News! More Barefoot Bay Kindle World Books & Another Silver Fox!

Yes, that’s right! Another dozen trips to Barefoot Bay await your Kindle or Kindle App today! What a line up we have this time! Some major hitters in the industry, including Jules Bennett, Samantha Chase, Kat Cantrell, Zoe York and many more absolutely wonderful authors who have written delicious love stories set in Barefoot Bay. Check out these gorgeous covers and link to each book!

And that’s not all the news from Barefoot Bay…Law Monroe, our third silver fox in the Barefoot Bay Timeless series, arrives at all retailers on Tuesday, October 18! I can’t wait for you to meet this new addition to the popular series that celebrates the “timeless” appeal of a sexy, mature man. Barefoot at Midnight is the story of a man who wants one thing, a restaurant he’d been given in a deathbed promise made by his best friend, but one woman stands in his way…the woman who claims to own it.  These characters are in their mid-forties, and I promise you will laugh and cry your way to their HEA.

roxannestclaire_barefootatmidnight_hrWant a snippet? Here you go…

Law slid onto a barstool and looked around for the bartender. It would be one of the two guys who started working after Jake died—young guys, not locals, who also claimed to have no idea who signed their paychecks. He couldn’t see around the tower of bottles and mirrors in the center of the round bar, so he twisted all the way to look back at the booths, counting the meager patrons, who included some locals he knew, a few very old regulars, and one couple.

“I thought you didn’t drink, Lawless.”

At the woman’s question, he pivoted to the bartender and came face-to-face with…oh baby, what a face. He’d been admiring that face since he’d first seen it thirty years ago and started a cat-and-mouse chase that had yet to end with either one of them getting caught.

But they sure had fun running after each other in high school and again, a few months ago, when they’d met up at the Mimosa High reunion. Law made no effort to hide his attraction, and the beautiful lady in front of him gave a flirt as good as she got.

Only a flirt, though. Despite Law’s best attempts, their contact was limited to banter and wordplay, which was fun, but frustrating.

“Libby Chesterfield, you gorgeous piece of womanhood.”

She didn’t smile, didn’t move actually, except for the slightest tilt of her head. Blond hair—long, silky, sinful blond hair—spilled over bare shoulders. One perfectly arched brow twitched, and full lips pouted ever so slightly to remind a man that she owned a mouth that was made for one thing and one thing only. Kissing. Well, maybe two things.

Piece of womanhood?” She put her hands on her hips, drawing his gaze over a formfitting red tank top, cutoff jean shorts, and about five-foot-six inches of luscious. Every stinkin’ curve was pure perfection, especially the ones that rightfully earned her the name “Chesty Chesterfield” in high school. “That’s the best you’ve got, Monroe? You are losing your touch, sweet cheeks. I expect better from you.”

He took the challenge, leaning in, devouring her up and down with a hungry look, trying to remember if she was forty-four or forty-five. Better err on the side of caution.

“Lib, you’re forty-four years old, and you still make mouths water, heads turn, and men rise up to praise you. How do you manage to stay so exquisite all these years?”

“Forty-five. I had a birthday on the Fourth of July.” She leaned over the bar just enough to blind him with a glimpse of sweet, deep cleavage. “And you, too, Law, are a miracle of nature at forty-five.”

“Six,” he corrected. “My birthday was in July, too.”

“Even more amazing.”

“Because we have so much in common?”

“Because you made it all the way to forty-six years old and you still think, act, and talk like the teenager who tried to cop a feel of my left boob during a game of touch football in co-ed gym class.”

“Uh, that’s why they call it touch.”

She angled her head in concession. “You did make my nipple hard.”

“And you made everything hard.” He winked at her. “We can have a rematch anytime you want.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s your pleasure, other than your bartender?”

“O’Doul’s,” he said, automatically ordering his usual, but wondering…why was she his bartender? He’d never seen her back there before. “So, uh, when did you start gracing the poor schmucks at the Pelican with all that hotness?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Both guys who work are out and…” She turned to the fridge. “I’m helping.”

Helping who? Law inched forward, and not merely to get a view of the flip side of Libby as she dug into the cooler for a beer. Although the back was as appealing as the front with faded denim shorts hugging a heart-shaped ass with threads skimming tight, toned thighs.

“Why would you help out here?” he asked.

“Just for something to do.”

Bartending at a dive? He’d talked to her a bit at the reunion a few months ago and had discovered that Libby drove a nice car, wore quality clothes, and the rumor mill said she’d taken her last husband to the cleaners in divorce court. And he was almost positive she worked as an aerobics teacher or something. Whatever, she was smart and beautiful and belonged in a place better than this.

But here she was, so maybe she could give him the one thing he wanted most from her, at least right this minute…information.

“Libby, I’ve been in and out of this fine establishment on a regular basis for the better part of my life,” he told her. “And I’ve seen you in here exactly once, about a month ago.” He remembered it well, though. What he remembered were the sprayed-on black pants that could make a grown man weep. “You were on your way to some girlie exercise class,” he recalled.

She snorted softly as she placed a cocktail napkin in front of him. “It’s called yoga, and I’d suggest you try it, but it’s really a practice for people seeking balance and wisdom.” She took a look at his body, her gaze lingering on the biceps on full display under the tight short sleeves of his T-shirt. “Obviously, you’d rather throw iron around a gym and grunt like a caveman.”

“Cavemen get a bad rap.”

She put the drink down with the tiniest spark of appreciation in eyes that weren’t quite blue or gray but a haunting mix of both, when a couple took the last two seats at the bar. “Nurse that one for a while, Law. I have to work.”

“You really work here?” Since when?

But she’d slipped away to the newcomers, giving them a much friendlier smile than the sassy one he got. He heard the woman order a margarita and could have sworn Libby stiffened at the order.

While she made it, Law figured out in a few scant seconds of observation that Libby Chesterfield didn’t know squat about mixing a drink or navigating her way behind the bar. So what was she doing here?

Law sat up straighter and looked around. Something was definitely up at the Pelican. It was damn near empty. The staff was thin at best. That ugly collection of battered Florida license plates had been taken off the wall.

And Libby was bartending.

Okay, then. The first slow burn of hope he’d felt all day—hell, in the fifty weeks since Jake died—sizzled in his gut like cast iron on high heat. If change was in the air at the Pelican and Libby was behind the bar, she had to know who’d assumed ownership of the establishment that had been willed to him.

And Law would use every tool in his arsenal to get the information out of her.