Author: Angie

Beware the Violet The Eulogimenoi Series Book 1 by Maria Vermisoglou Genre: YA Fantasy

Discovering supernatural creatures are real is one thing but learning I have powers and learning to use them is quite a feat. My name is Violet Webb. I live in a small town that nearly worships Halloween but I hate it. I can’t wait until I graduate and get as far as I can from that silliness. Everything changed when I followed the white rabbit. I ended up in a Realm full of vampires, fairies, witches and every creature possible. Oh, Did I mention Jacques? The hot shapeshifter with the French accent that makes me see rabbits everywhere? Now what? Some bloody lady of Fate gave me a prophecy to get home. The only problem is that I must defeat the darkness before it swallows both of our worlds. Can I go through without making the ultimate sacrifice?**Only 99 cents!!** Goodreads * Amazon

Librarian. Reader. Writer. Reviewer. Maria Vermisoglou is an International Bestselling fantasy author and she loves throwing her heroes into impossible situations. She draws inspiration from books, travels and…the ceiling. (So, blame the ceiling!) She started writing 4 years ago when an idea came to her. That idea started all… When she’s not writing, she loves a good riding on the fantasy dragon but a book can also be exciting along with a cup of tea. She’s currently residing in Crete as a librarian, battling monsters and supernatural creatures from overcoming the world. In July 2018, she was nominated as the second place winner in the First Annual Indie Awards as the Favourite New Female Author. Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

“Under the violet sky, I wonder what my life would be like.
In a world where no monsters exist and no evil creatures with red eyes terrify us.
I wish my power was strong enough to make it come true.
I can see a witch, a fairy, and a vampire with a ghost among them for good company.
All together they join powers, and those with red eyes perish once and for all.”

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Tales From the Storm: Vol 1 A Collection of Horror Stories by C.R. Langille Genre: Horror

The storm rages on, leaving death and destruction in its path. With the chaos comes strange tidings and wicked ordeals. From C.R. Langille, author of the Dark Tyrant Series comes a collection of weird and horrifying stories spanning all across history: the Spanish Conquest; the Old West; present day; and even a desolate, apocalyptic future. Haunted hotel rooms, mysterious, mind-bending spots, infernal cargo, and misplaced wishes abound in this collection. Stories Included: The Spot Brine & Blood The Deep Well All Aboard Damned The Scratch Horishi Tom Only one thing is certain when the storm passes by–nothing will ever be the same again. Goodreads * Amazon

**Read FREE with Kindle Unlimited!**

C.R. Langille has been searching the darkness for the ultimate scare for over a decade. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he began crafting nightmares for others to enjoy. He and his family live in Utah. His stories can be found from Dark Fantasy Press, Dark Moon Books, Griffin Publishers, Fictionvale, Sirens Call Publications, and FearKnocks.net. He’s an avid hunter, martial-artist, table-top gamer, and amateur survivalist. He is an affiliate member of the Horror Writer’s Association, a member of the League of Utah Writers, and received his MFA: Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads * Newsletter $20 Amazon Gift Card

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What Heals the Heart Cowbird Creek Book 1 by Karen A. Wyle Genre: Western Historical Romance

Joshua Gibbs survived the Civil War, building on his wartime experiences to become a small town doctor. And if he wakes from nightmares more often than he would like, only his dog Major is there to know it. Then two newcomers arrive in Cowbird Creek: Clara Brook, a plain-speaking and yet enigmatic farmer’s daughter, and Freida Blum, an elderly Jewish widow from New York. Freida knows just what Joshua needs: a bride. But it shouldn’t be Clara Brook! Joshua tries everything he can think of to discourage Freida’s efforts, including a wager: if he can find Freida a husband, she’ll stop trying to find him a wife. Will either matchmaker succeed? Or is it Clara, despite her own scars, who can heal the doctor’s troubled heart? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N

Karen A. Wyle was born a Connecticut Yankee, but eventually settled in Bloomington, Indiana, home of Indiana University. She now considers herself a Hoosier. Wyle’s childhood ambition was to be the youngest ever published novelist. While writing her first novel at age 10, she was mortified to learn that some British upstart had beaten her to the goal at age 9. Wyle is an appellate attorney, photographer, political junkie, and mother of two daughters. Her voice is the product of almost five decades of reading both literary and genre fiction. It is no doubt also influenced, although she hopes not fatally tainted, by her years of law practice. Her personal history has led her to focus on often-intertwined themes of family, communication, the impossibility of controlling events, and the persistence of unfinished business. Author Links Website * Blog * Facebook * Twitter * Amazon * Goodreads * Smashwords * Newsletter

Excerpt from Chapter 2 of
What Heals the Heart
“Boot blacking, coffee, cornmeal, flour, soap. Put it on your tab?”
“Thank you kindly.” The suggestion would, in fact, save him some embarrassment. His patients had lately
been paying in roast chickens, bacon, cream, potatoes, even horseshoes — all welcome and useful items, but it
left him short of coin.
“And you’ve got a letter.”
This would take some juggling. Joshua picked up the envelope first, opening it and extracting the letter,
tucking the envelope into his vest and laying the letter on the counter. Next, he grabbed the sack full of
supplies in his left hand and picked up the letter in his right. That left him without a way to tip his hat, so he
nodded his goodbye and walked out, glancing at the letter as he went. Major, idling in the street, jumped up to
follow.
Joshua knew he had not been a satisfactory correspondent. The last letter to his mother in which he had
mentioned anything of actual importance had been the letter he sent on his way west, trying to explain why he
had felt compelled to leave his family and his home so far behind. Even as he sent that letter on its way, he had
known it would fail in its mission. What he had been unable to say to her face, he had been equally unable to
put into words on paper. Either would have required that he call to mind, and then stain her memory forever
by recounting, the life he had lived as a soldier and a medic. Without that understanding, how could she
understand how unreal and hollow the civilized life of Philadelphia had become for him?
His mother still wrote every two weeks, however, and he’d been awaiting her latest for several days. Now he
saw what had kept her busy. His middle sister’s baby had come — except it was twins! A boy and a girl. He
could imagine his younger and oldest sisters knitting madly to deal with the surprise.
As for his father — what? He was writing a book?
Joshua had been paying just enough attention to where he was going that he didn’t trip on the planks in the
street or walk in front of any horses. But not enough, it turned out, to avoid walking smack into someone. He
started backward, dropping his sack, and stammered apologies, while Major added to the confusion by circling
the scene and barking loudly.
His victim, Joshua realized, was the tall green-eyed woman he had seen in the street the day he first met Mrs.
Blum. She had managed to stay on her feet and now stooped to help him retrieve his groceries, whisking them
away from Major’s investigative sniffing. Her hands looked strong, with long fingers; it took her almost no
time to fill his sack again. She stood up, neither smiling nor frowning, and handed him the sack. “I hope that
isn’t bad news in your hand.”
He tried to pull himself together enough to answer her. “Uh, no, not bad news. Just news. Babies. Two of
them. That is, my sister just had twins.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Congratulations to your sister! I’m sure she’ll cope splendidly.”
An interesting way to put it. Was she speaking from experience, and if so, her own or someone else’s?
Manners! What would his mother — or for that matter, Freida Blum — say? “I beg your pardon. I’m Joshua
Gibbs.”
The woman tilted her head slightly and nodded in what might, unlikely as it seemed, be approval. “The doctor.
I’ve heard of you. People speak well of you.”

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Girl Gone Home Twisted Crime Book 3 by Kathleen O’ Donnell Genre: Psychological Thriller

The Best Book I’ve Read This Year! I just finished it and I loved it! It has more twists and turns than a roller coaster. This book would make an amazing movie, but the book will always be better. I can’t wait to see what she writes next! – Rena, five-star review on Amazon. From two-time Book of the Year finalist and Thriller of the Year Award winner Kathleen O’Donnell comes a gripping psychological thriller filled with quirky, unexpected twists. A girl in serious trouble Delilah Diamond had it all, the popular cooking show, a dream house, and a great romance with her producer, until the producer’s wife gets wind of it all. Delilah loses her show, her job, and her house. She’s forced to go back to her hometown where everyone has skeletons in their closet—or worse. A home not like any other She arrives just in time for the unfortunate death of her high school crush, but senses something’s wrong with the story of his demise. Before she realizes it, she’s knee-deep in a past that almost crushed her years before, and could very well crush her now, for good. A mother who keeps sordid secrets Local law enforcement is a homegrown drunk, and useless, so someone higher up the food chain sends a big city detective who starts sniffing around her classmate’s suspicious death and her mother’s past. Delilah’s protective hackles are raised. She knows her mother has shameful secrets, but the more she learns, the more she realizes she doesn’t know the whole story. A hometown that comes together, even in crime In small towns, you protect your family and your neighbors come what may, but will Delilah be able to protect her mother without exposing her own sins? The ones she worked so hard to cover up? Will she be able to deter the detective away from the truth? You can’t go home again. Or can you? Should you? How safe is home when you know where the bodies are buried?Girl Gone Home is ultimately a story about love, family, loyalty and circling the wagons no matter what terrible crime’s been committed. It’s quirky, heartfelt, and reminiscent of Dolores Claiborne and the works of Kate Atkinson, Jane Hamilton, and Janet Evanovich. Goodreads * Amazon

Kathleen O’Donnell is a wife, mom, grandmother and a recovering blogger. She currently lives in Nevada with her husband. She is a two time Book of the Year finalist for her debut novel The Last Day for Rob Rhino. You can find short stories and blog posts on her website. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Pinterest * Amazon * Goodreads

CHAPTER ONE

“Willy Wally came to a bad end,” Fran said. “Just like I predicted.”
“Only you’d gloat over the dead at a funeral.” I’d just walked in, looked at my watch. My mother irritated me
in less than sixty seconds. A record.
“We don’t do funerals, Delilah. The stiff puts a real damper on the festivities.”
“Right. Memorials after the fact only.”
“Who even knows where the nearest funeral home is?” Fran said, unimpeded by the Marlboro in her mouth,
long ash miraculously still intact. “Okay, I know where it is, but who gives a highfalutin crap? Potluck and
booze give whoever croaked a fine send off—this is a bar for Chrissake. You’re back on the Highway. Better
forget those fancy city ways.”
From my spot bellied up to the bar I watched the sea of cowboy hats attached to heads full of rampage and
Coors from the tap. They went whole hog at these things. The only commercial enterprise for as far as the
crow flies, Vi’s Place teemed with quasi-mourners spilling through both front and back doors to the overflow
outside. The middle of nowhere meant good business for anyone with stuff to sell.
“No idea why I let you drag me to this thing,” I said. “I’m still knee-deep in unpacked boxes.”
“Still? You move in geologic time. It’s the food. That’s why you came. You’ve always been a sucker for the
highway potlucks. Besides, won’t kill you to show some respect for a guy you went to school with. Dead just
like that.” She’d have snapped her fingers if they weren’t already occupied with the whole
cigarette/ashtray/coffee cup situation.
“Nothing says respect like eating beanie-weenies while drunks heckle the bereaved,” I said. “Good times.”
“Good turnout.”
“I should hope so. Willy Wally wasn’t even forty.” I stopped when I noticed Fran paid a lot of attention to my
words. “Never mind.”
She flicked her ash into the ashtray. “Doc Bates won’t show. Accident or no, tough to look your daughter in
the eye after you shoot her husband.”
“Isn’t Doc in jail?”
“You know he’s not. Investigation’s still on. Doubt it’ll turn up anything criminal. Shit happens out here.”
“Like there’s gonna be a real investigation.” I rearranged my butt on the hard stool, scooted it closer to hear
Fran over the hootin’-and-a-hollerin’. “Unbelievable. What a fiasco. Whole thing’s terrible.”
“What do you care? You didn’t even want to come.”
“I don’t and I didn’t. Well, that’s not altogether true. Of course, I care. It’s sad isn’t it? A young man killed?”
“Culling out the herd. You see Wally’s widow, Wanda? Jesus, Mary and Joseph try to say that three times
fast.”
“I don’t know. Probably wouldn’t know her if I did.”
Fran slipped her cigarette into the slot on the ashtray on the bar. “You’d know her all right—still two-bagger
ugly. Wanda and Willy Wally Watkins. Why on earth poor Willy Wally didn’t strangle himself with his own
umbilical cord, I’ll never know, with that dumbass name.”
Nothing sordid happened that Fran didn’t know about in great detail. Whatever the backstory, and there was
always a backstory, she knew it and loved to tell me about the whole mess. I got zippo this time. Fishy.
“What do you know about this, Fran? You know something. I can tell.”
“You obviously can’t, since I know zilch, other than Willy Wally and Doc went hunting like always. Doc
accidentally shot him. Makes sense to me. Willy Wally’s schnoz made him look like a moose or some such.”
“You’re talking a mile a minute. Like you do when you’re dancing around the truth.”
“Shit happens around here.”
“I’m aware. Fran, you—”

“Dee, aren’t you a sight.” Vi amputated my interrogation with a voice that sounded like someone dragged a
cheese grater over her vocal cords. Her familiar shortening of my name gave me a warm fuzzy. “Been trying
to get over to this end to say hey, but this crowd, no patience.”
“Not much changes on the Fifty-Three,” I said.
Including Vi who still looked like a jack-o-lantern left too long on the porch.
“If it did, I’d know it. Been behind this bar fifty years if you can believe that. But look at you. You’re fresh as
peach pie. Damn shame your TV show got cancelled,” Vi said.
“Yeah, well thanks. TV shows come and go.”
“She can still cook like the dickens though. What with that cooking class.”
“Cordon Bleu is hardly a cooking class, Fran. I—”
“Now you’re back home where you belong.” Vi wiped down the bar with a snake-tattooed hand, pulled a
frothy topped beer. “Where in Jesus’s name are those good-for-nothin’ bums I hired to help me out today?
Goddamn-lazy-bastard-shit-for-brains . . . ” She carried the mug to the other end, insults trailing.
“Is she wearing the necklace I gave you for your birthday?” I said.
Fran brushed crumbs off the front of her “Smooth Move Ex-Lax” t-shirt.
“Oh, that little bauble? Well, yes. Vi went on and on about how much she wanted it. I didn’t—”
“Do you know how much that little bauble cost?”
Fran gave zero fucks about the cost.
“Never mind.” I put a sock in it.
“Lord a mercy, Delilah.” Margene Cox made a beeline, heaped plate in hand. “I liked to fell out when I heard
you’d come home. Wondered when we’d finally lay eyes on you.”
“Only been back a couple weeks,” I said. “Still settling in.”
Margene draped the silk sweater around her shoulders that I’d bought Fran last Christmas.
“Nice sweater,” I said.
The sharp stab of Fran’s elbow to my ribs shut my mouth.
“Fran give it to me. She’s generous as always. Only fits if I don’t wear it. So hot out here the devil up and left,
but still cools down like the dickens at night.” Margene stuffed a whole jalapeno popper into her mouth. I felt
mildly surprised most of her teeth looked intact. “You out at the old Winston pig farm?”
“Mm hmm. No pigs anymore.”
“You missed Jefferson Davis.” Margene licked her greasy fingers. “Dadgum it. He’s dyin’ to bend your ear
about that farm.”
“My loss.”
“You know Willy Wally passing the way he did near tore my heart in two.” Margene wiped a nonexistent tear.
“You dated him didn’t you, Dee?”
“Mercy no,” Fran said.
“Well, I swanee,” Margene said. “Dee nursed a crush on Willy Wally ya’ll could see from space back in the
day.”
“Emily dated Willy Wally,” Fran said.
For once I didn’t mind Fran’s poking in.
“Oh, right. Emily. Land’s sake.” Margene pushed her plastic fork through the turkey tetrazzini on her paper
plate.
“Where’s Arthur?” I looked around for Margene’s husband.
“Oh, honey, had his memorial right here a couple years back.”
“Lots of memorials the last few years,” Fran said. “I told you about Arthur’s.”
She probably did but I hadn’t been listening.
“Not the same without Blanche and Edith, is it?” Margene squeezed in closer, set her plate on the bar.
“Blanche dyin’ of the cirrhosis after Earl died in that car wreck, drunk. Too many memories. And Edith with
the Alzheimer’s over to her sister’s in Portland.”
Before she could run on any more, Willy Wally’s father hushed the gathered to thank everyone for coming. I
wandered away from my lunch, Fran, and Margene’s census update. A drunk blocking the exit got a free swat
from me. Heat plus the pissy sour outhouse smells slapped me hard. Came as no revelation Vi still resisted
indoor plumbing.
“You look just like you do on TV,” a man said two seconds after I got out.
“Huh?”
The sun glittering off the rows of cars lined up on both sides of the highway made me squinty. I got closer.
Strange man held out a too elegant hand, flashed a badge with the other.
“I’m Billy Dale,” he said. “You’re Delilah Diamond from Fork in the Road. Am I right?”

“Billy Dale what?”
Name like that usually preceded a Jim Bob or Buck Dee.
“Just Billy Dale.”
“You’re not from around here then,” I said.
“Nope.” He withdrew his unshaken hand.
Billy Dale’s kick-my-ass-why-don’t-you ensemble cheered me somewhat. His slicked-backed hair, GQ chin
stubble, casual Friday Brooks Brothers khakis and pink polo made me want to open the bar door, throw him in
to see how he fared. The small crowd milling around outside to avoid the teary farewells inside dispersed as if
they smelled an unfamiliar no good cop. Nothing like stranger danger to speed folks along their way. Billy
Dale peered over the top of his sunglasses, looked past me at the open vista, dirt, and sagebrush.
“Jesus,” he said. “You could seriously get off the grid out here.”
“What do you want?”
“Just making inquiries about the shooting incident.”
“At a memorial? Willy Wally’s barely cold.”
“When I drove up didn’t realize this, whatever this is, was going on.” He gestured toward the food covered
picnic tables.
I kicked up a puff of dirt with the toe of my Converse, shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Billy Dale

studied the fly-infested open jar of mayo on a nearby table, waiting, silent, doing that let-them-talk-to-see-
what-spills cop thing. He flicked an imaginary something off his shirtsleeve. His blank face and open-too-wide

eyes gave him a real dimwitted appearance—the kind of guy who moved his lips when he read.
“Where’s Rusty?” I said. “He’s been the law out here forever.”
“On a bender probably.”
“No doubt.”
“Mind if I do some asking now?” he said.
I let that hang like a corpse from a noose.
“You know,” I finally said after the silence got too awkward even for me. “I just came back here. Moved away
eons ago.”
“So I heard.” Billy Dale leaned against a clean sedan that must’ve been his. “Some say they’re surprised to see
you back.”
“None more than me.”
“You came back for the—this—potluck thingy?”
“No. Coincidence.”
“Coincidences give me cramps,” Billy Dale said serious as all get out.
Like I cared about his bowels.
“Willy Wally your old high school boyfriend?” He went on.
“Christ, no. He dated my friend. Emily. She—”
“You all right?” Billy Dale said.
I’d swayed to one side. The beer I’d chased lunch with gurgled its way up the back of my throat. I beat it back,
steadied myself.
“I’m fine. This heat, outhouse smell, I’m not used to it anymore.” I pulled away from the hand he’d gripped
my arm with, snooty-like. He probably did it to help, but too bad so sad.
“Right. Well, Jefferson Davis told me you—”
“Oh you’re already on a first name basis? Jefferson Davis and I haven’t so much as cast shadows near each
other in twenty years.” Droplets popped up above my top lip.
“Right. Well, speaking of names. You call your mother by her first name?”
“Always have,” I said halfway lying. “Fran is her name.”
I’d replaced Mom with Fran when we moved to the highway, when she went full wacko, to distance myself
from her in the only way I could then, to get under her skin. Joke was on me since her skin proved unyielding,
but it stuck.
“Fran knows Doctor Bates well?” Billy Dale said.
“Everybody here knows everyone else well.”
“Willy Wally too?”
“Yes, but they didn’t exactly run in the same circles since Fran’s old enough to be his mother.”
We stared each other down. I wondered if he could see me sweat.
He blinked first. “Can you think of any reason Fran would’ve called Willy Wally the day before he got shot
and the day of?”
“Who knows? It is a small town,” I said. “Why don’t you ask Fran?”

“Did. Said she doesn’t recall.”
“She’s no spring chicken. Memory’s going.” I twirled one finger near my ear.
“Fran called Willy Wally four times the day before he died, twice the next.”
“She’s a talker,” I said.
There it was.
Fran did know more than she’d admitted. I crossed my arms over my chest, shoved both hands under my
dripping armpits, worked hard to keep my face from going funky.
“Not to mention six calls to Doctor Bates.” He’d taken out a notepad, which I guess meant business.
“I’m sure for harmless reasons.”
I turned on my heel. Eat my dust sucker.
Billy Dale hollered at my back, “I’m sure I’ll find out.”

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A Ghost of a Chance A Viola Valentine Mystery Book 1 by Cherie Claire Genre: Paranormal Mystery

From award-winning novelist Cherie Claire comes a new paranormal mystery series. They say there are blessings from Hurricane Katrina. For Viola Valentine of New Orleans, it was losing her dead-end job and leaving behind a loveless marriage and an overbearing family. But the storm also blew open a psychic door. Now she sees ghosts who have died by water. As she enters her new career as a travel writer, solving mysteries that appear with apparitions everywhere she goes, the one person she hopes to speak to — her daughter who died of leukemia years before — continues to elude her. Or does she? Get it FREE!! Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Apple * Google Play * Kobo * Smashwords

Ghost Town A Viola Valentine Mystery Book 2

Every day at dusk, in a small Louisiana town, the dead emerge from Lorelei Lake. And travel writer Viola Valentine must use her “gift” of seeing ghosts to rid this town of its apparitions. Viola struggles not only with the task at-hand, but hopes that this evolving ability she obtained after Hurricane Katrina will help her reach her beloved Lillye. Yet, the more Viola struggles to talk to her departed daughter, the more frustrated she gets. Plus, it’s 2008, the height of the Great Recession, travel jobs are hard to come by, and her suffocating family and ex-husband keep making demands. She takes solace in a new love interest, one who teaches her how to harness her anger. In the end, Viola realizes that only love can solve her problems, from ridding ghosts of lakeside towns to healing a broken heart. Ghost Town, book two in the Viola Valentine Mystery Series by award-winning author Cherie Claire. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Apple * Google Play * Kobo * Smashwords

Trace of a Ghost A Viola Valentine Mystery Book 3

Award-winning novelist Cherie Claire continues her paranormal mystery series as travel writer Viola Valentine takes a trek down the historic Natchez Trace of Mississippi. Traveling with her is an adventurous heiress who’s been dead since 1860 and a living fellow travel writer who’s not what he seems. In the end, it’s a showdown between good and evil, and a bargain made with the devil at the crossroads may be Viola’s final undoing. Book Three in the Viola Valentine Paranormal Mystery Series. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Apple * Google Play * Kobo * Smashwords

Ghost Trippin’ A Viola Valentine Mystery Book 4

John Valentine left home for a birding conference and never returned, his family chalking it up to the divorced father’s mid-life crisis. But when a body is found on the old family homestead, his daughter Viola must piece together the clues her father left behind. Along for the ride are her witchy Aunt Mimi, her uptight lawyer sister Portia and her sometimes ex-husband Thibault Boudreaux, otherwise known as TB. What they discover on this crazy ghost trip through Texas will be much more than they anticipated.Ghost Trippin’ continues the story of Viola Valentine, who changes her life after Hurricane Katrina and follows her dream of being a travel writer. But the storm also blew open a psychic door and now she sees ghosts who have died by water. As she travels the South in her new career she must also solve mysteries that appear with apparitions. But the one person she hopes to speak to — her daughter who died of leukemia years before — continues to elude her. Or does she? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Apple * Google Play * Kobo * Smashwords

Give Up the Ghost A Viola Valentine Mystery Book 5

In 2005, Hurricane Katrina uprooted Viola Valentine from her dead-end job and what she deemed a loveless marriage. Four years later, she and her husband Thibault “TB” Boudreaux are starting over on a Tennessee houseboat, she following her dream as a travel writer and TB finishing school at Smoky Mountain University.But the ghosts of the past continue to hound the couple, infiltrating negative energy into their peaceful cove. With her family at stake, Vi must learn to harness her supernatural powers, face her fears and fight the evil that threatens to unravel them all. Book Five in the Viola Valentine Paranormal Mystery Series. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N * Apple * Google Play * Kobo * Smashwords

Cherie Claire grew up in south Louisiana, with mud between her toes and a rabid love of Mardi Gras parades. Born in New Orleans and now living in Cajun Country, she couldn’t help but write about her unique, colorful state. Cherie is the award-winning author of several Cajun historical romances and The Cajun Embassy series of contemporary romances. She’s a Holt Award finalist, a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award finalist and received the Louisiana Press Women Book of the Year. Her latest is a paranormal mystery series featuring ghost sleuth Viola Valentine of New Orleans. Check out her non-fiction titles at https://www.amazon.com/author/cherecoen. Follow Cherie Claire on Social Media! Website * Amazon * Facebook * Goodreads * BookBub * Twitter * Pinterest

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