Romance Novel Giveaways - Freebies and Giveaways of All Things Romance Romance Novel Giveaways: Beckley's Daughters by Tinsley Sellers πŸ’• Series Blitz & Gift Card Giveaway πŸ’• (Contemporary Romance)

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

Beckley's Daughters by Tinsley Sellers πŸ’• Series Blitz & Gift Card Giveaway πŸ’• (Contemporary Romance)



Welcome back to Beckley, Michigan! The people are just as warm, friendly, smart, funny, and real as you remember. When you need a place to call home, Beckley welcomes you—and sometimes the family you choose is as strong as the bonds you’re born with.

If you like small-town romance, you’ll like Beckley. If you like smart heroines who balance demanding professional careers with a commitment to family, friends, and finding love, then you’ll definitely like it here. If you like strong, sexy, hard-working heroes who have not-so-secret soft spots for kids, dogs, and classic cars, you may find that you never want to leave!

Each book can be read as a stand-alone story, but continuing readers will recognize many of the characters and locations. This series is recommended for adult readers and contains explicit language and intimate situations.



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She’s going 120mph in a 65 zone—and if driving even faster could change history, Professor Heather Harris would floor it. She’s on a collision course with Sergeant Brian Daniels, a state trooper determined to enforce the speed limit and slam the brakes on his own heartache. Can a fast-moving physicist find love with a laid-back law officer, or will ghosts from their pasts keep driving them apart?

“All relationships come with an expiration date. All of mine just happened to fall on the same two days.” —Heather Harris

After a long year of tragedy and loss, Dr. Heather Harris is finally ready to come to terms with the deaths that have left her devastated and alone in the world. Spending summer break at the lake cottage she inherited from her grandparents is the first step in coping with her crushing grief, but she soon finds herself on a collision course with Sergeant Brian Daniels, a police officer whose passion for classic cars won’t stop him from enforcing the speed limit.

Brian Daniels embraces his small-town, laid-back, lakeside life. After years of heartbreak at the hands of his first love, he’s finally free—and a fast-driving, karaoke-singing physics professor offers an exciting diversion. Opposites attract, but the sudden appearance of a blonde on a Harley threatens to throw a monkey wrench in the works. Will the pull of his past be stronger than the promise of his future?

Welcome to the small-town world of Beckley, Michigan. The two-lane roads are long and winding, the many lakes are cool and blue, and the dense forests are green and shaded. Summer days are warm and sunny and summer nights are clear under the glittering stars. The people are warm, friendly, smart, funny–and very, very real. When you need a place to call home, Beckley welcomes you—and sometimes the family you choose is as strong as the bonds you’re born with.
I climbed the ladder, curious about the semi-hidden space. Another skylight! The small space was surprisingly airy with the natural light dappling through the overhanging trees. The bed was simply a mattress on a walnut-stained pallet frame, covered with a clearly handmade quilt of every imaginable color. A fruit crate, standing on end and painted glossy navy, served as a nightstand. I could easily imagine Brian crashing here after a long day in the shop below.
“This is fantastic!” I exclaimed and turned to find my nose bumping into a broad chest, one that smelled like juniper and cedarwood—and a unique naturally masculine scent. Science says that you don’t consciously smell pheromones. I don’t believe it. I inhaled deeply to center myself, only it didn’t calm me. It just made my heart race faster.
“Hey,” he whispered softly, brushing some loose strands away from my face.
“Hey,” I whispered back, not looking at him. I could feel those intense emerald eyes on me, seeing through me, right into the heart of me. His arms came around me and we stood motionless. He radiated heat and I absorbed it, wanting more. I was a mass of contradictions, wanting him to take me fiercely and passionately, while simultaneously wanting him to kiss me slowly and tenderly. I wanted to ravish him, but I wanted to run. The images of ravishing him couldn’t have made my heart beat faster, but they did stiffen my nipples against the soft t-shirt covering his hard chest. He noticed.
“Breathe,” he soothed, still stroking my hair. “Breathe, and tell me what you want. If you want me to kiss you, I will. If you want me to take you home, I will. If you want me to brave the Fire Swamp and defeat the R.O.U.S.s, I will. If you want me to bring you a hot caramel butter pecan sundae with whipped cream and two cherries from Johnson’s, I will. But you have to tell me.”
I took a long breath and dove into the deep end of the ocean. “Kiss first,” I murmured. “Ice cream and Princess Bride later.”
He shook with silent laughter. “That’s my girl.”
It was the biggest clichΓ© of all: he kissed me and time stood still. But as a physicist with a pretty decent understanding of time, I was fairly sure we broke both general and special relativity, and possibly the second law of thermodynamics, just for fun. Newton’s Third Law states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction—but Newton died a virgin, so I’m pretty sure that this was not at all what he meant.
If I was a physicist, then Brian was a psychic. He knew, I don’t know how, where to trace his lips along my collarbone, and how I would nibble his earlobe in response. He knew where to find the most sensitive spot along the left side of my neck; I knew to answer with my fingertips trailing down his solid, well-formed abs. He buried his hands in my hair and I drew the flat of my palms across the smooth skin of his muscled back.

I don’t remember how we ended on the bed, or where my top and his t-shirt went. He kissed me endlessly; softly tracing across my lips, then deeply demanding my willing tongue. I had kissed one or two—or three—men with intent, and even tried one or two—or three—things you wouldn’t expect a strait-laced science girl to consider. Still. There was no comparison to this kiss. Graded with a straight scale or on a curve, it was beyond all others. Gravity released its hold on me and every atom of my body floated into him, resonating at the frequency of his breath.
His lips moved from my hungry mouth to my aching breasts, teasing my nipples beneath the silk and lace of my bra. My hands moved from his thick, dark hair to his well-defined biceps to the button fly of his jeans. He groaned, then moved my hand back to his chest.
“Slow and easy,” he whispered against my neck. “There’s all the time in the world.”
But there wasn’t. I froze with the sudden realization that no, there wasn’t all the time in the world. I knew from my own experience that it could end any second and without any warning. I struggled to a sitting position, Brian releasing me instantly, but with questioning eyes. He shifted, his back against the wall, softened by a pillow. Sitting with his legs extended, he patted his lap and I slid towards him. He sat me between his legs, my almost-bare back against his now-bare chest, his arms encircling me, his left cheek against my right temple. Neither of us spoke. He held me close and I could feel his heart, beating against my back, slow and even.
How could he be so calm? Didn’t he understand? Every gentle touch, tender word, and scorching kiss created a time capsule that was going to be unbearable to remember and impossible to forget when whatever this was inevitably shattered. I would be left with smoldering, aching memories of Brian competing with my already searingly painful memories of Jake.
An ancient Greek scientist had once asked the question: How many times could you break a bar of pure gold in half before it stopped being gold? His hypothetical answer was: it’s gold all the way down. It didn’t work that way with living tissue; I had given my heart to Jake, and now it was broken. I had only half a heart left, and if I gave that to Brian…how many times could it break before it wasn’t a heart anymore? I didn’t think I could live with half of a half of a whole heart.
“I’m pretty scared, too,” I felt the vibration of his chest rumble through me as much as I heard the sound of his voice. “You know, I see Robert and Delores, and it took them over half their lives to find each other. And now they’re staring down an expiration date. It’s not fair, is it? But even so, you can pack a lot of living into a decade. You can pack a lot of living into a single day if you have to. The point is, we don’t know that we have to—until we discover that we do, and by then it’s too late.”
It was the same fear, but from the opposite perspective. No one here gets out alive, I reminded myself. Every relationship ultimately comes with an expiration date. A sudden accident and a long goodbye were equally heartbreaking. It was simply a freak of fate that all of my expiration dates had fallen on the same two days.
The alternative—a life without love—was equally bleak. What if Nichelle and Foxy did get together? Would I be eccentric old ‘Aunt’ Heather to their adorable children, handing out extravagant gifts on holidays and birthdays, then going home alone? Was that really preferable? And more importantly, was it really any protection against a broken heart? Love was love, and kids and dogs could break you just as badly as any man.

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Former Chicago Cubs third baseman Chet Coakley needs a quiet place to write the last novel in his best-selling series.

When a freak accident ends his baseball career, Chet finds his second chance writing a series of retro-detective novels. He’s on a deadline and can’t afford a distraction—especially not in the form of a vivacious blonde innkeeper who challenges everything he believes about himself.

Professional chef Aerin Buckholtz owns a vintage lodge and fifteen cabins on a secluded lake in the Michigan woods.

Betrayed by her best friend and self-conscious about her appearance, Aerin believes that romance isn’t meant for her. She’s building her business—and working to earn good reviews seems safer than admitting her attraction to a handsome former athlete who feels far out of her league.

Can Aerin and Chet learn to see themselves through each other’s eyes and accept a love neither one saw coming?

Welcome back to Beckley, Michigan! Autumn is in the air and as the days get shorter, the air gets cooler and the trees begin to turn every shade of gold and red. The people are just as warm, friendly, smart, funny, and real as you remember. When you need a place to call home, Beckley welcomes you—and sometimes the family you choose is as strong as the bonds you’re born with.

If you like small-town romance, you’ll like Beckley. If you like smart heroines who balance demanding professional careers with a commitment to family, friends, and finding love, then you’ll definitely like it here. If you like strong, sexy, hard-working heroes who have not-so-secret soft spots for kids, kittens, and classic cars, you may find that you never want to leave!

Accepting Aerin is the second in the Beckley’s Daughters Romance series. This series is recommended for adult readers and contains explicit language and intimate situations.
I didn’t know if life imitated art or the other way around, but it was hard to hear Chet talk about his past and realize how much truth had ended up in the pages of his novels. ‘Clubhouse’ Chet had a thing for sultry brunettes because real Chet had one, too.
He carried your unconscious body out of the woods, a small voice in my head reminded me. He spent the past 60 hours at your hospital bedside. But what did it mean?
His fingertips stroking my hair made my scalp tingle, which in turn sent butterflies whirling through my belly and goosebumps down my arms. I didn’t comment on it, but I had noticed that his ‘package’ had pulsed in his pants several times—before we had started discussing his ex-brunettes. I was definitely over-thinking this; I needed to find a way to step out of the situation and look at it from a different angle.
“Sometimes it’s easier to see the forest when you’re not one of the trees,” I said softly.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m totally stealing that,” Chet grinned, pretending to write it on his hand. “At some point, ‘Clubhouse’ Chet is going to say that with a straight face like he just thought of it himself.”
“Don’t credit me, credit my dad. That’s one of his favorites.”
“I think I’d like your dad,” he nodded. “I’ll bet he’s got a few stories to tell.”
“Oh, you’ll get your chance to meet him. Bucky talked them out of racing to my bedside, but if I know my parents, they’ll be here by Saturday at the latest. Tomorrow would not surprise me in the least.”
I suspected that when they phoned this evening their travel plans would already be in place. It didn’t matter that I was an adult, I still missed having my parents nearby. And even though Chet and I were nowhere near a relationship, I wanted to get their read on him.
Bucky hadn’t threatened to kick his ass, which was definitely a good sign. I recalled that while I was having my tentative reunion with Jess on Sunday, he was out joyriding like a high schooler with Heather, Brian, and Marvell. It seemed like everyone important to me had given him a thumbs up.
But what about Jess? I frowned at the thought. I couldn’t stop wishing for her approval, but it felt like a double-edged sword. What would she do if she thought Chet and I were getting a little too close? Chet hadn’t seemed overly attentive to her at the hospital, and I hadn’t seen Jess given him her ‘Boadicea Stare.’ With her fiery mane and tiger’s eyes, she could summon a warrior queen look that reduced men to Jell-O and made them follow her like puppies. I had watched it work more than once—and if she used it on Chet, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Corey and I had better get our act together,” he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, interrupting my thoughts. “We’ve got three more cabins to repair. Once we finish those, every cabin visible from the parking lot or dining room will have a new roof.”
“Oh, Chet,” I gave him a grateful look. “I don’t know how to thank you. I can’t believe you would do something so huge for me. Honestly, it’s just too much.”
He put a finger on my lips. “Nope, not gonna listen to that.” His fingertip trailed from my lips to my jawline. “You’re worth it.”
I turned my head to face him, halfway hoping for a kiss. As he caressed my cheek in the palm of his hand, I closed my eyes and replayed the white-hot kisses we had shared: in my kitchen, on my couch. The memories sent another jolt of electricity and suddenly his lips touched mine, completing the circuit. The breath between us crackled with energy and my skin sizzled. Before I could work up the nerve to intensify the kiss, cool air hit my lips as he drew back.
“Have you ever been in love, Miss B?”
“I thought I was, once. I was wrong.”
He relaxed into the corner of the couch, pulling me closer. “Tell me a story.”
“This one doesn’t have a happy ending,” I warned.
“Maybe it’s not over yet.”
I took a deep breath. “I was naive,” I began tentatively. “I mean, I’m probably still naive, but…”
He chuckled and began to stroke my hair again. It was relaxing and hypnotic, and the words began to tumble out. Slowly at first, then accelerating as I related to him all of the painful details of my Kiss-Cam humiliation by Evan Sutter and my alienation from Jess. He didn’t seem surprised. I told him about fleeing to Beckley and pouring every minute and every penny into the Starbrite, making me too busy and too poor to think about dating.
“And now?”
“I don’t know,” I mused. “I’m still pretty busy. And even though I’m finally turning a profit, I’m still kinda cash-poor.”
“So what comes next?”
“Hopefully the Lodge stays solvent,” I chuckled softly. “And then I spend the next twenty years becoming a crazy cat lady.”
He laughed out loud.
“Yep, that’ll be me. And they’ll all be named after food: Truffle, Saffron, Gouda, Soba, Malbec—and Edith.”
“Edith?”
“Yeah, she’s a cranky old lady cat,” I grinned, making it up as I went. “She’s always sending me out to Shirley’s for a box of wine and a pack of Virginia Slims.”
“Your pretend cat has strange tastes.”
I shrugged. “I have a vivid imagination.”
He brushed the hair from my neck and kissed the tender spot just below my earlobe, sending a shiver through me.
“How imaginative are you, I wonder,” he whispered, brushing soft kisses down to my collarbone. If I turned my head just a fraction, his lips would graze mine. I could clearly imagine that.
“I can be pretty creative,” I purred in a low voice, sounding braver than I felt.
“Can I kiss you,” he breathed in my ear, “and I mean really kiss you?”
“Only if I can kiss you back,” I murmured, only half joking.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Wrapping both arms around my waist, he slid me onto his lap. The hunger in his eyes made me feel exposed, but I didn’t look away. Then his mouth was on mine, gently teasing my lips and waiting for me to invite a deeper kiss. I tentatively ran my tongue over his lower lip, exploring and being explored in turn. Our tongues twisted and merged, leaving me breathless and on fire. For one endless instant he filled every one of my senses. My body shimmered like pure light as he gently broke the kiss.
“You don’t seem all that naive right now, Miss B.”





She's just met the man of her dreams...but he's not who he said he was. Neither is she. Until they get a second chance to make a first impression.


Is he a sophisticated big-city lawyer, or an easygoing small-town woodworker? And if she's not a career-driven high-powered attorney, then who is she? Can Buck and Nichelle find trust enough to discard their masks and discover just how alike—and in love—they really are?


He's only got one rule: no lawyers. She's a lawyer.

Burned by experience, Buck’s got a rule for a reason. After walking away from a lucrative legal position, he’s found peace in Beckley. Farm life is simple, and his woodworking business is thriving. He’s not interested in trading his work boots for wingtips and rejoining the rat race. He’s ready to settle down, and she’s the most compelling woman he’s ever met. Even if she is a lawyer.


She's only got one requirement: no a**holes. He's an a**hole.

After a disastrous encounter in a trendy bar, Nichelle is convinced that he’s a bulky mass of beard and bad attitude. She’s got a sleek car, luxurious condo, and elegant designer clothes. Family comes first, and her legal career is on the fastest track. She’s never met a problem she needed help solving, but he sees the painful truth beneath her polished faΓ§ade. Even if he is an a✿✿hole.


They're perfect together. They just don't know it yet.

Welcome to the small-town world of Beckley, Michigan. The two-lane roads are long and winding, the many lakes are cool and blue, and the dense forests are green and shaded. Summer gives way to russet autumn, and fall becomes icy winter. The weather's getting colder, but things are heating up for all your favorite characters. The people are warm, friendly, smart, funny–and very, very real. When you need a place to call home, Beckley welcomes you—and sometimes the family you choose is as strong as the bonds you're born with.


If you like small-town romance, you'll like Beckley. If you like smart heroines who balance demanding professional careers with a commitment to family, friends, and finding love, then you'll definitely like it here. If you like strong, sexy, hard-working heroes who have not-so-secret soft spots for kids, dogs, and classic cars, you may find that you never want to leave!


Knowing Nichelle is the third in the Beckley's Daughters Romance series. It can be read as a stand-alone story, but continuing readers will recognize many of the characters and locations. This series is recommended for adult readers and contains explicit language and intimate situations.
Prologue

Henry

“Well, fuck.”

I swore out loud as I tipped my Dopp kit onto the hotel bed. Soap, shampoo, sweat stick. I already knew there wasn’t one last blister pack of contact lenses but ran the check one more time regardless. No spares. Dumbass. I gave my blurry reflection in the blank television screen the finger and headed back to the bathroom.

The lens I had popped out of my right eye sat in its case, torn and useless. I removed the left contact with a frustrated growl and picked up my glasses. The heavy black bakelite frames had belonged to my grandfather decades ago and had somehow cycled back into fashion. The new scratch-resistant high-index polycarbonate lenses were pure 21st century, but the face staring back at me could have been my grandfather’s.

His bright blue eyes and bushy brows had been inherited by my father, who had dutifully passed them along to me, along with the dark blond hair and whiskers in every possible color, but mostly ginger. I wet my badger brush and kicked up some lather in the tin of shaving soap, spreading it across my neck and cheeks. With a straight razor I began clearing the stubble from my neck, carefully maintaining the crisp line along my jaw where beard met skin.
My phone rang. It was sitting on the desk in the other room, and I ignored it. I had twenty minutes to get shaved, dressed, and downstairs to the hotel bar. The Delaware Street Speakeasy was re-opening tonight after a six-month-long renovation, and I was one of the guests of honor.

The original Art Deco rosewood-inlaid bar had taken me a week to disassemble, three weeks to strip, another three months to replicate the missing or damaged parts, and two months to engineer a custom finish that was indistinguishable from the smoke-and-age patina of the wainscoting on the walls. I had just finished the painstaking re-assembly two days ago. It was arguably my best work.

My phone pinged, indicating a new voicemail. I ignored it. I carefully shaved the exposed skin on my cheeks, keeping the edge lines clean and precise. My phone rang again, went to voicemail, and pinged with another message alert. Whoever it was, they were persistent. A different ping, this time an incoming text message. I sighed and went to find out who was blowing up my phone.

It was Jess. My baby sister had a knack for needing me at exactly the wrong time. Car out of gas, locked out of her apartment, and need money for rent (don’t tell Dad) were in pretty heavy rotation lately, but she was about to be out of luck. This Chicago gig was over tonight, and I was pretty itchy to get home to my farm in Michigan. I loved the girl, but she was going to have to learn to get along without me and she could damn well start tonight.
I read the text, or tried to. It was nonsense. Something about money for tickets to tonight’s Blackhawks game. I wasn’t a huge hockey fan, but even superficial attention to the local news made me aware that the team was on the road. I listened to her voicemails, getting increasingly frustrated. No, I wasn’t going to drive to her apartment and bring an infusion of cash. She could ask that high-finance jackass she was dating to pick up the tab for a change.

Ten minutes left, and I was still wearing nothing but a damp towel. Couldn’t get dressed until I finished my beard. I stomped back to the bathroom, annoyed by the delay. I picked up the electric trimmer, and with a single swipe ruined what little good humor I had left.

“Well, fuck,” I swore out loud again. Wrong damn blade guard.

Instead of the neat half-inch trim, I had just taken it down to an eighth. Basically stubble. I hated stubble. I looked like shit with stubble. I squinted through my glasses at the trimmer and scowled, pulling off the blade guard entirely. Fuck it. I ran the trimmer over my chin and jaw, letting the wiry ginger hair fall into the sink. I lathered up and shaved my face smooth. It had been at least four years since I had seen my naked face, and combined with the 1960s-newscaster glasses, I barely recognized myself.

I looked like a baby-faced banker with a chest incongruously covered in ink.

Dropping the towel, I strode to the armoire where my suit hung. The mid-March weather was still chilly, so I had opted for wool, navy blue. Plain white shirt, patterned tie in shades of blue and red. Simple black leather monk strap shoes. It was an unassuming look, but the suit and shirt had been tailored for me. I wasn’t typically able to hit up department stores and find suits that fit without massive alterations. And damn, one pair of bespoke shoes had ruined me for shoving my size-14 feet into mass-produced foot-boats that never fit right.



I was only three minutes behind schedule when I stepped out of the elevator. The bar was already crowded, and it was barely 7 PM. The grand re-opening was hosted by Steve and InΓ©s Nelson, Chicago’s real estate and philanthropy power couple. They had purchased the aging Delaware Hotel, two blocks off the Michigan Avenue Magnificent Mile, and dropped a fortune into restoring it to its former glory. The rooms looked like movie sets from the 1930s, and the restaurant and bar evoked an era of men wearing top hats and tails, ladies in satin evening gowns, and Benny Goodman playing in the background.

Steve and InΓ©s were surrounded by a throng, so I sidled up to the bar.

“Hey, Buckaroo Banzai,” the bartender greeted me with a grin. Charli Temple was the trendiest bartender in a city full of trendy bars. Her bright orange-red hair fell in a straight sheet, barely grazing the shoulders of her black button-up.

“Hey yourself, Leeloo Dallas Multipass,” I quipped back. “Can I get the Dalmore, neat?”

She sighed. “It’s like you’re not even trying. You’re asking a concert pianist to play ‘chopsticks,’ you know.”

I gave her a shrug and an apologetic look. “What do you recommend?”

“The Dalmore,” she winked and set the cut-glass tumbler of amber liquid on a cocktail napkin before turning to a group of guests clustered at the other end of the bar.

Taking a slow sip of the Scotch whisky, I surveyed the crowd. I recognized the project architect and the interior designer, but most of the guests were the high-society see-and-be-seen crowd. Not my usual cohort. Steve and InΓ©s were friends of my family; he had remained close to my father and my uncle since their undergraduate days. In fact, the Nelsons were my godparents, and my folks were godparents to their son Esteban, born a few months before me.

No sooner had the thought of Esteban occurred to me than he appeared at my side, shaking my hand and slapping my shoulder like an old friend. He wasn’t a friend. But he was a politician, and his star was on the rise. He had transitioned from law school to state legislator, running a successful campaign before he even graduated. After two terms, he had moved up to the State Senate and was currently exploring a run for the US House.

“I see you’re still sanding furniture for a living,” he joked. He wasn’t joking. He ordered a martini, and I sent Charli a telepathic message to spit in it.

“I see you’re still an asshole,” I replied amiably, downing the last of my drink. No point in taking his bait, but damn. I saw the man maybe twice a year, and he never missed a chance to take a dig. Charli poured me a double without asking as she handed Esteban his martini and he moved off without acknowledging me or thanking her.

“Thanks, Charli.” I raised my glass in salute. She didn’t notice, and I followed her gaze into the crowd. My eyes landed on a woman I had never seen before. Half a head taller than any other woman in the room, I would have remembered that. Blue eyes like the Mediterranean off the coast of Greece, that would have stuck with me. Skin the color of planed cedar wet with rain would have been impossible to forget.

She glanced up and caught Charli’s wave. Smiling, she threaded her way through the crowd towards the bar.

“You can thank me later,” Charli laughed and turned back to mixing cocktails.



Tinsley Sellers grew up in Chicago, spending her summers with her grandparents in a tiny town a lot like Beckley, Michigan. Life took her to Arizona, Washington, and Idaho before she finally found her home in Arkansas. She is married to an amazing, supportive (and handsome!) man, with whom she has rescued three dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing, she teaches physics and engineering at the local university. When she’s not writing or teaching, she’s probably trying new recipes. She enjoys fast cars, loud music, fine whisky, and big books. In no particular order.


   


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