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As my mother's 24/7 caregiver, November being National Family Caregivers Month has always been important to me. Not because I want personal recognition for what I do but to help show people that caregiving is more than just medical assistance, it can also be emotional, physical, psychological, that it effects every aspects of a person's life, it can be temporary, short term, long term, chronic,. I would give anything to make it so my mother did not need the assistance but that isn't possible so I do this so she can have the best quality of life and still live in her own home. So I realized that there are stories out there that have caregivers and whether it's a big or small part of the plot doesn't matter, they help show people what caregivers provide all within very entertaining romances and reading experiences.
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Into the Fall by RJ Scott
Summary:Whisper Ridge, Wyoming #4
In small-town Wyoming, a tough sheriff and a former Navy SEAL are thrown together by circumstance. Their fiery chemistry leads to constant clashes, but as they work to solve a mystery, they can't ignore the growing feelings between them.
Sheriff Neil Windham has one mission: to protect Whisper Ridge. But when human remains surface at the Lennox Ranch, the town’s past comes back to haunt it. As Neil dives deeper into the investigation, he’s torn between his duty, his father’s declining health, and the fire ignited by the relentless, unpredictable former Navy SEAL, Connor Mason.
Connor didn’t come to Whisper Ridge looking for trouble—or a future. He never intended to fall in love, least of all with someone like Neil. But with every heated encounter, Neil and Connor’s attraction escalates into something undeniable, a force of nature they can’t resist. Now, with an offer to rejoin his old team, Connor must choose between a future in Whisper Ridge or leaving behind the only man who’s ever made him feel like he belongs.
Into the Fall is an opposites-attract, enemies-to-lovers M/M romance featuring a battle-hardened former SEAL and a dedicated sheriff. Duty and desire collide, old ranch secrets come to light, and a hard-earned happily-ever-after awaits.
Original Book of the Month Review September 2024:
Note: I'm going to start my review off with a little personal feelings because I can't think of a better way to put voice to how this book effected me, I understand if that makes you uncomfortable so just scroll down a couple of paragraphs.
Can't believe we've reached the end of Whisper Ridge, Wyoming but truthfully, I can't think of a more emotionally charged and beautiful send off. I rarely cry while reading, the tears well up but rarely fall, mostly due to location and time. As my mom's 24/7 caregiver I tend to read when I can and I don't want her to see my crying when she needs something and I also do a considerable amount of reading in Mayo Clinic waiting rooms.
Back to "rarely crying while reading", Into the Fall was one of those rare times. As mentioned above, I'm my mother's fulltime caregiver so I'm also very aware when it comes to stories with caregiving elements and willing to be critical if the author misrepresents something. Well, RJ Scott does it right and Into the Fall hasn't been her first story to have a caregiver element and her other stories have also been the rare times the tears fell. I have not had any personal experience with dementia or Alzheimer's diagnosis, both of my parents had aunts that were dealt the dementia blow but we didn't have much contact with them(not for the dementia reason just the way it worked out with timing and location) I have however dealt with short term memory issues. My grandmother was diagnosed that although even as her caregiver I was not made aware of that until she was admitted into the hospital for the last time. 85% of the time she was the grandma I grew up knowing and 15% of the time she was the kind of person you crossed the street to avoid, the problem was you spent that 85% walking on eggshells trying not to trigger the 15%. I'm sorry for digressing into personal experience but the point of sharing this is to express how amazingly accurate RJ Scott brings Neil's family heartache to life and to explain why Into the Fall was one of those rare crying books for me because her accuracy tugged at my heart so deeply and though it brought back a few heart-hurt memories it all gave me a chance to release some that I had boxed away these past 13 years since my grandmother passed. So Thank You, RJ Scott for once again going that extra mile to make the emotions real, to respecting the heartache.
Okay let's talk Into the Fall.
I was so hoping we'd get to see more of Conner when he was introduced back in book 2, Summer Drifter and I was not disappointed. Conner is a man who needs to be in control, needs something to do and that puts him in the path of Neil, the town sheriff. Not in a malicious way but because he does a few things that a civilian shouldn't. But as a former SEAL Conner cannot stand by when assistance in required, at least that's how he sees it, Neil on the other hand has other thoughts on the matter.
Neil has his hands full dealing with Conner but he has so much more on his plate, short staffed, Mother Nature, and his family learning to live with his father's aggressive form of dementia. How much can one man take? Perhaps if he lets Conner do his thing Neil won't find himself spread so thin? Mother Nature's plans throw a new hurdle in his path as bones are discovered on the Lennox Ranch after a mudslide and once again Conner jumps in to action, quite literally as the landscape beneath the bones threatens to erode even more. Neil's answer: cuff him and arrest him. So much for lightening the load😉.
I'm not going to spoil further, just know that Conner and Neil find themselves dealing with not only their attraction and chemistry but also family, friends, bones, and potential murder mystery. Now I know I made Into the Fall sound like a highly charged heart-breaking drama and there are those elements of course but there is also plenty of love, humor, romance, and heat to make this an all around enjoyably entertaining read that may hurt the heart at times but always warms and heals too.
If you are new to Whisper Ridge, Wyoming and are wondering about reading order, yes each entry is a new couple but there are story points that carry over as well as characters that play a part. I suppose technically you could call it a standalone series with new couples at the forefront but I can't imagine reading out of order, friendships deepen and characters grow that would seem odd to see said connections go backwards if read differently than released. However you read it, this is a series that will warm your heart and fill you with hope.
Running from a scandal that ruined his life, Isaac Twain accepts a teaching position at Hambden University where, three months prior, Professor John Conlon stopped a campus nightmare by stepping in front of an active shooter.
When John and Isaac become faculty advisors for the school’s literary magazine, their professional relationship evolves. Despite the strict code of conduct forbidding faculty fraternization, they delve into a secret affair—until Simon arrives.
Isaac’s violent ex threatens not only their careers, but also John’s life. His PTSD triggered, John must come to terms with that bloody day on College Green while Isaac must accept the heartbreak his secrets have wrought.
***WE STILL LIVE is a standalone M/M friends-to-lovers romance featuring detailed adult content, graphic violence, hurt/comfort, and mental illness.**
Into the Fall by RJ Scott
Chapter One
CONNOR
I braced myself as a gust of wind tried to take my feet from under me. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten talked into heading out into the most dramatic storm I’d witnessed since the team’s last Red Sea deployment. Not when I had a good book waiting in my apartment.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning split the sky, illuminating the town in brief, eerie flashes as the rain hammered the streets of Whisper Ridge, turning them into slick, glistening rivers.
I shouldn’t have been going out tonight.
I should’ve used the weather as a reason to stay in my lovely, cozy apartment, not headed up a damn mountain in this deluge for Quinn’s birthday party.
I locked the diner door, pulled my long coat jacket tight, and headed towards my SUV. The relentless downpour muffled all other sounds as my boots splashed through the puddles.
“Connor Mason!” The furious yell cut through the rain as Sheriff Neil Windham—six feet of sexy, blustering, temper-driven man—blocked my way. His face was a thundercloud matching the sky, and my adrenaline spiked when he bunched his fists. I thought for a moment he was going to slam me to the ground.
I’d been waiting all day for him to challenge me, but the party and the storm had derailed my concentration, and here I was caught on the back foot, in the rain, and there he was, a man filled with rage. This was a definite step up from his typical sarcastic irritation with me, straight to DEFCON 1—the kind of anger that made me brace for impact and reach for a weapon I wasn’t even carrying.
I’d been expecting this visit all day. Still, I was hoping the confrontation would happen when it was dry.
In my apartment.
In my bedroom.
Preferably naked and post-sex.
My pulse quickened, not just from anticipating a confrontation but from something deeper, something hidden where all my secrets lay. I couldn’t explain my visceral reaction to this intense man, but I craved his sharp tongue pulling me up on any and all chaos I had caused. My therapist would have a field day analyzing my brain—if I ever went back to therapy. She’d tell me I craved all his attention, even if it was negative, and probably go deep into why I loved pushing his buttons. Facing Neil head-on was a challenge that sparked something deep inside me. I lived for these moments when Neil was angry and when his presence in my space made me feel something.
Not that I ever told him that. I pushed and pushed, and when he snapped, I soaked up his passionate temper and loved every freaking moment of it because he made me feel…
Alive.
I squared my shoulders, ready to meet whatever he was bringing in the madness of the storm.
“Tell me you didn’t threaten Abraham Wild!” The fury in his tone was like catnip.
Rain dripped from the brim of my cap, and I pulled up the hood of my coat—not that it helped, given it wasn’t completely waterproof. “I didn’t threaten Abraham Wild.”
I did.
“Witnesses tell me you took his gun from him and shoved him to the ground.”
“He had a rifle, yeah, I disarmed him, but he was drunk and about to fall over anyway.”
“You took his gun and assaulted him.”
“He tripped,” I replied, raising my voice to be heard over another rumble of thunder.
“I don’t have time for your shit!” Neil’s eyes blazed with anger; his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You told him that if he didn’t stop waving his gun, then you’d shove the gun up his ass.”
“Yep, that was me. Now, are you mad I said that, that he tripped, or that there were witnesses?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and I could see him reining in his temper. “He’s accusing you of being armed.”
I tapped my lip in exaggerated thought. “Well, I was armed after I took his rifle.”
“Give me strength.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and swiped away a face full of water.
I snorted a laugh, then spread my hands wide, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “Anyway, you know I don’t need to carry.”
Neil’s glare was icy. “You took his gun—”
“I emptied the chamber and gave it back to him.”
“You can’t just go around threatening people in my town. If you see something wrong, you call me.”
“I neutralized a threat. What could you have done that was any different?”
I saw the conflict in his eyes, the frustration of understanding his job’s limitations, and the temper riding his ass. We both knew Abraham Wild’s issues, but without a formal report, there was nothing the sheriff could do. Yeah, if I’d called Neil in his official capacity, then maybe there’d be something on record, but what if, in the meantime, Abraham had shot someone? Like his wife or that skinny kid with the braces who worked there after school.
No one dies on my watch.
Neil’s jaw tightened, and then he cursed. “You come to me, Connor. You don’t threaten him.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “So, you can write him a stern letter after the fact? A warning won’t stop him if the posturing and drinking escalates.”
“I know that family.”
“Do you?”
Neil’s eyes flashed with anger and frustration, maybe a hint of agreement that he didn’t know Abraham as well as he thought. Word in town was that Abraham had been fine until he’d lost his job and fell into what his wife called a midlife crisis, which seemed way too soft for the darkness surrounding him. He hadn’t hurt anyone—yet—but he was less likely to hurt someone without bullets.
Logic for the win.
Neil stepped so close I imagined I could feel the heat of his breath despite the chill of the rain. “You’re not the law here, Connor. I am. And you need to let me do my job.” It seemed he wanted to say more, and I waited, but his lips thinned.
I shook my head, exasperated. “People like Abraham need to know there are real consequences to waving a gun around.”
Neil’s expression hardened again, and he stepped back into the rain. “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you.”
Hell, as much as I respected Neil and his dedication to his job, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing when people were being hurt. It must’ve killed him not to be able to take the man down.
“Do it then—”
He swiped a hand between us, cutting the conversation dead. “No more wannabe heroics, no more theatrics, no putting yourself in front of a gun, Connor. No. More.”
A deluge of water spilled from where it had collected in the door canopy above, just about soaking us both, and I grabbed Neil’s arm, pulling him closer under the shelter. Not one forecaster had warned that this storm was going to throw the contents of a damn lake or gusts of wind down the mountain, but its snarling arrival matched the dark and desperate mood I’d been in all day. The scent of the thunderstorm lingered in the air—a heady mix of ozone and rain, earthy and electric, amplifying the tension between us, and the sudden proximity to Neil made my heart race. We were close enough to kiss. And damn it, but I wanted one taste of the irritable, yet sexy, sheriff. The tension between us was tangible, a mix of frustration, admiration, and something deeper that made me want to hold him and silence his shouting.
“Why are you doing this to me?” His eyes flicked to my lips for a split second, and I almost leaned in, tempted to steal that kiss I’d wanted for so long.
The storm raged around us. The rain was a relentless curtain that hid us, and every nerve in my body was alive with the possibility of what could happen next. This was the moment we’d kiss at last, hidden from the town, giving in to the spark of attraction. God, I could nearly taste him already—
Neil stepped away, moving out into the rain. He marched across the road, heading straight for the sheriff’s office, his shoulders stiff with anger.
Disappointment made my stomach swoop, but I couldn’t help but call out, “Night, Sheriff!”
He ignored me, not even a glance back, and as he walked off, I couldn’t shake the feeling this argument was far from over. The tension between us had been thick enough to cut with a knife—unresolved lust on my part, a hefty dose of anger and disgust from him. I knew the tension between us wasn’t volatile frustration because I’d seen it in his expression.
Naked want and need.
The same as mine.
One day, I’d push him too far, and he’d grab me and show me what he wanted to do to me. Punch me, shake me, hurt me…
Kiss me.
One day I’d crack his stoic exterior, but tonight was not that night, and disappointment piled on top of the resentment because I didn’t want to be out in this rain anyway. I went from lustful and snarky to moody and pissed again.
I loved Whisper Ridge, working with Quinn’s foundation and running his security. I lusted after Sheriff Windham—Neil—and I actually loved storms if I was inside with a good book and a coffee.
I wished the high of confrontation and temper stayed, and that I didn’t feel so lost.
Fuck. How far do I need to push him to get what I want?
We Still Live by Sara Dobie Bauer
Chapter One
Dr. Isaac Twain stood in a cozy house surrounded by strangers, where a forced jubilation floated like stale smoke. The house was something out of the Shire, a hobbit home for humans, on a hilltop in Lothos, Ohio, overlooking Hambden University’s campus.
Isaac had been dragged around the party earlier and introduced. The head of the English Department called him an “emergency hire.” Emergency because two of their professors had resigned a week before the semester started when they realized they couldn’t come back, not after what happened.
The unfamiliar faces of his new coworkers floated in and out of Isaac’s attention. In the overwarm, crowded kitchen, two older ladies smiled up at him and tried asking about his work, his life—did he have a wife?—but he ducked their questions like a soldier ducks bullets. For a time, he hovered among them with his glass of wine until a delightfully disorganized bookshelf in a room off the main foyer caught his eye, and he took solace.
Stepping inside, he cast a glance over what had to be someone’s office. An antique oak desk anchored the space, though its surface was bare and dusty from nonuse. A couple of framed band posters decorated the walls, but the only name Isaac recognized was Freddie Mercury. Trying not to snoop, he turned his attention back to the initial object of interest.
Books of all shapes and sizes crammed into the shelves at odd angles. Half were alphabetized, as if their owner had once considered organization and admitted defeat. In the top right corner sat a bobblehead, some kind of rodent with a red W on its chest. Isaac bopped the critter on the head, and it nodded in response.
An author named John Conlon dominated an entire half shelf. Isaac grabbed a book with bright binding—young adult, if the cover was anything to go by. He set his glass of wine on the nearby table, empty but for a photograph of a smiling couple with dark hair (whoever lived here was apparently not a fan of clutter) and flipped pages. He read the first line—It wasn’t meant to happen that summer, but by then, Declan understood the things he meant and the things he did were often at odds—until a stranger arrived at his side.
“Hey, newbie. You hiding?”
Isaac looked up to find an overgrown frat boy with spiked blond hair and a square-shaped head staring back at him. “Maybe,” Isaac said. He lifted his chin toward the kitchen. “It’s claustrophobic in there.”
The man shrugged. “What can I say? We’re overbearing, given the right amount of alcohol.” He extended his hand. “I’m Tommy Dewars.”
Isaac slid the Conlon book back where it belonged and accepted Tommy’s greeting. “Isaac Twain.”
“We’re playing the name game later. See if you remember everybody. If you mess up, you’re fired.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He squinted up at Isaac. “Not to be weird, but English professors aren’t usually seven feet of solid muscle.”
Isaac almost choked on his drink. Granted, people often commented on his height and physique, but Tommy’s remark still caught him off guard. “I used to run marathons,” he said. “But I’m a geek on the inside. Promise.” When Tommy smiled, Isaac tipped his head toward the dusty desk. “This your place?”
“Mine? No, God, no. I live in a shithole closer to campus. This is John’s place. He’s driving back from Wisconsin today, but he should be here soon. How long have you been in town? Heard you moved up from North Carolina?”
“South Carolina. Charleston.” He finished half the glass of wine in one go. “I’ve only been here a couple days.”
Tommy’s wrinkled plaid button-down untucked from his jeans when he scratched his belly, and he sipped what appeared to be whiskey. “Why the hell would you move to Ohio from Charleston?”
Isaac shrugged as the boisterous kitchen conversation spilled down the hall. “Change of scenery.”
Somewhere, a glass dropped and shattered. Disinterested, Isaac paid the disturbance no mind so was ill prepared for a sudden assault. He huffed out a breath when Tommy suddenly tackled him to the floor, both their glasses flying. Isaac held his hands up, bracing for a punch…until he realized he wasn’t being attacked.
Tommy, eyes wide, scrambled off Isaac and sat back on his heels. “Shit, I am so sorry.”
Isaac leaned up on his elbows. “You okay?”
Jaw clenched, Tommy sputtered a chuckle. “Apparently not.” He stood and helped Isaac to his feet. He laughed some more and brushed at the front of Isaac’s blazer. “I, uh…” He pressed his lips together and glanced behind him. “New habits, I guess. Jesus.” He smacked Isaac on the shoulder. “Seriously, are you okay?”
Isaac’s heart thudded in his chest, but he still said, “Fine.”
“I need to get you another drink.”
Isaac picked up their dropped glasses, spilled but not broken. “It’s all right.”
“You came at a really bad time, man.”
“I know.” He did know. Well, he knew enough. School shootings were practically a weekly occurrence. Six people had died in a campus shooting at Hambden the spring before, although that was his only detail. Details seemed too heavy, the number of lives lost countrywide like rocks tied to the necks of those drowning in despair.
“What are you teaching this semester?”
“Mostly composition,” Isaac said, silently agreeing to Tommy’s need to just move on and forget about the impromptu tackle. “Guess they want to make sure I know what I’m talking about before they give me upperclassmen.”
Tommy frowned at the empty glasses Isaac placed on a shelf. “Composition. You don’t even get English majors in there. You’ll probably be dealing with a bunch of business nerds trying to learn how to write office memos.”
“Thrilling.”
Close as they were to the foyer, Isaac was the first to notice the front door opening. A student walked inside. The kid dragged a heavy-looking suitcase behind him. Dressed as he was in a slim-fitting button-down, Isaac immediately assumed preppy, although that assumption altered and changed when taking into account the tight black jeans, Converse sneakers, and shaggy hair the color of caramel and chocolate—a mass of waves and curls that fell down the back of his neck but not quite to his shoulders.
The kid pushed his hair out of the way and looked up, eyes finding Isaac and flashing a moment of panicked nonrecognition before seeing Tommy.
“Um.” Isaac pointed toward the new arrival.
Tommy turned and shouted, “John! My man!”
Not a student, then.
Tommy wrapped John in a hug that actually lifted his feet off the ground. Isaac imagined it wouldn’t be difficult. The new guy might have been average height, but he was gangly, skin and bones.
Tommy ruffled his hair. “Have you lost weight?”
John grumbled and scratched his face with his middle finger. “What are you freeloaders doing in my house?” His voice was surprisingly resonant for someone Isaac considered “pretty.” At John’s pronouncement, crows of approval rang from every direction.
“Come meet Isaac,” Tommy said.
John wiped his palms on his jeans before reaching out to shake, and Isaac’s large hand dwarfed his.
“Isaac Twain is the newest addition to our special corner of Hambden hell. Isaac, this is John Conlon.”
John brushed more hair out of his face. “Nice to—”
“John Conlon?”
John and Tommy froze.
Isaac jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The books on the shelf. Those are yours?”
John’s face, immobile in what looked like dread a moment before, melted into relief, tinged with a bit of blush. “Oh, yeah. You’ve read?”
“No, but I should. You’ve published a lot of books. You must be good.”
John’s nose wrinkled, and he looked away.
Tommy shook him by the shoulders. “John is an amazing writer. He had a story published in The New Yorker when he was, like, five. Are you working on anything right now?”
John glanced at the bookshelf. “Not lately.”
“You need a drink,” Tommy said.
John’s eyes widened on a big breath. “God, yes, I do.”
“Nice to meet you,” Isaac said, but John just nodded quickly, smile thin, before allowing himself to be herded farther into the house toward the sound of quiet laughter and clinking bottles.
Isaac felt it then—an outsider’s emptiness. He became a nervous-looking coat rack in the corner, a terrified tree waiting for the ax. As the party doubled in auditory volume, he bemoaned his spilled wine. Was it okay for him to leave? It wasn’t like he was supposed to make a speech. He was only there because he figured it was the easiest way to meet everyone before the first official faculty meeting, but he’d been standing around too long. He wanted to run.
Out of curiosity, he reopened John’s book from earlier and read the front flap. It was a coming-of-age story about a gay kid in the Midwest. He flipped to the back, and a picture of John stared back at him. He’d assumed the guy was tired when they first met, but no; apparently, John had perpetual bedroom eyes, and his hair was always an artful mess. He skimmed…creative writing professor at Hambden University…gay rights activist…Converse-wearer and “old-people music” enthusiast.
All arrows pointed to John’s probable sexual preference for men. A spark of interest flickered but quickly went out. True, John Conlon was what most people would consider beautiful, but he wasn’t Isaac’s type. John was the kind of man butch guys fought over in gay clubs, but he was too small for Isaac, too fragile-looking, girly. After all he’d been through, the last thing Isaac wanted was someone feminine.
A thin figure ducked into the library and literally hid against the doorframe. He took a long drink of something brown and leaned his head back. “It’s not good when you want to hide in your own house.”
“Library is the best place for it,” Isaac said.
John kicked away from the wall. “Tommy mentioned you just moved here? I’ve been in Lothos forever, so if you need anything…” He examined Isaac from his brown boat shoes to the top of his blond head. John’s large eyes, dark green, seemed bottomless—drowning pools of intellect and soul—only slightly overshadowed by his thick eyebrows.
Isaac took a step backward in response to his inspection. “Um, Tommy mentioned you were on your way back from Wisconsin?”
“I grew up there. My family’s still there. I took the summer… I…um…” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m usually really good at finishing sentences.”
A bubble of amusement rose in Isaac’s chest.
“You look like I feel.”
“And how do you feel?” Isaac asked.
“Like I want to bury my head in a hole. Or get messy drunk.” He lifted his glass in an unreciprocated toast and drank.
“This is going to sound really insensitive, but can I ask you a question?”
John shrugged.
“The shooting.”
John coughed once, quickly. A loud laugh from the hallway made him startle and look over his shoulder.
Isaac could have backpedaled—should have, based on the way his coworker now resembled a spooked deer—but in for a penny. “Do you mind me asking what happened?”
John stared at him for a long moment before his mouth curved into something like a smile. The intelligent scrutiny of his gaze disappeared in a haze of what Isaac assumed was memory. Then he said, “You don’t know,” with an abundance of relief.
“I know it’s very ignorant of me, and possibly callous, but no.”
John traced his pale finger along the edge of the bookcase. “It was on College Green last June. The College of Arts and Sciences award ceremony. One of our students started shooting, and he eventually shot himself.”
“You were there?”
John laughed, which seemed sorely out of place. “Yeah, I was there. All of us were there.” He leaned closer, so close Isaac smelled bourbon on his breath. “A word of advice: don’t ask anyone else about it unless you’re really good with tears.”
Isaac shifted from one foot to the other. “You’re not crying.”
“No.” He finished his glass and spun around. “I need more alcohol.” It felt like a brush-off, an escape.
“John. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” He tapped his palm on the doorframe and looked back. “You know, you don’t have to stay here hiding. It’s painful watching introverts try to acclimate in social situations.”
Isaac smirked. “How do you know I’m an introvert?”
“We recognize our own kind, man. Every day of my life, my mantra is ‘Don’t be awkward.’”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Not well.” John smiled, rows of white teeth on display, and Isaac felt like the sun shined on his face. “Nice meeting you, Isaac. Now, go the fuck home.”
Relieved, Isaac dug his leather coat from the hall closet. Isaac having come from the South, the Midwestern nights chilled his bones. He did his best not to draw attention as he snuck to the front door and out into evening. He glanced back once and pondered John Conlon, a contradiction of a man. Not a student but a teacher; not a yuppie but a man who used “fuck” at faculty parties. Not a friend yet, but maybe.
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Bestselling romance author.
Bisexual witch.
Feminist. Pro-choice. Anti-censorship.
Timothee Chalamet freak.
Horror movie aficionado.
Vampire mermaid in a past life.
Sara Dobie Bauer somehow survived her party-hard college years at Ohio University to earn a creative writing degree. She lives with her precious Pit Bull in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Sara Dobie Bauer
