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Published: April 9, 2013
Length: Novella
Honey and Fur #1
Genre(s): Paranormal Romance
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Honey was surrounded by drunken idiots. A fact that did not amuse bad-boy Blake Carlisle one bit. He leaned in the doorway for a second, and his heavily muscled frame all but filled the opening as he watched the men surrounding her. The bar was bustling, the place filled wall to wall.

His dark gaze flicked from one face to the next. Later there would be a reckoning.

Honey was his. She had been from the moment she’d arrived in town six months ago and taken over the bar and grill. The sooner people around these parts worked that out, the fewer heads he’d have to break.

Blake walked into the room. Encased head to toe in black leathers, he was the stereotypical biker, right down to the long hair that curled into his neck and the tattoos on his biceps.

As he passed, conversation fell silent. A sense of wariness filled the room, the sweaty tang teasing his nose as they watched him. Watched and waited to see what he’d do next. A bad boy from the wrong side of town, it was no secret Blake had seen the inside of the sheriff’s holding cell more times than most people had hot dinners. He’d lost count of the number of fights he’d started and then finished.

He reached the bar and leaned against it to watch the fracas surrounding his Honey. Amazonian tall with a fall of honey-blonde hair, she was well named. But it wasn’t the hair that held Blake’s attention. Nor was it the stacked rack or the luscious curve of her ass, all attributes he appreciated. Hell, just thinking about those curves kept him hot and hard at nights. But they weren’t what drew him to her.

She had the most beautiful turquoise eyes. Clear and piercing, it was as if she could see through the bad boy mask he presented to the rest of the world and saw him for what he truly was. Saw the man behind the secrets. Which scared the shit out of him and drew him in all at the same time.

“Hey, what’s a guy gotta do around here to get a drink…” One of the louts around Honey pushed his way to the bar, knocking one of his companions out of the way to get in front of her. Blake’s hand curled into a fist as the guy leered at her cleavage. He was going to break bones later. Lots of them. “…or perhaps a little something ‘extra’?”

Red mist descended over Blake’s eyes. Without thinking about the consequences, he surged to his feet. The locals, well used to his behavior by now, cleared the tables nearest to the bar. He ignored their movements. They thought they knew him, but they didn’t. If they knew the truth, they’d be running for the hills. That, or die laughing.

Blake was a shifter. A were if someone wanted to get technical, which meant he was stronger, faster, and meaner than any human alive. He could bench press cars without breaking a sweat or run a marathon before breakfast. If his sexual aura could be bottled and sold, it would make someone a fortune. Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him. All in all, he was living the dream. Apart from one little detail. Blake was a shape shifter, yes, but he preferred to remain in his human form because the fates were bitches with a twisted sense of humor.

There were werewolves and werecats, even bad-ass werebears. Blake was none of those. No, he’d lucked out in the small, spiny, and cute arena. Blake was a werehedgehog.

“Gentlemen, I think you’ve had enough,” His voice was low and held more than a hint of threat. The kind of warning that said he didn’t expect any argument, but if one came his way he’d happily take up the challenge. With his fists.

Unfortunately for him, the blond harassing Honey wasn’t so good at picking up on subtle hints. Probably wasn’t so good at picking up anything less than a piece of two by four against the back of his head. He had that sort of hard-bitten, bar fighter look about him.

“I can handle this, Blake.” Honey gave him a glare for his troubles. The sort of glare with its own subtle innuendo. Blake abruptly lost the ability to read her and just stared at the guy in front of the bar.

The stranger turned around and rested on his elbows against the solid surface. “Yeah Blake, let the little lady handle this. And I’ll handle her…” Catcalls went up from the group around the man as high fives were exchanged.

Blake shrugged and hooked a chair from the nearest table with his foot. He picked it up, looked it over, and pretended to admire the workmanship. “Well, you know women… Sometimes they don’t know what they want. And they never realize when they’re in over their heads. They need a strong man to look out for them.”

Honey squeaked in outrage, her face turning a bright shade of red that he knew meant she was angry with him. Blake ignored her. His hands smoothed over the back of the simple chair as he turned it over. Blondie’s eyes flicked to it and back to him.

“Really? Personally man, I think you and your chair there should get a room and some quality time together before me and the boys here get bored and decide you need to be taught a lesson.”

Blake looked up through the hair that had fallen over his face and smiled. Not a nice, “how ya doing?” smile, but one that said bad things were about to happen.

“Blake… Blake you put that chair down now,” Honey warned, her sweet voice rolling through him, but not doing a damn bit of good at soothing the beast inside.

“Is that so? Well then…” He ripped the thing apart in one quick jerk.

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Published: April 13, 2015
Length: Short Novel
Honey and Fur #2
Genre(s): Paranormal Romance
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Katie wondered if murdering a pregnant woman was two counts of homicide or one. Honey—said pregnant woman, her boss, BFF, and mate to Katie’s werehedgehog Alpha—was driving her to drink. Between her random cravings, scattered thoughts, and continuous whining, Katie was ready to end the woman.

Her tiny four-door car bounced and shook over the aged dirt road, dust billowing in her wake. She kept the windows shut, air condition on recirculate to keep the country lane’s dirt from invading her vehicle. It was a long drive between Honey’s Bar & Grill and Old Man Kenton’s farm. But it was one she’d been making for a few years now. Unfortunately, this could be her last visit. Unless she could convince Honey that Katie was right and she was wrong. With a capital “W.” Lowercase letters did not work with Honey.

“But the house has got two floors…” Honey whined.

Katie put her cell phone back to her ear when the annoying sound ended. “And we’ll get baby gates to keep the kidlets from falling.” Then she remembered that her friend was mated to a werehedgehog. “With itty bitty slats. Super-small even.”

“And then there’s all that land.”

“We’ll get a lawn mower for Blake. Just think of it, a half-naked man dripping with sweat that you can safely ogle all day.” Safely being the operative word. Katie’s Alpha was a bit possessive when it came to Honey.

“That house is huge.”

Well, yeah, the main house was a smidge on the big side. Katie’s plan was to split the cost of purchasing the farm with Honey and Blake. Since they were mated with a hedgehog-shaped bun in the oven, they’d live in the main house while Katie took over the converted barn. Clean and easy.

Katie repositioned her cell phone and looked at the house in the distance. “Okay, it is big, but I’ll split a cleaning lady with you. Fifty-fifty.” Even if her place was tiny compared to Honey’s.

“And it’s in the boonies.”

Katie knew that, too. It’d taken her thirty minutes to get from Honey’s to Old Man Kenton’s, and she was just now pulling into the farm’s driveway. “I know, but that means it’s quiet.” She sighed. “Look, I really, really wanna buy this place. Old Man Kenton…” He’d been like the loving grandfather she’d never had. “If you don’t want to buy, we won’t. Simple as that.” Her heart stuttered at the thought.

She popped the car into park and cut the engine. Phone now plastered to the other ear, she stared at the rambling farmhouse, admiring the hundred-year-old building with a mix of heart-wrenching grief and envy.

More than one Sunday had been spent on that rickety porch, drinking iced tea with Old Man Kenton. He’d go on and on about his family, telling stories of his relatives long dead and then those who lived but never visited. He’d been forgotten by his family on this plot of land, the house too big for him, yet he’d been unwilling to sell out.

“They’ll take it from my cold, dead fingers, Katie-girl.”

He was cold and dead now and everything in her told her that the farm was hers. She didn’t care about the man’s absent family. Where had his grandson been when the old man was declining? Where had he been when Katie delivered meals every day or read to him every night?

Nowhere.

“Look, I’m here. I gotta get a move on the cleaning and packing. The attorney told me that I have permission to box things up. He said he couldn’t reveal the terms of the will just yet, but he could safely allow me access and he’d look the other way if a few mementos went missing.” A lump in her throat formed with the last few words. Mementos. How did someone pack up years of memories?

“Katie,” Honey sighed and she sensed a softening of her friend’s opinion. “I’ll come look at it with Blake tonight.”

“Really?” Katie hated to get her hopes up, but that couldn’t be helped.

“Really. From what you said, it’s a good place to raise kids. Lots of space, a big house, and we’ll have you next door.” Everything Honey said was true. “And the barn house has enough room for you, your future mate, and your adorable hoglets. Though I want to call them piglets since that’s cuter, but Blake…”

Katie tuned out Honey’s ramblings, instead thinking of the future, a possible mate and—gah—kids. Of course, the mate had to come first. Well, ideally the mate would come first. For a while she’d thought her Alpha, Blake, was that guy, but then she’d seen him fall head over quills for Honey. That had been that.

A glance at her watch revealed she needed to get a move on. She planned on spending a few hours packing and her mobile chat with Honey was eating into her time.

“Hey, chickie, lemme let you go. I’ve got to get to work. M’kay, love you, bye.” Katie didn’t give Honey time to object. They’d been friends for so long, she hoped—prayed— that the Incubator of the Baby didn’t get pissy. Or cry. God, the woman could cry at the drop of a shot glass.

Pregnant women dropped a lot of shot glasses.