Gallery Books Presents: JR Ward's A Warm Heart In Winter





A WARM HEART IN WINTER
A Caldwell Christmas

by J. R. Ward 

On Sale: December 1, 2020 

 

Purchase Link: 

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/A-Warm-Heart-in-Winter/J-R-Ward/The-Black-Dagger-Brotherhood-World/9781982159702

 


#1 New York Times bestselling author J.R. Ward is heating things up this winter with a holiday novel featuring some of her most iconic Black Dagger Brothers.

In this romantic and sexy addition to the #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series, a beloved couple has everything arranged... until it all goes horribly wrong.

Blay and Qhuinn always intended to do a proper mating ceremony, but life has a way of getting in the way. With a pair of young, responsibilities to the King, and a grueling fighting schedule, the two are exhausted and overwhelmed. When Qhuinn gives his male the proposal of a lifetime, however, they are excited for their special night and more in love than ever.

Everyone in the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s mansion gets into the preparations, and the after party takes on epic- and immortal- proportions when Lassiter forms the Party Planning Committee. The celebrations promise to be all that the couple deserves... until a Nor’easter land locks Caldwell in a fierce storm, and things go from lighthearted to deadly dangerous.

Battling nature and responding to emergencies, Blay and Qhuinn get separated, and when a catastrophic chain of events puts one of their lives in jeopardy, the night they had so looked forward could mean the end of everything...

Sneak Peek at A WARM HEART IN WINTER: 


Qhuinn, son of Lohstrong, entered his family’s home through its grand front door. The instant he stepped over the threshold, the smell of the place curled up into his nose. Lemon polish. Beeswax candles. Fresh flowers from the garden that the doggen brought in daily. Perfume—his mother’s. Cologne—his father’s and his brother’s. Cinnamon gum—his sister’s.

If the Glade company ever did an air freshener like this, it would be called something like Meadow of Old Money. Or Sunrise Over a Fat Bank Account.

Or maybe the ever popular We’re Just Better Th an Everyone Else.

Distant voices drifted over from the dining room, the vowels round as brilliant-cut diamonds, the consonants drawled out smooth and long as satin ribbons.

“Oh, Lillie, this is lovely, thank you,” his mother said to the server. “But that’s too much for me. And do not give Solange so much. She’s getting heavy.”

Ah, yes, his mother’s perma-diet inflicted on the next generation: Glymera females were supposed to disappear from sight when they turned sideways, each jutting collar-bone, sunken cheek, and bony upper arm some kind of fucked-up badge of honor.

As if resembling a fire poker would make you a better person.

And Scribe Virgin forfend if your daughter looked like she was healthy.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Lilith,” his father said evenly. “More for me, please.”

Qhuinn closed his eyes and tried to convince his body to step forward. One foot after another. It was not that tough.

His brand-new Ed Hardy kicks middle-fingered that suggestion. Then again, in so many ways, walking into that dining room was going into the belly of the beast.

He let his duffle fall to the floor. The couple of days at his best friend Blay’s home had done him good, a break from the complete lack of air in his family’s house. Unfortunately, the burn on reentry was so bad, it made the cost/benefit of leaving nearly equal.

Okay, this was ridiculous. He couldn’t keep standing here like an inanimate object.

Turning to the side wall, he leaned into the full-length antique mirror that was placed right by the door. So thoughtful. So in keeping with the aristocracy’s need to look good. This way, visitors could check their hair and clothes as the butler accepted coats and hats.

The young pretrans face that was reflected back at him was all even features, good jawline, and a mouth that, he had to admit, looked like it could do some serious dam-age to naked skin when he got older. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Hair was all Vlad the Impaler, spikes standing up straight from his head. Neck was strung with a bike chain, and not one bought at Urban Outfitters—he’d taken it off his twelve-speed. All things being equal, he looked like a thief who had broken into the mansion and was prepared to trash the place looking for sterling silver, jewelry, and portable electronics.

The irony was that all the Goth bullcrap wasn’t the most offensive part of his appearance to his family. In fact, he could have stripped down, hung a light fixture off his ass, and run around the first floor playing José Canseco with the art and antiques and not come close to how much the real problem pissed off his parents.

It was his eyes.

One blue. One green.

Oopsy. His bad.

The glymera didn’t like defects. Not in their porcelain or their rose gardens. Not in their wallpaper or their car-pets or their countertops. Not in the silk of their under-wear or the wool of their blazers or the chiffon of their gowns.

And certainly not EVER in their young.

Sister was okay—well, except for the “little weight problem” that didn’t actually exist, and a lisp that was going to be dealt with through oral surgery—oh, and the fact that she had the personality of their mother. And there was no fixing that shit. Brother, on the other hand, was the real fucking star, a physically perfect son pre-pared to carry forth the family bloodline by reproducing in a very genteel, non-moaning, no-sweat situation with a female chosen for him by the family.

Hell, Luchas’s sperm recipient had already been lined up. He was going to have to mate her as soon as he went through his transition—

“How are you feeling, my son?” his father asked in a gentle voice.

“Tired, sir,” a deep voice answered. “But this is going to help.”

A chill frog-marched up Qhuinn’s spine. That didn’t sound like his brother. Way too much bass. Far too mas-culine. Too…

Holy shit, the guy had gone through his transition. Now, Qhuinn’s Ed Hardys got with the program, taking him forward until he could see through into the dining room. Father was in his seat at the head of the table. Check. Mother was in her chair at the foot of the  table opposite the kitchen’s flap door. Check. Sister was facing out of the room, all but licking the gold rim off her plate from hunger. Check.

The male whose back was to Qhuinn was not part of the SOP.

His brother was twice the size he’d been when Qhuinn had been approached by a doggen and told to get his things and go to Blay’s.

Well, that explained the vacay. He’d assumed his father had finally relented and given into the request Qhuinn had filed weeks before. But nope, his sire had just wanted the defect out of the house because the change had come to his brother.

Had Luchas laid the chick? Who had they used for blood—

Their father, never the demonstrative type, reached out a hand and gave Qhuinn’s brother an awkward pat on the forearm. “We’re so proud of you. You look  .  .  .  perfect.”

“You do,” Qhuinn’s mother piped in. “Just perfect. Doesn’t your brother look perfect, Solange?”

“Yes, he does. Perfect.”

“And I have something for you,” Lohstrong said, in a voice that got husky.

The male reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and took out a small, black velvet box.

Qhuinn’s mother started to tear up and dabbed care-fully under her eyes.

“This is for you, my son.”

The box was slid across the white damask tablecloth, and Luchas’s now-big hands shook as he took the thing and popped the lid.

Qhuinn could see the flash of gold all the way out in the foyer.

Luchas just stared at the signet ring in silence, clearly overwhelmed, as their mother kept up with the dab-dab, and even their father grew slightly misty. And Solange snuck a roll from the bread basket.

“Thank you, sir,” Qhuinn’s brother said as he put the heavy gold ring on his forefinger.

“It fits, does it not?” Lohstrong asked.

“Yes, sir. Perfectly.”

“We wear the same size, then.”

Of course they did.

At that moment, their father glanced away, like he was hoping the movement of his eyeballs would take care of the sheen of tears that had come down over his vision.

He caught Qhuinn lurking outside in the foyer. There was a brief flash of recognition. Not the  hi-how’re-ya kind or the oh-good-my-other-son’s-home stuff. More like when you were walking through  the grass and noticed a pile of dog shit too late to stop your foot from landing in it.

The male looked back at his family, locking Qhuinn out sure as if he’d closed an actual door.

Clearly, the last thing Lohstrong wanted was for such a historic moment to be ruined—and that was probably why he didn’t do the hand signals that warded off the evil eye. Usually, everyone in the household performed the ritual when they saw Qhuinn. Not tonight. The head of house didn’t want the others to know who was in their midst.

Qhuinn pivoted and went back to his duffle. Slinging the thing over his shoulder, he took the front stairs to his room. Usually, his mother preferred him to use the ser-vants’ set, but that would mean he’d have to cut through all the love in there.

His bedroom was as far away from the others’ as you could get, all the way over to the right. He’d often won-dered why they didn’t take the leap completely and put him in with the doggen—but then the staff would prob-ably quit.

Closing himself into his quarters, he dumped the duffle onto the bare floor and sat on his bed. Staring at his only piece of luggage, he figured he had better do laundry soon as there was a wet bathing suit in there.

The maids refused to touch his clothes—like the evil in him lingered in the fibers of his jeans and his T-shirts. The upside was he was never welcomed for formal events anyway, so his wardrobe was just wash-n-wear, baby—

He discovered he was crying when he looked down at his Ed Hardys and realized that there were a couple of drops of water right between all those buckles and leather.

Qhuinn was never getting a ring.

Ah, hell . . . this hurt.

He was scrubbing his face with his palms when his phone rang. Taking the thing out of his biker jacket, he had to blink a couple of times to focus.

He hit send to accept the call, but he didn’t answer.

“I just heard,” Blay said across the connection. “How are you doing?”

Qhuinn opened his mouth to reply, his brain coughing up all kinds of responses: Peachy fucking jim-dandy. At least I’m not “fat” like my sister. No, I don’t know if my brother got laid.

Instead, he said, “They got me out of the house. They didn’t want me to curse the transition. Guess it worked because Luchas sure looks like he came through it okay.”

Blay swore softly.

“Oh, and he got his ring just now. My father gave him . . . his ring.”

The signet ring with the family crest on it, the symbol that all males of good bloodlines wore to attest to their value to their lineage.

“I watched Luchas put it on his finger,” Qhuinn said, feeling as if he were taking a sharp knife and drawing it up the insides of his arms. “Fit perfectly. Looked great. You know, though . . . like, how could it not—”

He began weeping at that point. 

Just fucking lost it.

The awful truth was that under all his counter culture fuck-you, he wanted his family to love him. As prissy as his sister was, as scholar-geek as his brother was, as re-served as his parents were, he saw the love between those four. He felt the love among them. It was the tie that bound them, the invisible string from one heart to the others, the commitment of caring about everything from the mundane shit to any true, mortal drama. The only thing more powerful than that connection . . . was what it was like to get shut out from its expression.

Every fucking night of your life.

Blay’s voice cut in through the heaving. “I’m here for you. And I’m so damned sorry . . . I’m here for you . . . just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Let me come over—”

Leave it to Blay to know that he was thinking about things that involved ropes and showerheads.

In fact, his free hand had already gone down to the makeshift belt he’d fashioned out of a nice, strong weave of nylon—because his parents didn’t give him money for clothes and the one proper buckle-and-strap combo he’d owned had broken years ago.

Pulling the length free, he glanced across to the closed door of his bath. All he needed to do was tie the thing to the fixture in his shower—God knew those water pipes had been run in the good old days when things were strong enough to hold some weight. He even had a chair he could stand up on and then kick out from underneath him.

“I gotta go—”

“Qhuinn? Don’t you hang up on me—don’t you dare hang up on me—”

“Listen, man, I gotta go—”

“I’m coming over right now—” Lot of flapping in the background like Blay was getting his shit together. “Qhuinn! Do not hang up the phone—Qhuinn . . . !”


My Thoughts
Having come into the series rather late.  This reviewer is sadly unaware of the history of Blay and Qhuinn.
Which in its own way, works as quite the boon.  When it comes to simply being able to enjoy their story for what it is.


Blay and Quinn are prime examples of what happens when a 'never say die' attitude finds it just reward.
Seing these two go through the good and the bad of things both together and in their own way.  Is enough to warm the heart.
And the mating ceremony!!!!!
This book is truly everything that one reads JR Ward for.  The grit, the glamour, the fighting, the love, the heartache, the passion, and the forever that Black Dagger Brotherhood.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

J.R. Ward is the author of more than thirty novels, including those in her #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series. There are more than fifteen million copies of her novels in print worldwide, and they have been published in twenty-six different countries around the world. She lives in the South with her family. 

 
Don’t forget to sign-up for exclusive Black Dagger Brotherhood original content:  

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Mira Books Presents: Holly Bourne's Pretending





Pretending : A Novel 

Holly Bourne

On Sale Date: November 17, 2020

9780778331506, 0778331504

Trade Paperback

$17.99 USD

416 pages


ABOUT THE BOOK:

In this hilarious and heartbreaking debut novel perfect for fans of Fleabag, a woman struggling to move on after a traumatic relationship pretends to be “the perfect girl” in an act of vengeance that goes awry when she finds herself emotionally compromised.


He said he was looking for a 'partner in crime' which everyone knows is shorthand for 'a woman who isn't real'.


April is kind, pretty, and relatively normal - yet she can't seem to get past date five. Every time she thinks she's found someone to trust, they reveal themselves to be awful, leaving her heartbroken. And angry. Until she realizes that what men are really looking for is Gretel.


Gretel is perfect - beautiful but low maintenance, sweet but never clingy, sexy but not a slut. She's a Regular Everyday Manic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door With No Problems.


When April starts pretending to be Gretel, dating becomes much more fun - especially once she reels in the unsuspecting Joshua. Finally, April is the one in control, but can she control her own feelings? And as she and Joshua grow closer, how long will she be able to keep pretending?



Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from
Pretending
by 
Holly Bourne

I hate men.

There, I’ve said it. I know you’re not supposed to say it. We all pretend we don’t hate them; we all tell ourselves we don’t hate them. But I’m calling it. I’m standing here on this soapbox, and I’m saying it.

I. Hate. Men.

I mean, think about it. They’re just awful. I hate how selfish they are. How they take up so much space, assuming it’s always theirs to take. How they spread out their legs on public transport, like their balls need regular airing to stop them developing damp. I hate how they basically scent mark anywhere they enter to make it work for them. Putting on the music they want to listen to the moment they arrive at any house party, and always taking the nicest chair. How they touch your stuff instead of just looking; even tweak the furniture arrangement to make it most comfortable for them. All without asking first—never asking first.

I hate how they think their interests are more important than yours—even though twice a week all most of them do is watch a bunch of strangers kick a circle around a piece of lawn and sulk if the circle doesn’t go in the right place. And how bored they look if you ever try to introduce them to a film, a band, or even a freaking YouTube clip, before you’ve even pressed Play.

I hate their endless arrogance. I hate how they interrupt you and then apologize for it but carry on talking anyway. How they ask you a question but then check your answer afterward. I hate how they can never do one piece of housework without telling you about it. I hate how they literally cannot handle being driven in a car by a woman, even if they’re terrible drivers themselves. I hate how they all think they’re fucking incredible at grilling meat on barbecues. The sun comes out and man must light fire and not let woman anywhere near the meat. Dumping blackened bits of chicken onto our plates along with the whiff of a burp from their beer breath, acting all caveman, like we’re supposed to find it cute that we may now get salmonella and that we’re going to have to do all the washing up.

I hate how I’m quite scared of them. I hate the collective noise of them when they’re in a big group. The tribal wahey-ing, like they all swap their IQs for extra testosterone when they swarm together. How, if you’re sitting alone on an empty train, they always come and deliberately sit next to you en masse, and talk extra loudly about macho nonsense, apparently to impress you. I hate the way they look at you when you walk past—automatically judging your screwability the moment they see you. Telling you to smile if you dare look anything other than delighted about living with stuff like this constantly fucking happening to you. 

I hate how hard they are to love. How many of them actually, truly, think the way to your heart is sending you a selfie of them tugging themselves, hairy ball sack very much still in shot. I hate how they have sex. How they shove their fingers into you, thinking it’s going to achieve anything. Jabbing their unwashed hands into your dry vagina, prodding about like they’re checking for prostate cancer, then wondering why you now have BV and you still haven’t come. Have none of them read a sex manual? Seriously? None of them? And I hate how they hate you a little just after they’ve finished. How even the nice ones lie there with cold eyes, pretending to cuddle, but clearly desperate to get as far away from you as possible.

I hate how it’s never equal. How they expect you to do all the emotional labor and then get upset when you’re the more stressed-out one. I hate how they never understand you, no matter how hard they try, although, let’s be honest here, they never actually try that hard. And I hate how you’re always exhausting yourself trying to explain even the most basic of your rational emotional responses to their bored face.

I hate how every single last one of them has issues with their father.

And do you know what I hate most of all?

That despite this, despite all this disdain, I still fancy men. And I still want them to fancy me, to want me, to love me. I hate myself for how much I want them. Why do I still fancy men so much? What’s wrong with me? Why are they all so broken? Am I broken for still wanting to be with one, even after everything? I should be alone. That’s the only healthy way to be. BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE. I hate men, that’s the problem. GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH—they’re so entitled and broken and lazy and wrong and…and…

Hang on…

My phone.

HE MESSAGED BACK!!!

WITH A KISS ON THE END!

Never mind.

Forget I said anything. It’s all good.


Excerpted from Pretending by Holly Bourne, Copyright © 2020 by Holly Bourne. Published by MIRA Books. 


My Thoughts
Holly Bourne's Pretending is a book that hit quite a few nerves for this reviewer.
The reason...
The protagonist, thirty-something nonprofit employee and rape survivor, April.  Still reeling from her rape at the hands of former boyfriend, Ryan.  Has once again entered the dating scene.  Only to find that herself woefully unprepared for the rigors of flirting and sex.
And more than anything ready for revenge.
But not just revenge on the man who hurt her however.
This self proclaimed "man hater" is out for proverbial blood from all of mankind as a whole.
And is willing to go so far as to "catfish" her unsuspecting "right swipe" Joshua.  By way of an alter ego whom she has named Gretel to get it.


While it is very natural for someone who has gone through the trauma of rape to be angry, among a myriad of other feelings.
Deception should never be a means through which one heals or avenges a wrong.
Particularly when the target of said deception is not the offending party.
It is for this reason, and this reason alone that I find myself to be both strongly put off by this book.
And asking myself...

    "How is it that a woman claiming to want honesty and trust in a relationship, can go to such extreme        lengths to deprive another of those very things?"

And sadly, the answer is quite simple,
     "Hurt people...hurt people"

Though it is quite clear that this book attempts to put somewhat of a romcom spin on the issue.
It must be said that the issues addressed here are much to heavy to effectively carry off such a treatment.
And instead, produce in readers a profound and lingering confusion of loyalties.  Which quickly gives way to anger.
Emotional manipulation and trauma masking are not issues which lend themselves to a rollicking good time.  Even in the mildest of cases.  
Therefore, reading this proved about as enjoyable as a well orchestrated forty car pile up on the CHP during rush hour.

Reviewer's Note
Thank you to Mira and Netgalley for providing the review copy on which my critique is based.
If you or someone you love has been a victim of rape.  Please don't be afraid to reach out for help.
National Sexual Assault Hotline:
1-800-656-4673






ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

Holly Bourne is a bestselling UK-based YA and Adult Fiction author and is an Ambassador for Women’s Aid. In 2019, she was an Author of the Day at the London Book Fair, and was named by Elle Magazine’s weekly podcast as one of “Six Female Authors Changing the Conversation in 2019”. Pretending is her US debut.








BUY LINKS:

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Apple Books

Kobo

Google Books

Bookshop.org


SOCIAL LINKS:

Author website: https://hollybourne.co.uk/

Twitter: @holly_bourneYA


Carina Press Presents: Just Like This








Title: Just Like This

Author: Cole McCade

Series: Albin Academy, #2

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Imprint: Carina Press (Carina Adores)

On Sale: November 24, 2020

Format: Trade Paperback 

Price: $14.99 U.S.

ISBN: 9781335200907

Book Description: Rian Falwell has a problem.


And his name is Damon Louis.


Rian's life as the art teacher to a gaggle of displaced boys at Albin Academy should be smooth sailing—until the stubborn, grouchy football coach comes into his world like a lightning strike and ignites a heated conflict that would leave them sworn enemies if not for a common goal.


A student in peril. A troubling secret. And two men who are polar opposites but must work together to protect their charges.


They shouldn't want each other. They shouldn't even like each other.


Yet as they fight to save a young man from the edge, they discover more than they thought possible about each other—and about themselves.


In the space between hatred, they find love.


And the lives they have always wanted…


Just like this.


“The romantic longing, themes of bravery and confidence, and moments of cozy domesticity shine.” —Publishers Weekly on Just Like That



Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from
Just Like This

Rian Falwell had a problem.

And that problem was currently staring at him through a messy tangle of black hair, from beneath a brow dotted with gleaming beads of sweat that—beneath the glassy afternoon light streaming through the windows—turned to glistening motes of amber against dusky brown skin.

Honestly, if Damon Louis was going to come barging into Rian’s studio like this…

He could at least have the decency to wear a shirt.

The P.E. teacher took up far too much space inside the tiny cubicle of a studio, his shoulders so broad they had almost touched both sides of the door frame as he’d stalked inside. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of the gym, with his wide, sculpted, scar-rippled chest glazed in a sheen of sweat and a pair of loose black track pants hanging off his 

hips, the elastic waistband barely clinging to the narrow line cut below his iliac crest. His shoulder-length tumbles of dark hair clumped together, completely drenched, droplets dangling from the tips.

But as overheated as Damon looked?

His dark brown eyes were completely cold—glossed to reflective ice as he folded thick, brawny arms over his chest and took a slow look around the cluttered space of Rian’s studio.

Rian could track the line of his gaze—starting with the gloppy pile of clay on his pottery wheel; a pile that would eventually become a vase, but right now was just misshapen lumps of gray.

Then to the thin sheets of handmade papyrus parchment drying on a clothesline strung across the room, pulped and pressed from the fallen early autumn leaves of the trees around Albin Academy, an experiment Rian had been quite pleased with when it resulted in fine paper with a green-gold translucent fragility, flecked with bits of brown from the leaves’ veins and stems.

Next, the many half-finished canvases propped about on their easels, slashed with angry, bold strokes of paint in abstract designs.

The anatomical diagrams pinned to the walls.

And the extra large sketchbook left open on his worktable, displaying loose, light sketches of male bodies in motion, focused on capturing the flow of sinew in the turn of the waist, the tightening of an arm as it drew back, the extension of the body and curve of the spine during a long, lazy reach.

Damon’s eyes lingered longest on that one, his dark, expressive brows rising fractionally, almost mockingly—and Rian’s face burned.

All of these were his personal projects, all unfinished, but still things he put everything he had into. 

So why was this stone-faced, unsmiling jerk standing here looking over them like he was about to assign Rian a failing score?

What was he even doing here at all?

Those dark brown eyes snapped back to him as if Damon had somehow heard the question snarling in the back of Rian’s mind.

“So,” Damon drawled, and Rian realized this was the first time he’d actually heard Damon speak in his three years at Albin Academy, rather than noncommittal affirmative mutters during staff meetings. His voice was deep, raw, gritty, with a subtle pull to it that didn’t quite seem to echo typical New England accents around Massachusetts. “I thought this was some kinda broom closet. Chambers and Walden know you’re using it for…” He tilted his head. A damp ripple of hair fell across the refined sharpness of his cheekbone, the tip practically licking at the corner of his wide, full, stern-set mouth. “…this?

Rian tensed.

More at the implied scorn dripping from this than at the fact he’d been…uh…

Caught using school grounds for unauthorized purposes.

He doubted Principal Chambers and Assistant Principal Walden would particularly care. Especially when Rian had been using the storeroom as a studio since he’d been hired, and no one had really noticed—though considering Lachlan Walden had only been hired last semester, the assistant principal had more things to worry about than one rogue art teacher moving a few brooms.

So Rian drew himself up, lifting his chin as he reached for the wet rag hanging from the edge of his wheel and began wiping the thick patina of clay from his hands, peeling off the cold, clinging layer. 

My broom closet,” he said firmly. “Attached to my classroom. I’m allowed to use it as I deem necessary as long as it’s for educational purposes.”

This…counted…technically.

He was the art teacher.


Copyright © 2020 by Cole McCade

Put your stuff here

My Thoughts
Just Like This could best be described as a tentative love/hate romance.  Because while there is a definite adversarial bent to the tensions between Damon and Rian.  Their interactions can best be described as charged but wary.  Almost like they were waiting each other out during a chess game.


Even more compelling than the seeming "stalemate of wills" between the two, that seems to be going on throughout the first half of the story.  Is the way that each of their backstories  work in concert with both each other, and that of the present story of their shared charge.
Giving each man a truly "lost boy found" persona.  And setting the stage for their emotionally charged romance.

Speaking of personas.  A big bravo to author Cole McCade.  For his crafting of a more classically styled effeminate lead in the form of Rian.  It is not often that softer male roles are highlighted in such positive and face forward fashion.
That still manages to honor his masculinity in the process.

In short.  This book is a very well written up close and personal view of two men brought together in the pursuit of a goal greater than themselves.  Only to find within each other, a love greater than any  they have ever known.

Reviewer's Note
*Thank you to Carina Press and Net Galley for the provision of the review copy of this work on which my honest critique is based.
Just Like This is the second book of the Albin Academy series.  But may be read as a standalone. 


About Cole McCade

Cole McCade is a New Orleans-born Southern boy without the Southern accent, currently residing somewhere in Seattle. He spends his days as a suit-and-tie corporate consultant and business writer, and his nights writing contemporary romance and erotica that flirts with the edge of taboo—when he’s not being tackled by two hyperactive cats. 


He also writes genre-bending science fiction and fantasy tinged with a touch of horror and flavored by the influences of his multiethnic, multicultural, multilingual background as Xen. He wavers between calling himself bisexual, calling himself queer, and trying to figure out where “demi” fits into the whole mess—but no matter what word he uses he’s a staunch advocate of LGBTQIA and POC representation and visibility in genre fiction. And while he spends more time than is healthy hiding in his writing cave instead of hanging around social media, you can generally find him in these usual haunts: 



Facebook Fan Page: https://www.facebook.com/ColeMcCadeBooks