“All That Glitters”: Excerpt & Book Review


“All That Glitters” by Tracy Krimmer

Blurb: Country-music star, Dory Walker, never wanted to come back to the small town of Sycamore Bay. But after her fairy-tale life is flipped upside down, and her marriage becomes a casualty, she has no choice.

Harris Malone is a man with few commitments. He keeps a low profile most days while he cares for his young daughter and helps run his dad’s hardware store.

But when he and Dory run into each other at the local gas station, all either can think about is the searing kiss they shared many years ago.

Can a woman who only wants to rekindle her career and a man who enjoys a no-strings attached lifestyle find everlasting love?



“That night in your bedroom, I think about it all the time.”

I let go of the bat, and he did, too, our hands clasping together. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I ignored the birds chirping and kids yelling from the playground. At that moment, we were all that existed on Earth. The wind picked up, but it wasn’t enough to cool me down. From my head to the very tip of my toenails, I sweated in anticipation of the next moments.

“I do, too.” I thought about it more often than I should have. Some of my best memories with Dylan were always masked by that one kiss. My most shameful moment was at my wedding when Dylan and I shared our first kiss as husband and wife, and Harris entered my mind momentarily.

“I’m sorry about what happened after. I really am.”

I forgave him years ago. We were young, and I was hell bent on leaving Sycamore Bay. It worked out for the better because he would have only held me back. I never wanted to resent him, and surely I would have. But he had Jody, anyway.

“It’s okay, Harris. It really is.”

The gap started closing between us, the only air allowed our breath on one another. He smelled of strawberry, and I was sure he tasted just as sweet.

“No. It’s not. That kiss, that kiss brought me to my knees.” He squeezed my hand with his right and pulled me closer with his left. Our bodies touched, and our hearts raced against each other. “I have a feeling this one will, too.”

I sucked in a breath as we connected, my body exploding with energy, every piece of me filled with warmth, weakness, and joy all at one time. When he slipped his tongue in, I allowed my arms to wrap around his waist, rubbing between his shoulder blades and down his back until my hands rested above his backside. I wanted to push down farther, grab his butt, squeeze tight and pull him even harder against me so I could feel him. I didn’t, though. I kept kissing him, and he kept kissing me, and every piece of the puzzle fit together for those moments.

We could have been in a movie, everything spinning around us, and we stood still, our lips the only things moving. I wanted to lie down on the field, crawl on top of him, explore every inch of his body. Maybe later. I savored the moment we were in, relished in the fact I was kissing Harris Malone, and he was kissing me, and not in my bedroom. We were in the middle of a baseball field, in plain sight of anyone to see.

We pulled away from each other if only to take a breath. He took all of mine away.

“Wow.” He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them back up.

“Wow.” I repeated his sentiment.

“That was worth waiting eight years for.”

“I’d wait for eight more if it meant you’d kiss me like that again.”

My knees almost buckled beneath me when he gently placed his hands on either side of my face. He pulled me closer to him and put his lips to my ear and whispered, “It’s a good thing you don’t have to.”


My Review: After seeing the cover of “All That Glitters” and reading the blurb, I knew this would be a book I would enjoy. It started off quickly, immediately making me feel sorry for Dory and the situation she was in, though, couldn’t wait to see how things would turn out once she was back home in Sycamore Bay.

Things started off very rocky between Dory and her grandmother, and while I felt sorry for Dory, I felt sorry for her grandmother, too. Though, over time, things to get better, especially when she reconnects with Harris, a man who she’s wanted since their first kiss. There were definite sparks between these two, and, at Sycamore Bay, it was HOT!

I won’t say how the book ends, but overall, I cannot tell you how much I loved this book! I laughed and cried all the way through this sweet, yet quick and steamy romance book, one I definitely recommend as must-read over the summer. You will not be disappointed in “All That Glitters” by Tracy Krimmer!

I give “All That Glitters” 5 stars!


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BOOK FEATURE: “The The Devil’s Own Chloe



“The Devil’s Own Chloe” by Alix Nichols


The Devil’s Own Chloe is a feel-good romance that tackles some big issues and delivers a shy-guy hero you won’t want to forget!

Young Parisian architect Chloe Germain hires childhood friend Hugo Bonnet as a builder. Lethally toxic to loved ones, Chloe keeps them at arm’s length to protect them.

Or so she thinks.

Patient and strong, Hugo prides himself on being able to fix anything. Trouble is, he’s never tried repairing a chasm in someone’s soul before.

Will his love save Chloe or will fixing her leave him broken?

FREE: July 16-18
Amazon: http://amzn.to/29R3gu


It’s Saturday night, known to the mated population of Paris as Hump Night. The singles call it Hunt Night. Single women—except the confirmed bachelorettes who’ve embraced celibacy—refer to it as Manhunt Night.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool bachelorette who engages in regular hunting and occasional fishing.

Even gathering is not beneath me.

My kind is so rare, especially among the pre-nasty-divorce crowd, that some consider us an anomaly while others refuse to believe in our existence.

But we definitely exist.

At least I, Chloe Germain, do.

For now.

What a shame humanlike robots are nowhere near industrial production yet! I envy those who’ll be born at the end of the century, when stunning PAs (Personal Androids) will make it unnecessary for people like me to be intimate with strangers.

Note to the universe: In the event you reincarnate me in female form a hundred years from now, please look at the “Dreamboat” file on my computer. I’ve spent many an evening in front of it designing my bespoke three-dimensional PA, man parts and all.

And what glorious, tip-top man parts they are!

Oh well.

Maybe I’ll turn out to be one of those lucky individuals whose libido dries up by their mid-thirties. Just another decade to go, and my weekends could be free from hunting and all the associated awkwardness.

I’d love that.

But I’m not holding out hope.

Right now, I amble down the crowded Boulevard de Sébastopol, trying to sashay my hips with surgical precision so the movement gets noticed and appreciated but doesn’t get misinterpreted. My goal is to produce a sway that conveys, “Here comes an emancipated woman looking for some fun tonight,” and not, “I’m a slut—do me.”

Problem is the vast majority of men fail to see the difference between the two.

As is often the case, I give up the runway walk after a few minutes, blaming my uncooperative hips. Instead, I undo another button on my shirt and clutch my purse with my pepper spray a little tighter.

I haven’t needed the spray yet, but you never know.

As I approach Café Lolo, I spot a man smoking a cigarette at a table on the sidewalk terrace. He’s by himself, and his dispassionate demeanor tells me he isn’t expecting anyone. I halt just a couple of steps from him as if debating what to do. After three seconds of fake hesitation, I sit at the closest table and take a better look at the Candidate.

His espresso cup is full, which means he won’t be leaving just yet. That’s a good sign. An even better sign is that the man is skinny and aloof. He has a bad boy leather jacket and a don’t-mess-with-me haircut. Oh, and did I mention the dark stubble peppering the bottom half of his gaunt face?

So my type.

“Got a light?” I ask, leaning in.

He looks me up and down and pulls out a lighter.

As I sit back with my cigarette between my lips, I consider which pickup line to use next.

“You come here often?” he asks.

Thank you. “Not really. You?”

“Yeah, I live nearby.”

“Oh, so you’re a local.” My lips stretch into a friendly smile. “What’s the best feature of this neighborhood?”

“You plan to move here?”

I shake my head. “Just being curious.”

“What you consider good may be bad from my perspective.” He cocks his head. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that question.”

It’s tempting to ask if he’d like to get to know me better tonight, but I stop myself. Women who are too forward scare men off. I don’t mind driving away the caring and marrying types. But I’ll bet anything the Candidate isn’t one of them.

“Good point,” I say. “Let me be more specific. Are there any good music bars in this area?”

“You’re two steps from Bastille,” he says. “Take a wild guess.”

Does he sound peeved, or am I reading him wrong? As a matter of fact, I find myself unable to read him at all.

Maybe he isn’t a good candidate, after all. Maybe I should leave right now, before I’ve ordered anything, and try my luck elsewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he says as I put out my cigarette. “That came out ruder than I meant it.”

I give him a probing look.

“Let me try again.” He gives me an unpracticed smile. “Of course there are good music bars around here. And, by the way, my name is Fabien.”

“I’m Chloe.”

Fabien sets a few coins on the table. “I could take you to an Irish pub around the corner if you like Celtic music.”

I tilt my head to one side. “Do you like it?”

“It’s OK,” he says, impassive.

He is perfect.

“All right, then. Let’s check it out.”

In the pub, we half listen to a rocksy Breton band playing folksy Breton songs. I make lackadaisical comments from time to time. Fabien gives an occasional nod. Our main activity is consuming large amounts of beer.

“What’s your line of work, Chloe?” he asks when the band finishes their encore song and the bar begins to empty.

“Home renovations. Yours?”


He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t insist.

It’s not as if I care.

One of the waiters places a check on our table, and another one begins to flip chairs onto tables.

“I guess it’s time to go home.” I grab the bill. “Let me treat you.”

He snatches it from my hand. “No way. It’s on me.”

I object, he insists, and the ritualized back-and-forth ends with him shoving the check in his pocket and handing the server a fifty.

When the server brings the change, Fabien leaves him a generous tip.

So far so good.

“Do you live with your parents?” he asks as we step out into the night.

Every time I get this coded proposition, it reminds me of my first year in Paris as a naive small-town freshman at the École de Versailles. I spent a good half of that year debating if Parisian men routinely inquired about my living arrangements out of politeness or a genuine interest in my person.

“A hotel room would be better,” I say.

Fabien says nothing, just stares at me.

I stare back, trying to guess his next move. Will he seal the deal or back out?

“Follow me,” he finally says.


Congratulations, Chloe, on yet another successful manhunt.

We get down to business pretty much the moment we step into the room, and it’s just as I expected. Fabien performs well. I manage to peak with a little help from my fingers, which is totally fine by me.

Two hours later, we’re dressed again and ready to part ways.

Salut,” I say as soon as we’re outside the hotel entrance.

He looks taken aback, and I’m pleased.

Men are always the ones to decamp after casual sex while their female partner is holding her breath for a “Can I see you again?” So, yes, doing this feels good. It feels like a small but much-needed contribution to restoring the balance of yin and yang in the universe. Not that I believe in that New Age-y crap for a second.

“Um… yeah, take care,” Fabien says. He doesn’t budge, though.

I turn on my heel and march to the nearest métro station before he can suggest we do this again sometime soon. Or worse, ask me out for a drink.

I don’t do drinks, dinners, movies, dates, or relationships.

My life is a love-free zone.

Anything that resembles feelings or might be fertile soil for affection triggers a glaring neon sign in my head that screams, “Run!” The sign isn’t for my benefit. It’s to protect the innocents who don’t know what’s coming for them. Innocents who have no idea what I’m capable of.

If souls can be reborn, I’m the newest reincarnation of the mythical King Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Only my gift is less profitable and more macabre.

I turn everyone who loves me into dead meat.

AlixNicholsPic**About the author: Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a Kindle Scout and Dante Rossetti Award winning author of critically acclaimed romantic comedies. At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper. Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made Amazon bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog. **For exclusive content, giveaways and special offers, including a bonus book, subscribe to the monthly newsletter on her author website: http://www.alixnichols.com.**

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The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan



“The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan” by Whitney Dineen

Blurb: Move over Bridget Jones… here comes Mimi Finnegan!

Thirty-four year old, Mimi Finnegan is the third of four daughters and in her eyes, by far, the most unremarkable. She has no singular accomplishment that can stand up to any of her sisters. And if that isn’t enough, she is the only single sibling in her family.

Mimi’s sisters decide that it’s time she gets serious about husband hunting, so they begin a campaign to find Mr. Right for her. Considering her most recent dating encounters include a night club owner who stuffs bratwurst in his pants and a WASPy trust fund baby, living happily under his mother’s thumb, Mimi is more than ready to meet THE ONE. Enter celebrated British novelist Elliot Fielding.

Sexual tension and anger heat up between the duo and it isn’t until Mimi discovers that Elliot is almost engaged to another that she realizes she is head-over-heels in love with him.

The journey will make you laugh, cry and want to pull your hair out from frustration! Mimi eventually learns that she is quite remarkable in her own right and never needed to worry that she lived in her sister’s shadows.

The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan is the perfect laugh-out-loud, feel good book for any woman who has ever felt that she wasn’t good enough.

**Click HERE to buy “The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan”!


My sisters, to my undying disgust, are all gorgeous and talented. Renée, the oldest one of the group is the unparalleled beauty of the family. Lest you think I’m exaggerating and she’s not really all that and a bag of chips, let me ask if the name Renée Finnegan means anything to you? Yes, that’s right, “The” Renée Finnegan, the gorgeous Midwestern girl who won the coveted Cover Girl contract when she was only seventeen, fresh out of high school. Try surviving two whole years at Pipsy High with people asking, “You’re Renée’s sister? Really?” The tone of incredulity was more than I could bear.

Next is Ginger. She’s the brain. But please, before you picture an unfortunate looking nerd with braces and braids, I should tell you that she is only marginally less gorgeous than Renée. She was also the recipient of a Rhodes scholarship, which funded her degree in the History of Renaissance Art, which she acquired at Oxford. Yes, Oxford, not the shoes, not the cloth, but the actual university in England.

The youngest of our quartet is Muffy, born Margaret Fay, but abbreviated to Muffy when at the tender age of two she couldn’t pronounce Margaret Fay and began referring to herself as one might a forty-two-year old socialite. Muffy is the jock. She plays tennis and even enjoyed a run on the pro-circuit before a knee injury forced her to retire. She did however play Wimbledon three years in a row, and while never actually winning, the experience allows her to start sentences with, “Yes, well when I played Wimbledon…” And make pronouncements like, “There’s nothing like the courts at Wimbledon in the fall.” Muffy is now the tennis pro at The Langley Country Club. Her husband Tom is the men’s tennis pro, insuring they are the tannest, most fit couple on the entire planet. They’re perfection is enough to make you barf.

I am the third child in my family, christened Miriam May Finnegan which against my express consent got shortened to Mimi. For years I demanded, “It’s Miriam, call me Miriam!” No one listened, as is the way in my family.

* * * * *


Describe yourself in three words: Tall, funny, curvy.

If you could meet any author, who would it be? Fannie Flagg.

What made you want to be an author? Fannie Flagg.

Salty or sweet? Both, at the same time!

Describe your writing/editing/publishing process: I write when inspired only. I don’t adhere to a schedule. I just kinda do it when the spirit moves me.

What must an author have at all times? A fantastic imagination and a thick skin.

Where do you get ideas for your books? Directly from my own life!

Hard/paperback or eBooks? Paperbacks and eBooks.

Is social media a help or a hinder? Yes. The truth is that I’m relatively new to social media. I love the contact that I have with friends, loved ones and readers but I’m a little creeped out with people like “DoubleBananaHolder” following me on Twitter.

What was the last book you fell in love with? Twin Piques by Tracie Banister.

Do you have any writing rituals? I seem to eat an awful lot when writing. Perhaps this is why my heroines all wear double digits.

What is the best advice you’ve been given? As long as you believe in yourself, you will succeed. If someone else doesn’t believe in you, drop ‘em.

**Additional comments by Whitney: I love writing romantic comedies. Life is ridiculous, scary, frustrating and outrageous. I love reading and writing about characters who are real through-and-through and who get a happy ending every time.

WhitneyDineenPic2**About author, Whitney Dineen:

While attending the University of Illinois in Chicago, Whitney Dineen was discovered by a local modeling agent and began an unexpected career as a plus-size Ford model. She modeled in New York City before moving to Los Angeles with her husband.

When she wasn’t modeling, she was in the kitchen, baking delights to share with friends. Soon, her friends began asking her to send baskets of her wonderful candies and cookies to business associates, agents and production studios. Word spread like wildfire, and the rest, as they say, is history. Whitney’s sensational creations are still in great demand by her loyal celebrity clientele (www.WhitneysGoodies.com).

During “The Hollywood Years,” Whitney was bitten by the writing bug and started creating characters that are inspired by strong women with a great sense of humor.

In addition to her love of chick-lit, Whitney has also written a series of adventure books for middle readers The first of which, Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory, is nearing completion.

Whitney and her husband, Jimmy, have recently relocated to the beautiful Pacific Northwest to raise their children, chickens and organic vegetables.

**Click HERE to buy “She Sins at Midnight”!

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