Our Love is Here to Stay by Madison Michael 💕 Fun Facts, Book Tour & Prize Pack Giveaway 💕 (Time-Travel Romance)

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Can Love Transcend Time?

Thirty-year old Matthew Herrington is weary of solo nights in strange cities. He is ready for a change. And that is exactly what he gets when he steps into Swing Night at The Green Mill and is instantly immersed in the sights and sounds of another era. Intrigued by the club’s authenticity, Matthew is enchanted when he meets Patty, a mixture of sexy and sweet who steals his heart.

Patty Dennison has never met a man like Matthew in all her twenty-one years. A sophisticated man, he stands out from the usual Swing Night crowd. He is self-assured, smart, charming, and handsome as hell, even if he is a lousy dancer. Once he takes her in his arms, Patty is more than willing to give him a few dance lessons along with her heart.

Repeated missed dates and unanswered phone calls strain the relationship and frustrate the pair. But unraveling their mystery exposes an impossible scenario, one that will torment their sanity and test their love.

How can they make their fairytale last? Can love transcend time?

Thank you to Romance Novel Giveaway for hosting the blog tour for “Our Love is Here to Stay”. It’s great to be here and to share a quick anecdote about how this book came to be.

You may be surprised to learn that although I have published three Beguiling Bachelor novels and two short stories, this was in fact the first story I ever wanted to write.

Several years ago, when I was just considering writing my first romance, music-loving friends came to visit me in Chicago. My clever boyfriend, Michael, felt certain they would love a night at The Green Mill, a legendary Chicago jazz lounge (www.greenmilljazz.com). I had never been there, not being a jazz aficionado, but it was Swing Night, and Michael assured me that I would love it. He was right.

From the moment I entered the club I felt as if I had stepped back in time. The Green Mill was lovingly renovated to make me feel just that way. The music and dancers contributed to the feeling until it swamped me.
I loved the big band sound and the faux-radio broadcast to our servicemen overseas (circa 1940’s). A story began to form in my head; a story of someone like me, a product of modern times, stepping into that era and someone being stuck there.

We stayed through several sets, chatted with patrons dressed in 1950’s garb, fabulously talented swing dancers who were regulars, and just nice folks. Michael refused to dance, intimidated by the talent on the floor, but he promised to remedy that by our next visit to Swing Night.


Fast forward two years. Michael’s intimidation gave way to dance lessons and now the man can cut a rug. I got the story from my head to page in the form of “Our Love is Here to Stay”. It is an homage to the era, to the Green Mill, and to romance. I was able to play with the idea of modern times being thwarted inside the lounge in fun ways. New to time travel, it took me a while to develop an ending to truly satisfy my readers, but once I did, the book was born and thrived.

I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it.

A waitress came to take it off his hands. “Another?” she queried and he nodded agreement, placing a crumpled dollar on her tray. “Too much,” she told him shaking her head no. Matthew was surprised by her response but the tray was covered with loose change so he removed his bill and left the equivalent in quarters. Everything was so inexpensive but the server still needed to make a decent living.
She gave him a grateful smile and turned to move to her next customer, carefully balancing her tray above the heads of the young people around her. In the process, she nudged Matthew slightly causing him to lose his footing and fall gently against another body. Turning to apologize he found himself staring into the clearest, lightest blue eyes he had ever seen. He couldn’t look away.
“Sorry,” he mumbled when he finally regained his composure.
“That’s okay,” she replied with a quick, bright smile. She was lovely, in a wholesome girl next door way. She had her blond hair pulled into a ponytail that curled like a hair product ad, clear-skinned cheeks that were pink with warmth and perhaps exertion, and a curvy body displayed under a bright red sweater and a flared plaid skirt.
Matthew felt his mouth go dry and his palms get sweaty. She did something to him, this fresh faced woman that he found incredibly sexy. Her red lipstick was a slash of bright color mimicking the red of the sweater. Until this moment, bright red lipstick screamed “tough broad, stay away” to Matthew but on this girl it whispered “come hither.”
“Matthew,” he squeaked out, extending his hand to shake hers. Thinking twice about it, he retracted his arm, running his palm against his pants swiftly, and hopefully surreptitiously, before he extended his hand again.
“Patty,” she responded, placing her soft fingers in his large palm. She shook like a girl. After all the bone-breaking handshakes Matthew had endured across the globe, this limp, fingers-only shake surprised him. She looked athletic, not tough but toned, and not sickly pale like most Chicagoans in winter. The handshake didn’t match the image and normally would have bothered him. Nothing about Patty bothered him. Everything about her bothered him.

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Stripped Down: A Naked Memoir by Stacey Keith 💕 Guest Post, Book Tour & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Autobiography)

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STRIPPED DOWN: A Naked Memoir is a look back at a surreal world kept carefully hidden from public view. This chronicle of life in the skin trade follows the meteoric rise of Stacey Keith, a girl scarcely out of her teens whose eye-popping assets launch her from wet T-shirt contests to the catwalks of Houston, strip bar capital of the world.

Almost overnight, she is discovered by a famous porn star, who Svengalis her onto the pages of Playboy, Penthouse, and dozens of other men’s magazines. While strutting her stuff onstage and across the country, Stacey makes the fateful decision to head to Hollywood. She’s got everything a girl could want: fame, attention, endless piles of cash...but no idea what awaits her.

With Internet porn overtaking men’s magazines, everyone from her Mafia-boss road manager to her smarmy talent agent pressures Stacey to do more than just flash her flesh. Uber-boob filmmaker Russ Meyer verbally abuses her; rocker Don Henley tries to use her. Yet through it all, from the warped misogyny of Playboy to the S&M dungeons of the Pacific Palisades, Stacey’s dark, self-deprecating humor will leave you laughing, crying and rooting for her at every step of the way.

Why Stripping Is The Loneliest Gig Ever

Stripping is a little bit like being famous. Everyone wants a piece of you and you have no idea who your real friends are.
This is especially tough on women (men, too, I imagine) who value the intimacy of real friendship. And it’s hell on relationships. Not many men relish the idea of their wives or girlfriends grinding away in the champagne room, even if it is “just business.”
This is one of a million reasons why strippers are notorious for bottom feeding when it comes to boyfriends. Most guys pretty much have to be stoned 24/7 to achieve any state of Zen about it.
Some strippers don’t care in the slightest. Or maybe they just do a good job of not seeming to. “Friends” are the people you get wasted with, on whose couches you sleep on when you have a fight with your slacker boyfriend.
But even they, I suspect, experience the occasional sober moment when they look out over the wasteland of their lives and feel pangs of loneliness. In the end, it’s only you up there under the hot blinding lights of the stage, waging war with your insecurities, hoping you look fuckable enough to go home with the rent money.
Stripping may appear to be about the Benjamins, but narcissism is its real currency. Every dollar you get is an affirmation of your beauty and desirability. It’s the smack every dancer mainlines, the thing that also keeps her mojo from doing a face-plant. But there’s always a wound, a big pothole-sized wound, that you’re trying to fill.
Somewhere in life you came up short, and it made you reel.
Not now though. Not tonight. The music is pounding, and the dark lovely smell of male lust oozes thickly over the tables and chairs and the stage, all around you, and you keep trying to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrors so you can see what they see, so you can make sure you don’t do anything to dispel the illusion of your fuckability. They don’t see the you that you know — the one doubled over with menstrual cramps or who zones out for days at a time watching re-runs in the same rancid tracksuit.
Politely, you also do a convincing job of hiding that you know what they’re all about. You pretend not to notice their desperate yearning or their vampirish fascination with your youth.
The young are too busy comparing themselves to others to even know what they have. They live in a constant state of paranoia and despair.
Later, you will go to an all-night diner with a few dancers, and you will be aware of your collective separateness from the other people who eat there. You look different, dress different. You aren’t afraid.
But you’re still subtly competing with each other. There are still potholes to be filled. It’s a sixth sense you’ve honed like a blade — this guy thinks I’m hot. I can feel it. That guy thinks I’m hot. I can feel it. You look in people’s faces just to find a reflection of your own. You see yourself according to what they see.
It causes problems with your codependent boyfriend. Why isn’t he fortifying your insatiable appetite for approval? You might even point this out to him one night, but most of the time you draw a secret strike on your inner chalkboard and keep feeding the monkey elsewhere — at the gym, at work, even walking to your car.
Every minute is an opportunity for you to know that you do actually exist. You’re not invisible. You matter.
Then one day you wake up. Or maybe you don’t.
You experience a William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch moment where you actually see the food on the fork that’s being fed to you. And then the whole construct falls apart. Everything you held dear, your whole value system, collapses of the weight of its own absurdity. You can’t stand the game anymore, and the olfactory cocktail at the strip club smells more like desperation than desire.
You come to terms with the fact that you’re headed down the wrong road. It’s a nice road in the way of any road that happens to be strewn with money, but it’s taking you in the wrong direction. So you trim your sails. Maybe you get married and have kids. That’s about as real as it gets. Maybe you try to get a “straight” job. But it’s almost impossible to make those soul-crushing commutes and sit in mind-numbing office cubicles for less than half of what you used to pull down at the club.
None of these were things you thought about when you were wearing a pair of high heels and not much else. Every day was going to be just like this one. It was impossible to imagine any further than the end of next week.
Easy money, quick money, is a hard thing to walk away from. Being on the outside of “respectable” society, looking in, is even harder. You despise those people for being such timid conformists, but you also reject the part of yourself that wants to belong.
If you’re lucky, you find that the only road is the one forcing you ask the tough questions like why you landed here in the first place. What value system did you fail to question? Why does any of this matter?

Mobsters are to gambling what junkies are to speedball. It’s the entire mobster mindset encapsulated in a pair of dice: ego, testicles, luck, and an extra dose of superstition. I realize this when Ralph takes me to an Indian casino in Ledyard, Connecticut. I’ve never seen anyone more excited. The casino is the gift-strewn Christmas tree and Ralphie the little boy who comes war-whooping down the stairs.
I’m wearing a crushed red-velvet cocktail number that looks as though it’s been sandblasted to my skin. Ralph’s got on his best banded-hem golf shirt. And as outrageous a cliché as we are for mobster and mistress, we actually blend in with the clientele at the casino: boobs, bling, and peroxide blondes repeat like a pattern on the carpet.
The casino is a Disney version of Monte Carlo. Boat-sized crystal chandeliers shimmer from the ceiling. Shiny new concept cars slowly rotate on platforms in the lobby. Waitresses in fishnets and flouncy rumba pants hustle to provide free, watered-down alcohol to the dice-rattling alcoholics. The sounds are the same as a pinball gallery—clinking, rolling, slapping. The endless pumping of canned air onto the game floor does nothing to dispel the staleness of cigarette smoke. Nearly everyone looks tired and washed-out and unnaturally alert.
Ralph rubs his hands together and looks around. “I’m heading to the blackjack tables. Where are you going to be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a casino before.”
“What?” Ralph seems genuinely shocked. “Do you ever pull your fucking head out of a book?”
“Only when I’m having an orgasm.”
“Christ. Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.” He snaps his fingers at me in a way that I interpret to mean ‘get your wallet.’ I pry out one of Sammy’s hundreds. I don’t particularly want to part with it, seeing as how I had to sit by the creep to get the thing.
“I got no time to explain how you play blackjack, so you’re going to take that fuckin’ C-note there, give it to the broad at the counter, and she’s gonna give you some quarters. Then you’re gonna take the quarters and play those fucking slots.”
I look at the slots. I look at Ralph.
“Okay, Christ, lemme show you.” He marches me to the counter, pushes my hundred at the lady behind the Plexiglas deflection shield. In exchange, I receive a Big Gulp full of quarters. Ralph calls them “qwahtahs.”
He herds me to the nearest slot machine, one halfway down a row of similar machines that look like huge gleaming jukeboxes. Impatiently, he feeds the thing quarters and then pulls a handle. We wait. Wheels spin inside a window. Nothing. He does it again.
“Got the idea now?” he says.
“Uh. Yeah.”
He turns to leave.
“Ralph?”
“Yeah?”
“What combination wins?”
“You want three of a kind.”
For a moment I watch Ralph haul ass to the blackjack tables. He goes straight to the ‘Invitation Only,’ which must be one hell of an invitation. They probably harvest your organs if you can’t pay. I feel a little unprotected without Ralph. He’s so big and strong and sure of himself.
I feed the machine. I pull the lever. An unmistakable clatter of coins. What do you know—maybe fifty dollars’ worth lay in a pile on the metal tray. I scoop out the coins, then feed the machine again. On my third try, I win another twenty, then fifty. I’m on a roll.
The old lady next to me, wearing a glen plaid tam o’shanter and smoking a cigarette, rasps, “I get first dibs on your machine if you go to the can. I’ve been here since four o’clock and I’m down by a hundred.”
Since four? Just pulling that stupid lever? I glance around. Everyone else seems engrossed in their respective addictions. I feed the machine.
This time the quarters fall so copiously and noisily, I don’t know where to put them all. Apparently sensing my distress, the old lady hops off her stool and then returns with four more Big Gulp cups. The machine is still belching out quarters.
“What the hell, honey,” she says, “are you speakin’ French to the thing?”
“I don’t know—it keeps giving me money,” I apologize. Using my hand as a slide shovel, I coax the coins into three of the four cups. I have no idea how much money I’ve won.
My heart’s beating faster as I line up the cash-heavy cups beside me. I’m worried that somebody might steal them. I wonder if Ralph will be proud of me. Maybe this is chump change compared to the stakes he plays for.
I quickly fall into a rhythm: feed the machine, pull the lever, wait for the wheels to stop spinning.

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Ways to Love Series by Tabetha Waite 💕 Series Tour & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Historical Romance)

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A missing heirloom. A stolen inheritance. Can love conquer mistrust? Athena Hawthorne never imagined that she would lose everything she'd ever had. But after the death of her father, his prosperous jewelry store is sold off to pay his supposed debts. Athena, now destitute, embarks on a mission to discover the truth, but circumstances force her to accept an offer from a handsome stranger to work as a governess. She's determined to clear her father's name, but a certain earl is making matters far more difficult than necessary. And she can't be in danger of losing her heart to a member of the aristocracy... Orion Ashcroft, the Earl of Rockford, is convinced that Athena is a grasping thief who stole a priceless family heirloom, the rare sapphire known as the Couleur Magnifique. When he offers her the position of governess to his sister's children, he only intends to catch her in some nefarious scheme and get back the sapphire—his grandmother's dying wish. But he soon discovers that keeping his distance—and his sanity—around the beautiful Athena isn't as easy as he'd planned. It certainly doesn't help that his sister and his best friend plead her innocence at every frustrating turn. Soon he's struggling between honoring his promise and his growing attraction to Athena. But there's danger closer than either expect. Even a masquerade can't hide Athena from the curiosity of the ton forever...and there's a threat hiding among the highest members of society... Walking casually into the front parlor where his sister and Gregory sat enjoying a round of piquet, he found himself looking around for Athena before feeling a surge of disappointment when she didn’t appear. “It seems rather quiet tonight,” he noted, to which he was ignored. With a frown, he walked over to a large globe in a corner of the room. Giving it a haphazard spin, he tried to keep his tone neutral when he asked, “Has Athena already retired?” Cassie didn’t even look up but merely kept playing. “No.” More was obviously not forthcoming, so he turned to his sister and put his hands on his hips. “Is she with the twins?” “No.” This time the obscure reply came from Gregory. Rion instantly froze. Something wasn’t right here…”Then where is she?” “Out.” Cassie shrugged as she laid down another card. He blinked, not sure that he’d heard correctly. “Do you mean she’s gone?” “That’s what ‘out’ usually means, yes.” His sister rolled her eyes at Gregory as though she was worried about the welfare of Rion’s mind. It was the last straw. “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Gregory finally glanced up, his green eyes full of censure. “Friend or brother, I will thank you not to use that sort of language around my wife.” “Then can we quit dancing around the subject of Athena?” Rion shot back irritably. “Athena, is it?” Cassie said almost silkily, as she finally – finally – laid down her hand and turned to face him fully. When Rion didn’t reply, but merely kept his expression mutinous, she lifted her chin and said in the most casual manner imaginable, “She’s at a masquerade ball with Lord Eversleigh.” Athena was with -- Roarke? “Wait.” Holding up a hand, he asked firmly, “How does she even know him?” “The viscount paid us a call this afternoon.” Gregory replied, his full attention on the exchange now. “To see Athena?” Rion asked, doubly confused. Again, Cassie rolled her eyes, and damned if she wasn’t pregnant or even blood relation he would have called her out at that moment, regardless of the fact she was a woman. “No. He came to see Gregory and myself, but after meeting Athena, he thought she would be the perfect choice to take to the ball. So, I helped her choose one of my gowns…” “You mean you were a party to this debacle?” Rion groaned in disbelief. Surely he was dreaming and he was only imagining this entire nightmare. “I didn’t see where it hurt that she had a night to herself.” Cassie shrugged. “She is a young woman of age after all and she has been working quite hard.” Rion felt a tic begin in his jaw. “Who, pray tell, was her chaperone?” “Oh, good heavens! She just went out with Eversleigh!” Cassie replied, as if it was perfectly commonplace to allow a single governess to go about London in the middle of the night with a known rogue. Rion didn’t even think. Before Cassie had even caught up to him, he had stalked back into the foyer and was shrugging on his greatcoat.

Secrets. Lies. And a second chance at love... Torn from the only man she'd ever loved by a tragic secret, Mara Miller has traveled a long and difficult road. From poverty and the workhouses, she's finally made a life for herself as the owner of a small haberdashery in London. With her companion, Big B, an African slave she'd helped escape from a Brazilian slaver, she's made a fresh start. But when the past walks into her shop—in the form of the ever-handsome Roarke Garrott, Viscount Eversleigh—Mara feels her whole world crash to her feet. Thrust back into a web of lies, deceit, and manipulation, Mara is forced to face the one man she'd sworn to forget. For the past seven years, Roarke had sequestered himself in India to mourn Mara's death. Vowing to move on and put the past behind him, he returns to London, only to find himself gazing into those beautiful green eyes he believed he'd never see again. Now he's found her—alive and trying to deny who she was. A million feelings wash over him. Joy. Fury. Heartbreak. He would have the truth from her—of where she'd gone, and why—but when trouble from the past finds Mara and Big B, the truth becomes secondary to saving Mara's life. After just learning that the woman he'd loved is alive, Roarke is not about to lose her again... Her heart was pounding so fiercely she was sure that he could hear it. As it was, her entire body nearly vibrated with the force of it. “How did you get in?” she whispered. His tone was slightly mocking when he said, “As if a locked door could keep me away from you.” “Why are you here?” she dared to ask, swallowing nervously. “I think you know why,” he murmured huskily in return. “We have unfinished business.” “There is nothing else to discuss. Everything has already been said.” “Has it?” He stroked the back of her neck. “Yes.” There was a brief pause, while Mara held her breath, before he said softly, “That’s where you’re wrong. You see, all this time that you’ve been running, you’ve never once asked my opinion on anything, and I’ve decided that I don’t give a damn what you say, because I want you.” Mara felt herself begin to tremble. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me, Roarke. There are things you don’t know, that would be detrimental...” She shook her head to regain control of her scattered emotions. “You would grow to despise me. I’d rather be dead to you in truth than have that happen.” She felt the gentle brush of a hand on her hair. “You know, for years I tried to hate you, but it appears I’m not capable of it when it comes to you.” He took her by the shoulders and gently, but firmly, turned her to face him.

An innocent woman. A loyal agent to the Crown. A path of deception that tests the bonds of love. Lyra Coventry, Lady Weston, has spent the past three years trapped in an abusive and loveless marriage. But just when she believes she’s free, she’s charged with the murder of her husband. With no one to turn to for help, her judgment seems rather dire, until the Duke of Albright comes forward to offer his aid. With no choice but to put her trust in him, she doesn’t know that he has an ulterior motive for helping her – to prove her guilty of treason. It isn’t until the true villain comes to light that she discovers a strength she never knew existed – and a love she never thought was possible. Alister Ayles, Duke of Albright, might be the subject of ton ridicule, but as a highly respected agent for the Crown, he discovered a higher purpose. However, when he’s faced with his toughest investigation to date, he has to travel a difficult path. Years ago, he’d made a mistake and let Lyra slip through his fingers. Now, he has a chance to make it right by clearing her name. But when it comes down to a test of loyalty, will he stand strong, or fall prey to his desires? Lyra hadn’t heard the duke move, but suddenly, that husky voice brushed against the nape of her exposed neck. His arm came into her peripheral view; his masculine hand perilously close to touching hers on the shelf. “I meant no offense, Lady Weston. In fact, I’m rather amazed by your accomplishments. This is the most beautiful library I’ve seen in some time. It rather puts my own collection at Thorn Hall to shame.” Lyra temporarily closed her eyes in an effort to gather her wits, not to absorb his nearness or his warmth. To enjoy such a thing at a time like this would be to question her sanity when her very existence was on the brink of ruin. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “Why are you really here?” His hand tightened fractionally next to hers. She didn’t have to look to feel the strength so very close. “I already told you. Your brother—” She cut him off. “Do you really expect me to believe that you have such a high reverence for Roarke that you should volunteer for such an impossible task?” “You’re not impossible.” His breath fanned her cheek. “But it’s true that someone needs to rescue you.” She stiffened slightly. “I don’t need rescuing.” “Everyone needs rescuing at some point,” he countered softly.