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About the author:
Born in Texas, Harley Cranston now lives in Southern California with her boyfriend of nearly 10 years, Frank, and enjoys writing fiction of all kinds. She works nights in a warehouse, her day job, and has recently decided to reenter the world of self-publishing. In her spare time, she enjoys watching drag races, football, and working on cars herself, especially hotrods. And, she has developed an online gift shop, Unique Treasures, she wants to fill with “something for everyone” , including books. Her published novels, will be available, in digital format and in print.
What inspired you to write your book?
A dream… one night, I had a dream, a scene. I woke up but couldn’t go back to sleep. The story started rolling through my head like a movie…all night long. I got very little sleep but instead of a nap the next day, I started writing the story. Those two, Naomi and Ben are very demanding characters. I couldn’t stop writing until I finished it…that took nearly two days writing non-stop. I don’t know exactly where the idea or the scene that started it came from and I do watch a lot of science fiction and paranormal supernatural stuff.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Looking for a sign of a physical problem that might have
caused her to pass out, he found nothing. She wore snug jeans and
a large, navy blue T-shirt that did little to hide generous curves.
Fingers unadorned, she wore no jewelry unless a digital wristwatch
with a plain black band counted. Dark brown hair had been piled at
the back of her head. Stray uneven strands and bangs framed her
face. Her eyelashes were dark sooty crescents on her cheeks.
He narrowed his eyes and stared harder. The sense that he
should recognize her increased. He skimmed his gaze over her again
and his body reacted with unaccustomed urgency, a desire he knew
only in dreams that faded when he awoke.
A low moan escaped her parted lips, her lashes fluttered,
and she squirmed. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her
hand, noting the fine tremors in her fingers. Is she afraid or
dreaming? She shifted again, her thigh rubbing against his. Ignoring
his body’s urgent reaction to her presence, he tightened his grip
and patted her cheek with his other hand.
“Wake up,” he coaxed. “You’re all right.”
Her lashes fluttered again and she tried to turn her head
from him. His hand followed her movements, his fingers stroking
“No–.” She moaned in weak defiance. “No. I don’t want–.”
“Shh. Open your eyes.” Ben tapped her cheek again. “You
She blinked and glanced around the room as though trying
to focus. “What?” Her eyes widened and then darkened in
confusion. “You–. Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
She sat up and Ben dropped his hand to the bed. She was
skittish and appeared disoriented. He didn't want to frighten her
further and drew his arm slowly back to his side, his hand resting on
“I’m Ben Thornton,” he said gently. “I moved in next door
yesterday. You fainted and I brought you in here.”
He glanced around the room, surprised. She had been
here for a while. The room was basically the same as his, containing
the bed, table and two chairs, a long desk with three drawers, two
rather stark and ugly lights on each inside wall, and a bathroom
next to the galley-style kitchen that consisted of sink, stove, small
refrigerator, and two cabinets.
She had added a tall five-drawer dresser and a large television
that probably weighed more than she did. A ton of books occupied milk
crates arranged as bookshelves along the walls and on top of the desk and
a beige four-drawer filing cabinet. A red two-drawer file cabinet stood in a
spot between the heating/cooling unit and the door. A jumble of wires
connected a VCR and a DVD player to the TV. The table held a printer and
a laptop computer. A rolling office chair was pushed up to the table. She
used the large mirror over the desk as a bulletin board. It wasn’t cluttered
and he clearly saw his reflection and hers.
“Is this your room?”
She nodded, but her eyes narrowed, suspicion glittering in the
sapphire depths. “Do I know you?”
She jerked her hand from his. He had forgotten he held it. The
quick brush of her fingers left sizzling trails along his palm and the insides
of his fingers.
He hesitated; it seemed they knew each other, but he had no
memory of her besides half-formed dream images. “No, I don’t believe
so,” he admitted with a slow shake of his head.
A frown curved her lips down as she cocked her head and peered
quizzically at him. “Ben Thornton, you said?”
He nodded. She shook her head. “Nope. It doesn’t ring a bell.
But–?” She stopped, confusion again darkening her eyes.
“What’s your name?” He kept his voice soft so as not to spook
her. This—connection, for lack of a better word—between them spooked
him a little. How could a woman he never met before twenty minutes
earlier be so familiar?
“Naomi,” she replied, wariness in her eyes. “Naomi Carter.”
He frowned at the unfamiliar name. The woman seemed to
haunt his dreams and he suspected he was just as familiar to her. In that
split second before she fainted, Naomi had said ‘you’ in a hoarse whisper
and looked at him in pure terror. That bothered him. I never hurt a
woman, not intentionally and not physically. Why does she look at me like
“I don’t recognize the name,” he admitted. “But you–.” He
stopped, unsure how to explain an inexplicable perception of recognition
that had no logical basis. Looking at her now, there was no way he could
have met this woman and forgotten her. Yet I dream of her. He shook his