Author: Angie

A Match Made in London by Christina Britton Genre: Historical Romance

Miss Rosalind Merriweather’s life has been one of hardship and servitude since her late sister’s ruination. Now a paid companion, her latest post brings her to London to watch over the daughter of a social climbing harridan. She vows to protect her charge―and her own heart―from rakes and libertines, the very type of man who destroyed her sister. This vow proves difficult when Sir Tristan Crosby, the epitome of all she despises, begins to show attention to the girl. Tristan has spent decades perfecting his easygoing, charming persona to hide the damage done by years of abuse by his father. Finding he has a talent for matchmaking, he fills some of the emptiness inside him by helping the overlooked, shy women of London find true love. However, the latest young woman has a watchdog of a companion who seems to see beyond his careful façade to the flawed, uncertain soul he strives to hide from the world. Even worse, she affects him in ways no woman ever has. But he will not give up his matchmaking, even for one such as her. What he does not expect is for Rosalind to be fired from her position because of it―nor that she will immediately find a position in his own household. When these two headstrong adversaries meet under one roof, will their attraction to one another lead to heartbreak, or have these two passionate souls finally met their match? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo

Christina Britton developed a passion for writing romance novels shortly after buying her first at the tender age of thirteen. Though for several years she turned to art and put brush instead of pen to paper, she has returned to her first love and is now writing full time. She spends her days dreaming of corsets and cravats and noblemen with tortured souls. She lives with her husband and two children in the San Francisco Bay Area. A member of Romance Writers of America, she also belongs to her local chapter, Silicon Valley RWA, and is a 2017 RWA® Golden Heart® winner. Her debut novel, With Love in Sight, was released by Diversion Books in early 2018. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive content and a giveaway! a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Last Snowfall Standing Tall #2 by Kathleen Gilles Seidel Genre: Contemporary Romance Pub Date: 5/21/2019

After racking up serious injuries, world-famous snowboarder Nate Forrest returns to the West Virginia coal town that has been his family’s home for generations. The transition’s a challenge, but there’s nothing more beautiful than snow. Except maybe Dr. Lacey Berryville. How can Nate resist this tender-hearted vet who adores every living creature and isn’t the least bit fazed by his celebrity? Just what Lacey doesn’t need is for this larger-than-life, adventurous Olympic medalist to melt her caution away during the season’s last snowfall. She’s spent her girlhood moving from place to place, and soon she’ll be leaving again. So, what’s she supposed to do about the avalanche of feelings Nate is unleashing in her? Can she leave West Virginia’s tree-covered mountains behind—with Nate giving her the best reason of all to stay? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo

The Fourth Summer Standing Tall #1

THE ENDLESS SEASON Freelance graphic artist Caitlin McGraw is living the hipster life in San Francisco when a jury summons brings her home to North Carolina. But doing her civic duty wasn’t supposed to include a reunion with Seth Street, the celebrity Olympic medalist—and Caitlin’s teenage love. She fell hard for Seth at thirteen, only to lose him when he left in the middle of that third summer . . . when everything changed between them. You never forget your first love, and a decade of fame and fortune as the face of professional snowboarding hasn’t dimmed Seth’s memory of seemingly endless, perfect summers. Now, sequestered with Caitlin on a high-profile case, could Seth have a chance to rekindle those feelings of the past? Amid family conflicts and hard-hitting revelations in and out of the courtroom, Seth and Caitlin face some tough hurdles. With so much at stake, can they trust in what they’ve reawakened in each other and turn this season of change into a lifetime of love? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo

Kathleen Gilles Seidel is a bestselling author of contemporary romances ̧ two of which have won RITAs from the Romance Writers of America. She has a Ph.D. in English literature from Johns Hopkins. She grew up in Kansas and lives in Virginia. She and her late husband have two adult daughters. Website * Facebook * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Metal screeched against metal. Nate jerked forward against his seat belt. The pickup spun,
the road disappeared from the windshield, and they were sliding, going down. A gunshot exploded,
something slapped hard into his chest and face. His ears started to ring. He was trapped against a
big white balloon.
“What the hell was that?” The balloon was deflating with a hissing whine. He started
coughing. The air was thick with something powdery and white.
Pete was coughing too. He was batting his airbag down, trying to twist in his seat to check on
Hex. “That was a rig that accelerated when it was passing us. The back end of his trailer whipped
out and hit us.”
“What’s this white crap?” It certainly wasn’t snow.
“It’s talc. They pack the airbags with talc so the folds don’t get stuck.”
Nate kicked his airbag under the dashboard and used his sleeve to wipe the grit off his face.
This was a different adventure than he had been hoping for. Pete was getting out of the truck. Nate
opened the passenger door and sank to his bootlaces in the snow. The pickup was angled into the
ditch, its headlights sending a faint glow from inside a snowdrift.
Nate shuffled through the snow up to the road. Grainy white pellets whipped against his face.
Pete was shining a flashlight on the rear of the pickup. Hex was next to him, a dark dog-shape amid
the swirling snow.
The back tires of the pickup were on the shoulder, leaving the rear of the truck almost in
traffic.
“How bad is it?” Nate asked. “Any chance we can get out without a tow?”
“Nope. That’s why I drive a company truck. Stuff like this happens all the time.”
“How long will it take for a tow?”
“Forever. And we aren’t calling. The tow trucks need to be taking care of people who are in
real trouble, not us.”
Oh, right. Good old West Virginia self-reliance didn’t rely on tow trucks. A fellow looked out
for himself around here.
Hex suddenly let out a warning yip and shoved at Pete’s thigh, forcing him to grab the pickup
to keep from falling. Over the whine of the wind, Nate heard a rumble. The rumble grew louder. He
stumbled and slid down one side of the pickup while Pete and Hex skidded down the other. Pete
shone the flashlight on the road, alerting the oncoming hauler to their presence. Not slowing at all, it
lumbered past with a blast from its air horn, missing the end of the pickup by only a foot or so.
Two near-death experiences within ten minutes…they hadn’t managed that even when they
had been a pair of teenage idiots.
“So, what was this about us not being in real trouble?” Nate made his way back to the road.
“Okay, I should have said ‘people without resources.’” Pete dropped the tailgate. “We have
resources. The usual advice is to stay with your vehicle, but we’re too likely to be hit again. So, let’s
grab some stuff and hunker down in the burnt-out barn. It’s not that cold. We will be fine until we can
find someone to come get us.”
And they would have beefy jerky, cheap chocolate, and bad memories. “There were lights on
at the Byrd place. What about if we cut across the field and throw ourselves on old Mrs. Byrd’s
mercy? Is she still alive?”
“She was at Christmas.”
Pete handed Nate the gas cans, telling him to put them in the ditch away from the truck. No
point in making a collision even worse. Nate then reached into the truck and scooped up his
backpack.
“Any chance we could get lost?” he asked while Pete was setting the flares. Standing in the
bed of the pickup, they had been able to see Mrs. Byrd’s lights, but they’d lose them once they
started walking. “It’d be a
shame to end up frozen in a haystack, two little orphans lost in a snowstorm.”
“We aren’t orphans, no one makes haystacks anymore, and we have a dog. We won’t get
lost.”

“It feels like Cheri ought to be here.” They might not have liked girls when they were eleven
and starting barn fires, but soon enough they had discovered that their summer adventures were
more fun if Cheri was with them.
“Easy for you to say,” Pete answered. “You’re not the one who would have to carry her if she
was wearing the wrong shoes.”
He had a point there. Not that Nate would mind bending his knee and having Cheri put a foot
on his thigh to swing up on his back, but Pete was her husband.
They crossed the road, slip-slided down the other ditch, and set off across the pasture,
letting Hex guide them. Their flashlights carved yellow tunnels of light through the snow. Except for
the back of Pete’s coat and an occasional glimpse of Hex’s dark hindquarters, the world was white.
In a few minutes they reached the crest of the field. Along the ridge was a windbreak, the line
of cedars planted to break the power of the wind. It was quieter within the protection of the trees, and
the snow was less deep. They could walk side by side. At the end of the trees, they had to go back
to trudging single file. Hex led them up a little swell. Mrs. Byrd’s yard lights appeared, one
suspended from an iron arm arching off the side of the hog barn, another on top of the old steel
windmill.
The wind had scraped parts of the farmyard almost clear, driving the snow against the sides
of the outbuildings in drifts as high as the latches. The faint tracings of one set of car tracks led to a
brick outbuilding that must be used as a garage. The driver’s footprints leading to the back door
were now only little hollows in the powdery snow.
Hex led them to the back door. Nate knocked, using the side of his hand to get a deeper
sound. The wind was loud enough that a person of any age might have trouble hearing a knock, and
old Mrs. Byrd had been “old Mrs. Byrd” for long as he could remember.
An outdoor light came on. The curtain covering the window in the back door twitched. Nate
ducked so that Mrs. Byrd could see Pete’s more familiar face. The door opened.
This was not old Mrs. Byrd. This was so not old Mrs. Byrd.

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive content and a giveaway! a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club – Book 1 by Ann Warner Genre: Cozy Mystery

In Book One of this cozy mystery series, a morose parrot with a reputation for biting sums up Brookside Retirement Community for reluctant resident, Josephine Bartlett. But when Brookside turns out to be a setting for art theft, dodgy dealings, and…naked poker it becomes vastly more interesting. Josephine investigates the unusual goings on with friend and handwriting expert, Lill Fitzel. And the two befriend a young woman Josephine tries to prevent from making the same mistakes she has made. ***Get it FREE!!! ***Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo * Smashwords

The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club – Book 2

Josephine, Devi, and Mac’s story continues. Devi and Mac are falling in love, but a complication comes along in the form of Mac’s pregnant ex-wife. As for Josephine, with the excitement of unmasking the Brookside thief and Devi’s being shot now over, she’s finding Brookside Retirement Community (aka Babbling Brook) as dull as she initially expected it to be. Until, that is, she gets involved with a man who suspects her of being a criminal mastermind. Finding love at this late date is something Josephine never expected, and it’s her Edward Hopper painting that plays matchmaker. Goodreads * Amazon

The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club – Book 3

Josephine Bartlett is back, joined by a colorful cast of friends: her partner in mystery-solving, Lill Fitzel, flamboyant ex-beauty queen, Myrtle Grabinowitz, former attorney/current novelist, Philippa Scott Williamson, Brookside’s thief, Edna Prisant, good friends Devi and Mac McElroy, and last, but not least, love-interest Norman Neumann. When new resident, Lottie Watson, loses at Naked Poker, she tells a bizarre story about her husband disappearing in the LA airport. Josephine and Lill, intrigued enough to investigate, discover there are more ominous goings-on than a simple disappearance. Meanwhile, Josephine ignores the mysteries of her own heart. Goodreads * Amazon

Get the box set here!Amazon

Raised in an Air Force family, Ann grew up to be a clinical chemist, toxicologist, and university professor, but her life took an unexpected turn in 2001, when she began writing fiction. Her debut novel, Dreams for Stones, was a finalist for the Indie Next Generation Book Award in 2007. Ann’s novels about strong characters facing interesting challenges take advantage of the many unusual settings she’s traveled to or lived in including New Zealand, Australia, Peru, San Francisco, Alaska, Colorado, Boston, and Puerto Rico. As well, her experiences as a toxicologist have added fillips of intrigue to many of her stories. In Ann’s novels, the consequence of choosing to love or not to love is an underlying theme, as characters face crises and complications that force them to dig deep within themselves to discover their own resilience. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Chapter One
Josephine

When Thomas died, I discovered he’d shifted control of our assets to our son, and one of Jeff’s
first decisions was where I would live. It was obvious from the speed with which he accomplished
my move, he’d been planning it for some time.
Had he asked my opinion, I certainly wouldn’t have picked Brookside Retirement
Community. For one thing, there’s no brook, and for another, the cutesy bird-and-flower theme is
simply annoying. Although I have an apartment and I’m free to interact with other residents, or
not, as I choose, I still wouldn’t have chosen to live here.
The hallways are lined with both fussy bird prints of dubious quality and flamboyant floral
bouquets in need of dusting. Each wing of the complex (there are five) has a combination bird-
and-flower name. I live in the Morning Glory-Mourning Dove wing—or GloryDove for short. I
suppose that’s better than the Snapdragon-Titmouse wing. I’ve already noticed people who live in
SnapTit tend to hesitate when asked which wing they’re in.
Carrying the theme beyond pictures and floral arrangements, each wing has its own glass-
fronted cage filled with tiny birds that dart about and tweet continuously.
Next to the mandatory enclosure of birds in the front lobby sits a morose parrot in a cage so
small it can’t even spread its wings, let alone do a quick flit. I feel sorry for the parrot who, like
many of the residents here, is in his nineties, but I do steer clear of him. He has a reputation for
biting, not that I blame him. If someone confined me to a small cage next to the roomier quarters
of luckier members of the species and forced me to listen to all their nonstop celebrating, I’d bite
too.
So far, the only bright spot has been Lillian Fitzel. When I told Lill that, she laughed that
deep, rich chuckle of hers.
“Me a bright spot, Josephine? Why, I’m as black as the bottom of my granny’s favorite
cooking pot.”
Lill’s the one who said Brookside should be rechristened Babbling Brook, a tongue-in-cheek
reference to both the nonexistent waterway as well as the more irritating residents.
Jeff parked me here because he considers me elderly, but I’m only seventy. Much too young
to be shut away with a bunch of old people, fake flowers, and birds.
I’ve decided I won’t have it. I’ve spent fifty years living a life of duty and restraint, and I’m not
wasting another minute. As soon as I get my financial and legal affairs in order, I’m out of here.

~ ~ ~

Shortly after Lill and I struck up our friendship, she invited me to become the fourth in a group that
plays cards two days a week. I’m not crazy about card games, but I decided it might be a
welcome distraction. At least until I get my next move figured out.
Unfortunately, I quickly discovered it wasn’t going to provide as much of a distraction as I’d
hoped since the other two women in the group are both as dull as case knives. Not a sliver of
intellectual curiosity between the two of them.

Myrtle, who would make two of Edna or three of Lill, is never seen in public without makeup
and carefully styled hair. She favors flowing garments in bright colors that flutter when she
moves. It makes me tired just to look at her.
In contrast, Edna’s makeup ends at her chin, and her scanty hair often looks like a gerbil has
been playing in it. Setting off polyester pantsuits that should have been sent to a landfill forty
years ago is a strand of yellowing pearls she’s never without.
When it was finally my choice what to play next, I simply couldn’t resist the imp sitting on my
shoulder, and the words “strip poker” tumbled out.
Myrtle sat back and thumped the table. “You can’t choose that.”
“Why can’t I? You picked hearts.” And if there’s a stupider game, I don’t know what it is,
although in the interest of ongoing relations, I refrained from sharing that opinion out loud. “At
least strip poker will be interesting.”
Myrtle’s bosom heaved, something that always makes me want to move rapidly out of her
vicinity.
“Well, I never. Josephine Bartlett, you’re just, just—”
“What kind of poker?” Lill chimed in. “Strip poker can be played any number of ways.”
“How about five-card draw?”
“I don’t think poker is a very ladylike game,” Edna said, her nose elevated.
Edna’s a priss, if I do say so, although I can’t take credit for coming up with the descriptor
since her bizarrely appropriate last name, Prisant, got there first.
“And what exactly has being ladylike gotten any of us lately?”
“I don’t know about you, Josephine,” Myrtle said, “but Bertie Teller came over and sat next to
me at the last movie night and held my hand during the scary parts.”
“If Bertie Teller tried to hold my hand, I’d deck him. Not that it would take much. The old fart
totters around here cackling like a demented hen.”
“You’re just jealous because nobody wants to sit with you.” Edna always seems to have two
cents ready to pitch into any conversation.
“Better off alone than stuck with a Bertie,” I said. “Are we going to talk or play?”
Edna lowered her nose with a sniffy noise. “But really, strip poker? I’m quite certain nobody
wants to see you naked.”
“They won’t since I plan to win.”
Myrtle placed a finger in the corner of her mouth and cocked her head. “I think it could be
amusing.”
I sometimes wonder if she practices expressions in the mirror.
“Nobody wants to see you naked either, Myrtle. Trust me on that,” Edna said with another
sniff.
I was tempted to hand her a tissue, but doubted that would go over very well.
Myrtle turned her head and gave Edna what I’ve labeled her Queen Elizabeth stare. “I think
they’d rather see me than you.”
“Whatever.” Edna has at least one grandchild and proves it by keeping up with the latest
slang.
“How about nobody gets naked,” Lill said. “That is, not literally.”
Lill is skinny enough she could be planted in a field to scare off crows, but she has this deep,
resonant voice that never fails to startle me.
“After all,” she said, “the staff won’t stand by and let the four of us strip without stepping in
with the meds. But perhaps metaphorically?”
“What exactly do you mean, metaphorically?” Edna sniffed again; I suspect golden retriever
genes in there somewhere. “And yes, Ms. Vocabulary, I do know what metaphorically means. I
just don’t see what it has to do with strip poker.”

But I did. It was as though Lill and I had discussed this ahead of time. And she was right.
There is more than one kind of naked.
“How about the biggest loser at the end of the afternoon pays up with a personal story,” Lill
said, confirming what I’d guessed she was going to say. “And it should be something that isn’t all
sweetness and light.”
“I absolutely agree,” I said, jumping back in to take control of what was, after all, impulsive or
not, my idea. “And I want to hear something down and dirty I won’t forget in five minutes.”
Edna huffed. “You never forget a thing, Josephine. It’s one of your least attractive qualities.
And what are we going to use to keep track, anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter. Toothpicks, pills, dust bunnies.”
Edna snorted. I suspect she doesn’t like me. And just to be clear, if I could vote her out of
the group, I would. Unfortunately, she was here first. And fair is fair.
“Never mind that,” Myrtle said. “If we’re going to do this, you have to tell us the rules,
Josephine.”
“Okay, how about this? We’ll all start out with the same number of toothpicks or whatever.
Then the one with the fewest left by the end of the afternoon has to tell a story.”
“I think Myrtle means the specifics,” Edna said with a frown. “You know. What beats what.
Aren’t there flushes and pairs and full houses and the like?”
Truly, Edna is such a pain sometimes.
“Well, a flush and a full house beat a straight,” I said.
Lill was obviously trying not to chortle. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Edna said, giving Lill a sour look.
Edna has no sense of humor, which, while we’re on the subject, is her least attractive
quality.
“As you very well should know, Lillian, there are no stupid questions.”
Edna’s voice, with its upper pompous notes and its underlay of whine, always grates on me.
If she did indeed once teach American youth the fundamentals of English usage beyond four-
letter words, she would know that most questions are either stupid or show a lack of attention by
the questioner.
It took a further fifteen minutes of wrangling, but we finally managed to get through the list of
what beat what with Myrtle demanding excruciating detail and writing it all down. Then Edna
suggested we liberate a box of paper clips from the associate activities director’s desk to keep
track. By that time, I was profoundly regretting my suggestion.
My mood was not improved when the best I could muster on that first hand was a pair of
treys. I folded early, conserving my resources. Myrtle won that hand with the full house she’d
telegraphed by running her finger over the list of what beat what and settling it near the top.
In succeeding hands, the gods of poker continued to favor Myrtle. But although I couldn’t
beat her with cards, I was able to stem my losses by watching where on her list her finger ended
up.
“About time for a story, isn’t it?” Myrtle reached out plump hands to pull the latest pot to her
side of the table, leaving the rest of us with dribs and drabs.
I did a quick count. “Edna has the fewest clips left, so she’s the one who has to tell a story.”
Edna sniffed. “If a person didn’t know better, Josephine, they might suspect you kept folding
just so you wouldn’t have to tell a story.”
I have to admit, Edna in her own vague and annoying way sometimes has a point.
“So. Okay. A story.” After sniping at me, Edna appeared eager, which in my view, did not
bode well. “Well, then. When I was nine and my sister—Helen was her name—was ten, she’s
dead now, you know. Of the cancer, about fifteen years ago.” She pulled out a tissue and dabbed
at her nose. Finally.
I sighed, wondering if she would ever get to the point.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Helen and I were given a cocker spaniel puppy that Christmas.
We were supposed to share her. I named her Jonquil, and I loved her with all my heart. She was
my best friend. When we got home from school, she always came to me first. And she slept on
my bed and followed me everywhere.”
Satisfaction made Edna’s voice even more annoying than usual. Although I wouldn’t call the
look on her face a satisfied one. It changed as she spoke to something much more complex.
“Then one day, Helen took Jonquil for a walk into the woods next to our house. When I went
looking for them, I found them in the small clearing where we often played. Helen was tying a
rope around Jonquil’s neck, and when I asked her what she was doing, she lifted the rope with
Jonquil dangling on the end.” Edna paused and blinked with a far away look in her eyes.
“There was a tussle. I ended up with Jonquil, but Helen had a bad scratch on her cheek and
bruises on her arm and she’d ripped her dress. She ran away while I comforted Jonquil.
“When I got home, Mother came rushing out. She grabbed me by the arm, and before I
could say a word, she started thrashing me. You see, Helen told her that I’d attacked her when
she tried to pet Jonquil, and Mother believed her.” Edna paused, and for an instant, seeing the
expression on her face, I could tell the story still pained her.
“After that, I wasn’t allowed to pet Jonquil or take her for walks. And Helen…” She shook her
head and sniffed. “Helen always told Mother the instant I got near Jonquil. It went on…” Once
again she paused to compose herself. “For years. But I finally got back at her.” A smile crept over
Edna’s face, and it wasn’t a nice smile.
“What did you do?” Myrtle said, sounding breathless.
“I seduced her fiancé, then I told him I was pregnant so he had to marry me.”
We all sat blinking at Edna. Her story was more down and dirty than I, at least, was
expecting.
“And then what?” Myrtle said. “What happened after that?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Myrtle said. “Were you pregnant or not?”
“Of course I wasn’t.” Edna gave a so, there huff.
“What happened when he found out you weren’t?”
“I just told him I’d had a miscarriage. But not until after we were married. He never knew it
was a trick.”
Myrtle frowned. “How do you fake a miscarriage?”
“Oh my, you do have a lot of questions. But I only owed one story, isn’t that right,
Josephine?”
Mesmerized, I nodded, and Edna closed her mouth and made the sign for zipping her lips.
I might just have to revise my opinion of Edna. It appears she’s a pistol, as we used to say.
None of the young people today know what that means. To them a pistol is just something they
use to shoot someone.
As we gathered up cards and clips, one of the staff stopped by our table and reminded us
there would be a concert beginning in fifteen minutes. Edna’s story had so preoccupied me, I
hadn’t even noticed the slow shuffle of other residents taking the seats nearby. But now I did.
The perverse mood that had led to my suggestion we play strip poker dissipated, leaving
behind a bad taste in my mouth. Unfortunately, the next time we played cards, it was Edna’s turn
to choose what we’d play, and she chose the Naked Poker Game, as she called it.
“After all,” she said, “I shouldn’t be the only one who has to tell a story.”
So that’s how it started, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway! a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Breach: Devon The Guardian Series Book One by C M Bethell Genre: Romantic Suspense, Light Paranormal

A suspenseful narrative of good and evil wrapped in parallel worlds with a unique love story, strong friendships, and glimpses of family ties with twists and turns…is the bonding legend of the Anam Cara real? “Devon Conchobar, a Celtic Guardian of Odin, a parallel world to Earth, carries a dark secret which now confronts him as he endeavors, with the help of his Guardian brothers, to prevent another portal breach that could destroy everything and everyone he loves, including strong willed Keira Cathbadh, with whom he experiences what could be the legendary bonding of the Anam Cara. Was it real, or his imagination? Keira Cathbadh, lost her mother and father the majority of her Clan, in a portal breach on Odin. Devastated, she became the defacto leader of a small band of survivors, guiding them to a new life on Earth. Her determination to keep them safe and record their historical library leads her to an unexpected encounter with the one man who can help her face a new enemy and possibly open her heart. But will Keira be able to forgive Devon’s secret? Or resist the bond of the Anam Cara? Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo

C. M. Bethell is an avid traveler and voracious reader of multiple genres with interests in Celtic myths, shapeshifters, vampires, parallel worlds, Guardians and immortals. Her current series is based on Anam Cara lore with a touch of romantic suspense and a little paranormal thrown into the mix. Bethell enters a new journey as a writer and invites you to come – Enter My World… Website * Facebook * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Odin, homeland of the Guardians
“Mother, you can foresee this is best for our clans.” Devon Conchobar bent
forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and turned toward Danann.
“Devon, mo mac.” She cupped his cheek and pushed an errant strand of hair
behind his ear. “And you understand why our people would resist. Our Gods and
Goddess’ created Odin eons ago as a haven, to save us from the Romans, to save our
beliefs, our heritage. I miss you when you are on the alternate side, but this is home. The
communities have dug deep roots. A few individuals might depart. Brave souls like you
Guardians, but most would decline.”
“I know our history mother.” He rose, paced towards the fiery glow radiating
from the massive fireplace warming the aged stone walls and floor. As a lad, he spent
many a night curled on this worn wool rug seeking warmth. His gaze roamed the dim
room, the comfortable old furniture, his father’s favorite leather armchair.
An old-fashioned tapestry had him pause. It portrayed a skirmish between two
ancient clans. In the gloom, his lips twitched. Our ancestors sure enjoyed a good battle.
His straight hair long and loose from the leather strip fell over his shoulders. He
bent, grabbed the queue from the floor, and ran the thin piece through his fingers. “But
how much longer do you believe we can contain Odin’s existence with the modern
advances of science on Earth? The veil between our worlds is thin. Consider how far the
humans have come since Copernicus and Galileo. One misstep cloaking Odin during a
shuttle launch or…” His gut twisted, icy shivers slipped down his spine. Trouble is
coming. I feel it in my soul. “If that happens, we’re all screwed.”
“All right, I will consult the Runes and meditate on your words, but do not
become too hopeful. We Celts are a stubborn lot.”
He snorted. “I’m well aware!”

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway! a Rafflecopter giveaway