I am sending a very warm and enthusiastic congratulations out to a dear cyber bud, Kishan Paul. Congrats, girl, on your first publication! (And congrats to the other contributing Coffee Talk writers as well!) 

A bit more about Kishan and her anthology contribution, Taking the Plunge:


Since graduating high school, Eve Cambridge has dropped ten dress sizes, became an RN, and dumped her jerk of a boyfriend – all on her own. So when her high school crush shows up in her life, she does what any normal self-reliant woman would do -- pepper spray him.

Since inheriting the family plumbing business, Peter Russo has tried to make the best of a career he never planned for. He’s made his share of mistakes, but he's worked hard to learn from them. Now that he's run into Eve, he's not so sure he isn't making another one. After all, she did almost blind him.

When logic and emotion don’t agree, which path should they follow?

Excerpt from Taking the Plunge:

A woman stood about ten feet down the hall. Leaning against the threshold of one of the doors, she stared into a room, oblivious to his presence. Rays of the morning sun bathed her in a hue of gold.

Pete sucked in a breath. She looked like an angel. Tall and lean with just the right amount of curves, she wore light blue scrubs with blue cartoon characters all over her shirt. Her fiery-red hair was tied back in a ponytail with a few loose strands of waves against her cheek.

Evie.

When her full red lips stretched into a smile, the muscles in his face tugged to do the same.

What made her grin like that?

He moved closer for a better view.

A few steps later, the red-headed beauty turned to him. His ability to breathe ceased the minute her blue eyes fixed on him.  

Before he could say hello, she raised her arm and sprayed him.

Fuck!

The peppered air felt like smoldering granules of sand shoved into his eyes, mouth and nose--all at once. He dropped the bat, covered his face, coughing and yelling as the burning heat soared through his eyelids and sinuses.

“I’m the plumber. Dan sent me,” he managed to say through his coughing fit.

Keys clattered against the wood floors. “Oh my God! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He was too busy coughing up his lungs to accept the apology. Hands grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. Unable to open his eyes, he let her guide him through the hall.

When he tried to scrape the fire away from his skin, she pulled his hands back and planted them on a cold surface. “Don’t touch anything, it’ll only make it worse.”

He grunted and clenched the countertop. Tears and snot streamed down his face.

“I’m going to wash it off with water. Okay?”

At this point, Pete wouldn’t have cared if she poured acid on his head as long as it made the inferno stop. Although in the depths of hell, he nodded through his coughing fit and fought the urge to rip his eyelids off his face.

Gentle hands began to wash the sting away, while a soft voice whispered to him calmly. It took a long while for the pain to ebb enough so he could open his eyes without cursing.

Pete sat on the toilet and wiped his face with the towel she handed him. He cleared his sore throat. “Thank you,”

Evie grabbed his towel and dried her hands. “For what? Almost blinding you?”

He eyed the strands of her hair hanging in loose curls against her tanned cheeks and itched to tuck them behind her ears. But after the last twenty minutes of misery, thought better of it.

As if reading his thoughts, her cheeks flushed. She pushed the loose locks out of her face and stared at her toes. Damn she looked cute.

“I’m sorry I sprayed you.”

Pete chuckled. “I showed up unannounced, waving a baseball bat. I think I kind of deserved it.”

When Evie smiled, something fluttered in his stomach.

She bit her lip, obviously to keep from laughing. “Nice bat, by the way.”

How the hell had he not met her until now?

Before he got the chance to tell her just how nice his bat was, his butt started vibrating.

Pete reached into his back pocket, pulled out the cell and looked at the screen. “Your uncle.”

Her eyes widened. “Crap. He thinks I already left. Don’t tell him I’m here.” She turned and headed for the hall.

“Hold up.” Pete grabbed her arm with one hand while hitting the ignore button on the cell with the other. “Have dinner with me and I won’t.” He decided to play his cards and omit the part about how her uncle already knew she was still at the house.

She stared at the wrist he currently possessed. “You know, I still have the pepper spray.”

The cell buzzed a second time. Pete shrugged and kept a grip on her wrist. “I’ll take my chances.”

About the Author:

I'm wrapping up an incredible weekend with my crit partner D.B. Sieders. We attended Arizona Dreamin', participated in half a dozen writing workshops, and had the opportunity to meet Diana Gabaldon. I'm a longtime fan of hers. My 18 year old self once browsed the romance section and came across what was being advertised as a time travel romance-- but man oh man, it was so much more. Fast forward *clears throat* to more than a decade later, and here I am spinning tales of my own, inspired to write by greats such as Ms. Gabaldon. 

What about you? Which author, either living or dead,  would you love to meet and greet? I'm feeling celebratory, so share your thoughts and enter to win a signed copy of Outlander. Though I adore all of my international friends, for shipping considerations, I ask that only those residing within the United States of America participate.


                                                                                                        Warmest wishes,
                                                                                                        Sophia 

This is a bittersweet review for me as it will be my last for the Coffee Talk Writers. The CT ladies have been a wonderful source of inspiration and support for me this past year, and it has been a privilege to work with them in a business capacity to help each other develop and nurture our individual writing careers. While I've decided to step away from the professional aspects of the group, I'm glad to still keep my friendship with these talented ladies and look forward to watching their journeys continue in 2014. 

After careful reflection, I acknowledged I  wasn't enjoying my role as a reviewer, and by extension of that, I was potentially doing a disservice to some of the authors and the works I was critiquing since I was not their intended audience. The bottom line is, when you receive ARCs through any sort of book touring site, they're often not titles you would have picked up on your own. And that's pretty vital, that initial spark of reader interest. If it's lacking even before page one, it can make for some long and painful reading. I tried to be fair by only posting reviews I rated three mugs and above, so I hope that tempered my personal preferences and the fact that some of the stories were far removed from what I would have chosen to read during my free time. I am taking away some valuable insight from this experience: As an author I'll continue to offer my own stories as ARCs, but only to those who have expressed an interest. I will, of course, continue to post reviews here on my site. I'm a bibliophile and love to spread the word when I've found a book that's resonated with my heart and touched my soul- but those reviews will be independent and just my personal musings.

Now, on with the show! 

To Catch Her Death by Boon Brux was an incredible read, and as I clicked to the last page at two in the morning, it nearly convinced me to stay on as an official reviewer if only to get the opportunity to read more books just like it. But that's the thing, To Catch Her Death truly is one of a kind. Paranormal suspense, drama, comedy, touches of horror, with the potential for the sequel to fall into romance; Ms. Brux's tale fits all of these categories and keeps the reader enthralled from the first sentence to the final, delicious paragraph. 

Need a peek? Here you go:

   The cold October wind swirled around me and slipped between the collar of my black polar fleece jacket and neck. Shivers rippled along my shoulders. I yanked the zipper up and walked to the front door, tilting my chin toward the sky so I wouldn’t breathe on the collar of my jacket. I hated when my breath flash froze the material to my face. It was like a mini wax job. And considering the lack of attention I’d given my upper lip over the last year, I wasn’t taking any chances.
   I pulled open the glass door to the convenience store and held it for a large, bald guy with bad
manners and a worse looking trench coat. He didn't even say thank you—rude bastard. Normally I
would have made some snarky comment, but something about the way he skulked past sent a
serious case of the heebie-jeebies through me. Instead I ignored him and headed for the soda
machine. Something about fountain pop made it better than drinking it out of a plastic bottle. Maybe there was more fizz, less sweetness. Maybe it was the straw. A lot of things taste better with a straw. Mr. No Manners slinked past me and around the back of the store to the refrigerated section. I focused on getting my jumbo beverage, not making eye contact with him.
   The crinkle of snack cake wrappers sounded behind me and I glanced over my shoulder. The first
thing I saw was firm, male buns. The man straightened and perused the artificial ingredients on
a package of pastries. 
   I silently scoffed. From his trim physique and well-rounded tush, it was obvious this guy had never enjoyed the luscious processed goodness of a mass-made pastry. He was too fit—too outdoorsy looking, with his healthy glow and casually tousled brown hair. He definitely gave off an, I hike and compost Alaskan man vibe. People like him rarely bought anything that contained more than three ingredients and those pastries were only eaten by hardcore junk-foodies. I never touched them myself. The texture reminded me of soggy florist foam or
crumbling sheet rock. Not that I’d ever eaten either. 
   I might have been a grieving widow but I wasn't dead, so I gave Mr. Snack Cake one more 
appreciative look before returning my attention to filling the vat of soda. 
   I’d just snapped on the cup’s plastic lid when a deep voice shouted, “Give me all your cash.” (To Catch Her Death, page 10-11)

Told from first person point of view, readers are introduced to Lisa Carron, widowed a year, mother of two teens, oh yeah, and newly appointed Grim Reaper. Give this one a read folks, it will not disappoint. As soon as Ms. Brux has the sequel available, I'm going to snatch it up. Five mugs!