A Place Without You, an all-new emotional, new adult romance from Jewel E. Ann is coming January 2nd, and we have a sneak peek for you!
The Law of Henna and Bodhi:
When love breaks, fall inward, fall together, and fall hard. Then let time pick up the pieces.
Everything feels temporary when you’ve experienced tragedy—until Henna Lane meets Bodhi at a music festival.
Young and spontaneous, they have a lust for seizing the moment, falling hard and fast.
When Bodhi is forced to leave without a goodbye, Henna thinks she’ll never get over him. But then she meets Mr. Malone, her sexy, new guidance counselor.
They are reckless.
They are forbidden.
When their secret is discovered, Henna has to choose between finishing school—banned from seeing Mr. Malone—or dropping out to follow her nomad dreams.
Henna chooses her dreams.
Over time, she learns that life is not a destination or a journey, some things are more than temporary, and the forbidden can never be ignored. But if she returns for him, will he still be hers?
A Place Without You is an emotional story of young love, shattered dreams, and impossible decisions.
Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2AHhTNT
Excerpt from Chapter One
His lips move. I stare at them for a few breaths before I realize he’s talking. My hand tugs out my earbud again.
“Sorry. Did you say something?”
“What are you listening to?” he asks in a voice as smooth as his Mediterranean eyes.
“That’s kind of a personal question. Like asking my underwear color.”
He grins. It’s all kinds of wicked. “Personal?” He shrugs. “I don’t know about that. Depends on the song … and the color.”
“Amy Shark, ‘Adore.’And red and silver polka dots.”
“Mmm …” He nods slowly. “Good choice.”
“The song?” I bite the corner of my lower lip to control my grin.
“The underwear.”
My heart wakes up as if to say, “Whoa, is something going on here I should know about?”
“Wanna see mine?”
My eyebrows lift a fraction. “Your underwear?”
He digs his phone out of his front pocket. “Do I look like a perv? My song.”
Damn. He’s good. My tummy joins in on the little dance happening inside of me.
Twisting his wrist, he shows me his phone screen.
“Apocalyptica, ‘Nothing Else Matters.’ Hmm … that’s unexpected.” I let my gaze fall into his, a dangerous place to be. “You going to Coachella?”
He nods several times, glancing over the seats to the road before us. “I’m working there.”
“Oh, cool. Doing what?”
He inspects my hair. I’d planned on changing clothes and doing something a bit more original with my crazy, dark auburn hair than a messy braid over one shoulder, but sushi dad took away my hotel room. Sexy stranger grins like either my question or my messy hair pleases him. “I’m an in-house tech—audio, lighting, video.”
Dear God, he’s the full package, especially when that grin of his grows as I continue to violate him with my eyes. Maybe it’s just the lollipop I had on my way to the hotel. Everything seems aesthetically pleasing when I’m a little high.
“So, I’ll know who to blame if the sound is a bit off while one of my favorite bands performs.”
“You’ll know who to thank when it isn’t.” He leans toward the middle of the backseat. I follow his lead because I’m curious if he smells as good as he looks. “But I get this feeling that in your state, everything will sound good.”
Ignoring his whispered accusation that I’m high, I sniff. “You smell like lemon.”
He sticks his tongue out, revealing a half-melted lemon drop.
I grin as we sit straight again. “Last year my mom brought back lemon drops from the Limoncello factory in Sorrento. They were amazing.”
Sucking more intensely on his sour goodness, he nods slowly. “I’m sure they were. Sadly, I don’t think my lemon drop was made in Italy.”
“That is incredibly sad.”
He chuckles. Is he laughing at me?
“Nice tats.” He nods to my arms.
Holding them out, I admire my art. “They’re henna, like me.”
“Like you?”
“Yes. My name is Henna. And these will be much more intense tomorrow.”
“Like you?” His teeth scrape along his bottom lip. It’s ridiculously sexy.
“Are you flirting with me?”
He chuckles. “We met less than five minutes ago. I have a little more tact than that.”
“Tact? Like asking the color of my underwear?”
He runs his hands over the legs of his jeans. Is he sweating? Am I making him sweat? That possibility gives me a whole other kind of high.
“I didn’t ask. You freely offered that information. Besides, I have rules about flirting.”
“Well, I despise rules, but you must share your rules anyway.”
“Never flirt with someone who is not sober.” He stares out his window like his rule is the end of our friendly conversation.
“Sober? Dude, this is as sober as I get.” Leaning forward, I shove down the waist of my shorts in back, exposing a long L-shaped scar.
He glances over, forehead wrinkled.
“If I sit too long or stand too long or do anything too long, life kinda sucks. But a little high can go a long way with making said life a lot less sucky.”
Sitting back, I exhale. Sexy stranger seems at a loss for words.
“Tell me, tech guy, do you have a name?”
The driver stops at the crowded entrance.
“Thank you,” we say while getting out of the car.
To read the rest of Chapter One, visit:
http://bit.ly/2r9bWU0
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