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In this memoir, the famous Lithuanian writer Vanda Juknaite describes her life during the reemergence of an independent, democratic Lithuanian state in the early 1990s. Masterfully translated by Laima Sruoginis, Sruoginis's remarkable experiences recall the transition from communism to democracy with all its joys and difficulties.
In this memoir, the famous Lithuanian writer Vanda Juknaite describes her life during the reemergence of an independent, democratic Lithuanian state in the early 1990s. Masterfully translated by Laima Sruoginis, Sruoginis's remarkable experiences recall the transition from communism to democracy with all its joys and difficulties.
College life should come with a content warning. All Phoebe Sharpe wanted was to start over at a new college to escape the drama and humiliation of her mom’s sordid past. But her present is hardly less complicated. To avoid sleeping on the streets, Phoebe seeks sanctuary at a 24-hour gym. When she meets the smoking hot Tiago, her desire to remain anonymous disappears. Fortis University kicker Tiago Trindade has more on his plate than the average college sophomore. He’s trying to keep his GPA high enough to maintain his football scholarship while balancing practice and a job at the local gym to help support his family. When he learns his grandmother's been swindled out of the title on her house—which would leave them homeless—he’s determined to save them. And then he meets the girl of his dreams...who just might be involved in her mom’s con. When Phoebe learns the truth about her mother’s role in scamming Tiago’s family, she’s torn. Should she protect her own family or save Tiago’s?
“Carrying a girl Across the river; The hazy moon.” Robert glances up from the book of Haiku verse. “That’s like us.” “Is it?” I ask with a smile. Blue shifts on the couch next to me, pressing more weight against my side. Nila and Frank lay together, their limbs intertwined, on the marble floor. Robert is half in shadow, his green glass shaded reading lamp throwing a pale yellow circle across his lap and chest. A small, leather-bound book lays open in one of his long-fingered, elegant hands. The last wisps of the sunset, just the palest, most powdery blues and darkest hues of purple, light up the sky and filter through the wall of glass, casting shadows around the living room. Robert’s phone, lying on the table next to him, vibrates, sending a low hum through the quiet, peaceful room. He glances at the screen and then answers it. “Yes, Brock.” Brock is his head of home security and handles the safety and impenetrability of this mansion on Star Island—a refuge for the extremely wealthy in Biscayne Bay, just east of downtown Miami. “I see.” Robert’s gaze meets mine, his blue-green eyes narrowing. The fine lines around them deepen. In his fifties, with dark hair silvering at the temples, Robert is an imposing presence. It's not just that he's over six feet tall and well-muscled. Or that he moves with the elegance and speed of a killer, either. There is an aura of power that surrounds Robert Maxim—wafts from him—and demands to be acknowledged. He closes the book of poems and leaves it on the side table. Blue, Nila, and Frank lift their heads, collars jangling. The puppies look to their father for direction. Eight months old, with gigantic paws, soft features, and keen instincts, they are almost as tall as Blue. A mutt I adopted back when I lived in New York—a lifetime ago—Blue is the height of a Great Dane with the long, elegant snout of a collie, the thick coat of a wolf, and the markings of a Siberian husky, with one blue eye and one brown. Blue is trained to protect and his offspring are learning…Nila better than Frank. Frank is a dumb dog—which I love about him. The guy is almost too sweet for the job. Whenever Merl, a dog expert, tries to get him to attack, Frank turns it into a game. Nila, on the other hand, is ruthless, smart, and quick. Robert hangs up the phone, and Blue leaps off the couch. The puppies scramble to their feet, facing the door. Robert stands, slipping the phone into his pocket, and crosses to me. He reaches out a hand—the shirt-sleeve rolled up, exposing a strong forearm dusted in dark hair. “Time to go,” he says. I twine my fingers with his, and Robert pulls me from the couch, holding me tight as we begin to move. A heavy fist pounds on the front door, echoing through the large house. My soft-soled sneakers are almost silent on the marble as we begin to jog. The dogs’ nails click along with us. “Homeland Security. Open up!” A man yells, his voice muffled by the large house. Robert presses a button, and a bookshelf slides away, revealing a doorway. The loud crash of a battering ram striking the front door echoes as Maxim punches a code into the keypad next to the elevator. My heartbeat remains even. I am not afraid. P.S. The dog does not die. **Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**
In We Who Live Apart, Joan Connor returns to the dark New England of her earlier collection and the wry characters who inhabit it: a hunter who has spent too much time listening to the woods, a ferryman whose emotional seclusion leads to a doomed longing for a summer girl, a carnival diviner whose cards foretell her desertion, a corpse who, out of sheer meanness, will not stay below ground. Although childlessness, divorce, and alcoholism are recurrent motifs that underscore the estrangement of many characters, the moods of the stories are rarely bleak. Humor figures in often, as do elements of the folktale and the supernatural. Despite the stylistic variety in these stories, there is a shared vision of isolation in which characters, wittingly and unwittingly, ensure their separateness and even come to treasure it. As the narrator says in "The Anecdote of the Island," "After a year of debate, it conduces to this: I watch you leave as you once watched me. Our cars separate at the base of a hill. You diminish to a speck in my rearview mirror. When I look for you, I stare into my own eyes looking for you. And I begin to think that what you want is not love but the hope for love. Its remoteness. Its shadow self. You linger in dark places." Indeed, many of these characters linger in dark places, but without giving in to despair. In "October," a recovering alcoholic surprises herself and begins to risk the beginnings of reconnection. And in "Women's Problems," a character coping with the loss of her lover, and then her mother, manages to transmute loss to gain with the triumphant realization that she has become her mother and that, indeed, "Worse things could happen." For these characters, their apartness is as often a choice as a consequence, but the choice has a consequence. When Bluebeard's wife escapes her murderous husband and her fairy-tale narrative in "Bluebeard's First Wife," she finds that "Ordinariness sat upon [her] shoulders like a weather-eroded gargoyle." Whether these characters isolate themselves or find themselves isolated by nets of personal and communal history, they move to wisdom rather than despondency. Connor displays a keen ear for language and a mastery of prose rhythms and dialogue. Her writing, which is often lyrical in the best sense, amply repays the effort of rereading and reflection, and the variety of narrative techniques sustains the reader's interest.
Lissie I thought being the good girl would protect me from the world's pain. But that was a stupid wish. Because no matter how good you are, bad things still happen. It's been a year since my life changed forever. A year since I'd seen him. Nathan Ross. The rich boy, NFL star quarterback with a cocky attitude. He's my sister's ex-boyfriend—and the reason she's dead. I hate him. I hate that he's alive and she isn't. But worse than that, I hate the disgusting attraction I feel for him. Now's he back, recovered, and playing for the same team I'm dancing on. My grief is clearly messing with my head, because my hate keeps building—and turning into something so much more disgusting… Desire. Only Regrets is a standalone dark contemporary sports romance. It's the debut co-release from authors Emery Saint and Vanessa Winters, writing together as Vanessa Saint! ***Note: This book contains dark themes and adult situations. Be advised.***
In her second book of the Cousins' War series, #1 "New York Times"-bestselling author Gregory moves to the Lancaster side, and tells the story of a determined woman who believes she is destined to shape the course of history.
Black Swan meets Paranormal Activity in this compelling ghost story about a former dancer whose grip on reality slips when she begins to think a dark entity is stalking her. Something is wrong with Marianne. It's not just that her parents have finally split up. Or that life hasn't been the same since she quit dancing. Or even that her mother has checked herself into the hospital. She's losing time. Doing things she would never do. And objects around her seem to break whenever she comes close. Something is after her. And the only one who seems to believe her is the daughter of a local psychic. But their first attempt at an exorcism calls down the full force of the thing's rage. It demands Marianne give back what she stole. Whatever is haunting her, it wants everything she has—everything it's convinced she stole. Marianne must uncover the truth that lies beneath it all before the nightmare can take what it thinks it's owed, leaving Marianne trapped in the darkness of the other side.
They’re all wrong for each other…but sometimes two wrongs do make a right. Cole The only woman I need in my life is my eight-year-old daughter, Jane. As a widowed brewery owner, I don’t have the time or inclination for anything more serious than a one night stand. Running the brewery is a big job, and being a parent is a bigger one, especially since my in-laws keep trying to prove I’m an unfit guardian. But there’s no denying Holly Mayberry drives me crazy with her sassy mouth and attitude. I’ve known her most of my life, but I’ve always done a good job of evading her. Until now. She’s teaching Jane’s after-school computer program, and fate keeps throwing us together. Holly and I are like oil and water, no good for each other. I need to stop thinking about her, so I agree to beta test a new dating app—one that Holly designed, although she’s the last person I’d tell. My match and I can only DM each other for thirty days. No photos. No real names. No personal information until the end. If I wanted more with a woman, Cherry Bomb checks all the boxes…so why can’t I stop thinking about Holly? * * * Holly Cole Garrison is a jerk. Or so I’ve told myself for years. The truth is, he’s a DILF and a half, and bickering with him is better than kissing someone else. Hopefully, the guy I’m chatting up on my dating app will help me forget him…and take his place in my dirty daydreams.