Book Features, Giveaways

Book Spotlight of Darkness Made by Charlotte E. Pool

Darkness Made

The Marked Trilogy Book 1

by Charlotte E. Pool

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, SciFi

To become what she was made for, she must lose everything

*Urban fantasy meets paranormal romance meets science fiction in this nail-biting, heart-racing story of loss, love, revenge, and the darkness that lives within us all.*

The town of Landow, Virginia, is a tiny, quiet, suburban sort of place where nothing ever happens, and no one ever seems to leave.

Eighteen-year-old Bexley Rose is quietly resigned to her ordinary life in this infuriatingly quaint town. Aside from the car accident thirteen years ago that killed her father, nothing interesting has ever happened to her.

Enter Asher, a curious newcomer who disturbs the daily monotony of Landow, sparking whispers and rumors among the locals. A peculiar magnetism draws them together. As she spends more time with him, the list of unanswered questions about his past grows, and with it, Bexley’s unease.

But when one of Bexley’s classmates is found dead in a hotel, Bexley finally learns what Asher is doing in Landow. He isn’t human, and soon Bexley won’t be either. Asher’s people have lived in secret alongside mankind for millennia, governed by an international organization known as The Council, and now Bexley is part of their underground world. As the body count in Landow grows, Bexley demands answers. And when she gets them, she finds herself at the center of an age-old prophecy and an emerging war between species.

Goodreads * Amazon

Book Trailer:

Charlotte Pool lives in Virginia with her husband, two daughters, and three pit bulls. She is a Cardiac Surgery ICU nurse and is currently pursuing her graduate degree as a Family Nurse Practitioner. Despite her impressive education and professional experience, she wants nothing more than to make s*** up for a living. Hopefully this book will be the start of a new adventure.

Author Links

Website * Instagram * Amazon * Goodreads

Signed Copy of Darkness Made

$25 Amazon gift card

– 1 winner each!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Book Features

Sneak Peek of Divorcing Atlanta by Timmothy B. McCann

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

LORENZO

After I preached the last sermon I’d ever deliver, I sat in my neon green, Honda Accord, with my dad’s Bible in one hand and a Glock 17 in the other, contemplating how to get away with a robbery. Soon, this gun will make me money, send me to prison or kill me. My once perfect life, has come down to this.

When the sun began its tiptoe across the horizon, there was nothing that triggered such a thought. When you realize that you’ve given your all—yet if you should die before you wake, no one would care; it’s a dark and solemn place to dwell. That’s where I find myself tonight. And after I reconciled the potential jail time due to what I’ve already done, at this point, it doesn’t matter.

I delivered the shortest sermon I’d ever preached. I’m sure the sixteen people in the storefront church appreciated it. Seventeen, if you counted the pregnant white girl twice. It’s hard to minister on fumes. When you’re worried about the here and now, it’s damn near impossible to expound about the hereafter. I’m full in spirit, but in every single other way, I’m empty.

What does abject hunger feel like?

When you’ve gone a week without a decent meal. When starvation trickles up your spine. When it plays tricks on your mind, you hallucinate. Bones appear in your face, in places you’ve never seen before. Instinct compels you to lick your lips for comfort from time-to-time, and before your tongue can settle in your mouth, your lips are dry and need to be re-licked. Then the cramps kick in. That’s abject hunger.

You try to go to sleep. Because if you can just go to sleep, maybe you can find rest. You can find peace. You can awaken and things will be different. But you can’t.

After the church service, I did something my dad would’ve called a moral turpitude. I bought a four pack of wine coolers. I did so to escape—if only for the moment. All I know is this: When you’ve worked this hard to build a church, to be recognized for your endeavors nationally, it’s not supposed to end this way. I wasn’t supposed to be destitute at this point in my life. Wasn’t supposed to lose my congregation the way I lost them—and I wasn’t supposed to be contemplating the unthinkable in this hour.

The wind acts as an accelerant, which causes the clouds to roll. The taste of the earth floats on the air, and before I know it, soft sprinkles dot my skin. There’s a zing that teases my nostrils in the darkness of night, in a city bustling with activity—far from ready to fall asleep. An Über crammed with co-eds stops. They spill out.  They’re laughing, half lit; enjoying the first vestiges of a new day.

From a window on the fifth floor, a man screeches profanity at the top of his lungs to a group of young men sitting in their car blasting music.

“Turn that shit down! People gotta go to work.”

He’s ignored, and even if they heard him, they knew he’d never come down. People never come down in neighborhoods like this. They scream, pout, and go back to bed.

If one painted a picture and dubbed it, “Monday Night in Atlanta,” this is what would be captured in the frame. From my viewpoint I see the best and worst of Black America. Morehouse men talking to dope boys. Pinstriped professionals stepping over vomit. Everything one could both love and loathe is confined within three city blocks of a city that will let you call her ugly because she’s far too confident to care. If you closed your eyes in this part of town, you would feel so close to heaven you could hear the key of David being played, so close to hell you’d smell souls frying.

This is where I find myself tonight.

On one side of MLK, there’s a mural of Trayvon, George, Breonna and Ahmaud. The artist has added Rayshard’s smiling face, along with three additional blank spaces and the caption, “U Next?” beneath them. On the other side, twinkles of moonlight shine on crushed takeout cups, Colt 45 cans, and discarded Swisher Sweets wrappers. There’s a homeless man or woman sleeping at the bus stop, and the scent of vomit swings haltingly low to the ground.

I decide if I am going to do this—I need to game it out. In the age of Corona everyone’s face is half-covered, so there’s no need for a ski mask. Check.

I have a Walmart bag for whatever is in the register or stashed behind the counter. Check.

Once I’m out the door, I’ll jump in the car. Then it occurs to me. My car is disabled as well. Plan B—dip into the night and deal with it later. Check.

I’m told that in neighborhoods like this, for insurance purposes, they can’t chase you. If you have a gun and get out the door, they have to let you run.

God, I pray that’s true.

I massage the back of my neck, bite the inside of my lip, reach between the center console of the car, and retrieve a keepsake from my youth—a Kingsman chess piece from my first national chess tournament. I was ranked in the top two hundred players under thirteen. I hold it to reconnect. It takes me back to the south side. But on nights like tonight, I need it for peace. There’s something about the ridges of the crown and the smooth black finish of the base that centers me and forces me to think strategically. It binds the intellectual, spiritual, and emotional man within. Never have I needed this more.

My throat is bone dry in spite of my beverage of choice. I glance at my watch, put the Bible in the back seat, and cover it with my hand.

“Father forgive me,” I murmur, “for what I’m about to do.”

I look across the street. My heartbeat settles. My breathing returns to normal. The king has done its job. I return the chessman to the console. Through clenched teeth I murmur, “It’s time.”

Across the street is the world-famous Busy Bee Café. Next to it, there’s a liquor store, followed by a pawn shop, liquor store, nail salon, comedy club, liquor store and strip club. All except for the Busy Bee are open for business. I know if I pull a gun out in a pawn shop, booty club, or liquor store, light will shine through me before I hit the ground. That leaves two options: rob the comedy club or rob a nail salon.

I exit the car. I hold the half empty wine cooler in the same sweaty and unstable hand I hold the Glock. To balance myself, I lean against my wet-from-the-rain Accord for support. It’s slippery, but it allows me to gain my composure and stop my spinning world. I’m a tad nauseous. Since I haven’t eaten, I dry heave. My body isn’t used to alcohol, even under normal conditions. Nevertheless, I wipe the creases of my mouth and stick the gun in the pit of my back under my belt as if I were on a cop show. Maybe it’s my situation. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I don’t have a clue as to where I’m going, even if I can get my feet on one accord.

I stagger across the street and see this athletic-looking woman, no more than thirty years old. I blink a couple of times to refocus. She has a high sense of style, making her stand out in the neighborhood this time of night. As she speaks, she moves her hands rapidly and snaps her fingertips from time to time to emphasize a point. Her shoulder-length hair is in what the kids call dookie braids, and she’s dressed in a white pantsuit with a white double-breasted vest and a leopard-patterned ascot and face mask. 

The woman turns the street into a runway in Milan as she moves like a model in white stilettos. I watch her walk up to a black Audi, pull down the mask, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, they make an exchange. Newsflash: All drugstores haven’t been closed by the virus. She runs to the safety of her pearl white Escalade, forearm over her head to avoid getting too wet. Even though the vehicle is common in this part of Atlanta—there’s something eerily familiar about it as she gets behind the wheel and swiftly closes the door.

The comedy club, Laff-a-LotZ, is free. There’s a line to enter with a group, all wearing red Trap Music museum t-shirts and talking loudly about their visit to “The A.T.L..” If I rob the comedy club, I’ll keep it short and to the point. I’ll just tell him or her, “You know what time it is!” Then I’ll place the gun on the bar. Miss Glock can finish the conversation.

I join the line to enter. For as far as I can see down the street, trees line the road on both sides. For the most part, they’ve grown strong and healthy in the middle of this concrete jungle. I lean against one in front of the club to take shelter from the drizzling rain.

Once inside the small rectangular club, I notice the deep purple–colored walls are checkerboard with mirrors. People are talking loudly, most mouths covered with masks, trying to be heard over the thumping sound of the Mississippi Slide blasting from the speakers, which makes the walls throb. The dance floor is filled with the vibrant energy of line dancers moving as one as if they have practiced the synchronized moves before the club opened. A few people, for some reason, wear their protective masks under their nose, which makes no sense to me. I reach into my pocket and put on my KN-95 to the sound of bottles clicking and laughter all about, just before the comedian comes to the small octagonal stage off the dance floor.

It’s been months since I’ve been around this many people. Tonight, folks laugh a little louder and dance a little harder since it’s the first week A.T.L’ians have been allowed to mingle after the citywide mandatory, night club restrictions. On top of that it seems folks are tired of the daily Trump foolishness, fake evangelicals calling sins wins, Sou-sou money clubs, police killing Black men, gaining weight, R. Kelly, COVID killing everyone, gaining weight, Karen’s going wild, Kevin’s protecting Karen’s, home schooling, missing family, sweat pants, seeing too much of family, Zoom calls, looking for toilet paper, gaining even more weight and then going to sleep; and like Ground Hog Day II, having it happen the very next day.

I’m cold and damp from the rain, so I embrace myself, moving my hands up and down my biceps for warmth. I scope out the joint. That’s what they do on TV. If I make this lick and get to the door, I’ll be able to survive until I can sell another house. This has to work out.

In the murky, dimly lit back of the room, in front of a faded poster of Killer Mike, a woman is selling neon red, battery-powered roses. She moves from person to person and is rejected repeatedly. I watch her unmasked face mouth a few words, receive the rejection, and move doggedly to the next person, unfazed.

The bartender puts a stack of bills as thick as a woman’s fist in a bag. He has my attention. He tucks it in a spot behind the bar. That’s the stash house. Yeah, I used to watch The Wire.

When I move, I notice my reflection in the mirror and it’s jarring. One thing I miss about having a home is brushing my teeth in the morning. Odd, right? It’s not only about hygiene. I miss seeing my face. When your car has become your residence, there are times you forget how you look. Now my face is gaunt, and my clothes don’t fit. My eye is a puffy, but not as bad as I thought it would look. Could have been a lot worse.

When we started the church, which my ex named Compassion Central, my light brown skin—the residue of my deceased Italian father—was smooth. Now it resembles a catcher’s mitt, and my curly COVID fro is salt and pepper, in the spots where I’m not going bald. The soaking wet brown tweed, six-hundred-dollar Hugo Boss sport coat I’m wearing, brings to mind something homeless people would roll up to use as a pillow.

No wonder Bishop said he was praying for me after giving me a five dollar, “love token,” from the offering.

“Screw forty-two, I look fifty-two,” I whisper to myself with a wistful smile. My hazel eyes, which at one time would evoke questions from strangers, “Are they real?” are empty, sullen, and emit darkness. People used to ask me if I had work done on my teeth. I always replied, “I’m blessed.” Now the blessings are dingy and yellow, and when I scratch my beard, flakes of dandruff eject like an eight-track. If a person in this club knew me from when the church was open, they’d walk past without saying a word. That wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen tonight.

I find a stool at the bar, closer to my target—the stash house. A guy one seat over motions to the bartender with two fingers and a jerk of his head upward just like in the movies. Within a few minutes, the bartender, brings out two shimmering drinks. The woman selling neon roses is drawing closer. I didn’t notice her make a sale, but she’s persistent.

The guy who ordered the drinks wears a red doo rag under a spearmint green derby and has a crooked smile that exposes teeth on only one side of his mouth. From time to time, he whispers into the ear of the woman perched between his legs then leans back to peep her expression. She appears to admire every word he’s speaking.

The woman with the roses comes up to him. I can hear her pitch. “Excuse me, kind sir. Rose for the lady?”

He flicks her away with the back of his tattooed hand. And then the woman positioned between his legs removes her mask to sip the drink when he suddenly shouts, “What the fuck!” He pushes her away in disgust as if he has seen her unmasked face for the first time.

“What?” she asks. The bartender drops another thick, rubber-banded stack of bills in the burgundy bank bag. He’s getting sloppy.

The patrons banter back and forth, and my mind is on one thing. Like a heavy-handed timpani player, my heart pounds in my chest as I bounce my fist against my knee. The fact that I’m here, in this situation and facing such a dilemma is abhorrent. Can’t dwell on that now. I’m down to my last—and I’ll do what I have to do.

Slowly I stand.

The bartender walks behind the shelf of drinks and into a storage room behind him. I played basketball in high school. Even at my height I could easily jump across the bar, grab the bag, and run out. There’s no way they’d fire a gun in a club this crowded. No flipping way.

I grasp the edge of the bar and steady myself. Then, the voice poses the question.

“Just because you don’t understand, this is what we’re going to do?”

I look back toward the door. The one bouncer is on the other side of the room and although crowded there’s, there is a path to get out of here.

I bend my knees.

ABOUT THE BOOK

“(Until…) stands head and shoulders above the rest.” Eric Jerome Dickey, NY Times Bestselling Author

Pastor Lorenzo Richardson’s endeavors to fulfill the calling on his life—which is to change the world, one soul at a time, by starting in southwest Atlanta.

So when he loses people in his circle unexpectedly, the ministry he dedicated his life to fails, and his wife is embroiled in an adulterous public affair with a notable public figure. Pastor Richardson is at the end of his rope and decides to change the world he lives in forever.

Divorcing Atlanta is a moving yet timely account that will resonate with readers who believe in the unyielding power of redemption, choose love and hope over hurt and fear, and fight for what truly matters in their lives.

AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON

ABOUT TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

Timmothy B. McCann was born to tell stories. What began as penning love letters for a fee, grew into his national bestselling debut entitled, Until. Since then, he has amassed an insatiable and dedicated worldwide readership.

The former collegiate football player, educator, and owner of a financial planning firm is now a commercial real estate broker. In 2018, he founded First Day Christian Center. A ministry dedicated to helping those in need in Atlanta.

In his downtime, Timmothy is a self-proclaimed political junkie, golfer, movie buff and community activist who also loves spending time with the two most adorable grandchildren in the world.

AUTHOR LINKS

WEBSITE/ NEWSLETTER/ FACEBOOK

Book Features, Giveaways

Sneak Peek of Tell Me You Love Me by Kathleen Stone

I don’t remember my father. He died shortly after my birth in 1960 and my mother took that as license to pretend he never existed. Sometimes I fantasized that I was the product of magic, or that I would grow up to be a fairy princess, or perhaps a world-renowned dragon trainer. And on my fifth birthday she turned my world upside down by marrying a somewhat older man she’d known for two weeks. His name was Clark Fairbanks, and with him came his five-year-old son, August.

It was a simple ceremony at the courthouse, and my mother looked beautiful in her light blue dress with matching jacket and pumps. Her short blonde hair was topped with a pillbox hat adorned with a small, pearl accented veil and she wore just the right shade of pink lipstick. Clark was dressed in a fancy black suit, his son August dressed the same, but I paid little attention to them as I only had eyes for my mother. I had never seen her look so happy before. She had a glow radiating from her face that I knew I didn’t put there. Even at five years old I knew this man must have been something special, but I was far too young to understand. All I knew was my intimate family of two had increased to four — including two males no less — and I felt like I was adrift at sea never to find shore again.

Clark took all of us out to a fancy restaurant for lunch after he and my mother were married and I sat rigid in my chair, trying to keep the itchy material of my brand new dress from scratching my skin every time I moved. August was sitting across from me and had not spoken a single word. His short, dark blond hair was combed neatly away from his face, revealing a spray of freckles over his nose. He scowled at me, his piercing blue eyes sending chills over my skin. Suddenly he kicked his leg out under the table, connecting with my shin and sending me into meltdown mode. I began to cry in that silent way you know a child is in true distress, tears streaming down my cheeks but no sound coming out of my mouth.

“Shut up, crybaby,” August mocked me.

Clark immediately grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hissed, “Auggie, you apologize this instant!”

He continued to scowl at me but said nothing. Clark stood up and yanked him off his chair, disappearing. My mother pulled me into her arms and petted my hair lovingly.

“He’s confused, April,” she said. “Just like you are. We’ll get through this. We’re a family now.”

The shock and pain of his kick subsided a bit and I found my vocal cords once again. “He’s mean, Mommy, I don’t like him,” I cried.

“You only met him an hour ago,” she said, wiping my tears away with a napkin. “I promise it’ll get better.”

I was still sniffling when Clark returned with a red-faced August, who stood in front of me and said, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Auggie?” Clark asked.

“I’m sorry I kicked you,” he grumbled.

I just nodded acceptance and hugged my knees to my chest, having no idea what else to do. My mother immediately pushed my legs down and reminded me I was wearing a dress. Clark and August returned to their chairs and I continued to pick at the food on my plate, not interested in any of it.

After lunch we were whisked away to Clark’s expansive estate in Beverly Hills, our new home. Clark and my mother each held one of my hands as they led me through the house to my bedroom, which not only housed the few personal items from our old apartment, but dolls, toys and clothes beyond my wildest imagination. I was far too young to understand any of it and I just wanted to go back to our apartment and play in my old room. No Clark. No August.

It had been a long, exhausting day, and my mother and I were finally alone when she got me ready for bed that evening. She tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead and I asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?”

“This is our new home, honey,” she replied with a smile. “Clark and August are our new family now.”

I looked around my new bedroom with wide eyes; everything looked disproportionately huge in my young mind, with frightening windows and drapes and doors that looked like they wanted to trap me inside without a way of escape.

“I don’t like it here,” I whispered, terrified.

“It’ll be strange for a while, but I promise everything will be all right,” she insisted. “Clark is a very nice man and he’s going to take care of us.”

I burst into tears and my mother pulled me into her arms, caressing my hair and promising that everything was going to be okay.

Tell Me You Love Me

by Kathleen Stone

Genre: Contemporary Fiction

What would you sacrifice to protect someone you love?

In 1965 April Toulane’s life is turned upside down on her fifth birthday when her mother marries a man she’s known for only two weeks. The life she’d known is forever changed with the addition of a stepfather and a five-year-old stepbrother who terrorizes her on a daily basis. After a family tragedy the young siblings are thrust into the Hollywood spotlight, surrounded by people whose very foundation is based on secrets and lies. Struggling to grow up and find their way in a world where child stars are forever manipulated and exploited, the siblings form an unbreakable bond vowing to always protect each other when the adults entrusted to take care of them fail at every turn. “Tell Me You Love Me” is the story of April and Auggie Fairbanks, the most sought after faces in show business throughout the sixties and seventies, maneuvering their way through the lies and corruption to learn the truth about their parents and searching for the love and acceptance they so desperately crave.

Goodreads * Amazon

Kathleen has been a freelance writer since 1999 and now writes full time. Her work has appeared in Doll World Magazine, Apolloslyre.com, The Lake County Journals, Trails.com; USA Today (travel), Livestrong.com (lifestyle), Essortment, eHow, Answerbag, Examiner.com, Suite101 and YahooVoices. She is the author of the award-winning novel Whispers On A String, the Head Case Rock Novel Series (Head Case, Whiplash and Haven) and Tell Me You Love Me. She also has short stories published in the Secrets: Fact or Fiction I & II anthologies.

Author Links

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Swag Pack (WW)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Book Features, Giveaways

Sneak Peek of When The Smoke Clears by C. Chilove

EXCERPT

“Are you done hiding from me?” The smooth tenor jumpstarted her heart. 

Paige whipped around to see Brenden leaning in the door frame. A smile curved his lips as she struggled through heavy breaths. “Hi… Hiding from you?” She gulped down a mixture of fear and excitement as butterflies began dancing in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she wanted them to stop because at least the fluttery feeling confirmed she wasn’t dreaming.

He slid his hands into his pockets while his eyes intently scanned her face as if he were committing every inch to memory. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you Happy New Year.”

A flush crept along her neck before stinging her cheeks. She peeked up, afraid of how the energy in her body was responding to Brenden. “Ditto,” she muttered. “Happy New Year! I guess chivalry does exist.”

He shrugged and began moving towards her. Face to face, he looked upon her, again studying her like a work of art. “Not sure if the thoughts I’m having of you would be deemed chivalrous, Paige.”

She felt her mouth form a little “o” while her heartbeat triple timed. The sincerity etched across Brenden’s face and the want laced within his husky voice began casting a spell, unraveling inhibitions she’d clung to for fear of failure or rejection. 

“Why are you here by yourself?” He shifted his gaze beyond her to the ocean before taking a few steps to claim the space at the balcony rail.

“I could ask you the same,” she replied before returning to her place along the rail that was now a few feet from the sexiest man alive. 

“True, but I suppose neither of us wants to share what we’d rather forget.”

Paige nodded. How did he know? She’d been trying to forget for the last twenty years. And now, seeing the sliver of tension twitch at Brenden’s jaw, it made her curious to learn what he wanted to forget.

“Forget?” she asked out loud, and not on purpose.

He faced her. Sweet Jesus, the man’s eyes could read a girl’s soul and betray her most private thoughts. “Don’t you want to?” 

Something in him whispered to her deepest, darkest desires. Her body slowly began overriding her mind. “How?” she asked, desperate for her next breath. She then swallowed an inhale and reached up, pushing strands of his tousled hair from his face. 

Brenden stepped in, closing the distance between them. He looked down into her eyes, lowered his head, and brushed his lips across hers. His fingers threaded the strands of her hair before he tilted her neck and pressed his lips to her bouncing pulse. 

Her breaths became more unpredictable, fueling the sharpening ache between her legs that halted rational contemplation. Mind versus body. Never before had she been uncertain of which would win.

Another stuttering breath escaped her lips, and her eyes closed as Brenden’s teeth sank into her skin. “Mmmm…feels good.” 

“Tastes good.” His body pressed harder against hers. “And now you know my most indecent thoughts.”

ABOUT THE BOOK

Series: When the Smoke Clears, Book 1
Publisher: Entangled Publishing
Publication Date: April 19, 2021
Genre: Romance, Contemporary Romance, Romantic Suspense, Interracial, Military

Lieutenant Colonel Brenden Jasper lives a life of secrets, danger, and clandestine missions. As commander of the most elite Black Ops unit in the world, nothing is more important to him than protecting the country he loves. But there’s a reason only the toughest, battle-tested, alpha men can call themselves members of the Black 2131 brotherhood. None but those in the highest realms of government even know of its existence, and it’s Brenden’s job to avoid emotional entanglements so he can keep it that way. Dr. Paige Nichols has spent her life ruled by logic and reason, teaching and analyzing art history, so nothing could have prepared her for the completely overwhelming attraction-at-first-sight when she sets eyes on Brenden. Their chance encounter at a party opens her up to a tantalizing dark side she never knew she had—and leaves her wanting so much more. But a man with a dark side often comes with way too many secrets…ones that could put her life in danger. Though their chemistry burns hotter than ever, when danger comes knocking on Paige’s door, Brenden will have to walk a fine line between duty, honor, and love.

AVAILABLE ON
AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | ENTANGLED

C. Chilove is the current Secretary for Romance Writers of America (RWA) and past President of CIMRWA. She is a southern girl writing sexy, thought-provoking romance that explores the human condition while proving love transcends societal clichés. Her characters are strong, witty, and prove that diversity is beautiful. When she’s not writing, she’s living out her personal happily-ever-after by rockin’ the stands for her Volleyball star, cheering on her future MLB slugger, or celebrating date night with her hubby.

CONNECT WITH C. CHILOVE

AUTHOR SITETWITTER | INSTAGRAM | PINTEREST | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

GIVEAWAY

ENTER TO WIN

$15 Amazon Gift Card

CLICK HERE