Rumer Haven's Blog, page 4

Hellf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tale

~ * ~Hellf on the Shelf
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-fareast-font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;}  </style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">He didn’t mess with Mom until the eleventh day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">From the beginning, Dad had been a reluctant accomplice, no more excited than she’d been to break down and buy the Christmas elf toy. But both of their kids had heard all about it in school and on TV, and they’d begged for their chance to impress one of Santa’s elves on a daily basis while it watched them from different locations throughout the house and brought treats and sometimes tricks. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">No, neither Mom nor Dad were thrilled at the prospect of making the Santa lie that much more elaborate and challenging to maintain. Instead of one night of trying not to get caught, it was twenty-four, and the kids’ questions over logistics were getting harder to answer: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Does he really report to Santa every night? How does he fly back and forth to the North Pole so fast? Why doesn’t he just call from his smartphone? Why did he fix the game console when Santa could just send the newer version? </i>Mom had privately named the toy “Hellf” for the inconvenience it added. But the boys were getting a big kick out of him so far. That made it all worth it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Until December 11. The day the alliance died, apparently…when her husband began undoing everything she’d set up the night before. When was he doing it? He was always already in bed whenever she moved Hellf to a new spot on the furniture and appliances. She never sensed her husband getting out of bed, and she was first up every morning to get breakfast ready. So when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> he doing it? And why? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">After the first week, she’d actually started having fun with it. Prided herself on her increasing cleverness. She no longer just moved Hellf around; she posed him in different, funny ways to look like he was reading the boys’ books or building their Legos. He’d appear to rebel-rouse the other toys, picking a lightsaber fight with Kylo Ren and drag racing against the stuffed panda. She wasn’t into merry mess-making, like dumping out flour so the elf could make “snow” angels, but she was happy to let him spell out silly messages with marshmallows, add sprinkles to the cocoa mix, or prepare the coffeemaker. Her favorite so far was probably when Hellf pooped out chocolate kisses. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">But on the eleventh day, the elf wasn’t having any more of her antics. When she woke in the morning, all her efforts had been cleared, and instead of reading on the toilet, Hellf struck a more respectable pose from the corner bookshelf in the living room. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Why’d you move it?” she whisper-yelled at her husband when he ambled into the hall, squinting his still-sleepy eyes and scratching his scalp.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Move what?” he asked between yawns.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Hellf. I had him all ready to go. Why didn’t you just use the other bathroom?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“I haven’t used <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> bathroom yet. What’re you talking about?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She huffed. “If you had another idea, fine, but that’s just boring.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“The whole thing is boring. Why couldn’t they just find the pickle and have it over with? They already have so much. They’ll get spoiled.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Handing over a DS game for finding the pickle five seconds after I’ve hung it on the tree is spoiling them. At least this is just for fun, not prizes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah. So fun. All it does is fix their eye on the big prize at the end. Which they’ll get no matter what.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Well…” She had no comeback. “It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> fun when you give some effort. The bookshelf? Really? Call that inspired? You’ve set us back to day one.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">He scrubbed his eyes during another yawn. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“If you’d stayed in bed all night,” she said, “maybe you’d feel more rested.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“I didn’t touch the effing elf, all right? Jeez, just put it back where it was. Like they’ll know the difference.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll</i> know,” she said with a mock glare before freeing him to his morning ritual. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">He went straight into the very bathroom, though, where she’d positioned Hellf before, and a stirring behind one of the kids’ bedroom doors preempted any backup plans. The elf would just have to stay on the shelf and be boring that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">When the boys found him right away and screwed their faces, she shrugged and promised them extra gooey, sugary toppings on their pancakes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">That night, she made up for the disappointment. She stayed up late building a gingerbread house that Hellf would take credit for. When the kids woke in the morning, they would spy him putting the finishing touches on its walkway with a peppermint paving stone. She was exhausted, but it looked adorable, and even Hellf appeared pleased with himself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">But by sunrise on the twelfth, Hellf was back on the shelf, the gingerbread house nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, she still hadn’t come across the picture book he’d been reading on the toilet two nights before either. But this one took the cake—rather literally, as she’d put so much time and energy into constructing the now missing confection.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“What. The. Hell,” she rasped at her husband once they had a moment alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Closing her eyes, she raised jazz hands that curled into claws as she sought to contain her irritation. “The house. Where’s the gingerbread house, and why’s he on the shelf again?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“You serious? Kids’ve gotta be messing with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She fisted her hands on her hips. But soon, her scowl curved into a smile, and they both chuckled as she wiped some crumbs and icing flakes off the table. Foiled—again—by a devious duo. A mother couldn’t help but be proud. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“That elf better be catching all this,” she said. “Naughty-list potential for sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Over breakfast, they sat the boys down and interrogated them, trying to get to the bottom of how they’d sabotaged Hellf and why. Their two sons just stared back wide-eyed in adamant protest. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“No, we didn’t!” one cried. “Santa’d be so mad!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“We can’t control him!” the other insisted. “He can go wherever he wants!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“He’s supposed to be at the North Pole all night,” the first one said, tears pooling in his eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The more Mom and Dad pressed on, the more they realized that if the boys were indeed telling the truth, these questions were only destroying the illusion of Hellf and Santa and all things Christmas Magic. And if anyone was lying—Dad included—Mom would expose one or all of those little shits if she had anything to do about it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She began by doing nothing. Hellf sat on his shelf collecting dust into the next night and remained there by morning. She thought his legs had been crossed at the knees before, not the ankles, but of course she could be mistaken and, if not, one of the boys—big or small—had obviously done it. She barely slept the next night, keeping all senses alert for any sign of tampering. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">On the morning of the fourteenth, Hellf still sat on the shelf, painted eyes as wide and mischievous as ever and his head a little cocked to the side.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now</i> it was getting boring. So, that evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, she turned the refrigerator door into a rock wall of gumdrops for Hellf to climb. The next day, he and the drops were gone, nothing left but the candy’s sticky residue on the textured fridge surface, which she begrudgingly scrubbed off before any of her tricksters awoke and took satisfaction in her annoyance. Passing through the living room, she spotted Hellf on the corner shelf, grinning with a deepened blush, if that was possible. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Extending her fingers into the peace sign, she pointed their two tips toward her eyes before stabbing just her index finger at Hellf.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m watching you, buddy</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">And she did. Staying up until the wee hours, she strung him up on a bead-garland zip-line stretching from the bookcase to the nearest window valance. Then she tucked her husband’s action camera between a couple books on the top shelf and left it to record for the next few hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She managed to slip into sleep straight away—and overslept. Disoriented and groggy the following morning, she shuffled into the living room, where Hellf sat on the shelf, no longer braving the harrowing heights from his paperclip harness. The camera was gone, a book inserted in its place. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Closing her eyes, she sighed. Those twerps had beaten her to the punch yet again. And probably erased all recorded evidence even if she did find the camera.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She gave up. Like her husband had said, their children would receive their Christmas bounty no matter how they behaved this month, and it wasn’t like they were being that bad. Just playing with her like she’d played with them. A little payback, maybe. Perhaps they’d figured out the truth about Santa and wanted to beat her at her own game. Or they weren’t ready to let go of the lie, wanting one more year of playful mystery if not magic. Her heart ached at the thought. She wasn’t about to spoil their fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">So, she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> give up. She kept coming up with sillier ways to present Hellf in the morning, and now she did offer prizes each time. He’d read a new storybook to the other toys or challenge the panda to another race in a more pimped-out ride, fresh off the store shelf. He’d play a new video game or sit with a bowl of popcorn on the sofa to watch a new DVD. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Every night, she gave her sons something new, and they never asked why the elf would bring gifts when Santa was supposedly still determining their naughty-or-niceness. They didn’t mention anything about it at all, in fact, apparently enjoying their private game with Hellf—or “Elfis Presley,” as they’d named him themselves. And so Mom had to satisfy herself that she’d never get credit for her cleverness, never any gratitude for her generosity, since she wasn’t supposed to be the one deserving it. She and Dad stopped asking the kids if they’d gotten anything or where they squirreled the new goods away to as they continued playing with their old stuff. Together, the whole family maintained that illusion of mystery and magic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">And every morning, Hellf returned to his shelf, his eyes seeming a little brighter and his smile a little wider. The boys seemed to smile wider and brighter each day, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The household’s unseen activities went unspoken until the twenty-fourth day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">This was it. Christmas Eve. One more day, and the elf’s duty was done.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">After sending the boys off to their sugar-plum dreams, Mom and Dad snuggled by the crackling fire in the family room, mugs of mulled cider in hand. They giggled over the handmade gifts their kids had given them, as well as the boys’ barely concealed disappointment when they’d opened the Parent Presents—the clothes and very non-electronic things they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i>versus the Santa Stash they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i>and would receive on Christmas morning before the Grandparent Gifts rolled in later. Giggling and sighing occasionally at the classic holiday film playing in the background, husband and wife spoke in low tones about the year they’d had, the life and kids they loved, and the game plan for tomorrow. With a few tender, cinnamon-spiced kisses, they bid each other goodnight, and Mom caught a few winks before rousing herself to play Santa. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Feeling her way around in the dark, taking great pains not to make much sound, she navigated back to the family room with two trash bags stuffed to the gills with Santa Stash. By the soft glow of multicolored fairy lights, she knelt and unloaded each gift, arranging them all neatly beneath the tree. Situating a couple of glittery wrapped boxes beside the nativity scene, she bumped an arm into the little wooden stable and sent the angel falling from its roof. That piece always hung loose from a nail, and she was too tired to mind it now. So she left the angel to lie beside one of the sheep on a cottony snowdrift and continued to sort shiny packages. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Within each big bag was a small grocery one containing stockings and their stuffers. Once she was down to only these, she stood and stepped to the fireplace, aided by white lights strung along the mantelpiece. She hung her family’s stockings with care and began to hum “Silver Bells” as she filled them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">A jingle bell sounded across the room. She started at the crisp clang, then froze, only sliding her eyes to the side to see a slight movement within the tree. Slowly turning her head to follow her gaze, she saw something small and dark swinging in front of a red light. She squinted, her breath held in her chest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The pickle. A tradition from her mom’s side. Whoever found the unusual ornament first won a prize. She’d loved it as a kid, and now her boys did, too. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Setting the stocking stuffers down, she stepped over to see which bell had rung and what might’ve shaken it in the first place. All that moved, though, was the green glass pickle. She stared at it more closely. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Having lost momentum, it now mostly trembled side to side. Such a funny thing. Odd in looks and ritual, yet every year, she brought the pickle out, shined it up, and deliberated the perfect hiding spot on the tree—just like her mom had done for her. Now, her little winners won video games. Then, she might’ve won a pair of gloves or novelty socks. Before that, her mom and aunts had only won the right to open the first present, not an extra one. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She smiled softly in a moment lost to memory and simple pleasures, then returned to the fireplace and her humming.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Seconds later, more tinkling sounded from the tree. This time melodic, with the high, twinkling tones of a music box. “Silent Night.” Coming from the nativity. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The stable did have a musical mechanism built into its side. But she’d never turned it on, much less wound it in the first place. Had she? Of course, even if she hadn’t, either her husband or one of the kids probably had, and it wouldn’t be the first time the little device had gotten stuck. So while its sudden sound was startling, it set a pretty mood and was nothing to worry about. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Far more troubling, at the moment, was the angel. Hanging from its nail on the stable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The music slowed to a stop.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She’d knocked the angel off the stable’s little roof, hadn’t she? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I left it like that…didn’t I</i>? Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t. She couldn’t really recall, having been more focused on the placement of the presents. She was always forgetting simple things when preoccupied with other tasks. She resumed stuffing the stockings.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Jesus!” she hissed when the music started again. She’d flinched enough this time to knock a half-filled stocking off its hook. It landed on the hearth with a muffled thud. “Oh, my God,” she exhaled once she’d caught her breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The music box plucked out its song with increasing speed before slowing down again. She glanced back at the angel and silently apologized for her exclamations—although, speaking of Jesus, there before the baby in the manger was Hellf the elf, kneeling as though in prayer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said nothing now, the Lord’s name in vain or otherwise. She couldn’t even breathe. She’d left the elf on the bookshelf in the other room, its mission accomplished. What was it doing in here? How did it get down there?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay</i>, she reasoned, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the kids stuffed him in the tree at some point tonight</i>. He must’ve stayed in place until gravity dislodged him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, that makes sense</i>. He’d probably slipped from a branch and got caught in another, disturbing an ornament with a bell and causing it to ring. And now he just fell the rest of the way and triggered the music box. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t know how he landed where he did, but…</i> It wasn’t impossible. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Keeping an eye on Hellf, she stooped to retrieve the fallen stocking, then straightened to rehang it. Wasting no further time, she slam-dunked the rest of the gifts into the stockings’ mouths, not caring whether she got them into the right ones. She’d sort it by light of day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Another tinkle from the tree. Then another. Then a cluster of jingle bells, though these less audible, difficult to locate. They practically surrounded her as she nervously darted her gaze all around the dim room, unable to see into the shadows that the tiny lights couldn’t reach and afraid to look directly at any shaking in the tree she couldn’t explain. From above the fireplace’s dying embers, a cool gust of air washed over her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked to the tree, then up to the loft ceiling.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crunch</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked down at the hearth, at a half-eaten cookie beside the plate her boys had set out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump-thud</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked back up at the ceiling. The second floor didn’t extend above this room, so it wasn’t her husband or one of the kids upstairs. There wasn’t even an attic or else she’d blame an animal trapped inside. Well, by that logic, she could still blame an animal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">outside</i>, couldn’t she?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump-thump, thud, bump-bump.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An animal that high on the roof? Their young trees didn’t extend that tall, and she’d be amazed if a squirrel could pound the shingles so loudly. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Panning her sight back and forth across the ceiling, she heard a scraping by her feet, followed by a scratch and scrabbling within the wall. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The chimney. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She lowered her gaze to eye level, where it fell on Hellf. Sitting on the mantle. Right in front of her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Gasping, she clapped a hand over her mouth. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The elf’s sneaky sideways glance appeared more menacing when lit from below. He grinned like a maniac, his blush washed from his face in the lights’ dull white glow. Legs crossed, his hands rested on his knee. Tucked between them was a small folded piece of paper. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Tentatively, she snatched the note from Hellf’s grasp. Watching him with suspicion as she opened the thick stationary, she finally looked down at the calligraphic writing gracing its creamy surface:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mystery and magic are always there.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They’re no illusion, but the love you share.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I <u>have</u> been here and I <u>have</u>been inspecting,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just not from the shelf, like you were expecting.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; page-break-after: avoid; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your boys are <u>Nice</u>, portraits of decency,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; page-break-after: avoid; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Doing more with less, as proven recently.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I gave their prizes to those who had none,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That didn’t stop them from making their own fun.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They didn’t need more things or a doll in goofy poses.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They discovered instead what’s right beneath their noses.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Count the blessings you have, not those you think you should</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If anyone can learn this, I knew your family would.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So please just relax; you needn’t try so hard</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To find the virtues that lie in your own backyard.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yet thanks for the joy—I’ve enjoyed my stay!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I hope I’ve helped in even one small way.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To set the record straight, in case you’re confused,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am a real elf, not the one you have used.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am not this toy, with a face of plastic,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But a being of flesh—and a dash of fantastic.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(As for the gifts, I didn’t mean to steal.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paying you back is part of Santa’s deal. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speaking of whom, I’ve got to catch my ride.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s here right now, what you hear outside.)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Santa doesn’t give presents, as they say in the stories;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He spreads goodwill and cheer, not commercial glories.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s part of the magic, a piece of the mystery</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That restores faith and light throughout all of history.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So that’s all I’ve got. Hope it didn’t cause fright.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merry Christmas to all, and to Hellf a good night!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br />At some point while reading the letter, the thumping had stopped, the jingling faded, and Mom had stopped shaking. Hellf just sat still, yet she stared at him as if he’d ever been more than festive decoration, touched by magic. She liked him a great deal now, and she loved what he’d come to mean. Carefully folding the note from Santa’s real elf, she popped it into her own stocking. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The fairy lights would turn off on their own timer, so she left them be. But before retiring upstairs to sleep near the ones she loved, she wound the nativity’s music box until it could wind no more. Tiptoeing away, she let the carol play into the silent night.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #38761d;">~</span> * <span style="color: #38761d;">~</span></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>

#NewRelease: WHEN IT HOLDS YOU, by Nicki Elson!

New Release!  Amazon US * Amazon UK * Amazon Canada * Amazon Australia

~.~.~WHEN IT HOLDS YOU has been selected as a TOP PICK at The Romance Reviews! “Nicki Elson has become my MUST read new contemporary romance author! The sex is hot, but the emphasis is on emotions in this book. They really are made for each other.”~The Romance Reviews
~.~.~

WHEN IT HOLDS YOU
Virtual. That’s where she was supposed to stay—only in my online gaming life. I never intended to meet up with her in person. And I certainly hadn’t counted on her being who she is.
Cliff Walsh has dozens of hot, smart, and willing paramours in his video games. Who needs to look further? The twenty-eight year old attorney is done getting his heart smashed by real-life women who fit his perfect-mate checklist. From now on, he vows to keep his romances digital-only…until a certain redheaded gamer twists all his preconceptions and touches a place in his heart he didn’t know existed.

I always thought I knew what love would look like, but sometimes you don’t recognize it until the moment when it holds you. ~Cliff


WHEN IT HOLDS YOU is a stand-alone novel in The It Series family.


Other titles in the series:

WHEN IT HOOKS YOU, a Top Pick at The Romance Reviews

WHEN IT HITS YOU, coming January 2017



~.~.~



One Song to Rule Them AllWhenever Nicki has an author over at her place, she always asks the same question. So we thought it was only fair to turn the tables and make her answer it.

*ahem* Nicki, if you had to choose one song that best captures the essence of WHEN IT HOLDS YOU, what would it be and why?

Nicki: Why, what a fascinating question. I choose "Turn My Heart" by Nick Pitera. First, I love the song's playful yet emotional energy. It's what I hoped to capture in the telling of Cliff's story. As Nick sings, it's the story of a heart rewired—perfect for my boy Cliff, who had to sort of turn his heart off and recalibrate before opening up to true love.



~.~.~
Excerpt from WHEN IT HOLDS YOU by Nicki Elson
He bowed his head, clamping his eyes tight, as if the pressure of his eyelids could ease his internal pain. Giving up on that, he slowly opened his eyes, looking straight at the slight paunch of his bare waist curving above the waistband of his pajama pants. A workout would soothe his nerves. He’d been more faithful to the gym recently, determined to get back to fighting weight. He was making good progress, but Chicago deep-dish and beef sandwiches were wicked sirens. Lord knew he was a fool for wicked sirens…
But Trish wasn’t wicked. She was open-hearted, caring, fun, smart, and so damned beautiful. He should’ve turned and run the second he’d seen her sitting at the reception desk on his first day at River South Partners. She’d been his unattainable crush throughout undergrad when they were both at University of Iowa. He should’ve known their dynamic would never change. Instead, he took the chance reunion as a sign that his time had finally come.
Standing straight, he groaned at how wrong he’d been and lumbered to the living room. It was too late for the gym. Standing in front of the TV, he lowered to the spot on the rug that should’ve been imprinted with ass marks by now. He’d get a virtual workout via his latest video game. His abs were already perfectly toned in that world. And the beautiful girls were programmed to be into him.
He started the game and focused on doing what he needed to do to level up. If he saw something nice for the non-player character he was romancing along the way, he’d pick it up for her. If only romancing Trish could be as easy. One law degree and a promising career later, he was still jonesing for this girl—and probably always would be. A cyborg jumped in front of him. On total reflex, he leveled his ray gun, splitting the monster’s head into a hundred bits of oozing bone and metal.
~.~.~
Nicki Elson writes spicy fiction with a sweet and dreamy center. She does other stuff, too...like obsess over Survivor and The Bachelor (and she's not ashamed to admit it).

Writing fiction wasn't something Nicki set out to do; it just sort of happened when she realized writing reports was by far her favorite part of her investment consulting position. She traded stock allocation and diversification for story arcs and dialogue and now weaves creative writing into her life with her family in the Chicago suburbs.
Website * Facebook * Twitter * Goodreads * Amazon
~.~.~


Only 99 cents until October 26

Free to read in #KindleUnlimited

New Release! USE SOMEBODY, by Beck Anderson

Use Somebody is Beck Anderson's newest Hollywood standalone!

***Now Available!***

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2d4HqXdAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/2cZYI6EiBooks: http://apple.co/2cKTpKnNook: http://bit.ly/2cHJW3jKobo: http://bit.ly/2cmzriH


BlurbJeremy King, Hollywood über-agent to the stars, knows that sharks gotta swim. He’s one of them, after all. He’s never met a deal he couldn’t strike or an argument he couldn’t win. LA is his kind of town—they both never stop moving.

So when his friend and client, movie star Andrew Pettigrew, invites him on a “man-cation” to the wilds of Idaho for a little fly-fishing, Jeremy’s not so sure. He might not have cell service. There’s no way there’ll be any supermodels to woo. And his idea of the great outdoors is a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway in his Tesla Model S—moose definitely do not factor into the picture.

Fitting then that because of a moose, he meets Macy Shea Summerlin, the best fly-fishing guide on the South Fork. Jeremy’s surprised and tantalized, but Macy isn’t having any of his alpha male posturing. She gives as good as she gets, and she knows how to throw a mean right hook.

As the two of them get tangled up in each other’s lives, both Jeremy and Macy must come to terms with winning and losing and letting love in. And Jeremy has to find the answer to his own question: Is he simply “using” Macy or could he really “use” someone like her? Find out in Use Somebody, book 3 of the Fix You series.


~ * ~
About the Author

Beck Anderson is a two-time Rita© finalist and author of four novels including the Fix You series and The Jeweler. She’s also a wife, a mom, an educator, and a walker of a small, bossy dog-slash-evil genius.
Find her at authorbeck.com, on Twitter: @BeckAndersonID, Pinterest, Facebook, and GoodReads. 

Excerpt Reveal! USE SOMEBODY, by Beck Anderson

Excerpt
We stand in a ridiculous line (my opinion) to grab a coffee at the original Starbucks, and Macy pulls out her phone.

“Now we’ll take our coffees and go drink them somewhere cool.” She pulls me along back the way we came, hops on the Link again, headed back toward the hotel.

“Where is this cool place?” I fight the urge to take the reins. She’s lost. We’re headed nowhere.

“Just wait. It’s gonna be cool. I asked the concierge about it before you got up, too, so it’s not just me and Google that thinks so.”

We walk a short block in the opposite direction of the hotel, past the gleaming steel and glass public library, which Macy takes several pictures of as we walk.

We cross the street, and she walks up to the front doors of a grey stone modern office building.

“What?” I feel a little unsettled. I’m the one who does the surprising.

“Trust me.” She takes my hand and pulls me in through the revolving doors.

We get on the elevator, and she presses the button for the seventh floor.

“Okay.” I stand next to her, but I’m concentrating mostly on the way it feels to have her hand on mine. I think about her lips on mine, her hips against mine…

And then she coughs. It’s two, quick coughs, but there’s that rattle again.

And my mind’s back on the business of keeping her well, keeping her safe.

We get off the elevator. She looks like a kid with a great secret. “Just wait. This is so cool.”

“You haven’t been here, how do you know?”

“Don’t be a crank. Nobody likes the stick in the mud.”

“Fine.”

She pulls me through another set of chrome and glass doors.

And yeah, she’s right. It’s pretty cool.

So apparently Macy from Teton County, Idaho, has discovered the rooftop park hidden in the middle of downtown Seattle. And it’s gorgeous. She hands me my coffee and walks over to the railing. The sun is out, and the water and the waterfront is laid out in front of us.

“There’s the Space Needle! We’re going there later today. After dinner.”

I laugh. “Are you at least going to let me pick a spot for dinner?”

“Do you want to?” She doesn’t look like she wants me to.

“There’s a great place I know, and it’s a short walk from the hotel.”

“Fine.” She takes a sip from her coffee and looks out over the view.

I kiss her on the cheek again. “Don’t sulk.”

She turns and kisses me full-on, on the lips, for the briefest possible moment, before pulling away and facing out to the view again. “I’m not.” I taste mint and feel sparks down to the base of my spine.

Then she smiles the slyest, crookedest grin I’ve seen. I haven’t seen her smile like that.

And I grin back.


Use Somebody is Beck Anderson's newest Hollywood standalone!
~*~ Releasing October 8th. ~*~Now Available for Pre-order!
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2d4HqXdAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/2cZYI6EiBooks: http://apple.co/2cKTpKnNook: http://bit.ly/2cHJW3jKobo: http://bit.ly/2cmzriH

Blurb
Jeremy King, Hollywood über-agent to the stars, knows that sharks gotta swim. He’s one of them, after all. He’s never met a deal he couldn’t strike or an argument he couldn’t win. LA is his kind of town—they both never stop moving.

So when his friend and client, movie star Andrew Pettigrew, invites him on a “man-cation” to the wilds of Idaho for a little fly-fishing, Jeremy’s not so sure. He might not have cell service. There’s no way there’ll be any supermodels to woo. And his idea of the great outdoors is a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway in his Tesla Model S—moose definitely do not factor into the picture.

Fitting then that because of a moose, he meets Macy Shea Summerlin, the best fly-fishing guide on the South Fork. Jeremy’s surprised and tantalized, but Macy isn’t having any of his alpha male posturing. She gives as good as she gets, and she knows how to throw a mean right hook.

As the two of them get tangled up in each other’s lives, both Jeremy and Macy must come to terms with winning and losing and letting love in. And Jeremy has to find the answer to his own question: Is he simply “using” Macy or could he really “use” someone like her? Find out in Use Somebody, book 3 of the Fix You series.



~ * ~

About the Author Beck Anderson is a two-time Rita© finalist and author of four novels including the Fix You series and The Jeweler. She’s also a wife, a mom, an educator, and a walker of a small, bossy dog-slash-evil genius.

Find her at authorbeck.com, on Twitter: @BeckAndersonID, Pinterest, Facebook, and GoodReads.

~ * ~

Signing in the Cemetery!

What a haunted hoot I had with fellow paranormal author Shani Struthers last weekend! Saturday was our morbid-yet-merry book-signing at Brompton Cemetery .





One of London's "Magnificent Seven" cemeteries from the Victorian era, Brompton was the birthplace of my novel What the Clocks Know . I stumbled on this graveyard immediately after relocating to London several years ago, and it's been my favorite London location ever since. As Morrissey sings in the Smiths' song "Cemetry Gates":

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people, all those lives
Where are they now?
With loves and hates
And passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died

That's what I contemplate, too, whenever walking through Brompton. This cemetery has some notable residents resting in peace there, like the renowned suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst. But the unknowns also fascinate me as I wonder who they were. Now of very special note to me is one Charlotte Pidgeon, whom I "met" early on during my Brompton strolls and ended up fictionalizing in my story. (Beatrix Potter, too, used to take names for her Peter Rabbit characters from the headstones here.)


So you can imagine my thrill when the lovely Friends of Brompton Cemetery agreed to host this signing, and that joy increased exponentially when Shani Struthers agreed to sign by my side. Shani is the author of Jessamine , the Psychic Surveys series, and the new This Haunted World series (which just launched with book one, the Amazon bestseller The Venetian ). Her ghost stories are among my favorites, a wonderful complement to my own paranormal fiction , and fit in perfectly with our unconventional venue. All of our books paired well with wine, too.

#NewRelease! TEMPTING JO, by Nancee Cain

I'm ecstatic for this release, as I loved Saving Evangeline , the first book in this paranormal series by author Nancee Cain!

Amazon ~ B&N ~ iBooks ~ Kobo

Forbidden love is hell...

Confident and quirky, Jo Sanford thinks her boss is God's gift to women--and she couldn't be further from the truth. Devilishly handsome, Luc DeVille will stop at nothing to lure his administrative assistant right into his arms--and bed.

Over Rafe Goodman's dead body...

Rafe, Jo's best friend, refuses to sit by and watch as Luc tries to win the heart of the woman he's always protected. After all, Rafe is her guardian angel. Suddenly, Jo's caught in the middle of a battle between good and evil. But the closer she gets to the fire, the hotter it burns. Now, Jo's going to learn that when love battles lust, Heaven and Hell collide.


Excerpt:To my surprise, Mr. DeVille scratches Atticus behind the ears instead of pushing him away. “Since we’re stuck here, what should we do?” Finished with his sandwich, he wipes his mouth with his thumb. I’d have been more than willing to lick it clean for him.

A pounding on the door interrupts us. Dadgumit, just when things are about to get interesting with Mr., er, Luc. I scurry to the door, intent on getting rid of whoever it is. I find Rafe holding a bag of food and two cups of coffee.

“Hey, I figured your power was still out, so I brought you some coffee and breakfast.” His eyes scan my small apartment, narrowing when he spies Luc.

Mr. DeVille smirks. “What impeccable timing. Goodman, is it?” He casually swings his legs over the side of the bed and steps into his pants.

“Yes, sir.” Although polite, Rafe’s voice has an edge to it. The tension in the air snaps like an impending storm. “The roads are clear, although Mrs. Cabot called and said not to come to work today since schools are still closed and the power remains off for much of the area. Here included, I see.”

“How astute of you to notice. No wonder I pay you the big bucks. Of course Mrs. Cabot said to stay home. It isn’t her losing money, is it?”

Mr. DeVille pulls off my sweatshirt, revealing those cut abs. I stare unabashedly, and Rafe snaps his fingers in front of my face. Luc buttons his shirt, glaring at Rafe the entire time.

“Well, Friday. Thank you for the hospitality. I’m sure since Goodman flew here on the icy roads to check on you, I’ll have no problems getting home. I suggest you take today to study for your classes, and remember I’ll be more than happy to help with your homework assignments.” His eyes flash with desire, and my cheeks heat.

Rafe snarls, looking positively feral.

“A-Are you sure the roads are okay? Would you like a cup of this coffee before you go?”

“I only brought two cups,” Rafe protests.

Shocked by his rudeness—and to our boss, no less—I quickly offer, “Mr. DeVille can have my cup.” What has gotten into him?

Ignoring Rafe, Mr. DeVille turns to me as he shrugs into his coat. “That’s quite all right. Thank you, Friday.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink and a smile.

Rafe, in comparison, receives a cool nod. The hair on my arms stands on end when Mr. DeVille stops and turns to face my friend. I must be having some sort of low blood sugar event because I swear it looks like the rims of his blue eyes have turned the color of a hot stove eye. I blink and find him glaring at Rafe, and the look is returned in kind. Good thing we aren’t living in a century past. If we were, I’m quite certain there would be a duel at fifty paces. He leaves without saying another word.

Rafe slams the door with a muttered, “Good riddance.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” He ignores my sarcasm.

I sigh and gratefully accept the warm to-go cup. I can’t stay mad at him for long; he’s my best friend.

And he has coffee.


AMAZON US: http://amzn.to/2bGubal BARNES & NOBLE: bit.ly/2c3YtriKOBO: bit.ly/2bMUsa9iBOOKS: apple.co/2bRuW4D


Author Bio:
During the day, Nancee works as a nurse in the field of addiction to support her coffee and reading habit. Nights are spent writing paranormal and contemporary romances with a serrated edge. Authors are her rock stars, and she’s been known to stalk a few for an autograph, but not in a scary, Stephen King way. Her husband swears her To-Be-Read list on her e-reader qualifies her as a certifiable book hoarder. Always looking to try something new, she dreams of being an extra in a Bollywood film, or a tattoo artist. (Her lack of rhythm and artistic ability may put a damper on both of these dreams.)

Website: www.nanceecain.com
Blog: nanceecain.wordpress.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/Nancee_Cain
Newsletter: eepurl.com/bhFMtX
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/NanceeCainAuthor/
Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/nanceecain

***Giveaway***$20 Amazon Gift Carda Rafflecopter giveaway

Wassup in my WIP

~ * ~
A woman shares her sordid tale in the drawing room. 
Only she has lived to tell it.

~ * ~

Cover Reveal: SPIKED, by Jennifer Lane (@JenLanebooks)

✯✯SPIKED by Jennifer Lane✯✯
Cover Reveal

The cover for book 3 in Jennifer Lane´s Blocked Series!
Spiked Blurb

They sayUniversity is the timeTo find yourselfBut I don’t need to find myselfJust want to find you
After watching his older siblings find their love matches at Highbanks University, Mateo Ramirez feels unlikely to follow in their footsteps. What girl would want him? Unlike his brother and sister, he battles diabetes and chooses music over sports. But at least he can write songs about his life—and the girl who caught his eye when their parents ran against each other for US President.
Hey, chica! Come conmigoAnd baby, why don’t we goDown under the bridge to the waterWith you it can only get hotter
Jessica Monroe is a talented swimmer who dreams of representing Team USA at the Olympics. When she earns an athletic scholarship to Highbanks, she’s excited to attend the same school as the cute boy she met two years ago: Mateo. Too bad he’s not around when a teammate spikes her drink. Jessica may never trust men again.
TrustIs a hard-to-earn thingJustTry to keep listeningSwallowDown all of the unjustHollowMy chest, my heart will bust
College years are the time to shake off the past and find your future. But will that future find Mateo and Jessica together? Dive in and immerse yourself in the eagerly anticipated conclusion to Jennifer Lane’s Blocked trilogy.
Pre-Order your copy today: https://goo.gl/CTKw7g

Check out the Blocked series on Amazon
and catch up before Spiked releases!Also FREE with Kindle Unlimited
Pre-Order Spiked today on Amazon US: https://goo.gl/CTKw7gAmazon UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/Spiked-Blocked-Book-Jennifer-Lane-ebook/dp/B01JDD6INC/
Add Spiked to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30165905-spiked
Blocked:Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1tYu9MCAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/1psXNOG
Aced:Amazon US: http://amzn.to/21TgGYRAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/1W0XgxG
Streamline:Amazon US: http://amzn.to/21Th35WAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/1R1taw1
With Good Behavior:Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1TY5aKqAmazon UK: http://amzn.to/1R1tjj1
Jennifer Lane on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Jennifer-Lane/e/B003WZV5YK/
Join the Online Release Party: https://www.facebook.com/events/823926984404510/
Jennifer Lane on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JenLaneBooks/
Cover Reveal Hosted by Raven Publicity:https://www.facebook.com/ravenpublicity/http://ravenpublicity.com
 

#ComedyBookWeek: WHEN IT HOOKS YOU by Nicki Elson (@NickiElson3D)

'Tis the season (literally) for a good summer read! And if you're looking for some smiles in the sun, might I recommend Nicki Elson's contemporary rom-com, When it Hooks You .

The summary:

Three dates. It was only supposed to be three dates—he was only meant to be a fling. I didn’t want to feel all of this for him. And I certainly hadn’t counted on him keeping such a deal-breaking secret from me.

Till death is too long for Trish Cerise. The twenty-seven year old receptionist is tired of men asking for her forever when she just wants to keep things light and fun. World-traveling businessman Adam Helms steps off the elevator and into her life with his own reasons for keeping relationships at a safe distance. Together, they’re destined for the most glorious short-term romance in history…until they break their own rules and Trish learns something about Adam she wishes she never knew.

I know a future with him is impossible, but how do you break away from such an intense, consuming, heart-crushing love when it hooks you? ~Trish

My review:

Such a fun and fast read that WILL hook you! The likeable characters have realistic motivations and reactions that you don't find often enough in romances. A Chicago gal myself, I loved touring the city settings and laughed and pined along with Trish as she navigates her emotional terrain as well. Her rules of dating are a nice compliment to her friend Lyssa's--whose own alternative to love ("Vibrizzio") is the basis of Elson's previous book--and the "sh***y drinks" metaphor is now an official favorite. :) In the author's true fashion, the romance feels real, balancing the "aw" with the angst in an authentic and witty way. The bonus teaser at the end for When it Holds You sets up such a great premise, too; I can't wait for that next installment!

Hooked? Find it now at Amazon and visit Nicki at NickiElson.com.

Please DO Judge a Book by its Cover! #CoverWars

Let's get ready to rrrRUMBLE!

What the Clocks Know is duking it out in the Cover Wars this week. Though more than one person has asked (oddly enough), no, that's not a photo of my back. Crooked Cat Publishing and GoOnWrite.com get all the credit for this image; all I did was choose it from so many lovely options offered. But I couldn't be prouder to throw it into the ring. Though they say you can't judge a book by its cover, this one truly couldn't suit the story better.

If anyone's keen to vote, here's the link: http://authorshout.com/cover-wars/

Please share and vote every day if you want! And by week's end, may all my worthy contenders be a little slug-nutty from the Clocks cold-cock. ;)

(Ooh, them's fightin' words!)