Book Blitz of Just Another Meet Cute by Jenn P. Nguyen (#Contests- Enter to win a copy of the book and swag)

Just Another Meet Cute
Jenn P. Nguyen
Publication date: May 20th 2025
Genres: Comedy, Contemporary, Romance, Young Adult

Boy saves girl stuck on a disastrous hike. What could go wrong? So. Much.

Just Another Meet Cute is the joyful and funny story about what happens when you realize you’re dating the wrong twin.

When seventeen-year-old Nina Riley gets saved by a super cute Knight-in-Faded-Khakis just as she lands in an embarrassingly ‘ahem ’sticky situation during the most disastrous hike known to man, she wasn’t exactly looking for a meet cute. She really just needed some peace and quiet from her complicated family. Unfortunately, he disappears before she can properly thank him or get his number. All she has is his name (Ian Nguyen) and a navy jacket with a dog keychain, a gym card, and laundromat receipt. But a meet cute is a meet cute. And armed with years of watching Veronica Mars and a techy cousin, it should be simple enough for Nina to find the boy of her dreams, right? But when she finally tracks him down, he’s different than she thought ―right down to his name. Ryan is just as cute as she remembers, but the chemistry isn’t there like it was before. After a few dates, she meets Ryan’s family: his sweet grandma, his enthusiastic sisters, and his twin brother ――Ian.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks

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EXCERPT:

“My name’s Ian, by the way.”

“Nina.”

He knelt down beside my bleeding leg and dug around in the box. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s short for Nina.” After the words popped out of my mouth, I wanted to smack myself on the forehead for sounding so stupid.

Thankfully, Ian mistook my word vomit for humor or charm or something and laughed. He pulled a couple wet wipes from a pack and cleaned my leg and cut as best as he could before shoving them into a small plastic bag. Then he spread some white ointment on the cut and unwrapped a couple of Band-Aids. His fingers were long and moved quickly like this wasn’t his first time. After he put two Band-Aids on my cut, he pressed the edges down to make sure it was firm.

This time I felt the warmth of his fingertips on my skin, and the goose bumps that rose on my arms in response.

Rubbing my arms to make them go away before he noticed, I gently stood up. “I’m okay now. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? Your face still looks kind of red.”

Embarrassed, I adjusted the sunglasses until they fell lower on my face like a shield. “No, it’s just—the sun. It’s hot today.”

He glanced up at the overcast sky. It was so thick with clouds that you could barely see the sun anywhere.

“It was sunny earlier,” I said quickly. “Like scorching sunny.”

“Yeah, Texas’s weather is pretty unpredictable.” Still crouched down, Ian leaned to the left to pack everything up. When he was done though, he still didn’t immediately get up. Instead, Ian stared at something on the rock behind me. I followed his gaze and groaned out loud in horror. There was a dark butt-shaped smudge right where I had been sitting a few seconds ago.

With a puzzled expression, his eyes slid up and down my legs—which sounds way dirtier than it was. I almost wished it was dirty so at least I’d know he was thinking of me in a cute-girl-I’m-attracted-to way instead of a weirdo-girl-he-regretted-bumping-into way.

I knew the exact moment when my embarrassing situation clicked in his head. It was almost like his brown eyes cleared—as impossible as it was. My first instinct was to bury my face in my arms and flee, but my feet were frozen in one spot.

To my surprise, Ian didn’t immediately run away. Instead, he stood up, still digging in his bag. His head ducked down until I couldn’t see his face anymore. Especially as one hand messed with his hat, tugging it side to side. I could see that his ears were flaming red though. “Well, I think I have something else in here to help you with . . . that. If you—you need it.”

“What do you—” I glanced down at my legs and his pink face. Until my eyes finally landed on the tampon and pad he held out in his hand.

Oh. My. God.

Author Bio:

Jenn Nguyen fell in love with books in third grade and spent the rest of her school years reading through lunchtime and giving up recess to organize the school library. She has a degree in business administration from the University of New Orleans and still lives in the city with her husband. Jenn spends her days reading, dreaming up YA romances, and binge watching Korean dramas all in the name of 'research'.

Website / Goodreads / Twitter

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Guest Post by David Tindell Author of the Silver Falcon

 

The Silver Falcon is down in the wilds of the Yukon, and the country that lost it will do anything to keep it out of the hands of anyone else.

 

 

Title: The Silver Falcon (Book 4 of the White Vixen Series)

Author: David Tindell

Pages: 292

Genre: Thriller

October 1990. A mysterious object is seen floating eastward over Alaska, resembling a silver falcon of Tlingit legend. Air Force radar can't see it. Fighter jets scramble to intercept the object, but all the pilots can do is watch it cruise across the border into Canada, where it comes down in a remote part of the Yukon Territory.
USAF special operator Jo Ann Geary, the White Vixen, is dispatched to Dawson City to assist Canadian Rangers in the search for the object in the Cloudy Range of Tombstone Territorial Park. They've barely started their hike when all radio comms with Ottawa and Washington go dead, but not before Jo is told about an unidentified aircraft dropping paratroopers north of the target's last known location. Who are they, and why do they want the Falcon?
As the weather deteriorates, Jo and the Canadian intelligence agent in command of the mission worry that the Rangers will be outnumbered and outgunned if they encounter the airborne troops, who are almost certainly Russians. At the White House, the president is told that the Falcon's technology, whether man-made or extra-terrestrial, could be so important that the invaders might possibly call in a nuclear strike from an offshore submarine if they're unable to keep the Falcon away from the allied force.
Thrust into the midst of indigenous Rangers who don't really trust her, unable to get help from Washington or Ottawa, and facing an enemy force that could be desperate enough to risk war, the Vixen must call on all her skills to survive and prevent the Falcon, whatever it is, from touching off a nuclear cataclysm.

The Silver Falcon is available at Amazon at https://bit.ly/TheSilverFalconEbook.

Guest Post:

10 Things You Might Not Know About David Tindell

 

1. I was born in Germany, while my father was serving there in the US Army. My parents married in Platteville, Wis., just a few months after my mother graduated from high school. A week later, Dad shipped out. Mom worked as a telephone operator for six months to earn passage to Europe. Then, still not yet 19 years old, she took a train—alone—to New York, then a ship across the North Atlantic. When she came ashore in Bremerhaven, she knew exactly one person on the entire continent: her husband. You want to talk about courage? There you are.
2. I’m a small-town Wisconsin guy. My father finished college after his time in uniform and became a teacher, then an administrator. We lived in towns as small as 100 people up to the suburbs of Milwaukee. Finally, we settled in Potosi, a little town on the Mississippi in southwest Wisconsin. Both sets of grandparents, along with lots of aunts, uncles and cousins, lived in the county. It was a great time and place in which to grow up, although of course I didn’t really appreciate it at the time. But I sure do now.
3. My original choice of profession was radio broadcasting. I wanted to be a sports announcer for a major-college or pro team, like my idol Eddie Doucette, the original radio “voice” of the NBA’s Milwaukee Bucks. I got a degree in the field from the University of Wisconsin-Platteville and embarked on a 20-year radio career that eventually led me to Rice Lake, up in northwest Wisconsin. I never did become the next voice of the Bucks or Badgers, but in Rice Lake I met the love of my life, and I wouldn’t trade that for a dozen Rose Bowls.
4. I first started writing in middle school, or what we called “junior high” at the time. I was inspired by a great English teacher, Mrs. Millman, who introduced me to classic literature. Later on, in high school, I was taught how to write by another English teacher, Mrs. Leonard. Our geography teacher, Mr. Peake, opened my eyes to the world beyond southwest Wisconsin. In those days, the only people who went overseas were rich people, unless you were in the service. Little did I know that I would wind up traveling all over the world, but it all started in a little Wisconsin town on the Mississippi.
5. Believe it or not, radio actually prepares you for a writing career. You have to be on time. You have to be organized. You have to push through the day even when you don’t feel up to it. These things can be applied to any profession, but especially writing, because you have the ability to make your own schedule, for the most part. One of the first things they taught us at UWP was that every time you open the microphone, you had better be “on.” Your listeners are depending on you that morning. They want to hear the latest news, who won last night’s game, what the weather will be like today. They want to hear a good song or a joke. It’s sort of the same in writing. Every time you sit down at the keyboard, you’d better be ready to give it everything you’ve got. Yes, you’ll get some do-overs that you don’t necessarily get in live radio, but the concept is the same. Your readers will want a good story, compelling characters, clean formatting, an attractive cover, and a bare minimum of typos or other mistakes. My radio career enabled me to cover three national championship small-college football games and more than a dozen state high school championship games in four sports. When you go on the air for one of those games, the chips are down, and you have to deliver. When you write that novel, you have to deliver, too.
6. I mentioned the “love of my life.” That would be Sue, my wife. She’s from a small Wisconsin town, too: Chetek, not too far from where we live now, up here in the northwest. I met her on my first day on the air at WJMC/Rice Lake. One of the things I had to do on my show was call this gal at the travel agency and talk travel. Well, what the hell did I know about travel? I’d never been anywhere. My boss suggested that I go to her office and meet her in person. A few days later, I did. Four and a half years after that, we were married. 
7. We have two grown kids, Kimberly and James. When Jim was seven, we started him in martial arts training. I’d been bullied at that age and I didn’t want Jim to experience that. He became a junior black belt in taekwondo at 12 and a first-degree black belt at 15. He still trains in the art and this summer will be making his second trip to South Korea for advanced training. When he was 13, I decided to give it a try. I was in my early 40s at the time. It was very hard, but one of the Five Tenets of Taekwondo is “perseverance,” so I hung in there and got my black belt. Several years later, I had transitioned over to karate and my sensei invited me to join a new class he was starting in Okinawan weaponry. I did, and Sue signed on, too. Four years later, we both received our first-degree black belts in ryukudo kobojutsu, after a physically and mentally rigorous 4-hour-long test at our master instructor’s dojo near Detroit. 
8. My martial arts training has really informed a lot of my writing. When I’m sitting down to write a fight scene, I already have it blocked out in my head. Usually, I’ll have my sensei walk me through it on the mat. Then I can write it, but usually I’ll do it from the other guy’s perspective. Action writers are supposed to “show, not tell.” Rather than give a very technical move-by-move description of the fight (which would be the “tell”), I describe it from the antagonist’s point of view (the “show”). That’s something I picked up from one brief but very effective scene in my favorite Tom Clancy novel, Without Remorse.
9. People often ask me, which of my novels is my favorite? Well, that’s like asking which of your children is your favorite, but in this case, I’d have to give a slight nod to The Heights of Valor. That’s a stand-alone novel, loosely grouped in my “Men of Honor” series, about a young Wisconsin college student in 1898 who quits school to join the Rough Riders and fight for Theodore Roosevelt in Cuba. To get his father’s blessing, he agrees to keep a diary of his experiences and pass it along to future generations in the family, so they’ll know what it means to make this kind of sacrifice. Over 100 years later, it comes into possession of his great-great-grandson, who is also quitting school early to join the Army. So it’s a parallel story, told in the first person both ways. I had a fun time writing it because TR is one of my favorite historical characters, and he figures prominently—and accurately, I’m pretty sure—in the 1898 section of the book. I’ll tell you what, we could use a guy like him today.
10. I’ve now written four novels in the White Vixen series and three in the Quest series. My next novel will be one of the “Men of Honor” group. It’s called The Dance We Shared. It’s about a middle-aged guy who lost the love of his life 20 years earlier because of a stupid mistake he made. He’s never gotten over it, but he’s tried to build a good, if lonely, life for himself. One day, he finds an envelope sent to his office address that he’d misplaced. Opening it, he finds a card, on which is printed a phone number, and in his lost love’s distinctive handwriting, three words: “Please help me.” The problem: the card was sent five years ago, just before she vanished. No foul play was ever suspected, she just ended her marriage, quit her job and dropped off the grid. Now, he has a chance to right the wrong he did two decades ago, but is he too late?

 

Book Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Verkhnaya Zaimka Air Base

Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic of Buryatia

USSR

July 1977

         Ilya Dubrovsky shot to his feet when the Polkovnik entered the sparse conference room. Although Dubrovsky was a Podpolkovnik himself and thus was just one rank below the colonel who was now staring at him with a file in his hand, there was no feeling of comradeship here, not in this room, not on the entire base, as far as Dubrovsky could tell. It was all business, and he had a feeling he was about to find out it was serious business indeed. Why else would he be here?

         “Colonel Lytkin!” Dubrovsky barked the name as he saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel Dubrovsky, reporting as ordered, sir!”

         Lytkin returned the salute with an irritable wave that would have bordered on insolence, had it been directed at a senior officer. “Welcome to Verkhnaya Zaimka, Dubrovnik.”

         “Thank you, sir. And, uh, it’s Dubrovsky.”

         The colonel shook his head. The younger man could see gray bags under the colonel’s eyes, indicating a recent lack of sleep. Perhaps due to this very project, whatever it might be. “Sorry,” he said. The colonel sat at the head of the table and indicated the first chair to his left. “Please, sit.”

         Dubrovsky had to order himself to relax. He slid into the chair and placed his service cap on the table in front of him. He’d already looked around the room, but now he did so again as the colonel fussed with the file. The wooden walls were decorated with stock photos of Soviet Air Force planes. His own skill as a pilot was negligible, but he knew he was here because of his expertise in aerodynamics, not as a pilot. Still, he recognized most of them. There was the MiG-25, one that he had actually flown during training. Another was the Tu-95 turboprop bomber. But there were some he didn’t know. For a moment, he feared there would be a quiz. A cold ball of panic welled up inside him. He knew NATO aircraft backwards and forwards, but his own country’s inventory was largely—

         “Let us begin, Dubrovsky,” the colonel said. “My time is valuable here, and I’m sure yours is, too, back at Gromov.”

The younger man had been posted at Gromov Flight Research Institute near Moscow for three years, ever since his superiors had taken note of his exceptional grasp of aerodynamics. “It is, sir,” he said, “but I serve the Soviet Union, wherever the Rodina sends me. How may I be of service here?”

         Lytkin pushed the file across the table. “I am told you are familiar with these first two aircraft,” he said.

         Dubrovsky opened the file and immediately recognized the airplane in the first photo. What had been an airplane at one time, anyway. “This is an American U-2 spy plane,” he said, noting the remains of the long, narrow fuselage and the even longer wing. Wait, could this be…? He held up the photo to take a closer look. “This is the one we shot down in ’61, isn’t it?”

         “It was 1960, to be precise,” Lytkin said, “but yes, it is the one piloted by the American spy, Powers.”

         “A credit to our air defenses at the time, to bring down the plane the Americans considered invulnerable.”

         Lytkin smiled. “Yes, our defenses were able to shoot him down, but we knew Powers was coming, almost from the moment he took off from Pakistan. Our radar network saw him over Uzbekistan, but he flew another two thousand kilometers before the SAMs took him down near Sverdlovsk. Two thousand kilometers, Dubrovsky. If it had been a bomber, Moscow itself might have been obliterated without us firing a shot. I’m sure you studied the case at Voronezh.”

         Dubrovsky nodded but couldn’t prevent a nervous swallow. He was well aware of the capabilities of the American B-52 strategic bombers, but unlike the U-2, the bombers could not fly above the range of Soviet interceptors. Thankfully, the S-75 Dvina missiles had done their job to bring down Powers. Dubrovsky had indeed become familiar with the U-2 incident at Voronezh Military Aviation Technical School, the Soviet equivalent of the U.S. Air Force Academy, without the pretty mountains in the distance.

         In any event, in the years since Powers, the USSR and its main adversary had grown to rely on intercontinental ballistic missiles for their primary means of retaliation, in case the other side decided to shoot first. Dubrovsky liked to think his country’s leadership had never seriously considered such a thing. As for the Americans, well, they hadn’t fired a shot yet, had they?

The U-2 was certainly interesting, but he still had no idea why he had been brought here, to this remote area near Lake Baikal in the south-central region of his vast country. He suspected it didn’t have anything to do with a seventeen-year-old aircraft that was now obsolete, besides being in pieces somewhere in a Soviet military hangar. Perhaps the second photo would provide some enlightenment. He set the U-2 picture aside and considered the next one. It was a color photo of something that looked right out of Star Wars, the new American science fiction film. Dubrovsky had seen a bootlegged copy just two weeks ago. He studied the photo, and then the realization hit him. “Sir, is this the new American stealth fighter?”

         “It is,” Lytkin said, “and I caution you that it is not to be spoken of outside this room, and only during this meeting. Our friends at KGB will not be pleased if they find out you told anyone about this photo.”

         “Of course, sir,” Dubrovsky said, fighting to tamp down his excitement. He looked at the picture. Even standing still on the floor of a hangar, the swept-winged beauty looked ready to leap into the sky. “Are there any other photos?” he asked. “We have been working on a similar design, but this appears to be much further along than our research has taken us.”

         “There are no other pictures, unfortunately. I am told this is an experimental airframe that will fly within six months. It was built by their Lockheed company. The code name is HAVE BLUE.”

         Dubrovsky was thunderstruck. Soviet engineers were at least seven, probably eight years away from producing a stealth-capable airframe that could do anything other than look good in drawings. “They are that far ahead of us?”

         “Unfortunately, yes,” Lytkin said. “I know you have been working on our own stealth project, in particular an airframe that would allow for high-altitude reconnaissance to a degree Powers and his CIA superiors could only dream of.” He reached forward and took the file, closing it as he brought it closer to his chair. Dubrovsky almost protested, catching himself at the last moment. There were more photos in the file. What might they show? More secret American planes? Perhaps their latest space vehicle? Now, that would be truly exciting. Like every Russian boy, Dubrovsky had at one time dreamed of being a cosmonaut, but his skill as a pilot was not nearly enough to qualify him to go into space. Truly a pity.

         “As you could see, there are more photos in here,” Lytkin said, “but I think you should come with me. Seeing, as they say, is believing, and what I am about to show you, Dubrovsky, is, I would say, best experienced in person.”

         “I am…well, ‘intrigued’ is not quite adequate enough of a word, Colonel.” In truth, the young engineer was also feeling something a bit more pressing: a growing urge to relieve himself.

         Lytkin smiled. “I thought you might be.” He stood, followed quickly by the younger officer. “Follow me.”

         “Yes, sir. And, if I may ask, where is the nearest latrine?”    

***

         Lytkin led him outside, where a UAZ-469 vehicle awaited, engine running, a sergeant standing at the ready. He opened the left rear door as the officers approached and Dubrovsky squeezed himself into the back seat, followed by Lytkin. “Hangar 10,” the colonel ordered when the sergeant was behind the wheel, and no time was wasted as the driver threw the machine into gear and jammed on the accelerator.

         It only took a minute to reach a small hangar, which had a feature Dubrovsky hadn’t seen anywhere else on the base: armed guards. The UAZ pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance and the sergeant got out to open the door for Lytkin. Dubrovsky took it upon himself to exit the vehicle on the passenger side, where he encountered a stern-looking pair of guards wearing the insignia of the Devyatka, from KGB’s Ninth Chief Directorate. He’d seen them before, and knew they were deployed around the nation to guard the country’s most sensitive military installations, including nuclear weapons storage facilities. Could that be what was inside this hangar? He doubted it. Why would Lytkin want to show him a hydrogen bomb? Still, he felt goose bumps on his forearms, in spite of the warm weather.

         The colonel was in command of this base but still had to issue a password for the guards to let him through, and they demanded to see Dubrovsky’s identification. He dutifully produced his propiska, the internal passport every Soviet citizen over sixteen was required to carry at all times. They also examined his Soviet Air Force identification card. Satisfied, they nodded to the colonel and Lytkin led the way into the hangar.

         At an internal doorway there was another check of documents, and this time Lytkin had to produce his as well. They proceeded into a small room and the outer door closed behind them with an audible sucking sound. Dubrovsky turned around in surprise. “A climate-control system,” Lytkin said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.” There was yet another door in front of them, looking like something Dubrovsky might have seen on a submarine. Next to it was a small panel with what appeared to be a radio and a touchpad similar to one of the newer telephones being introduced in the West. Dubrovsky had seen them on a West German TV show a few months ago, when he was on leave in Vienna.

         Lytkin paused as he reached out for the pad. “Dubrovsky, I trust you understand that what I am about to show you is classified ‘Most Secret’?”

         “Of course, sir.”

         The colonel gave him a stern look. “If you were to speak of this to anyone outside of this base, in fact to anyone other than to me personally, our Devyatka friends outside, or some equally determined comrades of theirs, would take you away to someplace that I assure you would be most uncomfortable. And then they would come for me.”

         “I understand, sir. I do have a very high security clearance, as you know.”

         “Yes, but for this, I still had to get confirmation from my superiors at 1^st Red Banner Air Army, and they had to get it from Moscow, from the very top. That should give you an indication of the importance of what I am about to show you.” The colonel paused, for what might have been dramatic effect, but the younger man sensed something else: a tinge of fear. The colonel’s eyes flitted to the inside door, and then back to Dubrovsky. The fear was gone now. Dubrovsky recalled that the general had been a decorated aviator in the Great Patriotic War. There’d been a photo in the conference room of a dashing young pilot in the cockpit of his Yak-3 fighter, with six German crosses on the hull below him. A man who had stared down death in the skies, and yet was still fearful of something in this hangar? Dubrovsky had to make an effort to keep his hands from shaking.

Back in full command now, the colonel said, “You are to have a new assignment. You will be working for me, here, on a project that is considered extremely vital to the interests of the Soviet Air Force and the Rodina herself. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

         “Yes, sir.” Dubrovsky felt his knees beginning to weaken. What could possibly be more important than what he had recently begun working on, which was the aerodynamics of the first Soviet spaceplane?

         It was as if the colonel was reading his mind. “Your work on Project BURAN has been duly noted. We are in need here of a talented aerodynamics engineer. You are said to be one of the best in the Soviet Union.”

         “Thank you, sir. May I ask what it is that I will be working on?”

         Lytkin paused, took a deep breath, and stared at the inner door. He appeared to contemplate something, then turned back to Dubrovsky. “You are aware that we are close to Lake Baikal.”

         “Yes, sir. I flew over it on the approach to the base. Very beautiful.”

         “Yes, and very deep, as well. The deepest lake in the world, in fact. And very large, with more water than all of the Great Lakes of North America combined. Its maximum depth is over sixteen hundred meters.”

         “That is…very deep indeed, sir.”

         “Yes. Consider, Dubrovsky, that the nuclear submarines of our Red Banner fleets typically cruise at five hundred meters.”

         “I see, sir.” In fact, Dubrovsky was now becoming confused. What did his work as an aerospace engineer have to do with submersibles? Feeling at least a little more self-assured now that Lytkin had decided to take him into this supreme confidence, he said, “I must confess, sir, that I am at a loss to understand how I may be of service for a project that involves deep diving in a lake.”

         “Oh, that part is over with,” Lytkin said with a smile. “Our Navy comrades were most helpful in the first phase of our project. You see, Dubrovsky, it was something that we found in the lake that brought you here.”

         “’Found,’ sir?”

         “Yes. Fortunately, it was not in the lake’s deepest part. It rested on the bottom at about a thousand meters, well within the capabilities of our brave sailors to recover.” He chuckled. “You know, I have been in the cockpit of our best high-altitude interceptors, at over ten thousand meters of altitude. That MiG-25 you saw in the photo, in the conference room? That was mine. Ten thousand meters up, though, is a lot different than a thousand meters underwater, in my opinion. Even at ten thousand meters, I could bail out from my aircraft and survive. Theoretically, anyway. Powers ejected at nineteen thousand meters, and he made it. But try escaping from a submersible at a thousand meters, and…”

         “We would be crushed, instantly,” Dubrovsky said.

         “Exactly. So, you can understand that the commander of the naval detachment that performed this very dangerous mission received not just one, but two bottles of very expensive vodka from me when he brought his catch to my base.”

         “I…”

         “Well, enough of this chatting. It is time for me to show you what you will be working on for me, my young friend.”

         Lytkin punched a code into the number pad. Dubrovsky heard gears turning from somewhere in the wall, and then the door released with a hiss and swung outward. The colonel gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”

         Lieutenant Colonel Ilya Dubrovsky stepped through the door and encountered the future.

– Excerpted from The Silver Falcon by David Tindell, KDP Select, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

 

David Tindell lives in northwest Wisconsin, where he dabbles in radio, trains in the martial arts and studies the warrior ethos. His White Vixen and Quest series have earned stellar reviews. With his wife Sue he travels the world, seeking out new places to feature in his next thriller. He blogs at www.davidtindellauthor.com. Connect with him at X at www.x.com/davidtindell1 and Facebook at www.facebook.com/DavidTindellAuthor. 

 

Sponsored By:

Book Blitz of Walk The Line By P. Dombrowiak and N Parker (#Contests- Enter to win an Amazon Gift Card)

Walk the Line
Natalie Parker, Paula Dombrowiak
(Blood & Bone Legacy, #1)
Publication date: April 22nd 2025
Genres: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance

 

It was supposed to be simple: Film the tour. Build my portfolio. And for Heavens sake, keep it in my pants.

Then I met Felix Krasinski.

The captivating and infuriatingly cocky frontman of Velvet Drift commands attention everywhere he goes—including mine. Am I proud of it? No. I’m supposed to be filming their perfromance, not fantasizing about his perfect abs. I’m determined to be taken seriously, and hooking up with the ridiculously hot rockstar is the fastest way to tank my credibility.

Felix is always in control, and I’m an impulsive rule-breaker. We don’t make sense. But we can’t seem to stay away from each other.

Because, between his uptight habits and annoyingly perfect jawline, there’s more to Felix than his stage presence and legendary last name. He’s protective, vulnerable, and gets me in a way no one else does.

But my career depends on keeping things professional, and his future hinges on staying laser-focused on his band’s success.

Every heated argument, every stolen kiss, makes me want to throw caution—and professionalism—to the wind.

One thing’s certain—this summer tour is about to get a lot more complicated than I bargained for.

Walk the Line is the first book in the Blood & Bone and Turn it Up second generation series crossover. Grab this new adult, angsty, forced proximity, steamy contemporary rockstar romance. Walk the Line can be read as a standalone.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“What the…?” My voice trails off as I take in the dark, angry bruise on my skin.

A hickey.

And not just any hickey—this is the mother of all hickeys.

It’s a masterpiece of malice, blooming in deep purples and reds, unapologetically high on my neck. No amount of foundation could hide this, and it’s far too conspicuous for even the highest collar. There was no fucking around when she decided to do this. She wanted me marked.

“Maggie!” I call, my voice bouncing off the walls as I step out of the bathroom. Her only response is the sound of sheets rustling and a half-asleep groan. I glance back at the mirror, rubbing at the bruise like it might magically fade. Who even gives hickeys anymore?

When I step out, I find her perched on the kitchen counter, one leg dangling lazily while the other’s tucked beneath her. She’s cradling a mug of coffee—my coffee—the steam curling up around her face. And she’s wearing my Henley, the fabric hanging loose on her but clinging just enough in places to make my brain short-circuit. The soft gray color makes her blue eyes pop, and they blink at me with an innocence that’s so utterly contrived, I almost laugh. Almost. And fuck, she made me temporarily forget about the hickey.

“What is this?” I demand, pointing to the bruise on my neck as I stride closer.

She tilts her head like she’s admiring a painting. She leans in, her lips so close I can feel the ghost of her breath. She presses a kiss to the bruise, and I swear my brain briefly loses all function.

“That,” she says, her voice honey-sweet, “is a hickey.”

“I know what it is, baby,” I snap, though the grin threatening to break free betrays me. “I have press with Ivy today.” My tone is exasperated, but she doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

“I know.” Her lips curve into a slow, self-satisfied smile, the kind that makes her look like a sexy as fuck brat. Lucky for her, I happen to like brats.

I grab her coffee mug, setting it down deliberately and grab her by the waist, pulling her flush against me. She lets out a surprised little gasp, her hands instinctively bracing against my chest.

“You fucking scare me sometimes, Sass,” I murmur before claiming her lips.

Author Bio:

Paula Dombrowiak grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois but currently lives in Arizona. She is the author of Blood and Bone, her first adult romance novel which combines her love of music and imperfect relationships. Paula is a lifelong music junkie, whose wardrobe consists of band T-shirts and leggings which are perpetually covered in pet hair. She is a sucker for a redeemable villain, bad boys, and the tragically flawed. Music inspires her storytelling.

For more ways to learn about Paula and her books, check out her website: @www.pauladombrowiak.com

Natalie Parker resides in the Seattle area with her husband and two rugrats, but is originally a Michigan girl.

She always enjoyed writing and noticed she had a knack for it while earning her Psychology degree and has always been an avid reader, but never thought of becoming an author until one day there seemed to be a story to tell.

In her spare time, she enjoys reading, reading, reading to her kids, drinking coffee, reading, occasional yardwork, reading, listening to music, reading and writing.

Stay tuned for more to come for your favorite characters of the Turn it Up series!

GIVEAWAY!
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My Writing Process (Guest Post) by Deven Greene Author of the Novel The Organ Broker. (#contests- Enter to win a print copy of the book.)@partnersincrimetours

I would like to extend a warm welcome to Deven Greene to Books R Us. Deven is the author of the novel "The Organ Broker." The author has provided us with a guest post just for my readers. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway below to win a print copy of the book. Thanks for stopping by.

THE ORGAN BROKER

by Deven Greene

March 31 - April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A devoted wife and mother faces the unimaginable as her life crumbles.

Crystal Rigler seems to have a perfect marriage. Derek, her handsome and charismatic husband, and their adult daughter, Cordelia, are her whole world. In addition to her already busy life, Crystal supports the volunteer organization she and Derek started: STOP (Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners).

STOP aims to end a new government policy of harvesting organs from executed prisoners. They learn that these organs are not distributed by the national transplant list, established to allocate organs fairly. Instead, a shadowy figure known as Broker Al pulls the strings. He expedites the execution of young and healthy prisoners and sells their organs at a high price to the rich and well-connected.

After Crystal learns a disturbing secret, events are set in motion that will potentially dismantle STOP, change her life, and cost her everything. Unless she is willing to do the unthinkable…

Praise for The Organ Broker:

"The Organ Broker by Deven Greene was intricate and captivated my attention from the first page. The story was fast-paced with not a single dull moment."
~ Readers' Favorite

"If you enjoy moral dilemmas, complex characters, and a plot that feels uncomfortably plausible, this book will leave you thinking long after the ending."
~ Literary Titan

"...electrifyingly intense... Introspective and entertaining, The Organ Broker navigates the delicate balance between principles and priorities."
~ Indies Today

"The Organ Broker … teeters between thriller, novel, a story of medical and social challenge, and more. It stands out from others about organ harvesting simply because it evolves a complex plot that engages characters and readers in a moral and ethical dance spiced with intrigue and the unexpected."
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

THE ORGAN BROKER Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: April 2025
Number of Pages: 321
ISBN: 9781964620060 (ISBN10: 1964620066)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Google Books | Apple Books | Kobo | Goodreads

GUEST POST:

My Writing Process

By Deven Greene

Yesterday, I finished the rough draft of my next novel. Writing the first draft is the most fun part of the publishing process for me, but I’m plenty busy before and after that.

Prior to sitting down and typing (yes, I type as opposed to using paper and pen or pencil), I’ve spent a while thinking about what I will write. Sometimes, a plot idea pops into my head. Other times, a current event takes hold in my brain. There’s also a list of ideas I’ve made that I can refer to for future stories. Once I know what I will write about, I start my research. My works mostly revolve around science or medicine. Although I may already know a lot about the subject, there is often still quite a bit I need to learn. I think it’s best to “overlearn” the subject. I don’t feel compelled to include everything I know—I don’t want my books to read like a textbook.

Once I sit down to begin, I have a goal of writing a certain number of words a day. That usually takes me several hours, leaving me free to think about details that I might want to add or change. I don’t edit much at that point—I just type. I often need to check on facts as I proceed or make a note to check something out later. Some days are a bit tough—I might have a scene I planned out in my head, only to find when I write it out that something isn’t working right. I need to figure my way out of whatever quagmire I’ve written myself into. Some days, on the other hand, are a breeze—I pretty much know what I’m going to write before I sit down, and the words just flow.

When I’m done with the first draft, the hard work begins. I wait a few weeks, then start the arduous task of proofreading. At this point, I check spelling and grammatical errors. I may find a plot hole or contradiction that needs to be corrected. I often decide I don’t like the names I’ve chosen for some characters and spend some time choosing names I like better. The software makes it easy to search for the old name and replace it with the new one.

Then comes the moment of truth: having other people read my manuscript. It may be months before I feel I have enough input. That often results in more changes, but the story is stronger because of it.

Thanks for reading.

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van's side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney's wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene lives in Northern California, where she enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry (PhD) and medicine (MD), and practiced pathology for over twenty years.

She has previously published the The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), and Ties That Kill, as well as several short stories.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven's Blog
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub @Deven_G1
Facebook @DevenGreeneFiction

 

 

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