A secret affair with your teenage celebrity crush? Yes, please!


Music journalist Cassy Evans believes her career is made when she snags an exclusive interview with rock singer Frankie Blade.


Once a superstar of the generation, Frankie has been a recluse since a freak motorcycle incident sent his career into a tailspin seven years ago. Now that he’s returned to claim back his crown, Cassy hopes to kill two birds with one stone—secure her magazine a top spot in the rankings and meet with the man of her adolescent dreams.


A dinner invitation isn’t what she expects to get out of this interview, but the chemistry between them is undeniable.


With paparazzi watching Frankie’s every move as the two jumps into a stormy relationship, Cassy risks her career and her privacy—and possibly her heart—to be with the biggest Rockstar on the planet. But is Frankie worth it? Is he the humble man she thinks he is or is he just that good at hiding his demons?


Final Serenade is the first book in “The Encore Series”. Cassy and Frankie’s story concludes in One Last Verse.



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“Dante”—I held the card up—“you know I’m the enemy, right? I’m press.”
“I’m aware. You’ll be off the clock by then.” He was playing a dangerous game.
This was bizarre and my brain struggled to understand why I’d been invited. “Can I think about it?”
“You’ve got”—Dante glanced down at his Rolex—“four hours.” He flashed me a wide, toothy smile and I questioned my own sanity when my knees quivered.
No one is immune to the charms of a man who can play a ten-minute guitar solo. Not even you, Cassy, my common sense said.
You’ve been around testosterone without any physical contact for way too long, missy. It’s time to get laid, my ovaries countered.
Dante wasn’t necessarily the object of my sexual fantasies. That was territory I never explored. I didn’t let my imagination lust after people I worked with. It felt wrong. Instead, my mind was currently playing out a more acceptable rock star party scenario where I drank myself silly and engaged in a hot make-out session with some roadie or someone’s assistant in one of the guest bathrooms. That seemed realistic and easy enough to pull off. That seemed like my kind of fun.
I slipped the card in the back pocket of my pants and returned Dante’s smile.
“Let me get you a drink,” he said, motioning at the bar.
Alcohol during gigs was against my rules, but for some reason, I couldn’t tell Dante no. He was charming in an alpha-male-meets-Hello-Kitty kind of way. He bossed people around without being overbearing.
We walked over to the bar and Dante ordered a margarita for me and rum and coke for himself.
“Have a little fun, Cassy.” He clinked his glass against mine and checked his watch again. “Gotta go. See you later, darlin’.”

They say first love doesn’t last.

Alana’s ends on the night a gunman walks into a Portland nightclub during a rock show. And just like that...twenty-four people are gone. Including Dakota, Alana’s boyfriend and lead singer of an up-and-coming band Midnight Rust.

In an attempt to look for ways to deal with her grief, Alana reaches out to Dakota’s older brother and bandmate Mikah, who’s struggling with moving on himself.

Both damaged beyond repair, neither Alana nor Mikah know how to cope with their loss. But as the unexpected friendship develops into something more, Alana begins to question the nature of her strange relationship with Mikah.

Is he just a rebound? Or is this the way broken people love?

“I spit out the mud and as I’m pushing myself up, he slams against me and I lose my balance. We fall down and roll across the grass, our arms and legs twisted, our breaths heavy and loud, yet I don’t feel anything except rage. I fight him relentlessly, tossing my fists at him because in, this moment, he deserves it, but then he gets me flat on my back.

Mikah moves up my body and his face invades my line of sight. I throw a hard punch, not sure where it lands, and he grabs my wrists and presses them into the ground, his weight holding me still. We’re now a furious, panting mess and this—the filth and the dark—suits us because I don’t know how else to describe what’s going on between us.

“If you want to leap from a moving car, you don’t fucking do it while I’m driving,” Mikah growls, the line above the bridge of his nose deepening. “Do you understand?”


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