Chapter 1

Murphy

It looked as if the yoga class was about to end. Thank you,
Jesus. And not a moment too soon. Murphy Clarke hadn’t intended to spend the
third anniversary of her un-wedding in a yoga class some six hundred fifty
miles away from home. But somehow her annoyingly perky sister, TC, had worn her
down.

As a life coach, she couldn’t just take a month off, like
her sister, the teacher, could. Her responsibilities didn’t end at the
beginning of summer. She had developed a set of rules, and here she was,
breaking the first.

That’s how she found herself in Summer’s Beach, North
Carolina, staring at the boyishly handsome instructor who had a penchant for
torturing his students with contortionist poses.

She sat up and was nearly standing when—

“It’s time for our ending meditation. Take the stillness and
peace of this session as well as the silence into the world with you today.”

Murphy sighed as she sat back down. Apparently, rather
loudly. Not only did her sister and their friend, Eli, scowl at her, the
instructor fixed a spine-chilling stare at her with his steel-gray eyes. Again.
She had walked in ten minutes late—through no fault of her own. Well, her
client, Amelia, had a crisis and she couldn’t leave her hanging. She had to
take the call. He had flashed her one of those if-looks-could-kill stares  .

Grimacing as she assumed the half-lotus pose, she placed her
index fingers to her thumbs and slowly breathed out an om. She checked
on her sister. Full lotus. Show off.

“Ommmm.” The instructor breathed out. The students
followed with their own om, strung out so it felt as if the entire room
was vibrating.

Brrnng! Brnng! Murphy’s cellphone broke the silence.
Damn it. She reached into her tote bag and fumbled for it.

Brnng! Brnng! Her cheeks burning, she rooted around
the large vacation bag and grabbed it.

“Murphy here. How may I help you…Josh…wait a second.”

She rose, gave the instructor a shrug, and walked to the
back of the room.

“No, I don’t think so. I think at this point in your life
you’re exactly where you need to be. Don’t you feel it?”

Josh Millcreek was one of Murphy’s first life coach clients.
His level of self-confidence fluctuated over the three years of their
relationship. This most recent crisis would end soon. She just needed to be
there for him. And vacation or not, that’s what she intended to do.

She held the phone in front of her, nearly parallel to the
floor as she talked. “You’re not your old—”

A shadow hovered over her phone. She blinked. Frowning, she
looked up to see the yoga instructor. His eyes bore into her. He snatched the
phone from her hand. She shivered as a spark of electricity skittered up her
arm. She swallowed hard.

“What the…?”

The yoga instructor grabbed her phone? The tall, handsome
instructor? The one with broad shoulders? And loosely curled caramel-colored
hair? She imagined if he’d ever smile, he’d probably have adorable laugh lines.
For a split second, she was lost in his penetrating eyes and those
shoulders—far too broad to belong to a yoga instructor.

Earth to Murphy. That, however, didn’t excuse him
from stealing her phone. She glowered at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” The nerve of this man.

“Ma’am” —Ma’am? He called me ma’am?— “we’re in
meditation. Silent meditation. Who are you talking to?” He nodded toward her
phone.

“My client, as if it’s any of your business.” She held one
hand out, the other on her hip as she waited for him to return her phone.
Instead, he raised it to his ear. What?

“Ms. Murphy is in meditation at the moment. I’m sure she’ll
return your call later.” He clicked the phone off and tossed it to her. It
bobbled in her hands before she clutched it in her palm.

“Let’s continue our closing routine.” He pivoted and walked
to the front of the room, leaving her to stare at his nicely formed butt. “Now
that I’ve put Ms. Murphy’s phone on airplane mode.”

“How dare you.”

Murphy grumbled to herself but returned to her spot and sat
down next to her sister. She placed her left ankle over her right thigh and
huffed.

“What is your problem?” TC kept her gaze on the instructor.

“I told you I didn’t want to go on vacation, but—”

“Ladies, are we ready? Ms. Murphy, you can talk about your
fear of vacations after the session.”

“I’m not afraid of—”

“Everyone take a deep breath. Think peace and stillness.
This is the attitude you’re taking with you as you leave the class.”

 

Terry
Newman is an award-winning author who writes romantic comedy with a splash of
fantasy.

An excerpt of “Death of Angst” from WAVES OF LIGHT AND
DARKNESS: STORIES

“When my eyes have the ember slits of a viper, some humans
think I must be plotting death and murder. Although it happens, out of
necessity, most of the time I am merely researching, scrutinizing, and
processing feline perfection, because I was found as an orphan under a box. I
know now that I must have been in severe pain from having survived an attack by
a thug, a ruffian tomcat that wanted to breed with my mother. I remember the
sharp claws digging into my fur, the putrid breath hot on my neck. So, no wonder
I am skittish; it just does not leave you. The trauma, I mean. My brothers and
sisters, dead and gone. More to the point, leaving me with no one to learn
from . . . to emulate.

I was certainly lucky to be found by Adele Petrini outside
the building where I now live on the third floor. I think Adele was around five
years old back then. Human years, I’m talking about. Just a tiny, muddy thing,
with messy braids and curious eyes. She wanted to name me Anxiety, but it got
shortened to Angst. I don’t mind; I am certainly happy with the name. I find it
important that it’s easy for humans to call my name when it’s time to eat.”

John Danenbarger spends much of his time writing in Italy.
Born in Atlanta, he graduated from University of Kansas with a degree in
English and Creative Writing. With a backlist of short stories, Danenbarger
established the Salem Massachusetts Writers’ Club. After living in Oslo,
Norway, Stockholm, Sweden, and Salem, MA, Danenbarger achieved a merchant
marine captain’s license, sailing for two years on the New England coast
including two round-trips to Bermuda.

 

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So, at age 51, after a long career in journalism and
public-relations, she quit her day job and went to work. After seven years,
countless rewrites, and a seat-of-her-pants course in modern publishing, she
released her debut novel, The Leaving Year, with SparkPress Aug. 14, 2018.

Set in the beautiful Pacific Northwest where she grew up,
The Leaving Year, is a coming-of-age story about love and loyalty, family and
friendship, and the stories we tell ourselves in our search for meaning.

For her second novel, Shade of Wings, she looked to New York
City to tell the story of the West Nile virus outbreak from the point-of-view
of the first US victims – American crows. She hopes readers fall in love her
hapless hero, Duncan, and his plucky crow family. She certainly loved giving
them life.

Before tackling novels, Pam wrote short stories and
articles. Her short fiction has appeared in the online literary journals,
Eclectica and Amarillo Bay, and her articles have been published in many Puget
Sound-area publications and websites, including The Daily Herald (in Everett,
WA), Bicycle Paper, the MS Connection newsletter, and Seattle Children’s Story
Project.

She has a BA degree in Communications Journalism from the
University of Washington and certificates in fiction writing and advanced
literary fiction from UW Extension.

When she isn’t writing or thinking about writing, she likes
to read, walk the dog, swim, bike, garden, and watch birds.

 

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the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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Prologue:

Present Day

The moon hung quietly above Helldreth Fort, its pale glow
spilling through the tall windows and brushing the chamber with soft silver. A
cool breeze drifted in and stirred the white curtains, their edges sweeping
lightly across Everin’s skin. She pulled her silk gown closer, grateful for the
warmth of the room. It felt comforting, far more so than the terrible, dark place
she had left behind.

Her steps carried her to the mirror in the corner. The
reflection staring back looked thinner, as if her body had been carved down to
something she hardly recognized.

The neckline of her nightie dipped too low to her liking,
drawing her eye to the faint scars across her chest. The lamp light traced
their uneven lines, pale and unsettling.

She touched them gently. Everin barely remembered how or
when she got the scars.

She pulled the outer robe around her until it covered more
of her chest. At least the scars were low enough to stay hidden unless she wore
something too revealing.

A sound of footsteps behind her made her turn.

Tariel Fenwick, her first love, stood at the doorway.

Everin froze for a moment. He looked different—stronger,
more defined, more man than the boy she remembered. His dark hair rested just
above his shoulders with two thin braids at the

sides of his head, framing a face sharpened by a faint
stubble. His amber eyes, once so warm, now carried a deeper, shadowed
intensity. His shirt hung open across his chest, revealing sculpted muscle that
rose with each slow breath, and a leather gauntlet, more like an open finger
glove, hugged his left hand like a seamless extension of his skin.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. He saw that.
A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips.

She straightened quickly. “We need to talk, Tariel.”

“Yes,” he replied, approaching her, “but not now.”

“There is a lot I want to understand,” she said quietly. “So
much I don’t remember.”

“Later.” He reached her, lowering his voice. “I’ve long
waited for this moment with you.”

He stepped closer.

She stepped back.

“You waited for me?” she whispered, searching his face.

“I did,” he said. “More than you know.”

He brushed a fingertip along her arm. She stiffened but felt
a flicker of the old pull toward him, a warm memory trying to surface. Her eyes
drifted briefly to his lips, those that she had kissed in the past, before she
forced herself to look away.

His smirk deepened. “Are we shy now, Everin?” he murmured,
amusement warm in his voice.

“It has been a while,” she managed. “Things are not the
same.”

“We are,” he said, touching her jaw. “You still feel this.”

She backed away again, but he followed, closing in until she
had no space left. Her leg hit the edge of the bed. She lost her balance and
stumbled, falling backward onto the soft covers. Instantly, she pressed her
elbow into the mattress as she tried to push herself upright and pull her short
nightie into place, but she barely had a second.

By the time she braced herself, Tariel was already on the
bed. One knee pressed into the mattress, and in a swift movement, he trapped
her between his legs. His body loomed over hers, leaving her nowhere to go. His
hand slid behind her back and pulled her closer. The other moved to her neck,
his fingers settling at her pulse, firm enough to hold her from looking

away.

His control was precise and deliberate.

“Tariel—” She sucked in a breath, fear slipping into her
voice. “What are you doing?”

His lips hovered above hers, so close she could taste the
hint of warmth in each breath he released.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, his voice shifting,
deepening, curling around her like smoke. His eyes burned brighter, molten gold
spilling across the darkness of his gaze. “You always have.”

Everin’s heart thrashed in her chest. Something ancient
stared back at her through his eyes—something demanding, something claiming.

She tried to pull away. “You’re frightening me.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. “You
love me,” he whispered.

“You always have. And you will give yourself to me again.”

His mouth dragged slowly toward hers, teasing, commanding,
his breath warm against her parted lips.

“I want you,” he said, low and certain. “I want all of you.”

“No.” Everin gasped, turning her head away as panic surged.

“Stop. You’re not—”

His fingers tightened at her neck.

He didn’t stop. The Tariel she loved would have.

“I am yours,” he murmured.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Then her voice broke in a
whisper— “You’re not him. You’re not Tariel.”

The room fell silent. And everything inside her knew she was
right.

Find them on Amazon!

Libby Kay lives in the city in the heart of the Midwest with
her husband. When she’s not writing, Libby loves reading romance novels of any
kind. Stories of people falling in love nourish her soul. Contemporary or
Regency, sweet or hot, as long as there is a happily ever after—she’s in love!

In this scene, a quiet Christmas moment between Jake and Emma becomes
something more—a gift, a memory, and an unspoken fear of what’s to come.

 

When Jake
and I step out onto Fifth Avenue, the cold whips through our bulky coats. The
air has that expectant heaviness that feels as if it will snow at any moment.
We hurry home and make hot chocolate. My boxes of cookies are hidden away,
ready for tomorrow.

“I
have something for you,” I say shyly as we sit in the living room, sipping our
hot chocolate. “I don’t want to give it to you at your parents’. Do you want it
now or tomorrow morning?”

Jake
looks up from his mug; he has a chocolate mustache. “Now, please,” he blurts.

I
go into Vee’s room, where I hid Jake’s present, and pull it out from under her
bed. I carry it back to the couch and hand him the wrapped gift, and he grins,
“I love surprises.”

He
tears open the wrapping, revealing the framed collage inside. There is a Snowy
Owl in the center and then in seven smaller pictures around the edge: there is
a yellow-rumped warbler, a palm warbler, a northern cardinal, a white-throated
sparrow, a black-capped chickadee and a dark-eyed junco. The last one is a
lovely wood thrush to commemorate the job he got me.

“These
are the birds we’ve seen when we were together in the park, not the actual
picture as I don’t have a camera, but pictures of the birds plus, of course,
the wood thrush,” I babble. “I know you hate John Foster, but you seem to like
birds, and I thought this could be something for you to remember me by―you
know, for when this whole thing is over.” I wave my hands nervously then clasp
them at my chest, waiting.

Jake
tilts his head and replies, “I love it. You are right. I do like seeing birds
with you.” His expression shifts. “But let’s not talk about this whole thing
being over. That will just make me sad.”

My
heart swells, “Deal.”

We
sit sipping our cocoa and talk about each of the birds. I made myself the exact
same collage, something to brighten my room when I’m back at my parents’, alone
again. I’ll remember each bird sighting. This moment, too. I’m already storing
it away, something to take out and examine when the days grow long.

 

Continue
the story in When the Forest Dreams

After spending three decades in the insurance
industry, Andrea Ezerins traded risk assessments for plot twists.
Andrea lives in Hebron, Connecticut, with her husband and is the proud mom of
two daughters and identical twin sons. When she’s not writing, she’s raising
bluebirds and monarch butterflies, running, or flowing through yoga—often while
plotting her next book.