Today I have the blog tour for L.M. Halloran’s Room For Us. Check it out and be sure to order your copy today!
Room For Us
L.M. Halloran
Contemporary Romance
Ethan Hart thinks I’m his maid. Too bad I need his money more than my pride.
The intense, arrogant author has booked my entire Inn to write his next fictional masterpiece.
I have no choice but to put up with his demands.
Breakfast is a daily endurance test.
Making his bed and doing his wash? A different kind of torture.
And that’s not even the worst part.
With his haunted eyes, frozen heart, and heated touch, Ethan makes me burn in ways I swore I never would again.
There’s no place in my life for him, nor in his for me.
But six weeks together might create...
Just enough room for us.
The sound of a car pulling up the driveway distracts me from the four paragraphs of rubbish I've managed so far today. Moving to the window, I part the curtains and watch Zoey Kemper emerge. My gaze trips over her messy hair, loose white T-shirt, and obscenely bright, yellow cardigan, before finally landing on her legs. She's wearing cutoff jean shorts. Feeling like a leech but not caring, I spend thirty seconds having all sorts of fantasies about those legs wrapped around my hips, and spread eagled under my hands.
She looks so damn wholesome. Her face clear and makeup-free, her breasts perfect and pert. She's a walking Girl Next Door wet dream. I'm at least honest enough with myself to know that's part of her draw.
A few memories of last night have come back, too, namely of her helping me to the couch and gently taking off my shoes. As well as on disturbingly intimate one of her hand brushing across my forehead, a comforting touch, a reassurance, almost like a mother would provide for an ailing child.
But mostly, my fascination stems from what she hides beneath that neutral smile. She's an imperfect mirror for what I'm trying, and failing, to achieve here - the scraping away of years of backed-up mental bullshit as I try to write an honest, good book.
The trunk of the Jeep flips up, and she begins unpacking it. Potted plants, trays with tens of smaller shoots, and finally large bags of what I assume are soil and fertilizer. She stacks everything near the porch, closes up the car, and disappears around the side of the house. A few minutes later she reappears with a shovel and begins to attack the plot of bare earth in front of the porch. Before long, the cardigan is discarded and her arms and chest glisten with sweat.
When not writing or reading, the author enjoys walking barefoot, subjecting her husband to questionable recipes, and chasing her spirited daughter. She’s a rabid fan of coffee, moon-gazing, and small dogs that resemble Ewoks. Home is Portland, Oregon.
