A Rivalry of Hearts (Fae Flings and Corset Strings, #1)

by Tessonja Odette

And when I got to the love scene—oh, I just knew Timothy would do something delicious with that tail… And that was how I missed my stop.

He’s tall and slender, possessing the kind of roguish beauty that is so haphazard, it must be genuine.

I hate being misunderstood and struggle not to defend myself.

Same

“You write steamy romance, he writes bittersweet poetry. You’re a match made in heaven. Like you, he’s one of Fletcher-Wilson’s newest and brightest authors.”

The front and back covers splay open, and to my surprise, they begin to flap like wings, its interior pages gently rippling as the book soars from the shelf to the checkout counter.

That's cool

Does she have a humanoid form, or is she the type of fae who prefers never to shift? Is a pine marten’s fur soft? Would she let me pet her, or is that the most offensive thing I could⁠—

Then there’s his hair. Its messy style conjures images of bedroom activities but with a neatness that suggests every wayward strand was placed with precision. His strands are a shade so dark they can’t seem to decide whether they’re slate, black, or violet.

They sweep over the pointed tips of his ears—ears that are decorated in an array of gold piercings, from studs to cuffs to delicate hoops. My gaze drops to his eyes, a hue so aggravatingly blue I could weep.

This is William Haywood? The poet? My tour companion? I don’t know whether to be elated or envious. No wonder the loft is so crowded. They’re all h...

Mr. Haywood reclines in his seat, a crooked smirk on his lips. “The Governess and the Fae,” he says in a mocking tone. “Do you think I’d write such smut and drivel?”

Oh f*ck you

and settle into my chair with all the grace and trembling restraint of a vengeful goddess. He frowns, pen frozen, then slowly meets my eyes.

I lift my chin, retrieve the crooked book, and place it neatly on top of the stack. “Author of smut and drivel.”

I can’t stop seething over his comment. Smut and drivel. My precious book. I mean, I like smut. Smut is lovely. But drivel? Drivel?

Some tangible divide to keep me from marching straight over to him and slamming a book over his head.

Based on the sharp yelps I hear now and then, I wouldn’t be surprised if Daphne was biting ankles to encourage the patrons to obey her directions.

lol love her

“They’re about to do it, aren’t they?” I slam the book shut, but it’s only Daphne who speaks over my shoulder. I didn’t notice when she leaped onto the back of my chair.

“Hey, I was looking at that.” She still speaks in the same disinterested monotone, so I can’t tell if she’s being serious.

I angle my head over my shoulder and meet her small dark eyes. “Do you read romance novels?” “The sexier the better. Ah, there they are.” She gestures with her muzzle to the other side of the table.

Same girl same

“How did you get all these?” She beams at me. “I found a few at select bookstores around the isle that specialize in imports, but most I had to pay an arm and leg to purchase by mail from Bretton. It took me the better part of a year to collect them all.”

“But…how did you even learn about me to begin with?” My newest book is a recent release. How has she been collecting my books for a year?

“Queen Gemma’s Book Club, of course.” “Queen Gemma’s Book Club?” I ...

Her eyes go wide. “You don’t know about it? Queen Gemma is your biggest fan. She’s been praising your books since before she m...

“King of—you’re telling me Queen Gemma is an actual queen. It’s not just a…cute title? She’s a real live ...

I stare at the spread of books before me, emotion clogging my throat as I experience what it’s like to have my work so thoroughly appreciated for the first time.

<3

“No, Mr. Haywood, I’m not your competition. We don’t write in the same genre. We don’t share the same readers. But for some asinine reason, we’ve been forced to share this tour. What was supposed to be my tour.

You’re lucky to be involved at all, so I suggest you get down from your high horse and thank me for being late and bestowing upon you the honor of being in my company.”

You tell him, sweetie

I wish I could say I found him less attractive now that I’ve gotten the full scope of his personality, yet he remains a work of art. A portrait of a devil, perhaps, but a beautiful one.

“It has your name in it,” he says, finally deigning to meet my gaze. “I signed it for you and everything.” “I don’t want it.” “It’s free.” “I. Don’t. Want. It.”

its patron is a fluffy raccoon who is reading a book with one hand and sipping tea with the other.

I make my way to the back of the shop, trying not to stare too hard at the adorable raccoon fae but failing miserably. I’m so distracted, I almost bump into one of the tables.

Before I can react, he lifts a finger, taps me lightly on the nose, and saunters off.

for women in Bretton are considered the property of their parents, brothers, or husbands well into adulthood.

Ick

I close my notebook. “Is pestering me really so satisfying that you had to seek me out?”

My cheeks heat. “Do not call me Ed.” “Weenie, then?”

I whirl fully around. My voice trembles with the restraint it takes to keep from shouting. “You will not call me Weenie either. It’s Miss Danforth to you.”

He leans down and props his forearms—his very bare and admittedly impressive forearms—on the back of the chair beside me. No longer in his suit jacket, h...

And several glasses of a rather curious drink that is clear indigo on the bottom half and a creamy pastel blue on the top.

This would draw me in, just because it's blue

William’s eyes bore into my profile. If he wanted me to show restraint, he shouldn’t have tried to stop me. Now half the reason I want to drink it is to spite him.

The flavor is like blueberries and moonlight

Ooo

Of course I have not. In fact, I haven’t done even a fraction of the interesting positions I’ve written about. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Do you have something to say about my poetry, Weenie?” Not that damn nickname again! He’s really earned my ire now. I rise to my feet. “Yes, I have something to say, Willy.”

He knows about the duke’s throbbing member? Does that mean he’s read my books? I’m almost of a mind to ask when my rational side reminds me he’s just making assumptions at my expense.

Overhead, Daphne stretches in the rafters and peeks down at the commotion. “Oh, I’ve got to see this,” she mutters.

“There once was a man named Will, He thought he gave women a thrill. What he truly gave, Was an itch ’tween the legs, The kind only ointment can kill.”

“Ed, my dear, Little Weenie, I fear, My patience for you has passed. For who could endure, Another encore, Of such a persistent pain in the ass.”

He stops directly before me as he states the last line, our faces mere inches apart. Another round of chuckles spreads through our audience. My cheeks flush, but I refuse to show an ounce of embarrassment.

I jab him in the chest to draw his attention back to me. “Is that how you plan to win the publishing contract? By seducing your readers? Is that how you manage to sell so many books?”

“First of all, how dare you insult my readers by calling them spinsters. There’s nothing wrong with a woman being unmarried at any age, and I don’t appreciate you or society at large trying to make us feel ashamed about that.

“I bet you’re all talk. You may be able to seduce with words, but that doesn’t mean you’re even remotely adequate in bed. I bet you’re a lousy lover.”

I’ve never been fond of propriety, especially when it primarily seeks to control and repress women without placing nearly as many restrictions on men.

PREACH