It’s here! It’s here!

I’m so excited to share Andi and Hill’s book with y’all. This heroine is near and dear to my heart because I’ve wanted to write a horror-movie-loving heroine for a long time. I’ve always loved horror movies/books and have been fascinated by true crime—and didn’t understand why, since I’m an anxious person. But once I dug into the research and found out that many people who struggle with anxiety, particularly women, find comfort in horror and true crime stories (for a number of layered reasons), I knew I had to write a story about that kind of woman. Andi is the result of that.

And her hero, Hill, is one of my favorite kinds of heroes. Tough and gruff on the outside but hiding lots of his own wounds—and secretly a gooey cinnamon roll on the inside. Plus, he cooks!

I hope you enjoy spending time with Andi and Hill as much as I did! (Well, when they were cooperating and not being difficult characters who didn’t do what this writer wanted them to do. :) )

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Here’s the official summary and scroll down for an excerpt:

About the book:

New York Times and USA Today bestseller Roni Loren blends heat and heart in this emotionally charged story of:

A frightened woman longing to break free
A wounded man searching for his purpose
An unexpected friendship turned sizzling hot connection
And an emotional climax that'll have them both learning to let go

The world can be a scary place. At least, that's what Andi Lockley's anxiety wants her to believe. It doesn't help that she narrowly escaped a dangerous man years ago, or that every relationship since has been colored with that lingering fear. But things are better now—she's channeling everything into her career as a horror novelist and true crime podcaster, and her next book may be the breakthrough she needs.

If only her grumpy new neighbor would stop stomping around at all hours of the night.

Former firefighter Hill Dawson can't sleep. After losing part of his leg in a rescue gone wrong, he's now stuck in limbo. He needs to figure out what he's supposed to do with his life, and he can't let himself get distracted by the pretty redhead next door. But when someone breaks into Andi's place, Hill can't stop himself from rushing in to play the hero. Soon, a tentative bond forms between the unlikely pair. But what starts out as a neighborly exchange quickly turns into the chance for so much more...if Andi can learn to put aside her fear and trust in herself—and love—again.

Excerpt:

Andi startled, a yelp escaping her, and nearly knocked over her tea. The loud sound repeated, and it took a second for her to realize it was coming from the door she’d just checked. Boom! Boom! Boom!

The afghan was clutched tight in her fist, and the movie still blasted, screams filling the living room. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears, and she stared at the door like it was going to splinter and the movie’s Ghostface was going to walk right in and disembowel her with his knife.

Andi’s logical brain registered this probably wasn’t the case, but that part was a distant whisper at the moment. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t turn off the TV. She was frozen in place.

The thunderous knocking started again. “Fire department. Open up!”

The words fire department penetrated her fear fog. Fire. Fire? That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would the fire department be banging on her door in the middle of the night? Maybe something had happened in the neighborhood. Or maybe they had the wrong house.

Thinking it through helped a little. Finally, she was able to unfurl her fingers from the afghan and grab the remote to hit Pause. The silence that followed was almost as unsettling as the banging. The pounding on the door started again with an added threat to break down the door if no one responded. That got her moving. She hurried to her feet, headed to the door, and peered through the peephole. All she could see was a T-shirt clad shoulder as the man apparently leaned over to try to see through her front window.

A T-shirt, not a firefighter’s uniform. She cleared her throat and called out, “How do I know you’re a firefighter?”

Whoever it was stepped back and pointed to an NOFD insignia on his T-shirt, just visible in the peephole’s view. “Hill Dawson,” the man called out. “Your neighbor. Everything okay in there?”

Her neighbor? She reached for the pepper spray she kept in the drawer of her small entryway table, turned the latch on the lock, and opened the door, ready to spray if needed. Underneath the porch light, the outline of a man came into view. A very tall, broad-shouldered man. The werewolf. Complete with dark messy hair, a trimmed beard, and a scowl. He was equal parts gorgeous and intimidating—not unlike a real wolf—and her body tensed as though it couldn’t decide whether she should run like hell or rush forward and volunteer to play villager.

His brown eyes met hers, his searching look sending hot awareness through her, but then his gaze scanned downward. Only then did she remember she was standing there braless in a thin tank top and a pair of Wonder Woman pajama pants with a very formidable stranger on her doorstep. That snapped her out of her ridiculous staring. Who cared that he was attractive? He could still be there to hurt her. She crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin, trying to look tough. “What’s going on?”

“So, you’re okay?” he asked, brows knit, his voice a deep rumble. His gaze flicked to the pink canister of mace still clutched in her fist. “I heard screaming. A lot of it.”

“Screaming?” She frowned.

He shifted, and her attention jumped to his right hand, the one hanging loosely at his side. The one holding a baseball bat. She stiffened, her mouth going dry and her mind racing past suspicion and into worst-case-scenario territory. What if he wasn’t a firefighter? What if he wasn’t her neighbor? What if he was there to rob/rape/murder/dismember her and wear her head as a hat?

She uncrossed her arms, her finger poised on the trigger of the pepper spray. She was suddenly much less concerned about her lack of bra and much more concerned that she’d be caught off guard and attacked.

The man frowned, his gaze tracking her weapon before looking at her again. “There was yelling and screaming. I could hear it through the wall. I thought you were in trouble.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you’re really a firefighter? Anybody could get a T-shirt.”

He tried to peek past her into the house and then lowered his voice. “Ma’am, if you’re in trouble, if there’s someone in there you’re scared of, just step outside and I can help.”

“Someone inside?” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m alone. It was a movie.”

Her brain screamed at her as the words slipped out. I’m alone?

Have you learned nothing? Don’t tell the stranger you’re alone in the house! She should fire herself from her own podcast.

“I mean,” she went on. “I’m not in trouble. The screaming was a movie. I was watching a horror movie.”

The stiff hold of his shoulders relaxed, and his gaze met hers again, disbelief there. “A movie? It sounded like you were getting murdered over here.”

“Just Drew Barrymore. Not me.” She shifted on her feet. “Maybe I had it a little too loud.”

He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and she realized her imagination hadn’t been far off earlier. This guy could be cast in a movie as lead werewolf. Scruffy and muscular in his navy-blue T-shirt and gray sweats. He was one full moon away from howling and ripping off that well-fitting shirt.

“A little too loud?” he asked, repeating her words. “It’s midnight. The screams were damn near vibrating my walls.”

That made her spine straighten and a flash of indignation rush through her. “Yes, it is midnight. And someone thought blaring songs about tractors was appropriate at this hour. I had to turn up my TV to drown you out.” She nodded at his weapon. “Do you make it a habit to scare the shit out of new neighbors by brandishing a baseball bat on their doorstep?”

He glanced down at his bat as if just remembering he had it, like it was a normal extension of his arm. He leaned over and set it against a planter out of her reach, then lifted a brow her way. “Says the lady with the pink pepper spray.”

“Hey, you’re at my door, man. I didn’t bang on yours.” She wasn’t going to put down her weapon. No, thank you.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and rubbed his forehead. “Okay, so you’re not getting murdered or the hell beat out of you.”

“I am not.”

“That’s good.” He nodded, almost to himself, and ran a hand over the back of his head.

“Agreed. I consider it a good day if I haven’t been murdered.”

He stared at her for a moment as if at a loss for what to say to that, and she was momentarily struck by how well his beard suited his tense jawline, by how long his eyelashes were, how his brown eyes

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said finally. “But maybe not so loud on the movies. I’m trained to respond to screams.”

Somehow the words trained to respond to screams sounded dirty to her ear, and heat bloomed in her cheeks. God. What was with her tonight? She cleared her throat. “Right. And maybe not so loud with the tractor music?”

His mouth hitched up at one corner, a lazy tilt of a smile. “I played no songs about tractors. There was no farm equipment referenced at all.”

She crossed her arms again and gave him a knowing look. “What about mommas, trains, trucks, prison, or gettin’ drunk?”

A low chuckle escaped him, and he coughed, as if trying to cover it. “Touché. No promises there.”

***

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