Blog Tour: Review and Excerpt from Swipe by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore

SWIPE

by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore

May 12 - June 6, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Sonya's fed up with bad internet dates.
But she never meant to kill anyone.

After a stressful day at work and a creepy first meetup, Sonya Romano goes on a mission: teach a lesson to the smarmy guys she's meeting on her dating app. But when one of them falls to his death as a result of her confrontation--a married man posing as a single guy--she realizes she's gone too far.

Meanwhile, Jake Parker, former Pulitzer nominee, has hit rock bottom. His boss gives him an assignment: go undercover and produce a click bait story about dating apps. Things start to look up when another married man on the app is murdered, and Jake suspects that there may be a serial killer targeting cheaters.

With Jake hot on her trail, Sonya races to cover her tracks, until they finally meet. Fighting a powerful mutual attraction but suspicious of each other, neither of them know that a deranged psychopath is closer than they think, and much more of a danger than either of them realizes.

Can they figure out what's going on, before one of them is next?

Praise for SWIPE:

"You may think you see it coming--but in Swipe, the final twist is more shocking and explosive than you can imagine."
~ Emily Shiner, Bestselling Author of Meet the Parents

"Swipe is a chilling, taut and twisty psychological thriller that will have you frantically turning pages until its stunning end. Riveting from the very first page, Swipe is a roller coaster ride with complex, intriguing characters who will draw you in and not let you go. Clear your schedule because once you start reading, you won't be able to stop."
~ Lisa Regan, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Josie Quinn Series

"RG Belsky and Bonnie Traymore have teamed up to create a journalistic cat-and-mouse game that's suspenseful, addictive, thoroughly modern and loads of fun. Swipe right on this one -- you'll be glad you did!"
~ Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling author of WE ARE WATCHING

SWIPE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 300
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

My thoughts:

Swipe took me for quite a ride.  While the story does take a bit to get going, the pay-off in the end was worth sticking with it.  I won't summarize it because it is better to go in blind.  There are many twists and turns that will surprise you.  I did like the main characters, Jake and Sonya.  I have never used a dating app, but from stories I have heard from friends, what Jake discovered was portrayed very realistically. If you like slow burn thrillers, I would recommend this one.

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Sonya

Is he dead?

He must be.

I watched his body fall backward off the jagged Palisades cliffs, bouncing off the rocks like a crash car dummy before plunging into the Hudson River five hundred feet below. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

I’m not a violent person.

I didn’t want him to die.

But who would believe me?

And now what?

Competing thoughts flash through my mind in rapid succession.

Call for help.

Get out of here as fast as I can.

I opt for the latter.

Thankfully, he’s a morning person. It’s early autumn in New York, and there’s a chill in the air. I passed a few other hikers on my way up here. But looking around, I don’t see anyone here now. No one saw us together.

My body starts to tremble as I turn around, nice and easy, and head back down the short, steep path toward the spot where I locked up my bike. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring my car with its GPS and identifiable license plate number. I’ve learned a few things over the last month or so about being stealthy.

Funny. I actually kind of liked this guy. I thought it might go somewhere, and that my string of disaster dates would finally be broken. Then I could retire this little mission of mine and get on with my life. Silly me. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. No one finds love on the internet these days.

We’d been chatting on MetMee for the last few weeks. He called himself Greg. I found out later he was using an alias—but then so was I. At one point, I thought he was a catfisher because he kept saying he wanted to get together, but I couldn’t pin him down. He was average-looking, though, and if one were making a fake profile, wouldn’t they put up the hottest photo they could find? But he was attentive and funny, as much as I could tell over chats, and we were actually getting to know each other. Perhaps he simply liked to take it slow.

Then we made plans to meet up, about a week ago, but he canceled at the last minute. Something about a sick dog. We hadn’t exchanged our real names yet. This seemed to validate my suspicions that something was hinky. By coincidence, earlier this week, I recognized his photo on a real estate website.

Matt Furman.

He worked in White Plains, I discovered, about thirty miles north of Manhattan, but lived over on the other side of the Hudson, in New Jersey.

He’d told me that he was a real estate agent, so at least that much was true. I suppose it wasn’t a complete coincidence that I found him online, because I’d been looking at real estate company websites, trying to figure out if he was stringing me along. And with a first and last name, his life unfolded before me.

I discovered that he liked to hike.

His social media was peppered with scenic vistas, and he revealed that the one he was on this morning was his weekend favorite.

Oh, and I also found out something else.

Something very important.

He’s married.

With two small kids.

I couldn’t let it go.

I needed to teach him a lesson.

My plan was to confront him somewhere where he would least expect it, but secluded enough so I wouldn’t be making a scene. I wanted to record him admitting what he’d done so that I could tell his wife.

It wasn’t that hard to find him. The guy’s a serial poster, providing the world with a play-by-play of his every move, as if we are all waiting on the edge of our seats to see what he’ll do next.

Can’t wait for my Palisades hike tomorrow.

Stopping for a latte.

Heading up the trail now.

I caught up with him as he was stepping out on the rocks to take a selfie, beyond the warning sign, over the railing they put there to stop people from getting themselves killed.

That’s how idiots die.

“Hey, Matt,” I called out, a little out of breath. I had planned to catch him in the parking lot but my timing was off, as it had been all morning. So, I high-tailed it up the trail to try to catch him, but he was fast.

His brow furrowed. “Oh, hi…”

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to place me. I wore black bike shorts and a tan cycling jersey. Nothing too flashy so I wouldn’t stand out. My hair was in a ponytail and sunglasses covered my eyes and forehead. I was standing a few feet away from him, so it wasn’t too surprising that he didn’t recognize me.

“Gina,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the phone in the palm of my hand, recording our conversation.

His mouth froze half-opened, until it finally clicked. “From…the app?”

I stared him down, one hand on my hip. “Yes, Matt. Gina. From MetMee.”

“How did you…? Um. Hi!”

I walked toward him.

He took a step back, although he was already dangerously close to the edge.

I smirked. “I decided to take your recommendation. About how nice and peaceful this trail is at this time of day.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about…”

He squinted, his mouth still agape, as if seeing me more sharply would clear the fog in his brain.

Then he shook his head. “Wait. You what?”

“You really should be more careful about what you put on your social media. You never know who might see it.”

Maybe it was my snarky tone, but his attitude shifted. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Gina.”

“What I’m trying to pull? Seems like you’re the one who’s trying to pull something, Matt. You’ve got a wife and two little kids. Is this how you get your kicks? Chat up single women on dating sites and get their hopes up? Or did you actually plan to cheat on your wife at some point?” I struggled to contain my growing outrage, gritting my teeth so hard, I feared I might chip a tooth.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? My wife and I are having problems. I should’ve told you the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got carried away.”

“Well, you’re going to have bigger problems when I play this for your wife.” I held up my phone, which was recording our conversation. “Hi, Olivia. Sorry about this. But I thought you deserved to know.”

A hint of fear flashed in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might bargain with me or beg me not to do it. Then his face contorted like an angry, cornered reptile.

“Are you some kind of psycho?” he barked. “Everyone lies on those sites. Look at you! You must be ten pounds heavier than you were in those photos you sent me. What’re they, from college? Olivia will never be able to handle this. My wife’s unstable. Fragile. If you play that recording for her, I’m warning you, it might be the last thing you ever do.”

“You’re threatening me?”

Fury exploded in me.

I lunged toward him, waving my phone in his face. “You hear that, Olivia? He says you’re crazy. He doesn’t want to take responsibility, just like my—”

Matt reached over the railing and tried to grab the phone out of my hand, but I pulled away. He stumbled but regained his footing, or so I thought. But then a look of confusion washed over his face and he started to wobble. And then he fell backward—and went barreling down the Palisades cliffs, plunging into the river, five hundred feet below.

The ground seemed to shift under my feet as the enormity of what had just happened hit me. My knees went weak. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Maybe it was a touch of vertigo. Expecting a wave of panic, I braced myself, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt detached, like I was watching a movie. Like this couldn’t possibly be happening for real.

I didn’t push him, I swear.

But who would believe me?

It’s still my fault that he fell, and even if I could convince the cops that I didn’t shove him off that cliff, I would probably end up in prison. Involuntary manslaughter, isn’t that what it’s called?

Especially if they find out what else I’ve been up to on that dating app.

This was an impulsive move.

What was I thinking?

He could have grabbed me and hurled me off that cliff. I try to remain calm as I make my way down the trail, passing a few other hikers heading up. I replay the events in my mind, thinking of how I can spin this if someone sees me, but hoping to reach the end of this trail without being spotted. This little mission of mine has gone way too far. On the plus side, Matt Furman will never cheat on his wife again.

That’s probably not a normal thought to have at a time like this, and I wonder for a moment if I’m some kind of sociopath. But if I’m worried about being a sociopath, I’m probably not one. I’m in shock, I decide. Anyone would be in my position. I’m in self-preservation mode, and I’m sure the guilt will hit me at some point.

But not right now.

Now, I need to focus on getting out of here, unseen.

I reach the end of the trail, hop on my bike, and pedal like my life depends on it—hoping that he hasn’t, by some miracle, survived the fall.

***

Excerpt from SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2025 by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

R.G. Belsky Author Bio:

R.G. Belsky is an award-winning author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, BROADCAST BLUES, was published by Oceanview. It is the sixth in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station. The first book, Yesterday’s News, was named Best Mystery of 2018 at Deadly Ink. The second, Below the Fold, won the Foreward INDIES award for Best Mystery of 2019. Belsky has published 24 novels—all set in the New York city media world where he has had a long career as a top editor at the New York Post, New York Daily News, Star magazine and NBC News. He also writes thrillers under the name Dana Perry. And he is a contributing writer for The Big Thrill magazine and BookTrib.

Catch Up With RG Belsky:
www.rgbelsky.com
Goodreads
Amazon Author
BookBub - @dickb79983
Instagram - @dickbelsky
Threads - @dickbelsky
Twitter/X - @DickBel
Facebook - @RGBelsky

 

Bonnie Traymore Author Bio:

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of nine domestic/psychological thrillers. Her "popcorn thrillers" feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With Bonnie Traymore:
www.BonnieTraymore.com
Goodreads
Amazon Author
BookBub - @btraymore
Instagram - @bonnietraymore
Threads - @bonnietraymore
Twitter/X - @btraymore
Facebook - @bonnietraymore

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

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1. 05/12 I Love Books and Stuff Blog SWIPE Showcase

2. 05/13 leannebookstagram SWIPE Review

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6. 05/16 Books, Ramblings, and Tea SWIPE Showcase

7. 05/17 Guatemala Paula Loves to Read SWIPE Review

8. 05/18 The Mystery of Writing SWIPE Guest post

9. 05/20 Book Reviews From an Avid Reader SWIPE Review

10. 05/24 From the TBR Pile SWIPE Review

11. 05/25 Jodys Bookish Haven SWIPE Review

12. 05/28 411 On Books, Authors, And Publishing News SWIPE Showcase

13. 05/30 Why Not? Because I Said So Book Reviews SWIPE Review

14. 06/01 Novel Nerd Blog SWIPE Review

15. 06/02 The AR Critique SWIPE Review

16. 06/04 Wall-to-wall Books SWIPE Review

17. 06/05 Catreader18 SWIPE Review

18. 06/05 Hott Books SWIPE Interview

19. 06/06 Melissa As Blog SWIPE Review

20. 06/11 Book Talk with Fran Lewis SWIPE Radio Interview

21. 06/11 Just Reviews SWIPE Review

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

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Cover Reveal: Click of Fate by Lauren Helms

 

Join us for the cover reveal of Click of Fate by Lauren Helms. Fans who love He Falls First Romances will sink their teeth into this sexy, one-night stand romance. Keep scrolling for more details about this sexy cover.
 

Title: Click of Fate
Author: Lauren Helms
Release Date: 06/13/2025
Genres: Contemporary Romance
Word Count: 56K
Tropes: One-Night Stand, Opposites Attract, He Falls First, Forced Proximity, Found Family
 
Once upon a time, there was a charming climber and a stubborn photographer who swore she'd never fall—until she did.
Stella
I don't do roots. Or relationships. Or anything that involves the word “forever.”
But Luke Farley? He’s the kind of man who makes one night feel like a promise. With that stupidly perfect smile, a body built for sin, and hands that know exactly what they’re doing—he’s dangerously easy to want.
It was supposed to be casual.
A few non-dates, a little flirting, and zero expectations.
Now I’m staring down feelings I swore I’d never catch… and falling for a man who climbs like he was born to take risks.
And worst of all? I don’t want to run.
Luke
Stella Young walked into my life like a dare I couldn’t resist—smart mouth, with a camera around her neck and zero intention of sticking around. She warned me not to catch feelings.
Too late.
She’s the one I want—complicated, messy, and magnetic as hell.
She says she’s not built for love.
I think she’s just scared of falling.
Good thing I’m here to catch her.
Click of Fate is a swoony, one-night-stand romance about climbing risks, letting go of fear, and finding the kind of love worth falling for.

Pre-Order on Amazon for $3.99 for a limited time!

Add to Goodreads Here!

 
About Lauren Helms

Lauren Helms writes romance that’s nerdy, flirty, and just a little bit dirty. Her stories are set in big cities with small-town vibes, where every couple gets their happily ever after—and probably a few swoony gaming references along the way. Her love for love stories started with a book blog and leveled up fast—thanks to her background in video game strategy publishing and a passion for stories that make your heart race. That magic combo sparked her beloved Gamer Boy series, and she's been writing HEAs ever since.
 
She’s also the founder of Indie Pen PR, where she helps fellow romance authors bring their book boyfriends to life and make some serious buzz in the process. When she’s not plotting meet-cutes or helping other authors promote theirs, Lauren’s all about iced coffee, perfectly color-coded planners, and binge-worthy TV.
 
She lives in Indianapolis with her husband and their three aspiring nerds-in-training—where love, laughter, and chaos are always part of the storyline.
 
Follow: Facebook | Reader Group |  Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon |  BookBub | Website | Newsletter |
 

Review: The Last Room on the Left by Leah Konen

Author: Leah Konen
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Publication Date: January 2025

Kerry’s life is in shambles: Her husband has left her, her drinking habit has officially become a problem, and though the deadline for her big book deal—the one that was supposed to change everything—is looming, she can’t write a word. When she sees an ad for a caretaker position at a revitalized roadside motel in the Catskills, she jumps at the chance. It’s the perfect getaway to finish her book and start fresh.

But as she hunkers down in a blizzard, she spots something through the window: a pale arm peeking out from a heap of snow. Trapped in the mountains and alone with a dead, frozen body, Kerry must keep her head and make it out before the killer comes for her too. But is the deadly game of cat-and-mouse all in her mind? The body count begs to differ...

In Last Room on the Left, Kerry is trying to get her life together.  She has taken a job as caretaker of a motel in the Catskills.  As a blizzard hits, she finds a dead body.  Except it disappears when she tries to show the police.  Is it her mind playing tricks or is there something else going on?

I have mixed feelings about this book.  The first half of the book was kind of slow.  I've never been a fan of being in the head of an alcoholic character.  Especially one as unlikable as Kerry.  The story definitely picked up at about the halfway mark as the twists are slowly revealed.  It did lead me in directions that I wasn't expecting.  I kept guessing incorrectly.  I just didn't like Kerry at all.  I would recommend it for the second half. Just stick it out until then.

Spotlight: Excerpt from Heart of the Sun by Mia Sheridan

 

Author: Mia Sheridan
Publication Date: May 20, 2025
ISBN: 9781335424921

Canary Street Press Trade Paperback

From mega-bestseller and TikTok sensation Mia Sheridan, an all-new epic, angsty second-chance romance with an unexpected and gritty speculative twist; think: Carley Fortune’s Every Summer After meets Station Eleven.
 
Tuck and Emily grew up together in their neighboring California orange groves and nearly gave their hearts to each other, but life pulled them apart and set them on very different paths. Now, 13 years later, stubborn, sunny Emily is a pop star and brooding Tuck is an ex-con in need of a job. When Emily hires him to be her bodyguard, they naturally butt heads, even as both try to ignore the heat rekindling between them.
 
When a massive solar flare hits Earth, knocking out the electrical grid and all satellites, the world changes forever instantly. Tuck and Emily are forced to come together to fight for their lives and find a new place in this post-apocalyptic world—one where everything Emily has worked so hard for has crumbled, but also one where Tuck can start over and maybe even thrive.
 
Heart of the Sun is a bullseye Mia Sheridan new adult romance with a post-apocalyptic backdrop that tests the characters to be their better selves.
 
Buy Links:
HarperCollins
BookShop.org
Barnes & Noble
Amazon 
 
 

Excerpt:

prologue 

Tuck 

Now 

Holy shit. What the hell is happening? 

Cold sweat broke out across my back as the lights inside the small, chartered plane blinked off and the engine went quiet. I could hear the pilot, Russell, behind the curtain to the cockpit, speaking into the radio with what sounded like growing alarm. I rose from my seat and took a few unsteady steps to the cockpit doorway where I slid the curtain open to see Russell furiously pushing buttons and moving dials. I grabbed the wall to hold myself steady as the plane bumped and jerked, sudden flares of lightning pulsing through the darkened cabin. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, voice as shaky as the rest of me. 

“The engines and the navigation equipment went down,” Russell said. “Air traffic control cut out and I can’t get them back on the line.” 

My heart dipped along with the plane, and I heard a small squeal of fear from behind me where Emily and Charlie were sitting. “Isn’t there a backup system?” 

“That’s out too! Copy! Copy!” he called into his headpiece, but again there was no reply. “Shit.” 

I ignored Emily’s quiet cries; there was nothing I could do. I had no idea what the hell was going on, and my own fear was mounting as the plane made another small drop. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Russell’s cheek, punctuating the fact that he was panicked as well. 

“Sit down and buckle up. I’ll use the manual controls,” he said, obviously trying to insert a note of confidence in his tone. “We can still glide, but I’ll need to get us down quickly. Brace for impact.” 

My heart was racing as I turned back toward my seat. “What’s happening?” Emily asked, eyes wide with fear. 

“Something knocked out the engine and navigation system and air traffic control isn’t answering,” I said, my eyes sweeping over her to verify she was buckled in. “He says to brace for impact.” I glanced out the window. The sky had dimmed, and I could see zigzags of lightning in the distance. An unexpected electric storm? 

Emily looked straight ahead, grasping the armrests as the plane gave a groaning shiver. 

I sat down and buckled myself in just as the plane dipped and then dipped again, my stomach rising and falling quickly as a small piece of luggage went flying past my face. Then the plane took on a bumpy flight pattern and strange milky clouds streaked past my window, splintered by a spidery bolt of white lightning right next to us. 

I could hear the muted blast of the wind outside, highlighting the dead silence of the engine. 

Brace for impact, the pilot had said. But I didn’t know how to do that other than sitting still and silent, terror pounding through my body. 

We plunged yet again, the force jolting and lifting me and causing the seat belt to bite harshly into my hips. For a minute I was afraid the belt would break against the immense pressure. When I turned my eyes toward Emily, she was still gripping the armrests, her face ashen, eyes clenched tight. Next to her, Charlie had his eyes squeezed shut as well and looked to be hyperventilating. The plane began to shake, making a long, shrieking sound as though it was at risk of being torn apart by the rapid descent. My heart slammed, the hair rising on my nape and arms. 

Just get us on the ground, Russell. Please get us on the ground. 

We bumped and shook and for a moment, the sky went even darker, then seemed to split. The plane lowered again and this time didn’t straighten out for several long seconds. My breath lodged in my throat. The aircraft straightened, and as the nose rose, the sky parted once more, and I glimpsed the ground. It was red and fiery, smoke billowing everywhere. I swallowed heavily, the bony fingers of terror gripping my lungs. 

I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, conjuring the one place on earth that had always brought peace to my soul. I was a child again, the air tinged with the scent of orange blossoms. I lifted my face to feel the kiss of dry heat upon my skin and listened for the ringing echo of my mother’s laugh. 

“Tuck.” Her voice. Emily. Not who she’d later come to be, the woman she was now, but the girl she once was. The one I’d loved. “Tuck.” That whisper again, my name floating over her shoulder as she ran through the groves of my memory, dirty knees and tangled hair, her quickened breath interrupted by bursts of giggles, spirit as radiant as the California sunshine. Another dip, another swerve, my memories dissolving in the surge of adrenaline shooting through my veins. My eyes shot open, and I leaned forward, watching helplessly out the window as we descended straight into hell. 

Excerpted from HEART OF THE SUN by Mia Sheridan. Copyright © 2025 by Mia Sheridan. Published by Canary Street Press, an imprint of HarperCollins. 

 
Author Bio: 
 

MIA SHERIDAN is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal best-selling author. Her passion is weaving true love stories about people destined to be together. Mia lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband. They have four children here on earth and one in heaven. miasheridan.com

Social Links:
Author Website: https://miasheridan.com/ 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/miasheridanauthor/ 
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/miasheridanauthor/?hl=en 
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/miasheridanauth/?eq=mia%20sheridan&etslf=NaN 
X/Twitter: https://twitter.com/MSheridanAuthor

Book Release: Excerpt from Empire of Ache & Ruin by Diana A. Hicks

 

The ballet performance of my life ends with a forbidden auction and my older brother’s best friend as the highest bidder. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family, even if it means losing myself to the reclusive billionaire. Readers who enjoy enemies to lovers and dark billionaire romances will devour Empire of Ache & Ruin by Diana A. Hicks, a steamy, beauty and the beast retelling.
 

Read Now!
Add to Goodreads!
 
While I stand in darkness, she holds the light…
 
The ballet performance of my life ends with a forbidden auction.
 
My older brother’s best friend is the highest bidder.
 
Now he’s here to claim his prize…me.
 
But the reclusive billionaire is no knight in shining armor.
 
Though I’m drawn to him, I know something sinister lurks beneath his steel blue eyes.
 
I must protect my family, even if it means losing myself in the process.
 

 

 
Excerpt
Copyright 2025, Diana A. Hicks
 
“So good.” He releases me from my binding.
My legs are jelly at this point. I drop, but he catches me before I hit the floor. A wave of ecstasy lingers at my core as he scoops me into his arms. My cheek lands on the bit of his exposed skin, and I melt into him. I’m floating, still riding the high even though he already took the swan away.
I lift my head as he takes the stairs down to the second level. He’s taking me back to my room. I should object. But what can I expect? That just because I let him do all those things to me, he would change his mind about what I am to him?
Wife.
His word echoes in my head.
I want to fight him, push him away, and tell him I don’t need his help. But there’s no point. The all-powerful Mr. Archer get whatever he wants. I let him carry me to my bed. Once I’m on top of the covers, he removes my shoes and my jeans. And then it hits me. He brought me here without my top.
“Get under the covers.” He lifts the duvet. “I want you to sleep like this. Naked. Do you understand?”
I nod and do as he says, too tired to argue with him. As soon as my head lands on the soft pillow, I doze off. My eyes flutter open, then they close, and then, I’m in my favorite dream—the one where Archer guards my sleep, filling all the empty spaces in my room with his raw energy.
“Stay away from me, Little Dove.” His hand hovers over my cheek. “I’m exactly the monster you think I am.”
“You’re not a monster.” I turn on my side, curling my body toward the edge of the mattress. When I glance up at him, he’s gone.
I sit up, my heart racing.
I look to every corner, but all I find are shadows that don’t match his. Did I dream the whole thing? I squeeze my legs together, and my overly sensitive bud reacts as if it’s ready for another round. I peek at the nightstand and all the colors dancing on the facets of the crystal swan. Tears roll down my cheeks.
Archer is real. Just like his resolution to stay away from me.
“I’m your wife, you idiot.” I punch the pillow next to me. “I’m not your enemy.”
 
 
About Diana A. Hicks

Diana A. Hicks is an award-winning author of steamy romantic suspense and science-fiction romance.
When Diana is not writing, she enjoys hot yoga, kickboxing, traveling, and indulging in the simple joys of life like wine and chocolate. She lives in Atlanta and loves spending time with her two children and husband. Connect with Diana on social media to stay up to date on her latest releases.

Praise for Diana A. Hicks:
"Hicks' first installment of her Desert Monsoon series is confident and assured with strong storytelling, nuanced characters, and a dynamic blend of romance and suspense...A sexy and irresistible tale for fans of contemporary romance." - Kirkus Reviews

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Review: Deadstream by Mar Romasco-Moore

Author: Mar Romasco-Moore
Publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers
Publication date: April 2025

Rear Window meets The Ring in this sinister YA thriller, in which a teen girl witnesses the livestreamed murder of a popular online streamer by a paranormal entity . . . and could be its next victim.

After surviving a car accident that claimed the life of her best friend, Teresa is now terrified to leave the safety of her bedroom. Since then, her only solace and window to the outside world has been the online community she found through streaming.

But one night, the safe world Teresa created starts to break down. A shadowy figure appears in the background of her favorite's streamer's video, and his behavior mysteriously changes over the next few days before he dies in front of thousands of viewers. Teresa finds herself at the center of a life-and-death investigation as the world tries to figure out what or who this figure could be . . . especially as it begins appearing in the other people's streams, compelling them to "open the door" and let it in—including Teresa’s own. In order to save herself and the rest of the internet from this relentless entity, Teresa must venture outside of the mental and physical walls she’s created. But will she be able to conquer her fears before anyone else loses their life?

I am a sucker for those cheesy horror movies  that involve ghosts and technology.  Because of that I had high hopes for Deadstream.  Unfortunately, it didn't live up to my expectations.  In the book, Teresa was in a bad accident that took the life of her best friend. She now won't leave the comforts of her bedroom.  Her view to the world comes through her computer.  When a popular streamer seems to be possessed by a ghost, she decides to try to figure out what is going on.

As I said, I had high hopes for this one.  However, I was very underwhelmed by the book.  I listened to the audiobook so that may have played a factor. I'm not sure that the chat and streaming sections translated well to audio. All of the user names got confusing.  Aside from that, the story just wasn't very scary or creepy.  I didn't like any of the characters.  I get that Teresa had PTSD and was kind of agoraphobic, but her sudden ability to put that aside and travel in an uber to another town didn't ring true and was convenient to move the plot along.  Overall the story was slow and disjointed.  Maybe it just wasn't for me.

Spotlight: Excerpt from Romantic Friction by Lori Gold

 

Author: Lori Gold
Publication Date: May 6, 2025
ISBN: 9780778387657
Format: Trade Paperback
Publisher: Harlequin Trade Publishing / MIRA
Price $18.99
 
Buy Links:
HarperCollins
BookShop.org
Barnes & Noble
Amazon


“Relatable characters, sharp writing, and emotional turbulence will make you laugh and cry.” —Sally Hepworth, New York Times bestselling author of Darling Girls

Sofie Wilde’s bestselling fantasy romance series has been breaking bestseller records and readers’ hearts for years. She’s primed to become a worldwide phenomenon as the tenth and final book is set to debut after the annual romance readers convention takes place in Chicago next week. As buzz continues to build toward the book’s release, Sofie is asked to headline the event for the first time, a career milestone. One she won’t let anyone take from her, especially “the next Sofie Wilde.”

That’s what they’re calling her—Hartley West, the self-published debut author who writes in the style of Sofie Wilde. Except she doesn’t actually “write” anything. After Hartley admits to using AI to create her novel, Sofie’s ready to watch Hartley be skewered on social media. Except in this unpredictable world, Hartley is instead lauded for being innovative, for being such a skilled editor to take what the AI churned out and massage it into a story that’s just as compelling as Sofie’s—maybe even more so.
After her unhinged rant unintentionally goes viral, Sofie loses her keynote, and she’s starting to lose all her support. That loss is Hartley’s gain—as her book sales start soaring, she’s given the headliner spot. Sofie is livid. And she’s not the only one. As the convention begins, Sofie is surrounded by fellow authors who also fear for their futures, their livelihoods, their art being stripped away, one AI prompt at a time. Something must be done. This has to be stopped. Now. With the clock ticking down to the keynote, Sofie enlists her fellow authors in a plan to stop Hartley, vowing, “‘The next Sofie Wilde’—over my dead body. Or hers.”

Lori Gold has crafted a raucous romp through the world of publishing, asking what it really means to be a writer in the time of AI, perfect for fans of Finlay Donovan is Killing It and Emily Henry.
 

Excerpt:

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

It’s a commonly held belief that in order to be a good author you have to be drunk or tortured. To be a great author? Both. I am a great author. I am occasionally drunk (though not at present). But I am not prone to sprawled-on-the-bathroom-floor bawling. I have not, nor will I ever, utter the phrase: “Please don’t make me adult today.” And I am not the least bit disturbed by crawling into a king-size bed alone. 

All that’s to say, I am not, nor have I ever been, tortured. 

But there truly is a first time for everything. 

The bookstore buzzes like an active hive. Beyond these rolling partitions masquerading as shelves, cushioned folding chairs cradle bums of all shapes and sizes and stages of cellulite. They are here for me. As I am here for them. This is my hometown. And this is the bookstore in my hometown that Jocelyn and Torrence and Callum and little Vance built, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter, book by book. That I share with no one. 

I am not a charity. 

My coattails are not for riding. 

Tell that to Lacey, my publicist for the last ten years. I already did. Multiple times and with only one expletive. (Which honestly is the definition of restraint.) And yet, I am here. Because Blaire, my agent with a heart mushier than a ripe peach, intervened on Lacey’s behalf and asked me to be. 

Listen, that this industry is harder to navigate than Gen Z slang is not lost on me. I’m not completely averse to the idea of paying it forward, even though when I was starting out no one gave me so much as a linty nickel. But you can be damn sure that if a bestselling author who helped to define my genre had invited me (via said publicist) to a bookstore’s celebration of their blockbuster series, I’d have been on time. 

Not late. By twenty minutes—and counting. 

I reach for the partition cordoning off this back room, my rose gold bangles clattering as I wiggle free a chapter book—a tale about monsters hiding in school cubbies that must be the bane of every kindergarten teacher’s existence. A ghost of a smile plays on my lips, affection for my kindred spirit of an author who came up with this. I set the book aside and peek through the slim gap. 

Heart-shaped helium balloons kiss the ceiling, “library” candles that smell of old books and lavender flicker on the windowsills, and my favorite cushioned armchair beckons from behind my usual signing table, an old desk with legs fashioned out of stacked books. Hanging above the register is a poster of the first nine titles in this series I nearly gave a kidney to make happen (don’t ask). 

The dozens who have traveled from as close as Boston and as far as Iowa wait with more patience than me alongside half the residents of this small seaside town. 

With so many bodies, the room temperature rises. The air turns electric. And I come alive. I wriggle my head out of my introverted shell and gorge myself on the energy of the crowd. I’m no longer a little girl with debilitating stage fright, convincing my teachers I’d been bitten by a squirrel or had a seven-foot-long tapeworm in my belly to get out of an oral report. Turns out I’ve always been good at lying. 

Lies, fibs, fabrications, tall tales. That’s all writing is, really, being good at making things up, convincing others that a little boy with freckled cheeks and a mop of carrot-colored hair can bend universes in one breath and giggle at fart jokes in the next. Ah, little Vance—everyone’s favorite character. Which is why he had to die. My socials will be flooded with heartbreak emoji and death threats when fans get their hands on this last book. 

My god, do I love my job. 

“Sofie, our little Sofie.” 

I would take these words as a slight, given my five-footstature, if they weren’t coming from a woman slipping behind the partition with arms outstretched, a half dozen tiny pencils poking out of her salt-and-pepper bun, and a “Roxanne (as in Bel Canto!)” name tag on her ample left breast (the right is ample too, but there’s just the one name tag). 

“Sofie Wilde, the hero of the harbor.” Roxanne repeats the same refrain each time I enter this store, be it through the back for an event like today or the spontaneous (read: alwaysstaged) drop-ins through the front to “casually” browse and be photographed with some new release Roxanne’s exuberance and penchant for underdogs caused her to overbuy. She posts them on the store’s Instagram. Knowing this, some of the younger authors, freed from the decorum handcuffs of my generation, have been bold enough to send extra copies of their books to the store. The feed for Harbor Books is the only place you’ll see me posing with a novel that isn’t mine. It’s my rule. Roxanne, somehow, over all these years, remains the exception. 

“Tell me,” Roxanne says, wiggling her phone and pressing the side button to shut it down. “And not even Instagram will hear. Will Vance be able to restore the cosmic balance in time for Jocelyn to choose Torrence? Because she will, naturally. It must be Torrence.” 

My face remains hard as steel. 

“Sofie,” Roxanne coaxes. “It’s me. We did this together. We built this store as a team. This is ours.” 

Roxanne also has a penchant for hyperbole. Still, these days, my fantasy romance series—what this Gen Z, grammar-phobic world now calls “romantasy”—is a New York Times bestseller, and I have more than half a million followers on social media. But fifteen years ago, I was a thirty-five-year-old woman with mousy brown hair, clear plastic-framed eyeglasses, and self-made bookmarks rolled off my laser printer in need of a yellow cartridge. A self-published author without the financial means to promote myself. That’s when I met Roxanne. 

When I walked through the door of Harbor Books with my sack of sad-looking bookmarks and shoddily glued-together manuscripts, Roxanne didn’t even wait for me to finish my plea to support a local author. She was already slapping price stickers on the back and arranging them in a three-foot-tall window display. Hers was the first store to stock my books. She was the first bookstore owner to host an event with me. In return, I’ve held every launch party here, and Harbor Books is the only store where readers can preorder signed copies with one-of-akind swag. Whenever I have my last launch (a very, very, very long time from now), it’ll be here. 

Roxanne bats her eyelashes. “I can better serve you and the book if I know how to respond to customer inquiries.” She gives me that syrupy smile we both know is exaggerated. “Truly, there were no advance reader copies printed? Not even for Jenna? Reese?” 

“Not a one,” I say, firmly, though of course there were. Stripped of the cover with confidential and sharing prohibited upon penalty of death written across the front (though, as I think about it, no one ever confirmed the use of that perfectly reasonable suggestion). 

A small number of advance reader copies are always necessary in this industry that relies on prepublication buzz to anoint its bestsellers, and my publisher plays the game well, distributing copies to high-profile outlets for review. I could have secured one for Roxanne, but Vance’s death is the surprise of the series and she’s terrible at keeping secrets. A photo of her still hangs on the wall of shame at the single-screen movie theater across the street for telling everyone that Bruce Willis’s character in The Sixth Sense is actually dead. (Ooh, did I just pull a Roxanne? Whoops.) 

A ding announces the opening of the front door. Roxanne peers around the partition to confirm it’s her. 

“Break a spine!” Roxanne says, whooshing out. 

Instead of following, I pause to peer through that tiny gap on the bookshelf. 

My “invited” guest, the author who will ask me a few questions and then moderate ones from the crowd, hovers at the front of the store, seemingly unsure, eyes scanning the room. Silver hair past her shoulders, flowy cotton skirt, well-worn canvas tote bulging with what can only be useless buttons and cheap pens and glitter tattoos she paid for herself. She has no marketing budget for swag or anything else. She’s only here because of me. 

No one had heard of Hartley West until a month ago. As happens (usually thanks to a hefty Venmo transfer), an influencer “discovered” Hartley’s self-published debut, Love and Lawlessness. That influencer gushed about it and set off a trend among her fellow movers and shakers—leaders of the “next wave” of how books are found, the whole cadre featured in an article in The New York Times. Like a snowball, more and more readers “found” and recommended Hartley’s book. Said it reminded them of me. 

The next Sofie Wilde. That’s what they’re calling her. Over my dead body. 

“Ms. Wilde?” 

I turn. 

“Are we missing anything?” 

The bookstore employee—Amy (just like in Little Women!) according to her name tag—lifts a large wooden tray as if making an offering to the gods. On it are three black Sharpies with an ultra-fine tip, a pad of sticky notes (blue), six peppermint-flavored lozenges, two glasses of water, no ice, and a bottle of hand sanitizer disguised as hand lotion. 

I’m not a diva. (Despite how it sounds.) I’ve simply paid my dues. I’ve earned the right to be here, to be doing this, and I want to do it well. 

“It’s perfect, Amy,” I say just as on the other side of this partition, chair legs scratch against the floor. 

I return to my peekaboo window. Hartley West has circled the table. She drops her bag on the seat of the armchair. The single armchair. The chair that is mine. She puts her back to the room. Her eyes are closed. Her hand presses against her breastbone, and I wonder if this is her very first event. I’m positive it’s her very first event like this. I remember the feeling. And by feeling I mean fear. Maybe that’s why she was late. I feel a momentary surge of empathy toward her, understanding what it was like to be just starting out, to be hoping and praying to all the gods and no particular god (to cover all the bases) for the doors of publishing to open even the tiniest crack. 

I watch Hartley’s chest inflate and deflate, and suddenly I feel like I’m intruding. I lower my gaze, but I can still hear her on the other side, the faint mumbling as she repeats her pitch one final time. Rehearsing the quippy soundbite that we authors spend more time writing than the actual book. We are actors without training. Performers without a safety net. We are thrust into the spotlight despite our desire to avoid it being what led most of our introverted selves to become writers in the first place. When we stand before a crowd, be it one or one thousand, we must be witty and wise. 

I am. 

Is “the next Sofie Wilde”? 

Honestly, what is that? Is it supposed to be a compliment? Me being replaced? Isn’t that called a coup? 

Flump. 

Flump, flump, flump, flump. 

I resume my spying. Hartley West is plopping stacks of bookmarks on the table beside a two-foot-tall tower of books that she must have pulled from her Mary Poppins tote. 

She then reaches into that bag and draws out a single sheet of paper. I watch as she carefully folds it in two. Printed on the front, in big blocky aquamarine letters, is her name and underneath: CO-PANELIST. 

I text Lacey: Hartley West, what did you say to her? 

Lacey: She’s late, I know. Roxanne’s been hounding me. 

Me: She’s here. With a “co-panelist” name card. 

Lacey: WTF? 

Me: My thoughts exactly. 

Lacey: Looping in Blaire. 

But Blaire wouldn’t overstep. She may have a heart that bleeds so much she needs daily transfusions, but she defers to Lacey on all things publicity related. Lacey started as my in-house publicist, working for a publisher where she had more authors to handle than romance authors have euphemisms for penis. Lacey hung out her own shingle after helping me hit the New York Times bestseller list with book four, and I became her first client. 

Blaire: It must be a misunderstanding. 

Lacey: Damn straight, because if you look up the definition of limelight, you will see Sofie right here and now. Not Sofie and Hartley West. She came out of nowhere at the pinnacle of Sofie’s career. Sofie cannot validate this flash in the pan at her own event. 

Sofie: Isn’t that what I said to you? Right before you hit “click” on the posts promoting this entirely predictable debacle? 

Lacey: I’ll fix it. 

Lacey could talk a lobster into a pot of water—then get it to use its own claw to turn up the heat. 

And yet . . . in exchange for a blurb, I once offered to donate a kidney to a bestselling author on dialysis (I said not to ask). I had to fight for every reader at the start. 

Just like “the next Sofie Wilde.” 

And if karma exists, I need it on my side. Today marks the beginning of the end for Jocelyn and Torrence and Callum and little Vance. I mourn them. A part of me always will. They’ve rented space in my head for more than ten years. I know what they eat for breakfast and what they’d wear to a funeral and the fears that paralyze them. Things I barely know about myself. But it’s time to let them go, and along with them, shifting universes and alternate dimensions and three-headed beasts. At least for a little while. I’m not leaving romance behind—I may have my flaws, but self-sabotage is not one of them. But the idea of penning a meet-cute that doesn’t involve fantastical elements like a talking dolphin or a sidekick with yellow feathers makes me all warm and fuzzy (though honestly, that could also be the hot flashes). 

Excerpted from ROMANTIC FRICTION by Lori Gold. Copyright © 2025 by Lori Gold. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins. 

Author Bio:

Photo Credit:
Marc Goldstein

 
Lori Gold is the author of four novels for young adults as well as an adult historical novel (all under Lori Goldstein). She teaches creative writing at Grub Street in Boston and lives on the South Shore of Massachusetts. She can be found online at www.lorigoldsteinbooks.com

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