7/27/16

Lost in Wonderland (The Twisted and the Brave #1) - Nicky Peacock




5 STARS!!!

Evernight Teen Publishing, 31k words
Suspense, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy, Horror


Monsters, serial killers, and imaginary friends—
being a Wonderlander can be murder...

ABOUT THE BOOK -
Once upon a time, Kayla was lost. Then she found Wonderland, but not the one you know. Run by ex-government agents and funded by an eccentric Silicon Valley billionaire, this Wonderland is the name of a collective of highly trained vigilantes who hunt serial killers. Now Kayla, aka Mouse, works tirelessly alongside her fellow Wonderlanders, Rabbit and Cheshire, baiting dangerous murderers. But even her extensive training hasn’t prepared her for the return of her older brother…

Shilo has spent most of his life in an insane asylum, convinced his mother was abducted by a sinister Alaskan monster who lures the lost away to feast upon their flesh. And now he’s certain that his sister is in the same monster’s crosshairs. But if Shilo is going to save what’s left of his family, he’ll have to convince his sister that maybe, just maybe, we’re all a little mad.


Buy Links:  Evernight Teen,  AmazonB&N

14+ due to violence and adult situations

Excerpt:

Before I can scream, he stuffs me in his trunk. It is dark, smelly, and contains an empty plain black plastic bag and a dirty shovel; these are not good signs. I put my hands to the top of the trunk and push. It is locked. I wasn’t getting out till he wanted me to. I resign myself to curl into a ball, the acidic-smelling sweat of his palms still imprinted on my bare, narrow shoulders. I should be listening out for the car engine, hearing when it slows for corners or revs on open roads. I should be testing the resilience of all the sides of the black space around me. I should be doing all the things they tell you to do, but I don’t. I simply stay in my little ball, quiet and patient.
The car bounces up and down and I realize we’re not on the main road anymore. He’s taking me somewhere remote…
We come to a soft stop. The slam of a car door shivers through the metal of the vehicle. I know what is going to happen. It’s so inevitable that it’s almost laughable. Death comes to everyone at some point; what is that saying, “No one can avoid death and taxes.” Funny the things you remember when you’re in danger. I suppose your brain tries to distract you with all sorts of useless crap, anything to keep you from shutting down and freaking the hell out. I grab at my forearm, an almost robotic reaction, feeling down it to check that my tracking chip is still there. The hard edges beneath my skin make me smile. My small, metallic friend never lets me down, never abandons me.
The lid to my dark place is pulled up and I see him. His face is blank. There’s no hint of emotion or even intent other than what can be derived through his actions. His hands are sturdy as he pulls me from the trunk and stands me up before him. Being barely five feet tall, I only stand to his chest. I look down to the ground between us and see the cheapest sneakers in the world, ones probably made by enslaved third-world children. Man this guy is pure evil.
“Don’t worry, girl.” He puts a hand on my cheek and graces me with a twitchy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The hand lingers longer than usual polite social circles would allow. My eyes widen. I know that I am one of many girls he has brought here—one of the many that he planned to rape and strangle, then leave used and vacant by the side of the road, a hollow tangle of floppy limbs. How do I know this? Because I know him. I was looking for him. I’m not who, and what, he thinks I am. I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl, scared by the death sentence before her. No, I am something else entirely.
I smack his palm from my cheek and use the momentum to reach over with my other hand to grab his wrist. I position myself in front of him and use his own body weight to pull him down and over my now bent back. He hits the ground so hard he cries out. I keep hold of his arm and twist it around and under. He moves his body, angling it in the same direction in an attempt to ease the tension I’m creating.
“Stop!” he yells, those crappy sneakers frantically pumping to find enough purchase to get him to his feet.
I push harder till I hear the bone snap. He screams, but thanks to the remote location he has taken us to, no one hears him. I let go of his wrist and turn to retrieve the shovel from the trunk. I take a minute to loom over him. He is trying to get up, but the weight and pain of his broken arm is putting him off-balance. Funny how fragile the human body actually is, even one that belongs to a sick serial killer.
I raise the shovel and smack it over his knees. He howls and tries to shield himself with his good arm. An arm that is not intact for long, as I turn the shovel and this time use the edge to dig into his flesh. Blood pools on the ground and he begins to crawl. I’m not sure where he’s trying to go. I think his goal is just to get away from me. I walk the few steps to where he’s managed to drag himself to then bring my weapon down hard onto his skull. The splintering sound of bone meeting metal is my cue to get on with the operation. I pull my cell phone from my pink sparkle-covered jeans and dial the only number on it. An automated message greets me. “Off with their heads.” I take a breath and look over at the mangled mess of the serial killer they knew as the Doll Maker. “Here, here,” I say. The call rings off and I know that I have to make my exit now. They will come and clean up the mess. No one will ever know that the Doll Maker was an accountant with really bad shoes, and I mean really bad. It’s not till they’d stopped moving that I see peeling luminous go-faster stripes adorning their sides. Yeesh. The blood splatter does little to hide their ugliness.
I stoop and check for a pulse, finding none. His skin is already clammy and I could swear slightly rubbery, but in truth it is probably just my imagination.
I throw down the shovel and begin the trek back to civilization. The night air is bitter and cruel, so I pull up my lilac hood against it. An unmarked black car zooms past me. They were quick tonight. I rub my hand up my forearm and feel the comfort of my chip. My chip is a constant friend, albeit a chatty one; they will always be able to find me, know where I am, where I’ve been. Not that I’m complaining. I was lost once, when I was very little. And although that fear bubbles in my mind every day, I beat it back with my chip. I’ll never be lost again; or at least that is what my adoptive parents tell me. Wonderland doesn’t lose its operatives.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
Nicky is a published author of both YA and adult urban fantasy, paranormal romance and horror fiction. She lives in the heart of the UK, where she has run a writers' group for over 4 years to help new writers find their feet on the path to publication. A member of both the Society of Authors and the British Fantasy Society, Nicky has had over 30 stories published in various anthologies. She loves to talk to readers, so please feel free to either get in touch with her through her blog, or on any of the social media below.




MY THOUGHTS -
Holy crap! This book has some guts!
It took me a few chapters to figure out what the heck was happening and what the story was really about.. but I loved that about it. I like books that make me think. And this one certainly did that.
It was expertly thought out and executed. There was not a dull second in the book. Edge-of-your-seat reading at its very best!

Wonderful character development. What a zany cast of characters -
Mouse - Fearless and kind of scary really. She reminded me of Jennifer Garner in Alias. She was a real bad ass. The real deal.
Shilo - Mouse's brother, crazy, talks to people who are not really there... or are they? I loved him! What a lovable insane young man! I think he was my favorite.
Mr. Custard - One of the imaginary friends. He was the voice of reason. A good guy to have around.
Rabbit, Cheshire, & Hatter - all part of the "gang", operatives. All great characters.
The Kushtaka - The monster/Killer - great scary bad guy!
A lot of other minor characters, all done very well.

This book was so much fun to read. But was also very intense and dark at times. I would give it 10 extra stars just for originality. I can't wait to read the next book in the series.


Thank you "Bridging the Gap Promotions & More" for sending me this book for my honest review!!!

7/26/16

Blue Moon by Wendy Corsi Staub (Showcase post with a GIVEAWAY!!)

on Tour July 25th – August 26, 2016 

 New York Times bestselling author Wendy Corsi Staub returns to Mundy’s Landing—a small town where bygone bloodshed has become big business.

Hair neatly braided, hands serenely clasped, eyes closed, the young woman appeared to be sound asleep. But the peaceful tableau was a madman’s handiwork. Beneath the covers, her white nightgown was spattered with blood. At daybreak, a horrified family would discover her corpse tucked into their guest room. The cunning killer would strike again . . . and again . . . before vanishing into the mists of time.

A century ago, the Sleeping Beauty Murders terrified picturesque Mundy’s Landing. The victims, like the killer, were never identified. Now, on the hundredth anniversary, the Historical Society’s annual “Mundypalooza” offers a hefty reward for solving the notorious case.

Annabelle Bingham, living in one of the three Murder Houses, can’t escape the feeling that her family is being watched—and not just by news crews and amateur sleuths. She’s right. Having unearthed the startling truth behind the horrific crimes, a copycat killer is about to reenact them—beneath the mansard roof of Annabelle’s dream home…

Book Details:

Genre: Thrillers, Suspense
Published by: William Morrow, Mass Market
Publication Date: July 26th 2016
Number of Pages: 448
ISBN: 0062349759 (ISBN13: 9780062349750)
Series: Mundy’s Landing #2
Purchase Links: Amazon Barnes & Noble Goodreads

BLUE MOON

Prologue

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Mundy’s Landing, New York

Here we are,” the Realtor, Lynda Carlotta, announces as she slows the car in front of 46 Bridge Street. “It really is magnificent, isn’t it?”
The Second Empire Victorian presides over neighboring stucco bungalows and pastel Queen Anne cottages with the aplomb of a grand dame crashing a coffee klatch. There’s a full third story tucked behind the scalloped slate shingles, topped by a black iron grillwork crown. A square cupola rises to a lofty crest against the gloomy Sunday morning sky. Twin cornices perch atop its paired windows like the meticulously arched, perpetually raised eyebrows of a proper aristocratic lady.
Fittingly, the house—rather, the events that transpired within its plaster walls—raised many an eyebrow a hundred years ago.
Annabelle Bingham grew up right around the corner, but she stares from the leather passenger’s seat as if seeing the house for the first time. She’d never imagined that she might actually live beneath that mansard roof, in the shadow of the century-old unsolved crimes that unfolded there.
For the past few days, she and her husband, Trib, have taken turns talking each other into—and out of—coming to see this place. They’re running out of options.
Real estate values have soared in this picturesque village, perched on the eastern bank of the Hudson River midway between New York City and Albany. The Binghams’ income has done quite the opposite. The only homes in their price range are small, undesirable fixer-uppers off the highway. They visited seven such properties yesterday and another this morning, a forlorn little seventies ranch that smelled of must and mothballs. Eau d’old man, according to Trib.
Magnificent isn’t exactly the word that springs to mind when I look at this house,” he tells Lynda from the backseat.
She smiles at him in the rearview mirror. “Well, I’m not the professional wordsmith you are. I’m sure you can come up with a more creative adjective.”
Annabelle can. She’s been trying to keep it out of her head, but everything—even the tolling steeple bells from nearby Holy Angels Church—is a grim reminder.
“Monolithic,” pronounces the backseat wordsmith. “That’s one way to describe it.”
Murder House, Annabelle thinks. That’s another.
“There’s certainly plenty of room for a large family,” Lynda points out cheerily.
Optimism might be her strong suit, but tact is not. Doesn’t she realize there are plenty of families that don’t care to grow larger? And there are many that, for one heartbreaking reason or another, couldn’t expand even if they wanted to; and still others, like the Binghams, whose numbers are sadly dwindling.
Annabelle was an only child, as is their son, Oliver. Trib lost his older brother in a tragic accident when they were kids. Until a few months ago, Trib’s father, the last of their four parents to pass away, had been a vital part of their lives. He’d left them the small inheritance they plan to use as a down payment on a home of their own—a bittersweet prospect for all of them.
“I just want Grandpa Charlie back,” Oliver said tearfully last night. “I’d rather have him than a new house.”
“We all would, sweetheart. But you know he can’t come back, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a nice big bedroom and live on a street with sidewalks and other kids?”
“No,” Oliver said, predictably. “I like it here.”
They’re living in what had once been the gardener’s cottage on a grand Hudson River estate out on Battlefield Road. The grounds are lovely but isolated, and they’ve long since outgrown the tiny rental space.
Still . . . are they really prepared to go from dollhouse to mansion?
“There are fourteen rooms,” Lynda waxes on, “including the third-floor ballroom, observatory, and servants’ quarters. Over thirty-five hundred square feet of living space—although I have to check the listing sheet, so don’t quote me on it.”
That, Annabelle has noticed, is one of her favorite catchphrases. Don’t quote me on it.
“Is she saying it because you’re a reporter?” she’d asked Trib after their first outing with Lynda. “Does she think you’re working on an article that’s going to blow the lid off . . . I don’t know, sump pump function?”
He laughed. “That’s headline fodder if I ever heard it.”
Lynda starts to pull the Lexus into the rutted driveway. After a few bumps, she thinks better of it and backs out onto the street. “Let’s start out front so that we can get the full curb appeal, shall we?”
They shall.
“Would you mind handing me that file folder on the floor back there, Charles?” Lynda asks Trib, whose lanky form is folded into the seat behind her.
He’d been born Charles Bingham IV, but as one of several Charlies in kindergarten, was rechristened courtesy of his family’s longtime ownership of the Mundy’s Landing
Tribune. The childhood nickname stuck with him and proved prophetic: he took over as editor and publisher after his dad retired a decade ago.
But Lynda wouldn’t know that. She’s relatively new in town, having arrived sometime in the last decade. Nor would she remember the era when the grand homes in The Heights had fallen into shabby disrepair and shuttered nineteenth-century storefronts lined the Common. She’d missed the dawning renaissance as they reopened, one by one, to form the bustling business district that exists today.
“Let’s see . . . I was wrong,” she says, consulting the file Trib passes to the front seat. “The house is only thirty-three hundred square feet.”
Can we quote you on it? Annabelle wants to ask.
“I can’t imagine what it cost to heat this place last winter,” Trib comments, “with all those below-zero days we had.”
“You’ll see here that there’s a fairly new furnace.” Lynda hands them each a sheet of paper. “Much more energy efficient than you’ll find in most old houses in the neighborhood.”
Annabelle holds the paper at arm’s length—courtesy of advancing farsightedness—and looks over the list of specs. The “new” furnace was installed about fifteen years ago, around the turn of this century. The wiring and plumbing most likely date to the turn of the last one.
“Oh, and did I mention that this is the only privately owned indoor pool in town.”
She did, several times. Some potential buyers might view that as a burden, but Lynda is well aware that it’s a luxury for Annabelle, an avid swimmer.
Still, the house lacks plenty of key items on her wish list. There’s a ramshackle detached garage instead of the two-car garage she and Trib covet. There is no master suite. The lot is undersized, like many in this historic neighborhood.
“You’re never going to find exactly what you want,” Lynda has been reminding her and Trib from day one. “You have to compromise.”
They want a home that’s not too big, not too small, not too old, not too new, not too expensive, not a rock-bottom fixer-upper . . .
Goldilocks syndrome—another of Lynda’s catchphrases.
This house may be too old and too big, but it isn’t too expensive despite being located in The Heights, a sloping tree-lined enclave adjacent to the Village Common.
Its owner, Augusta Purcell, died over a year ago, reportedly in the same room where she’d been born back in 1910. Her sole heir, her nephew Lester, could have sold it to the historical society for well above market value. But he refused to entertain a long-standing preemptive offer from the curator, Ora Abrams.
“I’m not going to cash in on a tragedy like everyone else around here,” he grumbled, adamantly opposed to having his ancestral home exploited for its role in the notorious, unsolved Sleeping Beauty case.
From late June through mid July of 1916, a series of grisly crimes unfurled in the relentless glare of both a brutal heat wave and the Sestercentennial Celebration for the village, founded in 1666.
Forty-six Bridge Street was the second home to gain notoriety as a crime scene. The first was a gambrel-roofed fieldstone Dutch manor house just around the corner at 65 Prospect Street; the third, a granite Beaux Arts mansion at 19 Schuyler Place.
No actual homicide took place inside any of the three so-called Murder Houses. But what had happened was profoundly disturbing. Several days and several blocks apart, three local families awakened to find the corpse of a young female stranger tucked into a spare bed under their roof.
The bodies were all posed exactly the same way: lying on their backs beneath coverlets that were neatly folded back beneath their arms. Their hands were peacefully clasped on top of the folded part of the covers. Their long hair—they all had long hair—was braided and arranged just so upon the pillows.
All the girls’ throats had been neatly slit ear to ear. Beneath each pillow was a note penned on plain stationery in block lettering: Sleep safe till tomorrow. The line was taken from a William Carlos Williams poem published three years earlier.
The victims hadn’t died where they lay, nor in the immediate vicinity. They’d been stealthily transported by someone who was never caught; someone who was never identified and whose motive remains utterly inexplicable to this day.
Ghastly death portraits were printed in newspapers across the country in the futile hope that someone might recognize a sister, a daughter, a niece. In the end, their unidentified remains were buried in the graveyard behind Holy Angels Church.
Is Annabelle really willing to move into a Murder House?
A year ago, she’d have said no way. This morning, when she and Trib and Oliver were crashing into porcelain fixtures and one another in their tiny bathroom, she’d have said yes, absolutely.
Now, staring up at the lofty bracketed eaves, ornately carved balustrades, and curve-topped couplets of tall, narrow windows, all framed against a blood red foliage canopy of an oppressive sky . . .
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
“Since you both grew up here, I don’t have to tell you about how wonderful this neighborhood is,” Lynda says as the three of them step out of the car and approach the tall black iron fence that mirrors the mansard crest.
A brisk wind stirs overhead boughs. They creak and groan, as does the gate when Lynda pushes it open. The sound is straight out of a horror movie. A chill slips down Annabelle’s spine, and she shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her corduroy barn coat.
The brick walkway between the gate and the house is strewn with damp fallen leaves. For all she knows, someone raked just yesterday. It is that time of year, and an overnight storm brought down a fresh barrage of past-peak foliage.
Yet the grounds exude the same forlorn, abandoned atmosphere as the house itself. It’s the only one on the block that lacks pumpkins on the porch steps and political signs posted in the yard.
Election Day looms, with a heated mayoral race that reflects the pervasive insider versus outsider mentality. Most residents of The Heights back the incumbent, John Elsworth Ransom, whose roots extend to the first settlers of Mundy’s Landing. Support for his opponent, a real estate developer named Dean Cochran, is stronger on the other side of town, particularly in Mundy Estates, the upscale townhouse complex he built and now calls home.
A Ransom for Mayor poster isn’t all that’s conspicuously missing from the leaf-blanketed yard. There’s no For Sale sign, either.
Trib asks Lynda if she’s sure it’s on the market.
“Oh, it is. But Lester prefers to avoid actively soliciting the ‘ghouls’—not the Halloween kind, if you know what I mean.”
They do. Plenty of locals use that word to describe the tourists who visit every summer in an effort to solve the cold case. The event—colloquially dubbed Mundypalooza—has taken place every year since 1991. That’s when, in conjunction with the seventy-fifth anniversary of the cold case, the historical society first extended a public invitation: Can You Solve the Sleeping Beauty Murders?
So far, no one has—but every summer, more and more people descend to try their hand at it. The historical society sponsors daily speakers, panel discussions, and workshops. Even Trib conducts an annual seminar about the sensational press coverage the case received in 1916.
He turns to Annabelle. “That’s something we’d have to deal with if we bought this place.”
“You’re right. We’d be inundated with curiosity seekers. I don’t think I want to—”
“Just in the summer, though,” Lynda cuts in quickly, “and even then, it’s not a big deal.”
“This house will be crawling with people and press,” Annabelle points out.
After all, a Murder House isn’t just branded by century-old stigma; it bears the brunt of the yearly gawker invasion. No local resident escapes unscathed, but those who live at 46 Bridge Street, 65 Prospect Street, and 19 Schuyler Place are inundated.
“Let’s just walk through before you rule it out,” Lynda urges. “A comparable house at any other address in this neighborhood would sell for at least six figures more. I’d hate to have someone snatch this out from under you.”
The odds of that happening are slim to none. Lester, who insists on pre-approving every showing, requests that prospective buyers already live locally. Not many people fit the bill, but Annabelle and Trib passed muster and they’re here. They might as well look, even though Annabelle is sure she doesn’t want to live here after all. She’d never get past what happened here during the summer of 1916, let alone what will happen every summer forever after, thanks to Mundypalooza.
They step through the massive double doors into the dim, chilly entrance hall. So far, so not good.
Before Annabelle can announce that she’s changed her mind, Lynda presses an antique mother-of-pearl button on the wall. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
They find themselves bathed in the glow of an elegant fixture suspended from a plaster medallion high overhead. Surprisingly, it is better.
There’s a massive mirror on the wall opposite the door. In it, Annabelle sees their reflection: Lynda, a full head shorter even in heels, bookended by herself and Trib, who could pass for siblings. They’re similarly tall and lean, with almost the same shade of dark brown hair and light brown eyes—both attractive, if not in a head-turning way.
Their eyes meet in the mirror, and he gives her a slight nod, as if to say, Yes, let’s keep going.
“Just look at that mosaic tile floor!” Lynda exclaims. “And the moldings on those archways! And the woodwork on the grand staircase! We haven’t seen anything like this in any of the houses we’ve looked at, have we?”
They agree that they haven’t, and of course wouldn’t expect to in their price point.
Annabelle can picture twelve-year-old Oliver walking through those big doors after school, dropping his backpack on the built-in seat above the cast-iron radiator with a Mom? I’m home. As she runs her fingertips over the carved newel post, she envisions him sliding down the banister curving above.
The long-dormant old house stirs to life as they move through it. One by one, doors creak open. Spaces beyond brighten courtesy of wall switches that aren’t dime-a-dozen rectangular plastic levers. These are period contraptions with buttons or brass toggles or pull-pendants dangling from thirteen-foot ceilings. Lynda presses, turns, pulls them all, chasing shadows from the rooms.
Annabelle’s imagination strips away layers of faded velvet and brocade shrouding the tall windows. Her mind’s eye replaces Augusta’s dark, dusty furnishings with comfortable upholstery and modern electronics. Instead of mustiness and cat pee, she smells furniture polish, clean linens, savory supper on the stove. The ticking grandfather clock, dripping faucets, and Lynda’s chirpy monologue and tapping footsteps are overshadowed by the voices Annabelle loves best, echoing through the rooms in ordinary conversation: Mom, I’m home! What’s for dinner? I’m home! How was your day? I’m home . . .
Yes, Annabelle realizes. This is it.
This, at last, is home.


 ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
USA Today and New York Times bestseller Wendy Corsi Staub is the award-winning author of more than seventy novels and has twice been nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She lives in the New York City suburbs with her husband and their two children.

Catch Up:

Website: http://www.wendycorsistaub.com/
Twitter: @WendyCorsiStaub
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/corsistaub

Giveaway!

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Wendy Corsi Staub and HarperCollins. There will be 1 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of Blood Red, the 1st Mundy's Landing novel, by Wendy Corsi Staub. The giveaway begins on July 22nd and runs through September 3rd, 2016.

a Rafflecopter giveaway



Wendy Corsi Staub

USA Today and New York Times bestseller Wendy Corsi Staub is the award-winning author of more than seventy novels and has twice been nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She lives in the New York City suburbs with her husband and their two children.

Catch Up:

Website: http://www.wendycorsistaub.com/
Twitter: @WendyCorsiStaub
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/corsistaub

Giveaway! This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Wendy Corsi Staub and HarperCollins. There will be 1 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of Blood Red, the 1st Mundy's Landing novel, by Wendy Corsi Staub. The giveaway begins on July 22nd and runs through September 3rd, 2016. a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Participants for Blue Moon:



Note: this is a private list. Only the list owner can enter links.
 

7/22/16

Sophie’s Path (Shores of Indian Lake) - Catherine Lanigan


4 Stars

ABOUT THE BOOK -
Nurse Sophie Mattuchi has seen a lot of angry patients in the ER, but no one's ever rattled her like Jack Carter. He has no right to blame her for his friend's death. Sophie did everything she could. Didn't she? Yet his accusations sting, and that sets off all kinds of internal alarms. She's never cared this much about any man's opinion of her. But Jack is different. He stirs up feelings. Strong feelings. Guilt. Anger. Attraction. Curiosity. Sympathy. Sophie's definitely not interested in Jack, but even if she was, he'd never forgive her for the decision she made that night in the hospital. Would he?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
 Catherine Lanigan is the international bestselling and award-winning author of forty published titles in both fiction and non-fiction, including the novelizations of Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile, as well as her Angel Watch trilogy of real stories of angelic intervention in human life.
Currently, she has published five novels in the Shores of Indian Lake series for Harlequin Heartwarming: Love ShadowsHeart’s DesireA Fine Year for LoveKatia’s Promise and Fear of FallingSophie’s Path pubs July, 2016.
Visit her website - HERE 

MY THOUGHTS -
Sweet, sweet, sweet book! This book started right off with a big bang for me. It really grabbed me right from chapter one. I loved that much of the book took place in the hospital and ER. I love medical dramas and romances. This one had a lot of action and a lot of "hospital talk" LOL. I don't know why that appeals to me but it always has. I love Hospital TV shows (watched all 14 yrs of ER!)
This book brought all that back to me.

It did slow down a bit in the middle but I still loved reading it. I loved Sophie - what a sweetheart! She was a wonderful, kind, very dedicated woman. And even when Jack was being a jerk to her, I liked him too. Actually I kind of liked the little ripples between them - it made it more fun.
And... I am not a dog person, but the dog was a nice touch! It was what they needed.

This is a great quick summer read to add to your list. One that will touch your heart for sure!

Thank you TLC Book Tours for sending me this book for my honest review!

https://www.amazon.com/Sophies-Path-Shores-Indian-Lake/dp/0373367988/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8

 

Summer Lovin’ TLC Book Tours TOUR STOPS:

Monday, July 4th: Romantic Reads and Such – Under an Adirondack Sky
Tuesday, July 5th: A Chick Who Reads – The Girl He Used to Love
Wednesday, July 6th: Romancing the Readers – Sophie’s Path
Thursday, July 7th: Wall to Wall Books – Under an Adirondack Sky
Friday, July 8th: Just Commonly – When I Found You
Monday, July 11th: From the TBR Pile – Sophie’s Path
Tuesday, July 12th: Books A La Mode – Karen Rock guest post
Tuesday, July 12th: Musings of a Bookish Kitty – Under an Adirondack Sky
Wednesday, July 13th: Books and Spoons – When I Found You
Friday, July 15th: Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers – The Girl He Used to Love
Monday, July 18th: Stranded in Chaos – Under an Adirondack Sky
Wednesday, July 20th: Books A La Mode – Amy Vastine Guest Post
Thursday, July 21st: Romancing the Book – When I Found You
Friday, July 22nd: Wall to Wall Books – Sophie’s Path
Monday, July 25thFrom the TBR Pile – The Girl He Used to Love
Tuesday, July 26thBibliotica – Under an Adirondack Sky
Wednesday, July 27thBooks and Spoons – Sophie’s Path
Friday, July 29thBooks A La Mode – Kate James Guest Post
Saturday, July 30thThe Sassy Bookster – When I Found You
Monday, August 1st: A Chick Who Reads – Sophie’s Path
Tuesday, August 2ndReading Is My Superpower – Under an Adirondack Sky
Wednesday, August 3rdReading Is My Superpower – When I Found You
Friday, August 5thSharon’s Garden of Book Reviews – The Girl He Used to Love
Monday, August 8thWhy Girls are Weird – Under an Adirondack Sky
Tuesday, August 9thMusings of a Bookish Kitty – When I Found You
Wednesday, August 10thReading Lark – Sophie’s Path
Thursday, August 11thRomancing the Book – The Girl He Used to Love
Friday, August 12thBooks A La Mode – Catherine Lanigan Guest Post
Monday, August 15thRomancing the Book – Sophie’s Path
Tuesday, August 16thRead-Love-Blog – Amy Vastine Guest Post
Thursday, August 18thRomancing the Book – Under an Adirondack Sky