D.L. White's Blog

ISSA COVER REVEAL! COMING OCTOBER 28, 2025

I’m so delighted to share a cover reveal for DH Refroe’s upcoming novel! Let’s get into it!

The Tropes

Best Man x Maid of Honor

Friends with benefits… until it isn’t

He falls first (and hard)

The Story

Planning a wedding party is easy—if Nina Scott can manage to stay out of Angelou Porter’s bed.

Nina has built her career managing other people’s reputations. Guarded, confident, and determined, she doesn’t have time for love—especially not with a man like Angelou, whose tattoos, swagger, and smooth charm hide grief he hasn’t quite learned how to let go.

But when they reconnect in Paris during her best friend’s engagement and return home as maid of honor and best man, sparks reignite fast. What was supposed to be casual quickly becomes complicated, and what started in secret soon feels impossible to ignore.

Between champagne toasts, wedding chaos, and late-night confessions, Nina and Angelou find themselves standing at the edge of something real. But love isn’t simple—and neither of them knows if they’re ready to fall.

Because sometimes the biggest risk is believing you deserve the happily ever after you never planned for.

BUT HAVE YOU READ CREATIVE DIFFERENCES? GET IT HERE!

Attorney Wesley Payne and Private Investigator Yvette Young are on the hunt for a missing man. What they find will test everything they know about the case and each other. Missing Persons is now available at my store!

Coming soon to retail…keep your eyes peeled for links but if you want to read it RIGHT NOW, tap on that button below!

Grab it in ebook here!

Pre-orders for the two book events I am doing this year are open! I've added Minks and Calculated Risk & updated bundle pricing. This will help me determine what to (or not to) order and what to ensure I have on hand. I don't expect to add books to the order forms and might cut some if I don't get pre-orders for them.

Preorders for Black Romance Book fest close April 26th (this is a sold-out event. If you don’t have tickets, don’t order here!).

Preorders for Indie Love 2025 close June 5.

LINKS are below AND on my LINKS page. If there's a book you want and it's not listed or you know you’ll want a book but can’t pre-order, shout me out a holler!

Black Romance Book Fest INDIE LOVE 2025

Rating: ★★★★★ (5/5 Stars)

I gave this title five stars. I listened to the audiobook in a single day and it was superbly performed. I carried my phone everywhere because I just could not stop listening.

Perkins-Valdez brings to life the forgotten Kingdom of Happy Land, a real community founded by formerly enslaved people in North Carolina. The dual timelines work perfectly, with both past and present stories keeping me invested throughout. Past chapters follow Queen Luella building a community against incredible odds, while present-day sections show her descendant Nikki uncovering family secrets and fighting to preserve their legacy.

The audiobook narrators, Bahni Turpin and Ashley J. Hobbs, perfectly conveyed the emotional weight of land ownership for Black Americans, both the pride of building something lasting and the struggle to hold onto it against those who would take it away.

This novel does what great historical fiction should: teaches important history while telling a compelling story with characters you care about. Five stars for a book I couldn't put down.

Thank you to Berkley and Libro.FM for providing the audiobook for review.

About the Book:

Title: Happy Land
Author: Dolen Perkins-Valdez
Publisher: Berkley
Publication Date: April 8, 2025
Format: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Happy Land is based on the true story of the Kingdom of Happy Land, a community established by formerly enslaved people in the mountains of western North Carolina in the late 1800s. The novel weaves together past and present as it explores themes of family, legacy, and the struggle to preserve Black-owned land.

About the Author:

Dolen Perkins-Valdez is the New York Times bestselling author of Take My Hand (2022), which was awarded an NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work. Her other novels include Wench (2010) and Balm (2015). She is widely considered a preeminent chronicler of American historical life.

Have you read Happy Land or any of Dolen Perkins-Valdez's other novels? Let me know in the comments!

On Tuesdays, I tease a back list title I think you might enjoy. Today we are talking about The Pearl at Black Diamond, Black Diamond Bay book 3.

Happy Teaser Tuesday, Boos & Bros!

Today I'm sharing an excerpt from my back list title The Pearl at Black Diamond, part of the Black Diamond Bay series. In this scene, my protagonist Kari is having a heart-to-heart with her friend Dionne about leaving her siblings behind as she moves forward with her own life. After years of putting her siblings first following the loss of their parents, Kari is finally taking steps toward her own happiness—but not without some guilt and apprehension.

"What do you think the kids will say about you leaving Austin?"

"They're probably happy to be rid of me."

"Nonsense. Where would Reyna and Moses be without you? Literally, where?"

I rolled my answer around my head before giving it air and sounds.

"They don't see the sacrifice it took to keep them together. Moses gets some of it, but Reyna has blinders on. They don't know what parts of my life I put on hold to make sure they finished school and became productive members of society. They're used to me being there, taking care of everything, being the authority figure. I'm afraid they'll see me moving away as abandonment. And after losing their parents, I don't want to make them feel that."

"You're four hours from Austin. Phones and FaceTime and planes exist. And they're both away at school. They hardly come home, anyway. It's time to make a move for yourself, Kari."

"True." I sent a sad smile across the table. It was time, but I knew leaving my siblings would be harder than I told myself it would be. "I hope they see it as me making a move for myself and not me running away from them the first chance I get."

Dionne peeled away a layer of the cinnamon roll we were supposed to be sharing, but I was full from the milkshake, and talking about the difficulties of raising my siblings always sapped my appetite. "Let's not talk about how you had to choose between staying in Houston or moving back home so they wouldn't be split up in foster care. As for Reyna, she's a…what are they called? Millennial? That age group that people say are self-absorbed and need to be winning all the time or the earth will tilt off its axis?"

I giggled. "No, Dionne, you and I are millennials. And thank you for that unflattering description of our generation, by the way. Rey and Mo don't like to be put in boxes."

"Of course. They want to be individuals, just like everyone else."

Dionne smiled up at the server, who left our bill at the corner of the table. I snatched it up and dropped it into my lap. Dionne reached over and placed her hand on top of mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm glad you're moving here," she said softly. "You need a fresh start and new opportunities. Speaking of…" She rolled her eyes up so they met mine. I already knew what she was about to ask. "Noah is still in the past, right?"

I sucked my teeth, rolling my eyes. "Girl, yes. Noah has been history."

"Does he know you're leaving Austin?"

"Not from me. We haven't spoken in months."

"He just stopped calling one day and…" Her hands whipped around in a flurry of movement. "Nothing?"

"Not shit. Five years of on, then off, then on again because he was bored and between girlfriends, then he dissolved into thin air. Then I heard he was parading a woman around; she's hanging all over him at lacrosse matches."

"Girl. I guess he was trying to tell you something without telling you something."

"Say less." I twisted my lips into a surly frown. "I can take a hint."

Noah Grayson was handsome, smooth, funny. Seemed to really enjoy working with high schoolers. He taught Humanities and World Studies and coached Lacrosse—he even helped Moses walk onto a team in Louisiana.

Unfortunately, Noah was allergic to commitment, and whenever we got close to being serious, his habit was to back away. Most men my age didn't want an instant family, let alone a young woman raising her siblings, one of which required more attention than the other.

Noah was not a father figure, more the fun uncle type.

During a rough period with Reyna, I looked up and realized Noah had disappeared. I hadn't heard from him in weeks—no texts, emails, or chats. I was unfriended on most social media platforms and one day, I figured out why. He had a new girlfriend.

"Mmmmph," Dionne grunted. "Onward and upward. Was the dick worth your time, at least?"

I lifted and lowered my shoulder in a non-committal shrug. "If you like the occasional fuck with his socks and shoes still on. Not good enough to act like a jealous ex from a Tubi movie. Noah was like…spaghetti. It's good in the moment, especially if you're hungry, but who's really going wild for spaghetti?"

Dionne laughed. I yawned.

"Oooh, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were telling me I was boring." Dionne smirked but stuffed the rest of her half of the cinnamon roll into her mouth.

"But you know me." Suddenly, I ached to give in to the weary feeling settling into my bones.

"Yep, so I know you are dead on your feet. Let's head to the house so you can get comfortable. You want some coffee to go?"

I shook my head, reaching for my satchel. "I'd better not. I need rest tonight so I can drive back to Austin in the morning. It's going to be so exciting living close to you again. I missed you."

"I missed you too! And honey, I'm so proud of you. This is the chance you've been waiting for— a dream job on an island, close to me…"

My eyes involuntarily rolled, though I was touched by the sentiment. "Let's go, before you get sappy."

I pulled out my wallet, counted out enough cash to pay our bill and leave a healthy tip, then slid the money under the check and scooted out of the booth. I waved to the server as we headed toward the door.

"By the way," she said, catching the door as I held it open, "my new beach yoga class starts in a few weeks. It's a flow class, which is great for stretching and relaxation. And I know you'll love this cycle class Jason started taking. Wade goes when he's in town. I'll introduce you to the instructor. He's single," she added in a sing-song voice.

I groaned, sliding into Dionne's car. "My penance for letting you help me get this job is that I have to avoid you folding me up like a pretzel. Or setting me up with island dick that promises to fold me up like a pretzel."

"One way or another, I'm gonna get you folded. Don't act like you don't need it. We just discussed how Noah has been out of the picture for a minute."

"I will not deny it." I pulled the seat belt across my body and snapped it into place as Dionne's car bubbled to life. "I just don't know if I want you hooking me up."

About The Pearl at Black Diamond

After raising her siblings, witty and ambitious Kari Savoy is ready to dive headfirst into a new career challenge: Director of Marketing and Events for the luxurious Pearl Resort and Residences on picturesque Black Diamond. With determination and a desire to breathe life into a struggling resort, she faces her biggest obstacle yet —her boss, Property Manager Davis Scott.

Davis is a seasoned hotelier with a reputation for turning mid-range establishments into luxurious havens. He takes his job seriously and, with reason, is cautious about mixing business with pleasure. As the pressure to maintain the resort's success mounts, he finds himself torn between his growing attraction to Kari and his strict professional boundaries. Pack for undeniable sparks, swoons and plenty of snickers as love takes these characters on a wild and unpredictable ride.

Content advisory: This novel depicts a family in the throes of parental loss, refers to drug use, the criminal justice system, and features adult language and situations, including vivid descriptions of consensual sex. If you are sensitive to any of these descriptors, please proceed with caution.

Ready to hit the beach? Pick up the Pearl in eBook or print (audio coming… eventually) HERE . New to Black Diamond? Grab the #BeachyBlackRomance Bundle HERE .

Thanks to Grace Wynter for this spotlight! I got to talk about my fave subjects, books, writing and ME.

Author Up Close: D.L. White—On Readership, Community, and Opting Out of the Amazon Algorithm

GW: One of my favorite parts of this series is learning about an author’s origin story: the thing that propelled you from someone who only thought about writing to someone who actually wrote and has a book or books out. What’s your author origin story?

DW: I’ve always been a writer. As a child, I wrote stories to amuse myself. My teachers and parents noticed this talent, and since I enjoyed it, I continued writing. During college, academic writing replaced reading for pleasure, though I occasionally found time for books. After graduation, my long commute gave me time to rediscover reading.

Then I found fanfiction. I started writing *NSYNC fanfiction in 2008 and fell in love with this marriage of fandom and high-quality writing. The authors I followed on LiveJournal would blow traditionally published writers out of the water. Their characterization, settings, original characters, bringing people in… top notch. Fanfiction is where I learned to write, where I gained an audience, learned how to accept praise and measure criticism.

In 2011, I joined a brunch group of ladies from all walks of life. I loved how we had this sisterhood—we always came together to support (or chastise) each other. During this time, I listened to NPR on my way to work where the Atlanta School District cheating scandal topped every broadcast. This huge, ongoing scandal got my brain going. What if a character in an influential position made a huge mistake and tried to keep it secret, but the secret was discovered? What if we watch the secret ripple out among her family, friends, job, bosses? My debut novel was born. It took 4 years to write and hit the book streets in March 2015.

It’s been gangbusters ever since!

My motto is always: The time is gonna pass anyway. Have something to look back on.

GW: Another thing that impressed me about your marketing and platform was that you not only have audiobooks, but you sell audio and eBooks directly from your website and you link to Bookshop for paperbacks. Can you share your reasons for selling directly from your site and through Bookshop? What have been the pros and cons of this strategy? Is this a strategy you’d recommend for all authors?

DW: When I first launched, Kindle Unlimited was all the rage. Popular Black authors were in there making bank. I’d launch a book and it would be okay for about three weeks. Then the book would fall off a cliff, and I couldn’t PAY people to borrow it and turn those pages. I couldn’t sell that book anywhere else. I know the books aren’t bad because the same books go hard now that I’m not in KU. It made me feel like being an author who made bank meant I had to be in a clique I wasn’t part of. I had to write like those authors, market like those authors, and buddy up to those readers. I’m just not there. I am a quiet, introverted person. I am not shy, but I’m not gonna compete.

I was also mad at how much retailers take for doing nothing but hosting. They didn’t write a word, record a thing, or edit anything. Why are you taking so much on payday, bro? My books are still on Amazon because the lion’s share of readers are there, but I pulled them out of exclusive programs because I wanted control over pricing, sales channels, and profits.

I wanted Amazon to have less impact on my life and wallet. I wanted to survive if the Big A ever imploded. Nothing scares me more than being exclusive with all my books there and nobody shopping there.

I was listening to indie fantasy author Katie Cross. Her goal is to build KCB—Katie Cross Books—and win readers over from Amazon. She never checked her Amazon rank or sales. She concentrated on building direct readership and connections. That became my goal too.

I make it a point to never link Amazon if I can help it. Amazon does not need our help directing people there. What needs help is authors selling direct and indie bookshops.

I wanted Amazon to have less impact on my life and wallet. I wanted to survive if the Big A ever imploded. Nothing scares me more than being exclusive with all my books there and nobody shopping there.

I’m big on selling direct because I like control. If I sell a book today, I get paid tomorrow. I can put it on sale or give it away in seconds. I wrote the book—I should have maximum control.

This strategy isn’t instant. It took 18 months before my wide/direct sales matched Amazon (now they exceed it). It takes training your audience to check your website and store. I want to sell based on me and my reputation, not Amazon’s algorithm.

Find the full, totally fun written interview I did with Grace at Writer Unboxed HERE & don’t forget to leave me a comment and FOLLOW Writer Unboxed :Threads — @writerunboxedofficialBluesky:‪ @writerunboxed.bsky.social‬Website: https://writerunboxed.com

Now look. I told y’all what was going to have to happen to keep me from doom-scrolling and spiraling. I was going to get busy writing and trying to stop worrying about making things perfect and marketable. I was also trying to stop keeping things languishing in the drafts waiting for the right moment. The moment is now.

SO…

COMING APRIL 18, 2025… Something a little different…

Romance and women’s fiction is my bread and butter and home for me… but sometimes I like to challenge myself with something different. A friend mentioned she was going to have to start reading romance because she primarily reads crime fiction and… my brain kinda went off about it.

I’ve done this before with The Photograph, a four chapter short I wrote to share on the podcast and The Story of Kate, a fan fiction psychological thriller about a fan obsessed with a pop star and believes he is in love with her. These are SO fun and low stakes for me…and I’ve decided to do it again.

Baking Bad is a mystery novella with some crime thriller elements… but stay woke. Could be a surprise coming…

The usual disclaimers apply- this is an early version, it’s unedited, unpolished, unperfected. You get me… enjoy it anyway!

Cassandra unlocked the door to Sweet Crumbs Bakery at exactly 5:15 AM, the same time she opened the bakery Monday through Friday. 

There was comfort in the predictability of her mornings, each one a mirror of the last. She flipped a switch by the entrance, the light hum of the fluorescent lights casting a warm glow over the shop. The air held the sweet remnants of yesterday’s goods as she moved briskly across the tiled floor to the back. 

In the kitchen, she tied on her apron and rolled up her sleeves. She set a steady pace, her hands working skillfully, kneading and mixing, as if they were part machine. Every morning began this way, the only change being the new treats she would create from sugar, flour, butter, and her imagination.

The bell above the door rang out at 6:52 AM, just as she began spreading icing over fresh cinnamon rolls. Cassandra glanced up, expecting the parade of regulars that would soon be lining up, eyes half-open and grateful for caffeine and sugar. 

Instead, a familiar figure stood in the doorway. His tailored suit hung rumpled from his slight frame. Stubble covered his jaw, and the bloodshot eyes that met hers screamed of long hours without sleep, or perhaps too many with a drink in hand. 

 Maybe both. 

“Cassandra, thank God.” His voice broke the silence, carrying a rough, desperate edge.

“Terrence Carter,” Cassandra echoed. “I haven’t seen you since Blue Vault shut us down. Are you okay? You look like hell.”

“Yeah, it’s been a minute.” He shifted nervously, peering over his shoulder. “Listen, Cass…you still do any of the stuff we did at Blue Vault?”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. “I’ve barely even said the words Blue Vault since they outsourced our jobs,” I answered. “Why? You know someone with a  need for someone with a particular set of skills?”

“Yeah. Me.” He lowered his voice. “I need someone I can trust.”

Her curiosity bloomed into concern, and she leaned in, resting her elbows on the glass case between them. A dozen possibilities paraded through her mind, each more unseemly than the last. What was he involved in that had him so jumpy? “What’s going on?”

Before he could answer, the bell above the door jangled again. Two uniformed officers stepped over the threshold, seeming larger than life in the small shop. Terrence’s back went straight as a board, his reaction unmistakable.

 “This was a mistake,” he muttered, the words barely audible. “Can I come by your place tonight? Name the time.”

“Seven,” she whispered. “You remember where I live? Still the same place by Maple Park. Grab a muffin… you need to eat something.”

He nodded once, grabbed a blueberry muffin from the case, and headed for the door. His shoulder barely brushed one officer’s as he slipped past, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Morning, Cassandra,” said Officer Elaine Powell. Cassandra knew her well; the officer was a regular, her bright brown eyes always sweeping the shop as if scanning for danger. They settled on the pastry case. “You have any of those blueberry scones today?”

“Just came out the oven. The usual for both of you?”

Steam hissed from the espresso machine as she worked. Behind her, the officers settled into their routine at the corner table, their casual voices carrying through the near-empty shop and making it impossible for Cassandra not to eavesdrop.

“...another break-in. This time at the museum,” she heard Officer Powell say. “Security system completely disabled. Just walked right in like it was broad daylight.”

“What’d they take this time?”

“Some coin collection. Worth a small fortune according to the curator.”

“Sounds like we’re dealing with pros.”

“That’s what’s weird,” Powell continued. “No sign of forced entry. No alarms triggered. Like they had the keys. Who do we know around here with skills like that?”

Cassandra set the officers’ order on their table. “Two lattes and your scones.”

“You’re an angel, Cass,” Powell said with a smile.

By the time Diana arrived at eleven, Cassandra had served dozens of customers, but her thoughts circled a singular topic:

What kind of trouble was Terrance in? And why come to her to resolve it?

 As she locked the doors at 3 PM, Cassandra’s phone vibrated in her bag. She dug it out, then scowled at the notification banner:

Pine Creek Properties: Lease Renewal - 60 Day Notice

Her thumb tapped the screen with dread already a lump in her stomach:

Dear Tenant, 

This notice is to inform you that your lease at 427 Maple Park Drive will expire on October 31. We are pleased to offer you a renewal with the following terms: 

$1,750 / month (increase of $350)

The updated lease agreement is attached for your review. Please sign and return the agreement by September 15th to secure your continued tenancy.

 Please contact our leasing office with any questions. 

Sincerely, Pine Creek Properties Management

The screen blurred as she stared at the numbers. They didn’t even have the decency to personalize this highway robbery.  At this new rate, her nest egg would vanish within months. Her vision of a bakery all her own faded with each step to her apartment a few blocks away. 

Musty air hit her in the apartment building’s entrance as soon as she opened the door. The water stain on the ceiling had spread since she’d reported it—twice—with no response. Yet their automated billing system never missed a beat.

Her key slid into the lock at her door, but as usual, the deadbolt was sticky. She shoved harder, finally forcing the door open to reveal six hundred fifty square feet of neat but modest living space. Walls she’d painted herself glowed warm gold in the living room, like fresh-baked bread. Cookbooks, mystery novels, and technical manuals lined the wall, unevenly stacked. Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to get rid of the manuals, despite their professional uselessness and irrelevance to a life she no longer lived. Those had been a lifeline in her prior career, and she imagined they’d be the last things packed if she had to leave. 

The kitchen, barely large enough for one person, gleamed with neatly arranged appliances. Her dining table, which doubled as a desk and was stacked with spreadsheets and bank statements in tidy piles, told the story of the last few months of financial rejections. The loan officer’s sympathetic smile hadn’t softened the blow—insufficient collateral. Her perfect credit score, years of experience and detailed business plan counted for nothing.

Now this rent increase. Another barrier, another reminder of a system designed to keep people from advancing. To borrow the money she needed, she had to prove she didn’t need it. 

Make it make sense. 

She stripped off her flour-dusted clothes, leaving a trail of her workday across the floor as she made her way to the bathroom. The water blasted down in hot sheets strong enough to peel the tension from her shoulders.

Clean now and dressed in worn leggings and a comfortably oversized t-shirt, she padded into the kitchen to grab the leftover curry from the refrigerator. The microwave hummed as she scanned her bank statements again. The small business association required at least $25,000 in assets before considering her application. At her current savings rate, she’d be ninety before accumulating that much.

She picked at her meal in front of the TV, barely taking in the sitcom reruns that flashed in the background. The digital clock on her microwave read 6:57 PM when knuckles rapped against her door. Through the peephole, Terrence looked even more haggard than that morning, eyes darting down the hallway behind him.

When she opened the door, he pushed past her, barely pausing to meet her eyes as he checked over his shoulder and then slammed it shut, securing both deadbolt and chain. His panic was palpable, an aura that vibrated around him. 

“You’ve got five minutes to explain what’s happening,” Cassandra said. “And to tell me if it has anything to do with the break-in at the museum I heard those officers talking about this morning.”

Terrence paced the small living room, his shoes scuffing against her bargain laminate flooring. “It’s complicated, Cass.”

“Uncomplicate it.”

Terrence’s hands shook as he pulled out a small cloth bag from his jacket pocket. “I’m in trouble, Cassandra. The kind that doesn’t blow over.”

The bag’s drawstring loosened beneath his trembling fingers, and a gleaming gold coin slipped into his palm. “Jordan Hill is looking for this.” He glanced at her, gauging her reaction. “I think he knows I have it. I…I need to leave it here with you.”

“Jordan Hill? Like…the real estate guy? With the billboards from here to the coast?” 

“Yeah. That one.”

“Hmph,” she huffed. “Figures. No one gets that rich flipping houses.” Cassandra folded her arms over her chest, ready for this explanation. “What am I supposed to do with that coin?”

“Hide it. Hold it for me. Keep it somewhere safe.” Terrence’s gaze met hers, desperation clear in the wide, round irises. “I need to buy time, and your name was the first that came to mind.”

Heat flared so hot, so fast she thought she was having a hot flash. “You brought me some—” She lowered her voice, moved in and hissed under her breath. “You just brought a stolen rare coin into my apartment that could get you hurt—or worse? And you want me to hide it from a man you seem very afraid of? I want to know what’s going on, Terrance. Now.”

“Look, Cass…Jordan’s into some shady stuff. He hired me to exploit the vulnerabilities in a security system at this museum a few towns over. We didn’t take much….he just wanted to see if we could get in and out. It was supposed to be one job to pay off my gambling debt, but…” 

His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “It was a test. He blackmailed me into doing another job.”

“The Montgomery Museum,” Cassandra said, barely breathing.

Terrance nodded, confirming. “I kept one coin. As… insurance, I guess, that he’ll let me out of this shit. He wants to sell the entire collection but no one wants this set in pieces. It’s all or nothing. I figured you of all people would know what to do.”

Cassandra’s eyes bugged out as her jaw dropped. “Why would I know what to do?”

“Because you always had a way of getting out of stuff. Remember junior year when we needed alibis?”

Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “When we told our parents we were at the church lock-in? Then we both snuck out to that party in Virginia Beach?”

“And when my dad called the church looking for me—”

“I’d bribed the youth pastor’s wife to cover for us. She told your dad you were helping set up and couldn’t come to the phone.” The memory flickered briefly before reality extinguished it. “That was harmless. This is felony territory.”

“I know.” His gaze dropped to the coin gleaming in his palm. “But if things go left— and the way Jordan works, they eventually will go left—I know where he’s hiding the rest of the collection. I can take it and sell it.”

The coin felt heavy as she lifted it from his palm. She rolled it across her knuckles—an old habit from her programming days when problems needed solving. Light caught the engraved profile of some long-dead ruler.

Her gaze traveled around the small apartment she’d fought to keep. The system had never been designed for her success. Following the rules had led nowhere. Maybe it was time for a different approach.

“If I hide this for you, you have to tell me everything about Jordan’s operation,” she said finally, motioning Terrence toward the sofa. “Every detail. How it works, who’s involved, how the money flows.”

“I can tell you what I know... but why?” Terrence asked, confusion crossing his face.

Cassandra’s eyes met his, a calculating cold crystallizing behind them. “Because you didn’t just need a hiding place for your pilfered loot. You need a solution. And this needs to be worth it to me.”

She’d spent years designing systems to keep people out. Maybe it was time to use that knowledge from the other side of the fence.

I hope you are looking forward to Baking Bad! It’ll be a shortie, not a full length novel. By next week I should have a Goodreads link, another sample, etc. Have a great week!

On Sundays, I share a sample from a work in progress or a recently/soon to be released work. Today's sample is from Calculated Risk, coming April 1!

The usual crowd milled around. Sweat glistened on skin, a testament to the day's heat. The thump of bass from a nearby car stereo rumbled. Desmond laced up and started a warm-up game by himself. Soon he was lost in the rhythmic swish of the ball going through the net.

After about thirty minutes, he was recruited to join a pick-up game. The exertion helped to clear his mind, give him something to focus on. He was crouched in deep concentration, watching a player about to take a shot, when a familiar silhouette caught his eye.

Desmond straightened, his attention drawn to the person walking along the fence surrounding the court. He signaled for a substitute player, giving them a fist bump in gratitude before stepping off the court and heading toward the fence.

“Fuck you doing here, Shawn?” he spat out, his words venomous. “Nothing’s changed since the last time you tried to pull this brother-to-brother bullshit.”

Shawn nonchalantly shrugged, his hands buried in his pockets. The casual gesture only intensified Desmond's simmering anger. "I don't need a reason to check up on my big brother."

“You didn’t check up on your big brother when I was doing your time in Jesup.”

Desmond could have predicted the irritated eye roll that came. “Here we go with the martyr speech, like Jesup was Rikers or Folsom. You was literally at a camp serving white-collar time.”

“Your time. Time you should have been serving. It doesn’t matter how much time I served or where I served it; it was supposed to be yours.”

“You say that like I ain’t do time too.”

Desmond’s upper lip twisted; he fought to keep his tightly gripped fists at his sides as he struggled to control his emotions. “You did a year, Shawn. After I served twice that before you showed up to take accountability. And had to be forced to do that.”

“Look, man. As fun as it is to spar with you or whatever, I needed to find you because Mom’s not doing well. You need to roll by the house. Soon.”

Shawn’s words felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He hadn’t kept in touch with his mother, and the news of her worsening health hit hard.

“Where’d you hear that?” he asked. “Dad didn’t say anything about her being sick.”

Shawn folded his arms, averting his eyes as if he was casing the basketball courts. “Just passing along the message. She’s been asking about you. Thought you should know.”

Desmond stared at Shawn. “Thanks for the message,” he replied finally, then walked back to the basketball game.

The damage, however, was done. His mind was already elsewhere. He played mechanically; his shots were off, his passes sloppy. He had no concentration or heart in the game. After a few minutes of effort, he snatched up his bag and headed back to his pickup.

He arrived at his apartment visibly agitated. There were reasons he didn’t see his family, especially those that weren’t supportive of him while he was inside or after he’d come out. Now his energy was off, his routine was threatened, and he wasn’t sure how to get himself back on the right path.

Desmond picked up his phone, looking for a distraction on Beyond Bars, but was scrolling through posts, not really reading them. An alert from Instagram popped up on his phone.

im_thatcher has sent you a private message.

He squinted, his brows nearly knit together. Imani sent him an Instagram DM?

Without hesitation, he swiped the notification, opening the app to his direct messages.

‘I’m not stalking you, I swear. My phone must have pinged from the area because you’re showing up as someone I should follow. Weird, huh?’

He didn’t know whether to laugh or be creeped out by this coincidence.

‘Yeah, that’s weird how phones do that. What’s up. How is your Saturday?’

‘Pretty good,’ she wrote back. ‘Deep cleaned my place, went to yoga. I dropped by the farmers’ market again but I guess I wouldn’t be lucky enough to see you two weekends in a row.’

Was Imani flirting? Or just being friendly? Were women ever just friendly? If she wasn’t interested, she’d never have reached out, right? She’d keep things strictly business.

So…was she flirting?

‘Anyway, sorry if I am disturbing your weekend. I’m about to hit the Chick-a-Biddy close to your side of town, though. I thought you might want to meet up.’

She. Is. Flirting. Fuck.

Desmond was starving. The oatmeal he’d eaten that morning was long burned off. Running into Shawn had decimated his appetite, but the conversation with Imani had reduced his stress…and he could eat.

‘You wear red bottoms to work but eat at a low-key neighborhood chicken joint?’

‘Don’t make me have to prove I’m not bougie, Mr. Taylor. I like chicken. I’m leaving my place now. If you’re coming, I’ll see you in about a half hour. If not, I’ll see you Thursday.’

Desmond stared at his phone for a full sixty seconds, then got up and headed for his shower kit. His studio included a full bathroom but he kept everything in a caddy. You never knew when you were being moved and Desmond was always prepared.

‘See you in a few.’

Desmond quickly showered, lined up his beard and his hairline while he was in the mirror, slathered on lotion and threw on a t-shirt and jeans, then grabbed his keys and headed out. He pulled up to Chick-a-Biddy, parked next to Imani’s BMW in the lot, and walked in, spotting her immediately at a table in a sunny corner wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses.

She wore a fitted Prince t-shirt and understated jewelry. Her hair, which was normally in a subdued style, was a halo of loose curls and twists around her face. He found he liked it, but he tried not to stare too long.

“You made it,” she said, sliding a menu over for him to peruse.

“Almost didn’t recognize you without your corporate fit on,” he said, sliding into the booth opposite her.

Imani laughed, removing her sunglasses and setting them down on the table. “I have layers, Desmond.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lemme see what shoes you got on.” He bent to peer at the rest of her outfit, smiling at the cut of her tailored leather shorts and impeccable, spotless leather and suede sneakers. “You’re not beating the bougie charges, Imani.”

“I can’t help that I like nice clothes. You’re not looking bad, Mr. Has To Take A Shower To Eat Chicken.”

“I had actually just got home from playing ball…” The conversation with Shawn flashed across his mind, putting a brief damper on his mood.

“Let’s order,” Imani suggested. “And then we can both talk about what just happened to your face.”

ABOUT CALCULATED RISK

When heartbreak leads to love…

All her life, Imani Thatcher has played it safe, making the smart moves that landed her a prime spot at one of Atlanta's top financial firms. When heartbreak shatters her carefully planned world, she finds herself questioning everything she thought she knew about love and life.

Desmond Taylor has enough on his plate keeping Bright Pathways Youth Center running and Atlanta's at-risk teens off the streets. A polished financial analyst from the high gloss end of Atlanta should be the last thing on his mind, but from the moment she walks through his doors, he cannot deny the electricity between them.

When it comes to matters of the heart, love is always a calculated risk.

Find content advisories on my website HERE.

Inspired by Two Black Cadillacs by Carrie Underwood

Calculated Risk is almost here! You can read this book along with an impressive 45 other novels in the Book Baes & HEAs Exclusive Black Romance Promotion.

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On Tuesdays I tease a WIP, a recent release or a back list title I think you might enjoy. Today I am sharing more of my recent release Drinks at Minks, a Ruby's Companion novella

RENEE

"Malcolm, I want to have a baby." I test the words aloud while pressing raw ground beef into patties.

Malcolm insists it’s never too cold to fire up the grill, but now it’s officially warm enough to eat outside on the deck. I'm making his favorite—burgers with cheese inside, fresh pasta salad, and I picked up a sweet potato pie from Ruby's that's warming in the oven.

I'm not sucking up, exactly. But I am setting the stage for a conversation that needs to happen. The thoughts have been consuming me for weeks, and the fact that they consume me is making me equally frustrated.

Unlike some women, I wasn't in a hurry to marry, have children, or settle down with the white picket fence and yippy lap dog. I envied Debra's stability until she almost lost Willard. I coveted Maxine's parade of interesting men until Malcolm came along. Those girlhood dreams of fairy tales gave way to the reality of relationships—the ups and downs, the stupid fights, the monotony of daily routines. I abandoned the fairy tale long ago, choosing instead to build a good life.

And with Malcolm, that's exactly what I have.

He's... easy. We rarely argue. He eats what I cook and takes his turn in the kitchen. Nothing stays out of place with him around. He's devoted himself to me, to Daddy, to Gladwell Books, to everything that matters in my world. He shows his love through actions—random trinkets, a single rose, even surprising me with a tire rotation and car wash.

I should be grateful for what we have. I should wait for things to unfold naturally. But lately, that clock is ticking so loudly I can barely hear myself think.

I grab the plate of cheese-stuffed patties and step out onto the freshly stained deck. Blue flames dance between the stainless-steel racks of the new propane grill Malcolm bought when the deck was finished.

Though we've never said it aloud, we both know Daddy won't be coming back. After moving him to Golden Rays, I transferred the title to my name and spent winter redecorating. Daddy's room became an office, and Jessie's bedroom, which was once mine, is now a guest room. Malcolm and I sleep in my parents' former bedroom.

The indigo blue upholstered furniture, thirty-year-old dining table, and outdated carpet are gone. We bought leather furniture, a new dining room table, and refinished the hardwood floors. The only piece we kept was Daddy's lounger.

Malcolm's vibrant African prints now hang alongside family photos, snapshots of me with Maxine and Debra, Malcolm with his fraternity brothers and family. Our bookshelves overflow with our collections, mingled with treasures we've found together.

This house is truly home now. Our home. I've loved building this life with Malcolm. I'm terrified of rocking this boat.

The beef patties sizzle as I lay them on the grill, dusting each with salt and pepper. In the distance, I hear the rumble of the Denali turning the corner. I return to the kitchen with the empty plate, wash my hands, and dry them on a bright yellow dish towel just as the door swings open.

Malcolm steps in, and I smile—the same smile I've had for him since we met. Even after living together for years, his presence still sends a flutter through me.

"Hi, handsome. How was your day?"

His footsteps are heavy as he crosses the kitchen to kiss my cheek. His briefcase and keys land in their usual spots. He shrugs off his jacket before loosening his tie.

"Long," he finally answers. "Frustrating. But it's over."

The week has been brutal with high security meetings at the Georgia World Congress Center that have run Brent and Malcolm ragged. Today was the final day, which explains why he's home before sunset.

I know he wants nothing more than to kick off his shoes, relax with a beer, and watch TV. I hate to interrupt that with serious conversations about our future.

I fold his jacket over my arm and pull out a chair. He sinks into it with a deep sigh, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle.

"I thought everything wrapped today. What happened?"

"The convention wrapped, thank God. I'm completely over self-important ego maniacs."

I hand him an ice-cold beer and a bottle opener. He pops the top and tosses the cap into the recycling bin across the room. I hang his jacket on the back of a chair and take the seat across from him.

"What made today especially bad?"

"The usual running around, ridiculous requests. Never been so happy to get clients out the door." He takes a long pull from the bottle. "Then I got a call on my DC phone that I wasn't expecting, though maybe I should have."

Malcolm still keeps his old phone for friends and family but opened a new account after settling in Atlanta. He gulps down half his beer in one go—unusual for him. I reach across the table and wrap my index finger around one of his.

"Is your dad okay? Something with your sister?"

"Charlene," he spits out with a curl to his lip before draining the rest of his beer. He sets the empty bottle down with a thud and slides it away, then belches.

Charlene? His ex-wife Charlene? The one he left DC to escape?

"Oh. What did Charlene want?"

"Said she wanted to talk. Didn't say what she wanted to talk about."

"Talk? With her ex-husband who she cheated on and stole a business from?"

He shrugs. "Left a message asking me to call her back. I need to do some recon. There's a reason she's calling, and it's not friendly conversation. Either she wants to come back because her new man can't afford her lifestyle anymore...or something's happening with the business. Either way, I'm not walking into a trap."

The last thing Malcolm needs—the last thing I need is his ex-wife's presence in our lives. She's like a storm cloud; she ruins his mood. When we got together, Malcolm assured me that chapter was closed forever.

Yet here she is.

"I learned my lesson," he continues. "I went through some serious mess with her and dodged a bullet. The whole marriage thing and life with her straightened me right up. I won't be going down that road again."

My heart lodges in my throat as I parse his words. That careless statement thrown into the air between us. I swallow hard, twice, then push back my chair and stand.

"I put some burgers on. And I made pasta salad. And there's pie."

I rush outside to the grill and lift the lid. Steam from the sizzling beef warms my face as I flip the patties, pressing them flat while fighting back tears. I blink rapidly, willing away the telltale wobble of my chin and the swelling that signals I'm about to cry.

Malcolm follows me out, another beer in hand. As he passes, he wraps his arm around my waist and buries his face in my neck. The feeling of his arms around me is heaven.

Why can't I just be happy with what we have?

"Thanks for the special dinner," he murmurs. "You know what I like and you give it to me. I'll give you something you like later."

"Yes, you sure will." I giggle and playfully swat at him.

He moves to the deck railing, leaning his thick forearms against the wood. "That grass seed I put down is working over here," he points toward a bare patch of yard. "Got some little shoots coming up. I'll water it extra tomorrow."

Yard day. Malcolm has transformed into the quintessential suburban homeowner. He loves tending the grass, pulling weeds, spreading fertilizer, doing household repairs. Taking care of our house. Our little space that doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

I feel ridiculous. Poor me, my man only wants to love me, live with me, and care for our home.

I push away my melancholy thoughts and the longing weighing down my shoulders. I refuse to let Charlene ruin my evening. Not when I have what she wants.

"You okay, babe?" Malcolm turns, leaning against the railing, studying me with curious eyes. "You're usually more upbeat. Everything alright at the bookstore?"

I force a smile while flipping the burgers one last time. "I'm great. These will be ready in a minute. I thought we'd eat outside tonight."

ABOUT THIS BOOK:

Return to the booth where it all began.

Ten years after they first captured readers' hearts, Renee, Maxine, and Debra are back, navigating new chapters of life with the same honesty, humor, and deep friendship that made their story unforgettable.

As life pulls them in different directions, their standing Saturday brunch at Ruby's becomes harder to maintain. But when challenges arise, these three women know exactly where to turn...to the friendship that has sustained them through every triumph and heartbreak.

Warm, witty, and deeply emotional, this epilogue to the beloved Brunch at Ruby's novel delivers the perfect blend of new beginnings and satisfying closure for readers who have waited to revisit their favorite fictional friends.

Author's Note:  This epilogue continues the journey of characters from the original Brunch at Ruby's. For the fullest experience, readers are encouraged to  enjoy the original story first.

Buy drinks at minks

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The man stood near the bar, tall with broad shoulders and a close-cropped beard that suited the strong lines of his jaw. He wore a fitted crimson button-up with the sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. Unlike most of the patrons, there were no shamrocks or leprechaun hats in sight.

When he smiled at me, something clicked into place—a rusty mechanism remembering how to work. A rush of heat bloomed in my chest and spread lower, pooling between my thighs, making parts of me pulse in rhythm to my heartbeat. My nipples tightened against my lace bra, and I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with how quickly my body responded to a mere stranger's smile.

I quickly looked away, downing another sip of my cocktail. When I chanced another glance, he was still watching me. This time, I held his stare for a long beat before breaking contact and let a smile flash.

"Number six," Tanya said, sliding back into her seat. She pulled a bottle of sanitizer from her bag and rubbed it between her palms.

"What?"

"Eligible bachelor number six," she said, putting the bottle away. "The gorgeous man at the bar staring you down like you're a first edition of something impossibly rare."

I rolled my eyes. "He's not staring... that hard."

"He absolutely is," Tanya countered. "And now he's coming over here."

Now that he was up close, I guessed he was definitely over forty; either that or his twenties or thirties were wearing him out. His eyes were a deep, rich brown, the kind that held secrets. His laugh lines suggested he smiled often.

"I noticed you're not wearing green," he said to me, his voice a rich baritone that sent a shiver down my spine, making me imagine how it would sound in a husky whisper uttering filthy promises against my ear in the darkness.

I blinked, pushing that thought away. "I know you see this jacket is literally green, red shirt."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "My sister assured me this shirt is crimson. And," he pulled his jacket back slightly to reveal his belt, "I do have this green belt. How's that work?"

"Very festive."

“Thank you.” His smile widened. "I admit I was too distracted by your beauty to notice the color of your blazer."

Tanya snorted into her drink.

"Has that line worked on anyone in here?" I asked, fighting a smile. I should have been annoyed by the obvious flattery, but something in his tone suggested he was only half-joking, aware of how cheesy the line was.

"First time trying it, actually. I’m surprised I got a smile." He extended his hand. "Derrick Bennett."

"Jenesis Tate." His handshake was firm but not aggressive, his palm warm against mine. I noticed calluses on his fingertips. The brief contact sent a jolt up my arm, like a static shock but more pleasant. His touch lingered just long enough to suggest he felt it too.

"Can I buy you another drink, Jenesis Tate?"

I glanced at my half-full glass. “Still working on this one."

"Then would you mind if I keep you company while you finish it?"

Tanya stood, grabbing her purse. "I just saw an old friend I've got to catch up with. You two chat. Jenesis, I'll text you later."

Before I could protest, Tanya disappeared into the crowd with a comically obvious wink over her shoulder.

"Subtle," Derrick said, sliding into Tanya's vacated seat.

"She makes up for a lack of finesse with enthusiasm."

"So, what brings you out tonight? You don't strike me as someone who regularly celebrates holidays that involve turning beer unnatural colors."

I laughed. "Am I that obvious? Apparently, working sixty hours a week surrounded by ancient texts doesn't promote a healthy social life."

"Ancient texts?"

"I curate the rare books collection at the library. I authenticate historical texts, organize preservation efforts, and occasionally hunt down obscure volumes for researchers who think their particular interest is the only thing that matters in the world."

Derrick leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "That sounds fascinating."

I laughed. "No, it doesn't. People's eyes glaze over when I talk about my work."

"It does. I imagine it's not just about recognizing old paper."

“You’re right. It's a process. The binding, the paper composition, the printing methods all play a part in authentication. I analyze the linguistic patterns of the time period and sometimes we use spectroscopy to analyze ink…”

I caught myself and let my voice trail off. "Sorry…I get carried away talking about this. It's not exactly thrilling cocktail conversation."

"Don't apologize. It's refreshing to meet someone passionate about their work." He took a sip of his beer. "Most people I talk to are counting the days until retirement."

"And what do you do? I mean when you're not testing questionable pickup lines."

He laughed, a deep sound that vibrated through me, making me imagine that voice rumbling commands in my ear while his body pressed me into the mattress.

"I run an architecture firm. Small operation, but we specialize in historical restoration and preservation. I know the feeling of sixty-hour work weeks. I forget there's a world outside my drafting table."

"Are you working on anything I'd recognize?" I asked, surprised by my own curiosity. Usually, I found small talk excruciating.

"Only if you're heavy into the historical society. Right now, we're doing a restoration for the museum and a few residential projects—you know, homes on the historic register that need renovation for safety reasons, but can't be updated to modern standards. Nothing significant, but I find it to be fulfilling work. I like bringing buildings back to life, uncovering the stories in their bones."

I nodded. "So you're preserving the history of the city one building at a time."

"I try. There's something about taking a structure that's been neglected and revealing what it was meant to be all along." He paused. "I hope I sound like a romantic, and not a lunatic."

"I catalog books written by dead people. I'm not one to judge."

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As we talked, the noise of the bar faded into the background. I leaned in, drawn to a passion for architecture that respected history while serving present needs and dry observations about the small-town politics that affected his projects. Every now and then, our knees would brush under the table, and I'd feel that same electric jolt from earlier.

"You know what's funny?" Derrick said after we'd been talking for nearly an hour, our drinks long empty and replaced and empty again. "I almost didn't come tonight. My son is staying with his mother this weekend, and I thought about staying in, catching up on some work I've been putting off."

"What changed your mind?"

He bobbed his head side to side. "My sister has been on me about getting out more. She sent me a flyer for this party and commanded that I go out. Said I might get lucky." He smiled, the low lighting of the pub catching the spark in his eyes. "I think she was talking about the St. Patrick's Day kind of luck, but now… I'm not so sure."

The music shifted to D'Angelo's Brown Sugar. "I love this song," we both said simultaneously, then laughed at the coincidence.

"Dance with me?" Derrick asked, standing to offer his hand.

I hesitated. I was not one for dancing with strangers in bars. I wasn't the type to spend an hour in deep conversation with strangers in bars either, yet here I was.

"One dance," I agreed, placing my hand in his.

He led me to the dance floor where a few other couples swayed to the music. As Derrick's arm circled my waist and brought me close, I was acutely aware of every inch of me pressed up against him. His thigh slipped between mine as we moved, creating a delicious friction that I did not want to stop. He was solid and radiating heat.

We moved as if we'd danced together every night before this one. His hand on my lower back pressed firmly, his fingers occasionally dipping just below the waistband of my pants, each touch leaving a trail of fire on my skin.

"You're a good dancer," I said, looking up to meet his eyes. This close, I spotted flecks of gold in his irises, and a small scar near his right eyebrow.

"I have my moments. Though I'm probably better now than I was an hour ago."

"Does drinking beer in an unnatural color help with coordination?"

"Nope," he said, his gaze holding mine. "The company is nice, though."

The song ended too soon, transitioning to an uptempo hit that broke us apart, but we remained standing close, neither of us wanting to break the connection.

"Could I maybe get your number?" he asked. "I'd love to see you again."

I looked up at him, considering. Dating hadn't been a priority since my divorce, but tonight I wasn't really thinking about dating.

I was thinking about how I liked the feel of his body against mine. About how his voice stirred a longing that was becoming harder to ignore by the second. About how much I wanted to feel his hands exploring every inch of my body, his mouth claiming mine.

And maybe it was whatever was in that drink Tanya gave me, but I was thinking that I had deep cleaned my house and if I invited a stranger over to satisfy the ache building inside me, at least I wouldn't have to worry about clutter or dust bunnies ruining the mood.

I stepped closer, my hands sliding up the front of his shirt. The fabric was soft beneath my fingers, and I felt the firmness of his chest underneath. My pulse quickened as I looked up at him.

"Actually," I said, surprising myself with my boldness, "would you like to look at some first editions? My place isn't far from here."

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