Thursday, June 23, 2016






To See You by Rachel Blaufeld is NOW LIVE!

New Emotional Standalone

No cliffhanger, only hard-earned unexpected love. And angst.











Blurb

No cliffhanger, only hard-earned unexpected love.

And angst.



What is it about this guy?

On paper, he’s one hundred percent wrong for me. His e-mails are equal parts annoying and funny.

Okay, more funny than annoying. More like refreshing. Different. Exciting.

But as I stand next to him now, he’s giving me head-to-toe tingles, and I find myself dwelling on his e-mails.



Meet smart, sexy career girl and New York snob, Charli Richards. She has everything except happiness until the day she meets Layton Griffin. It’s a random encounter on an airplane; it couldn’t mean anything, right?



Layton isn’t even remotely close to who Charli sees herself hooking up with . . . ever. Her mom and best friend agree he’s not for her, but he makes her feel something exciting, awakens her world.



But then Layton changes, going to great lengths for Charli to see him for who he really is.
Will those changes bring them closer together, or will she never be able to see him




Excerpt

“Cheers.” My seatmate good-naturedly tipped his glass toward me. He wasn’t going to leave me alone.

I took a long gulp and looked back at my computer screen.

“Do you like working for them?”

I tugged at my turtleneck; it was so freaking hot all of a sudden. My nosy neighbor’s face had a slight sheen to it, clearly from being hot, and now his warmth was seeping into my space.

“I do. They’re a growing company and . . . I’ve made great strides there.”

What the heck? Why was I even answering him? Because he asked, and if I was honest, it was the nicest anyone had been to me in months.

Furthermore, why did I sound like I was on an interview? Or an infomercial?

He was kind—I could tell—and his smile was gentle and calm, his eyes like warm coffee with just the right amount of cream swirling through it. I turned a little in my seat to face him and my knee brushed his thigh. I let my gaze travel his Beastie Boys T-shirt until I settled on his computer.

Playing on it was a rom-com, one I’d never seen before, but Katie What’s-her-nameall stunning, shiny hair, celebrity mom, perfect lifewas front and center. Her arms were full of shopping bags and she was wearing a big grin on her perfect face as she walked down a city street.

“You don’t strike me as the romantic comedy type.” I felt my eyebrow lift. I wasn’t sure if I was teasing him or myself as the question floated from my mouth.

He laughed. It was soothing and comforting like a coffee-and-Kahlua on a cold night, and warm like the sun on the first few days of summer.

I allowed my eyes to close and imagined he looked like somebody else—not someone else totally, but just different. Fit, not slender but muscular. He still had the same gracious smile and inviting eyes, but he wasn’t wearing a music T-shirt in my imagination. Maybe a Henley? And dark-wash jeans instead of the regular everyday ragged blue I’d noticed him wearing.

“It’s work too,” he said, interrupting my fantasy.

“Oh.” I chugged the balance of my mimosa, cooling the wash of desire recently conjured up from my brain.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure BubblePOP will end up reviewing this one, will probably have someone at the premiere too. That’s why I asked about the site. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon and all that. Our worlds are connected.”

“I don’t do movies. I’m the fitness editor, but if Katie What’s-her-name is in it, I’m sure we’ll be all over it.”

He shifted his gaze over fully to me now. His eyes weren’t exclusively deep brown; tiny flecks of amber circled his pupil. They were captivating in a weird way, as if they didn’t belong with this guy.

I’d never met a slob who was so interesting before, yet he was definitely intriguing. And not really a slob—that was my own bias. Clearly, I was having some sort of psychotic breakdown on this airplane.





To See You by Rachel Blaufeld from Bibliophile Productions on Vimeo.





Meet Rachel

Rachel Blaufeld is a social worker/entrepreneur/blogger turned author. Fearless about sharing her opinion, Rachel captured the ear of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog,BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and inventing a product, often at the same time. She has also blogged for The Huffington Post, Modern Mom, and StartupNation.

Turning her focus on her sometimes wild-and-crazy creative side, it only took Rachel two decades to do exactly what she wanted to do—write a fiction novel. Now she spends way too many hours in local coffee shops plotting her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end lusciously.

Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two dogs. Her obsessions include running, coffee, icing-filled doughnuts, anti-heroes, and mighty fine epilogues.



Stalk Rachel at:  website / Twitter / Facebook



Sign up for her  newsletter for the latest news on releases, sales, giveaways and other updates.



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THANK YOU!







Chapter 1




Remi



Plain and simple, this night sucked.

Sadly, it was my honeymoon.

I sighed heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an intimately lit London nightclub
where everyone wore black domino masks, some elaborate and some plain, to hide
their identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing with long, loose cloaks. Not
me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little number and three-inch heels, putting
my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the giant in the blue dress, towering over every
girl and some guys at the bar.

My top teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the smoky club, my eyes
bouncing off random faces. Even in a room full of party people, music, and strobe
lights, I was lonely.

My groom was missing.

That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at Whitman University in North
Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner at our
favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.

And now here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed with my best friend Lulu
who’d decided to skip her beach vacation and come with me at the last minute.

She poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy wooden bar of the club.
“Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your eyes and order a drink already.
I’m thirsty.” She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her black tutu, eyes
scoping out the club. “Dang, the men in here are hotter than a billy goat with a blow
torch,” she said in her honeyed southern drawl.

I half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on scanning the bottles behind
the bar. “I want tequila,” I murmured. “A whole bottle.”

Her face snapped back to me and her green eyes widened. “Uh-uh. No way. I know
what happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or you
wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed tush.”

True. I did love a tight muscular ass.

But I wouldn’t get one tonight.

A short laugh burst out of me, one of those I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to- be-okay-
laughs that I’d been doing a lot of lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated
between a sobbing mess and an angry woman who became so incensed that “fuck” was
the only word that seemed appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office
to mail he dumped me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding venue
and not getting the ten thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was homeless
fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck. Listening to my mother tell me it was


my fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I sucked the tequila down
while Lulu watched me warily. It tasted like bad decisions and gasoline, but tonight
was about forgetting. The sooner the better.


A few minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British guy she’d been making eyes
at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling with my diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing it like
rosary beads. I needed to forget Hartford, and according to Lulu, that meant hooking
up with someone.

Was she right?

Fate answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy
with a backside so delectable and muscular my mouth plopped open.

I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the annoying feathery
plumes on the sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to
check him out, not wanting to appear obvious. He slid into the seat next to me, tall and
broad with rippling shoulders and a massive frame.

I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally analyzing the odds of a
girl like me snagging a hottie like him.


Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two—okay, maybe
three—things going for me in the looks department. My shiny, golden-brown hair that
hung down in waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu described them,
and lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my two front teeth which were otherwise
white and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or
Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went with it.

He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne swirled in the air, the smell
of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to create a heady, slightly dangerous
scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. The spicy whiff triggered a
distant memory just out of reach.


As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom. Like me he wore a black
mask, although his was more masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline.

His lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than the top with a slight
indentation in the middle. As I watched, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top
teeth biting it as if he were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his dark, longish
messy hair, held it suspended above his head for a few seconds and then released it,
letting it swish back into its tousled yet perfect place.

I tore my eyes away.

Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every atom of my body.

Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.

But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black shirt and sculpted chest
that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right down to an arm that looked like it
could snap a board in half—or me.

Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.


The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue and orange dragonfly tattoo displayed on
his left arm. It was larger than my hand and took up most of his bicep. My eyes traced
the contours of the design from the papery wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold
black color outlined the insect, giving it a masculine feel.

Gorgeous.

True Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a pair of black Converse
without socks, giving him a boyish quality that was in direct contrast to the crazy-sexy-
bad-boy vibe he had going on.

Him tonight?

Maybe. He was the polar opposite of Hartford who was blond, lean, and tattoo-free.

I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice little ol' me?

Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up to his stool, bold as brass,
wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely covered her booty. She brought with her
the smell of sweet, cloying perfume, the kind I always got spritzed with at the mall.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her finger down his arm and
struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to
get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out her well-developed chest.

He smiled back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body language telling me he was
confident when it came to women. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his face,
but whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear because a few ticks later,
she crossed her arms, glared at me, and stalked away.

I blinked. What had I done?

Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.

Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a claustrophobic mask on.

But wait…

Was he crazy?

Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a shot.

I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing and sexy hair flicking.
I didn’t know a thing about applying fake eyelashes. I didn’t know how to make my
breasts sit up that high. I looked away from him and took another shot, feeling anxious
and strangely off-kilter.

Mr. Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his British accent smooth as silk as it
washed over me. I froze. I almost knew that voice—deep with soft rounded vowels that
made you tingle in your lady parts.

What was it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot for him?

Hello, tequila, my inner voice said. But it was more than that.

Getting brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr. Beautiful’s eyes on me once
more, searching my face. As if he too recognized the pull between us.

My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin prickled. I shivered.

Did I know him?

It clicked.

Dax Blay?

It was his voice, the same deep quality, the kind of voice that made you want to hop
into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.

My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine
whenever I thought of him. He was my one mistake, the time I’d tossed inhibitions and
carefully laid plans aside and went with my instincts, only to have them tossed back in
my face.

But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.

Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d seen
Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.

Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.

Yet…

Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?

Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in
a country where neither of us lived?

I tore my eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender for more limes, but
somehow my tennis bracelet snagged on the bodice of my dress, leaving my wrist
dangling like a wet dishrag in a most inappropriate place.

I wiggled my arm.

Jiggled it.

Even went so far as to jerk, but it wouldn’t separate.

Sweat popped out on my forehead. Holding my breath, I twisted and tugged the
bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to stretch beyond normal limits.

“Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.


Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a stretchy fabric held
together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon
n wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d ever
paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to return it to
rent an apartment at Whitman.

Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.

I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was
slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious. I
resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people waved
back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.

I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the
bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.

But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in
my face. I wobbled in my leopard print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and
grabbed the stool to keep my balance. `

I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and
I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is
currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.

I had to get out of here before someone noticed what an idiot I was.

Trying to be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because
it was my left hand and not my right that I used most of the time, I got off balance and
stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot
and vaulted off toward the dance floor, while I fell forward, straight into Mr.
Beautiful’s lap.



Filthy English (unedited excerpt)

Copyright Ilsa Madden-Mills





The British are HERE! 

Are you ready for Filthy English?

Add to your TBR for a July 11th release here: http://bit.ly/28MpTlk




Blurb





A smokin’ hot British player…

A jilted girl…

One night of mistaken identity…



Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.



She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.



She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.



Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled passion in London.



But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…



One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.



*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*




About the Author

New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.



She's addicted to all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, dark chocolate, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she's a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.



She has a degree in English and a Master's in Education.



When she's not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.





SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:



You can stalk her on her website as well as get signed books: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com



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Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills





Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:



VERY BAD THINGS







VERY WICKED BEGINNINGS

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8



VERY WICKED THINGS






VERY TWISTED THINGS









THANK YOU!