Darkness Embraced Chapter Reveal

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THE DEEPEST LOVE CAN BE BORN FROM THE FIERCEST HATE…

Born to sit on opposing thrones.
They were never meant to fall.

Tanner Ayers is the heir of the Texas Ku Klux Klan. Fed nothing but hate, violence, and intolerance from the day he was born, Tanner kills for his cause without remorse.
Until he meets Adelita Quintana, the daughter of the most brutal cartel boss in Mexico.
Adelita and Tanner hate each other instantly. But there is something between them that neither can explain or deny. Hate turns to desire, desire turns to love, and for the first time Tanner sees how wrong his whole life has been.
For years, Tanner does everything he can to find a way for him and Adelita. He walks away from the Klan, his family, everything he ever believed, and joins the Hades Hangmen. But now the Hangmen are at war—not only with his own family, but with Adelita’s too.
When Adelita and Tanner are thrown together again, they are forced to fight for a love that should never have been. For a love that puts them and everyone they have ever loved in danger.
The White Prince.
The cartel princess.
And a future that seems shrouded in darkness…

Dark Contemporary Romance. Contains sexual situations, violence, sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and mature topics. Recommended for age 18 years and up.

Tanner
Austin, Texas
Present Day . . .

The sand crunched under my feet. Bullets flew around my head. My chest was tight, ready to snap, as I watched Gull and Arizona take shots to their heads and drop to the floor.
Both of them fucking dead and done.
A whistle cut through the carnage that was this fucked-up deserted farm. I glanced up to the barn beside me. AK was signaling to me from his place on the roof. He sliced his hand over his throat. I got his message—we needed to draw the fuck back.
“No!”
My gaze snapped to the noise. Viking was scrambling to his feet. When I saw Flame striding toward the crumbling stables across the clearing I knew why. The psychotic motherfucker was walking toward where the Klan were stationed, like he couldn’t be fucking killed, arms stretched wide, firing bullet after bullet toward my old Klan brothers, who were taking us out with fucking pinpoint accuracy.
I aimed my gun, focusing on taking down the assholes that had now turned their attention to Flame. AK narrowed his eyes and, with his usual sniper precision, sent bullets flying into the skulls of a few of those who’d abandoned their cover to come at Flame.
But the fuckers had a sniper too. These weren’t the skinheads the Klan was known for. The dumb shits everyone always thought of when it came to white power. No, these were the brothers I’d spent years training up. The ones who were kept in secret, so the feds and rivals didn’t know the Klan’s true strength. My father had meticulously recruited these guys. These were the fuckers who were gonna ignite the surprise wildfire that would spark the race war. The soldiers no one ever saw coming.
No one but me.
“Flame!” Viking jumped up from his place behind an old tractor and sprinted toward his fucked-up brother. Rudge jumped into the spot Vike left. AK tried to give Vike the cover to get to Flame, spraying a blanket of rapid bullets toward the Klan. But this branch of the Klan were stronger, smarter, and knew exactly what AK was doing. I tried to help, emptying my gun of its ammo, signaling to Smiler to give them cover too. But even with our guns, and AK’s fucking perfect aim, bullets came raging from all directions. We were outnumbered and out-skilled.
Like it was in fucking slow motion, I watched Vike dive for Flame. But the giant red motherfucker was too late. A bullet sank into Flame’s side. The psycho dropped to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his stomach.
“FUCK!” AK screamed, then jumped down off the barn’s roof. Rudge ran toward Vike and Flame, helping them get the fuck out of the line of fire. “Pull back!” AK shouted to me and Smiler. “Get the fuck back!”
I stood, firing shots in the direction of the Klan as AK, Rudge, and Vike dragged Flame from the bullets’ path. Jumping into the truck, I brought the engine to life. I felt the others put Flame in the back. AK hit the roof. “Fucking go!”
My pulse raced as I skidded the truck on the road, the Klan’s bullets sounding like exploding grenades, rocking the chassis as they hit the body of the truck. Vike, Rudge, and Smiler came roaring behind on their bikes, all three firing back at the Klan to give us the break we needed to get Flame home.
Reaching into my cut, I pulled out my cell and hit a number. “Tann?” Tank said a second later.
“Flame’s down. Klan were at the drop-off point. Came at us strong. Fucker got himself shot by losing his shit. Get Rider or Edge or who-the-fuck-ever to the club. He’s been hit in the stomach.” I looked in the rearview mirror to see AK pressing down on the wound. Flame was fighting the brother off. His fucking black eyes were crazed as blood spilled out onto the bed of the truck.
“Flame! For fuck’s sake! Keep the fuck still. I know you don’t want me touching you, but fucking think of Maddie. I don’t stop the bleeding, you’re gonna fucking die! You want that? You want to leave Madds alone without you?”
Flame’s body stilled, but I could see his nostrils flaring with his fast breaths. Fucker was close to nuclear.
“Tann? Tann, you still there?” Tank’s rushed voice came through my cell.
“Yeah. Fuck, Tank. They came from nowhere. We were making the exchange and they sprouted up from nowhere and started shooting. Arizona and Gull are dead. Bullets in their heads and sent to the boatman. They didn’t have a fucking chance. Better tell their prez.”
“Jesus Christ. How long until you’re here? You need backup?”
“No. We’re only ten minutes out. Get the fuck ready in case these assholes are on our tail. I’ll let you know if shit goes south.”
I cut off my cell and raced the fuck home. Slash, Smiler’s prospect cousin, was on the gate. Kero, brother from Arlington, was keeping watch beside him. We cut through the gate, Vike and Smiler riding in behind. I slammed the truck to a stop and jumped out.
“Help me get him down,” AK said.
AK and I lifted Flame from the truck’s bed just as Styx and Ky came barreling out of the clubhouse door. “Get him inside,” Styx signed, Ky voicing the prez’s words. We carried Flame through to the clubhouse to the room we’d had set up as a medical room the minute war had been declared by the Klan and the cartel. And good thing too, because we’d been getting hit on all sides for weeks now.
No sooner had we got Flame on the bed than Edge came through with his medical bag. Brother had been a trauma surgeon in the army before he went postal for a while, causing him to be put in a nuthouse. When he got out, fucker decided he liked to use his skills in cutting people up as much as he liked healing them. He joined the Arkansas chapter and quickly became one of the most ruthless brothers we had. He had one blue eye, one brown. And just in case no one realized he was already fucking insane, he dyed his hair on the side of his blue eye ice white, and left the brown side black. But no matter how fucked in the head he was—and that level of insanity could probably even beat Flame’s—brother had been a godsend since he’d been brought here with his chapter.
He tied his long crazy-ass hair back off his face and leaned over Flame. Crazier peering down at crazy. Flame, the fucker, quickly acted like the psycho he was and started thrashing on the bed, trying to reach for his knives to get at Edge. But Edge was good at what he did and, even more so, wasn’t fazed by anyone. Not even Styx made this guy pause to watch his mouth. Even if the crazed fucking smile he wore twenty-four-seven made you think otherwise. “Stomach wound?” His tongue lapped around his lips. Fucker seemed to get hard from the sight of people in pain.
“Bullet. Sniper . . .” AK started reeling off shit about Flame’s injury. Rider came through the door, running his hand over his shaved head. The brother still wasn’t accepted by half of the club, but he was a good medic, so Styx allowed him to help when needed. He seemed to work well with Edge, which was a fucking miracle in itself.
“What’ve we got?” he said to Edge, and the two of them started working on Flame’s wound, cutting off his clothes. I saw it in Flame’s eyes before he reacted. Saw the rage in his black gaze before he pushed Edge and Rider away, going nuts to get off the gurney. AK and Vike tried to hold him down, but the brother had fucking lost it.
“Need me to smash old Bill into his face? Knock the wanker out?” Rudge asked, holding up his fist—the fist that frequently knocked his bare-knuckle fighter opponents on their ass. Or, more often than not, fucking killed them.
Shaking my head, I jumped forward to help keep Flame down. Edge approached with a needle and syringe, his mismatched eyes lit with excitement. Suddenly, Maddie and Lil’ Ash crashed through the door.
“Flame!” Maddie rushed toward her husband, pushing Edge out of the way. Flame stilled the minute he saw her. “Get off him,” she said to everyone, her voice tight with warning. I backed up. AK and Vike did the same. Edge was pulled back by Styx. I got out of the way and just fucking watched. “Baby,” Maddie said, putting her hand on Flame’s cheek. His fucking wide eyes set on his wife and didn’t move. His breathing was heavy, but calmed when Maddie spoke. Tears fell down her cheeks, but her voice was steady.
“Maddie,” Flame whispered, and she kissed his head.
“Baby, you’re hurt. You need to let Rider and the doctor heal you.” His eyes were losing life. His blood was seeping onto the bed, and the fucker was about to pass out. Maddie pulled on his hand, and he refocused on her. “I am staying with you,” she said. “I am not leaving your side. And I will be here when you wake up.”
Flame exhaled, then his eyes started to close. Edge and Rider were fucking rocking on their feet waiting to get to him. I was no doctor, but I didn’t think his injury would kill him. I’d seen men come back from ten times worse in the army.
The second Flame was out, Edge and Rider pushed through to him, all business. Most brothers left the room, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off Maddie. Because the bitch had told Flame the fucking truth. She stayed beside her husband, gripping his fingers, running her hand over his head. She was whispering into his ear, and my chest nearly fucking cracked at the sight.
My eyes closed, and my hands balled into fists at my side. I’m here, mi amor. I’m here . . . I will never leave you . . . I could feel Adelita’s hand in mine. I could feel her finger on my cheek, and I could smell her rose perfume. Smell it as if it was right beside me. As if she was right beside me . . .
The sound of the floor creaking made my eyes snap open. A hand came down on my shoulder. Tank. “You good?”
I nodded my head, then turned. AK and Vike were still behind me, watching as Edge and Rider worked on Flame. AK had his hand on Ash’s shoulder. The kid was white. And he wasn’t taking his black eyes off Flame. Fucking locked on his brother on that gurney.
“Styx is calling church in thirty minutes,” Tank said. He looked at me. “Let’s get a drink.”

Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.

After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.

Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.

Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.

When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.

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Chapter Reveal: A Wish for Us by Tillie Cole

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From the author who brought you A Thousand Boy Kisses comes the new emotional novel, A Wish For Us.
A story of music. A story of healing. A story of love conquering all.


Nineteen-year-old Cromwell Dean is the rising star of electronic dance music. Thousands of people adore him. But no one knows him. No one sees the color of his heart.

Until the girl in the purple dress. She sees through the walls he has built to the empty darkness within.

When Cromwell leaves behind the gray skies of England to study music in the South Carolina heat, the last thing he expects is to see her again. And he certainly doesn’t expect that she’ll stay in his head like a song on repeat.

Bonnie Farraday lives for music. She lets every note into her heart, and she doesn’t understand how someone as talented as Cromwell can avoid doing the same. He’s hiding from his past, and she knows it. She tries to stay away from him, but something keeps calling her back.

Bonnie is the burst of color in Cromwell’s darkness. He’s the beat that makes her heart skip.

But when a shadow falls over Bonnie, it’s up to Cromwell to be her light, in the only way he knows how. He must help her find the lost song in her fragile heart. He must keep her strong with a symphony only he can compose.

A symphony of hope.
A symphony of love.
A symphony of them.

Cromwell
Brighton, England
The club pulsed as the beat I was pouring into the crowd took over their bodies. Arms in the air, hips swaying, eyes wide and glazed as my music slammed into their ears, the rhythmic beats controlling their every move. The air was thick and sticky, clothes slick to people’s skins as they crammed into the full club to hear me.
I watched them light up with color. Watched them get lost to the sound. Watched them shed whoever they’d been that day—an office worker, a student, a copper, a call-center worker—what the hell ever. Right now, in this club, most probably high off their faces, they were slaves to my tunes. Right here, in this moment, my music was their life. It was all that mattered as their heads flew back and they chased the high, the near nirvana I gave them from my place on the podium.
I, however, felt nothing. Nothing but the numbness the booze beside me was gifting me.
Two arms slipped around my waist. Hot breath blew past my ear as full lips kissed my neck. Spinning my final beat, I grabbed the Jack Daniels beside me and took a shot straight from the bottle. I slammed the bottle down and moved back to my laptop to mix in the next tune. Hands with sharp fingernails ran through my hair, pulling on the black strands. I tapped on the keys, bringing the music down low, slowing the beat.
My breaths lengthened as the crowd waited, lungs frozen as I brought them to a slow sway, readying for the crescendo. The epic surge of beats and drums, the insanity of the mix that I would deliver. I looked up from my laptop and scanned the crowd, smirking at seeing them on the precipice, waiting . . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .
Now.
I slammed my hand down, holding my headphones to my left ear. A surge, a thundercloud of electronic dance music plowed into the crowd. Bursts of neon colors filled the air. Greens and blues and reds filled my eyes as they clung to each person like neon shields.
The hands around my waist tightened, but I ignored them, instead listening to the bottle of Jack as it called my name. I took another shot, my muscles starting to loosen. My hands danced over the laptop’s keys, over my mix boards.
I looked up, the crowd still in the palm of my hand.
They always were.
A girl in the center of the club drew my attention. Long brown hair pulled back off her face. Purple dress, high necked—she was dressed nothing like everyone else. The color surrounding her was different to the other clubbers—pale pink and lavender. Calmer. More serene. My eyebrows pulled down as I watched her. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t moving. She was still, and she looked to be completely alone as people crashed and pushed around her. Her head was tipped up, a look of concentration on her face.
I built up the pace, pushing the rhythm and the crowd as far as they could go. But the girl didn’t move. That wasn’t normal for me. I always had these clubbers wrapped around my finger. I controlled them, in every place I spun. In this arena, I was the puppet master. They were the dolls.
Another shot of Jack burned down my throat. And through another five songs, she stayed there, on the spot, just drinking in the beats like water. But her face never changed. No smile. No euphoric high. Just . . . eyes closed, that damn pinched look on her face.
And that pink and lavender still surrounding her like a shield.
“Cromwell,” the blonde who was all over me like a rash said into my ear. Her fingers lifted up my shirt and tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Her long nails dipped low. But I refused to tear my eyes away from the girl in the purple dress.
Her brown hair was starting to curl, sweat from being sandwiched by clubbers taking its effect. The blonde who was one step from wanking me off in full view of the club snapped my fly. I keyed in my next mix, then grabbed her hand and threw it away from me, snapping my fly closed. I groaned when her hands slid back into my hair. I looked at my mate who had spun before me. “Nick!” I pointed to my decks. “Watch this. And don’t mess it up.”
Nick frowned in confusion, then saw the girl behind me and smiled. He took my headphones from me and moved to make sure the playlist I’d set up played on cue. Steve, the club’s owner, always let a few girls backstage. I never asked for it, but I never turned them down either. Why would I refuse a hot bird who was up for anything?
I swiped my Jack off my podium as the blonde smashed her lips to mine, pulling me back by my sleeveless Creamfields shirt. I wrenched my mouth from hers, replacing it with the Jack bottle. The blonde dragged me into a dark spot backstage. She dropped to her knees and started again on my fly. I closed my eyes as she went to work.
I sucked on the Jack as my head hit the wall behind me. I forced myself to feel something. I glanced down, watching blond hair bounce below me. But the numbness I lived with every damn day made me feel virtually nothing inside. Pressure built at the base of my spine. My thighs tightened, and then it was over.
The blonde got up. I could see the stars in her eyes as she looked at me. “Your eyes.” She reached out a finger to trace around my eye. “The strangest color. Such dark blue.”
They were. Coupled with my black hair, they always drew attention. That and the fact that I was one of the hottest new DJs in Europe, of course. Okay, maybe it was less to do with my eyes and more to do with my name, Cromwell Dean, gracing the headline spot on most of the biggest music festivals and clubs this summer.
I zipped up my fly and turned to see Nick spinning my next mix. I cringed when he failed to transition the beats like I would have. Navy blue was the backdrop to the smoke on the dancefloor.
I never hit navy blue.
I brushed past the girl with a “Thanks, love,” ignoring her hiss of “Prick” in response. I took my headphones off Nick’s head and put them on my own. A few taps of the keyboard later, the crowd was back in the palm of my hand.
Without conscious thought, my eyes found their way to the spot where the girl in the purple dress had stood.
But she’d gone. So had the pale pink and lavender.
I threw back another shot of Jack. Mixed another tune. Then zoned the fuck out.
*****
The sand was cold under my feet. It may well have been the start of summer here in the UK, but that didn’t mean the night wind didn’t freeze your balls off the minute you stepped outside. Clutching my bottle of booze and my cigarettes, I dropped down to the sand. I lit up and stared at the dark sky. My phone buzzed in my pocket . . . again. It’d been going off all night.
Pissed off that I actually had to move my arm, I pulled out my mobile. I had three missed calls from Professor Lewis. Two from my mum, and finally, a couple of texts.
Mum: Professor Lewis has been trying to get hold of you again. What are you going to do? Please just call me. I know you’re upset, but this is your future. You have a gift, son. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start this year. Don’t waste it because you’re angry at me.
Red-hot fury shot through me. I wanted to throw my phone in the damn sea and watch it sink to the bottom along with all this messed-up shit in my head, but I saw Professor Lewis had texted too.
Lewis: The offer still stands but I need an answer by next week. I have all I need for the transfer except your answer. You have an exceptional talent, Cromwell. Don’t waste it. I can help.
This time I did drop my phone beside me and sank back into the sand. I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart.
My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .
“What do you hear, Cromwell?” my father asked.
I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. “Piano. Violins. Cellos . . .” I took a deep breath. “I can hear reds and greens and pinks.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face. “You hear colors?” he said. But he didn’t sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. “That’s good,” he said, his voice kind of deep. “That’s very good . . .”
My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasn’t from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right.
Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summer’s early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker.
She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but then—
“You’re the DJ,” she said.
Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress.
She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang.
She sounded like my mum.
A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasn’t much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didn’t know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.
“I’d heard of you,” she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ.
“Good for you,” I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped she’d piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldn’t take any more noise.
“Not really,” she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress I’d noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. “I’ve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.” She shrugged. “Decided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.”
I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didn’t like the smell.
Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet.
I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didn’t want anyone to see.
No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin.
I didn’t need this kind of crap.
“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.”
She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden.
“Your music has no soul,” she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness.
I sucked on my cigarette. “Yeah? Well, them’s the breaks.”
“I’d heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.”
I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. “It’s called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.” I held out my arms. “You’ve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?” I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto.
I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadn’t talked that much to anyone in . . . I didn’t know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. “And turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?”
The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under.
“What do you feel when you mix your music?” she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me.
Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. “I don’t feel.” I cracked one eye open when she didn’t say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin.
“Then that’s the problem.” She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. “The best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.” Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant.
Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadn’t expected her harsh comment. And I hadn’t expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like she’d taken a butcher’s knife and sliced her way through my soul.
My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, “Go back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where it’s felt.”
“Dorothy was from Kansas.” She glanced away. “I’m not.”
“Then go back to wherever the hell you’re from,” I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart.
I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didn’t want to go back to my mum’s house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldn’t find me here and kick me off the beach.
With my eyes closed, I said, “Thanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decks—all at nineteen—I think I’ll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.”
The girl sighed, but she didn’t say anything else.
The next thing I knew, the sun was burning its light into my eyes. I flinched when I opened them. The screech of swarming seagulls slammed into my head. I sat up, seeing an empty beach and the sun high in the sky. I ran my hands down my face and groaned at the hangover that was kicking in. My stomach growled, desperate for a full English breakfast with copious cups of black tea.
As I stood, something fell from my lap. A blanket lay on the sand at my feet. The blanket I’d seen beside the American girl in the purple dress.
The one she’d been wrapped in last night.
I picked it up, a light fragrance drifted into my nose. Sweet. Addictive. I glanced around me. The girl was gone.
She’d left her blanket. No. She’d covered me with it. “Your music has no soul.” A hard clenching feeling pulled in my stomach at the memory of her words. So I chased it away like I did anything that made me feel. Caging it deep inside.
Then I took my arse home.

Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.

After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.

Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.

Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.

When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.

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Chapter Reveal: Almost Impossible

June 19th 2018

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Fans of Sarah Dessen, Stephanie Perkins, and Jenny Han will delight as the fireworks spark and the secrets fly in this delicious summer romance from a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author.

When Jade decided to spend the summer with her aunt in California, she thought she knew what she was getting into. But nothing could have prepared her for Quentin. Jade hasn't been in suburbia long and even she knows her annoying (and annoyingly cute) next-door neighbor spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

And when Quentin learns Jade plans to spend her first American summer hiding out reading books, he refuses to be ignored. Sneaking out, staying up, and even a midnight swim, Quentin is determined to give Jade days--and nights--worth remembering.

But despite their storybook-perfect romance, every time Jade moves closer, Quentin pulls away. And when rumors of a jilted ex-girlfriend come to light, Jade knows Quentin is hiding a secret--and she's determined to find out what it is.

  Anything was possible. At least that’s what it felt like.
Summer seventeen was going to be one for the record books. I already knew it. I could feel it—from the nervous-excited swirl in my stomach to the buzz in the air around me. This was going to be the summer—my summer. “Last chance to cry uncle or forever hold your peace,” Mom sang beside me in the backseat of the cab we’d caught at the airport. Her hand managed to tighten around mine even more, cutting off the last bit of my circulation. If there
was any left. I tried to look the precise amount of unsure before answering. “So long, last  chance,” I said, waving out the window. Mom sighed, squeezing my hand harder still. It was starting to go numb now. Summer seventeen might find me one hand short if Mom didn’t ease up on the death grip. She and her band, the Shrinking Violets, were going to be touring internationally after finally hitting it big, but she was moping because this was the first summer we wouldn't be together. Actually, it would be the first time we’d been apart ever. I’d sold her on the idea of me staying in the States with her sister and family by going on about how badly I wanted to experience one summer as a normal, everyday American teenager before graduating from high school. One chance to
see what it was like to stay in the same place, with the same people, before I left for college. One last chance to see what life as an American teen was really like. She bought it . . . eventually. She’d have her bandmates and tens of thousands of adoring fans to keep her company—she could do without me for a couple of months. I hoped. It had always been just Mom and me from day one. She had me when she was young—like young young—and even though her boyfriend pretty much bailed before the line turned pink, she’d done just fine on her own. We’d both kind of grown up together, and I knew she’d missed out on a lot by raising me. I wanted this to be a summer for the record books for her, too. One she could really live up, not having to worry about taking care of her teenage
daughter. Plus, I wanted to give her a chance to experience what life without me would be like. Soon I’d be off to college somewhere, and I figured easing her into the empty-nester phase was a better approach than going cold turkey. “You packed sunscreen, right?” Mom’s bracelets jingled as she leaned to look out her window, staring at the bright blue sky like it was suspect. “SPF seventy for hot days, fifty for warm days, and thirty for overcast ones.” I toed the trusty duffel resting at my feet.It had traveled the globe with me for the past decade and had the wear to prove it. “That’s my fair-skinned girl.” When Mom looked over at me, the crease between her eyebrows carved deeper with worry. “You might want to check into SPF yourself. You’re not going to be in your mid thirties forever, you know?” Mom groaned. “Don’t remind me. But I’m already beyond SPF’s help at this point. Unless it can help fix a saggy butt and crow’s-feet.” She pinched invisible wrinkles and wiggled her butt against the seat. It was my turn to groan. It was annoying enough that people mistook us for sisters all the time, but it was worse that she could (and did) wear the same jeans as me. There should be some rule that moms aren’t allowed to takes clothes from the closets of their teenage daughters. When the cab turned down Providence Avenue, I felt a sudden streak of panic. Not for myself, but for my mom. Could she survive a summer when I wasn’t at her side, reminding her when the cell phone bill was due or updating her calendar so she knew where to be and when to be there? Would she be okay without me reminding her that fruits and vegetables were part of the food pyramid for a reason and
making sure everything was all set backstage? “Hey.” Mom gave me a look, her eyes suggesting she could read my thoughts. “I’ll be okay. I’m a strong, empowered thirty-four-year-old woman.” “Cell phone charger.” I yanked the one dangling from her oversized, metal-studded purse, which I’d wrapped in hot pink tape so it stood out. “I’ve packed you two extras to get you through the summer. When you get down to your last
one, make sure to pick up two more so you’re covered—” “Jade, please,” she interrupted. “I’ve only lost a few. It’s not like I’ve misplaced . . .” “Thirty-two phone chargers in the past five years?” When she opened her mouth to protest, I added, “I’ve got the receipts to prove it, too.” Her mouth clamped closed as the cab rolled up to my aunt’s house. “What am I going to do without you?” Mom swallowed, dropping her big black retro sunglasses over her eyes to hide the tears starting to form, to my surprise. I was better at keeping my emotions hidden, so I didn’t dig around in my purse for sunglasses. “Um, I don’t know? Maybe rock a sold-out international tour? Six continents in three months? Fifty concerts in ninety days? That kind of
thing?” Mom started to smile. She loved music—writing it, listening to it, playing it—and was a true musician. She hadn’t gotten into it to become famous or make the Top 40 or anything like that; she’d done it because it was who she was. She was the same person playing to a dozen people in a crowded café as she was now, the lead singer of one of the biggest bands in the world playing to an arena of thousands. “Sounds pretty killer. All of those countries. All of that adventure.” Mom’s hand was on the door handle, but it looked more like she was trying to keep the taxi door closed than to open it. “Sure you don’t want to be a part of it?” I smiled thinly back at my mom, her wild brown hair spilling over giant glasses. She had this boundless sense of adventure—always had and always would—so it was hard for her to comprehend how her own offspring could feel any different.
“Promise to call me every day and send me pictures?” I said, feeling the driver lingering outside my door with luggage in hand. This was it. Mom exhaled, lifting her pinkie toward me. “Promise.” I curled my pinkie around hers and forced a smile. “Love
you, Mom.”
  Her finger wound around mine as tightly as she had clenched my other hand on the ride here. “Love you no matter what.” Then she shoved her door open and crawled out, but not before I noticed one tiny tear escape her sunglasses. By the time I’d stepped out of the cab, all signs of that tear or any others were gone. Mom did tears as often as she wrote moving love songs. In other words, never.
  As she dug around in her purse for her wallet to pay the driver, I took a minute to inspect the house in front of me.
  The last time we’d been here was for Thanksgiving three years ago. Or was it four? I couldn’t remember, but it was long enough to have forgotten how bright white my aunt and uncle’s house was, how the windows glowed from being so
clean and the landscaping looked almost fake it was so well kept.
  It was pretty much the total opposite of the tour buses and extended-stay hotels I’d spent most of my life in. My mother, Meg Abbott, did not do tidy.
  “Back zipper pocket,” I said as she struggled to find the money in her wallet.
  “Aha,” she announced, freeing a few bills to hand to the driver, whose patience was wilting. After taking her luggage, she shouldered up beside me.
  “So the neat-freak thing gets worse with time.” Mom gaped at the walkway leading up to the cobalt-blue front door, where a Davenport nameplate sparkled in the sunlight.
  It wasn’t an exaggeration to say most of the surfaces I’d eaten off of weren’t as clean as the stretch of concrete in front of me.
“Mom . . . ,” I warned, when she shuddered after she roamed to inspect the window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums.
  “I’m not being mean,” she replied as we started down the walkway. “I’m appreciating my sister’s and my differences.
  That’s all.”
  Right then, the front door whisked open and my aunt seemed to float from it, a measured smile in place, not a single hair out of place.
  “Appreciating our differences,” Mom muttered under her breath as we moved closer.
  I bit my lip to keep from laughing as the two sisters embraced.
  Mom had long dark hair and fell just under the average-height bar like me.   Aunt Julie, conversely, had light hair she kept swishing above her shoulders, and she was tall and thin. Her eyes were almost as light blue as mine, compared to Mom’s, which were almost as dark as her hair. It wasn’t only their physical differences that set them apart; it was everything. From the way they dressed Mom in some shade of dark, whereas the darkest color I’d ever seen Aunt Julie wear was periwinkle—to their taste in food, Mom was on the spicy end of the spectrum and Aunt Julie was on the mild.
  Mom stared at Aunt Julie.
  Aunt Julie stared back at Mom.
  This went on for twenty-one seconds. I counted. The last stare-down four years ago had gone forty-nine. So this was progress.
  Finally, Aunt Julie folded her hands together, her rounded nails shining from a fresh manicure. “Hello, Jade. Hello, Megan.”
  Mom’s back went ramrod straight when Aunt Julie referred to her by her given name. Aunt Julie was eight years older but acted more like her mother than her sister.
  “How’s it hangin’, Jules?”
  Aunt Julie’s lips pursed hearing her little sister’s nickname for her. Then she stepped back and motioned inside. “Well?”
  That was my cue to pick up my luggage and follow after Mom, who was tromping up the front steps. “Are we done already? Really?” she asked, nudging Aunt Julie as she passed.
  “I’m taking the higher road,” Aunt Julie replied.
  “What you call taking the higher road I call getting soft in your old age.” Mom hustled through the door after that, like she was afraid Aunt Julie would kick her butt or something.
  The image of Aunt Julie kicking anything made me giggle to myself.
  “Jade.” Aunt Julie’s smile was of the real variety this time as she took my duffel from me. “You were a girl the last time we saw you, and look at you now. All grown up.”
  “Hey, Aunt Julie. Thanks again for letting me spend the summer with you guys,” I said, pausing beside her, not sure whether to hug her or keep moving. A moment of awkwardness passed before she made the decision for me by reaching out and patting my back. I continued on after that.
  Aunt Julie wasn’t cold or removed; she just showed her affection differently. But I knew she cared about me and my mom. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t pick up the phone on the first ring whenever we did call every few months. She also wouldn’t have immediately said yes when Mom asked her a few months ago if I could spend the summer here.
  “Let me show you to your room.” She pulled the door shut behind her and led us through the living room. “Paul and I had the guest room redone to make it more fitting for a teenage girl.”
  “Instead of an eighty-year-old nun who had a thing for quilts and angel figurines?” Mom said, biting at her chipped black nail polish.
  “I wouldn’t expect someone whose idea of a feng shui living space is kicking the dirty clothes under their bed to appreciate my sense of style,” Aunt Julie fired back, like she’d been anticipating Mom’s dig.
  I cut in before they could get into it. “You didn’t have to do that, Aunt Julie. The guest room exactly the way it was would have been great.”
  “Speaking of the saint also known as my brother-in-law, where is Paul?” Mom spun around, moving down the hall backward.
  “At work.” Aunt Julie stopped outside of a room. “He wanted to be here, but his job’s been crazy lately.”
  Aunt Julie snatched the porcelain angel Mom had picked up from the hall table. She carefully returned it to the exact same spot, adjusting it a hair after a moment’s consideration.
  “Where are the twins?” I asked, scanning the hallway for Hannah and Hailey. The last time I’d seen them, they were in preschool but acted like they were in grad school or something. They were nice kids, just kind of freakishly well
behaved and brainy.
  “At Chinese camp,” Aunt Julie answered.
  “Getting to eat dim sum and make paper dragons?” Mom asked, sounding almost surprised.
  Aunt Julie sighed. “Learning the Chinese language.” Aunt Julie opened a door and motioned me inside. I’d barely set one foot into the room before my eyes almost crossed from what I found.
  Holy pink.
  Hot pink, light pink, glittery pink, Pepto-Bismol pink—every shade, texture, and variety of pink seemed to be represented inside this square of space.
  “What do you think?” Aunt Julie gushed, moving up
beside me with a giant smile.
  “I love it,” I said, working up a smile. “It’s great. So great.
  And so . . . pink.” “I know, right?” Aunt Julie practically squealed. I didn’t know she was capable of anything close to that high-pitched.
  “We hired a designer and everything. I told her you were a girly seventeen-year-old and let her do the rest.”
  Glancing over at the full-length mirror framed in, you bet, fuchsia rhinestones, I wondered what about me led my aunt to classify me as “girly.” I shopped at vintage thrift stores, lived in faded denim and colors found in nature, not ones manufactured in the land of Oz. I was wearing sneakers, cut-offs, and a flowy olive-colored blouse, pretty much the other end of the spectrum. The last girly thing I’d done was wear makeup on Halloween. I was a zombie. Beside me, Mom was gaping at the room like she’d walked in on a crime scene. A gruesome crime scene. “What the . . . pink?” she edited after I dug an elbow
into her. “You shouldn’t have.” I smiled at Aunt Julie when she turned toward me, still beaming. “Yeah, Jules. You really shouldn’t have.” Mom shook her head, flinching when she noticed the furry pink stool tucked beneath the vanity that was resting beneath a huge cotton-candy-pink chandelier. “It’s the first real bedroom this girl’s ever had. Of course I should have. I couldn’t not.” Aunt Julie moved toward the bed, fixing the smallest fold in the comforter. “Jade’s had plenty of bedrooms.” Mom nudged me, glancing at the window.         She was giving me an out. She had no idea how much more it would take than a horrendously pink room for me to want to take it. “Oh, please. Harry Potter had a more suitable bedroom in that closet under the stairs than Jade’s ever had. You can’t consider something that either rolls down a highway or is bolted to a hotel floor an appropriate room for a young

woman.” Aunt Julie wasn’t in dig mode; she was in honest mode. That put Mom in unleash-the-beast mode. Her face flashed red, but before she could spew whatever
comeback she had stewing inside, I cut in front of her. “Aunt Julie, would you mind if Mom and I had a few minutes alone?
You know, to say good-bye and everything?” As infrequently as we visited the house on Providence Avenue, I fell into my role of referee like it was second nature.
 “Of course not. We’ll have lots of time to catch up.” Aunt Julie gave me another pat on the shoulder as she headed for the door. “We’ll have all summer.” She’d just disappeared when her head popped back in the doorway. “Meg, can I get  you anything to drink before you have to dash?” “Whiskey,” Mom answered intently. Aunt Julie chuckled like she’d made a joke, continuing down the hall. I dropped my duffel on the pink zebra-striped throw rug.
  “Mom—” “You grew up seeing the world. Experiencing things most people will never get to in their whole lives.” Her voice was getting louder with every word. “You’ve got a million times the perspective of kids your age. A billion times more compassion and an understanding that the world doesn’t revolve around you.  Who is she to make me out to be some inadequate parent when all she cares about is raising obedient, genius robots? She doesn’t know what it was like for me. How hard it was.” “Mom,” I repeated, dropping my hands onto her shoulders as I looked her in the eye. “You did great.” It took a minute for the red to fade from her face, then another for her posture to relax. “You’re great. I just tried not to get in the way too much and screw all that greatness up.” “And if you must know, I’d take any of the hundreds of rooms we’ve shared over this pinktastrophe.” So it was kind of a lie, the littlest of ones. Sure, pink was on my offensive list, but the room was clean and had a door, and I would get to stay in the same place at least for the next few months. After living out of suitcases and overnight bags for most of my life, I was looking forward to discovering what drawer-and-closet living was like. Mom threw her arms around me, pulling me in for one of those final-feeling hugs. Except this time, it kind of wasa final one. Realizing that made me feel like someone had stuffed a tennis ball down my throat. “I love you no matter what,” she whispered into my ear again, the same words she’d sang, said, or on occasion shouted at me. Mom never just said I love you. She had something
against those three words on their own. They were too open,
too loosely defined, too easy to take back when something
went wrong.
I love you no matter what had always been her way of telling me she loved me forever and for always. Unconditionally. She said that, before me, she’d never felt that type of love for anyone. What I’d picked up along the way on my own
was that I was the only one she felt loved her back in the
same way. Squeezing my arms around my mom a little harder, I returned her final kind of hug. “I love you no matter what, too.”

Nicole Williams is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary and young adult romance, including the Crash and Lost & Found series. Her books have been published by HarperTeen and Simon & Schuster in both domestic and foreign markets, while she continues to self-publish additional titles. She is working on a new YA series with Crown Books (a division of Random House) as well. She loves romance, from the sweet to the steamy, and writes stories about characters in search of their happily even after. She grew up surrounded by books and plans on writing until the day she dies, even if it’s just for her own personal enjoyment. She still buys paperbacks because she’s all nostalgic like that, but her kindle never goes neglected for too long. When not writing, she spends her time with her husband and daughter, and whatever time’s left over she’s forced to fit too many hobbies into too little time.



Nicole is represented by Jane Dystel, of Dystel and Goderich Literary Agency.

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