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About the author:
-Deb Julienne is a USA Today Bestselling Author. While some say truth is stranger than fiction, Deb’s experience runs more along the lines of a slap-stick comedy. She believes when life tosses you lemons the only thing to do is to turn it into Limoncello. In fact, her life has been one big fat romantic comedy…of errors. It’s not a matter of “if” it can go wrong, but how bad when it does happen, and make no mistake…it will. Survival with a sense of humor is the goal.
-January George has been writing since she was a child, but fell in love with happily ever after while traveling through Europe at thirteen when she ran out of books and discovered Harlequin. She lives in Upstate New York with her husband and children.
-Viviana MacKade. Beach bum and country music addicted, Viviana lives in a small Floridian town with her husband and her son, her die-hard fans and personal cheer squad. She spends her days between typing on her beloved keyboard, playing in the pool with her boy, and eating whatever her husband puts on her plate (the guy is that good, and she really loves eating). Besides beaching, she enjoys long walks, horse-riding, hiking, and pretty much whatever she can do outside with her family.
-Daryl Devoré writes hot romances with sexy heroes and strong heroines. Victoria Adams is Daryl Devoré's alter ego when she's inspired to write sweet romances with little to no heat. Daryl (@daryldevore) lives in an old farmhouse in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, a black cat named Licorice and some house ghosts. Daryl loves to take long walks on her quiet country road or snowshoe across the back acres, and in the summer, kayak along the St. Lawrence River. She has touched a moon rock, a mammoth, and a meteorite. She’s been deep in the ocean in a submarine, flown high over Niagara Falls in a helicopter, and used the ladies room in a royal palace. Life’s an adventure and Daryl’s having fun living it.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Excerpt From Painted Love by Viviana MacKade
“Yes, but probably not the one you’re looking for.”
Flo drew in a long breath, praying for patience. “Have I got the wrong number?”
“Nope, just the wrong guy.”
The man didn’t make any sense. Go figure. “I don’t understand. I need to speak with Scott Beckett, please.”
“That would be my brother, who’s currently working. Who are you?”
“Florence Harper. Mr. Beckett and I have been in contact for renting the flat–the apartment.”
The line jumbled for a moment, but when his voice came back had cleared from the worst of the background noise. “Okay, what was that again?”
Few hours in the States and she already missed some nice British manner. And propriety. A rivulet of sweat ran down her temple; January heat was definitely wrong, even more so when she hadn't showered in too long. “That was me, trying to get in contact with the man who assured me he had a place for me to rent starting tonight.”
“Oh, yeah. The apartment. Look, we’re in the middle of a thing here, where are you?”
“At the address Mr. Beckett gave me,” she said between clenched teeth, then recited the street name and number.
“You’re at the restaurant. Stay right where you are, I’ll be with you in ten.”
Oh, gosh. What was he talking about? “You? I thought the flat belonged to your brother?”
“Let’s say I’m his delegate for the next few weeks. Wait for me, I’m coming.”
He closed the call without waiting for an answer.
With one long intake of breath, Flo rested her back to the wall.
Stupid Crescent Creek.