Blurb:
The world could use a lot more love,
which is why being united in love is the theme of this short story collection.
Each of the characters are dealing with horrific and heartbreaking
situations—loss, grief, war, divorce, dementia, disputes over land and more,
but what they all have in common is that, with the help of love, of unity, they
come through. It may not be all happily-ever-after—since life just doesn’t work
that way—but positivity and solidarity shine through in each of the tales and
will warm your heart.
So enjoy these stories of unexpected
companionship, old lovers reuniting, second chances and creative
problem-solving, with the knowledge that the proceeds from your purchase will
also have a deeply positive effect—with every penny going to the British Red
Cross’s UK Solidarity Fund.
Featuring stories from Gina Wynn,
Lily Harlem, Rebecca Chase, Rosie Jamieson, Skye MacKinnon, M H Heyer, Alyssa
Drake, Arizona Tape and Lucy Felthouse.
Available
from:
Barnes
& Noble: http://bit.ly/2wq8dqe
iBooks:
http://apple.co/2hdoqEP
Kobo:
http://bit.ly/2yjSoyG
Smashwords:
http://bit.ly/2hbrLrN
Add
to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36240214-united-in-love
*****
Excerpt
from What’s Past is Present by Gina Wynn
Connie always
believed she’d know it was summer when the rain got warmer. And that meant
summer was today.
She ran along the
pavement, trying to dodge the drops as they fell in big splats on her bare arms
like sloppy kisses, hunching as she attempted to shield the package of fish and
chips she carried. The aroma of the hot food and warm paper tickled her nose,
and she could almost taste the contents. Declan would be lucky if she arrived
back with anything more than soggy, empty wrappings at this rate.
Picking up her
pace as the smell of rain-splashed tarmac filled the air, she hurried the rest
of the way back to the house. His house.
She shook her head. It would take a while to see the house as anything but Mr
Pearce’s place—an adjustment it felt like she’d only just made. Now, it was
Dec’s. Just Dec’s. In her head, it’d only just stopped being his place where he
lived with his dad. Glancing at the windows in hopes of glimpsing him inside as
she walked past had been a habit for a very long time.
When her doorbell
had rung the previous night, she hadn’t expected to find a very crumpled, travel-weary
Dec in the dingy entryway to her bedsit. In fact, he was probably the last
person she hoped to ever find gracing the stoop of what she
not-quite-laughingly referred to as her hovel.
She’d barely had
chance to move, or slam the door in his definitely unwelcome face, before he
wrapped his arms around her, folding her into a perfect bear hug of long-ago
familiarity. Caught off-guard and unprepared to see him, she rested her cheek
against the soft brushed cotton of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat, as
his fingers splayed over her cheek, and she pretended not to notice the rough
gasps of air he drew or the silent tears landing in her hair. Her chest
hollowed, her heart breaking both for him and over him anew, and a lone
teardrop of her own slid noiselessly down her nose.
Of course, she’d
promised to help him today because she could never deny him anything, even
though she’d spent the past five years regretting him. Getting over him. The bastard. She’d never stopped loving
him.
Five years had
crept by in a lazy blink of his beautiful brown eyes. And now, in the place
where she’d spent so many of her stolen days and illicit nights, she could
almost imagine the clocks had rolled back and he’d never left. She’d certainly
wished for it enough times.
Short of pressing
the doorbell with her nose she had no way to attract his attention, so she
pushed on the door handle with her elbow and shouldered her way through the
unlocked door into the narrow hall. The same worn carpet, lending a musty smell
to the house these days, ran straight ahead to the kitchen and up the stairs.
She walked towards the kitchen, ignoring the grime of a house where the owner
hadn’t cared as much for the fabric of the building over the years as he did
the family members within it. Framed portraits and holiday snapshots of Dec and
his dad lined the walls, but she brushed past each of them. She could describe
the position and content of each—perhaps accurately pinpoint the date of a few
if she appeared on Mastermind with
‘The early life of Declan Pearce’ as her specialist subject.
But as she turned
to push through the door into the next room, she caught sight of some new
pictures and swallowed down a mixture of envy and bitterness at the
juxtaposition of Declan’s life before and after—the part where he’d moved on
without her. Even after Dec left, his dad must have continued to hang pictures
of him because there he was, framed with as much care as anything that gone
before.
Dec in an office
of black leather and gleaming chrome—a vista of New York spread like a map
through the huge picture window behind him; Dec beside an aeroplane bearing his
name—sunglasses on, wide grin in place, and a suit that must have been
expensive but one he wore without effort and made it look good.
Dec behind a podium.
Dec in an
apartment so swish she’d have believed someone had Photoshopped him into it if
she didn’t know better.
Dec…
Dec… Dec. Just him.
Her gaze skimmed
the remainder of the newest frames, and her thoughts stalled. She leant closer.
No. They weren’t photographs. They
were pictures that had been cut with great care from glossy magazines and
newspaper articles, as if someone was reduced to simply scrapbooking a loved
one’s life rather than being part of it.
Regret flashed
through her. It didn’t show the future—the life together— she and Dec had
planned in all those late nights that somehow turned into seeing the dawn. If
she was honest, it didn’t show any sort of life she’d ever imagined for anyone
she knew, let alone someone she loved. And especially not for Dec. She’d always
believed they were the same type of person. But maybe not now she could see his
life through someone else’s eyes.
She shrugged,
trying to throw off her sudden melancholy. The fish and chips wouldn’t eat
themselves.
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