Friday, April 30, 2021

Promo Tour: Divorcing Atlanta by Timmothy McCann



DIVORCING ATLANTA BY TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

 

“(Until...) stands head and shoulders above the rest.” Eric Jerome Dickey, NY Times Bestselling Author

Pastor Lorenzo Richardson’s endeavors to fulfill the calling on his life—which is to change the world, one soul at a time, by starting in southwest Atlanta.

So when he loses people in his circle unexpectedly, the ministry he dedicated his life to fails, and his wife is embroiled in an adulterous public affair with a notable public figure. Pastor Richardson is at the end of his rope and decides to change the world he lives in forever.

Divorcing Atlanta is a moving yet timely account that will resonate with readers who believe in the unyielding power of redemption, choose love and hope over hurt and fear, and fight for what truly matters in their lives.

AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON

 
 

 

EXCERPT

 

CHAPTER ONE

LORENZO

After I preached the last sermon I’d ever deliver, I sat in my neon green, Honda Accord, with my dad’s Bible in one hand and a Glock 17 in the other, contemplating how to get away with a robbery. Soon, this gun will make me money, send me to prison or kill me. My once perfect life, has come down to this.

When the sun began its tiptoe across the horizon, there was nothing that triggered such a thought. When you realize that you’ve given your all—yet if you should die before you wake, no one would care; it’s a dark and solemn place to dwell. That’s where I find myself tonight. And after I reconciled the potential jail time due to what I’ve already done, at this point, it doesn’t matter.

I delivered the shortest sermon I'd ever preached. I’m sure the sixteen people in the storefront church appreciated it. Seventeen, if you counted the pregnant white girl twice. It’s hard to minister on fumes. When you’re worried about the here and now, it’s damn near impossible to expound about the hereafter. I’m full in spirit, but in every single other way, I'm empty.

What does abject hunger feel like?

When you’ve gone a week without a decent meal. When starvation trickles up your spine. When it plays tricks on your mind, you hallucinate. Bones appear in your face, in places you’ve never seen before. Instinct compels you to lick your lips for comfort from time-to-time, and before your tongue can settle in your mouth, your lips are dry and need to be re-licked. Then the cramps kick in. That's abject hunger.

You try to go to sleep. Because if you can just go to sleep, maybe you can find rest. You can find peace. You can awaken and things will be different. But you can’t.

After the church service, I did something my dad would’ve called a moral turpitude. I bought a four pack of wine coolers. I did so to escape—if only for the moment. All I know is this: When you’ve worked this hard to build a church, to be recognized for your endeavors nationally, it’s not supposed to end this way. I wasn’t supposed to be destitute at this point in my life. Wasn’t supposed to lose my congregation the way I lost them—and I wasn’t supposed to be contemplating the unthinkable in this hour.

The wind acts as an accelerant, which causes the clouds to roll. The taste of the earth floats on the air, and before I know it, soft sprinkles dot my skin. There’s a zing that teases my nostrils in the darkness of night, in a city bustling with activity—far from ready to fall asleep. An Über crammed with co-eds stops. They spill out.  They’re laughing, half lit; enjoying the first vestiges of a new day.

From a window on the fifth floor, a man screeches profanity at the top of his lungs to a group of young men sitting in their car blasting music.

“Turn that shit down! People gotta go to work.”

He’s ignored, and even if they heard him, they knew he’d never come down. People never come down in neighborhoods like this. They scream, pout, and go back to bed.

If one painted a picture and dubbed it, “Monday Night in Atlanta,” this is what would be captured in the frame. From my viewpoint I see the best and worst of Black America. Morehouse men talking to dope boys. Pinstriped professionals stepping over vomit. Everything one could both love and loathe is confined within three city blocks of a city that will let you call her ugly because she’s far too confident to care. If you closed your eyes in this part of town, you would feel so close to heaven you could hear the key of David being played, so close to hell you’d smell souls frying.

This is where I find myself tonight.

On one side of MLK, there’s a mural of Trayvon, George, Breonna and Ahmaud. The artist has added Rayshard’s smiling face, along with three additional blank spaces and the caption, “U Next?” beneath them. On the other side, twinkles of moonlight shine on crushed takeout cups, Colt 45 cans, and discarded Swisher Sweets wrappers. There’s a homeless man or woman sleeping at the bus stop, and the scent of vomit swings haltingly low to the ground.

I decide if I am going to do this—I need to game it out. In the age of Corona everyone’s face is half-covered, so there’s no need for a ski mask. Check.

I have a Walmart bag for whatever is in the register or stashed behind the counter. Check.

Once I’m out the door, I’ll jump in the car. Then it occurs to me. My car is disabled as well. Plan B—dip into the night and deal with it later. Check.

I’m told that in neighborhoods like this, for insurance purposes, they can’t chase you. If you have a gun and get out the door, they have to let you run.

God, I pray that’s true.

I massage the back of my neck, bite the inside of my lip, reach between the center console of the car, and retrieve a keepsake from my youth—a Kingsman chess piece from my first national chess tournament. I was ranked in the top two hundred players under thirteen. I hold it to reconnect. It takes me back to the south side. But on nights like tonight, I need it for peace. There’s something about the ridges of the crown and the smooth black finish of the base that centers me and forces me to think strategically. It binds the intellectual, spiritual, and emotional man within. Never have I needed this more.

My throat is bone dry in spite of my beverage of choice. I glance at my watch, put the Bible in the back seat, and cover it with my hand.

“Father forgive me,” I murmur, “for what I’m about to do.”

I look across the street. My heartbeat settles. My breathing returns to normal. The king has done its job. I return the chessman to the console. Through clenched teeth I murmur, “It’s time.”

Across the street is the world-famous Busy Bee Café. Next to it, there’s a liquor store, followed by a pawn shop, liquor store, nail salon, comedy club, liquor store and strip club. All except for the Busy Bee are open for business. I know if I pull a gun out in a pawn shop, booty club, or liquor store, light will shine through me before I hit the ground. That leaves two options: rob the comedy club or rob a nail salon.

I exit the car. I hold the half empty wine cooler in the same sweaty and unstable hand I hold the Glock. To balance myself, I lean against my wet-from-the-rain Accord for support. It’s slippery, but it allows me to gain my composure and stop my spinning world. I’m a tad nauseous. Since I haven’t eaten, I dry heave. My body isn’t used to alcohol, even under normal conditions. Nevertheless, I wipe the creases of my mouth and stick the gun in the pit of my back under my belt as if I were on a cop show. Maybe it’s my situation. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I don’t have a clue as to where I’m going, even if I can get my feet on one accord.

I stagger across the street and see this athletic-looking woman, no more than thirty years old. I blink a couple of times to refocus. She has a high sense of style, making her stand out in the neighborhood this time of night. As she speaks, she moves her hands rapidly and snaps her fingertips from time to time to emphasize a point. Her shoulder-length hair is in what the kids call dookie braids, and she’s dressed in a white pantsuit with a white double-breasted vest and a leopard-patterned ascot and face mask. 

The woman turns the street into a runway in Milan as she moves like a model in white stilettos. I watch her walk up to a black Audi, pull down the mask, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, they make an exchange. Newsflash: All drugstores haven’t been closed by the virus. She runs to the safety of her pearl white Escalade, forearm over her head to avoid getting too wet. Even though the vehicle is common in this part of Atlanta—there’s something eerily familiar about it as she gets behind the wheel and swiftly closes the door.

The comedy club, Laff-a-LotZ, is free. There’s a line to enter with a group, all wearing red Trap Music museum t-shirts and talking loudly about their visit to “The A.T.L..” If I rob the comedy club, I’ll keep it short and to the point. I’ll just tell him or her, “You know what time it is!” Then I’ll place the gun on the bar. Miss Glock can finish the conversation.

I join the line to enter. For as far as I can see down the street, trees line the road on both sides. For the most part, they’ve grown strong and healthy in the middle of this concrete jungle. I lean against one in front of the club to take shelter from the drizzling rain.

Once inside the small rectangular club, I notice the deep purple–colored walls are checkerboard with mirrors. People are talking loudly, most mouths covered with masks, trying to be heard over the thumping sound of the Mississippi Slide blasting from the speakers, which makes the walls throb. The dance floor is filled with the vibrant energy of line dancers moving as one as if they have practiced the synchronized moves before the club opened. A few people, for some reason, wear their protective masks under their nose, which makes no sense to me. I reach into my pocket and put on my KN-95 to the sound of bottles clicking and laughter all about, just before the comedian comes to the small octagonal stage off the dance floor.

It’s been months since I've been around this many people. Tonight, folks laugh a little louder and dance a little harder since it’s the first week A.T.L’ians have been allowed to mingle after the citywide mandatory, night club restrictions. On top of that it seems folks are tired of the daily Trump foolishness, fake evangelicals calling sins wins, Sou-sou money clubs, police killing Black men, gaining weight, R. Kelly, COVID killing everyone, gaining weight, Karen’s going wild, Kevin’s protecting Karen’s, home schooling, missing family, sweat pants, seeing too much of family, Zoom calls, looking for toilet paper, gaining even more weight and then going to sleep; and like Ground Hog Day II, having it happen the very next day.

I’m cold and damp from the rain, so I embrace myself, moving my hands up and down my biceps for warmth. I scope out the joint. That’s what they do on TV. If I make this lick and get to the door, I’ll be able to survive until I can sell another house. This has to work out.

In the murky, dimly lit back of the room, in front of a faded poster of Killer Mike, a woman is selling neon red, battery-powered roses. She moves from person to person and is rejected repeatedly. I watch her unmasked face mouth a few words, receive the rejection, and move doggedly to the next person, unfazed.

The bartender puts a stack of bills as thick as a woman’s fist in a bag. He has my attention. He tucks it in a spot behind the bar. That’s the stash house. Yeah, I used to watch The Wire.

When I move, I notice my reflection in the mirror and it’s jarring. One thing I miss about having a home is brushing my teeth in the morning. Odd, right? It’s not only about hygiene. I miss seeing my face. When your car has become your residence, there are times you forget how you look. Now my face is gaunt, and my clothes don’t fit. My eye is a puffy, but not as bad as I thought it would look. Could have been a lot worse.

When we started the church, which my ex named Compassion Central, my light brown skin—the residue of my deceased Italian father—was smooth. Now it resembles a catcher’s mitt, and my curly COVID fro is salt and pepper, in the spots where I’m not going bald. The soaking wet brown tweed, six-hundred-dollar Hugo Boss sport coat I’m wearing, brings to mind something homeless people would roll up to use as a pillow.

No wonder Bishop said he was praying for me after giving me a five dollar, “love token,” from the offering.

“Screw forty-two, I look fifty-two,” I whisper to myself with a wistful smile. My hazel eyes, which at one time would evoke questions from strangers, “Are they real?” are empty, sullen, and emit darkness. People used to ask me if I had work done on my teeth. I always replied, “I’m blessed.” Now the blessings are dingy and yellow, and when I scratch my beard, flakes of dandruff eject like an eight-track. If a person in this club knew me from when the church was open, they’d walk past without saying a word. That wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen tonight.

I find a stool at the bar, closer to my target—the stash house. A guy one seat over motions to the bartender with two fingers and a jerk of his head upward just like in the movies. Within a few minutes, the bartender, brings out two shimmering drinks. The woman selling neon roses is drawing closer. I didn’t notice her make a sale, but she’s persistent.

The guy who ordered the drinks wears a red doo rag under a spearmint green derby and has a crooked smile that exposes teeth on only one side of his mouth. From time to time, he whispers into the ear of the woman perched between his legs then leans back to peep her expression. She appears to admire every word he’s speaking.

The woman with the roses comes up to him. I can hear her pitch. “Excuse me, kind sir. Rose for the lady?”

He flicks her away with the back of his tattooed hand. And then the woman positioned between his legs removes her mask to sip the drink when he suddenly shouts, “What the fuck!” He pushes her away in disgust as if he has seen her unmasked face for the first time.

“What?” she asks. The bartender drops another thick, rubber-banded stack of bills in the burgundy bank bag. He’s getting sloppy.

The patrons banter back and forth, and my mind is on one thing. Like a heavy-handed timpani player, my heart pounds in my chest as I bounce my fist against my knee. The fact that I’m here, in this situation and facing such a dilemma is abhorrent. Can’t dwell on that now. I'm down to my last—and I’ll do what I have to do.

Slowly I stand.

The bartender walks behind the shelf of drinks and into a storage room behind him. I played basketball in high school. Even at my height I could easily jump across the bar, grab the bag, and run out. There’s no way they’d fire a gun in a club this crowded. No flipping way.

I grasp the edge of the bar and steady myself. Then, the voice poses the question.

“Just because you don’t understand, this is what we’re going to do?”

I look back toward the door. The one bouncer is on the other side of the room and although crowded there’s, there is a path to get out of here.

I bend my knees.

 
 
 

ABOUT TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN




Timmothy B. McCann was born to tell stories. What began as penning love letters for a fee, grew into his national bestselling debut entitled, Until. Since then, he has amassed an insatiable and dedicated worldwide readership.

The former collegiate football player, educator, and owner of a financial planning firm is now a commercial real estate broker. In 2018, he founded First Day Christian Center. A ministry dedicated to helping those in need in Atlanta.

In his downtime, Timmothy is a self-proclaimed political junkie, golfer, movie buff and community activist who also loves spending time with the two most adorable grandchildren in the world.

Promo Tour: The Road to Rose Bend by Namia Simone



THE ROAD TO ROSE BEND BY NAIMA SIMONE

If it was only about her, she might never have come back to Rose Bend.
But it’s not only about her anymore.


Sydney Collins left the small Berkshires town of Rose Bend eight years ago, grieving her sister’s death—and heartbroken over her parents’ rejection. But now the rebel is back—newly divorced and pregnant—ready to face her fears and make a home for her child in the caring community she once knew. The last thing she needs is trouble. But trouble just set her body on fire with one hot, hot smile.

Widower and Rose Bend mayor Coltrane Dennison hasn’t smiled in ages. Until a chance run-in with Sydney Collins, who’s all grown-up and making him want what he knows he can’t have. Grief is his only connection to the wife and son he lost, and he won’t give it up. Not for Sydney, not for her child, not for his heart. But when Sydney’s ex threatens to upend everything she’s rebuilt in Rose Bend, Cole and Sydney may find that a little trouble will take them where they never expected to go.

 

NOW AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | GOOGLE | AUDIBLE

 


ADD ON GOODREADS

ADD TO WISHLIST ON BOOKBUB

 
 
 

EXCERPT

A flutter. Like the softest brush of a butterfly’s wing against the wall of her belly. Sydney had felt it. Unlike the heat in Cole’s gaze, she hadn’t imagined it…right?

She stiffened, going still. Not even daring to breathe.

“Sydney?” Cole leaned forward, the concern coating his voice etched into the frown darkening his expression. “Baby girl, are you okay?” He settled a hand just above her knee, studying her. “What’s wrong? Is it the—”

She shook her head, not even concentrating on his murmured “baby girl” or how damn sexy that was. No, every bit of her focused on her body, on feeling that sweet sensation again. But, after several heartbeats, nothing. Disappointment rippled through her. Dr. Prioleau had assured her everything was okay, that this milestone in her pregnancy could come later. Still…

She stifled a sigh. “I’m good. I just thought—oh shit!” She pressed both of her palms to the slight swell of her stomach, eyes stretched so wide the skin pinched at the corners. Joy, indescribable joy, surged within her, pressing against her chest, her throat. And love. Jesus, how could she possibly love so much that her body almost seemed incapable of containing it? “I knew it! The baby. The baby just moved. Oh my God. Feel it!”

Without thinking, she grasped Cole’s wrist and lifted his hand from her leg and planted it over her belly. Only when his long fingers splayed wide over her did the impact of her impetuous actions slam into her.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, Cole. I’m so sorry,” she breathed, nearly shoving his hand away in her haste to undo the harm she might’ve unintentionally caused in her excitement. “I wasn’t thinking.”

His body had gone as still as the statue of W.E.B. DuBois outside of city hall. She couldn’t detect the whisper of a breath or the rise and fall of his chest. But his eyes. Jesus, his eyes. They flared wide, as if deep within the cage his body had become, he’d plummeted into a full-blown panic attack. And the amber depths swirled with so much pain, so much grief, that she couldn’t contain her gasp.

It could’ve been that soft sound that snapped him from his paralysis.

Cole slowly tipped his head down and inspected the hand she’d tossed aside as if it were a separate entity from his body. His fingers curled into a tight fist against the cushion. Then, slowly, he stretched them out.

And raised his arm until his palm hovered over her stomach.

“I’m…” He paused, swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his strong throat. “Can I?” he whispered.

The request sounded as if it’d passed through ten pounds of chewed-up gravel before it emerged, rough, jagged and worn. As if he asked, not because he truly wanted to touch her—touch the place where her unborn child lay—but more so to prove a point. Prove that he could.

And because of the almost grim determination in the clench of his jaw and in his pain-drenched golden eyes, she took his trembling hand and guided it to her belly.

Once more, his big hand spanned the length of her.

And once more, as if greeting him, or maybe even congratulating him for his bravery, her baby moved.

 
 
 

ENTER TO WIN

  • A cute “diaper bag”/tote bag

  • A signed hard cover copy of THE ROAD TO ROSE BEND

  • $20 Amazon gift card

  • Signed paperback copies of BACK IN THE TEXAN’S BED, VOWS IN NAME ONLY, TRUST FUND FIANCE, RUTHLESS PRIDE, THE BILLIONAIRE’S BARGAIN, BLACK TIE BILLIONAIRE and BLAME IT ON THE BILLIONAIRE

  • Journal and pen

  • Coffee and coffee cup

  • Book-themed necklace

CLICK HERE

 
 
 

ABOUT NAIMA SIMONE

Published since 2009, USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone loves writing sizzling romances with heart, a touch of humor and snark. Her books have been featured in The Washington Post and Entertainment Weekly, and described as balancing “crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters caught in emotional turmoil.”

She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.

 
 
 

Tuesday, April 27, 2021


THE ROAD TO ROSE BEND BY NAIMA SIMONE

If it was only about her, she might never have come back to Rose Bend.
But it’s not only about her anymore.


Sydney Collins left the small Berkshires town of Rose Bend eight years ago, grieving her sister’s death—and heartbroken over her parents’ rejection. But now the rebel is back—newly divorced and pregnant—ready to face her fears and make a home for her child in the caring community she once knew. The last thing she needs is trouble. But trouble just set her body on fire with one hot, hot smile.

Widower and Rose Bend mayor Coltrane Dennison hasn’t smiled in ages. Until a chance run-in with Sydney Collins, who’s all grown-up and making him want what he knows he can’t have. Grief is his only connection to the wife and son he lost, and he won’t give it up. Not for Sydney, not for her child, not for his heart. But when Sydney’s ex threatens to upend everything she’s rebuilt in Rose Bend, Cole and Sydney may find that a little trouble will take them where they never expected to go.

 

NOW AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | GOOGLE | AUDIBLE


 

ADD ON GOODREADS

ADD TO WISHLIST ON BOOKBUB

 
 
 

ENTER TO WIN

  • A cute “diaper bag”/tote bag

  • A signed hard cover copy of THE ROAD TO ROSE BEND

  • $20 Amazon gift card

  • Signed paperback copies of BACK IN THE TEXAN’S BED, VOWS IN NAME ONLY, TRUST FUND FIANCE, RUTHLESS PRIDE, THE BILLIONAIRE’S BARGAIN, BLACK TIE BILLIONAIRE and BLAME IT ON THE BILLIONAIRE

  • Journal and pen

  • Coffee and coffee cup

  • Book-themed necklace

CLICK HERE

 
 
 

ABOUT NAIMA SIMONE

Published since 2009, USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone loves writing sizzling romances with heart, a touch of humor and snark. Her books have been featured in The Washington Post and Entertainment Weekly, and described as balancing “crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters caught in emotional turmoil.”

She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.

 
 
 

Friday, April 23, 2021

When The Smoke Clears by C. Chilove Book Tour


WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARS BY C. CHILOVE

Lieutenant Colonel Brenden Jasper lives a life of secrets, danger, and clandestine missions. As commander of the most elite Black Ops unit in the world, nothing is more important to him than protecting the country he loves. But there’s a reason only the toughest, battle-tested, alpha men can call themselves members of the Black 2131 brotherhood. None but those in the highest realms of government even know of its existence, and it's Brenden's job to avoid emotional entanglements so he can keep it that way. Dr. Paige Nichols has spent her life ruled by logic and reason, teaching and analyzing art history, so nothing could have prepared her for the completely overwhelming attraction-at-first-sight when she sets eyes on Brenden. Their chance encounter at a party opens her up to a tantalizing dark side she never knew she had—and leaves her wanting so much more. But a man with a dark side often comes with way too many secrets…ones that could put her life in danger. Though their chemistry burns hotter than ever, when danger comes knocking on Paige’s door, Brenden will have to walk a fine line between duty, honor, and love.

 


AVAILABLE ON
AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | ENTANGLED

 

ADD ON GOODREADS

 
 
 

EXCERPT

“Are you done hiding from me?” The smooth tenor jumpstarted her heart. 

Paige whipped around to see Brenden leaning in the door frame. A smile curved his lips as she struggled through heavy breaths. “Hi… Hiding from you?” She gulped down a mixture of fear and excitement as butterflies began dancing in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she wanted them to stop because at least the fluttery feeling confirmed she wasn’t dreaming.

He slid his hands into his pockets while his eyes intently scanned her face as if he were committing every inch to memory. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you Happy New Year.”

A flush crept along her neck before stinging her cheeks. She peeked up, afraid of how the energy in her body was responding to Brenden. “Ditto,” she muttered. “Happy New Year! I guess chivalry does exist.”

He shrugged and began moving towards her. Face to face, he looked upon her, again studying her like a work of art. “Not sure if the thoughts I’m having of you would be deemed chivalrous, Paige.”

She felt her mouth form a little “o” while her heartbeat triple timed. The sincerity etched across Brenden’s face and the want laced within his husky voice began casting a spell, unraveling inhibitions she’d clung to for fear of failure or rejection. 

“Why are you here by yourself?” He shifted his gaze beyond her to the ocean before taking a few steps to claim the space at the balcony rail.

“I could ask you the same,” she replied before returning to her place along the rail that was now a few feet from the sexiest man alive. 

“True, but I suppose neither of us wants to share what we’d rather forget.”

Paige nodded. How did he know? She’d been trying to forget for the last twenty years. And now, seeing the sliver of tension twitch at Brenden’s jaw, it made her curious to learn what he wanted to forget.

“Forget?” she asked out loud, and not on purpose.

He faced her. Sweet Jesus, the man’s eyes could read a girl’s soul and betray her most private thoughts. “Don’t you want to?” 

Something in him whispered to her deepest, darkest desires. Her body slowly began overriding her mind. “How?” she asked, desperate for her next breath. She then swallowed an inhale and reached up, pushing strands of his tousled hair from his face. 

Brenden stepped in, closing the distance between them. He looked down into her eyes, lowered his head, and brushed his lips across hers. His fingers threaded the strands of her hair before he tilted her neck and pressed his lips to her bouncing pulse. 

Her breaths became more unpredictable, fueling the sharpening ache between her legs that halted rational contemplation. Mind versus body. Never before had she been uncertain of which would win.

Another stuttering breath escaped her lips, and her eyes closed as Brenden’s teeth sank into her skin. “Mmmm…feels good.” 

“Tastes good.” His body pressed harder against hers. “And now you know my most indecent thoughts.”

 
 
 

ENTER TO WIN

$15 Amazon Gift Card

CLICK HERE

 
 
 

ABOUT C. CHILOVE

C. Chilove is the current Secretary for Romance Writers of America (RWA) and past President of CIMRWA. She is a southern girl writing sexy, thought-provoking romance that explores the human condition while proving love transcends societal clichés. Her characters are strong, witty, and prove that diversity is beautiful. When she's not writing, she's living out her personal happily-ever-after by rockin’ the stands for her Volleyball star, cheering on her future MLB slugger, or celebrating date night with her hubby.

 
 
 

CONNECT WITH C. CHILOVE

AUTHOR SITETWITTER | INSTAGRAM | PINTEREST | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

Tuesday, April 20, 2021

Release Day Tour: Divorcing Atlanta by Timmothy McCann p




DIVORCING ATLANTA BY TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

 


“(Until...) stands head and shoulders above the rest.” Eric Jerome Dickey, NY Times Bestselling Author

Pastor Lorenzo Richardson’s endeavors to fulfill the calling on his life—which is to change the world, one soul at a time, by starting in southwest Atlanta.

So when he loses people in his circle unexpectedly, the ministry he dedicated his life to fails, and his wife is embroiled in an adulterous public affair with a notable public figure. Pastor Richardson is at the end of his rope and decides to change the world he lives in forever.

Divorcing Atlanta is a moving yet timely account that will resonate with readers who believe in the unyielding power of redemption, choose love and hope over hurt and fear, and fight for what truly matters in their lives.

AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON

 

 
 

ABOUT TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

Timmothy B. McCann was born to tell stories. What began as penning love letters for a fee, grew into his national bestselling debut entitled, Until. Since then, he has amassed an insatiable and dedicated worldwide readership.

The former collegiate football player, educator, and owner of a financial planning firm is now a commercial real estate broker. In 2018, he founded First Day Christian Center. A ministry dedicated to helping those in need in Atlanta.

In his downtime, Timmothy is a self-proclaimed political junkie, golfer, movie buff and community activist who also loves spending time with the two most adorable grandchildren in the world.

 

Friday, April 16, 2021

Cover Reveal: Secrets of A One Night Stand by Namia Simone

SECRETS OF A ONE NIGHT STAND
BY NAIMA SIMONE

Book 2, Billionaires of Boston

She said yes to one night with a stranger… Now she’s pregnant and that stranger is her boss! Only in this Billionaires of Boston romance from USA TODAY bestselling author Naima Simone.

She told herself it was one night. Nothin

But her heart knew the truth…

Finding out her previous one-night fling is her new boss is the shock of Mycah Hill’s lifetime. She can’t say no to being VP for software CEO Achilles Farrell—she’s finally made her career dream come true. But knowing he’s so close… It’s only a matter of time before she’s back in his arms. It can’t end well. Achilles’s tortured family history means he’s not up for sticking around long-term. But Mycah’s surprise pregnancy is about to change everything…

From Harlequin Desire: Luxury, scandal, desire—welcome to the lives of the American elite.

Coming August 24th




PREORDER ON

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | HARLEQUIN

 

ADD ON GOODREADS

 

Friday, April 9, 2021

Book Promo Tour: Consequences of Passion by Yahrah St. John


CONSEQUENCES OF PASSION BY YAHRAH ST. JOHN

She promised herself just one night of passion with her best friend’s brother, but what happens next? Find out in this explosive launch to the Locketts of Tuxedo Park series from Yahrah St. John!

When a winning bachelor bid leads to unexpected consequences…

Psychologist Shantel Wilson surprises herself by attending a bachelor auction as a favor to her friend—and bidding on his older brother! The outcome of her steamy night with Roman Lockett, heir apparent to an Atlanta football dynasty? She’s expecting. Now Roman wants to claim her—and his child—yet Shantel needs more than a marriage of convenience from this man who put passion in her playbook…

From Harlequin Desire: Luxury, scandal, desire—welcome to the lives of the American elite.

Love triumphs in this uplifting romance, part of the new Locketts of Tuxedo Park series.

 

AVAILABLE ON

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | APPLE | KOBO | GOOGLE | HARLEQUIN


 

ADD ON GOODREADS

 
 
 
 
 

ENTER TO WIN



One of three signed copies of Consequences of Passion!

CLICK HERE

 
 
 

EXCERPT

Roman Lockett was bored already.

Why had he let his sister, Giana, convince him to attend this bachelor auction benefitting a cure for multiple sclerosis on a Saturday night? Because as the baby girl of the family, anytime she looked at him with those big brown eyes of hers, he was helpless to resist.

Roman’s mind, however, was still on the tense meeting he’d had yesterday. As chief operating officer and director of player personnel of the Atlanta Cougars football franchise, it was Roman’s job to handle all major player contract concerns. And securing DeMarius Johnson, the team’s star quarterback, was high on not only his list but his father, Josiah Lockett’s, the Atlanta Cougars owner and general manager.

Because of his impending fee agency, negotiations with DeMarius had dragged on for months. His father thought Roman incapable of finishing the deal, but Roman had come to the table prepared for battle. They’d had to void the final two years of DeMarius’s contract, allowing the Cougars to resign him while maintaining the league’s salary cap. It had been risky because it was already late January. However, Roman had known allowing him to become a free agent would be problematic and so he’d adapted the contract based on market factors.

Roman hoped his father would be proud of the win under his belt. He had been on a success streak in recent years with the talent he’d brought to the Cougars team. As a result, they were ranked fifth in the league and Roman had played a big role in that. Yet despite all his successes, his father never gave him his due. Because Roman was the oldest, Josiah Lockett was harder on him than on his younger siblings, Julian, Giana and Xavier.

He stood on the outer fringes of the vast oval-shaped ballroom with crystal chandeliers and white drapery and surveyed the elegantly dressed men and women. He caught a glimpse of Giana making the rounds to get everyone psyched up for the evening. She wore a one-shouldered canary yellow gown with a stunning diamond necklace. Her jet-black hair had been artfully cut shoulder-length with bangs. It was a different look for her, but she wore it well. Meanwhile, most of the men were shamelessly flirting in the hopes women would bid outrageously on them. Roman, however, didn’t need to work the room.

He was Roman Lockett and every woman in Atlanta knew he was heir apparent to the Atlanta Cougars franchise. And if they seemed not to, they were faking it. His parents had been a major presence in the community for three decades. He’d already been approached by several beautiful women who’d made blatant attempts at seduction, and when that didn’t work, they’d resorted to pouting or affected hurt, all in an effort to gain his attention. But tonight, none of them held any appeal.

Roman had no idea how he was going to make it through the rest of the night. Let alone a date with one of these insipid women. Until he saw her.

A caramel-skinned beauty in a blush-colored gown with spaghetti straps. It wasn’t as elaborate as some of the confections he’d seen other women in tonight, showing off their God-given assets. Instead, it might be considered modest. Then she spun away and Roman saw the dress plunged to a curvy bottom, leaving her back bare save for a skinny piece of fabric holding the straps together.

For the first time tonight, Roman was intrigued. She looked oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Who is she? He had to know. He began wandering across the ballroom toward her, but was stopped by another bevy of beauties. When he finally managed to extricate himself from their clutches, Roman couldn’t find her.

His nose flared. She might be the woman he wouldn’t mind spending time with at the end of the evening. He prayed she would come back because only she could transform this night from being an abysmal failure.

Shantel Wilson was impressed with the image she presented. With her job as a psychiatrist she didn’t often get a chance to dress up for a fancy night out on the town. Her best friend, Julian Lockett, had begged her to come and bid on him at the bachelor auction so he didn’t take home some unsuspecting female.

“C’mon,” Julian had cajoled. “I need your help. After that unflattering article about my dating life, my mother is furious with me. She warned me she wouldn’t tolerate any more shenanigans and I agreed to keep a low pro- file. If you attend, she’ll know I’m keeping my promise.”

“I don’t have anything to wear to something that fancy.” Shantel had used any excuse she could to get out of the event. Her wardrobe was comprised of slacks, silk blouses and the occasional skirt.

“Don’t worry about that. I know some fancy boutiques in Buckhead.”

Shantel had rolled her eyes. “I’m not one of your girls, Julian. I can buy my own clothes.”

“I know that, but trust me, it will help make you feel more comfortable hob knobbing with the upper crust if you’re in a killer dress.”

Famous last words, Shantel thought.

And so she’d gone to the high-end boutique Julian suggested and hadn’t been disappointed. The sales women had been eager to help, especially when she mentioned she was attending the Lockett charity gala. They’d shown her dresses in all shapes and price tags in the hopes she’d choose the most exorbitant one. Instead, she’d opted for a simple blush dress in silk chiffon, which she could afford with her salary from the practice.

Shantel liked the way it hugged her slender curves, and with the built-in bra, she’d been able to forgo a bra thanks to her barely B-cup-size breasts. The sales clerk insisted she needed lingerie, four-inch stilettos to boost her five-four height and a clutch to finish her look. In the end, Shantel purchased the entire ensemble. Tonight she felt like Cinderella, except she wouldn’t be losing her slipper. The shoes alone cost eight hundred dollars.

She was perusing the room when her eyes caught sight of Roman Lockett. The eldest brother of the Lockett clan was tall with a commanding presence. He wore what was no doubt a custom-fit tuxedo like a suit of armor. A veneer of power clung to his athletic frame. To Shantel he was like no other man she’d ever encountered, but Roman never paid any attention to her on the few occasions she’d been in his presence.

Tonight he was clearly bored with his surroundings if the jaded expression on his face was anything to go by. Had he been coerced into attending tonight’s event? And where was Julian, anyway? He’d begged her to come tonight and bid on him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Her idea of a fun Saturday night was a hot bath, a glass of wine and streaming a Netflix movie, but when Julian had pleaded with her, she’d been powerless to resist. Ever since they met at a college party ten years ago, their friendship had been grounded in love and affection. Julian had been attending Morehouse while she’d been at Spelman. Their friendship endured her mother’s suicide and Julian’s many love affairs, but that didn’t mean he didn’t vex her.

Shantel stepped out of the ballroom, pulled her phone from her clutch and texted Julian.

Where are you?

She waited and saw three dots on her iPhone indicating he was typing a message, but then the text bubble went away. She was certain Julian had read her message, so why wasn’t he responding? There was no way she would have come tonight if it wasn’t for him. Large social gatherings weren’t really her thing. She thrived in one-on-one interactions. She supposed it was why she was so good at her job.

Having been raised on the farm and being a nerd, she’d always been socially awkward. College had been eye-opening for a simple country girl like Shantel. She’d been raised in a town where everyone knew each other, but in college she hadn’t understood the rules or the games people played. Sometimes Shantel wondered if she’d made the right choice and whether she’d ever find a man who truly got her.

She was so deep in thought, Shantel didn’t realize she had company until she looked upward and found Roman’s ebony eyes trained on her.

 
 
 

ABOUT YAHRAH ST. JOHN

Yahrah St. John became a writer at the age of twelve when she wrote her first novella after secretly reading a Harlequin romance. Throughout her teens, she penned a total of twenty novellas. Her love of the craft continued into adulthood. She’s the proud author of thirty-nine books with Arabesque, Kimani Romance and Harlequin Desire as well as her own indie works.  

When she’s not at home crafting one of her spicy romances with compelling heroes and feisty heroines with a dash of family drama, she is gourmet cooking or traveling the globe seeking out her next adventure. For more info: www.yahrahstjohn.com or find her on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Bookbub or Goodreads.

 
 

 

CONNECT WITH YAHRAH ST. JOHN

AUTHOR SITE | FACEBOOKTWITTER | INSTAGRAMNEWSLETTER | PINTEREST | YOUTUBE | BOOKBUB | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE



My Review
First thing, I loved how much melanin was on the couple on the cover.  It was really refreshing to see that.  I loved the chemistry between Shantel and Roman.  I especially loved how Shantel stood her ground and did not allow anyone to force her to be the only one compromising.  The pace and flow of the story was great, and I didn't want to put the book down.  The only reason I did is I was a little worn and wanted to make sure I was wide awake to finish so I didn't miss anything.  This was such a good book, and I am so ready for the next book in the series.  And I appreciated the fact that both of them didn't have normal careers that many romance stories have between the main characters.  The Drama was off the chain.  I didn't realize how much I could hate a character until I met Roman's Father, Julian.  Great job with the story.