That’s what my missing groom told me over the phone . . . on our wedding day, no less.
I wasn’t about to go down that road again—love, marriage, forever. I had enough on my plate serving as deputy general counsel of our family business and keeping my matchmaking parents off my back.
Then Wayland Ramirez comes roaring back into my life.
The boy who asked me to be his girlfriend in middle school. The man I shared a sizzling night of passion with five years ago. The man who made me trust him . . . then disappeared.
This time, I know better than to put my heart in anyone’s hands.
But when Dad throws down an ultimatum—bring a date to the office Christmas party or meet a stranger of his choosing—I spontaneously ask Wayland to play the part of my doting fake-boyfriend for a night.
He just wasn’t supposed to give an Oscar-winning performance.
Once more, his whispered words, his searing kisses, his body against mine almost have me believing that this could last. Almost.
I say love is a sham, a reservoir that depletes with time.
He says he wants it all—my todays and tomorrows.
But can I trust him with my tomorrows? Can I trust him to pick me up if I fall?
I prefer to call myself a storyteller rather than an author. I’m a mom to two beautiful little girls and a wife to an incredibly supportive husband. My days start with caffeine and sometimes end with a glass (or three) of wine.
I’m a Texas raised Indian American currently living in the Bay Area. With a degree in Computer Science and an MBA, I’ve had a successful career building software products but writing is both my hobby and my passion.
For me, writing and reading are an escape from real life. I love meeting and creating characters who I’d love to take out for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. My goal as a storyteller is to distract my readers from their daily grind with stories about everyday couples finding and fighting for incredible love with the help of a little luck.
Mafia King, Dario Lucari spent years planning his revenge. Today, he executes it.
Take Me, an all-new sexy and addictive, dark mafia romance from New York Times bestselling author C.D. Reiss is releasing December 25th, and we have your first look!
How can I still be here? I clutch the sharp piece of pottery under my glove. It’s a safety blanket. A choice I can make in a situation where my decisions are meaningless. Hovering in half-consciousness, my eyes are closed when the door bangs open again and Dario enters, carrying a tall glass of water. He sets it on a dirty counter in front of me, then leans against the table, crossing one long leg over the other. I get to my feet and approach the glass, wary but unable to stay away from it. I’ve never been this thirsty in my life; my eyeballs burn, and my tongue is cracked into layers of plaster. Dario watches me silently, but as I reach out to take the glass, he slaps my hand away. I’m already weak and dizzy, and the force of the blow makes me stumble and spin. “Please!” I cry. I realize I’m on my knees. I had intended to be strong, to refuse to let him see me suffer any more, but I am so, so thirsty. “Take that stupid dress off.” I shake my head. I’m past caring about modesty. I care about the dress. It’s ruined, but it’s mine. I worked on it for months, my fingers numb from stitching, my eyes and back aching as I labored into the night. It may be the only piece of home left to me besides my own body, and I will not take it off. He shrugs and picks up the glass of water. I remain defiant. He turns to go. And when I feel the triangle of clay inside the wrist of my glove, I think, with blinding clarity, I cannot die here. “Okay,” I say. He stops, turns around, but does not put down the glass. I slip the dress off slowly, regretfully, because as awful as it looks, the fabric is still fine, soft and sweet, a reminder of who I was and what I expected so few sunrises ago. The gloves stay and so do the undergarments I wore to please Sergio because Dario just said to take off the dress and I’m weak but not dead. I’m not giving him anything he doesn’t ask for. He places the glass back on the table. Then he sweeps a hand through the dust and dirt on its surface and sprinkles them into the water. I watch helplessly as it clouds over in the sunlight. “Down to the skin,” he says. “Show me every inch.” The suggestion in his command floods my dry veins with resistance. “You said the dress.” I hold out my left hand—the one without the distorting piece of pottery under the glove. “Give it to me.” This time, he takes a discarded nursery container and pinches out white-flecked potting soil. He drops it in the water like a chef seasoning too heavily. “It’s going to be mud soon,” he says. “If you aren’t naked.” “Where’s my father?” I squeak without spit. “Did he give you what you want?” “Haven’t spoken to him since the car.” “I don’t believe you.” “We tried. He won’t negotiate with outsiders . . . so . . . take off all your fucking clothes.” I do everything I can not to keep from crying as I lower my white lace underpants and slip out of my matching bra, hands shaking the entire time. I leave the gloves and garter, hoping they’re beside the point. “I know what you’re hiding in your glove. You’re not going to kill me with a broken flower pot.” “It wasn’t for you.” He nods with understanding but not compassion, as if knowing suicide is on the table adds to a data point and no more, then flicks his finger at me. I peel off the gloves. The shard clatters to the floor. I am now naked except for one thing. “The garter.” “Not that.” I ball my hands into fists and look at the floor. “Please.” He says nothing. I can’t see him, so I let myself hope that he’s considering letting me keep this one strip of fabric and elastic that’s tying me to this earth, to my identity, to the one person who loved me like no other. Maybe he’ll find it arousing. I’ll risk it, even embrace it, for that glass of cloudy water. The sound of a plop and a splash catches my attention, and I look up to see him slowly pouring a thin line of water onto the tile. With a gasp, thoughts of my mother are gone, and I rip off the garter before I lose another precious drop, throwing it at his feet. “There,” I say, finally bare before him, exposed as I have never been before a man. My breath skips, and I finally cry, but I don’t have enough water in my body to make tears or snot over this destroyed moment—the first time a man’s eyes see my skin, my nipples, my utter vulnerability. The moment I took that dress off was supposed to be one of the most beautiful of my life. Instead, it is a violation. He isn’t satisfied yet though. “Stay still,” he commands. He walks behind me, hovering for a moment before grabbing my hair and yanking it back so that I’m gazing up into the camera’s merciless eye. “Can you imagine how good it will feel,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck, “when I let you drink?” He lays his other hand under my chin and slides it down as he speaks. “That cold, sweet water sliding down your throat?” I nod helplessly, gulping what feels like a lump of garden pebbles. “Even with a little dirt, a little dust, you’ll take it all down, won’t you? You’re just about ready to beg for it.” “I’ll beg,” I agree with a voice I don’t recognize. “I’ll do it.” “You need it,” he says, and I can feel the cruelty of the smile in his voice. “Please,” I whisper. “Please… please…” “Say it for the camera.” Who’s on the other side? His boss? My family? The entire world? “Please give it to me.” “Let me swallow it,” he whispers thickly. “Beg.” “Let . . . let me swallow it all. Please.” “I know what your body needs. And what you’ll do to get it.” And then, just as abruptly as he’d grabbed me, he spins me around so that I’m facing him and he pushes me to my knees. “This will go much easier for you if you play along,” he murmurs. I’m so weak and dizzy I almost tip over before he pulls me up by the hair on top of my head. “Steady, principessa.” With his free hand, he opens the fly of his pants, exposing the thick bulge beneath cotton underwear. He’s going to take it out and force me to taste his cock. Take it down my throat. Swallow his come. I’ve spent my life waiting for this, and I don’t want it this way . . . but I want it. My body aches to just give up, taste whatever he puts on my tongue. I look up at him, offering whatever he’s willing to take as long as he gives me something to drink. But he does not release his erection. Instead, he pulls my head into his crotch. The fabric is damp on my lips, heavy and musty on my nose as he grinds into my face. And he’s hard. So hard. He forces the shape of his shaft along the opening between my lips, and I taste no more than an essence of him . . . but it’s enough. My clit fills and drops, weighted by a constant, brutal pulse of arousal that’s timed to the way he pushes into my face, holding my head still. My hands steady me against his thighs, then pull him closer. I want it. I surrender. I’ll suck him for water or a glass of sand. Why is he keeping it behind his clothes? “Yes,” he growls, putting both hands behind my head and pushing me into his crotch so hard his erection feels like stone on my chin. I put out my tongue, licking the damp fabric. He stops for a moment. His growl turns into a gasp, and the clothed organ against me pulses. A warm wetness gathers at my cheek. Then he lets me go, and I fall back on my hands, gasping as I notice the thick wet stain where he came as I licked him. “Okay,” he says, zipping up. He’s bored again, casual as he hands the glass to me by the top. “You can drink now.” I do. I am shameless and desperate. I hold it with both hands and savor every drop, dirt and all. He leaves before I finish, apparently not interested in watching me debase myself further. I lie naked where he left me, legs in the letter K, bare skin on cold tile, the empty glass a few inches from my hand, watching the clouds form in the grid above me. The door clicks and whooshes open. The room spins when I bolt to a sitting position. A tray of food, accompanied by a whole pitcher of water, is pushed across the threshold. The door claps shut again, and the deadbolt smacked home. I glance at the camera. He’s watching. He has to be. I should stand up and walk like a human, but by the time I finish making that decision, I’m already crawling on my hands and knees like an animal. The tray contains a plastic clamshell with a sandwich inside—pink meat spills from a circle of bread split into a pocket. Hushing the raging hunger for a moment, I peek into the pocket and find cheese and the familiarity of mayonnaise. A pink container of yogurt proudly proclaims—next to a bulbous strawberry—that it has REAL FRUIT inside. I rip it open, ready to suck it down, but I stop. I stand carefully, my head still swimming not just from my hunger and thirst and poor night’s sleep, but from what just happened. I walk over to my discarded pile of garments and put them on again: the underwear and bra, the ruined dress, my shoes—one close by and one under the camera. I slide the garter up my leg. I leave the gloves and shard. Then I put the tray on the counter, right a white plastic chair that matches the one on the roof, and—dressed in silk garments that were once a hopeful symbol of my purity but are now nothing more than a painful, ridiculous reminder of everything I have lost—I hydrate and nourish myself, dreaming of the day I escape the man named Dario with shadow eyes and an empty heart.
Synopsis A dark and twisted mafia romance from New York Times bestselling author CD Reiss. Mafia King, Dario Lucari spent years planning his revenge. Today, he executes it. Kidnapped on my wedding day. Held by a monster who wants vengeance on my father. Married to him against my will. Suddenly thrust into a world of betrayal, lies and deviance, all I have to do to escape is destroy everything I’ve ever loved, and love the man I must destroy.
About CD Reiss CD Reiss is a New York Times bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t pick up she’s at the well hauling buckets. Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere but it did give her a big enough ego to write novels. She’s frequently referred to as the Shakespeare of Smut which is flattering but hasn’t ever gotten her out of chopping that cord of wood. If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.
Slow burn, thy name is Penny Reid’s Homecoming King. This newest book of Reid’s is the first in a series of three standalones, Three Kings. This first book releases this year, with the next book releasing in December of next year. While seemingly a Christmas story, the holiday aspects of Homecoming King are mild; they tinge the story without making it an over-the-top, predictable holiday read. There are many reasons to love Penny Reid, her irreverent stories are many of my favorites. What we find in her other stories, we find in this one too: a heroine with a keen interest in hobbies, a hunk who needs the heroine to add shades to his life, and a story that compels your forward to its happy ending.
In Homecoming King, Abigail “Abby” has loved Rex McMurtry, the celebrated professional football player, from afar…since preschool. Even though she is one of the tallest girls in her school, she exists in the periphery, and Rex never notices her. Many years later, he ends up in the bar where she bartends, finds himself too drunk to make it home, and she takes him home to care for him. From there, a friendship blossoms. This leads to a proposal: a marriage between the two of them so Rex doesn’t have to worry about friends and family members foisting women on him. Always accommodating in her empathic way, Abby agrees, and she and Rex marry at the 50-yard line. However, are they destined for each other, or is this “too good to be true?”
For both Rex and Abby, that saying “too good to be true” is the mantra of their lives, and Reid deftly weaves their struggles with vulnerability around moments of humor and companionship between the two. Through their struggles, Reid uses their silence to build the tension between these two. Abby is such a lovely character in that she is compassionate about people. She sees something in Rex, and she reads him in a way that no one else seems to do. Yet, her ability to lower her defenses blinds her to his interest in her. This, in turn, evolves their slow-burn.
Since Rex also worries over becoming vulnerable with her, the tension between these two grows as the pages turn. It takes much of the book for these two to allow themselves to voice their interest in the other. Once this occurs, it is full steam ahead with only a minor complication.
There is so much to love about the Homecoming King. Abby and Rex’s ease in contrast to the ways they protect themselves causes you to fall in love with them. As you move through the story, you want to yell at them to figure it out; however, Reid’s timing is impeccable for them. If you love to laugh and to fall in love with characters who fall deeply in love with each other because they see each other better than anyone else, then Homecoming King should be your next read.
From New York Times bestselling author Kristen Ashley comes an all new thrilling romantic suspense guaranteed to have pulses rise, and readers begging for more.
The Girl in the Mist releases January 4th and we have the drop dead gorgeous cover!
Renowned author Delphine Larue needs a haven. A crazed fan has gone over the deep end, and she’s not safe. Her security team has suggested a house by a lake. Secluded. Private. Far away. In a beautiful area of the Northwest close to the sleepy town of Misted Pines. It’s perfect. So perfect, Delphine has just moved in, and she’s thinking she’ll stay there forever.
Until she sees the girl in the mist.
After that, everything changes.
Delphine quickly learns that Misted Pines isn’t so sleepy. A little girl has gone missing, and the town is in the grips of terror and tragedy. The local sheriff isn’t up for the job. The citizens are up in arms. And as the case unfolds, the seedy underbelly of a quiet community is exposed, layer by layer.
But most importantly, girls are dying.
There seems to be only one man they trust to find out what’s happening.
About Kristen Ashley Kristen Ashley is the New York Times bestselling author of over sixty romance novels including the Rock Chick, Colorado Mountain, Dream Man, Chaos, Unfinished Hero, The ’Burg, Magdalene, Fantasyland, The Three, Ghost and Reincarnation, Moonlight and Motor Oil and Honey series along with several standalone novels. She’s a hybrid author, publishing titles both independently and traditionally, her books have been translated in fourteen languages and she’s sold over three million books.
Kristen’s novel, Law Man, won the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice Award for best Romantic Suspense. Her independently published title Hold On was nominated for RT Book Reviews best Independent Contemporary Romance and her traditionally published title Breathe was nominated for best Contemporary Romance. Kristen’s titles Motorcycle Man, The Will, Ride Steady (which won the Reader’s Choice award from Romance Reviews) and The Hookup all made the final rounds for Goodreads Choice Awards in the Romance category.
New York Times bestselling author, J. Sterling has created this collection of fun and flirty stories with holiday based themes for you to get lost in and enjoy. Prepare to fall in love today!
I’ve had a crush on my co-worker Declan since the day I started working at Rockline Studios. Trust me, if you could see this man, you’d have a crush on him too.
It’s been two years since my first day of work… two years since my head has been filled with fantasies and daydreams about the things I could do to him. Two years of…. SITTING BY AND DOING NOTHING because dating within the office is forbidden, frowned upon, something we’re not supposed to do.
The night of Rockline’s infamous New Year’s Eve party changes everything.
I’m a New York Times and USA Today best selling author of over 18 books! My goal is to write stories that you can get lost in, that will leave a smile on your face and a full heart. If you can forget about the real world while you’re reading and fall in love with my characters, then I’ve done my job. A lot of what I write has real life aspects in it, but that’s what makes the stories so relateable- the fact that they could happen to anyone… and have!
I live in California with my only son, Blake. If you can’t find me sitting behind a computer screen, then there’s a good chance I’m sitting in the bleachers of a baseball stadium watching him play. I love traveling to new places, meeting my readers and living life with the Real Jack Carter. ♡
I know you have a million books to choose from and I am humbled, grateful and thankful each time you choose to read one of mine, or tell someone else to read them. Thank you.
Willow Aster and Laura Pavlov have revealed the cover for Friends With Benefactors!
Releasing: February 3, 2022
Cover Design: Jena Brignola
A hot, wealthy playboy. His sexy, down-to-earth best friend. What could possibly go wrong if they kiss?
Penelope
Having grown up the baby sister to four brothers and with a dude for a best friend, I know how to read men like the back of my hand.
But when I have a sexy make-out session with Beckham, my best friend, all my intuition about men goes out the window.
We never thought we would cross that line, but omg those lips, his scent, his taste–it’s all I can think about … seriously, he could bend me like Beckham, and I would so let him.
So when he offers a solution to my sexual drought with S-E-X, I have to consider it.
Right?
Beckham
Penelope has always been every guy’s fantasy–sexy, witty, and smart as hell. Let me also mention she’s my best friend, and because of that, I vowed to never, EVER go there with her … meaning I will keep my hands and lips and other body parts to myself at all times when it comes to Penelope Layne Taylor.
But lines become blurred when we kiss and it’s the best thing I’ve ever experienced.
The.
Best.
Thing.
And now all I want is Penelope to be more than my best friend.
She’s unsure we can do this, be friends with benefits … but I am here to prove her wrong.
I write sweet and sexy contemporary romance that will make you both laugh and cry. I’m happily married to my college sweetheart, we’ve got two awesome kids, one temperamental yorkie and one wild bernedoodle. I’m living my own happily ever after in Las Vegas. Be sure to sign up for updates on new releases. I love hearing from readers!
From a very early age, I was warned to stay away from the Lawson brothers…
It didn’t matter they weren’t biological brothers or that one had been adopted on a guilt-driven whim. They considered one another family. They shared a bond like any other brothers would.
Except it ran much deeper.
Darker.
Dirtier.
They had all the power, money, and hunger capable of destroying anyone who stood in their way as they trained to become icons the world watched every four years bring home gold medals.
Little did anyone know, there was only one thing the legends worshipped more than their beloved sport.
Me.
*This is a forbidden, taboo, MMF, dark romance novel that includes several triggers
About the Author:
Xavier Neal is a best-selling romance author who enjoys hopping from sub genre to sub genre like a game of Hopscotch she can’t resist.
In between writing, she loves to read (everything from romance to self improvement books), watch movies (old and new), eat too much Tex-Mex (her Chuy’s t-shirt collection is out of control), and watch AHL hockey games LIVE (preferably against the glass whenever possible).
She currently resides happily in Texas with her bearded husband “Lumberjack” and their two fur babies.
My first love ended in tragedy. My second began with his brother.
From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Parker S. Huntington comes an angsty, broken love story.
I wasn’t supposed to be on that roof on Valentine’s Day. Neither was Kellan Marchetti, the school’s designated freak.
We met on the verge of ending our lives. Somehow, the tattered strings of our tragedies tangled and tightened into an unlikely bond.
We decided not to take the plunge and agreed to check on each other every Valentine’s Day until school ended. Same time. One roof. Two restless souls.
We kept our promise for three years. On the fourth, Kellan made a decision, and I was left to deal with the consequences. Just when I thought our story ended, another one began.
They say all love stories look the same and taste different. Mine was venomous, disgraceful, and written in scarlet scars. My name is Charlotte Richards, but you can call me Venom.
“Then one of them is, ‘Would you mind it very much if we talked about Kellan for a few minutes?’”
“Ha. Ha,” she deadpanned, but I wasn’t laughing. “Go. Away.”
The grunting behind me intensified. I never took the subway, and now I remembered why. Other than the fact that it smelled like a public toilet, BO, and clinical depression, it was also a hostile environment.
“Not until you give me some answers after the bomb you dropped in my office yesterday.”
A guy in a hoodie tapped my shoulder. “Hey, can you hit on this fine ass standing on the right side of the escalator like a goddamn New Yorker? People are trying to pass through.”
I shifted to the right side, two steps below Miss Richards. Which reminded me…
“What’s your name, anyway?”
My nose was level with her head. She smelled like sugar cookies and cypress. Maybe even coconut. More importantly—not like stale piss.
“None of your business.”
“Cute name. Artsy parents?”
“Dead parents,” she gritted out. “You’re bothering me.”
I told myself her parents were not really dead, so I could keep pestering her with a clear conscience. “Give me what I want, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Her head snapped in my direction, her dramatic eyebrows pinched together in anger. “Kellan was right.”
It hit like a bullet to the gut, but I smiled through the pain. Cocky and unaffected and everything I was known for. The aloof, charming ob-gyn with the bronze heart.
She stormed to the platform. I tailed her. My patience, already a rare commodity, evaporated. Her train arrived, and Miss Richards stepped in. I did the same. I had no idea where we were headed. Hopefully Hell, so I could have the home-field advantage.
I realized on the train that, excluding the month after Kellan’s death, I hadn’t done anything out of character or off my schedule for at least a decade. Yet, I took the seat next to her. She tugged a stack of papers from her leather briefcase. A manuscript. She uncapped a yellow highlighter with her teeth and struck a line on the page in her lap.
“If I were you, I would cooperate,” I said through a tight-lipped smile, aware of the fact that people were watching us. Getting arrested for harassment would be the kiss of death to my career. Living without answers, however, seemed like a bigger punishment.
She flipped a page in the manuscript, forcing me to switch to the not-so-nice method. Clearly, I should have gone that route the minute I’d found her. There were not a lot of opportunities to salvage a relationship that began with you staring into a woman’s eyes while coming deep inside another.
“I guess you leave me no choice but to tell your boss you flung my door open yesterday, caught me having sex, and decided to make yourself comfortable and watch.” I took out my phone and began texting Reagan Rothschild.
Miss Richards snapped her head up in horror. “Wait.”
Bingo.
My thumbs kept flying across my iPhone. She should have knocked on my door as soon as I’d lost him. No one had come to talk to me and Terry, other than Principal Brooks and a couple of guilt-ridden teachers who’d hardly even remembered anything significant about my brother.
Kellan had died, and not one of his peers came to offer their condolences.
She slapped her hand over my phone. I dragged my eyes up to meet hers. She averted her gaze.
Guilty.
“Where can we talk?” I demanded.
She flinched. I wanted to shake the answers out of her. I didn’t even know why I cared so much. Finding out what made him do this wouldn’t bring him back. A part of me just wanted to punish her for not offering her condolences.
Her forehead crumpled. “About Kellan?”
“No, about your fabulous beret. Your fashion choices charm me.” I bared my teeth like a beast. “Of course, it’s about Kellan.” The way she stared at me, with enough hatred to freeze the sun, made me want to laugh in her face.
She thought I cared about her opinion of me. She thought I cared, period. I’d stopped caring the day he died. Threw myself into my work, not bothering to build a life outside of it.
“Well?” I popped an eyebrow.
“Fine. But not today.”
“Why not?”
“I have plans.”
What could be more important than Kellan?
“Elaborate.”
She tipped her chin up. “I don’t want to.”
I fished my phone out and resumed my text to Reagan. Miss Richards slapped it away. It fell in my lap, and the lock screen image—of Kellan hiding behind a book, grinning—flashed. I flipped the phone on its screen. She sucked in a breath.
She saw.
“I’m taking my sister to the dermatologist,” she answered, more softly. Which didn’t make sense. Most dermatologists in my building closed by five. Six, at the latest. But I didn’t press on account of the fact that I didn’t want to give her any reason to change her mind.
“Then when?”
“Tomorrow. There’s a little café right across from my office—”
“I know the place,” I shot out. “Time?”
I noticed her right leg was jumpy, rocking up and down. A nervous tick.
“Six.”
“Now let’s start over. Do you have a name, Miss Richards?”
“Charlotte. My name is Charlotte.” She licked her lips. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but we both know that’s not the case.”
I got up and off the train without looking back at Charlotte.
“Wait,” she called. “Shouldn’t we exchange numbers or something?” I could practically hear her blush.
Rather than turning around, I exited the doors as I answered her. “No. I don’t want anything to do with you after tomorrow.”
About Parker S. Huntington Parker S. Huntington is a USA Today bestselling author from Orange County, California. She has a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside and a Master’s in Liberal Arts in Literature and Creative Writing from Harvard University.
I always believed in fairy tales, but he preferred horrors.
Damian Blackstone didn’t care about my existence. He came into my world for one reason only. He came to find answers about his past.
He moved like the villain in my favorite fairy tales. He wasn’t the one who received the happily ever afters; he was the one who destroyed them.
Which was why I couldn’t understand why the man who raised me set it up in his will for Damian and me to be married. I wasn’t certain I’d be able to live with a man like Damian. We were as opposite as any two people could be. I loved to bathe in the sunlight while he prospered in the shadows.
I didn’t think I’d develop feelings for the one who looked at me as if I were nothing more than a means to an end. Yet in his darkness, sometimes I’d see sparks of light. I’d see gentleness. I’d see his soul.
We became entangled with one another as we fell into mistakes and called them fate. I was his Cinderella, and he was my Beast.
I wasn’t certain that twisted fairy tales ended with happily ever afters.
Brittainy Cherry has been in love with words since the day she took her first breath. She graduated from Carroll University with a Bachelor’s Degree in Theatre Arts and a minor in Creative Writing. She loves to take part in writing screenplays, acting, and dancing–poorly of course. Coffee, chai tea, and wine are three things that she thinks every person should partake in! Brittainy lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When she’s not running a million errands and crafting stories, she’s probably playing with her adorable pets.
Professor Romance 