Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  And, lastly, Newport, Rhode Island. It is magical and by far one of my favorite places in the world! I’ve made many a stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts mentioned in the book, and have walked the Cliff Walk more times than I count. Should you ever have the chance to visit, please do so! Also, to all my fellow Massachusetts people reading these notes, just know that we can stand strong against the #Masshole stereotype together, LOL.

  As always, there are many more but here is just a sampling! If you’re thinking…that seems rather fascinating and I want to know more, you are always so welcome to reach out! Pretty much, nothing makes me happier :)

  Much love,

  Maria

  Preview of Say You’ll Be Mine

  The NOLA Heart series is now complete! Keep reading for a sneak peek of Say You’ll Be Mine, the first book in the series—featuring a hot cop and his high school sweetheart. This is a second chance romance that will heat up your kindles and keep you up at night reading.

  “Need help with those?”

  Shaelyn jerked at the familiar masculine voice and nearly pantsed herself. Picking a wedgie in public, while sometimes necessary, was embarrassing, but losing her shorts in front of Brady Taylor, strangers, and the all-seeing eyes of her parish church might actually spell the end of her.

  Then again, problem solved. Meme Elaine would have to find someone else to inherit their ancestral home, of course, but Shaelyn could work some serious magic from Upstairs.

  “Nope, I’ve got it,” she bit out. She didn’t look at him. One glance and there was a decent chance of her good sense going MIA.

  “You sure?” Black Nike tennis shoes entered her peripheral vision. “Looks like you might need a hand.”

  His toned calves were dusted with short, black hairs. It was a sign of weakness, she knew, but Shaelyn couldn’t stop the upward progression of her gaze. Settled low on his hips were maroon basketball shorts with cracked-gold lettering running up the side. The first and second O’s were missing, so that instead of Loyola, it read “L Y LA.” She wondered why he wasn’t wearing his alma mater, Tulane University, and then reminded herself that she didn’t care. Her gaze traveled up to a faded-blue NOPD T-shirt that—

  Shaelyn inhaled sharply as she realized just how awful she must look. Boob sweat was the least of her worries when her underwear had officially integrated itself between her butt cheeks. She reached up to smooth her short, curly hair, which she’d tamed with a headband straight out of the ’90s. Her bedroom was proving to be a treasure trove of forgotten goodies.

  “You’ve got something . . . ” Brady reached out a hand toward her butt.

  “Hey!” She swatted at his long-tapered fingers. He wasn’t wearing his hat today, and she finally had her first glimpse of his blue-on-blue eyes. She’d once compared them to the crystal blue waters of Destin (where their families once vacationed together in Florida every summer), and she was annoyed to find that time had not dampened their appeal. Straightening her spine, she snapped, “Hands off.”

  Holding both hands up, he dipped his chin. “You might wanna check out your behind then.” Those blue eyes crinkled as he grinned, with small laugh lines fanning out from the corners.

  Shaelyn twisted at the waist. Three leaves were stuck to her butt, suctioned to the fabric of her shorts as though hanging on for dear life. Sweat, apparently, was the proper glue foliage needed for attachment.

  She was never working out again.

  “You got it?” Brady asked, humor lacing his husky drawl. “I’m good with my hands, if you need help.”

  An image of Brady’s large hands cupping her butt snapped her into action. She swiped at the offending leaves, sending them fluttering to the ground. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  His sweeping glance, one that traveled from her tennis shoes all the way up to her face, left her wondering if he liked what he saw or if he was glad he’d dumped her years ago. Finally, he murmured, “I can see that.”

  The key ring came loose from her belt loop with an extra hard tug of desperation, and she started for her car. “Right. Well, nice to see you.”

  Brady effectively ruined her escape by leaning against her car door with his arms crossed over his hard chest. Hadn’t she suffered enough today without having to deal with him, too? Boob sweat, wedgies, and leaves suctioned to her ass were all a woman could take, thank you very much.

  She gestured at him. “Do you mind?”

  His answering smile was slow and easy. “Not at all.”

  Her fingers curled tightly around the car keys. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  “Yeah?” His tone suggested that he didn’t believe her. “Where are you going?”

  She toyed with the idea of blowing off his question, but if there was one thing she knew about Brady Taylor, it was that he was annoyingly persistent. “I’ve got a bachelorette party tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He said it differently this time, as if intrigued, perhaps even despite himself. “Didn’t realize you had many friends left in N’Orleans?”

  She scowled, placed a hand on her hip, and then realized that she must look about five seconds away from throwing a good ol’ Southern princess tantrum. Hastily she folded her arms over her chest to mimic his stance. With determination she ignored the way her sweat-coated skin fused together.

  “For the record, I do have friends.” She didn’t, not really, but he didn’t know that. “And secondly, my job is hosting a bachelorette party.”

  He seemed to digest that, his full mouth momentarily flattening before quirking up in a nonchalant smile. “Where do you work nowadays, Shae?”

  The bells of Holy Name chimed again. She really had to be going, but something stopped her from walking around the hood of her car, climbing in, and speeding away. She didn’t want to think about what that something might be.

  “I work at La Parisienne in the French Quarter. On Chartres.”

  One of his black brows arched up in surprise. “The lingerie joint?”

  Only a man would call a business that sold women’s underwear a “joint.” Rolling her eyes, Shaelyn let her weight rest on her right leg. She bit back another moan of pain. “It has a name, but yes, I work at the ‘lingerie joint.’”

  “And they host bachelorette parties?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. Tonight we’re cohosting it with The Dirty Crescent.”

  “The sex toy shop?”

  “Yes.”

  His blue eyes glittered, and when he asked, “Can I come?” his voice slid through her like that first shot of whiskey she’d downed in his grandfather’s office years earlier. Shocking at first, and then hot and tingly as it heated her core.

  Then he ruined everything by laughing.

  Nothing ever changed with him.

  “You’re such a jerk,” she snapped. She stepped forward and pushed at his chest to urge him away from her car. He didn’t budge, which only infuriated her. How dare he tease her like he hadn’t broken her heart? So what if she’d been young, naïve, and fifty shades of stupid? Being a gentleman was not overrated.

  He was still laughing when he caught her by the shoulders. “I could arrest you for harassment.” His hands were warm on her exposed skin, hotter, maybe, than the late afternoon sun toasting the back of her neck.

  Shaelyn glared up at him, not the least bit pacified by the mischievous glint in his blue eyes. His thumbs stroked her collarbone. Once, twice. If she’d been a weaker woman, she would have curled into his embrace. “You should arrest yourself.”

  “For what?”

  “For being an ass.”

  His head dipped, his breath a whisper against her ear. Goosebumps teased her flesh. “You gonna do it yourself? Maybe buy a pair of new ’cuffs from that party tonight and put them to good use on me?”

  * * *

  Want to keep reading? Say You’ll Be Mine is now available!

  Read or download now via Kindle Unlimited.

  Preview of Running From a Rock Star

  In true, typi
cal author fashion - I kidnapped some of my favorite characters from my best friend’s world! Momma Martha’s best friend Honey. Zachsville, Texas. Both belong to Jami Albright’s Brides on the Run series, and if you’re in the mood for a rockstar romance with all the feels, then keep reading for a sneak peek!

  Light seared through Scarlett Kelly’s eyelids. She buried her face in the cool pillow to block the glare, but even that slight movement caused an explosion of agony. Pain and nausea crashed into her like a train on fire.

  After several minutes of panting through her symptoms, the misery subsided long enough to peel open her dry, sticky eyes.

  Her conservative dress and equally unadventurous bra stared at her from a condemning puddle on the floor.

  Stomach tight, she slid her gaze slightly farther to the right to identify the black pile in her peripheral vision. A motorcycle jacket. Combat boots. Black jeans. And…a guitar? Yes, a beat-up guitar leaned against the wall on the far side of the room. And poker chips littered the carpet like crushed confetti after a wild party.

  What the--

  Suddenly, something warm cupped her naked breast. She peered down at the large hand connected to a tattooed arm, connected to a…

  Oh. My. Lord.

  She rotated her head, and a stifled gasp jammed in her throat as she stared into the sleeping, face of the man who shared the bed.

  Gavin Bain? A thrill skittered through her. The sunlight shone on his raven hair. His smooth bronze skin. Fascinating tattoos. Bam! A memory surfaced through her muddled brain. She’d traced the lines of one of those tattoos, the ninja star on his chest. She’d touched and then kissed her way… Oh, heavens, had she done that with this rock god?

  She, Scarlett Kelly, children’s author and poster girl for responsible living, had sex with Gavin Bain. Gavin Bain, the rock star, AKA, The Delinquent.

  Her brain tried to piece together the previous night. She rarely drank and certainly not to excess. Even during the worst time in her life, alcohol hadn’t been involved.

  An acute case of bed-head made pushing her red curls from her face a painful challenge. Why had she drunk so much? It all came back in flashes of utter dismay. The Children’s Writers Conference in Las Vegas. Nervous anticipation of signing the contract that would save her family financially. That dream blowing up in her face. Then the added humiliation of overhearing herself described as a No-Fun-Nun.

  She’d shown them. Look at her now, naked in a strange man’s bed, the absolute picture of wholesomeness.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  She held her breath as she removed his hand and slid from the bed. Moving unsteadily, due to her pounding head and sour stomach, she searched for her clothes, careful to be as quiet as possible.

  The purse, bra, dress, and boots were easy. But where were her panties?

  A panic attack threatened, and her whole body trembled. Could she have removed her underwear before she got to the room? If so, she hoped that memory stayed hidden. She gave up on the lost undies and headed for the bathroom.

  Lord, she needed to pee, but after a prolonged study of the toilet, decided it would be too loud and leaving an unflushed toilet was just bad manners. Even though she’d become, by all appearances, Slutty McSlut Slut, she couldn’t bring herself to be impolite. So she dressed as fast as her shaking hands allowed.

  The reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and the blood pounding through her veins turned to ice. Her head jerked toward her image so fast her brain vibrated. For the briefest of seconds, she saw her mother. A tiny whimper cut through the silence, and she ran trembling fingers ran over her face. People always said she looked like her mother, but now, while making the walk of shame, the resemblance was uncanny. The mental mantra she’d been repeating her whole life reverberated in her head. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. She grabbed her purse and fled the pristine bathroom.

  A cool breeze from the air conditioner drifted up her dress and skimmed her bare bottom. She didn’t ever go command--too much freedom. Restrictions were safe. Without restraint, a girl could find herself hung over, panty-less, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown while covertly fleeing a rock star’s hotel room.

  Oh, wait. That already happened.

  She glanced at the door. Nine feet, and she’d be free of this disaster. Logic screamed escape. But compulsion kept her rooted to the spot, and it became imperative that she find her underwear.

  I cannot leave without them.

  Where could one pair of basic white panties hide? The chandelier was blessedly free of them. Nothing on the drapery rod. But a photo on the desk made life as she knew it come to a screeching halt.

  A gaudy cardboard frame held a picture of her and Gavin under a red neon heart. The Valentine Wedding Chapel of Love spelled out in rhinestones around the border.

  It couldn’t possibly mean what she thought it did.

  Nooooo.

  Next to the picture, the condemning proof--a marriage license issued by the State of Nevada, signed by Gavin Michael Bain and Scarlett Rose Kelly. Her vision blurred causing the letters on the certificate to dance like cartoon characters.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle and glanced back to the gorgeous sleeping man in the bed. A wave of vertigo slammed into her, along with the memory.

  She’d told him she’d only have sex with her husband.

  With shaking hands, she grabbed the evidence of their reckless night shoved it into her purse.

  While her hard won reputation exploded into a million pieces, her inner wild child made a victory lap around the room. If that hussy had been driving the bus last night, then she was the reason for this catastrophe.

  How could she have been so irresponsible? What was she going to do? No good answer for the first question, but she knew the response to the second. Find the panties and get the heck out of Las Vegas.

  She dug through the comforter at the foot of the bed. She kicked at his pile of clothes. She checked behind his guitar.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  They had to be under the bed.

  Crap.

  Not interested in waking the Delinquent, she cautiously made her way to his side and quietly lowered herself to the floor, ignoring the sweet smile he had on his face while he slept. The white material peeked out between the headboard and the mattress. Hallelujah. She reached in and yanked them free.

  The sudden movement slammed dizzying pain into her skull. She bent forward and rested her head on the soft carpet, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  “Are you praying?” asked a sleepy male voice.

  She squeaked, then slowly turned her head without lifting it from the carpet. Amusement sparkled in Gavin’s smoky gray eyes.

  “Yes, I’m praying you’re a very bad dream.”

  He rolled his eyes as if that couldn’t possibly be true. “Good one. Why are you really on the floor?”

  “I, uh, I…” The marriage certificate hidden in her purse and the cacophony of self-condemning thoughts made it hard to focus.

  Suspicion darkened his handsome face. “What are you hiding under the bed? Is there a recording device under there?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He leveled her with a deadly serious glare. There was no trace of the formerly amused man.

  “Actually, there’s a reporter from TMZ under here, would you like to say hello?”

  When his features went from dark to thunderous, she knew she’d made a critical error with the sarcasm.

  “I was just…um…looking for something.” She forced herself to meet his eyes.

  “Looking for what?” Titanium coated every word and slammed into her hungover brain.

  Time to go.

  She scrambled to her feet. An increased heart rate, combined with residual alcohol pumping through her system, made the room spin. She swayed and toppled cheek first into the side of the dresser, dropping the panties in the process.

/>   “Ouch!” She covered her face with her hands.

  Sheets rustled, and suddenly, he was in front of her. “Shit, are you ok?”

  She slowly lowered her hands and… hot mother of a freakin’ cow. A very naked Gavin squatted in front of her with all his dangly bits…well, dangling.

  “Fine, thanks.” That’s it? That’s the best she could come up with a gorgeous naked guy in front of her. So much for clever repartee.

  She honestly did try to keep her eyes above his shoulders, but--come on. This was her last chance to see a rock god in all his tattooed, naked glory. One quick peep then she rose unsteadily to her feet.

  “It was nice to… um… meet you, but I should go.” She inched toward the door.

  “Wait. You’re not going anywhere until I have some answers.” He made a grab for her arm. Fear and adrenaline lit her up like a rocket. She forgot her injury, made an evasive move, and sprinted to get away.

  When she got to the door, she peeked over her shoulder. Gavin hopped on one foot trying to yank on his jeans. The last thing she saw was her husband as he fell, legs tangled in the fabric of the jeans.

  She bolted down the hallway towards the elevator. “Come on, come on, come on.” She jabbed the down button repeatedly. A small, logical part of her brain, not currently recovering from near alcohol poisoning, wondered what she hoped to accomplish by running. But the larger, wholly irrational, part of her psyche screamed, Married? I’m freakin’ married? I’ve got to get out of here.

  Gavin stumbled from the room and into the hall, still struggling with his jeans. They were over his hips but not buttoned. He strode down the hall towards her.

  The indicator bell dinged.

  “Stop. Do not get on that elevator.”

  The sight of him stole the air from her body. Magnificent--scary as hell--but totally, completely magnificent. For a crazy instant, she almost complied, but then the doors slid open and broke the spell. She lunged forward, but relief made her clumsy. She tumbled head over heels into the elevator, dress flying over her head as the doors slid shut.