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WHEN HONEY GOT MARRIED...

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You are cordially invited to the Louisiana wedding of the decade.

 

On a beautiful spring evening, in the grounds of the luscious Belles Fleurs plantation, Judge’s daughter Honore ‘Honey’ Moreau will marry eminently eligible Brent Delacroix.

 

Love will be in the air.  Will anyone be able to resist?

 

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* AMAZON BESTSELLING ANTHOLOGY *

 

 

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DID YOU KNOW?

 

The When Honey Got Married... books are also available as single novellas?

 

 

 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

 

 

Check out the

When Honey Got Married... book trailer!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EXCERPT

  

Pippa remembered standing outside the Delacroix's five car garage one summer holidays.  The Firebird’s hood was popped so she could gaze in wonder at the engine, barely able to believe the car she'd scrimped and saved to buy from the guy with the swamp, for was hers.  It was her ticket to freedom.  To choice.  To the world.

Then came the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind her.  She’d known it was Griff before she’d even turned around.  Something about the lazy strides, the prickle of skin at the back of her neck, the wave of heat that hit her before his large body had blocked out the sun.

He'd leaned beside her then, his big hands curling around metal.  Then he’d laughed and shaken his head.  “Pipsqueak,” he’d said in that deep Louisiana drawl that did exquisite things to the backs of her knees, “what have you gone and done?”

 “Bought and paid for my own car, which is more than you’ve ever done.”

He’d turned to look at her then.  His dark shaggy hair haloed by the afternoon sun.  Dust motes dancing in a ray of sunlight.  The thick scent of bougainvillea and summer in her nose.  His face mere inches from her own.

“You got me there, Pipsqueak,” he’s said, his voice husky and deep.  She hadn’t dared breath for fear of fracturing the moment.

When she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, his eyes had moved to her mouth.  Had darkened.  And he’d breathed in long and slow, his nostrils flaring, his head shaking ever so slowly, as if he couldn't help thinking bad bad thoughts.

She’d been seventeen years old and it was the first moment she’d known what true desire felt like.  Not a crush.  Or puppy love.  But grown up, hot, luscious, rich, decadent, dangerous need.

Then Brent had arrived, twirling the keys of the BMW his folks had bought him the day he got his license.  He’d bounced up to them, flung an arm over Pippa’s shoulders, like a buddy would, and, grinning, said how cool her car was, and dragged her away to meet the gang for ice cream.

She’d looked over her shoulder, half expecting Griff to be watching her walk away with that dark brooding thing he did so deliciously well, but he’d grabbed a rag, and some kind of long stick thing, and was fiddling with her engine.

It wasn't the last time she'd found him beneath her hood that summer.   And at the end of those holidays her car had started for the first time.

She shook her head hard, as if to rid it of the memory for good.

The minute she got back to LA she was selling the damn car.  Hell, maybe she’d push it back in the swamp in which it had been found before she even left the city limits.  Then she’d take a bus to LA.  She’d hitch if that’s what it took.

Then no regrets, no loose ends, no looking back, she could get on with her life for real.

Like it?  Buy it!

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