**** Still on the fence? 'Ehh, should I grab it? Do I have time to read it?' Here's an excerpt that might help ya decide!!! Pretty Instinct- it's a New Adult to Contemporary(ish) standalone about a band named "See You Next Tuesday," the leader, Lizzie, her sweet/challenged brother, and the 2 Foster brothers, drummer and guitarist... all on a tour bus together... Then add one more- Cannon Blackwell- the guy they pick up on the side of the road... bc they're short a bassist. books2read.com/u/4jw7Xk ********** Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses with my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than if Photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than mine. He has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut hue as his eyes, and not too short, but definitely not too long either. “Just fucked” hair, (isn’t that what they call it?), be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans, worn well, and the long-sleeved black thermal he’s got on? Oh, he wears it all right, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly. Bottom line — he’s easy to look at. “Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?” I like to open subtly. “No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of ‘yup, you want it.’ With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To blur this perfect picture with an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator. “No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism. “Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it in its case. “Hen
