he rambles, obviously pleased with himself, “it’s going to look like he partied too hard and paid the price.”
“Then, but the—” I point to the gun, trying not to hyperventilate.
“This?” he gives it a kiss. “Just a little insurance policy in case things go south. But I have a pretty good plan in place. No one will think he’s been murdered. Everyone saw him downing drink after drink. All the women are off in the hot tub. All his NHL friends are super drunk.”
Talbot shows me his phone. There’s Brielle on the livestream doing a stripper dance, all for the eyes of my fake boyfriend. Shoot, my fake fake boyfriend, because…
Because a cold-blooded killer is standing in my suite, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks. I start scooching back on the carpet.
Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The dead eyes, the total lack of empathy in his face, the glee as he describes how he’s going to kill Austen, my Austen, my one true love.
Author Bio:
I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.
When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile! So many books...
You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at my website.
Sign up for my newsletter so that you can get information about new releases, giveaways, and more!
Adele Knight is here to tell us about her audiobook Her Filthy Enemy, Her Sweet Seduction, a contemporary romance.
There's also a great giveaway.
_______________________
Her Filthy Enemy
Adele Knight
(Her Sweet Seduction)
Publication date: November 28th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
What do you do when snowed in alone with an arrogant flirt?
Don’t walk in on him in the shower.
Too late.
I can’t look away, and Noah loves the attention.
But it doesn’t mean anything…
He’s the guy who never goes home alone, and I’m the shy book nerd whose idea of a good time is staying late at the library and binging on red licorice.
Noah thinks I’m so forgettable that he can’t remember my name, even though we share the same group of friends. So when the roads clear and our mutual friends finally turn up, including Eric—the sweet guy who wants to be more than friends—I’m determined to forget about water dripping off muscles and fists wrapped around…
But now Noah’s acting differently. Sitting close to me, touching me, calling me by my actual name…
It’s almost like he’s jealous, but that’s ridiculous.
Except, I swear the bathroom door was unlocked before I walked in.
Noah didn’t leave it open on purpose…or did he?
Contains MF, FF scenes, and an MMC who likes to watch.
This is a short and steamy novella in Her Sweet Seduction Series. Each novella is stand-alone with new characters and spicy scenarios to enjoy anytime—but especially fun as a bedtime treat.
Adele Knight likes her red wine with chocolate and her sweet romances with lots of heat. Her spicy stories are a bedtime treat with enough spark to warm your sheets and alluring characters to make you beg for more.
When she's not writing, Adele can be found lost in other fantasy worlds. Whether it's a hairy beast and a talking candle-stick or black leather and heels, Adele loves her heroines feisty and her heroes irresistible.
Kitt Henley is here to tell us about her contemporary romance Bad Crush on a Rockstar, Soulmates #3.
There's also a great giveaway.
________________________
Bad Crush on a Rockstar
Kitt Henley
(Soulmates, #3)
Publication date: November 25th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
A spicy brother’s-best-friend romance featuring a cinnamon roll rockstar hero haunted by his past, a plucky heroine with a childhood crush, slow seduction, hometown shows, and rapidly crumbling resolve.
She’s my best friend’s little sister, and she’s got a bad crush. But I’m the one who can’t stay away from her.
SEAN: When I first laid eyes on Brooke Halsey, she was just a sweet, freckle-faced kid with enormous glasses and an even bigger crush on me.
But there’s no denying she’s all grown up now.
She’s running the merch table while my rock band’s home on tour, and even though we’ve never been more than good friends, I know she’s game. I’d totally go for it too, if I didn’t already know I’d break her heart, destroy my band, and lose Jonah—our drummer, my best friend, and her brother.
He’s made it clear he does not want me messing around with his little sister. He knows Brooke’s serious about finding love and playing for keeps. So a rock musician with no fallback plan and no permanent address is the last thing she needs.
Which is why I’m in deep trouble right now…
Because last night…I kissed her.
—
The Soulmates Series: Two bands. Three shows. Four happily ever afters.
Bad Crush on a Rockstar is a complete romance with no cliffhanger. This story can be enjoyed as a stand-alone or read as the third book in the Soulmates interwoven rockstar romance series.
“Knock, knock,” Lexie croons through the curtain, her knuckles rapping at the edge of my bunk. “We’re just about there, if you need to pack up.”
“Thanks.” I slide the curtain to one side and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge as I rub my eyes. I peer through the large bay window at the Chicago skyline shimmering in the sun as we roll along the freeway.
Artie and our backup driver took shifts all night and all through the day to get us here. We usually sleep on the bus when we’re on tour, but since we’re here for several days, the label offered to put us up in a hotel. Anthony opted to stay at his family’s penthouse this week because it’s nearby and empty right now, but the rest of us were happy to accept. We all grew up here, so we could’ve crashed with family or friends, but using the hotel as a home base simplifies things. It gives us some space and privacy to decompress, and it also helps avoid some of the social demands of being back in town. I’m looking forward to having a little privacy and sleeping in a normal-size bed for a change.
I’m still organizing my bunk area as the bus turns down Michigan Avenue. I pick out some clothes for the week and stuff them into my large duffle bag.
We pull up in front of the hotel, and I sling my duffle over my shoulder.
“You kids have a good time, now, all right?” Artie calls back to us. “Be safe.”
“Will do. Thanks for the ride, Artie, and have a great rest of the week!” I lug my bag down the aisle and push open the side door.
A gust of cold air rushes inside, whipping the door panel from my grip and slamming it against the exterior of the bus.
“Whoa.” I step outside, holding an arm out to brace the door as the other two exit.
“Good old Chicago,” Lexie jokes.
I glance up toward the hotel. The Drake in downtown Chicago is a sight to behold. We’ve stayed here once before, but it still takes my breath away. This place is fancy. Sleek, clean lines of gleaming beige stone. This kind of extravagance is always a shock to my system.
The bellhop places our luggage on a cart, and the doorman holds the door for us, then we cross the smooth carpeted floor to the elegant front desk.
“Three reservations for Garrett Music Industries,” Jonah says to the man behind the counter, then he winks at Lexie.
I glance over to catch her reaction, but she’s staring straight ahead like nothing happened.
Something’s up with those two. But they’re always playing games and finding ways to compete with each other, so who knows what this is about.
My luggage shows up at the room just as I do, and I stretch out on the bed to relax for a minute before hopping in the shower.
The water’s hot and the pressure’s fantastic—about a thousand times better than on the bus. I let it run over my shoulders, easing the tension in my back. My mind is already shifting to Brooke. Seeing her tonight.
Because here’s the thing.
I love Brooke.
Not in a romantic way—at least, it’s never been that way between us. No, I love Brooke in an honest, good, and true kind of way. The way it feels when you realize you would do anything for a person. That you would always be there for them, no matter what.
Brooke’s done that for me too, right from the start. She noticed I was struggling with school and offered to help. When she found out I wanted to start playing bass, she came up with a plan for me to earn enough money doing odd jobs so I could buy one off a friend.
From that very first day my family moved into their house, she was finding thoughtful things to do and making lighthearted jokes to keep the mood up. And it helped. It didn’t feel so awkward being there, living in their home and taking up their space.
She had this sweet, round face full of freckles and thick glasses that made her brown eyes look enormous—almost big enough to match her outsized personality. She was adorable.
But then she grew up.
It was hard not to notice, because once she started to develop, it happened fast. I remember Jonah and I were walking through the halls on the first day of senior year, and I was looking around for any cute new faces on campus. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I spotted a girl with a pair of the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen in my life.
I leaned toward Jonah, whispering, “Check it out, nine o’clock,” and angling a thumb at the hottie with the body that just wouldn’t quit.
“What the fuck, man?” Jonah scowled, his expression suddenly menacing. “Shut the fuck up!”
Imagine my horror when the hot little number turned to face me and I realized I was checking out Jonah’s little sister.
“Holy shit. I didn’t even recognize her with…uh…without her glasses on.”
It was too late. The damage was done.
Brooke was only fourteen, for God’s sake. I felt like a monster, but she smiled so big and came over to hug both of us. It was all I could do not to stare straight at those incredible breasts and wonder what the hell happened over the summer.
Jonah was chilly around me for days after, and I felt like a total ass. I’d never had a friend like Jonah, and I hated that I’d done something to damage our relationship. I had to apologize multiple times, but eventually he seemed to forgive me.
“Seriously, man. Hands off my sister,” he warned, and I nodded.
“For sure, man. I swear to God, I would never lay a hand on her.” I made him that promise, and I meant it.
But toward the middle of senior year, things got…complicated. Brooke and I had been spending a lot of time together at the library while she helped me study for midterms, and one afternoon she had on this short green dress that showed more of her cleavage than I was accustomed to dealing with. Still, I managed to keep my eyes off her chest and up toward her pretty face, for the most part.
She was reading me an excerpt from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, but I couldn’t concentrate. There was this shiny gloss she had on, and it made that bottom lip look so juicy and delicious that I couldn’t stop staring at it. Just watching her beautiful mouth as she read was sending this tingle up and down my spine. My jeans felt tight, and I realized she was giving me a serious hard-on.
I cut our study session short and tried to adjust myself without anyone noticing. I booked it out of there so fast she must have wondered what the hell happened. I kicked myself all the way home, because what the fuck was I doing having sexual feelings for Brooke? She was my best friend’s little sister. I felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on me, putting such a wonderful young person inside that smoking hot body.
And she Just. Kept. Getting. Hotter.
Of course, by the time she was old enough for me to act on my feelings—assuming I would even go there, given she’s a good friend and Jonah’s sister and all, which I wouldn’t—it was clear Brooke was destined for better things than a guy like me. While I was off working odd jobs in construction and trying to get a band started, Brooke was completing the Visual Design program at Carnegie Mellon University on a full merit scholarship.
I never should have responded to her seductive tease on the phone today. She’s always playing around like that, flirting with me, and normally I keep it in check. But I got caught up in the moment, and when she took that sultry tone with me, I went with it. I played along with her sexy little game, because—let’s face it—Brooke is hot as hell, and it feels good to be wanted by her.
It feels way too good.
Which is exactly why I cannot be flirting with her. I don’t ever want to ruin the close friendship we have. Plus, she’s had a crush on me since middle school, and she’s naïve about love. She doesn’t realize I’m the last fucking thing she needs, so I can’t be toying with her emotions like that—getting her hopes up that something might happen between us when I know damn well it would never work.
She dreams of having kids someday, the sooner the better. She’s looking for something serious. Long-term. But I don’t have the kind of career that can support a family, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to repeat my dad’s mistakes—bringing children into an unstable financial situation.
No, if I keep this flirting shit up she’s gonna end up getting hurt, and I’ll only have myself to blame.
Author Bio:
Kitt Henley writes short, spicy contemporary romance with relatable characters, a touch of humor, and tons of heart. Never one to make it through a good romance (or cookie commercial) with dry eyes, Kitt's heartstrings are easy to pull on. When she played in rock bands and crunched numbers in the Seattle tech world, those waterworks weren't an asset, but after a friend suggested she try writing romance, everything clicked into place. From the moment she sat down to write her first novel, she knew she'd found her calling.
When she's not wrangling words in her tiny bedroom office, Kitt loves to spend time with her high school best friend (a.k.a. her rockstar husband) and their two ridiculously funny boys. She's still holding out hope for that family band someday, but in the meantime she'll happily settle for camping trips, board games, long walks with friends, and watching lots and lots of thrillers.
Harley Wylde is here to tell us about The Enforcer's Possession, Ruthless Alliances #1, Mafia romance featuring age gap and suspense.
Read on for details...
_____________________________
(Ruthless Alliances #1)
Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: November 28, 2025
A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood,
bound by desire.
Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one
thing -- marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel
man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one -- on my terms. So I go
to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold.
Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not
desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and
control shatters.
Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She
wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father,
but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk --
reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But
in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in.
I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming
the monster she fears.
A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion.
For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines,
enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes
dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.
EXCERPT
Caterina
I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling
over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some
party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I
picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago -- Valentino,
bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift across the disaster
zone my room had become.
Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive
casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of
Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open
on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow
refractions across the walls.
“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held
that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her.
“He wants to know if you’ll be at --”
“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my
discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it
back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund
baby wants to play gangster this week.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”
She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about
Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world,
to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.
“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a
charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in
your voice.”
I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me
something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My
father. What else?”
“What did Giuseppe do now?”
“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to
the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along
the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana,
Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing
the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings.
About my future.”
“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that
meant. We all did.
“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women
should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random -- something
in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off
its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told
me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling
down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather die.”
Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”
“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of
high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared
back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders,
green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my
mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down
into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m shocked.”
“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how
fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open,
then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this
for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks
he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care
of.”
“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”
“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the
Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose
bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful.
Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy.
As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know
he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could
ever take care of myself.”
“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which
somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are
for.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what
makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right
by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can
offer.”
“What about what you want?”
“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned
away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me
suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a
Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”
“And what do you want?”
The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted
freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before.
My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer clothes,
carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would
strengthen family alliances.
“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I
fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to
ask?”
“For Giuseppe? Probably.”
I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto
it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse
lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”
“Maybe he does.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall,
staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction
that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room
was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can
feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made
that’s going to change everything.”
“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just
fighting?”
“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch
him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers
through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free
with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the
right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”
“What about Sofia?”
“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is
honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try
being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s
needs.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy
was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers
over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts from my father,
purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude.
“She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it
anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess,
pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”
The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp
snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant
it with everything in me.
“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d
have to wear black, which washes me out.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving
around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had.
“Look, I know you don’t want advice --”
“Then don’t give it.”
“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school.
You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every
time.”
“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”
“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat.
Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it
count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”
I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to
strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how justified -- just made him
dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”
“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get
yourself grounded, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming.
“There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on
how tense everyone’s been.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”
“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps
in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll
call you later.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my
phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.
Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so
perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored
Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls
that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly
where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster
child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.
Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room -- the scattered clothes, the
open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her expression remained serene.
That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.
“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with
just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.
“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit
up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the
mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.
That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.
“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped
farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even
her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present
and properly dressed by seven.”
“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us,
loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and
obedient? Quiet and decorative?”
“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained
gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years
perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have
important guests coming.”
“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with
deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor.
“Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone
Papa wants to impress.”
Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment -- the only crack in her
composure. “This is vital to your father.”
“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances,
his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of
perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to
control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”
“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced
at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been
weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”
“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder
than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity
top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”
“No one said you weren’t.”
“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned
to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me
last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like
I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”
Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting
casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father
wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for the family, you mean.”
“Sometimes those things align.”
“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens
when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I
need?”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something
genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.
“We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part
of something larger than ourselves.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper
than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I
didn’t choose this life.”
“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it
didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The
question is what we do with it.”
I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she
admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be
Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had
made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that
compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than
fighting the script.
I’d never be able to do the same.
“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door.
“Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand
on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”
I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp
click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never
been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze
flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.
“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and
everything.”
Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew
when I was planning something.
“Caterina --”
“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the
one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood
pressure spike. “You can count on me.”
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.
Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
