Hi guys do we have a treat for you today, MLR Press has this fantastic book blast for their newest series Storming Love: Flood there are several authors on this tour and we have Cherie Noel visiting with Patric & Sam, we have a fantastic post from Cherie where she tells us her own flood story, we have a brilliant excerpt of Patric & Sam, there’s Cherie’s comment giveaway for our blog and the tour wide MLR Press rafflecopter giveaway, *wipes brow* and we also have Cat’s reviews for three of the already published Storming Love: Flood, so check out this post, leave your own flood story in the comments (with a way to be contacted by Cherie if you win) and then click that Rafflecopter link! <3 ~Pixie~
Storming Love: Flood
Various Authors: NJ Nielsen, Jenn Dease, Jambrea Jo Jones, AC Katt, Pelaam, Cherie Noel
N.J. Nielsen: Adrian and Lockie
Adrian Clarke knows his life is a hot mess. This is only one of the reasons he boards a plane and flies halfway around the world—so he can escape everything that’s determined to see him break. Lockie Rivers has worked his whole life on Tenderfoot Downs. After his boss died, Lockie remained as caretaker for the new owner—a man who’d never even set foot on the place. When circumstances bring them face to face, a flash flood comes along to threaten their very existence. Can virtual strangers work together to save their home, their hearts, and find their own slice of heaven?
Jenn Dease: Bridge and Doug
Fourth generation lawman, Bridge Bridgerton, has never seen Copper Creek, Texas, flood before. Doug Jones is a lifeguard stopping in Copper Creek to look after his grandfather’s house. Together, they help rescue some of the residents trapped in the rising water. And together, they feel an attraction for each other that gets stronger day by day. But, will they be able to stay together once the water goes down?
Jambrea Jo Jones: Pete and McKenzie
McKenzie Hallowell was born and bred in Copper Creek. He knew what could happen during flash flood season, but that didn’t stop him from driving through water during a storm. Almost dying might be the best thing that ever happened to him.
Pete Compton moved to town five years ago to take over a feed store. He’d been crushing on McKenzie Hallowell almost from the start. A flash flood brings them together, but will it also bring them love?
A.C. Katt: Derrick and Steven
When a flash flood strikes, Steven stays behind at school to find a little girl who hid from the storm. His lover, Derrick, comes to rescue them both but can only get Josie out. Will Derrick be able to get back to the elementary school in time to get Steven or will he lose him to the raging flood waters?
Releases today: http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=SLS3_ACK
Pelaam: Euan and Gregg
Euan looks forward to spending time with his best friend, and unrequited love, Gregg. But Gregg has a confession himself, he isn’t the straight jock Euan thinks. When the truth emerges, Euan learns of a side to his friend’s life he never imagined.
Just as they find out the truth Mother Nature unleashes her fury and they’re trapped on a mountain during the flood.
Even if they weather nature’s storm, there is still a more personal fury to be faced.
Available 1st May 2015
Cherie Noel: Patric and Sam
Patric Carselowey stole Samuel Touchet-Smith’s heart six years ago in an incendiary act of passion. Then he disappeared, joining the Army without a word. When he returned, treating Sam like stranger, he broke Sam’s heart. Now Sam’s meddling Maman and sister have booked him a hiking tour with Patric as the guide. Caught in the unexpected storm, will Sam’s wounded heart be healed during their race to safety or crushed once and for all by lingering misunderstandings and lost memories?
Available 8th May 2015
Aunt Pearl and the Copper Creek Bridge by Cherie Noel
Bring out your best flood stories. Personal experience, family stories, your best friend’s tale of woe… something that happened to you or someone near and dear. Best story *in comments section* wins some swag-a-rific Floodtastic stuff. Realio, trulio. Oooh, and there’s a huge gift card *$50* Grand Prize that you can enter the Rafflecopter thingy for. What? You say you’re feeling shy with the telling of the stories? Pffft, don’t worry. I’ll go first.
My dad, whose childhood nickname was Sonny Boy, took a bus from California home to Florida when he was a young man. Okay, so the name thing is not so terribly important right now, but it does come up later. And you’ll want to know who that moniker attaches to. Heh. Okay, so he was on the bus. From California. Or possibly from New York to Florida. Pfft,what you need to know is simply that he was traveling. From far and away, and he was headed home on leave from the Army. Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to—er, I mean I’m telling it. Sonny Boy was a young black man on a Greyhound bus in the early to mid to late 1950’s.
Listen you, stop with the scoffing noises. You may have a point, but, seriously I’m the one telling the story here. Sit back and suspend reality and enjoy the meanderingness. M’kay?
I have no idea if Greyhound even existed then, but I do know he was taking a flipping bus home. Across the country. So let’s just agree to say it was a Greyhound, capisci?
Back to the story then.
As they crossed through Texas (or, you know, Georgia) a frog strangling gully-washer of a storm blew…
It means real bad thunder and lightning and cubic fucktons of water sluicing down from the sky. Yes, it’s hard to find that phrase even in the urban dictionary. S’alright.
…so as I was saying, the folks on the bus found themselves smack-dab in the middle of a frog swallowing gully-washer. Everything in and around the bus slowed to a crawl. Dad was traveling home to see his Aunt Pearl before she passed (or else he’d have stayed in California or New York and danced the night away with some pretty young thing every night of his leave.
*Pops was a looker, and he loved to dance*
The driver was creeping along at about ten miles an hour. Barely able to see a foot past his windscreen, he fought the wind and rain to keep the bus on the road. He kept telling the passengers, “Don’t you worry none, folks. I’ll get y’all home safe and sound sometime tomorrow. But a soon as we get past—
*we’ll just call it Copper Creek, cause I can’t recall the actual name*
—Copper Creek Bridge, I’ll pull into the next bus station and we’ll wait out the rest of this storm.”
Dad figured he didn’t have a lick of control over the storm or the white bus driver, so he drifted off to sleep. An hour or two passed with the bus continuing to creep along. Dad was lucky enough to have gotten a window seat, so he leaned up against that cool glass and let ole Sandman have his way.
“For a while, I was just floating in this misty grey nothing, Reesy.”
*okay, yeah, he called me Shum-Reesy. It was a thing. One we will never speak of it again*
“And then I felt all of a sudden cold all over. I was shaking when I opened my eyes, and there, looking back at me from the other side of the glass was Aunt Pearl. Standing in the rain, her dress as dry as Sunday morning in Broward County.” He’d always pause there, and shiver a little.
“Tell the next part, Daddy.” I’d say, and he’d laugh and keep going.
“Stop, she said. Sonny Boy, you stop now. Stop this bus, boy, or I’ll tan your hide.”
But he was a young black man in the latter 1950’s on a bus filled with white people. Headed into the heart of the Bible-Belt, with a white bus driver. When he’d gotten on the bus that same driver told dad to, “Behave nice, boy, and we won’t have no fuss.”
So he sat quiet and waited until Aunt Pearl faded out. After a bit he got warm again, and his eyelids got heavy. Predictably, he fell back to sleep. Twenty or thirty minutes later someone pinched his arm, hard and fast.
“Sonny Boy, I done tole you to take your little red-headed self to the front and tell that nice driver to stop the bus.” Aunt Pearl’s voice hissed right in his ear. A pillowcase full of cottonmouths couldn’t have scared him more.
“So I just jumped, you know? And my elbow knocked into the fella sitting next to me and woke him up too. I apologized to him, naturally. Then I leaned in and asked if he’d heard a lady saying we needed to stop the bus.” By this point in the story his lips pressed together hard enough to flatten them to a thin line.
He stared into space for a moment before continuing, “Then he leaned aways from me, whites of his eyes showing all ‘round the edges.” Dad shook his head.
“You one of them boys came back from being a soldier with your sense all scrambled? We riding in the colored section on a mostly white bus. I ain’t fixing to walk no twenty five more miles to home. No sir. So pipe down and let them white folk run things until we gets to our stops.”
Dad said that then the older man squeezed his eyes shut, tipped his hat flat brimmed hat down to cover them, and went right back to snoring.
Dad’s eyes kept looking far and away though. This part, where the old man went back to sleep? It was coming up on my favorite part.
Dad continued to tell how, in his words, “The rain kept on, steady slapping and sloshing against the window, the bus creep, creep, creeping along. A baby cried kinda quiet and fretful towards the front where a young mother sat.”
He always cleared his throat right at this point. That harrrumpf-har-haw was the mark of the goose bumpy part of the story for me. He’d say, “Then you know, Reesy, I was just sitting there. Well, now I was fully awake. And somebody pinches me again, hard and fast. I heard Aunt Pearl clear as I can hear you right now.”
“Sonny Boy,” She said, “you go tell that man stop the bus right this minute, or you’re fixin’ to be in a whole other world of hurt.”
A smile crept across his face, slow and wistful looking. “And that was my Aunt Pearl, Rheesy. Everybody in the family know Pearl got the sight, so I got up. Pushed my way past the old fellow on the aisle and walked up toward the front.”
At this point I’d be leaning forward, almost ready to fall off my chair. “Then what happens? Daddy, what happens then?”
He’d thump his leg a time or two. Draw hard on his pipe. Well, because I remember him smoking a pipe. Cherry tobacco. Smelled sweet and warm. Like home. I don’t think it matters if he was smoking his pipe or not, just that I recall it happening that way.
Dragging a finger along his jawline, he’d squint at me and say, “I made it to the front. Sir, I says, do you think we could stop the bus?”
“That bus driver wasn’t pleased. Not a bit. ‘Boy, he says, ‘if I stop this bus you gonna be getting off. Now get back to your seat before you scare the young lady.” The driver nods toward the lady with the baby. She can’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty. Baby looks to be nigh on a year.’
He’d pause, draw on the pipe again, and then breathe out words with the cherry tobacco smoke. “Yes sir, but I have to stop the bus. I have to.”
And now his eyes would get real wide. “I could see her again, Reesy, right out the front window of the bus this time. I look down and the bus driver is staring where I see her, his jaw kinda flexing tight and hard.”
He’d take a swallow of his coffee. “Yes sir. But that’s my Aunt Pearl right there in front of the bus. And she done said I gotta stop the bus right here.”
Shaking his head slow and mournful, he’d go on, “The bus driver’s face is red now, and he raises his hand up to look at his watch like he’d rather be hitting me.”
“Boy,” that bus driver said, “it’s 3:15 in the morning. I was supposed to have these folks to the depo in Memphis by eleven forty-five. Go on and sit in your seat or I will by God put you out in this storm…and Aunt Pearl is a-waving and a-hollering and kicking up an awful fuss. So I nod, real respectful like. I say, Yes sir. I reckon you best put me out then. I’ll hike home from here. I reckon I can get my duffle when I get to Broward County.”
The lady with the baby is pushing back in her seat, holding her baby tight, and the man in the seat behind her is getting red in the face too. He mutters. “Damn uppity niggers. Ain’t no call for them to be on a bus with white folks anyways.”
“The diver looks at me, mad and maybe a little sad too, but he’s stomping hard on the brake and that’s all I care about.”
“Boy,” he says, “this area ain’t safe for a colored boy folk don’t know. You liable to end up swinging if you catch my meaning.” My dad’s jaw got tight for a second every time he said that, and it was years before I knew why.
He went on, “Yes sir. I’ll get out here.”
He’d pause and draw on his pipe a final time. “Then the driver stomps hard on the brake, kinda jerking the bus to a stop. Aunt Pearl smiles at me, and it’s the sweetest thing I ever saw. The driver opens the door up and right then, as Aunt Pearl starts to fade away the rain lets up for just a moment…and we see the bridge over Copper Creek done washed out. That lady with the baby screams, ‘cause the bus ain’t no more than ten feet from the bridge. That bus driver’s eyes get bigger than a bullfrogs…Boy, he says. You go on back and sit down in your seat. I reckon you done saved all our lives.”
He’d look at me then. “And that’s a true story, Reesy. When I got home the next day, your Grandma Fanny told me that Aunt Pearl breathed her last round about one in the morning. I think she just took a little time passing to the other side so she could make sure I made it home to take care of mama.”
The three things I did manage to corroborate with some of the extended family? Pearl did pass the same night that bridge went out, a few hours before a bus driver called in to the depo that the bridge was out. Sonny Boy, or that raggedy redbone boy, as his family called him, did come home the next day. And Pearl especially often called him redbone to the other family members, because as a child his hair was red as a firecracker. She called him Sonny Boy when she was talking to him, though.
So that’s my flood story. Now you take a turn, and if you want to enter the contest, be sure to leave your contact info. *email addy, please or I shan’t be able to consider you entered in the draw for this particular blog*
Please also check out all the other blogs! Oh, and we have a grand prize give-away *each blog has small gifts available* of a $50 dollar Gift Card. Whoo Hoo! Don’t forget, there’s a Rafflecopter thingy for that. Heh. Play at all the blogs!! It’s fun, and there are prizes!
Excerpt from Patric and Sam by Cherie Noel
Sam’s first indication that the damnable duo of Céleste and Delphine Touchet-Smith were plotting about his love life—again—came during Sunday dinner. The twin terrors of Copper Creek, Texas, a.k.a. his beloved maman and mostly tolerated sister, couldn’t go more than six months without interfering in les affaires de coeur, or if you wanted it in plain English, matters of the heart. Sam’s heart to be precise. They called it trying to get him settled. He called it a damned lot of tom-foolery. Seeing as Maman and Del were well into their eighth month without any shenanigans, Sam let himself get a touch too comfortable. He couldn’t help it. He liked the lack of what his maman called—and good Lord did the woman ever lay on the French accent thick as anything when she said it—eligible bachelors showing up out of the blue for Sunday dinner. He really should have seen it coming, though.
Sadly, he didn’t. Instead he tumbled through the weather beaten door of the hundred year old farmhouse where he’d grown up with only seconds to spare—if he was lucky—before his maman decided he was late. Lord help him if that happened, because then she’d start to think up ways to punish his “lack of proper decorum”. His mind firmly fixed on the delicious meal in his immediate future, Sam hot-footed it into the house blind as a new kitten and innocent as a fluffy little baby chick. With his mind more on squeaking in under the wire than being alert to signs and symptoms of meddling, he was ripe for their not-so-subtle machinations.
His wind-milling arms and rubber-chicken legs were half excessive speed on the well waxed floorboards of the front hall, half pure nerves, and one hundred percent Sam. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t in Del’s line of sight when he came in, because that would have been fuel for her to heap on the bonfires of their lovingly antagonistic sibling rivalry. She got plenty of mileage out of his clumsiness as it was. His whole life had been plagued by the same trademark lack of grace–it happened anytime he got too nervous. Today’s occurrence made perfect sense in light of his late arrival and the possible revocation of all beignet and crawfish étouffée privileges for a full week. Sam whimpered at the thought.
While enduring a longer span of time than seven days without Maman’s famous étouffée caused severe mood swings, more than three days without beignets might well be a death sentence. That was Sam’s philosophy on the matter and he saw no reason to ever risk such a dire outcome. So he zipped out of his Jeep, sprinted across the front porch, and then yes, tumbled through the front door with no thought to who or what might be on the other side.
Maman and Del’s chattering voices flowed from the kitchen, echoing back and forth down the hall. Paying them all his attention, he tripped over Cletus, otherwise known as Cletus the Lazy, Maman’s old brindle mess of long legs, floppy ears and slobber. Maman insisted he was an example of canine perfection. If you asked Sam the mutt was far from achieving the pinnacle of dogdom. In point of fact, the disreputable lump spent ninety percent of his time masquerading as a throw rug in the front hall—directly in the path of anyone coming in the door. Therein lay the problem. The dog too, or Sam might have gotten all the facts quicker and hightailed it out of Maman’s front door before he got caught in her matchmaking scheme.
All Sam knew in the moment was that he was sweating like a whore in church and praying Maman was in a good mood. Then, he swore he heard Del saying his name with intent as stepped forward to shut the front door. He tip-toed along like a ninja or a spy—at least in his mind—but was foiled by Cletus. The mange infested throw rug yelped out a piteous aaaarrrhhh—oooo—wee and followed that up with a snuffle-whuffle and the doggy sad-side-eye. All sounds from the kitchen ceased. A weighty beat of silence passed, and then Sam’s maman called out. Her dulcet tones dripped false innocence as they echoed along the passageway. Good Christ, he really should have known.
“Samuel, cher, we’re just finishing up in the kitchen. You go on mon fils, wash up now. We be through to the dining room in a moment.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Maman, we ain’t in de Louisiana bayou no more. You gotta use English. Proper American-style English. I know you speak it, what with all the times you done tanned my backside for not speaking proper when I was in school.”
A choked off snort followed by a thwapping sound came from the kitchen. Then the amusing melody of his sister’s indignation. “Maman, you didn’t have to smack me with the spatula. You got to admit, Sam talking his personal proper Texas-American style language is pretty damn funny.”
Another thwap echoed down the hall. Sam snickered. Del yelped, louder than Cletus had, and then Sam’s maman was talking. Her tone, all edge of the bayou Creole haughty with a dash of pure southern belle temper made it clear he’d gone and stepped in a heap of trouble. Between her conciliatory tone, the lack of reprimand for stepping on Cletus, and her handling of Del, the handwriting was on the wall. It was too late for him to escape altogether, but he stood a fair chance of mitigating the damage if he could figure out what the heck those two half-crazy bayou belles were plotting. Waiting in silence should push one of them to fill the void. Maman’s long, soft vowels and deliberate Parisian-style French warned him. Whatever they were planning, he was gonna be madder than a twice baited bull.
“Ah, we-el, mon fils, je suis tres desole. No matter. I will do my best to speak only the finest King’s English, no?”
Delphine appeared around the edge of the kitchen door before Maman stopped speaking. Her soft brown eyes huge in her little heart-shaped face, she hissed at him. Waving her hands back and forth like angry birds picking at a scarecrow, she advanced.
“Oh my gosh. Sam, I swear Maman dropped you on your head every day you was a boy! Lock up your lips tout de suite before Maman kicks us both out without supper. Just think about it. No more homemade beignets, no crawfish étouffée…and a whole week long to wait for another chance at them.”
Narrowing his eyes, Sam sniffed and pointed at his sister. “I can make my own red beans and rice, little cat, so put your claws away. And…ah, hell, get out of the way so I can go apologize to Maman.”
His vain attempt to camouflage the utter terror of going so long without Maman’s beignets only caused his sister to smile, flip the long tail of her braid over her shoulder, and murmur as she sashayed around him. “Suck up.”
Sam grunted. “You’re damn skippy I am, cher. Ain’t a body on Earth can cook like Maman…I plan on staying in her good graces forever.”
Del laughed, just like he knew she would. Warmth spread through his chest. Sisters. Shaking his head, Sam curled one side of his mouth up and flicked the end of her braid. He never got tired of being able to predict how she would react. Chuckling quietly, Sam ambled through the kitchen door. Spreading his arms, hanging his head and gazing up through his lashes, he gave his best little boy grin. “Sorry Maman. I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
Céleste tossed a small kitchen towel over one shoulder. “Hmmpf.”
Sam snuggled up to her, bending down to hug her tight. “Je suis tres desole, Mamam. Ne soyez pas en colère contre moi.”
Laughing, Céleste pushed him toward the dining room doorway. “Delphine is right. You are a suck up. You sit down, cher. I still be serving crawfish étouffée, you terrible boy. Non, non, you were late getting here, Sam, and you think I did not notice? On second thought, you get right back up. Go help your sister set the table if you want to earn your way back into my good graces.”
They waited until he was stuffed fuller than a suckling pig destined for the table before dropping the bomb. When Del met his eyes directly, and Maman cleared her throat twice in a row, Sam froze in place. Del’s smile wobbled ever so slightly as she began to speak.
“Now, Sam, we done paid already, and there’s no refunds possible.”
Eyes closed to mere slits, Sam waited her out.
“The thing is, you been working too hard. Everybody says so. And wel—”
Maman folded her napkin with small, neat motions, and Sam dropped his head forward to rest his forehead in the palms of both hands. “Just tell me what the two of you have cooked up besides the delicious étouffée I done just ate too much of?”
Del turned beseeching eyes toward Maman. The elder Touchet-Smith woman at least had the grace to get a splash of red in both cheeks. “Samuel, cher, we done booked you a little hiking trip. With Carselowey Tours. You work so hard taking care of us, ever since your père et grand-père, ah, father and grandfather passed. We just wanted to say thank you.”
Sam choked, coughed, and sprayed a mouthful of étouffée across the table, missing Delphine by inches. The bright smile Maman wore as she spoke dimmed. She and Delphine both stared down at their plates. Del grimaced.
“Oh, Sam, it was such a good deal, but because we booked so close to the departure date they can’t offer a refund. Well, except in case of death or extreme medical emergency. And I’m pretty sure bull-headed refusal to take a vacation don’t count.”
Closing both eyes, Sam sucked in a steadying breath before giving in as gracefully as he could.
“Ah. I guess that clears up the issue of what to do with my vacation days this year. When do I leave?”
Delphine cornered him in the front hall after he’d made his farewells to Maman and before he made good on his bid for freedom. Wrapping a strand of her curly brown hair around one finger, she plunked her back against the front door and pressed both little palms against the center of his chest. “Listen, you hard head—I been hearing some things. I want you to promise me to go on this trip. I know you got some kinda powerful dislike for Patric Carselowey, but Maman put down a heap of money she had put by for something else just so’s you could take some time away from that store. I—just you promise to go, you hear me? Go. And maybe find out if there might have been some reason he did whatever made you come all over fulla hate for him so quick. Can you do that for me, cher?”
Sam glared down at Del. “You so fulla yourself. One day somebody going to throw a little magic your way bayou girl, and we see how you like that.”
Del huffed out a breath. “I never!”
“Ha. I’m going on this trip. For Maman. But you? Best admire those eyebrows while you still got them.” Sam backed away as he spoke, knowing Del would do the same thing as always in three-two-one…
“I’m gonna tell Maman you threatening my eyebrows again!” she screeched and lunged toward him. Sam dodged around her, jerked the front door open and ran like the wind. He laughed his fool head off all the way to his Jeep, too.
NJ needs to write like she needs to breathe. It’s an addiction that she never intends to find a cure for. When you don’t find NJ arguing with Vlad, her muse or writing about the wonderful men in her stories, you’ll find her reading work by other authors she greatly admires. NJ lives in the SE of Qld, Australia with her family who all encourage her writing career even if she does occasionally call them by her character’s names. NJ thinks that anyone taking the time to read her stuff is totally awesome.
Jenn Dease is a Chef with a reading and writing addiction. The six bookcases in her bedroom are proof of this. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh with one of those families that have four generations in a four block radius. The Redheads, or her sisters, are the best things in her life. When they want to be.
Jambrea Jo Jones:
Jambrea wanted to be the youngest romance author published, but life impeded the dreams. She put her writing aside and went to college briefly, then enlisted in the Air Force. After serving in the military, she returned home to Indiana to start her family. A few years later, she discovered yahoo groups and book reviews. There was no turning back. She was bit by the writing bug.
She enjoys spending time with her son when not writing and loves to receive reader feedback. She’s addicted to the internet so feel free to email her anytime.
She lives in New Mexico with her husband and new cat who, just as she does loves paper and words. She got a late start to her writing career but is now in a writing frenzy. Go figure!
Living in clean, green New Zealand Pelaam is a multi-published author of m/m romance and erotica. She’s loved writing since childhood and to become an author is a cherished dream come true. She grew up reading fairy tales and watching science fiction, horror and fantasy. When not writing she can be found indulging in her other passions of cookery and wine appreciation.
Cherie’s been in love with words since before she drew breath, and doesn’t see that ever changing. She write stories, full stop. Sometimes there’s music with them, sometimes they’re poems, and lately, to her great delight, a plethora of M/M fiction and erotic romance. Yum. Smexy man to the second…or third power…now that’s the kinda math Cherie can get behind!!
The hair curls or frizzes as it will, the eyes are green and tend to look in two different directions—no, really—and the rest is subject to change. You know the guy who didn’t know if he was a butterfly dreaming he was a man or a man dreaming he was a butterfly? Yeah, that’s Cherie, but substitute drag queen for butterfly and wacky, wild ex-Army chick for man.
Win some swag-a-rific Floodtastic stuff from Cherie Noel
(Read Cherie’s own Flood story Aunt Pearl and the Copper Creek Bridge above)
Blog tour Giveaway!
Win a $50 Gift Card!
Adrian & Lockie Review https://mmgoodbookreviews.wordpress.com/2015/04/20/adrian-lockie-by-n-j-nielsen/
Bridge & Dougie Review https://mmgoodbookreviews.wordpress.com/2015/04/21/bridge-doug-by-jenn-dease/
Title: Pete & McKenzie
Series: Storming Love – Flood 03
Author: Jambrea Jo Jones
Genre: Contemporary, Floods
Length: Short (45pgs)
Publisher: MLR Press (April 18th 2015)
Heat Level: moderate
Heart Rating: ♥♥♥ 3 Hearts
Blurb: McKenzie Hallowell was born and bred in Copper Creek. He knew what could happen during flash flood season, but that didn’t stop him from driving through water during a storm. Almost dying might be the best thing that ever happened to him.
Pete Compton moved to town five years ago to take over a feed store. He’d been crushing on McKenzie Hallowell almost from the start. A flash flood brings them together, but will it also bring them love?
Product Link: http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=SLS3_J33
Review: This the third book in this Storming Love series. I didn’t like it near as much as the first two.
Pete moved to Copper Creek 5 years ago and has been crushing on McKenzie since he first walked into the store. McKenzie is a ranch owner that has been crushing on the feed store owner since that same day as well.
The floods are hitting pretty hard in some areas so McKenzie decides to go pick up his feed order just in case it gets worse than he has planned for. He has guests at his working dude ranch so he wants to get the supplies and get back to help his crew. He drives through a puddle that turns to flood nearly drowning him. Pete happens to be there with a rope in his truck and a news crew.
Ok so I found some of this a bit hard to believe. First of all why on earth if he had guests would he leave and not send his foreman. Also that neither man had a clue the other liked him or was gay for 5 years was a bit odd to me as well.
I did like Pete and that he came to the smaller town to start a new life. I also like McKenzie. I just wish the story was longer and we got more information on McKenzie background. The book is alright and there is some good sex scenes, so if you are following the series I do recommend this (no these books do not need to be read in order each stands alone).
If you like ranchers, floods a bit of suspense and some hot mansex this is for you.