You can’t escape who you are, but no one ever stops to explain to you the cost of discovering such knowledge. By the time Gwen learns that her fiery red hair marks her as more than just a bad temper on two legs it’s too late to make a choice. Catapulted into a realm she doesn’t understand thanks to the actions of those around her, Gwen is forced to embrace an unknown legacy and rely on the word of an old friend who is more than he seems. Will the price of self-discovery prove too much for Gwen to bear? And how do you save the world when everything feels just out of reach.
Out of Reach
Wanderer Series #1
By Jocelyn Stover
Genre: Paranormal Romance / Urban Fantasy
Out of Reach (Wanderer #1) on Goodreads
BARNES & NOBLE
GIVEAWAYAuthor Jocelyn Stover is giving away 10 autographed paperback copies of Out of Reach to celebrate the upcoming release of A Step Away (Wanderer Series #2)! As an added bonus, there are LOTS of chances for extra entries!!!
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Excerpt Meeting Ben
The whole scene, of which I’ve given you a snippet, was constructed on a whim so I
could make light of my favorite fireman clichés: the calendar and that joke about rescuing cats
that have gotten themselves stuck up a tree (which appears later). My sense of humor is a little
off, I know. What’s even funnier is that after Out of Reach was published a neighbor of mine
made an offhand comment and I was reminded of how many firemen I actually know! It’s a lot.
To set the record straight, while I am a sucker for the whole uniform thing, Ben isn’t based off of
anyone I know. Sorry to disappoint but this sexy man candy can only be found in the pages of
Out of Reach.
Sigh… meet Ben:
Halfway through my old-school impression of head banging, I overhear the women next
to me say, “God, I hope he’s in the calendar this year.”
“Yeah, Mr. February can pay me a house call anytime,” her friend chimes in.
“February? Why February?”
“Because silly, it’s my birth month and those wintery blue eyes are to die for.”
Giggling, their storm of compliments continues, spreading around the bar like wildfire.
Lifting my head, I run my fingers through the unruly strands of my hair, smoothing them back
into place as best I can after my recent dance exploit. I don’t even have to glance up into the
mirror: I know exactly who those women are talking about. My fireman has arrived.
Reaching into my purse, I grab my lip gloss and apply a fresh coat of shine. Sitting up
straight on my stool, I take a deep breath then silently count to three before gazing into the
angled mirror above us.
The firemen have most certainly arrived, and every woman within spitting distance of
their table is on high alert. While most of them are casually dressed, sporting jeans and their
navy logo t-shirts, a few of them are rocking the uniform. It’s the work of a moment for my brain
to dismiss most of the party and lock onto to the face of one uniformed man sitting with his back
to the window.
Yes, his eyes are a soft wintery blue; the woman next to me got that much correct, but
there’s so much more to them than that. From my perch at the bar, I’ve seen frost in those eyes
on occasion and, let me tell you, the reflection of the winter storm can be just as glorious as the
friendly glow they’re exuding tonight.
Shivering slightly, I hold my breath as my eyes continue to drink him in. He’s fair-haired
with sculpted cheek-bones and lightly bronzed skin (the healthy kind that comes from spending
time outdoors), tall enough that even I have to tilt my head back a little to look into the splendor
of his face. Leanly muscular but not too bulky, his body moves with the easy grace of an athlete.
Shaking my head from side to side I sigh, looking down at my beer bottle for distraction.
It goes without saying: I’ve been stalking this fair-haired Viking god of a man for quite some
time. In fact, he’s the reason Melanie started frequenting The Spotted Dog on Friday nights.
“Here,” says Melanie, handing me a shot of something. Giggling she says, “You look like
you could use one.”
Holding her glass up we both smile and simultaneously throw back our drinks. As the
warmth of the alcohol spreads through me, I begin to relax. Melanie and I take up our familiar
pattern of ogling the firemen, people watching, and dancing. Clapping for the guitarist as he
finishes a well-executed solo, my eyes are suddenly attracted by movement in the mirror above. I
see my fireman making his way toward the bar.
Sensing him approach along every nerve, I sit stone-still on my stool and stare straight
ahead. He leans up against the bar directly between Melanie and me and proceeds to order a
couple pitchers of beer from José before turning toward me.
“Are you planning to come over and say hello to the guys tonight?” he asks me.
“No, not tonight,” I reply as nonchalantly as possible. Stifling a grin, I glance over into
his eyes and ask, “Are you going to dance with me tonight?”
Looking over at the band he pauses for a moment before directing his gaze back to me
and answering, “No, not tonight.”
Flashing me that crooked, school-boy grin, he collects his order from José and heads back
to his table.
Laughing at our by-play Melanie leans closer to be heard above the music and says,
“Smooth, Gwen, real smooth.”
AUTHOR BIOI'm a thoughtful, sarcastic, work-o-holic, mother of four. I must thrive on chaos because I've certainly built enough of it into my life already! I write during the stolen mintures of the day when the children are in bed or at school. When I'm not writing you can find me up to no good with my kiddos, or outside soaking up the sunshine.
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