New Release Spotlight ~ Pretty Hot (Pretty #1) by Donna Alam

Today’s BOOK SPOTLIGHT is on a NEW RELEASE.......

Today’s spotlight is on the first book of a brand new sexy series - Pretty by Donna Alam. 

The first book of this three part erotic romance is entitled Pretty Hot and I am so excited to share it with you!

Pretty Hot

by Donna Alam

A charming playboy. A girl on the run from love. An exotic location where the weather isn’t the only thing that’s hot.

Kate Saunders is sure of only one thing as her flight to her new life lands in Dubai: short of joining a convent, her new job teaching at a conservative all-female school is just what she needs. Until she meets Kai, that is.

Cultured and worldly, Kai lives a life of wealth and privilege where he always gets what he wants. And what he wants next is Kate. He's determined their relationship is only going one place: his bed.

The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but it’s also littered with underwear when Kate struggles to resist his sweet, filthy mouth. Talented of tongue he may be, but he’s also not quite who seems to be. Kate’s life is about to take a turn for the complicated, making the one she left behind look easy.

‘Well, when eight-year-olds make you feel small, heels are the only answer,’ I retort. ‘And I like nice shoes.’

Lazily pushing himself from the door surround, he saunters to my desk set at the front of the room. Almost lounging against it, he stretches his long legs out in front. Each facing the opposite direction, we’re shoulder to shoulder and almost touching as an electrical force dances in the air. I’ve never been more grateful for the curtain of my hair as he leans in, leans closer, then peers exaggeratedly down at my feet, his voice seeming to drop a full octave.

‘You most certainly do.’

Grabbing papers from my desk, I continue shoving them into my bag in an effort to avoid acknowledging the large, hot presence at my side. ‘Is this a social call or are you actually here for something?’ My tone could be described as arsey at best.

‘Pleasure, definitely.’ I think he’s still staring at my shoes, though I’m fairly certain it’s not a covetous thing. ‘I’m here to call in a debt.’

‘Oh?’ Pushing my hair behind my ears, my eyes rise in enquiry. He’s an accountant then?

‘Your rain-check. I’m here to take you for coffee.’

‘Coffee?’

‘That’s correct. A word of two syllables. A social lubricant.’

I swallow, hopefully not audibly. ‘With you?’

‘You’re enthusiasm knows no bounds,’ he replies in a tone as dry as toast.

‘But that’s . . . that’s not a debt.’

‘A promise is most certainly a debt,’ he teases warmly. But there’s something else there in his words, an undercurrent of steel causing goose bumps to break out across my arms. A man who’s unused to being turned down.

‘I didn’t promise.’ Eyes down, I continue my bag filling quest. ‘And I really don’t think it would be a good idea.’

‘The promise was definitely implied.’

‘I think you’ll find it was inferred,’ I reply with a snort. Great. So now I snort.

‘And,’ he adds, ignoring me, ‘you seem far too nice a person to hurt my feelings. As for it being a good idea, how do you know without trying?’

‘I don’t think I need to try you.’ I wish I could swallow the words at once; press rewind, suck them back in.

‘I come with a satisfaction guarantee.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ I add quickly.

‘Just coffee,’ he replies, now sounding sincere. ‘Nothing nefarious. I promise.’

‘Sorry. Like I said, I’m busy. Flat out.’

‘Interesting choice of words. But busy . . . sharpening . . . copious amounts of pencils?’ Lifting the almost industrial sized electric sharpener out of my hands, he turns it in his own. It’s about then that I notice the almost bare surface of my desk. ‘A serious business, I’m sure.’

As I raise my head, his gaze hits mine, serious eyes staring down. I’ve suddenly run out of words, every beat of my heart pounding so hard, it has to be audible.

Placing the sharpener back, he stands.

‘I’ll even carry your bag.’

‘You’re pretty full of yourself.’

Smiling lopsidedly, his eyes travel the length of my body again. ‘You know what they say, one minute a cock.’

‘And the next just a bit of a dick,’ I mutter.

‘Ouch.’ He laughs softly, rubbing a hand across his delightfully stubbled chin. ‘I believe the aphorism goes, and the next a feather duster . . .’ He sounds almost hurt as his words trail away.

Oh, bugger. So much for not mistaking his intent. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘To injure my pride?’ His tone matches a perfectly arched brow.

‘No! Of course not. I don’t even know you, I wouldn’t presume—’

‘You can tell me how sorry you are over that drink.’

Not that upset, then. ‘I told you, I can’t. Coffee or otherwise.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Does it matter?’ I ask, exasperation and my hands rising before me.

‘Boyfriend, girlfriend? Significant other?’

‘Girl? What, because I’m not interested, I’m gay?’ My face burns and all I can think is what says gay about me today? Surely this isn’t the right response.

‘I didn’t say you weren’t interested. Reluctant, but interested,’ he asserts, masking a smile. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

‘I don’t see what it has to do with you.’

‘Obstacles, Kate,’ he says suddenly serious. Like an egg and spoon race or the one in the sack? No, the one with the sack! ‘I like to know where I stand.’

‘Why should I be interested in where you hang? Stand! I mean stand.’ My eyes flick involuntarily to where they shouldn’t before darting away. Interested, so interested but reluctant, he got that right.

‘To the left, if you feel you must know, and slightly—’

‘Is this how you talk to women you barely know?’ Talk about degeneration.

‘I think you must be a bad influence.’

‘And I think you must be delusional,’ I retort, straightening my blouse.

‘Because I’m back to being a prick, it seems.’

He exhales audibly, ruffling a hand through his gorgeous hair, not that I noticed at all. As he falls silent, I tip my head to peer at him, fascinated by the conflicting emotions playing and fading across his face: exasperation, annoyance and eventually, a hesitant sort of confusion.

‘What have you got to lose?’

Dignity? Pride? Undies?

His hand rises quite suddenly between us as he runs the tip of one finger against my face. He’s so close that for a mad moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, my breath halting as desire, swift and treacherous, blooms inside. He’s going to kiss me and I think I’m going to let him. Then his hand lowers, sort of hesitantly, before plucking one of the humiliatingly many pencils sticking from the top of my bag. He begins to write on my yellow notepad, the only item left on my desk. As pen touches paper, his finger sparkles in the light, sprinkled with glitter.

‘My number,’ he murmurs, placing the folded paper in my hand. ‘Think about it. You owe me for saving you, at least.’

‘Why do I feel you’re not going to leave me alone until I say yes?’ My voice is soft, lacking in strength and conviction as I stare at the folded note.

‘Because you’re a very astute judge of character.’

A smile leaks from his tone as he turns to leave, his words echoing in the empty room. Staring at the paper in my hand, my heart sinks. I fold it once more and tear it in half, because I know his words couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Hailing from the North East of England, Donna is a bit of a Bedouin, moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall. A bit of a clueless nomad rather than the stateless kind, she once worked at a school very much like the one described in her book. Alas, there were no Kai-a-likes floating about there . . .

Website * Facebook * Twitter

Amazon

Pretty Liar is due for release December 2014!

Let us know what you think of this exciting new release in the comments below!

Book Spotlight ~ The Franciscan by WR. Park

Today's Book Spotlight......

The Franciscan

by WR. Park

The most internationally anticipated religious suspense-thriller since Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code, WR.PARK’s The Franciscan is now available for sale on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and CreateSpace. Written 14 years ago, The Franciscan eerily forebodes current events in the Vatican predicting the coming of the current Pope Francis and proves to be a timely novel more than a decade after it was penned. This is the first book in The Franciscan Trilogy.

“The pope is not infallible.” When the newly elected Pope Francis utters this bold and unprecedented statement, he captures the attention of the world’s population. His reforms leave no corner untouched as he strips away the mask so long held before the face of the papacy. Bringing with him and open-minded candor rarely seen by public figures – he’s an inspiration to his followers – and a threat to those who oppose him.

“When I penned this novel about a fictitious Pope Francis fourteen years ago, I never envisioned that a future pope would select the name, Pope Francis I. This novel’s Pope Francis is a bold and courageous pope whose sweeping reforms reversing ancient Vatican edicts place his life in grave danger. The world can only hope and pray that today’s Pope Francis, as bold as he is, will be fruitful in his endeavors and have a lengthy and healthy reign,” said WR.PARK.

Praise for The Franciscan:

New York Times bestselling author James Rollins commented on WR.PARK’s thirteenth novel: “I’ve been a fan of WR.PARK’s work for years.”

“The Franciscan featuring the first Pope Francis is about murder, suicide, extortion, assassins, devilish plots with a narrative with more twists and turns than a ride through purgatory.” – Publisher’s Auxiliary

“Unexpectedly thrust upon the throne of St. Peter by dark forces within the Vatican, this pope is trying to institute a radical agenda of change while contending with assassination attempts and political intrigue… and then things get really exciting.” – The Leaven Catholic Newspaper

“The Franciscan is a fascinating tale and has great general appeal. Readers who like intrigue and mystery in a colorful historical setting will enjoy [WR.PARK’s] effort and will certainly look forward to his subsequent offering.” – The Sun Newspaper

“Every now and then a book I’m asked to read and write about pleasantly surprises me. The Franciscan is a case point. It’s an intriguing read – weaving together two fascinating tales. It kept me interested up to and including the end.” – Northwest Florida Daily News

A hush fell over the crowd in the square when the pope appeared in the entrance guarded by two huge iron doors.  The only sounds were the distant drone of Rome's traffic and the splashing of the square's giant dueling fountains.  Pope Francis hesitated, allowing his entourage to catch up, before descending the steps to stand before the seated clergy.  Forcing a smile, he stepped forward, blessing those gathered for the ceremony.  

On about the tenth step down, the crowd's expression of restraint turned into one of horror and disbelief.  Most were too stunned to utter a sound.  Screams were trapped in a thousand throats, but all managed to point upward towards the basilica's dome, and behind those slowly walking down the steps.  Wooden chairs being tipped and flung aside clattered on the stone laid square, as the assembled clergy leapt to their feet, anticipating the worst.          

Confused by the crowd's alarm and unaware of the danger, they turned all too slowly to avoid the coming peril.  Kim, who was several steps behind the group, was the first to hear a dull cracking sound.  He turned and looked up.  The huge concrete crucifix that had rested on the left shoulder of the gigantic statue of Christ, standing at the center of the row of saints, broke loose.  As it tumbled, it struck the peak of an architectural structure and burst into sizable chunks, showering down on the pope and his unsuspecting  group.  

Kim sprang forward, taking several steps at a time, and just as his shoulder was grazed by a large jagged piece, he gave the pope a mighty shove.  The force of being struck gave emphasis to the thrust of Kim's hands, and he literally propelled the pope through the air. 

Pope Francis somehow managed to land on his hands and knees.  Rolling over onto his backside and ignoring the pain of bloodied, skinned hands and knees, he was grateful to see that most of the group was spared injury.  Kim was on his feet, briskly rubbing his shoulder.  Cardinal Mumbwa was bent over and holding the back of his leg where he took a hit in full fury, but motioned that he was okay, as did Kim.  To Kim's left lay Cardinal Buldini. He lay flat on his back, his belly pointing to the heavens, his legs in the direction of the basilica and head towards the square.  Blood trickled down his forehead from a deep scalp wound.  

Pope Francis gingerly got to his feet, wiped his bloody hands on his sides, and gritted his teeth while he pulled away the torn fabric that was embedded in the flesh of both knees.  “Kim, if you're okay, see to Buldini; he's beginning to move, but needs assistance.  Put a compress on the gash and take him to the infirmary.  And Kim—take good care of him.  You understand me?”  Quickly surveying the fallen debris before turning his attention to his dumb struck audience, he said, “Thank God.  This could have been disastrous.”      

Thomas, favoring his right leg, hobbled over to where Buldini sat upright on a step.  He held a handkerchief to his head and looked quite shaken.  “Kim can care for him.  Thomas, I need you here,” ordered the pope.  “We'll go forward with the installation proceedings.”  The remainder of the group, also shaken but unharmed, were brushing small dust particles from their formal costumes and assuring the pope they were unscathed.

 The crowd stood petrified with hands to their mouths.  The clergy remained on their feet, chairs scattered about.  Everyone anticipated the pope's words as he limped down the stairs towards the throne-style chair that was placed for his ceremonial use.  Upon reaching the appointed spot, he took the microphone, looked at those directly before him and said, “Please be seated.  This is your finest hour.  And may I please be forgiven for sitting—I seem to

have injured both knees.”

The same whispers spread like a wave from person to person as his Holiness sat holding the mike.  “Look at his hands and knees.”  Twice the mike nearly slipped from his hands smeared with blood, and both bloodied knees were bared for all to see.     

He pulled down on the large scooped sleeve of his Franciscan habit to use it as a glove in order to hold the mike in his right hand, and motioned for silence with his left.  A collective “Oh!” filled the square when they saw the palm of his raised hand, which looked as though the entire palm had its skin peeled off.

Reacting to the people's obvious concern, he wiped his hand on his lap and then held it up for all to see.  “You see, it looks a lot worse than it really is. I'm fine.  Really.”  Then he looked down and lifted the bloodied and torn skirt of his outfit and remarked with a toothy grin, “But I'm afraid my tailor is going to be extremely upset with me.”  The air was filled with good natured laughter.

The smile quickly disappeared and was replaced with a  serious expression.  “Guests, members of our religious orders, and cardinals-in-waiting. We did not stage this little episode to command your attention. It is, however, an example of a number of similar situations we will now reveal to you.  The timing for full disclosure is right, considering the advent of today's reported scandalous and false accusations against the papacy.       

 “I'm pleased to see the media is out in full force this afternoon.  What will be revealed to you for the first time, will be broadcast on the GlobalNet worldwide.”  Teams of camera crews and reporters scurried around, jockeying for the best view of the pope, anxiously waiting to report the breaking news live.     

A hush came over the crowd as Pope Francis stood to speak.  From the grimace on his face, they knew his knees had stiffened and he was in pain.  But he continued.  “What you have witnessed a few moments ago, was the third such attempt on my life since my inauguration.”  A gasp arose from the crowd.

“Yes.  A third attempt.  The first assassination undertaking came soon after my election to the papacy.  Sadly, Cardinal Uden Borne of the Netherlands was mistakenly murdered in my stead.  Next, Kim Xinan, a Franciscan friar from China, took a bullet in his chest that was meant for me.  And as you just saw, once again, he risked his life and came to my rescue.

“Since we made the decision to follow Vatican II's and III's direction of opening the doors and windows in hopes that fresh air would clear the musty bonds of timeworn tradition, we've been repeatedly attacked.  The papal order, especially to those in the Church hierarchy, to ardently follow the spirit of Saint Francis' service to all the sons and daughters of the Creator, I believe, was the catalyst that drove the enemies of Pope Francis to this end.     

“In addition to the personal physical attacks, they have now stooped to assaulting me on another level—that of a well-organized and orchestrated international character assassination.  I am not the only target of this shameless and unholy effort.  They have also assaulted the reputation of my faithful Franciscan brothers and that of the hallowed monastery from which we sprung.”

He turned and laid the hand held mike on the chair's seat and picked up the clip-on, and attached it to the large collar of his habit.  Once again he turned to face the audience and cameras.  Taking a deep breath, he fell to his wounded knees and stretched his arms upward toward the heavens.  His normally handsome and welcoming features were twisted in an expression of suffering.  

From the piercing cries of those in the crowd, you knew they, too, inwardly felt the stabbing pain.  A small pool of blood became visible at the corners of both knees.

Pope Francis bowed his head.  Moments passed agonizingly slow as he prepared himself to set the pain aside.  Once that was accomplished, he raised his head and spoke.  “My brothers and sisters, I now kneel humbly before you and the world—and before our Father in heaven.  And as our Creator is my witness, I say to you simply—there is not an ounce of truth in the vicious lies that are being reported.  My Franciscans and I are innocent of the slanderous accusations being leveled.  They are, as I have explained, part of a plot to discredit this papacy.  Those responsible are the ones who stand to lose the most, financially, if all of our announced innovations would come to fruition.”     

He stopped abruptly, lowered his head once again, and took another deep breath.  Many of those in the square were now openly weeping at the courage and compassion of the pope.  He looked straight at the audience, and continued through gritted teeth.

 “I need your help to survive this trial by fire.  I need your prayers of support.  I need you to believe in me.”  His head dropped to his chest, and his body wavered slightly as he attempted to steady himself while his hands gripped his thighs.     

Two Swiss Guards dressed in their colorful pantaloons and polished helmets seemed to appear out of nowhere; their capes flowed and their swords clattered as they ran to assist their pope.  He tried unsuccessfully to stand on his own.  All the strength in his knees had abandoned him.  Each guard placed a hand under his arms and sat him on the chair.     

Squaring his shoulders, he raised his head and looked at his benefactors.  He recognized them both as the two guards that Kim had unceremoniously hoisted up the Tower stairs, and whom he later mildly chastised.  “Thank you guys.  I owe you one,” he said softly.

The heart wrenching scene that played out before their eyes was far too graphic for many of the faithful and bystanders.  Women swooned, and tears flowed freely.  Even the most hardy found that holding back the flood was impossible.  The sight of the bleeding, shaken and physically weakened man of God, genuinely pleading for their prayers and their trust, was more than their hearts could bear.

An ear-splitting chorus of, “We believe!  We Believe!” filled Saint Peters' 

Author, columnist, teacher, lecturer, past president of three advertising agencies, William R. Park, Sr. is nationally known and respected in the advertising and literary worlds—and a Member of International Thriller Writers, Inc. His past works include: The Talking Stones, Overlay, Fatal Incision, plus ten others, each backed by glowing praise from numerous bestselling authors.

WR.PARK currently resides in the Kansas City area with his wife Genie. To learn more, and read what bestselling authors said about his body of work, visit: http://www.wrparkpublishinggroup.com/

Connect with WR.PARK on Twitter and Goodreads

Let us know what you liked about today's Book Spotlight by commenting below. 

 We would love to hear from you!

Book Spotlight ~ Noise by Brett Garcia Rose

Today's Book Spotlight......

 Noise 

by Brett Garcia Rose

Noise, by Brett Garcia Rose, is a thriller/mystery centering on a deaf character's search for his missing sister.
 It's short, violent, but ultimately it's about love.
Noise was published in June 2014 
and is available for sale on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Genres: Action, Adventure, Mystery

Synopsis 

The world is an ugly place, and I can tell you now, I fit in just fine.

Lily is the only person Leon ever loved. When she left a suicide note and disappeared into a murky lake ten years ago, she left him alone, drifting through a silent landscape.

Or did she?

A postcard in her handwriting pulls Leon to the winter-cold concrete heart of New York City. What he discovers unleashes a deadly rage that has no sound.

A grisly trail of clues leads to The Bear, the sadistic Russian crime lord who traffics in human flesh. The police—some corrupt, some merely compromised—are of little help. They don’t like Leon’s methods, or the mess he leaves in his wake.

Leon is deaf, but no sane person would ever call him disabled. He survived as a child on the merciless streets of Nigeria. He misses nothing. He feels no remorse. The only direction he’s ever known is forward.

He will not stop until he knows.

Where is Lily?

Praise for Noise 

“A staggering, compelling work of fiction…mind-blowingly perfect. It has everything. Exquisite details, world-weary voice, and people worth knowing. It is truly amazing!” – MaryAnne Kolton, Author and Editor of This Literary Magazine

“Strong, compelling, raw and human in the best sense. Beautifully written.” – Susan Tepper, Author of Deer and Other Stories

“Perfect, compact and explosive, closing with the gentlest word.” – James Lloyd Davis, Author of Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves

“Wow. Beautiful and wonderful and sad and real.” – Sally Houtman, Author of To Grandma’s House, We . . . Stay

“Frighteningly good.” – Meg Pokrass, Author of Bird Envy

“Superbly explosive. The rage escalates and careens out of control. Amazing.” – Ajay Nair, Author of Desi Rap

Excerpt

Twenty-Eight

The sounds I cannot hear: The whistle of the hammer as it arcs through the air. The wailing of pain and the begging of The Bear. The dripping of blood from thawing meat onto the wet concrete floor. The beautifully crude threats.

My own hideous voice.

I drag The Bear into a walk-in freezer by the hook sunk through his shoulder and toss him into a corner on the floor. When I reenter the freezer, dragging the oak table behind me, The Bear is hard at work on the hook, trying to muscle it out, but it’s sunk deep, through the tendons. Hope is adrenaline, fear masks pain, begging helps no one.

I yank him up by the hook and then hold his hands outstretched, one at a time, as I nail his wrists to the table with railroad spikes. I put all of my 240 pounds behind the hammer, but even so, it takes several swings. His body shakes, the nails sink further into the wood, his face is pain. He screams, but I cannot hear.

The building above burns a deep blue hue with my smuggled-in accelerants.

The sound of the hammer into The Bear. The pain in his eyes. I have never seen so much hatred. It is beautiful to me, to reach this center, this uncomplicated base, to disassemble the past and honor a new history. It is another film, also homemade and rough, an overlay, an epilogue. The Bear is broken but I have spared his face, and to see those eyes, that is what I needed; to see his hatred flow into me, my own eyes sucking down the scum like bathtub drains. His life whirls into me and I taste the fear, the hope, the sharp sting of adrenaline pumping and the reeking muck of despair. His pain soothes me, a slow, thick poison. We will all die.

I know it now; I am a broken man. I always was. I imagine Lily watching me, Lily keeping score, making lists, balancing all. As a child from far away, she was the queen, even more so than her mother. But she didn’t survive. The world was not as we had imagined, not even close. The world is a cruel, bastard place, Lily cold and lost somewhere, me hot and bleeding and swinging my hammer. Life as it is, not as we wish it to be.

The sounds I cannot hear: The laughter of the watchers. The groan of my sister as The Bear cums inside of her, pulling her hair until the roots bleed. The Bear screams and shits himself inside the dark freezer. Lily’s wailing and cursing and crying. I scream at The Bear with all my mighty, damaged voice, swinging the hammer at his ruined hands, hands that will never again touch anyone. Lily at the end, beaten and pissed on and begging to die.

Lily is dead. I am dead. It will never be enough.

I remove the stack of photos from my wallet that I’d printed at the Internet café a lifetime ago and place them face down on the table in front of The Bear. I draw an X on the back of the first photo and turn it over, laying it close to the pulp of his ruined hands.

The Bear offers me anything I want. An animal can feel pain but cannot describe or transmit it adequately. The Bear both is and is not an animal. I lack hearing, so the Bear cannot transmit his experience to me unless I choose to see it. His pain is not my pain, but mine is very much his. I swing the hammer into his unhooked shoulder, and then I draw another X and flip another photo.

His lips move, and I understand what he wants to know. Five photos.

In my notepad, I write: you are a rapist fucking pig. I put the paper into the gristle of his hands and swing the hammer against the metal hook again. It’s a sound I can feel.

Anything, The Bear mouths. He is sweating in the cold air of the freezer. Crying. Bleeding.

In my pad, I write: I want my sister back. I swing the hammer claw-side first into his mouth and leave it there. His body shakes and twitches.

I turn over his photo and write one last note, tearing it off slowly and holding it in front of his face, the handle of the hammer protruding from his jaw like a tusk. You are number four. There are a few seconds of space as the information stirs into him and I watch as he deflates, the skin on his face sagging like a used condom. He knows what I know.

I turn over the last photo for him. I turn it slowly and carefully, sliding it toward him. Victor, his one good son, his outside accomplishment, his college boy, the one who tried to fuck him and they fucked my sister instead.

I remove another mason jar from my bag, unscrewing the metal top and letting the thick fluid flow onto his lap. I wipe my hands carefully and light a kitchen match, holding it in front of his face for a few seconds as it catches fully. He doesn’t try to blow it out. He doesn’t beg me to stop. He just stares at the match as the flame catches, and I drop it onto his lap.

The Bear shakes so hard from the pain that one of his arms rips from the table, leaving a skewer of meat and tendon on the metal spike. I lean into his ear, taking in his sweet reek and the rot of his bowels and, in my own hideous voice, I say:

“Wait for me.” 

About the Author 

Brett Garcia Rose is a writer, software entrepreneur, and former animal rights soldier and stutterer. He is the author of two books, Noise and Losing Found Things, and his work has been published in Sunday Newsday Magazine, The Barcelona Review, Opium, Rose and Thorn, The Battered Suitcase, Fiction Attic, Paraphilia and other literary magazines and anthologies. His short stories have won the Fiction Attic’s Short Memoir Award (Second Place), Opium’s Bookmark Competition, The Lascaux Prize for Short Fiction, and have been nominated for the Million Writer’s Award, Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. Rose travels extensively, but calls New York City home. 

To learn more, go to BrettGarciaRose.com, or connect with Brett on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

Let us know what you liked about today's Book Spotlight by commenting below. 

 We would love to hear from you!