News & Events

Get Vanquished eBook FREE

Get VANQUISHED as a free Kindle e-book thru Sunday, November 21st. Read the novel for free and discover why bestselling author Barbara Samuel raved, “A galloping pace, heady sexual tension and an elegant touch with period detail make VANQUISHED a delicious read!” The American Library Association added, “Fans of intelligent, sexy historical romance in the style of Jo Beverley will take to Vanquished.

Below is a taste.

Chapter One

“Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote, is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law; therefore the denial of my sacred right to life, liberty, property . . .”

—Susan B. Anthony, United States of America v. Susan B. Anthony, 1873

Westminster, London

February 1890

“Votes for women now.  Votes for women NOW!”

The protestors’ voices pitched higher still, shriller still, or so it seemed to Hadrian as he hurried across Westminster Bridge, the wind tearing at his greatcoat and scarf and threatening to rip the bowler from his head.  Stepping out onto the crowded street, he tightened his grip on his camera, a German-made Anschütz with a shutter mechanism capable of arresting motion to one-thousandth of a second.  He’d put the equipment to good test that afternoon at St. Thomas Hospital photographing a newly discovered medical anomaly.  The poor bastard had been born with an enormous scrotum, tumor-mottled skin, and a chronic palsy that would have rendered traditional photographs little better than a blur.  Even so, using his talent to turn a fellow human being into little better than a circus freak hadn’t sat well with Hadrian, and the subject’s sad-eyed patience in holding any number of humiliating poses had made him feel like the lowest of beasts.  Now frozen, footsore, and famished, he couldn’t reach his studio soon enough.

But to do so he first had to run the gauntlet of suffragists who’d overtaken Parliament Square.  They’d camped out for coming on two days now, creating a bloody nuisance for pedestrians and conveyances alike.  Dressed in somber grays and serious blacks, the fifty-odd females picketing beneath the gray wash of winter sky might just as easily pass for a funeral procession as a political rally were it not for the placards the women held aloft and the noise they emitted—especially the noise.

“Miss Caledonia Rivers to speak on the subject of female emancipation . . . Caxton Hall in Westminster . . . tomorrow evening . . . seven o’clock sharp.”

Dodging traffic to cross to the sidewalk, Hadrian could only shake his head.  That any woman fortunate enough to possess a roof and four walls would march about in the bitter air struck him as a sort of perverse self-indulgence, a foolishness on par with going slumming in the stews or touring prison yards to observe the convicts picking oakum.  He had no patience for it, none at all and when one bug-eyed female had the audacity to try and stuff a pamphlet in his already full hands, he swallowed an oath worthy of his Covent Garden days and darted inside the square’s gated entrance.

He realized his mistake at once.  Apparently not content with clogging the sidewalks, the damnable females had made camp within the park proper.  A platform had been erected in the center of the green and several more dark-clad women busied themselves lighting the torches set about its perimeter.  Giving them broad berth, he kept his head down and his sights trained on the opposite end of the wrought-iron gate.

The blare of a bobby’s whistle from outside the park walls instinctively sent him swinging around—and barreling into a female’s soft body.  “Oof!”

Hadrian stared down in horror.  The woman he’d knocked off her feet now sprawled at his, feathered hat askew and skirts bunched.  On the frost-parched grass beside her, a leather briefcase crammed with papers stretched wide open.

He went down on his knees beside her.  “Madam, are you all right?”  Unleashing his grip on the camera, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

She jerked at his touch.  Obscured by netted hat veil and framed by wire-rimmed spectacles, her green eyes flashed fire.  “It’s ‘miss,’ actually.”  She elbowed her way upright and yanked down her skirts—but not before Hadrian caught sight of a pair of appealingly trim ankles.  “And I would be in fine fettle, indeed, had you seen fit to mind where you were going.”  Broken ostrich feather dangling, she got to her knees and began collecting her papers.

Courtesy toward women was deeply ingrained, one of the few values Hadrian possessed, and the only claim he could make to being a gentleman by deed if not by birth.  And so, rather than point out that she had bumped into him as well, he held out his hand to help her to her feet.  “Allow me.”

Beneath the weight of that atrocious hat, her head snapped up.  “I believe I have had quite enough of your help for one day.”

She’d barely got the declaration out when the demon wind kicked up, scattering vellum sheets to the four winds.

She leapt to her feet.  “My papers!”  Hiking up her skirts, she gave chase across the park.  Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there.  Do something!”

With a muttered prayer that his camera would still be there on his return, Hadrian abandoned it to run after her.  Hell-bent on cheating the wrangling wind, he plucked one sheet from its skewer of wrought-iron fencepost and another from the foot of the statue of the late Benjamin Disraeli.  At the lady’s insistence, he retrieved two more from the upper branches of one very tall, very scratchy oak tree.  Breathless, bruised, and sporting a tear in his coat, he shoved the last of the papers in his pocket and climbed down.  Dropping to the hard-packed ground, he scanned the square for signs of his erstwhile victim, but she appeared to have vanished.

He was on the verge of giving up and going on his way when he spotted her, down on all fours and buried shoulder-deep in the boxwood hedge.  Coming up behind her, he tapped her smartly on the back.  “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

From beneath the branches, her muffled voice answered, “Collecting my papers naturally.”  She crawled out, feathers hanging at half-mast and a clutch of vellum in one grubby glove.

This time she accepted his hand up without argument.  Standing face to face, he saw she was tall, though no match for his six-foot-four frame.  The novelty of looking a woman more or less in the eye had him peering beyond the blur of veil for a closer study.  No great beauty, he decided, nor was she any green girl.  If he had to make a stab at guessing, he’d peg her at thirty-odd, perhaps a year or two older than himself, and a spinster judging by the “miss” as well as the dreary clothing.  And yet the sage-colored eyes beneath the slash of dark brows were both expressive and arresting, and the full mouth and softly squared jaw completed a pleasing enough picture.

Caught up, it took her discreet cough to remind him of the papers bulging from his pocket.  Handing them over, he said, “I think this is the lot.”

“Thank you.”  She took them from him, her gloved fingertips brushing his, and improbably he felt the warm tingle of her touch shoot straight to his groin.  Stuffing the papers inside her case, she spotted the mud and dried leaves festooning the front of her coat.  “Oh dear, I’m a mess” she said, swiping at the muck with her soiled glove.  “I never can seem to manage the trick of remembering a handkerchief.”

He fumbled in his pocket.  “Here, have mine.”  He pressed the square into her palm, again experiencing that peculiar surge of heat.

She accepted with a grateful smile and bent to brush away the dirt.  “Thank you—again.”  Straightening to her full, glorious height, she handed back his handkerchief.

Feeling in better spirits, he shook his head.  “Keep it.  Really, it’s the least I can do after mowing you down like so much lawn grass.”

She laughed then, a soft airy tinkling that made him think of the wind chimes his landlady insisted on hanging by his backdoor.  “All right then . . . if you’re sure.”  She stuffed the wadded ball of linen into her coat pocket and turned to go.  Stopping in her tracks, she looked back.  “Mind you don’t lose your papers.”

“My papers?  Oh . . . quite.”

Good God, he’d left his best camera out in the open and, worse yet, had been on the verge of forgetting it entirely.  What the devil was the matter with him?  Jogging over to retrieve it, he thought of his flat, empty save for his cat, and realized he was no longer so very eager to reach it—at least not alone.

“I’m not always such an oaf, you know,” he called back, wracking his brain for something clever to say, some pretense to hold her.

From a few feet away, she cupped a hand to her ear.  “Sorry?”

“I said I’m not always such an oaf.”

“Oh.”  She paused in mid-step, appearing to consider that.  “Well, I’m not usually such a harridan, either except when I’m nervous—or in this case, late.”

“I don’t think you’re a harridan.”  Camera in hand, he closed the space separating them in three ridiculously long strides.  “It’s these protestors, taking up the whole bloody square as if they own every brick and statue, spewing their rubbish at all hours that have everyone on edge.  I only cut through the park to avoid them.”

Mouth lifting into a pretty smile of full pink lips and straight white teeth, she nodded to the park beyond them.  “It would seem you’ve rather failed in that regard.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”  Looking back over his shoulder, he saw they were the object of a good many whispers and gawking stares.  Their mad dash must have made an amusing spectacle indeed.  Ordinarily that realization would have set him fuming but rather than care, he found himself saying, “There’s a tea shop just around the corner.  Allow me to make amends by buying you a cup?”

She shook her head, looking adorably shy and far younger than she had at first when she’d still been tight-lipped and cross.  “That isn’t necessary.  And I’ve an . . . engagement to keep.”

Ah yes, presumably the engagement for which he had made her late already.  A decent fellow would accept defeat and send her on her way.  Yet the mental image of how splendid she would look freed from all those ghastly clothes and wearing only his bedsheet prompted him to press, “As you’re late already, why not postpone it altogether, at least until you’ve thawed?”

She shook her head, causing the broken hat feathers to careen like a torn sail.  “I can’t.  I really must be going.”  The firming of her mouth told him he’d been too forward, that this time she really did mean to go.

“Ah well, perhaps we’ll bump into one another again sometime.”  He fished inside his coat pocket for one of his business cards as a pretense to asking her name.

“Yes, perhaps we shall,” she allowed but there was no hope of it in her eyes.  She turned to go and Hadrian knew there would be no more keeping her, that this really was goodbye.

Before she could take a step, a squat woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a man’s plaid muffler wrapped about her short neck rushed up to intercept her.  “Good Lord, Callie, are you all right?  I was outside the gate and only just heard what happened.”

Beneath her veil, the woman—Callie—flushed bright crimson.  “Calm yourself, Harriet.  I am perfectly fine.  I took a bit of a tumble, and my briefcase spilled.”  Her shy-eyed gaze shifted to Hadrian.  “This gentleman was kind enough to help me.”

From behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Harriet’s beady eyes dropped to the camera case in Hadrian’s hand.  “I don’t know what rag of a newspaper you’re with, sir, but if your scheme is to scare up scandal and rubbish by waylaying Miss Rivers and photographing her in disarray, then you’d best think again.”

Taken off-guard, Hadrian demurred when from the vicinity of the stage someone with a bullhorn belted out, “Miss Caledonia Rivers to make her address.  Five minutes, ladies.  Five minutes . . .”

Callie Rivers.  Caledonia Rivers.  It was then that the fog inside Hadrian’s head lifted.  His mystery woman was one of them, a suffragette!  And not just any suffragette, but their leader!  Seeing her through new eyes, he took in the spinsterish coat, the awful hat, and the leather case containing the oh-so-important papers, and asked himself how a piquant smile and a pair of pretty ankles had turned him into such an absolute idiot.

He stared at her, feeling like a biblical figure from whose eyes the scales had just fallen.  “Your pressing engagement, I take it?”

She answered with a brusque nod, at once prim and proper and utterly businesslike.  “Quite.”

Now that his initial shock was fading, he could at least appreciate the irony of the situation.  The first woman to pique his interest in years was the celebrated champion of a cause he’d come to loathe.

“Lest we part as strangers, my name is St. Claire.  Hadrian St. Claire.”  By this time, he had the sought-after business card in hand and his shock firmly in check.  Handing her the card, he said, “I’m not a reporter.  I’m a photographer.  I have a studio not far from here on Great George.  Portraiture is my specialty.”

She tucked his card into her pocket with nary a glance.  “I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of having my photograph taken.”

“Pity.  You’d make for a most intriguing subject.”  And because he had absolutely nothing to lose—now that he knew who and what she was, what possible interest in her could he have—he looked directly into Caledonia Rivers’s beautiful, mortified eyes and added, “I should have recognized you from the newspaper etchings, but they hardly did you justice.  You’re far prettier, and far younger, than I would have supposed.”

Beneath the veil, the stain on her cheeks darkened from pale pink to dusky rose but, to her credit, she didn’t look away.  “I think you mock me, sir.”

“On the contrary, miss, if either of us is the subject of mockery, I rather think it is me.”  He nodded toward a clutch of young women watching them and giggling behind their gloves.

Harriet skewered him with a sharp look before giving him her back.  “Callie, we really must be on our way.”  She hooked her plump arm through her friend’s and began leading her away.

“Ladies.”  He tipped his bowler to them both, but it was Caledonia Rivers whom he followed with his eyes as she hurried toward the platform, creased and muddied skirts trailing the pavement, broken hat feathers caught up in the fingers of the wind.

So that was Caledonia Rivers, the celebrated suffragette spokeswoman making headlines in all the newspapers.  What was it the press was calling her these days?  Ah yes, The Maid of Mayfair.  Unlike so many of her suffragette sisters whose reputations skirted the fringe of respectability, Caledonia Rivers was said to be so very good and virtuous—and yet not too good or too virtuous to indulge in a bit of a flirt in a public park, the little hypocrite.

He’d only paid her the compliment to torture her, and yet in his roundabout way he’d spoken nothing but the truth.  The flesh-and-blood woman with whom he’d passed the last delightful few minutes scarcely resembled the stern-faced amazon the newspapers made her out to be.

As for the “maid” part, he was deucedly sorry he wouldn’t have the opportunity to test that out for himself.

Copyright Hope C. Tarr

*** ***

Hurry, this freebie offer turns into a pumpkin after 12 midnight EST on 11/21. And check out the other two books in the series, also on Kindle, ENSLAVED and UNTAMED. Or get the whole series, all three books, in a single click.

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire for THE IRISH TIMES

On March 25, 1911, a fire broke out at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in Washington Place in Lower Manhattan, killing 146 workers, most immigrant women and girls, and sparking a nationwide fight for safer workplaces. I’m thrilled to share this milestone event in US labor history with readers of THE IRISH TIMES for the fire’s 110th anniversary. Read the full story here.

In case you missed…

My three-part podcast: “The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire of 1911, An Emigrant’s Experience” with Fin Dwyer’s Irish History Podcast

My interview with IRISH CENTRAL: “New podcast series explores disastrous Triangle Shirtwaist Fire in New York.”

My interview with AM NEW YORK, “New podcast explores events of Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in Greenwich Village from eyes of young women survivors.”

The Windsor Hotel Fire of St. Patrick’s Day 1899

NYC’s Deadliest Hotel Fire Took 86 Lives

On March 17, 1899, the Windsor Hotel at 575 Fifth Avenue caught fire, the first smoke and flames billowing from the building just as the city’s annual St. Patrick’s Day parade reached 47th Street. Not even the proximity of the city’s firefighters marching by in their dress blues could save the grand hotel from burning to the ground. Nearly 90 people died, making the Windsor the deadliest hotel fire in New York and the worst commercial disaster until the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911.

Read the rest of the story on Medium.

Interview with Irish Central

I recently sat down with Irish Central to talk about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911, which marks its 110th anniversary this March 25th. Between research for my Gilded Age novel manuscript, Irish Eyes and my three-part podcast series with Irish historian Fin Dwyer, there was soooo much fascinating material that didn’t make it into either of those projects, leaving me lots to talk about, not only the grim facts of the fire but the workplace reforms won its wake.

The fire took the lives of 146 workers, most of them immigrant women and girls. The youngest victim was just 14 years old. Triangle policies such as denying workers fire drills and locking workroom doors from the outside greatly contributed to the catastrophic loss of life — the deadliest workplace disaster in New York State until 9/11.

In combing through the debris afterward, rescuers recovered fourteen engagement rings, a poignant reminder of the thwarted promise of so many young lives lost.

Check out my Irish Central interview here and then have a listen to the pod.

Tweet me your thoughts @hopetarr #historymatters.

Podcast – Episode Three, The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911: An Emigrant’s Experience

In the fire’s wake, the International Ladies Garment Workers and other women-led union groups helmed the fight for reform. Photo: osha.gov.

Episode Three, the final episode of my podcast series, “The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire: An Emigrant’s Experience” with Irish historian, author and podcaster, Fin Dwyer looks at the fire’s legacy through the eyes of two young women workers who survived it, Annie Doherty from County Donegal, Ireland, and Celia Walker from Przemsyl, Poland. One woman would disappear from the public record less than a decade later; the other would go on to achieve a modest version of the American Dream.

Meanwhile, the public outcry against the factory owners’ criminal negligence would fuel an unprecedented nationwide labor reform effort led by the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. For the first time in US labor history, women didn’t have to beg a seat at the bargaining table — they were leading the charge. 110 years later, we have these fiercely dedicated women to thank for fire drills and many other legally mandated workplace safety measures we take for granted today.

Catch up on the previous episodes here:

Episode One follows Annie’s and Celia’s harrowing transatlantic journeys to New York where both women would make their home, Annie in the notorious West side neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, Celia in the predominantly Eastern European Lower East Side.

Episode Two takes Annie and Celia from the citywide garment workers strike of 1909 known as The Uprising of 20,000 to Saturday, March 25, 1911 when the fire broke out on the factory’s eighth floor, trapping hundreds of young women and girls inside and killing 146, making it the most lethal workplace disaster in New York State until 9/11.

Have a listen and share your thoughts on Twitter where I post as @HopeTarr #HistoryMatters.

For Sharing on Social:

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire: An Emigrant’s Experience (Episode 3)
https://tinyurl.com/y3d9dtxy
#HistoryMatters #podcast

Don’t miss a thing! Sign up for my newsletter here.

Labor of love! Every year since 2004, volunteers for The Chalk Project chalk the names of the fire victims outside their last known NYC residence.

Podcast – Episode Two, The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911: An Emigrant’s Experience

Fire trucks rush to the scene at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in Washington Place, March 25, 1911.

They called them the Shirtwaist Kings. Max Blanck and Isaac Harris, owners of the Triangle Shirtwaist Company, one of the largest ready-made clothing manufacturing firms in the United States and a principal provider of ladies’ button-up blouses, the go-to garment for the New Woman.

To the workers employed in their factories in Syracuse, Yonkers, Boston, Philadelphia and Manhattan, Blanck and Harris were more than kings. They were as good as gods, wielding the power of life and death over hundreds of employees, mostly immigrant women and girls like Annie Doherty from Ireland and Celia Walker from Poland, the subjects of my new three-part podcast series on the fire, a collaboration with Fin Dwyer, Irish historian, author and creator of the acclaimed Irish History Podcast.

Episode One follows Annie’s and Celia’s harrowing transatlantic journeys to New York where both women would make their home, Annie in the notorious West side neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, Celia in the predominantly Eastern European Lower East Side.

Episode Two, which launched 1/18/21, follows Annie and Celia from the citywide garment workers strike of 1909 to that fatal Saturday, March 25, 1911 when the fire broke out on the factory’s eighth floor. Within 30-minutes, 146 workers would be dead, another 78 injured, victims of what would be the deadliest industrial disaster in New York State until the 9/11 terrorist attack.

Episode Three, which looks at the legacy of the fire in the lives of survivors and in the larger landscape of labor reform, will post Monday, January 25.

Have a listen and then share your thoughts on Twitter where I post as @HopeTarr #HistoryMatters.

For Sharing on Social:

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire: An Emigrant’s Experience (Episode 2)
https://tinyurl.com/yxhn6a66
#HistoryMatters #podcast

Don’t miss a thing! Sign up for my newsletter here.

Podcast – The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911: An Emigrant’s Experience

I’m thrilled to announce the launch of “The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911: An Emigrant’s Experience,” a three-part podcast with Irish historian, author and podcaster Fin Dwyer. I first met Fin in 2018 at an event at the American Irish Historical Society in Manhattan where he was the guest speaker, thought he was brilliant and approached him afterward about how we might collaborate to put together a podcast program for the fire’s 110th anniversary on March 25, 2021. Nearly three years later, and more than 3,000 miles and five hours apart — Fin in Kilkenny and me in NYC — here we are!

The fire at the Triangle factory, housed in the Asch Building (today the Brown Building, part of New York University) took the lives of 146 workers, most of them immigrant women and girls, and injured 78 others, making it the deadliest workplace disaster in New York State until the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Each approximately 30-minute podcast episode looks at a different aspect of the fire as seen through the eyes of two immigrant factory workers who lived it: Annie Doherty, an Irish Catholic from Finn Valley in Ireland’s County Donegal and Celia Walker, an Eastern European Jew from Przemysl in southwestern Poland, in the late 19th century part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Listen to Episode One here, which follows Annie’s and Celia’s harrowing transatlantic journeys to turn-of-the-century New York where both women would make their home, Annie in the notorious West side neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, Celia in the predominantly Eastern European Lower East Side.

Episode Two: Fire and Episode Three: Legacy will post Monday, January 18 and Monday, January 25, respectively. Have a listen and then share your thoughts on Twitter where I post as @HopeTarr #HistoryMatters.

For Sharing on Social:

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire: An Emigrant’s Experience
https://tinyurl.com/y38ntjuk
#HistoryMatters #podcast

Don’t miss a thing! Sign up for my newsletter here.

SALE! Get All Suddenly Cinderella Books for 99 cents

Now thru 4/26, get ALL four Suddenly Cinderella series books on sale for 99 cents each. This first-time offer is a fab opportunity to catch up on any of the stories you may have missed. Or binge read all four books for under $4. 🙂

​When a muckraking reporter gets her hands on a pair of vintage red heels first worn by a legendary Hollywood film actress, she opens up not only herself but her three BFFs to a host of Happily Ever After possibilities. The Cinderella fairy tale meets The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants in this upbeat, contemporary series featuring four unlikely heroines…

Kindle

Nook

iBooks

Kobo

Google

Reading Tomorrow’s Destiny at Lady Jane’s Salon

Victorian Christmas Goodness!

This month, I read my Victorian Christmas novella, Tomorrow’s Destiny at Lady Jane’s Salon, the Manhattan, NYC reading series I co-founded back in ((gulp)) 2009. Like the Dickens’ classic from which it draws inspo, Tomorrow’s Destiny is a paranormal Christmas story. Only instead of ghosts, I have guardian angels. Guardian angels masquerading as the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present and Future. One in particular, Fern, needs to score a h-u-g-e HEA for her human ASAP — or wait another hundred years for a shot at winning her wings. And in lieu of a mean-spirited, bent-back miser hoarding gold, I have my Scrooge-like heroine hoarding the best thing ever — books!

Yes, you read that right. My heroine, bookshop proprietress Fiona MacPherson, IS the Scrooge character. ‘Tis almost 2021, after all.

Watch my reading here on Youtube along with those of Salon guests Rose Lerner, Stacey Agdern, Harper Miller, Cara Bastone and Piper Huguley.

My intro and reading start at 38:10 minutes into the video.

You can get the Tomorrow’s Destiny novella as an ebook and audiobook, the latter voiced by my uber talented Salon co-founder, author Leanna Renee Hieber.

Scribd ebook
Scribd audiobook

This December’s Lady Jane’s Holiday Salon program is both deeply special and bittersweet. After twelve magical years as NYC’s first and only regular reading series devoted to romance fiction, we’re drawing the curtain on our beloved naughty red room at Madame X.

All our virtual Salon programs will continue to live online on Youtube and on the Lady Jane’s website. Please remember our wonderful house charity, Win (Women in Need, Inc.) in your end-of-year charitable giving.

Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy and safe holiday season.

XO Hope

Free Christmas Novella

Now through 11/16, download my Christmas novella, A Cinderella Christmas Carol FREE across platforms. Get the ebook, part of my Suddenly Cinderella series of contemporary romances, and discover why bestselling author Jacquie D’Alessandro dubbed it “a delightful and heartwarming holiday treat.”

Here’s a bit about the story…

There’s nothing On Top managing editor Cynthia “Starr” Starling hates more than Christmas. With an important deadline looming, plus her dreaded Christmas Day birthday, Starr just wants the holiday to end. But when she wakes up Christmas Eve night to the ghost of Christmas Past, Present, and Future-all in the form of the super-hot Matt Landry, the new art director-she knows she’s in for a long night. Matt is the one person on Starr’s team she can’t boss around and the only one she doesn’t need to. He’s also her employee and totally off limits, even if he does seem interested. Though he’s seven years younger and all kinds of forbidden fruit, he’s the form the Powers That Be decided she’d be receptive to. Because they have a message for her: learn the true meaning of Christmas spirit or risk being alone for the rest of her life.

Get the FREE A Cinderella Christmas Carol ebook here:

Kindle

Nook

iBooks

Kobo

Google Play

Entangled

And be sure to check out my other holiday offerings, A Wonderfully Sexy Life, contemporary time-slip romance set in my birthplace of Bawlmer – Baltimore – Maryland and Tomorrow’s Destiny, a Neo Victorian – and feminist – take on Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

It’s beginning to feel A LOT like Christmas…

xo Hope