Today, Mia Kerrick joins us to celebrate the release of Love Spell. Not only do we have an excerpt for you to read, there's an exclusive scene that happens six months AFTER the story ends. Scroll down to find that.

Release Date: June 1, 2015
Blurb:

Strutting his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug orange tuxedo as this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon feels so very right to Chance César, and yet he knows it should feel so very wrong.

As far back as he can remember, Chance has been “caught between genders.” (It’s quite a touchy subject; so don’t ask him about it.)  However, he does not question his sexual orientation. Chance has no doubt about his gayness—he is very much out of the closet at his rural New Hampshire high school, where the other students avoid the kid they refer to as “girl-boy.”

But at the local Harvest Moon Festival, when Chance, the Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper Donahue, the Pumpkin Carving King, sparks fly. So Chance sets out, with the help of his BFF, Emily, to make “Jazz” Donahue his man.

An article in an online women’s magazine, Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love with You (with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure), becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart.

Quirky, comical, definitely flamboyant, and with an inner core of poignancy, Love Spell celebrates the diversity of a gender-fluid teen. 

Pages or Words: 44,300 words
Categories: Contemporary, Gay Fiction, Romance, Young Adult

Excerpt:

Not to say that I kept my phone basically right beneath my chin for the next four days, but I kept my phone basically right beneath my chin for the next four days. Yes, I was oh-so-pathetically waiting for his call, which I am aware fully explains the need for the phrase “get a life.” But Jazz hadn’t been at school on the Thursday or Friday after he had called and cancelled our playdate, and now it’s Sunday night, and I still haven’t heard from him. And although I’m frustrated that all of my elaborate plans to make him fall head over heels in love with moi have apparently tanked, I’m also growing genuinely concerned.

        That’s when my cell phone, which I placed on my chest before I lay down on my now “love-spell-pink” wrapped mattress, starts singing Express Yourself.

        “Yo.” I don’t check the number. It’s Emmy—who else would it be?

        “Hi, Chance.” The deep voice is so not Emmy’s.

        Yaaassss!!! This is what ninety-nine percent of my insides shout. One percent says quietly, “It’s about frigging time you called, asshole.”

        But my voice is calm. “Jasper,” I say blandly. In my opinion, he hasn’t earned the right to be called Jazz any longer.

        “Um, sorry, no. It’s Jazz.”

        I try not to roll my eyes even though I know he won’t see, but it’s an epic fail. “Whatever.”

        “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a couple days. My mom’s been real sick. I was lookin’ after her, gettin’ her to the doctor, goin’ to the pharmacy, bringing JoJo back and forth to school, and stuff.”

        Oh.

        “Mom caught JoJo’s strep throat and had to go to the ER because she couldn’t even swallow.” He stops talking for a second and then clears his voice. “Alls she could do was spit into a rag whenever she needed to swallow.”

        Well, that’s definitely TMI, but I get the fucker-nelly revolting picture. “I’m sorry.”

        “Not your fault, dude.”

        And then there’s silence.

        “Gonna take JoJo to the library after school tomorrow. But first I gotta stop by the cable company and pay up or we’re gonna lose our TV and internet at home. They already warned us like twice.”

        “Want me to pick up Yolo at school and take her to the library?” I’m so freaking pissed off at him. Why am I offering to save his ass again?

        “That’s cool of you to offer, but there’s a bus she can take to the library from her school. Could ya be waiting for her at the library, in case I get held up?”

        “Of course.” I’m a Class A sucker.

        “You’re such a cool pal.” Ugh—so not what I’m going for.

        “Thanks.”

        “I’m not gonna be at lunch tomorrow seein’ as I’ll probably be collecting my makeup work. So, I’ll see ya at the library. ‘Kay?”

        I don’t say kkkk cuz it’s not even slightly cool. “Sure. The libes after school, it is.”

        “Thank you, bro,” Jazz offers.

        One more silence, and then I say, “Later.”

        I have research to do.

About the author:

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty-two years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.

Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships, and she believes that physical intimacy has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press, Harmony Ink Press, CoolDudes Publishing, and CreateSpace for providing her with alternate places to stash her stories.

Mia is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights, especially marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.

Stop by Mia’s Blog with questions or comments, or simply share what’s on your mind. Find Mia on Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon.

Where to find the author:
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/mia.kerick?fref=ts
Twitter: http://twitter.com/MiaKerick
Pinterest: http://www,pinterest.com/miakerick/
Goodreads Link: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6474518.Mia.Kerick
Publisher: Cool Dudes Publishing
Cover Artist: Louis C. Harris

You've been waiting for it, and here it is!

From Mia:
Hi everybody at EE Montgomery Book Blog—I am so excited to be her today promoting my June 1st release, Love Spell. Here is a scene I created just for you that takes place about six months after the end of the book.

“That was totes fab!” I’m breathless and the drama is flowing freely.

“You are totes fab, Chance.” My words sound awkward coming from Jazz’s lips, but don’t get me wrong—this boy ain’t complaining. No sir or ma’am or whatever you are in between!

“How ‘bout you slay me one more time, then?” I pucker my lips, realizing suddenly that all traces of my Cherry Chapstick are but a sweet memory. For the love of Clay Aiken, I really don’t give a crap! “Plant one on me, boyfriend. And make it count.”

“You asked for it….” Jazz leans over the center console of my Volvo wagon, grabs me roughly by the shoulders (which I will admit lights my already smoldering fire) and pulls me against him.

Take me big guy. I’m all yours.

The only way to describe the way his lips feel on mine is “fucker-nelly amazing.”

Is it a figment of my supremely vivid imagination or are our lips a perfect fit?

Soon Jazz’s lips cover mine completely; as in, can you say own me? And when he parts his lips and werks it hard with his tongue, I’m lost in a pond of glitter.

I try my best to werk it back, but it’s quite impossible, seeing as I’m having major trouble so much as breathing.

Jazz stops kissing me long enough to ask, “You okay, dude? You aren’t breathing too good.”

My instant reply is, “I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, as in now.”

Then I dare to reach up and drag my fingers through his closely cropped hair. My Rustic Rosemary nail polish compliments his subtle auburn highlights, just saying. He drinks me in with his wide, dazed eyes.

“Can’t run my fingers through your hair, dude. Those spikes are sharp as a lawnmower blade.”

No shit Sherlock, I think. “You’ve got a point there,” I say. I make a mental note to inform Emily of Jazz’s astuteness ASAP.  Well, ASAP after this delicious make-out session concludes.

Before Jazz again, “takes my lips and makes them his own” (I like how that sounds), I notice an adorbs worry wrinkle working its way across his forehead.  His worried expression reminds me of the labracadabrador incident in the library a few weeks ago. Don’t ask.

“Nah, it’s nothing.” He pulls me in for another kiss, and let me tell you, I’m seriously tempted to forget his problem and just suck face. (Temptation ain’t a crime.)  But this is Jazz. And he’s my man. I want him as gloriously and deliriously happy as he’s made me. Okaaaayyyyy….

“Tell Chancy what’s weighing so heavily on your mind, boyfriend.”

His broad (and uber manly) shoulders slump and his head hangs. Which ain’t gonna fly.

“Spill it J-man. Don’t force me to inflict tickle torture.”

He shrugs, but those tempting lips stay sealed.

“Jazzy, don’t make me go off on your fine ass.” And it is one fine ass, let me tell you, girlfriend.

Jazz leans back and says. “Come on, Chance. Let’s get out of the car and go for a walk.”

We’re parked by the town beach, which is as good a place to go for a walk as any. And since it’s evening, and a mostly cloudy one, we don’t have to battle the crowds. The image of Jazz’s forlorn face is now burned into my mind. All I can see is the worried face of the guy who helped me to believe that I didn’t need a freaking stupid-ass label for the unique awesomeness of my gender identity. I’m not about to let this guy struggle in silence if I can help him, see what I’m saying?

“You gonna loosen those lips and talk my ears off, hunny, or am I gonna have to resort to tickling you in a tight circle around your belly button?” This, inceidentally, would be no hardship for me. His belly button, nestled in the center of a nest of chestnut curls, is a subject worthy of composing poetry.

“It’s just…. It’s like this: you are off to college soon and it’s in the big city and….”

“Boston isn’t such a big city.”

“Compared to Fiske, New Hampshire it is.”

He has a point.

“At Northeastern you’re gonna meet all kinds of new people. And they’re gonna be super smart, like you.”

Flattery, as always, gets him everywhere. “Awwww…. Jazzy…my sweet Jazzy.”

But he clearly is still freaking out. “You’re sure to meet a better looking dude than me.”

Better looking? Hardly.

“And I’m gonna be back here in Fiske, studying to be a lame-ass electrician.”

“You take that back—electricity isn’t lame!” I grasp his arm. “I mean, without electricity I couldn’t blow dry my hair and achieve the feathered-back look.”

He stops and turns to me. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Monsieur Donahue, I don’t! Electricity is all that!”

He sighs noisily. “I’m just a small town guy with small town goals.”

He just doesn’t grasp how important he is to me, so I set my mind to fixing his (fine) ass. “It isn’t about how smart or hot you are or how fucker-nelly awesome electricity is.” He is still looking at me, dazed and confused. “It’s how you make me feel about me. And nobody else can give me the fab feeling you make me feel about myself.”

Jazz’s face morphs from confused to doubtful to hopeful. “I do that for you?”

“Yes, sir.” We stand there and stare at each other. And then I say, “Now I’ll take another one of those stellar kisses you were giving out so freely in the car.”

Jazz smiles that sweet and honest smile I love so much. “You won’t forget me when you are away at school?”

I pull his face to mine. “How could I ever forget the way you make me feel?”

Shy and awkward since childhood, Aidan Degas is now a man lost. His twin—Aidan’s other half, Nadia—died tragically young, leaving him with nothing to get him through his days but his job at the prestigious Grand Heights Luxury Apartments and the flowers he lays upon her grave. When Aidan is assaulted on the job by a tenant, it’s the graveyard he turns to for strength and solace.

Patrick loves being assistant groundskeeper at the sprawling cemetery where he tends graves and offers a bit of comfort to mourners. When he sees a sad young man lingering over an old grave, his curiosity is strangely piqued for reasons he doesn’t understand. He’s never done this—struck up a friendship with a mourner. But soon that friendship blossoms into a romance.

It’s not going to be easy for the pair. Aidan is so damaged, like petals crushed in an angry fist, and even with Patrick’s warm heart and Irish charm, it might not be enough to bring him back from the edge.

Categories: Contemporary, Fiction, Gay Fiction, M/M Romance, Romance
Excerpt:
Somehow, in spite of the need to go home and shower off the grottiness of digging earth for half a day, Patrick didn’t feel he could take his usual subtle approach. Nadia’s passing was not recent; her grave was not new; yet here was this young man, kneeling at her feet, his eyes closed, hands resting in his lap, oblivious to the sun’s slide from the sky, the increasing briskness of the breeze, Patrick’s presence…

“Hello there,” he said quietly, stopping on the path a few feet away. The man was too far into his own mind to startle. Instead, he slowly came to, his shoulders lifting slightly as he twisted to see what had disturbed his meditation. Patrick smiled. “I’m afraid we’re locking up for the evening.”

“So soon?”

“It’s going on for seven o’clock, sir.”

“Seven…” The man’s voice petered away, his expression indicating he had no idea how long he had been kneeling there. If he doubted Patrick’s word, the confirmation came when the man tried to stand, and staggered, numb-legged. He automatically reached out to steady himself, catching hold of the front of Patrick’s coveralls, and then almost collapsed again, unable to bear his own weight.

Without a second thought, Patrick quickly grasped the man by the forearms to steady him. “There’s no rush now. You just take your time. All right?”

The man nodded and swallowed hard. “Thank you. I only came to leave the tulips.” He gestured toward the vase of closed tulips in front of the grave and in the midst of the red and white carnations.

Patrick kept his hold on the man and looked down at the flowers. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “Really lovely.”

“Thanks. Nadia loved flowers so much.” A glimmer of a happier time lit up the man’s features for just a second, before it was blotted out once more by the heavy cloud of sorrow.

Patrick felt that sorrow in his heart. He wanted to offer comfort, warmth, security, to soothe with his touch, his kiss… Oh my—no, no, Patrick. You’re way over the line. You’re standing at the grave of this man’s wife, and all you can think of is kissing him? But it wasn’t that sort of kiss he had in mind. It wasn’t about passion, or lust; just a desperate desire to take away the pain.

The man seemed a little more steady on his feet and Patrick gently released him. “OK now?”

“I think so.” He took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Thank you for your patience. I’m sure you’re eager to go home. It can’t be fun working here.”

Patrick shrugged and smiled. “I love my job. Fresh air, peace and quiet—”

“But it’s a cemetery.”

“Well, yeah,” Patrick said, the slightest hint of a chuckle in his words. It was enough to prompt the other man to lift his head. For the first time, his eyes met Patrick’s, and something bloomed inside, a heat radiating from somewhere he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It rose up through his chest, into his throat, filling his mouth and his nose, as he gazed into those incredible steel-gray eyes. There was so much pain there, and loss—anger—and yet there was more, so much more, that Patrick could almost hear the emotion, like a distant cry for help from someone who was drowning.

Sales Links:
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/528968?ref=b10track
Beaten Track Publishing (Paperback): http://www.beatentrackpublishing.com/shop/proddetail.php?prod=leavingflowers
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-leavingflowers-1765734-149.html
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UY86QUG
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00UY86QUG

About the authors:
DEBBIE MCGOWAN is an author and publisher based in a semi-rural corner of Lancashire, England. She writes character-driven, realist fiction, celebrating life, love and relationships. A working class girl, she ‘ran away’ to London at 17, was homeless, unemployed and then homeless again, interspersed with animal rights activism (all legal, honest ;)) and volunteer work as a mental health advocate. At 25, she went back to college to study social science— tough with two toddlers, but they had a ‘stay at home’ dad, so it worked itself out. These days, the toddlers are young women (much to their chagrin), and Debbie teaches undergraduate students, writes novels and runs an independent publishing company, occasionally grabbing an hour of sleep where she can!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/writerdebmcg
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DebbieMcGowanAuthor and http://www.facebook.com/beatentrackpublishing
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/deb248211
Tumblr: http://writerdebmcg.tumblr.com
LinkedIn: http://uk.linkedin.com/in/writerdebmcg
Google+: https://plus.google.com/+DebbieMcGowan
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4401329.Debbie_McGowan
Website: http://www.debbiemcgowan.co.uk

RAINE O’TIERNEY lives outside of Kansas City with her husband, fellow author, Siôn O'Tierney. When she's not writing, she's either playing video games or fighting the good fight for intellectual freedom at her library day job. Raine believes the best thing we can do in life is be kind to one another, and she enjoys encouraging fellow writers! Writing for 20+ years (with the last 10 spent on gay romance) Raine changes sub-genres to suit her mood and believes all good stories end sweetly. Contact her if you're interested in talking about point-and-click adventure games or about which dachshunds are the best kinds of dachshunds!

Homepage: Raineotierney.com
LGBT Author Interviews: http://raineotierneyhatparty.blogspot.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RaineOTierneyAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RaineOTierney
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7770350.Raine_O_Tierney

Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25176624-leaving-flowers
Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Blurb:

Strutting his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug orange tuxedo as this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon feels so very right to Chance César, and yet he knows it should feel so very wrong.

As far back as he can remember, Chance has been “caught between genders.” (It’s quite a touchy subject; so don’t ask him about it.)  However, he does not question his sexual orientation. Chance has no doubt about his gayness—he is very much out of the closet at his rural New Hampshire high school, where the other students avoid the kid they refer to as “girl-boy.”

But at the local Harvest Moon Festival, when Chance, the Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper Donahue, the Pumpkin Carving King, sparks fly. So Chance sets out, with the help of his BFF, Emily, to make “Jazz” Donahue his man.

An article in an online women’s magazine, Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love with You (with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure), becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart.

Quirky, comical, definitely flamboyant, and with an inner core of poignancy, Love Spell celebrates the diversity of a gender-fluid teen.

Excerpt:

“Do you really wanna go there?” Unlike the fake lunch block that I spend every day with Jazz, my real lunch block with Emily has been a total bitch lately. I can’t say who the major target of the bullshit is—Emmy or me—as neither of us has a sizeable fan club at Fiske High School. But I will say that the front table by the salad bar can be a cold place, and that’s not just because of the draft that comes in from the hallway.

“Nice makeup, girl-boy.” It seems Edwin Darling hasn’t forgotten my nickname from grade school, which sucks for me.

But this diva never backs down. “Thanks. Haven’t you heard—I was the head makeup artist on Evita?”

“Eh-what-uh?” Eddie the Appalling wrinkles his greasy forehead and runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. Clearly, he is unfamiliar with Tony Award winning Broadway musicals. Not that I’m shocked. He quickly shifts his attention to Emily. “How do you put up with him, fat-ass?”

My BFF isn’t as good as I am at deflecting evil taunts. She looks up at him with wide eyes and seems to lose her appetite, pushing her salad toward the middle of the table.

“Oh, that’s cold, my darling Eddie.” (See what I did with his name, there? Clever, I know.) I stand up. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.” I then “rawr” at him like a ticked-off tigress, throwing in a clawing gesture to get my point across. “Do you really wanna go there?”

I can tell by the look on his face that he’s remembering how long it took for the scratches on his face to heal after our last entanglement.

“I personally could live without going there, but you know me—I’m impulsive as hell.” I fold my arms across my chest and thrust out my right hip. “Piss me off and I’m likely to do abso-fucking-lutely anything.”

The bulk of my attention is focused on my adversary, but it’s impossible to miss that we’ve gathered an audience. An audience of indifferent “watchers”—the multitudes of apathetic teens who will later text each other, “did you see the homo and the bully go head-to-head at lunch today?” They don’t matter one smidgeon in the scheme of things, but my Emily does.

At this point, Eddie and I are eye-to-eye and chest-to-chest. Lucky for him, one of his thugs bails him out. “Get too close to that fag and you’ll get AIDS—am I wrong?” The big oaf grabs Eddie by the arm and pulls him away.

But he doesn’t remove his gaze from mine. “You better watch out when we’re off school grounds, pansy.”

If I said I didn’t shudder, I’d be lying. 

About the author:

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty-two years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.

Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships, and she believes that physical intimacy has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press, Harmony Ink Press, CoolDudes Publishing, and CreateSpace for providing her with alternate places to stash her stories.

Mia is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights, especially marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.

Stop by Mia’s Blog with questions or comments, or simply share what’s on your mind. Find Mia on Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon.



ARE YOU READY FOR IT?

Well, I don't know what happened to this post. I wrote it, I posted it, then 24 hours later, when I came to check it, it was empty.

You did see the title, didn't you? The time poor bit? When I'm too busy, I get a teeny bit stressed and I make stupid mistakes. I think one of yesterday's stupid mistakes was to delete this before I hit post. Terrific. Let's see how much I can remember of what I said:

1. I'm busy. My day work is in one of its intensive periods and I'm working 14 hour days most days. I was hoping to get home earlier than 7.30 pm every day this week, perhaps even by 5.30 pm, but that doesn't look like happening afterall. 
2. My weekends have been similarly busy, mostly with family commitments. That might ease off this weekend--apart from the writers' meeting I have on Sunday. The meeting isn't a bad thing--writing is exactly what I've been trying to find time for. This will be an enforced couple of hours writing and talking writing. :)

I know there was a number three in there somewhere--I usually do things in threes--but I can't remember it. 

Meanwhile, I'll continue living life and enjoying every moment I can, and try to plan writing time, because without that, I'm not the most pleasant person to know.