Thursday, January 24, 2019

My Kind of Forever - Exclusive Excerpt


Giveaway Alert!

Title: My Kind of Forever
Author: Tracy Brogan
Release Date: January 22, 2019
Publisher: Montlake Romance

As the youngest mayor Trillium Bay has ever elected, Brooke Callaghan wants to prove she’s up to the challenge. She’s stepping out of her practical teacher flats and into her sister’s treacherously high heels…with disastrous results. But if she’s going to (literally) stumble her first day on the job, why not fall into the arms of a handsome stranger?

Leo Walker is a rarity on Wenniway Island. Not only handsome, he’s also single, funny, and—most importantly—interested in Brooke. Unfortunately, his reasons for being on the island are temporary, so in spite of the undeniable chemistry between them, he’s not a forever kind of guy.

When a private investigator arrives with news of a jewel thief hiding on the island, Brooke finds herself dealing with one kerfuffle after another, and Leo proves to be a delicious distraction. What does she really know about him, though? And the biggest question of all? Does this short-term romance hold the possibility of long-term love?

Author Biography
Amazon and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Tracy Brogan is a three-time Romance Writers of America RITA finalist for her Bell Harbor series. She writes fun, funny stories about ordinary people finding extraordinary love, and she lives in Michigan with her two brilliant daughters and their two intellectually challenged dogs. She loves to hear from readers, so check out her website at www.tracybrogan.com. You can also follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tracybroganwriter.

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My Kind of Forever by Tracy Brogan - Exclusive Excerpt
I was already running late and needed to stop by the post office before the meeting. I’d left my house in plenty of time but had foolishly allowed my sister to talk me into wearing not only her navy-blue business suit, which was too tight in the ass, but also her stupidly high-heeled shoes.
“I don’t need to wear a business suit, Emily. No one dresses up for these meetings,” I’d said to her that morning when she’d stopped over at my place for coffee.

“This is technically your first day as the mayor, Brooke. You have to set the tone. You want them to take you seriously, right? You can’t go in there in old jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt.”
“I wasn’t going to wear old jeans and an old sweatshirt.” Probably.
“What were you going to wear?” She’d crossed her arms and looked at me in the same cross-examination way she used to look at her daughter when her daughter wasn’t being completely honest, and the flush on my face had given me away.

“I was going to wear new jeans and a new sweatshirt.” I vaguely recalled resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at her, or I don’t know. Maybe I did stick my tongue out. Either way, I’d lost that battle, and now I was teetering along the sidewalk like a drunk on stilts. How Emily managed to get around on these wobbly chopsticks was a mystery, but she’d insisted that the red-soled pumps made the outfit, and maybe they did, but this pair was a size too big and pitched me forward at such an awkward tilt that I was shuffling more than walking. Three times in the past ten minutes, I’d taken a step forward only to have a shoe stay behind. Let that be the first lesson learned from my new job: don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.
I continued on, past the Espresso Yo’self Coffee Bar and the Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch Bakery with the flowered sign in the window that said We’ve got big buns, and we cannot lie, when, as if to spite me, the spindly heel of one borrowed shoe plunged into a crevice of the sidewalk and stuck. My foot popped out and I launched forward, nearly face-planting into the sidewalk. I caught an arm on the railing just in time and righted myself before looking around to see if anyone had witnessed my gazellelike gracefulness. A few tourists glanced my way, but seeing that I was okay, they continued on with their day. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. I turned my eyes back to the shoe, glared at it, and at the sidewalk in general. Did we have money in the town budget to repair sidewalk crevices? I certainly hoped so, but first I had to get to the damn meeting. I hopped gingerly back a step and nudged the stuck shoe with my toe. It was wedged in there tighter than me in the Spanx Emily had also insisted I wear. (I hate her, by the way.) I kicked at the shoe with a little more oomph. And then again, with too much oomph that time, because the cursed thing dislodged from the sidewalk, soared through the air like an Olympic javelin, and landed with a wet, squishy squelch, stiletto heel piercing right into the center of a generous pile of horse manure. Naturally. Horse manure. No cars. Bikes and horses. Pooping horses.
Well, crap.

Literally. Old Vic and his team of street sweepers were very efficient at keeping the roads in town clean, but sticky equine refuse was a common thing, especially on a damp day like today, and it’s not that unusual to get some on your shoes if you don’t watch where you’re going. This was a new twist, though. And quite the dilemma. I pondered my next move while posing flamingo-like on the sidewalk and gazing at the errant shoe perched precariously atop the pounds of poo. It looked like the tackiest decoration on the world’s least appetizing wedding cake.

“Nice going there, Cinderella. Need some help?” A masculine voice floated over my shoulder just as a stranger moved into my peripheral vision. He stepped into the street and plucked the red-soled bane of my existence from the mound of horsey excrement. A brown leather jacket strained across his back as he bent over, and when he turned around to face me, I gripped the railing more tightly and momentarily considered swooning. He was tall. Quite tall, and undeniably handsome, all dark-haired and angular-jawed and chivalrous-like, rescuing me in my moment of need. He smiled a Prince Charming smile as if to show me that even his teeth were handsome. Yes, swooning was definitely an option, but sadly, I’m not the type. Though currently in a spot of distress, I’m no damsel. Not even a little bit. I’m Brooke Callaghan, a reasonable, sensible, practical woman, not some fluffy-headed girl prone to whimsical bouts of dramatic emotion. No swooning for me, even if he was hot-damn handsome. I offered back what I hoped was a dignified smile. As dignified as it could be, considering the fact he’d just pulled my shoe from a pile of horseshit.
“Thanks,” I said. “That was very nice of you.”
“You’re welcome. Looks like no harm was done.” He tapped my shoe against the edge of the sidewalk, effectively removing any organic matter, then set it next to my foot before straightening up. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at his face. Broad, too, with muscular … everything. I reconsidered the whole swooning thing, but instead said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Would you like some hand sanitizer?”


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