Title: Stealing Home
Series: St. Michaels Duet #2
Author: Harlow Cole
Genre: Contemporary Sports Romance
Release Date: August 1, 2019
Blurb
Ashley
I’ve given up. On my childish dreams.
On getting out of this town. On love. On him.
On everything.
I’m barely treading water.
Brayden
I’m the man with it all.
The pinstriped jersey covering my back garners easy cash, flashy cars and
fast women. My gilded name drapes over the city in neon. I have everything.
Everything, except the thing I crave most. Ashley Foster.
There’s one addiction I never tried to beat.
They say you can never go home again. I’m out to prove them wrong. But
what if returning requires facing all the things you destroyed? To what lengths
would you go to earn forgiveness?
Would you beg? Would you borrow? Would you steal?
Stealing home is the riskiest move in baseball. But the reward... If it
works? Winning her back is a chance I’m finally ready to take.
My pockets are filled with stars.
It’s time to follow them home.
This
time, I don’t want to steal her firsts,
I want
to lay claim on all her lasts.
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Excerpt
I pumped
the gas pedal a half-dozen times, trying to will the thing back to life, as I
coasted to the gravel shoulder on the side of the road. I slumped forward,
resting my forearms and brow against the oversized steering wheel, locked
inside disbelief of the shittiest luck possible. I’d become one of those
blow-up punching dolls with the sand in the bottom. The kind fists keep
pummeling ’cause the stupid thing never has the sense to stay down.
Begrudgingly,
I popped the hood release and hopped down out of the cab. I had no clue how to
diagnose the problem, but broken-down suckers on the roadside always pretend to
look at the engine.
I played
along.
Stepping up
onto the rusted front bumper, I stared at the pile of dirty metal while
daydreaming about tossing a match inside and walking away. At least bending
over under the hood shielded part of me from the rain.
The sound
of tires crunching through the gravel behind the truck brought a sigh of sweet
relief. I looked back up at the heavens and felt bad for not trusting my angel
to send help. Jumping down from my perch on the bumper, I brushed my hands down
the front of my khaki shorts as I rounded the front of the cab to call out to
my hero. Cruel disbelief blossomed in the back of my throat.
“You’ve got
to be shitting me. This is not happening.”
He’s still in town?
It had been
almost a week. A week of trying to make myself believe our run-in at Foxy’s was
just another bad dream. Six freaking days of convincing myself life couldn’t
possibly be that cruel. I’d avoided the town gossip machine buzzing furiously
about his sudden return. But no one else would drive that car. It looked like
money on wheels. The black paint and sleek lines made my truck’s chipped blue
exterior and scratched marina logo look even more pathetic. Some folks in St.
Michaels had seen a Maserati.
Nobody in
town drove one.
Certainly
not one with New York plates.
I lifted my
face to the rain, letting it wash away my urge to cry, as the driver’s side
door popped open, and my worst day of the week took a turn for my worst day ever. He was dressed casually in a pair
of shiny black athletic shorts and a plain gray sweatshirt, slightly frayed
across the bottom hem by time and fondness. The hood bunched up around his
neck, framing the sharp jawline that sported thick, dark scruff.
Brayden
Ross turned gym-rat attire into the costume of a sex god.
He suffered
from that strange anomaly that saddled people with fame and fortune. As a
little girl, I’d seen it in his father and his father’s friends. They seemed
crisper around the edges or something. Like brand-new bills freshly spit from
the ATM instead of crumpled dollars that spent life stuffed in back pockets and
sweaty bras.
He didn’t
walk toward me; he prowled.
Slow and
steady with this sexy gait that deserved its own theme music.
The rain
didn’t even try to touch him.
This second
sighting didn’t level the same sucker punch. More like a queasy dysphoria. A
bad case of déjà vu that punctured skin and vein. Half of me wanted to run,
throw my arms around his waist, and hold on for dear life. The other half
wanted to put my hands around his neck and squeeze hard.
Also Available
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Author Bio
Harlow Cole
is a former journalism student, turned techie, turned mother, who finally
decided at age forty-plus what she wants to be if she ever she grows up. Her
writing journey first began in sixth grade, when she and her best friend penned
boy band fanfiction in an old spiral notebook. Harlow is a connoisseur of
peanut M&Ms, brand-new school supplies and angst-filled love stories that
always end happy. At fifteen, she met her first love. They’ve now been married
for twenty years. They reside in suburban Washington, DC, where Harlow
moonlights as a taxi driver for their farting beagle and teenage twins. Interference
and Stealing Home are her debut novels.
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