Friday, April 26, 2013

Launch Day for A Heart at Home By Sara Barnard

A Heart at Home
Book Three in An Everlasting Heart Series
Sara Barnard

Available from 5 Prince Publishing
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Historical
Digital ISBN: 10:1-939217-44-X ISBN:13:978-1-939217-44-8
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-45-5  ISBN 10:1-939217-45-8

A Heart at Home:
Can a love already tested to the limit survive on the trail to the wilds of California to their new home?  After bidding farewell to her despondent family, newly-pregnant Charlotte drops everything to follow Sanderson to a promised job out west. The journey proves more difficult than any of them could have ever imagined. Wild animals, natural disasters, and a heavy Indian presence test not only Sanderson and Charlotte’s strength and endurance, but their faith in each other as well. Meanwhile, Minerva packs up the little rock cottage to journey west in the company of infant Jay Jay and Cotton just as peace Sanderson is trying to bridge between the Army and the Snake River Indians begins to fall apart.

About Sara Barnard
Sara Barnard is a mother of four beautiful children and author of the children’s nonfiction book THE ABC’S OF OKLAHOMA PLANTS and the historical romance series AN EVERLASTING HEART. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, hiking with her family, or tackling the ever-growing pile of laundry produced by her family of six! Sara holds her B.A. in history and is currently pursuing her Master’s in Fish and Wildlife Management. Along with their four children, Sara’s family consists of a plethora of rescue animals, each with a story of their own. Sara and her family currently make their home in the beautiful, historic hills of Oklahoma. 

Where to find Sara:
Twitter: @TheSaraBarnard

Excerpt from A Heart at Home:
“Shall we ride into town and say goodbye to George and Cotton, Charlotte?” Sanderson’s honey-sweet voice was thick in the early summer air. The sun had just begun to peek over the eastern horizon, tinting the sky a soft baby pink.
Morning had always been Charlotte’s favorite time of day, when everything was new and the pace was slow and sleepy. It was as if they all had another chance, a fresh start, the gift of a new day. Back during the War Between the States, when Sanderson was gone and nothing made sense, she would sit out in front of the little sod-roofed house she had shared with her father. There she could just be, with her steaming cup of coffee, one with the night birds in the darkness as the sun prepared to make its daily climb into the sky. But today was different.
She and Sanderson had taken their coffee in haste while packing their belongings for the long, overland journey that lay between them and California Territory. Jerry Thomas was already outside. It was no secret that he wished Minerva, her sister-in-law, and baby Jackson Junior, would come with them. Well, with him.
“Yes, I can’t leave without seeing Pa.” She glanced at Achilles, who Jerry had saddled. The old Gray stood swishing his tail absent-mindedly as Charlotte shouldered her bedroll. The adventure that awaited them on the long trail between Arkansas and California, where the job of Indian Agent was promised to Sanderson, was all consuming. Well, almost. “And I am sure going to miss Cotton.”
Just the thought of the bright, gapped-tooth grin of her former-student-turned-adoptive-brother and his sunny disposition was enough to dampen her resolve to head west. The adventuresome spark that had flared moments before flickered as the thin, sallow face of her Pa and the bronzed, shining one belonging to Cotton flashed through her mind. The bedroll that had seemed so light suddenly felt as though it contained lead bricks. She eased it to the ground, casting a glance back at her rock house.
The sign Cotton and George had made in secret, while building the house for them as a wedding present, caught her eye. S.C. REDDING     Q. “Q was Cotton’s favorite letter.”
Emotion surged from the depths of Charlotte’s soul. “Don’t know if I can leave them, Sanderson.”
She didn’t realize she was trembling until her beloved’s hand fell gently on her shoulder, drawing her watery gaze from their first home to him. He was still handsome, he always would be, but in a more aged way since escaping from prison. Sparkles from the sunrise accented the brown flecks in his hazel eyes. A slow smile spread wide across his full lips, revealing those dimples that made her knees turn to water and her stomach turn up in knots. Everything will be alright, it seemed to promise, cloaking her fears in warmth. As long as we’re together, everything will be alright. Achilles nickered, breaking Charlotte from her trance.
“It’s not set in stone, Charlotte. We can stay.” A chilled summer breeze tousled his hair, swirling the thick, sandy locks this way and that. “I can find work around here…” Sanderson’s words trailed off as he tried to hide the hopeless note in his voice. He averted his eyes, focusing on Charlotte’s ear instead of her face. “I’m sure there’s plenty, what with most of the guys heading west with gold fever.”
Charlotte felt her shoulders rise and fall. Altrose had survived the war only to become little more than a ghost town as the south struggled to thrive as an integral part of the United States of America. Apparently, the promise of adventure and riches west of the Rockies proved more suitable a venture than staying to work in disgrace amongst the haughty carpetbaggers. Most of the shops along Main Street had closed, their boarded-up windows all boasting the same selfish farewell on splintery boards: GONE WEST FOR GOLD. The stage had taken to running only three times a week instead of everyday. Even then, it seemed to carry more and more of Altrose’s citizens away and never brought them back.
“Let’s go on and go if we’re going,” Charlotte whispered. Minerva’s soft sobs tore at her tender heart. “No use forcing them to keep saying goodbye.”
Her sister-in-law’s face was pressed on Jerry’s shoulder, his arm draped loosely around her. Tearstains soaked the fabric of his shirt in a giant halo around Minerva’s face. Charlotte knew the pain she was feeling. She had felt it at every one of Sanderson’s many impromptu absences during their courtship and marriage. How odd it was not to be feeling the old, familiar sadness herself, not to be the woman ripped from the promise of happiness in her beloved’s arms. I wish she’d come with us, her and Jay Jay. We’re family...
Before Charlotte could utter those very words, Minerva straightened her back and shrugged Jerry’s arm from around her.
“Perhaps I will—” She wiped her purple velvet housecoat sleeve across her nose. “Perhaps after.” Charlotte watched Minerva’s eyes glisten as she searched her English vocabulary for the very words that wouldn’t hurt Jerry Thomas while, at the same time, would explain her heart. Words they all wanted to hear.
Jerry held a finger to her lips. His chestnut eyes gazed into Minerva’s. Neither pain nor suspicion clouded them. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Minerva Dika Glasgus.” His thumb trailed lightly across her cheek. “I know a thing or two about women, and I understand that you need that paper from Dr. Jernigan. Life has dealt you many blows, and none of us are certain of the future. Should we marry—”
Minerva’s cream complexion deepened until it was scarlet. “Go on.”
Jerry’s lips twisted into a seductive smile. Charlotte felt her own insides quake at the intensity of the moment.
“Should we marry and tragedy strike, you need to be able to make it in a white man’s world and provide for yourself and Jay Jay…and whoever else may have come along at that point.”
Minerva clasped both of her hands over his, holding them to her lips as the tears—no doubt, welcome ones—ran in rivulets down her cheeks. “Thank God, you understand.” Her voice was breathy.
“I’ll be in California, Camp Bidwell. Send word when you have your paper in hand, and I’ll send the funds for your travel.”
Minerva nodded, her eyes squeezed shut. Charlotte’s hand tightened around Sanderson’s.
“I love you, Minerva.”
Minerva’s sobs came harder, faster. She nodded, sending the tendrils of soft, inky hair flouncing about their hands. “I love you, Jerry.”
He kissed their hands. “Just promise me one thing.”
With a lone sniffle, Minerva sobered. Charlotte knew in her soul that Minerva didn’t have any more promises to give, what with having herself and baby Jay Jay to care for. “A promise?”
“Promise me that you won’t even consider coming west until you have that paper in your hand.” He kissed their hands again. “Promise?”
Minerva exhaled. “Promise.”
Jerry mounted his horse with the special saddle. She laid her hand on his wooden leg. The tears of love, relief, and understanding shimmered in tiny pools on her pockmarked face.
“No more tears,” Jerry instructed, cupping Minerva’s chin in a hand. “Now, give me a smile and go on inside so you don’t have to see us leave.”
After allowing a smile to tease her lips, Minerva scooped up Jay Jay and turned to comply. As she neared where Charlotte and Sanderson stood, she turned back to Jerry.
Jerry waved her unspoken words away with a smile. “Not a moment before.”
Minerva nodded in agreement before turning back to Charlotte.
Jerry’s voice broke through the quiet. “Hey, Minerva.”
Ever silent, she turned back to face him, Jay Jay balanced on her hip in all his three-month-old glory. Her voice box useless, she could only stare at the man who smiled at her so sweetly from atop the horse.
A distant roll of thunder sent a shudder down Charlotte’s spine.
“I love you, Minerva.” With a mischievous wink, Jerry turned and galloped off towards town.
Minerva sniffled again and shifted Jay Jay from one hip to the other. “He said if I wanted a rock cottage like this of my own, then he will make me one out west.”
Charlotte extended an arm to her sister-in-law. “You can have this one as long as you are of a mind to stay, Minerva,” she whispered.
“I know,” Minerva said, giving Charlotte a little squeeze. “I will watch over your home as though it were my own. When I get my paper, I will come.”
“We—your family—will be there waiting for you and baby Jay.”
With a smile and quick flick of her housedress, Minerva disappeared into the house. Charlotte thought she heard a sob resonate from one of the open windows.
“There, got it,” Sanderson exclaimed as he heaved the giant board upon his shoulder. He carried it to the wagon and stuck it over a wheel. S C REDDING     Q. “Now we can take a little bit of home with us wherever we go.”

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Launch Day For Author Doug Simpson

Soul Connections
Book 4 of the Dacque Chronicles
 By: Doug Simpson

Available from 5 Prince Publishing
Genre: Fiction/General/Christian/Fantasy/Romance/Paranormal/Ghost/Visionary & Metaphysical
Release Date: April 25, 2013
Digital ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-47-9 ISBN 10: 1-939217-47-4
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-48-6 ISBN 10: 1-939217-48-2

Soul Connections
Soul Connections describes the educational journey, guided by the spirit of a sudden murder victim, of a group of individuals through the process of investigating their inter-connected past lifetimes.  As well as the surprising discoveries uncovered through their past-life research, the spirit and soul of the murder victim educates its past relatives, from its previous lifetimes, in the knowledge retained by our souls after death, and in the ‘life’ of souls temporarily residing on the other side as they await their next incarnation.
"Tag Line "

Do you know what your soul planned for you for this lifetime, before you were born?

Bio for Doug Simpson:

Doug Simpson is a retired high school teacher who has turned his talents to writing. His first novel, a spiritual mystery titled Soul Awakening, was published in the United States in October of 2011, by Booklocker. It was reissued in October of 2012 by 5 Prince Publishing as Soul Awakening, Book I of the Dacque Chronicles. For further details visit them at It is available in print and eBook format through most bookstores around the world. Soul Rescue, Book II of the Dacque Chronicles was published in November of 2012, and Soul Mind, Book III of the Dacque Chronicles was published in January of 2013. His magazine and website articles have been published in 2010 to 2013 in Australia, Canada, France, India, South Africa, the United Kingdom, and the United States. His articles can be accessed through his website at

Author Contact Info:

Twitter:!/1DougSimpson   Or @1DougSimpson

Excerpt from Soul Connections:
Dacque inched his vehicle into the driveway at 77 Mayflower Crescent but did not disembark for a few long seconds. He had postponed this meeting for about as long as he could without creating the perception that he was deliberately avoiding it. Dacque felt sad, not so much at the thought of meeting Rosalie Westgate again per se, but due to the memory of the unanticipated and unfortunate events that had occurred in their lives over the previous four months. Out of our hands, he reminded himself.
            In response to the chime of the doorbell, Rosalie Westgate opened the front door. “Good morning, Detective LaRose,” she cooed. “It is wonderful to see you again.”
            “Thank you, Rosalie. It is nice to see you again as well. We do need to dispense with the detective reference, though. Now that the Rolland Jones murder case, currently classified as unsolved and considered as likely unsolvable, has been relegated to the backburner, my few weeks of playing volunteer detective will probably soon become no more than a fading memory. Please call me Dacque.”
            “Come in, Dacque,” Rosalie said, smiling broadly at his description of his recent Good Samaritan adventure, and closed the door behind him. “Would you prefer to settle into the living room, or migrate to the kitchen table? The coffee pot is still warming.”
            “The kitchen table is fine with me.”
            Rosalie led Dacque down the hallway and into the kitchen. She was immaculately dressed and coiffured, and certainly did not look anywhere near her age, which Dacque assumed had to be middle forties based on the information gleaned from their earlier meetings and the story supplied by the spirit of the late Rolland Jones. At the kitchen table, Rosalie went to, and stood behind, the same chair that she had occupied on his last visit. Dacque noticed immediately that the chair opposite Rosalie’s apparently favorite spot was pulled out, as it had also been on that memorable visit when the assembled group awaited the imminent arrival of the spirit of Rolland Jones, formerly known as Johnny Abruzzi. “Is Rolland’s spirit joining us this morning?”
            “Not that I’m aware of,” Rosalie responded, “but I habitually pull out his chair in the morning when my husband and daughter have departed for the day, so Johnny can join me at the table whenever he decides to pop in for a visit. I consider it a sentimental gesture to him that his spirit is always welcome to pay me a visit.”
            “Rosalie, I know he will always be Johnny to you, but I’m sure you realize that, except when you are alone or with someone like me who knows the entire story, you refer to him as Rolland. Rolland tried so very hard to preserve his new identity. As far as I know you and me, and Detective Jensen of course, are the only ones in the vicinity of the city of Anywhere who are aware of the entire story. I suspect that the details revealed by Rolland’s spirit, on our last get-together, never made it into the official police report. Can you imagine a police report starting out with, ‘The spirit of the late Rolland Jones told us that ...?’ ”
            Rosalie laughed. “I had never really thought of it that way. I assure you that I will try very hard to refer to him as Rolland in our conversations, but as you are aware, Rolland is not the reason for our little get together this morning.”
            “I know.”
            “Please sit down, Dacque. Can I bring you a coffee before we get around to business?”
            Dacque sat in the chair with his back to the hallway, as he had on his previous visit to Rosalie’s home with Detective Jensen. “No, thank you. I think I’m all coffeed-out for now.”
            Rosalie settled into her chair. “Dacque, as you know, Rolland’s spirit mentioned to you on your last visit that I was interested in discovering some of my past lifetimes, like you and your friends have done. But, I have had lots of time to do a great deal more thinking on the subject since your last visit, and I am also interested in discovering or learning more about reincarnation, and what Rolland’s spirit referred to as soul justice, which I assume is similar to Karma. He did tell me on one of his other visits that we had shared four previous lifetimes together before this one, so of course I would like to discover those in particular. I would also like to learn how this soul-justice notion works. If Rolland’s murder was an example of the price he was required to pay for his misdeeds back nine hundred years ago as a soldier for Godefroi de Bouillon, then I, and the rest of the world, need to know how that works. Does that make sense?”
            “Your understanding is very good, Rosalie. Soul justice is more commonly referred to as Karma, and it is certainly wise for the entire population to understand the ramifications. First, though, let’s talk about the reincarnation aspect. Rolland may have told you that there is a group here in the Anywhere area called the Reincarnation Enlightenment Group. We aren’t a large group by any means, but we obviously have the mutual desire to discover information from some of our past lifetimes.
            “One of the founding members of the group is a licensed hypnotherapist, and she became interested in researching reincarnation many years ago when she realized that some of her hypnotised patients were apparently regressing back into previous lifetimes. To further her research, she will give Group members free past-life regression sessions, in her spare time. Membership is free, and members are requested to use an alias, so their identity is protected, as well as a unique email account which is used only for group communications, which keeps possible unscrupulous members away from our regular email accounts. I should add, in case you are concerned, that we have never experienced any unscrupulous activity, so it is just a little extra insurance.
            “I had three past-life regression sessions with this lady, over three years ago now, and have discovered about a dozen past lifetimes. In a normal regression session individuals usually discover previous lifetimes which are significant to their current lifetime. I guess we can say that probably would have been the case with Rolland, if his deduction is correct and he paid the price for actions he carried out nine hundred years ago, but unfortunately he never got around to having his first regression session before he was murdered, so he never knew of his past deeds prior to his demise.
            “Please do not get the idea that the past lives that we discover always reveal bad Karma, as that is definitely not the case. I am no expert, but I think more past lives are uncovered in order to continue relationships with significant people in our present lifetime, than to advise or warn us of bad Karma. It is quite possible that none of your four previous lives spent with the soul of Rolland, or Johnny, involved bad Karma, so do not commence this investigative journey with any preconceived ideas that your earlier associations with Johnny will necessarily involve negative Karma.
            “I have never heard that our hypnotherapist friend has regressed individuals to specifically discover associations with other, pre-identified souls, but I do not see why it would be impossible. Because this lady is interested in research, the idea might be very appealing to her. I can assist you in joining the group and requesting your reincarnation regression session, and if you like I can ask the hypnotherapist if she is able to gear the sessions to discover past associations with specific souls?”
            “That sounds wonderful. I would appreciate that very much. Where do we begin?”
            “First, you need to select an alias. I use Streetwalker because I love to walk around the city most days. It is my principal exercise. Some of the other aliases that I am aware of include Clippers, Freethrow, Tackle, and Beanpole. The hypnotherapist goes by Eyeonthepast, but we often shorten it to Eye. I have known her now for almost seven years, but do not know her real name.”
            “How does Newyorkgal sound?”
            “Wonderful. I don’t think anyone has that one. Now you need a new email account.”
            “I actually have an old email account that I never use anymore. Will that work?”
            “That’s fine, as long as it is active?”
            “It is.”
            “If you trust me and write it down for me, I can send an email, with your information, off to Eyeonthepast when I get home, and recommend that you be accepted for membership in the Group. If you are recommended by a Group member in good standing, then you are allowed to book a regression session before first going to a Group meeting, which only convene bi-monthly.”
Rosalie stood up and removed a pad from a kitchen drawer near the sink, then wrote something on it. “There you are,” she said, as she handed the paper to Dacque and sat back down.
            “Thank you. You should receive a reply in a day or two, so keep checking the email account. Now, scheduling your regression sessions could present a problem we should discuss today. Eye normally holds her free sessions on Saturday mornings and afternoons, and Sunday afternoons, but has held some in the evenings when necessary. She also does not normally allow witnesses, as she regards our past-life information as confidential. She does make a CD recording of each of our revealed past lives, but she gives these to us at the conclusion of the session and does not retain a copy. To conceal her identity, she does not hold the sessions in her office, so you will need to figure out an appropriate location, in those time slots, with no witnesses.”
            “That is not going to be an easy one, I’m afraid.”
            “I live in an apartment complex, and some of my friends have used my place for their sessions when they wished to protect their identity. If it is any help to you, you are welcome to hold your sessions at my place, and I will disappear on one of my daily walks?”
            “You would do that for me? You hardly know me!”
            “True, but the spirit of Rolland Jones seems to trust you, now, and that is plenty good enough for me.”
            “Thank you. That is nice to hear. Let me think about this unanticipated wrinkle for a while.”
            Dacque removed a card from his wallet and handed it to Rosalie, as he stood up. “If you need to talk to me, you can find me.”
            “Thank you,” Rosalie said, and walked Dacque to the front door.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Launch Day for Bridge Over the Atlantic By Author Lisa J Hobman

Available from 5 Prince Publishing
Genre: Fiction / Romance / Contemporary
Release Date: April 4, 2013
Digital ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-42-4 ISBN 10: 1-939217-42-3
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-43-1 ISBN 10: 1-939217-43-1

Bridge Over the Atlantic
Mallory Westerman is a full-figured, successful, young business woman living in Yorkshire, England. Though very career minded, she is extremely self-conscious about her ample curves and so her love life tends to pay the price. Concentrating solely on her business, she has almost given up on finding someone to love.  That is until she literally trips into the arms of a stranger who becomes her Knight in shining armour.
The immediate sexual and romantic spark that blossoms into love and the events that follow, irrevocably change Mallory’s life-path and self-image forever, but only go to prove that the road to true love is never smooth and that things don’t always turn out how you expect…

Bio for Lisa J Hobman
Lisa is a happily married Mum of one with two crazy dogs.  She especially enjoys being creative; has worked as a singer and now runs her own little craft business where she makes hanging signs and decorations for the home. Lisa and her family recently relocated from Yorkshire, England to their beloved Scotland; a place of happy holidays and memories for them. 
Writing has always been something Lisa has enjoyed, although in the past it has centered on poetry and song lyrics.  The story in her debut novel has been building in her mind for a long while but until the relocation, she never had the time to put it down in black and white; working full time as a High School Science Learning Mentor and studying swallowed up any spare time she had.  Making the move north of the border has given Lisa the opportunity to spread her wings and fulfill her dream.  Writing is now a deep passion and she has enjoyed every minute of working towards being published.  Novels two and three are works in progress so watch this space!

How to reach Lisa J Hobman:

EXCERPT of Bridge Over the Atlantic:
January 2011

“You can NOT be serious?!” Mallory Westerman recoiled. It wasn’t a habit of hers, to inadvertently quote 1980’s sports stars. But even she was surprised when she heard John McEnroe’s words fall from her lips.
Thankfully, her fiancĂ©, whilst obviously bemused at her reaction and frustrated by her lack of enthusiasm, didn’t really notice the similarities between her and the wiry haired tennis supremo. He was much too busy stroking the print-out in front of him, on the table, as if ironing out the creases would make his suggestion a more viable proposition.
“Honey, imagine the life we could have there right now,” he pleaded. “The open spaces, the fresh air-…”
“The midge bites, the lack of internet connection, no other civilisation for miles.” She rudely interrupted. She immediately felt guilty when Sam’s eyes took on the appearance of a scolded puppy dog. She slid her arms around his neck caressing the sides of his beautiful face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just don’t see me…either of us, really, taking to a permanent life out in the middle of goodness knows where at this point in our lives, surrounded by sheep and wearing wellies and Tweeds!”
“Now you are being terribly stereotypical and insulting to all things countryside, Mallory,” Sam chastised in his Canadian drawl. “And besides, I think you’d look very fetching in wellies….just wellies that is, nothing else.” He grabbed her playfully and squeezed her. His green eyes flashed with a mischievousness Mallory had come to adore. She giggled and gazed up at him, lovingly recalling the first time she had found herself utterly mesmerised by him.


December 2009
Mallory had lived in Yorkshire all the twenty-eight years of her life. Since dropping out of her PR course at Uni, through sheer laziness, she had endured a run of soulless jobs. Nothing ever really pushed her buttons. That was until an inheritance from her dear Aunt Sylvia had given her the opportunity to do the one thing she truly wanted to do.
Her little gift emporium, Le Petit Cadeau.
It had been the brain child of her Aunt many years before, when Mallory had taken to making her own Christmas gifts one year when, as was the case on more than one dreadful occasion, unemployment occurred on the brink of the festive season.
She had sobbed and sobbed when the solicitor informed her that her Aunt had left her the large sum of money under strict conditions that she was to, ‘get off her backside and do something fulfilling for once!.’ She remembered almost laughing aloud at the point when the solicitor had uttered the quote directly as her Aunt had written it. Even in death, feisty Sylvia knew how to draw a chuckle from her beloved niece.
It was a fairly quiet early December Wednesday in Leeds, well perhaps quiet was not the right way to put it. The city centre was the usual bustling metropolis, but the Victoria Quarter was, ostensibly, being given a somewhat brief reprieve from the usual barrage of festive shoppers. Mallory huffed as she watched a swooning couple canoodling whilst browsing in the window of the lingerie boutique opposite.
“Sod this for a game of soldiers. I think I need a break,” she informed one of the cute, jointed, stiff teddy bears sitting, looking pensive on the shelf next to where she perched. “I reckon there is a tall, caramel macchiato with my name on it somewhere!”
Grabbing her oversized bag she chalked Back in 20 mins on her very own, handmade door sign. Once she had dropped the latch she headed out into the sea of suited business people and Christmas shoppers. She smirked at the vast number of pre-school children who were sporting cheap red Santa hats lovingly procured for them, she guessed, by harassed parents as bribery for good behaviour.
The paved precinct area was buzzing. Mallory loved Leeds City Centre with its designer boutiques and quirky shops. At this time of year, however, there was something transcendent about the atmosphere. Maybe it was the twinkling lights strung from building to building or the way that each and every shop was decked in sparkling silvers and gregarious gold. The myriad Christmas songs, being played in numerous outlets all out of synch with one another, were an assault on the senses. The stalls all laid out, down the centre of the precinct, were vying for the attention of passers-by with their brightly coloured gifts and trinkets. A delicious aroma of roast chestnuts wafted through the chilled air and into Mallory’s nostrils making her tummy grumble.
She rounded the corner heading for her favourite coffee shop when suddenly she involuntarily lurched forward. Her stiletto heel had become lodged in between two paving slabs, sending her and her belongings, hurtling into the arms of a passing stranger.
“Whoaaaa there!” The startled man grabbed for Mallory, in a bid to stop her inevitable collision with the pavement. “We haven’t been formally introduced and yet here you are throwing yourself at me!” He laughed. His accent was noticeably of the North American variety.