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(¸.•´ (¸.•COVER REVEAL

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Today is the day I finally get to share the cover of Touching Down with you all!!!! Isn’t it hot?! I promise Jackson and Brooklyn’s story is just as hot  

Book info:

Title: Touching Down

Release Date: July 16th

Cover Design: Taylor Sullivan, Imagination unCOVERED

Blurb:

An athlete and an artist fall in love…

Tortured artist. Popular jock. There’s a reason these stereotypes exist. We were them.

I didn’t meet Jackson Walker until junior year, but from that day forward, I knew my life would forever change. What I didn’t expect, what I didn’t anticipate, was my heart’s betrayal. That I would bend and break and fall helplessly in love with a man who wasn’t mine to keep.

Our love always reminded me of the painting, The Starry Night.

Captivating. Breathtaking. Surreal.

Looking back, that should have been the first red flag. Not only did Van Gogh paint the famous print while a patient in an insane asylum, but he also considered the piece a failure.

Worthless. Broken. Like me.

Still, I saw us reflected in the rich oils, in the thick brush strokes — Jackson’s eyes reflected in the sparkling stars, his smile the bright crescent moon winking in the inky night sky. His presence, massive, all-consuming, demanding attention.

My contributions weren’t so beautiful. I brought the darkness, the swirls of color spilling together like the murky memories of my mind. The dark shadow, the silhouette of the cypress tree looming in the foreground, mourning. Guarding hidden secrets, ugly truths.

He is light. I am darkness. And in the end, darkness always prevails.

Touching Down is a new adult college football romance. If you like shy yet sexy, hot yet sensitive and enough sizzle to melt your Kindle, then you’ll love this steamy romance by best-selling author CJ Martín.

Add to Goodreads here –> https://bit.ly/2Ko5PXt

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P.S.S. Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt:

Chapter: Jax

My thighs quiver, as I make my way down the long, dark tunnel toward the locker room. Coach Paulson and most of my teammates left over two hours ago, but I stayed late with Malloy to practice my long-distance passes. And then, when Malloy got tired and left, I stayed even longer to run an additional three miles. My training regime is militant—some would call it insane—but I’m already into the third quarter of my college football career, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes.

Playing in the professional league isn’t just a dream of mine, it’s my fucking passion, the reason I was put on this Earth, and no one—nothing—is going to stop me from taking my rightful place. Hopefully, as the number one draft pick this upcoming April.

I play hard. Train even harder. My motto? Practice like you’ve never won, and play like you’ve never lost.

When my cleats hit the grass, I’m like a motherfucking stick of dynamite whose fuse has been lit. On the field with a pigskin in my hands is where I shine. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s my time to impress the scouts from nine professional franchises who’ve been tracking my football career since high school.

I bump the closed locker room door with my fist, and it swings open. I’m lost in my thoughts, my mind already fantasizing about a long, hot shower and a loaded chicken burrito from the La Taquería food truck stationed three blocks off campus, which is why I don’t immediately spot the person bent over the ball cage near Coach’s office.

My eyes drag over the figure. She—I’m guessing it’s a she by the mess of long hair tangled in a ponytail—is short. Like really short. Her entire torso rests inside the cage, but her arms still can’t reach the balls in the far corner. Regrettably, I can’t check out the ass so nicely displayed in front of me, because a large grey sweatshirt cascades down to mid-thigh and covers said ass. It’s a damn shame, really.

My eyes linger a moment longer, trying to piece together why this person is here. Sometimes chicks wait in the locker room to gain players’ attention or to get us alone. But like I said, practice ended hours ago, and this girl doesn’t even seem to be aware I’m here. Plus she’s rooting around in the fucking ball cage, which isn’t typical of the Tigettes, our most dedicated and over-the-top female fans.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Can I help you?”

Startled, the girl releases the two footballs tucked under each arm, and in her haste, hits her head on the metal lid. “Son of a bitch!” She curses, her hand flying to touch the red mark already forming on her forehead.

“Hey,” I say, as I approach. “You okay?”

She takes a step back and wraps her arms around her chest, a protective

gesture. I stop walking and allow some space to remain between us. Holding up my hands I say, “What are you doing in here? If you’re looking for Coach, he left a while ago.”

Her eyes find mine; they’re not open or inviting, but somewhat annoyed and maybe, a touch worried. I try again. “I’m Jax.”

Finally, she speaks. “I know who you are, Jackson Walker.”

This isn’t uncommon. It sounds cocky as fuck, but my reputation—on the field, that is—precedes me everywhere I go. Okay, fine, my other reputation—the one in the bedroom—is pretty well known, too.

I smile my usual sexy, self-assured smile. “You a fan?”

She scoffs—actually scoffs—then says, “No.”

My smile slips, but I coax it back into place. She must be playing hard to get, and if I’m honest, I dig it. Most girls are way too easy, and the monotony of it grates on my nerves. Even though I’m tired and hungry as hell, I’m up for the challenge. “What’s your name?”

“I need to go.” Her eyes dart to the door then back to me. The gears of her mind seem to be calculating the distance, but I’m not entirely sure what she’s thinking, because I can’t get a solid read on her.

Part of my brain—the self-centered part—tells me she’s only acting innocent because…she’s in the guy’s locker room. Alone. Why else would she be here if not for me?

But the other part of my brain—the logical part—tells me that her being here has nothing to do with me. And that quite possibly I’m making her uncomfortable.

Rational thought wins, and I nod before moving to the side, allowing her to pass. She hesitates again, unsure, as her eyes trace a path from me to the door. She pulls her bag closer to her chest and cautiously begins to walk toward the exit. I move in the opposite direction to minimize the intimidation factor, because I’m at least a foot taller and easily weigh one hundred pounds more than her.

“Hey,” I call to her, just as her hand closes around the knob. The truth is I have nothing more to say, but I don’t want her to leave just yet. I’m intrigued.

Her shoulders tense. “Yeah?”

My eyes dart side-to-side, landing on the stack of footballs. “Do you need these?” I tip my chin toward the cage.

“Shit,” she curses, and although her voice is quiet, the word hisses around us.

“I can get them for you?” I move toward the cage. “How many do you need?”

She bends forward and pulls a folded piece of paper from her canvas bag, and I watch as her eyes skim the text. “Six.”

My brows pinch together in question, but I begin to gather what she needs. She moves closer, sets her tote bag on the floor, and opens it wide. At the bottom of the bag, I spot a few paintbrushes and a sketchpad but no other books or ID card clueing me in to her identity.

I don’t want to say I know everybody on campus but I kinda know everybody. Maybe she’s a transfer student. Hoping to keep the conversation flowing, I ask, “What do you need them for anyway?”

“A project,” she says, as I drop the first few balls in.

I turn away and reach for the remaining three. “An art project?”

Her eyes widen in surprise, and I tip my chin to where the bag rests at her feet. “I saw paintbrushes.” She dips her head as I ask, “Does Coach know about this?”

“Your coach is the one making me do this!” Her head snaps back up, her voice rising in agitation with each word. She bends at the waist to pick up the handles of the tote, and a whiff of something floral—rose? Jasmine? Lavender? I don’t fucking know, because I’m a dude—drifts over me, and it smells nice. Really fucking nice. Like a warm summer night mixed with a few drops of fresh water.

Warm nights and fresh water? Really, Jax? What the fuck is happening to you?

She hefts the strap of the tote high on her shoulder. The image is incongruous; the heavy bag looks as though it will topple her and probably weighs as much as she does. “Do you need help with that?”

Clutching the straps tighter, she huffs, “I’m good. Thanks, Jackson.”

“Anytime…?” I pause, voice rising at the end, because she still hasn’t told me her name.

Her eyes linger on mine for a beat, and I think she’ll leave me hanging, but then she says, “Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn what?” I know I’m taking my chances pushing for more information and my suspicions are confirmed when she gives me a look that says “Really?”

I chuckle, a short, quick laugh, and say, “You know my last name. Everyone does.”

She returns my laugh, but it lacks warmth. Finally, she adds. “DiSalvo.”

I smile as she begins walking toward the door. “It was nice meeting you, New York.”

Her forehead wrinkles for a moment, but then her features set in a scowl. “Nice.” She shakes her head in dismissal. “Real original.

I chuckle and say, “Okay, I guess I kinda deserved that.” She tries to keep her expression neutral, but a small smile breaks through as I try again. “Nice to meet you, Brooklyn.”

She waivers a moment longer before turning back toward the door. My mouth gapes open—is she really walking away?— but then she glances at me over her shoulder, and says, “I’d say the same, but I’d be lying.”

A devilish smile stretches across her face, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this girl is going to crush not only my game, but my motherfucking world. The crazy part? I’m not bothered in the least. In fact, I’m fucking elated.

Game. On.

Read the rest of the story on July 16th! Until then, add to add to Goodreads –> CLICK ME