When it comes to doggy style, he’s behind you 100%.
Preston Evans is a legend in and out of the bedroom. He’s six foot two, gorgeous, and famous because his celebrity ex snapchatted his huge package. I hate him. I hate his stupid puppy store, Doggy Style. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. I don’t care that his abs are chiseled, his arms are tattooed, and his face belongs on the cover of a magazine. Every dog bred means a shelter dog dead!
I chain myself to his store in protest, but instead of calling the cops, he throws me a bone.
If I spend one week with him in Hawaii pretending to be his fiancée to snag an investor, he will transform his store into a shelter dog adoption center, saving thousands of dogs’ lives.
One week and I never have to see this sexy, dirty-talking jerk again. How hard can he, uh I mean it, be?
Sex is off the table. So why do I want him to bend me over it?
About Alana Albertson
Alana Albertson is an award winning Latina author, the former President of Romance Writers of America’s Contemporary Romance, Chick Lit, and Young Adult chapters. She holds a Masters of Education from Harvard and a Bachelor of Arts in English from Stanford. A recovering professional ballroom dancer, Alana currently writes new adult romantic suspense, young adult, and contemporary romance. She lives in San Diego, California, with her husband, two sons, and five dogs. When she’s not spending her time needlepointing, dancing, or saving dogs from high kill shelters through her rescue Pugs N Roses, she can be found watching episodes of House Hunters, Homeland, or Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team.
Kyle’s Top 5 Memories With Ophelia from A Brand New Ending by Jennifer Probst
In A Brand New Ending, Kyle Kimpton and Ophelia Bishop are only eighteen years old when they decide to run away together to pursue their dreams. Leaving the family farm behind, they escape to Hollywood to get married and chase their careers. Kyle plans on being a famous writer, and Ophelia longs to be a singer as great as Adele. Unfortunately, their paths diverge and rip apart their relationship. As Kyle thrives in Hollwyood as the new hotshot screenwriter in town, Ophelia falters when she realizes in order to be famous in the music industry, she needs to change who she is. Choices are made that rip them apart, and Ophelia returns to the family farm with her heart shattered and dreams destroyed.
Kyle realizes he’s made a big mistake letting go of the only woman he’s ever loved. His memories haunt him. Here are the top five he thinks about constantly:
He remembers the first time they kissed when they were sixteen years old. Riding on horseback through the meadow, Ophelia falls off her horse, and when he frantically checks on her, they gaze into each other’s eyes and he realizes at that moment, he is in love with his best friend. They share their first kiss, and when they walk away hand in hand out of the meadow, everything has changed.
When Kyle’s abusive father blames him for his mother’s death, he runs to the only place he’s ever felt safe: the Bishop family farm. Ophelia opens the door and instantly senses his pain. She holds him tight and for the very first time, Kyle cries in her arms.
When they were young, they hung out with Ophelia’s brother, Ethan, and were called the Three Musketeers. They’d run around the small town of Gardiner, raising hell, and ending up at Bea’s Diner for her famous burgers and pies, detailing the glory of their future.
Ophelia would sneak out at night to meet him at the barns. They kept their relationship secret from Ethan and Harper (Opehlia’s siblings) and spend nights lying on a blanket, under the stars, holding hands and talking about their dreams and future.
Kyle vowed to wait until they were married to claim Ophelia as his. They get married in Vegas in a tiny chapel, by Elvis, and when they return home to their tiny apartment, they make love for the very first time.
After a decade, Kyle returns to his hometown and back to Ophelia. He intends to create many new memories with the woman he loves. He dreams of running the Inn with her side by side as he writes his new books on his terms. He wants to raise a family with her in their childhood town, and be surrounded by the people and animals he’s always loved. He wants to watch her sing again, making people happy, finally owning her special gift without fear. And this is where A Brand New Ending begins…
Excerpt: A Brand New Ending by Jennifer Probst
He parked the car and cut the engine.
Ten years since he’d come home to the small upstate New York town of Gardiner and gazed upon the staggering Shawangunk Mountains. Ten years since he’d touched snow. Ten years since he’d been surrounded by the eerie beauty of nature’s silence.
And too many years since he’d seen the only woman he’d ever loved.
They’d been the three musketeers—Ethan, Ophelia, and him—caught in a world of their own making. Memories assaulted him. Of running through the woods when they were young and racing horses barefoot as the green meadow flashed below. Of moonlight walks and late nights at Bea’s Diner, squeezed into the cracked red-vinyl booths as they spun dreams of the future and feasted on greasy burgers. Of his first kiss with Ophelia. The taste of innocence and passion mixed with Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
He closed his eyes, staggering under the raw emotions the images brought. Some of those dreams had come true for him, but the price had been brutal.
It was time to make things right.
It was time to reclaim what he’d lost.
Kyle glanced at the passenger seat, his fingers already reaching to stroke the leather laptop case. He’d left a fancy mansion behind, along with rooms filled with expensive trinkets meant to amuse, entertain, and distract the masses. He’d walked away from a gourmet chef, housekeeper, and personal trainer. His garage still held the laser-blue Lamborghini and the sleek black Hummer. He’d left the tuxedoes and designer clothes in his closet; the cedar wine cellar still filled with rare, expensive wine; and the four-poster mahogany bed that had seen too many lonely nights.
Now all he had to his name was one battered suitcase, his laptop, and a Ford Fusion rental car.
And for the first time in way too long, he felt the beginning of a creative spark—the sexy wink of his muse beckoning him closer to his childhood home, where he’d sworn he’d never return.
He grabbed his phone and tapped out a text to Ethan.
I’m here. How bad is she going to take it?
He waited a bit, until the familiar gray bubble with ellipsis popped up.
Don’t know—depends on how pathetic you look. Still have no clue why she’s mad at you.
Kyle winced as guilt punched through him. Falling in love with your best friend’s younger sister was a no-no. Running away with her was even worse. But eloping and not telling his friend about it?
There was no making amends for that one.
He cursed, then tapped his fingers again.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
Don’t be stupid—it’s a great idea! The inn isn’t booked up and she’s just being stubborn. Go inside, make nice, and I’ll be there in an hour.
He groaned and resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. When he’d asked about staying at the inn for three months to work on a new project, he’d worried Ophelia would refuse. When Ethan told him to book his ticket, he’d been relieved.
Until he found out on the plane ride that Ophelia had actually said no. Ethan had conveniently left that part out, citing in true guy code it would all be fine.
Her refusal to see him hurt more than he’d imagined it would, but now he had no choice. Everything was set in motion, and he wasn’t about to return to LA. Not only had he committed to writing this screenplay surrounded by his memories, he’d sworn to fight for a second chance with Ophelia. It was time they both faced the past, put some ghosts behind them, and figure things out. After all, it had been eight years.
She had no idea he was about to walk through her door with the intention of staying for the next three months—in the dead of winter.
That’d be bad enough, but when she heard his other piece of news?
Things were gonna get a hell of a lot worse.
He stayed in the car a few more minutes, trying to psych himself up. Maybe she’d surprise him and be open to talking things through. Maybe she wouldn’t be horrified when he told her about what he’d discovered a few months ago. Maybe it would all work out fine, just like Ethan said.
Maybe he’d find himself again.
Grasping at all those positive possibilities, he gritted his teeth, grabbed his bag, and got out of the car.
About the Book
Title: A Brand New Ending
Author: Jennifer Probst
Release Date: October 23, 2018
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Ophelia Bishop was a lovestruck teenage girl when she and Kyle Kimpton chased their dreams to Hollywood. Kyle’s dreams came true. Ophelia’s did not. When Kyle chose his career over their relationship, Ophelia returned home to rural New York to run the family’s B & B—wiser, and more guarded against foolish fantasies. Now Kyle has come crashing back into her life, and all her defenses are down.
Kyle can’t think of a better place to write his latest screenplay than his hometown. After all, that was where he met the heart of his inspiration—his first love. He knows the damage he’s caused Ophelia, and he wants a chance to mend their relationship. If anyone can prove to Ophelia that happy ever afters aren’t only for the movies, it should be him.
As much as Ophelia’s changed, she still has feelings for Kyle. But her heart has been broken before, and she knows that Kyle could run back to Hollywood at any time. She gave up her dreams once, but maybe she can dare to change her own love story…one last time.
Jennifer Probst is the New York Times bestselling author of the Billionaire Builders series, the Searching For series, The Marriage series, the Steele Brothers series, and The Start of Something Good, which is the first book in the Stay series. Like some of her characters, Probst, along with her husband and two sons, calls New York’s Hudson Valley home. When she isn’t traveling to meet readers, she enjoys reading, watching “shameful reality television,” and visiting a local Hudson Valley animal shelter.
F*ck You, Your Honor is a satirical literary novel about a low-end attorney and real estate broker who is ordered by a judge to write a book to save his law license.
Attorney Darwyn “Wyn” VanWye is down on his luck. He squats in a foreclosed government-owned HUD home and conducts his law practice over his smart phone from a sports bar.
While attempting to reconcile with Amalia, his Argentine ex-wife, so his excessive alimony payments can be terminated, Judge Solomon arbitrarily sanctions him for misconduct. Instead of a fine or jail time, the judge sentences him to write a sixty-five thousand word book about the “dignity and integrity” of the legal system. Wyn believes the judge is out to get him.
After resisting the order, F*ck You, Your Honor is the book Wyn writes to hopefully save his law license. Will he succeed in placating the judge and winning back his ex-wife?
The book is loosely inspired by an article in the Wall Street Journal about a pharmaceutical executive who was sentenced by a Federal judge to write a book to show penance for lying to the Federal Trade Commission. The executive wrote the book, but instead of writing the reflective work the judge ordered, he denounced the unfairness of the legal system.
What if a lawyer was ordered to write a book like this? His first instinct would be to try to argue his way out of it.
Another day, I met a new prospective client at The Overtime who wanted to retain me to file for a divorce. I was talking to Cora who was busy with the lunch crowd when the prospect arrived thirty minutes early. I hate clients who are too punctual; it shows they are controlling. It’s rude. Here am I busy working on another case, and a prospective client comes in, and I feel the pressure of her waiting for me across The Overtime. But I immediately forgave her as soon as I saw her.
I must say, if ever I was tempted to start a sexual relationship with a client, this would be the one. After the case was over, of course. I could easily see myself ridding my new client of her soon-to-be ex-husband, and, maybe months later, after enough time had passed… my thoughts wandered off for a second and then wandered back to the case. Although she was probably in her late thirties, she had aged well; beautiful lips, a sensual curved neck. She had a rich, Southern drawl.
As I introduced myself, she let out this warm vibe. I made her fill out the questionnaire while she waited. Questions about the date and history of the marriage, names and addresses, the number of children, any instances of domestic violence. All based on statutes and precedent that I would need to file her case.
I noticed by her questionnaire she lived in a prestigious area of overpriced bungalows and Tudors that surrounded a big park near downtown. The park had a lake and a boathouse. Amalia and I used to go down there some afternoons in the summers for picnics and free concerts. I think part of my attraction to her, however, subconsciously, she reminded me of Amalia.
I never really thought that I had a type. I guess I do. I never liked the competitive career women, and just as important, they never liked me.
This woman was warm and kind. She was of Spanish or Mexican origin, but unlike Amalia, she had been totally Americanized. She spoke perfect English, ate bland food at The Overtime, though she dressed flamboyantly. She worked as a branch manager in a bank. She complained about the inflated prices of real estate and the ridiculous number of Starbucks. On street corners. In grocery stores. In strip malls. Being a banker, I guess she did the math, and $6 a cup is a lot for a cup of coffee.
She confided her husband had not touched her in a year. Unbelievable! I wanted to leap out of my chair and kiss her. I hadn’t touched Amalia in over a year, either.
The first thing I did, I asked her if she and her husband could reconcile. There’s a ninety-one day waiting period for a divorce, to give the couple time to cool off, maybe go to counseling.
If the parties went through a divorce, I could make thousands of dollars. If the couple can’t get along in the divorce, and both get lawyers, a couple can blow through their life savings. If the parties reconcile, the divorce is either dismissed or never filed, and I earn, well, nothing. Amalia called this “chewing my paw.”
I thought again about my divorce. Some of the arguments with Amalia were just silly.
One time, we fought over a banana. I had left a banana on the kitchen counter the night before court to pack with my exhibit books. I usually brought a snack to help me through a whole day trial. Some judges allowed you to bring food into the courtroom to eat on the breaks; others didn’t. Without even telling me, she ate the last banana.
I have to admit, at the time, I was furious.
Another time, she packed me a lunch, put it in my briefcase, and took out my notebook with all my notes for a hearing. I appeared in court, totally unprepared. Sabotaged by Amalia. Lucky for me the case was continued. We went round and round as to who was at fault on this one.
My arguments with Amalia were passionate; never violent. They almost always ended in laughter. For a few years, we had a dog, Knuckles, though the dog eventually died. One day we took him to the vet. She wrote the dog’s name down on a form at the vet’s office: ‘Nuckles’. I informed her the word began with a silent K. The word didn’t register with her, and she had a hard time believing me. I can still hear her making the K sound, trying to pronounce it, trying to make sense of the word.
The English language mystified her. The next time she wrote out a grocery list, along with the milk and some more bananas, she asked me to pick up a package of ‘knoodles’.
I may not be the best one to give a guy marital advice, but still, here goes: Sleep with your wife from time to time. Be nice to her. Otherwise, keep your penis in your pants. These, along with financial difficulties, are the main causes of a divorce.
I explained the essence of a dissolution of marriage, showing off my knowledge with citations of statutes and case law. The first step after a divorce is filed—the parties exchange financial statements and supply the supporting documentation. I call this making the pie. Once you make the pie, you divide the pie, calculating how to fairly distribute the personal property, the assets and debts between the parties. Every asset is taken into account. From the smallest savings bond to the parties’ coin collection, each coin valued and divided coin by coin. The court will even divide the porn.
A divorce works like this: most lawyers review the financial documents, and based on the factors in the statute, calculate what their client is reasonably entitled to. Then they double it. So they will stay employed.
The most accurate definition of a divorce I copied from a well-respected, influential, and prestigious legal journal.
“A divorce is a domestic legal proceeding which takes a highly dysfunctional family, and legally divides it into two highly dysfunctional families.” That was the best definition I ever heard.
I gave her advice about the fundamentals of a divorce. There were statutes about temporary orders, how child support was calculated, parenting time was determined, alimony figured, property, pensions, and debts divided. Hopefully, there’s not much to fight about. If there are no children, thank God. That’s where people fight the most. They also fight about money, until they see how much money they will have to spend to fight about the money. First, a couple doesn’t need to agree to get a divorce. That hardly makes sense. If a couple cannot agree on who will pay the sewer bill, they cannot agree on the divorce. Second, if one party says the marriage is broken, it’s broken. End of story. Agreements of the parties or other court orders are enforced through contempt proceedings, which is an allegation of a deliberate violation of a court order under Rule 107. There are two types of contempt: punitive and remedial.
Remedial contempt is when the judge is mad enough at a party for violating a court order, he or she can put you in jail until you comply. Punitive contempt is when a judge is real mad, he or she can simply put you in jail. (Amazing, though, how a deadbeat dad who owes back child support, has no money, no job, no savings, and no prospects—through some miracle of math or accounting is able to purge a remedial contempt by coughing up ten thousand dollars after spending only one night in jail.)
The smartest thing any divorcing couple can do is sit down and work out a compromise. Settle some of the divorce or all of it ahead of getting the lawyers involved. Write it on a napkin and sign it. It doesn’t matter what form it is in.
A guy usually knows he has to share the assets of the marriage with his wife, especially if the wife is a housewife. A woman thinks differently. She doesn’t like to share. All of the assets are hers; all of the debts are his. That was the story of my divorce.
I gave my prospective client some good advice: “Empty all the bank accounts,” I suggested. “If you don’t, your husband certainly will. Once he finds out you are thinking about filing the divorce.”
This was sound legal reasoning. Before a divorce is filed, there are no court orders in place to protect the assets so the court can divide them fairly. One parent can run off with the children. Or abscond with all the assets and gamble them away in Las Vegas. Once the divorce is filed or if the money disappears in contemplation of the divorce, you will have to fully account for yourself and your finances.
About the Author
In his junior year in college, Craig Chambers attended the University of Leeds in England. He did not attend a single class, traveled around Europe instead. He came back and took the final exams, only to be disappointed that he got a 1 in English. He later learned that “First Honors” was the highest grade.
In the ‘80s he became a real estate broker while he worked on developing his writing style. Chambers attended law school in the ‘90’s because he observed a real estate closing where the lawyer messed up the deal, but still charged a fee of $1,000. He figured he could mess up a real estate deal for a lot less than that. His literary satire on the legal system, F*ck You, Your Honor, was released in June, 2017. He resides in Littleton, CO.
Stutter Creek (book one) is a Ann Swann, brilliantly hidden within a suspense-filled tale of a psychotic serial killer with a chip on his shoulder. It is also a classic tale of young love lost, and a life of regrettable what-ifs.
In irreverent, laugh-out-loud style, Where Triples Go to Die illuminates the messy intersection of sports, race, and romance in contemporary college life. Black superstar Juke Jackson and white counselor Malcolm Wade, each facing relationship crises at home, forge a bond at school as Wade guides Jackson’s quest to join the legion of African Americans who transformed our national pastime. An array of intervening campus issues—date rape, unplanned pregnancy, revenge porn, academic integrity violations, and the aftershocks of war among them—will keep even readers unfamiliar with The Infield Fly Rule turning the pages to find out what happens next.
Praise for “Where Triples Go to Die”
“Phil Hutcheon illuminates the messy intersection of sports, race, and romance in contemporary college life. Black superstar Juke Jackson and white counselor Malcom Wade, each facing a relationship crisis at home, forge a bond at school as Wade guides Jackson’s quest to join the legion of African Americans who transformed our national pastime. An array of intervening campus issues, including sexual assault, unplanned pregnancy, revenge porn, academic integrity violations, and the aftershocks of war, will keep even readers unfamiliar with The Infield Fly Rule turning the pages to find out what happens next. A deftly written and inherently compelling novel by an author with a genuine flair for crafting memorably irreverent characters embedded in a narrative driven story of humor and pathos from first page to last, Where Triples Go To Die will linger in the mind and memory of the reader long after the book itself has been finished and setback up on the shelf.” — Midwest Book Review
“Where Triples Go To Die by Phil Hutcheon masterfully intertwines the lives of two men from different racial and socioeconomic backgrounds who are in different phases of life but are connected through their love of baseball. The humorous novel is filled with sex and scandal alongside the much more serious topics of suicide, alcoholism, and race. Julius “Juke” Jackson is on the verge of suicide after a terrible play in his final baseball game and his live-in girlfriend’s decision to move in with someone else. Malcolm Wade, the college counselor,happens to pass by at the right moment to find Jackson on the verge of a suicide attempt and talks him down. Wade, who has his own relationship issues,works tirelessly to help Jackson through his personal issues. The journey for the two men begins here. The quick-paced novel never loses momentum, as new characters and elements are added into the mix. Hutcheon’s writing style is down to earth, and he has a way of making the reader feel a connection with each of the characters and wonder what could possibly happen next. In addition to the everyday realities, Hutcheon also uses the book as a way to explore African Americans’ role in baseball, both past and present. Readers will also be impressed with the historical references and quotes throughout the novel. Hutcheon does not cease to engage the reader in this intelligent and well-written sports novel.” – Manhattan Book Review
Allenby mentioned a news report that Alex Rodriguez might be retiring from the Yankees at the end of the season and giving up his quest to break the home run record.
“Don’t get me started on that,” Wade said. “When he passed Mays on the list, I was hoping Brad Pitt would be there to greet him at home plate with the blade from Inglourious Basterds, carve an asterisk into his forehead.”
Wade was still convinced that the home run breaking Babe Ruth’s historic mark had been hit by the wrong man. He said now, as more than once before, “Put Aaron in a damn wind tunnel for most of his home games instead of those popgun parks in Milwaukee and Atlanta, then subtract sixty or so homers for two years of military service Willie did and Hank didn’t, they probably come out about even. Can you imagine how many homers Mays would have hit if he played his home games where Aaron did?”
“America didn’t love Hank the way we loved Willie,” Allenby conceded. “But if you really want to play the what if game, just imagine if Mays had signed with the Dodgers instead of the Giants.”
Wade stopped his hotdog halfway to his mouth. “Please, I’m trying to eat something here.”
“Unthinkable, I know, but . . . think about it: if Willie signs with the Dodgers, joins that team with Robinson and Campanella and Newcombe, and then later Koufax, Drysdale, Wills, Gilliam, he goes to at least ten World Series: the three he took the Giants to—two of them were tied pennant races that went to playoffs with the Dodgers anyway—plus six the Dodgers went to during his career, not counting the Army years, and one more year when they tied with the Braves—plus however many more his being on that team might have led to.”
Willie Mays Baseball Card
As much as it hurt to think about it, it was a good point; Wade had to admit it. “And gets to hang out with Sinatra in Hollywood instead of having rocks tossed at his house in San Francisco.”
Allenby continued: “Giants fans always remember that Marichal got hurt in the World Series in ’62, pitched in only one game, and that cost them the championship. But they forget who else got hurt that year.”
“Koufax.” Wade had not forgotten. “You had to remind me, didn’t you?”
Allenby shrugged. “You think that regular season ends in a tie if Sandy is himself in August and September?”
Wade nodded bitterly. “That was the only World Series Willie got to in San Francisco, and they didn’t win.”
Allenby shrugged again. “You worry too much about what Mays didn’t do. You ought to be satisfied with what he did: I know I don’t have to tell you.”
Wade ran down the list: a pennant at twenty, a championship at twenty-three, 660 home runs, a batting title, league-leader in stolen bases four years in a row, two MVPs more than a decade apart, a dozen straight Gold Gloves dating from the honor’s origin, fifteen wins in his last eighteen appearances in the All-Star Game back when it still meant something, when the AL barely acknowledged the existence of black players. Kept his team in the race pretty much year-in and year-out for twenty years. Made what is still the most iconic catch in the annals of a game going on a hundred and fifty years. And taught multiple generations, of every color, how to play the game with joy. Not a bad resumé.
“He’s got nothing to apologize for,” Allenby said, “and you can stop apologizing for him or wondering what could have been. Forget the what ifs. Celebrate what the man did, who he is, not what he might have done or been.”
And thank God he didn’t sign with the Dodgers. “Of course you’re right,” Wade said. “I just wish he had taken a crack at managing. He could have been the one to break that barrier, too. All that knowledge of the game, all that love for it, he could have passed so much more of himself on.”
“I suspect he found his own ways to pass it on,” Allenby said, “and not just to guys on the Giants. Remember Andruw Jones giving Willie credit for a big jump in his home runs after he spent some time with him?”
Some men spend their lives waiting for the Messiah; Wade had spent most of his waiting for the next Willie Mays. He remembered Andruw Jones, but he couldn’t forget Bobby Bonds, George Foster, Garry Maddox, Gary Matthews, Chili Davis—the whole legion of fast, powerful outfielders the Giants had signed, drafted, and developed in Willie’s image—and then lost in free agency or traded away, usually for next to nothing in return, just as they had traded him. Some hurts would never heal.
About the Author
Phil Hutcheon grew up in Redwood City, California, where his youth baseball teammates included Dick Sharon, later of the Detroit Tigers and San Diego Padres. With his father he attended games at Seals Stadium and Candlestick Park in San Francisco during the heyday of Willie Mays. He earned a bachelor’s degree from University of the Pacific and a PhD from Rice University. He teaches composition and film at Delta College. He has also taught at Pacific and at Menlo College. Where Triples Go to Die is his third novel.