I’ve been working on this little romantic Valentine’s Day short for most of the month and it’s giving me fits but I am determined to finish it and get it out there. Enjoy your first glimpse at Simone & Sterling. I don’t have a Pinterest board for this…

Davis and Kari are playing it cool, but their secret connection is getting harder to hide, especially when temptation is just a glance, a tease, and one lingering moment away. Have you read Black Diamond Bay book 3, The Pearl at Black Diamond?…

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Bright Pathways Youth Center was a squat, single-story building that had seen better days. Fresh paint and new signage couldn’t quite hide the years of wear and tear. Imani parked her car, double-checking that she’d locked it, and approached the…

Greetings, bookpals! We are one week closer to Missing Persons! While we wait for edits to come back, I’m sharing snippets of the novel on Sundays. This scene shows Wesley and Yvette navigating the disappearing line between professional partnership and personal longing. Isn’t it achingly beautiful to watch someone fall for a person who's been right there all along? Meet Wesley | Meet Yvette --- WESLEY Ten hours at the courthouse had left me a dry husk in a navy blue suit. The only saving grace was that the last two hours of my day was in a court-ordered mediation between Marcel and Julia Simeon. I loosened my tie before it could choke me to death as I walked through the parking deck to my car, phone pressed to my ear. I thumbed open the key fob with my other hand and the Range Rover chirped, the seats already moving to my pre-set position. The air conditioning kicked on automatically, a blessed relief from the Atlanta heat. “Simeon looked pitiful. Like it wasn't his fault he had to give Julia twenty-five mil.” “He need to feel pitiful,” said Yvette on the other line. “It's probably all for show anyway. Did you use any of my footage?” “Played it like a highlight reel.” Yvette's laugh crackled through the speaker. “Good. I'm sure he told some lie like he was working late. He was working something.” I dropped the phone into the holder on my dashboard and waited for the Bluetooth to connect, then pulled out of the parking space, navigating through the concrete maze toward street level. “Julia's walking away clean with everything she wants, including the money.” “That's good. So glad I could help her out. So…uhmmm…” Yvette paused, then asked in a lower register. “Are you coming by here?” Young Investigations was clear across town from the courthouse, my office, and my house. I'd been driving out of my way to see her. “Thought about it, but I'm beat. I'm heading home to try to forget about entitled attorneys who think a ninety-minute closing argument on a slip and fall case is necessary. But uh…” I could hear her shifting around, maybe straightening papers on her desk. “Come over. You haven't seen the latest updates to the house,” I continued, coaxing her in. “You cooking? Or at least ordering? You know I eat.” “Nobody knows better than I do, Vette.” A moment's hesitation. Then, “You need me to bring anything?” “Nah. When you get there, I'll have everything I need. See you in a while.” Then I hung up before she could click her tongue at me, like she always did when I openly flirted with her. The driveways in Cabbagetown barely fit a car, but I'd paid extra to pour a new slab after the old one buckled in three places from the roots of a dying magnolia. I coasted into the garage and shut down the engine, taking a second to breathe before I went inside. The mill worker's house was almost a disaster when I bought it. I'd stayed in my midtown condo while it was being overhauled. Rotting porch boards had been replaced, hundred-year-old paint had been scraped off, plumbing that probably belonged in a museum was replaced. It would have been less expensive to buy a brand new home, but the character in my house couldn't be duplicated. The bones were solid, built to last when the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill employed half the neighborhood. Now the restored wraparound porch and original floors made it stand out among the shotgun houses lining the narrow street. I grabbed my briefcase and the battered legal pad from the passenger side before locking up. Inside, I'd kept the high ceilings and wide-plank floors while adding modern touches. Yvette liked to tease me about finally breaking free of military minimalism, but she'd been here during every stage of renovation, offering opinions on paint colors and making fun of my attempts at decorating. I'd barely changed into lounge pants and a t-shirt when I heard the El Camino pulling into the driveway. She appeared on my porch moments later, laptop bag over one shoulder, manila folders under her arm. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.” I took the files from her and set them on the kitchen island. “Well, aren't you domestic,” she said, smirking as she took in my casual attire. Gone was the sharp-suited attorney who wore a diamond stud in one ear. This was the Wesley few people got to see—relaxed, at home in the space I'd curated. “Off-duty vibes,” I said, moving to lower the volume on the Lo-Fi music piping into the room through overhead speakers. Evening light from the French patio doors caught the rich colors in the Turkish rug I'd added recently. The whole house felt different in this light. Warmer, more lived-in. More me. “The place looks good,” she said. “Remember when the kitchen was all dark cabinets and tired linoleum and so closed off?” “I remember when you told me I was crazy to buy this house. You didn't see the vision.” “It looked like the civil rights era in here,” she deadpanned, looking around at where I’d torn the walls down to create an open concept space. “I can admit I was wrong.” She wandered to the French doors leading to the back deck. The wooded lot behind the house was one of the reasons I'd bought the place. It was a rare patch of green in a neighborhood where developers were cramming condos into every available space. “The deck is finished.” I loved the awe and appreciation embedded in her tone. “Can't wait to break it in.” I headed to the bar cart, opened a bottle and poured two fingers of scotch, then glanced at her. “Want something to drink? Water, Coke...” I chuckled, then jokingly offered, “Scotch?” “Hmm. What are you making?” “Chicken and pasta arrabbiata. The real thing, with enough chilis to make you sweat.” I was practically seducing her. Yvette liked her food to clear her sinuses. For a moment, she stayed at the window, her silhouette framed in the evening sun blazing through the kitchen. Then she turned from the window and walked over to the bar cart. “Pour me one.” “Pour you one, what?” I asked. “Scotch,” she answered. “Pour me one.” I paused, glass halfway to my lips. “Vette. You sure? You haven’t drank much since—” “I’m sure,” she reassured me. “I need to turn my brain off for a minute.” I studied her for a few beats, then reached for another glass from the cart and poured a smaller measure than mine. I handed her the glass. She looked up at me as she took it. No makeup. Loose khakis. Plain T-shirt. Hair pulled back with a wide headband. Still the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Not because she was trying, but because she wasn't. I wanted to taste her again. That kiss was still with me, occupying every other thought. It must've shown on my face because she cleared her throat and stepped back. She sipped the scotch and made her way to the other end of the kitchen. “Mmmmm. This is nice. Smooth.” “Nick's housewarming gift.” I went back to the stove and stirred the sauce, trying to focus on cooking instead of the way she'd looked at me just now. “What kind of man leaves his kids?” she asked suddenly. “I keep coming back to that. Even if Edward found proof of fraud. Even if he was in danger...” “Maybe he thought he was protecting them.” I stirred the sauce, adding diced chilis then added pasta to boiling, salted water. “If Barrett's as connected as Nick says he is...” “Still.” She downed another sip, larger this time. “Those boys needed their father.” I turned off the heat under the sauce and faced her. “You think he had a choice?” “Maybe not a good one, but still a choice. I keep thinking about what I would do. If someone threatened my family, you know?” She trailed off, then met my eyes. “I wouldn't run. I'd fight.” “That's because you're stubborn. And ex-military. And you can fight.” “I can only fight skinny, annoying men named Yancey,” she said, giggling into her glass. “I'm going to see if there's a Bones marathon on.” “Leaving me in the kitchen to do all the work?” “I'm a guest, Payne!” --- I hope you enjoyed today’s sample from Missing Persons coming August 2025. Stay tuned for a cover reveal and LINKS GALORE! If you loved this sample, you’d love just about anything else I’ve written—take a stroll through Books by DL White. Books by DL White

The man stood near the bar, tall with broad shoulders and a close-cropped beard that suited the strong lines of his jaw. He wore a fitted crimson button-up with the sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. Unlike most of the patrons, there were no…

Happy Sample Sunday, Book pals! I'm sharing a snippet from my upcoming romantic suspense, Missing Persons, releasing early August. This scene comes from early in the book when the tension between two friends who have been railing against becoming lovers spills over. Well, one of them has been railing against it. Patience is wearing thin, but a simple dinner delivery turns into something much more honest... --- Sunset had painted Young Investigations' windows orange when I pulled into the parking lot. As I knew it would be, Yvette's El Camino was in its usual spot, the glossy black paint reflecting the security lights that had just flickered on. I gathered the aromatic bags from Surin of Thailand and headed to her office suite. Yvette forgot to eat when she was deep in a case. I used my key and stepped inside. All the lights burned bright despite the empty desks. Papers and photos littered every surface, a testament to a day spent chasing leads. Bell Biv Devoe's “Poison” pumped from the Bluetooth speakers on top of the file cabinet in Yvette's office. She still played loud music after hours. She used to say it helped her drown out distractions, that it was a kind of mental white noise. These days, I was sure it drowned out a lot more. Yvette sat cross-legged at her desk, her boots kicked off, reading glasses perched on her nose. This was my favorite version of her—guard down, comfortable in her own space. I knocked on the door frame, but she was already aware that I had arrived. The volume on the music lowered to a reasonable decibel. “I hope you remembered crispy spring rolls,” she said without looking up. “And extra soy sauce.” I dropped the bags in the kitchen and started pulling out containers. “Young, when's the last time you ate?” She thought about it too long. “Define...ate.” “Consumed more than a donut and coffee.” I eyed the pink box sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I flipped it open, shaking my head at the crumbs and tissue paper sitting at the bottom. I tossed the box into the garbage. “What's with all the paper? Is this all Miller Creek stuff?” “Yup. Deep dive into public records...” She trailed off, obviously not intending to answer my question. Which was fine; attorneys never ask questions when they don't already know the answer. “What did you get?” “Pad Thai, extra spicy, extra peanuts.”Cover Reveal COMING SOON About Missing Persons A smile flickered as she unfolded her legs and climbed out of the chair. She grabbed the nearest container and cracked the lid, huffing steam and the scent of well-prepared Asian cuisine. “Reminds me of Thai Bowl…remember? At Fort Campbell?” “Where you tried to convince the cook to make it spicier every time? Pretty sure he was worried about you.” “No one believes me when I say you build a tolerance.” I watched her dig into the dish with a plastic fork and rake a mouthful of noodles into her mouth like she hadn't eaten in days. “Lounge?” she suggested, after she swallowed. “There's a Bones marathon on.” “You still watch that show?” “Don't judge me,” she said, laughing as she dropped to the couch. “I just think you can do better than reruns.” “It's relatable. Woman with trauma, emotionally repressed, way too much brain for her own good." She tipped her head at me. “Grab a couple Cokes from the fridge.” A TV mounted on the wall played quietly. She curled into one corner of the couch, feet tucked under her. I parked myself on the other end of the sofa. Not too close, but not too far and popped open both Cokes. She flipped through channels until Dr. Brennan appeared on screen, then dropped the remote on the table and picked up a spring roll, dipping it into a chili sauce before taking a bite. “You don't like NCIS,” she said, chewing. “You don't like Bones. I'm starting to believe there's not a single procedural that meets your high standards.” “Procedurals are alright,” I argued. “I like Bones. I complain about it for different reasons than I complain about NCIS.” “Such as?” “Such as...” I flicked my eyes up to the screen, then blew on a forkful of noodles before putting them in my mouth. I chewed, then continued. “Them two fools dancing around feelings they won't acknowledge. Everybody knows from episode two that they want each other. Even them." “That's the draw of the show. The B-story is the mutual denial, and the question of the week, every week is will they or won't they?” She licked chili sauce from her thumb. “The only reason procedurals make it past season one is delayed gratification.” “I know all about that, don't I?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. And instead of correcting my intent, pretending I didn't mean something I fully meant, I let them hang. On the TV, Booth and Brennan examined a skeleton, their banter filling the silence I'd created. I watched her eat a few bites, then she said, “You’re saying we’re Booth and Brennan.” “Aren’t we?” I asked her. “Isn't that why you love this show? It's the TV version of you and me. But Wesley and Yvette have had way more seasons of will they or won't they than Bones ever had.” She set down her container and turned to face me. “Wesley—” “I'm just saying what we both know.” I set my container down as well, resting my elbows on my knees. "We've been circling this drain for years. Question is, how long are we gonna keep pretending there isn't this...thing between us? When are we gonna make the move those fictional people made so we can have what they have?" “We're not characters on a TV show.” “No, we're not. We're real people who've been pretending for way longer than either of us will admit that we don't feel what we feel. At least one of us is. Eventually, Brennan stopped running.” “Brennan had good reasons for running. Abandonment issues. Trust problems.” “Haven't I already proven that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere? We already act like we're together half the time. I bring you dinner when you forget to eat. You call me when you can't sleep or need to talk over a case. Even when it’s not mine. I have a key to your office. You painted my den.” “That's because—” “Because we care about each other as more than friends,” I broke in, taking over her sentence. I grabbed her hand and traced her knuckles with my thumb. “It is okay to admit that, Yvette.” She was quiet for a long moment, studying our joined hands. On the screen, Booth was making some joke that had Brennan rolling her eyes, but neither of us was really watching anymore. “What if we try and it ruins what we have?” “We've already seen each other at our worst and still chose to stay in each other's lives. You think a relationship is scarier than investigating war crimes? We've both dealt with life-and-death situations. And what if we don't try and we spend the rest of our lives wondering what we could have had?” I shifted closer, so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “What if we try and it's everything we wanted it to be?” She didn't pull away. Instead, her free hand came up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. “You make it sound so easy, Payne.” “And I know it's not. But maybe it doesn't have to be as complicated as we're making it." I brought our joined hands up between us. "I'm not proposing, Vette. I'm just asking you to stop running from me.” Her eyes flicked to my mouth, then back up. “And if I say…” She bobbed her head side to side. “I might take off my Nikes...what happens next?” “You let me kiss you. We build from there.” She laughed, soft and breathless. “You got it all figured out.” “I've got exactly nothing figured out except that I want you, Yvette. And I want you to want me too.” She started to laugh at the Marvin Gaye lyric I honestly hadn't meant to drop in there. While she was off guard, I closed the distance between us and dropped my mouth onto hers. Her lips were soft, warm, and she tasted faintly of chili and lime. Jesus. Finally. Years of wanting this, imagining this… nothing had prepared me for the reality of kissing Yvette Young. Every fantasy I'd had paled compared to the sensation of her mouth opening and her tongue slipping against mine. The moan she let slip out when I deepened the kiss imprinted on me so strongly that I knew I'd be replaying it for weeks. Missing Persons Pintrest Board Her body tilted into mine, the kiss spiraling higher and higher. The half surprise, half gasp when I cupped her face in my hands and she fisted my shirt sent a live wire straight to my dick. I shifted slightly, trying not to make it obvious. The last thing I needed was for her to be uncomfortably aware of how much I wanted to pull her across the couch and cover her body with mine. Our lips parted, though reluctantly. A surge of exhilaration rushed through me when I realized our chests were rising and falling rapidly in tandem. Yvette rested her forehead against mine while she caught her breath, a gesture that spoke volumes. “Damn,” she whispered, the word rushing past my ear. I ran my thumb along her jawline, marveling at how right this felt. “Damn…that was good? Or damn, I didn't mean for that to happen?” She pulled back, absentmindedly brushing her fingers across her lips. “Damn, that was not...weird, weird. Just... I...” For the first time since I'd known her, Yvette seemed genuinely at a loss for words. She sat there, lips parted, two fingertips ghosting the path my mouth had taken. “I promise I didn't come here to do all that.” I shifted again, needing the space. “So it wasn't 'let's never do that again' weird, was it? You liked that?” “The rumors about you are still true, Payne,” she said, bringing back the patented Yvette Young smirk. “I liked that.” She gave me a look that said I knew exactly what she was talking about. And I did. Military bases were worse than high schools when it came to gossip. I was on a road that converged, and the way I wanted to go was not the best route to take. I couldn't just sit there, though, hard as shit, pretending I hadn't just kissed the woman I'd wanted more than anything for as long as I could remember. “Well, uh…” I stood, running a palm over my head. “I should probably head out. I have court in the—” “You didn't even finish eating,” she said, catching my wrist. “Don't leave. Not yet.” The plea in her voice stopped me cold. I looked down at her, hair slightly mussed from where my fingers had been, lips still swollen from the pressure of mine pressed against them. "I promise, I'm not leaving because I want to," I said. "I'm leaving because if I don't, parts of me are going to be very upset at not experiencing more of you.” I let my eyes drift down her body, past her breasts, to her thighs and shapely calves and back up. “And…sorry to be so direct, but…” I sighed, contemplating the next few words. Then going for it. “When I finally get to fuck you, it won't be on the couch in your office." Her eyes widened slightly. “When you…finally get to...” “Yeah,” I said, leaning in to kiss her again. “Because we both know this isn't me scratching an itch or satisfying a curiosity.” I'd almost made it to the door when I heard her speak my name. “Wesley.” I turned, bracing for her to run again. “Yeah, Vette.” “Thank you.” She looked down, then back up at me, eyes shining, wringing her hands. “For bringing me dinner. For always taking care of me, even when I push back against you taking care of me. For... not making me choose between holding onto Jason and...” She gestured vaguely between us. I gave her a cursory nod, encouraged. “Take all the time you need, Yvette. But please know that this is not casual for me. It could never be with you.” Driving home, I replayed the evening like a bad bootleg—the conversation I hadn't meant to have, in the way I hadn't meant to have it. I'd gone to see her out of habit, a reflex to check in on the ones you love and instead I'd fumbled us both into fresh territory. At every red light, I muttered a fervent prayer that we would keep moving in the same direction, because… fuck. I could not take not having her anymore. I had reason to celebrate, though. Yvette Young had let me taste those lips. --- Photo by Huma Kabakci on Unsplash Missing Persons will be available late summer. If you enjoyed this sample, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Stay tuned for more updates, cover reveals, and behind-the-scenes content as we get closer to release day. And if you're new here, welcome! Hit that subscribe button to follow along on this publishing journey. Want to know the latest with Books by DL White, Missing Persons or other open projects? Catch up with the Bookcast, my author podcast where I yammer about the ins and outs of indie publishing. I plan to give an update on this book on this week’s show, catch it here on substack or your fave podcast app.

Today's sample is a snippet from Dinner at Sam's where we first meet Yvette. Dinner at Sam's is book 2 in the Ruby's novel series and available in eBook, print or audio at Booksbydlwhite.com/dinneratsams. If you haven’t heard, we are DAYS away from the launch of Missing Persons! ARCs have gone out and I am working on everything else that surrounds a release— front matter, back matter, all the important things. Until then, I hope you enjoy one last tease of this novel! Keep your eye on this book’s page on my website as it’ll hit my store first then matriculate out to retail. I am off to brunch while you enjoy today’s Sample Sunday. --- Gibson “In the last five years, divorces have changed,” Gabriel was saying, blowing a puff of smoke into the air before continuing. “You used to have to hire a private investigator to find out if a client’s spouse was stepping out. These days, people are so messy and careless, all you need is access to their social media accounts.” “Yep,” Greggory agreed, bobbing his head forward and back. “They used to say Facebook was the devil; it’s about to be Instagram. Or Snapchat. It disappears, but that doesn’t mean nobody saw it.” “Even if you think you’re careful, that woman you’re with, that you think operates at the height of discretion can’t wait to open her mouth and brag about who she’s with. I tell these guys all the time, but…” Gabe shook his head slowly. “They don’t want to listen. And in the moment, they don’t care. Do they, Gib?” I’d been listening to the conversation, enough to follow along but not enough to be interested in what my brothers were discussing. I stirred my drink, which had been sitting so long it was room temperature and watered down. My cigar sat smoking and neglected in the ashtray. My mood was more than mellow, deeper than melancholy. “In the moment,” I said to Gabe, lifting my glass to the waitress as she passed. “Men don’t care about much of anything. We are of singular mind, in the moment. I want what I want and damn the consequences. That’s how they get themselves in a situation where they need a divorce attorney. Because at some point they said hell yes when they should have said hell no.” “You sound kinda strong right there, Gib. You’ve been dragging ass for weeks, the corners of your mouth all downturned. Can I guess what you said hell yes to when you should have said hell no?” Gabe asked the question, but his near-twin Gregg wore the same quizzical expression, one that said I wasn’t getting away from the table without spilling something. “Vanessa Jackson,” I said, confirming what I knew was gossip around the office. And around the table at Mink’s when I wasn’t there. “I was seeing her, for a while. I know, I know. You warned me. And you were right. It got heavy quickly and… I mean, I don’t know what happened but it blew up.” I was quiet about my admission, but they each responded with loud a ‘Ooooohhhhh’, rearing back dramatically in their seats. “You both need to dial it back or I’m done talking.” “Okay, okay,” said Gregg, pulling his chair closer to the table and leaning in. “So talk. Are things still heavy, or...” The waitress dropped by with a fresh drink for me. I waited until she stepped away to answer. “Not anymore.” “You’re still working her divorce though, right?” Asked Gabe. “You’re too far into that to hand it off to someone else.” “Yeah, so things are nice and awkward now. If it’s not about the divorce, she doesn’t acknowledge my messages. She said to get that taken care of, so that’s what I’m working on.” “Sounds like you want to work on more than her divorce though.” I practically inhaled the fresh bourbon and set the glass to the side, nodding and wiping the corners of my mouth. “You tried to tell me. I should have just left things as they were. Like you said, there’s a danger in crossing that line with a client, especially with a volatile partner that can’t let go. There was a draw to her. The feeling was mutual. I thought I knew what was doing, but obviously…” I shrugged my shoulder. “I said the wrong thing, I didn’t back off when she let it known she wasn’t happy. I pushed the conversation too far, and now she won’t take my calls. Won’t talk to me unless it’s about her case. Which is going shitty, by the way. That’s what our argument was about.” “Define shitty. How shitty?” “He’s picking apart the entire petition, fighting everything Vanessa asked for. Clarification here, different amounts there, re-negotiation of this, dispute of that. Never ending, stupid bullshit.” “You should be used to that, though. That’s how it goes when a spouse doesn’t want his wife to move on.” “I get that. The thing is… he’s keeping an attorney very busy and this guy’s not doing these briefs for free—not at the rate they’re coming. I’m suspicious because he says, out of his mouth, that he’s near bankruptcy. The IRS is after him and so are his creditors—his wages are probably being garnished for the credit cards he maxed out while he was married to Vanessa. And they’re about to be garnished more for child support—” “So there’s a secret source of money somewhere,” Gregg summarized. “But when you brought it up to her she said…” “She said don’t go looking for money that isn’t there. Except…it kind of has to be there, doesn’t it?” “Seems like it. There’s a reason she doesn’t want you to find it. Maybe she helped him get it?” I wagged my head. “I doubt that. She’d have something to hold over him if she did. It’s more like…” I paused, pondering my next statement. “It’s more like there’s something she knows and she wants to be away from him before the shit hits the fan. I don’t know. But I want to.” “Okay, hear me out, here. She’s already mad at you, right? She’s already not talking to you, you’re already not seeing her. What’s she going to do, not see you some more? It’s unlikely she’ll fire you—another attorney won’t take her case for what you’re charging her. So what, if she doesn’t want you to look. Look anyway.” I relaxed in the leather chair and picked up my cigar. It had grown a length of ash that I knocked off before placing the tip between my teeth. I considered Gabe’s point. My gut was rarely wrong about things. My gut told me there was something to find. My gut told me that there was more to Warren than a sonofabitch who hated to lose. My gut also told me that his soon to be ex-wife had a few secrets of her own. “Do we still use Yvette at Young Investigations?” I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled the address book with my thumb, already forming a plan. Yvette was a former Army Investigator who’d opened a private agency when her fiancé died in Afghanistan just before they were both due to finish their service. “Yup,” Gabe answered. “She’s probably the best option. She’s quick and quiet.” “And cheap,” I added, pulling up the text messaging app. “I can’t bill Vanessa for this.” I shot off a quick text to Yvette, letting her know I had a small job for her and asked her to call my office in the morning. She responded that she would and I tucked my phone away. “Should I feel guilty about this? Because I don’t.” Both of my brothers smirked across the table. “It’s ammunition. She doesn’t need to know that you know anything. The way Yvette works, Warren will never know he’s being tailed. The more you know, the better you serve Vanessa.” “At least that’s the party line,” finished Gabe, bumping Gregg’s fist as he said it. “I should really know better than to follow advice from you two. Especially when you still act like frat boys. At least you aren’t dressed alike tonight.” Gregg laughed. “We were, but I changed before I came here tonight. You’re right, it’s creepy—” “He only thinks that now because his love interest said so. Two weeks ago, he was all let’s wear the blue pinstripe on Tuesday...” “Oh wait… catch me up. Love interest? That waitress you said you’d been talking to? Made a dent in her armor?” “You didn’t know? Gregg and that fine ass hon— waitress over there have been spending some time together.” Gabe tipped his head toward the same waitress I’d noticed paying him more attention than usual a few weeks ago. Just as we all turned our heads in her direction, she picked up a tray from the bar and turned to face us. And froze. Gregg cleared his throat, the first to look away. “It’d be cool if y’all could stop staring at my woman.” “Your woman? Moving kind of quick, aren’t you?” “Says the man who was fucking his client. You have no room to criticize.” “Touché’. Just saying. Take your time, man. Know all you can about her. I’m two for two on women I thought I knew, but I had no idea what I was getting into. Literally.” I tapped out my cigar and stood, tossing a few bills to the center of the table. “I’m out. I want to prep for my call with Yvette in the morning. Be good.” ***** Yvette did more than call the next morning. At 9AM sharp, she strolled into my office, wearing her usual uniform of baggy jeans, black boots, an ARMY t-shirt and a cap over her hair, a ponytail sticking out of the opening in the back. Yvette had been doing private investigation work for a few years and always looked the same. Deep caramel skin tone, fit physique, no-nonsense facial expression. She was the definition of poker face and her body language didn’t give away much either. It wasn’t until I spent some time with her that I came to realize how witty and quirky she was, some by accident and some by design. The loss of her fiancé had hurt her deeply, so her job, which involved hiding from her subjects and the public, served both her professionally and personally. A person never got to know Yvette, but I felt like I was as close as a person could come to knowing her. “I thought you were calling me this morning,” I told her, releasing her from the hug she didn’t want but stood still for anyway. “I was in the neighborhood, dropping off some invoices, picking up some checks. Thought I would stop by,” she said, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Instead of sitting in the leather chair like it was a formal meeting, I sat in the chair next to her and kicked a foot up to rest it on the edge of the desk. “Well, it’s good to see you. It’s been awhile.” “Same here. I swear, you’re the only Kincaid that can relax in this place.” I laughed, giving myself a once-over. It was a Friday, and though Kincaid didn’t have a Casual Friday policy, I’d worn jeans and a button up shirt and the Clarks that Vanessa said she liked. “I like to keep my mother on her toes. She’s already rolled her eyes at me twice this morning.” “I have to admit, I come up here to give the old bat a reason to clutch her pearls.” “Ten minutes after you leave, she’ll ask me if I have to keep using your agency.” “Speaking of… your little case must be something important. I rarely get a text from you after hours.” “Oh, yeah. Now, when I say it’s a small case, I mean it. I’m not looking for anything fancy, but...” I dropped my foot and leaned across my desk to a folder that was stuffed with pages I’d gathered on Warren Jackson, anything I could find that was readily available—which wasn’t much—coupled with the information supplied by Vanessa. “There’s this divorce I’m working on. Husband is highly suspicious. My client, his soon to be ex, is cagey about him. I get the strong feeling that she doesn’t want me to know something.” “Now you need to know what that something is.” She took the folder from my hands, flipping through each page and making little noises—a grunt here, a hmmm there. “Anything stand out for you, at first glance?” I folded my arms across my chest and sat back, trying to read her face. As per usual, it was pointless. The Army had trained her well—she’d never reveal her mother’s secret to great lasagna, let alone military secrets. For damn sure, she wasn’t going to let me know what she was thinking in that moment. “Not really, but that’s what the investigation is for. How many hours do you want me to spend on this? You know my rate, right?” I nodded. “Yeah, I know your rate. I guess we start with twenty and see how it goes.” “You want me to limit this to internet, or what?” “Well, you see the history there,” I said, gesturing toward the folder. “I think I’ve exhausted the internet search, but see what your people can dig up. I don’t even know where to start, but maybe his mistress would be a better mark. We have strong reason to believe that’s where he’s living.” “Mmkay,” she responded, flipping through more pages. “There’s usually a little bit of overlap, but do you want me to dig up anything on your client?” “No!” I hadn’t intended to answer as strongly as I did. Her eyes popped up from the folder and an eyebrow crept toward her hairline. “I uh… no,” I continued, quieter now. “Just him. She doesn’t know I’m looking into him. She asked me not to but I can’t…. Not.” “Right. You need to know everything.” She stood, tucking the folder under her arm. “I’ll get to work on it this afternoon. Daily briefings every morning via email unless I strike gold. You want me to call your cell with any news?” “Please.” I stood, threatening to hug her again. She laughed and ducked away from my open arms. “Go on with that touchy-feely stuff. Everything good with you? You don’t seem yourself…” “They teach you that mind reading stuff in the Army? Nothing I can’t handle. Getting these answers will help a lot.” Yvette leaned in and softly, so quietly I almost didn’t hear her, said, “You got a thing for the client, huh?” A blazing heat crossed my face. Obviously, I wasn’t doing a good job of hiding what was going between Vanessa and me. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged, trying to control my facial expression. Yvette chuckled, humming, “Mmmhmmm. You know you’re not supposed to go there, Counselor.” “There’s no rule against it. No hard and fast one anyway. It snuck up on me. But things are on a hiatus right now. This…” I nodded toward the folder. “Is why. So, now I want to know what I’m getting into. Is she worth going after, or is this a complete mess and I should stay away?” “Mmhmmm,” she hummed again, then turned toward the door. “Which way do I go so I walk past Sylvia’s office? I feel like getting on her nerves today.” “Oh, please. Spare me her tirade, today.” --- Check out the cover reveal for Missing Persons, and previous Sample Sunday posts. Interested in my inspirations? Check out my Pinterest boards.

A financial analyst meets her match when pro bono work leads to unexpected chemistry at a youth center. Enjoy a sample of Calculated Risk, coming spring 2025! Bright Pathways Youth Center was a squat, single-story building that had seen…

Now look. I told y’all what was going to have to happen to keep me from doom-scrolling and spiraling. I was going to get busy writing and trying to stop worrying about making things perfect and marketable. I was also trying to stop keeping things languishing in the drafts waiting for the right moment. The moment is now. SO… COMING APRIL 18, 2025… Something a little different… Romance and women’s fiction is my bread and butter and home for me… but sometimes I like to challenge myself with something different. A friend mentioned she was going to have to start reading romance because she primarily reads crime fiction and… my brain kinda went off about it. I’ve done this before with The Photograph, a four chapter short I wrote to share on the podcast and The Story of Kate, a fan fiction psychological thriller about a fan obsessed with a pop star and believes he is in love with her. These are SO fun and low stakes for me…and I’ve decided to do it again. Baking Bad is a mystery novella with some crime thriller elements… but stay woke. Could be a surprise coming… The usual disclaimers apply- this is an early version, it’s unedited, unpolished, unperfected. You get me… enjoy it anyway! --- Cassandra unlocked the door to Sweet Crumbs Bakery at exactly 5:15 AM, the same time she opened the bakery Monday through Friday.  There was comfort in the predictability of her mornings, each one a mirror of the last. She flipped a switch by the entrance, the light hum of the fluorescent lights casting a warm glow over the shop. The air held the sweet remnants of yesterday’s goods as she moved briskly across the tiled floor to the back.  In the kitchen, she tied on her apron and rolled up her sleeves. She set a steady pace, her hands working skillfully, kneading and mixing, as if they were part machine. Every morning began this way, the only change being the new treats she would create from sugar, flour, butter, and her imagination. The bell above the door rang out at 6:52 AM, just as she began spreading icing over fresh cinnamon rolls. Cassandra glanced up, expecting the parade of regulars that would soon be lining up, eyes half-open and grateful for caffeine and sugar.  Instead, a familiar figure stood in the doorway. His tailored suit hung rumpled from his slight frame. Stubble covered his jaw, and the bloodshot eyes that met hers screamed of long hours without sleep, or perhaps too many with a drink in hand.   Maybe both.  “Cassandra, thank God.” His voice broke the silence, carrying a rough, desperate edge. “Terrence Carter,” Cassandra echoed. “I haven’t seen you since Blue Vault shut us down. Are you okay? You look like hell.” “Yeah, it’s been a minute.” He shifted nervously, peering over his shoulder. “Listen, Cass…you still do any of the stuff we did at Blue Vault?” It was the last thing she expected him to say. “I’ve barely even said the words Blue Vault since they outsourced our jobs,” I answered. “Why? You know someone with a  need for someone with a particular set of skills?” “Yeah. Me.” He lowered his voice. “I need someone I can trust.” Her curiosity bloomed into concern, and she leaned in, resting her elbows on the glass case between them. A dozen possibilities paraded through her mind, each more unseemly than the last. What was he involved in that had him so jumpy? “What’s going on?” Before he could answer, the bell above the door jangled again. Two uniformed officers stepped over the threshold, seeming larger than life in the small shop. Terrence’s back went straight as a board, his reaction unmistakable.  “This was a mistake,” he muttered, the words barely audible. “Can I come by your place tonight? Name the time.” “Seven,” she whispered. “You remember where I live? Still the same place by Maple Park. Grab a muffin… you need to eat something.” He nodded once, grabbed a blueberry muffin from the case, and headed for the door. His shoulder barely brushed one officer’s as he slipped past, eyes fixed on the floor. “Morning, Cassandra,” said Officer Elaine Powell. Cassandra knew her well; the officer was a regular, her bright brown eyes always sweeping the shop as if scanning for danger. They settled on the pastry case. “You have any of those blueberry scones today?” “Just came out the oven. The usual for both of you?” Steam hissed from the espresso machine as she worked. Behind her, the officers settled into their routine at the corner table, their casual voices carrying through the near-empty shop and making it impossible for Cassandra not to eavesdrop. “...another break-in. This time at the museum,” she heard Officer Powell say. “Security system completely disabled. Just walked right in like it was broad daylight.” “What’d they take this time?” “Some coin collection. Worth a small fortune according to the curator.” “Sounds like we’re dealing with pros.” “That’s what’s weird,” Powell continued. “No sign of forced entry. No alarms triggered. Like they had the keys. Who do we know around here with skills like that?” Cassandra set the officers’ order on their table. “Two lattes and your scones.” “You’re an angel, Cass,” Powell said with a smile. By the time Diana arrived at eleven, Cassandra had served dozens of customers, but her thoughts circled a singular topic: What kind of trouble was Terrance in? And why come to her to resolve it?  As she locked the doors at 3 PM, Cassandra’s phone vibrated in her bag. She dug it out, then scowled at the notification banner: Pine Creek Properties: Lease Renewal - 60 Day Notice Her thumb tapped the screen with dread already a lump in her stomach: Dear Tenant,  This notice is to inform you that your lease at 427 Maple Park Drive will expire on October 31. We are pleased to offer you a renewal with the following terms:  $1,750 / month (increase of $350) The updated lease agreement is attached for your review. Please sign and return the agreement by September 15th to secure your continued tenancy.  Please contact our leasing office with any questions.  Sincerely, Pine Creek Properties Management The screen blurred as she stared at the numbers. They didn’t even have the decency to personalize this highway robbery.  At this new rate, her nest egg would vanish within months. Her vision of a bakery all her own faded with each step to her apartment a few blocks away.  Musty air hit her in the apartment building’s entrance as soon as she opened the door. The water stain on the ceiling had spread since she’d reported it—twice—with no response. Yet their automated billing system never missed a beat. Her key slid into the lock at her door, but as usual, the deadbolt was sticky. She shoved harder, finally forcing the door open to reveal six hundred fifty square feet of neat but modest living space. Walls she’d painted herself glowed warm gold in the living room, like fresh-baked bread. Cookbooks, mystery novels, and technical manuals lined the wall, unevenly stacked. Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to get rid of the manuals, despite their professional uselessness and irrelevance to a life she no longer lived. Those had been a lifeline in her prior career, and she imagined they’d be the last things packed if she had to leave.  The kitchen, barely large enough for one person, gleamed with neatly arranged appliances. Her dining table, which doubled as a desk and was stacked with spreadsheets and bank statements in tidy piles, told the story of the last few months of financial rejections. The loan officer’s sympathetic smile hadn’t softened the blow—insufficient collateral. Her perfect credit score, years of experience and detailed business plan counted for nothing. Now this rent increase. Another barrier, another reminder of a system designed to keep people from advancing. To borrow the money she needed, she had to prove she didn’t need it.  Make it make sense.  She stripped off her flour-dusted clothes, leaving a trail of her workday across the floor as she made her way to the bathroom. The water blasted down in hot sheets strong enough to peel the tension from her shoulders. Clean now and dressed in worn leggings and a comfortably oversized t-shirt, she padded into the kitchen to grab the leftover curry from the refrigerator. The microwave hummed as she scanned her bank statements again. The small business association required at least $25,000 in assets before considering her application. At her current savings rate, she’d be ninety before accumulating that much. She picked at her meal in front of the TV, barely taking in the sitcom reruns that flashed in the background. The digital clock on her microwave read 6:57 PM when knuckles rapped against her door. Through the peephole, Terrence looked even more haggard than that morning, eyes darting down the hallway behind him. When she opened the door, he pushed past her, barely pausing to meet her eyes as he checked over his shoulder and then slammed it shut, securing both deadbolt and chain. His panic was palpable, an aura that vibrated around him.  “You’ve got five minutes to explain what’s happening,” Cassandra said. “And to tell me if it has anything to do with the break-in at the museum I heard those officers talking about this morning.” Terrence paced the small living room, his shoes scuffing against her bargain laminate flooring. “It’s complicated, Cass.” “Uncomplicate it.” Terrence’s hands shook as he pulled out a small cloth bag from his jacket pocket. “I’m in trouble, Cassandra. The kind that doesn’t blow over.” The bag’s drawstring loosened beneath his trembling fingers, and a gleaming gold coin slipped into his palm. “Jordan Hill is looking for this.” He glanced at her, gauging her reaction. “I think he knows I have it. I…I need to leave it here with you.” “Jordan Hill? Like…the real estate guy? With the billboards from here to the coast?”  “Yeah. That one.” “Hmph,” she huffed. “Figures. No one gets that rich flipping houses.” Cassandra folded her arms over her chest, ready for this explanation. “What am I supposed to do with that coin?” “Hide it. Hold it for me. Keep it somewhere safe.” Terrence’s gaze met hers, desperation clear in the wide, round irises. “I need to buy time, and your name was the first that came to mind.” Heat flared so hot, so fast she thought she was having a hot flash. “You brought me some—” She lowered her voice, moved in and hissed under her breath. “You just brought a stolen rare coin into my apartment that could get you hurt—or worse? And you want me to hide it from a man you seem very afraid of? I want to know what’s going on, Terrance. Now.” “Look, Cass…Jordan’s into some shady stuff. He hired me to exploit the vulnerabilities in a security system at this museum a few towns over. We didn’t take much….he just wanted to see if we could get in and out. It was supposed to be one job to pay off my gambling debt, but…”  His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “It was a test. He blackmailed me into doing another job.” “The Montgomery Museum,” Cassandra said, barely breathing. Terrance nodded, confirming. “I kept one coin. As… insurance, I guess, that he’ll let me out of this shit. He wants to sell the entire collection but no one wants this set in pieces. It’s all or nothing. I figured you of all people would know what to do.” Cassandra’s eyes bugged out as her jaw dropped. “Why would I know what to do?” “Because you always had a way of getting out of stuff. Remember junior year when we needed alibis?” Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “When we told our parents we were at the church lock-in? Then we both snuck out to that party in Virginia Beach?” “And when my dad called the church looking for me—” “I’d bribed the youth pastor’s wife to cover for us. She told your dad you were helping set up and couldn’t come to the phone.” The memory flickered briefly before reality extinguished it. “That was harmless. This is felony territory.” “I know.” His gaze dropped to the coin gleaming in his palm. “But if things go left— and the way Jordan works, they eventually will go left—I know where he’s hiding the rest of the collection. I can take it and sell it.” The coin felt heavy as she lifted it from his palm. She rolled it across her knuckles—an old habit from her programming days when problems needed solving. Light caught the engraved profile of some long-dead ruler. Her gaze traveled around the small apartment she’d fought to keep. The system had never been designed for her success. Following the rules had led nowhere. Maybe it was time for a different approach. “If I hide this for you, you have to tell me everything about Jordan’s operation,” she said finally, motioning Terrence toward the sofa. “Every detail. How it works, who’s involved, how the money flows.” “I can tell you what I know... but why?” Terrence asked, confusion crossing his face. Cassandra’s eyes met his, a calculating cold crystallizing behind them. “Because you didn’t just need a hiding place for your pilfered loot. You need a solution. And this needs to be worth it to me.” She’d spent years designing systems to keep people out. Maybe it was time to use that knowledge from the other side of the fence. --- I hope you are looking forward to Baking Bad! It’ll be a shortie, not a full length novel. By next week I should have a Goodreads link, another sample, etc. Have a great week!

Happy Sunday, friends! Today I'm sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress, Missing Persons. You met Wesley Payne last week. This is your first introduction to Yvette Young—a private investigator who doesn't take no for an answer and carries emotional wounds that run deeper than she'd like to admit. Here’s Yvette’s Inspiration Pinterest Board I’ll be talking about my trials and tribulations with this novel on today’s episode of the Bookcast, my author podcast. Until then, enjoy today’s sample and check out the playlist I put together for this book. --- "Yvette Young for Wesley Payne." "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Payne?" I paused, willing myself not to stare down the perky young lady at the reception desk of Courtney & Payne, LLP wearing a telephone headset, her finger poised to just press the damn button and let Wesley know I had arrived. I didn't recognize her, though I hadn't been to the office in a while. "He knows me," I muttered, scratching my name on the guest sign-in sheet. "Mr. Payne insists that he's not to be disturbed unless—" "Do you know what this is?" I waved the padded envelope in front of her face. Her eyes, wide and glossy, followed my movements, right to left, up and down. "This is the complete evidence package that Mr. Payne's client is waiting for. Tell him Yvette is here." She paused, took a breath, then asked, "Would... you like to leave it for—" "Forget it. I know where his office is." I tucked the envelope under my arm and stomped past the front desk toward a set of double doors, pulling them open and marching down the hall until I reached the two corner offices at the end of the suite. Wesley's office was on the right; his partner, Nick Courtney, occupied the office on the left. I rapped my knuckles twice on the thick wooden door. From the other side, I heard, "Come in." The knob turned easily and within moments, I had stepped into Wesley Payne's world. Wesley's offices had always been as finely appointed as the Army allowed, even violating a few minor guidelines for office decor. At Courtney & Payne, he took advantage of the freedom to decorate as he pleased. He just skirted the line between ostentatious and gaudy with enormous dark furniture, brass antique lamps, valuable art and rugs so expensive, I was surprised he allowed me to walk on them. Wesley stood at his desk, bent over the telephone, handset to ear. He waved me in. "Yes... it's fine, Samera. Yes, I'm sure. No security and from now on, she can see me without an appointment, alright?" He sighed, replacing the handset in its cradle and leveling a glare at me. "Just once, could you come up here without upsetting my front office staff? You don't want a jumpy former cop to roll up here, do you?" I shrugged. "You should train her better. All she had to do was call you." "She's trained well," he responded, then stepped around the desk, pointing toward one of his guest chairs. "Good to see you, Vette. It's been a while." Wesley had traded military regs for a style more suited to him—expensive suits, silk ties and wing tips. He rested one ankle over his knee, letting his socks show. Eggplant, which matched his tie and the piping in his well-fitting suit. He stood broad... everywhere. With wide shoulders and a chest to match, his physique said football, but his brain said law. He lived for the law and loved practicing it. I knew private practice didn't bring him the same level of satisfaction that military law provided. Helping a client prove a complainant had falsified evidence of an injurious fall on their premises or standing between a bickering husband and wife didn't compare to investigating charges of treason, processing a court martial, defending a soldier accused of murder, but it was work. It was the law, and when he won, he won big and he made sure to make a splash. "Is that my evidence?" Wesley nodded toward the envelope I still held. I handed it to him and he ripped it open, pulling out my invoice and the supporting documents. A flash drive dropped into his palm. "I want to review everything before we file. You said you had video, too?" "About thirty seconds on the flash drive. No sound, but you can play some Luther Vandross in the background if you'd like." Wesley went back to his desk and plugged the flash drive into his laptop, humming a few bars of “Here and Now” while flipping through video screenshots. "I know I don't have to ask, but this stuff is going to stand up in court, right?" "You're right, you don't have to ask." "This case should be exciting." "Yeah. Pop some popcorn. What's the deal, anyway? There's so much money riding on this guy not cheating on his wife." "According to Julia Simeon, the marriage was more like a merger between families than a love affair. Julia came to the marriage with a lot of money and even more clout. Her father is heir to the Savings Hut fortune." "That chain of discount stores full of cheap shit?" I scowled, squinting. "My mother loves that place. It's like an indoor garage sale." "They do billions in business—" "Get outta here!" "I kid you not. She doesn't need the public watching her get her ass handed to her when her husband is waving himself at everything on two legs. The pre-nup was more of a formality. Protecting each other's images, et cetera. It's the world's worst kept secret that they married for money. But now..." Wesley sat next to me again, laptop in his hands. "Mrs. Simeon has met someone. And she'd like to divorce Marcel, but he won't have it." "Why? What does he care? Simeon Industries does a good book of business on its own." "Her old man has been out of the business for a minute. She's running things in his absence, anyway. When he dies..." "She inherits the company." Wesley nodded, rubbing his dry palms together. "More importantly, Marcel has been trying to buy Savings Hut, or at least a portion of it for years. The old man has always refused. With him out of the way, Julia and Marcel by marriage come into controlling shares." "So Julia needs to be good and divorced before she inherits Savings Hut to avoid Marcel controlling any of her company." Wesley rested his chin on his palm while thumbing through the photo images. "Unbelievable," he mumbled. "They must have thought they were safe since there were nothing but trees behind the house." "He was such a Boy Scout, playing the doting husband, the loving father. He wasn't counting on me following her. I knew he’d show up." He hummed his agreement. "That's why you're good at what you do." "Welp..." I slapped my jean-clad thighs as I stood. "He's lost a good chunk of money and the chance to be handed more, thanks to her not being careful enough to close her blinds. I'd be mad as hell if I were him." Wesley laughed. "He probably will be. This divorce is going to be messy. Quiet, but messy." "He'll probably roll right over, agree to whatever she wants. Never hit a courtroom." "Don't say that," he groaned. "I need to see a courtroom." Wesley rose to his feet. "You uh... you taking off already?" "Got places to go, creeps to investigate." I took a step toward the door but stopped when he spoke my name. "We can't talk? Catch up?" He gestured me back toward the chair. "Have a seat. Tell me how you're doing. I mean, really." "Really, I'm fine. I have an appointment—" "Vette." His expression softened as the 'V' between his dark brown eyes deepened. "I know the anniversary just rolled by. He was my friend, too. I loved him, too." He paused, then added quietly, "I miss him too. Jason was—" “Do not even start with that.” I stepped closer, getting right in his face. "Please spare me the camaraderie speech. Jason wasn't even cold before you were hitting on me." "Vette, it's been—" "Three years. And you call yourself a friend?" "It's not like I proposed. I asked you out. You made it clear you weren’t ready for that and I—" "I know exactly what you did, Wesley. What you didn't do was show any kind of loyalty to your friend. Or his girl." I spun around and headed for the door. "Have my check cut and don't give me any shit about payment terms." "Yvette. Wait!" I gripped the handle and yanked the door open, nearly bowling over the receptionist. "Oh!" She yelped, jumping back into the hallway. "You suck at eavesdropping," I muttered, passing her as I left the suite and stepped into an open elevator. My heart thumped loudly, erratically in my ears. Breathing became more difficult by the second. My hands shook as I jabbed at the lobby button. The walls were closing in, Wesley's words echoing in my head. He was my friend, too. I loved him, too. I miss him, too. The pain felt as fresh as the day I got the call, as raw as the moment I'd collapsed into my mother's arms. The elevator doors opened, and I stalked out, my legs stiff. Across the marble floors, through the revolving doors, out onto the sidewalk. The mid-morning air hit my face, but I still couldn't breathe. My chest squeezed in a vise. Passersby gave me a wide berth as I leaned against the building's stone facade, trying to reset myself. That happened more often lately. Not being able to handle talking about Jason. Talking about moving on, moving past him. Letting go. And fighting this... whatever was happening with Wesley. Finally able to breathe and, heartbeat still at a rapid but slowing, steady rhythm, I climbed into the El Camino and drove the short distance to a converted sun room turned home office at the back of a 1920s bungalow off Ponce Avenue. Veteran's benefits paid for a lot of services, post separation. Post military training, a degree at an accredited college or university. Medical care. Disability. Therapy for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Maybe today I'd finally be able to talk about it. About Jason. About Wesley. --- Yvette Young has walls built high and reasons for every brick. What do you think of this introduction to her? I'd love to hear your thoughts on Yvette and what you're hoping to see from her story. --- Missing Persons is still in progress, but I'm excited to share more glimpses as the story develops. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next Sunday! If you haven’t met Yvette in the previous novel she appeared in, catch up with Dinner at Sam’s.

On Sundays we sample a new or upcoming WIP. I'm really trying to have Grumpy Valentine up by V-Day. She might slide in just under the wire. Or maybe she’ll be slightly delayed. I don’t know… it’s done when it’s done! Until then, enjoy a sneaky peek.…

The usual crowd milled around. Sweat glistened on skin, a testament to the day's heat. The thump of bass from a nearby car stereo rumbled. Desmond laced up and started a warm-up game by himself. Soon he was lost in the rhythmic swish of the ball going through the net. After about thirty minutes, he was recruited to join a pick-up game. The exertion helped to clear his mind, give him something to focus on. He was crouched in deep concentration, watching a player about to take a shot, when a familiar silhouette caught his eye. Desmond straightened, his attention drawn to the person walking along the fence surrounding the court. He signaled for a substitute player, giving them a fist bump in gratitude before stepping off the court and heading toward the fence. “Fuck you doing here, Shawn?” he spat out, his words venomous. “Nothing’s changed since the last time you tried to pull this brother-to-brother bullshit.” Shawn nonchalantly shrugged, his hands buried in his pockets. The casual gesture only intensified Desmond's simmering anger. "I don't need a reason to check up on my big brother." “You didn’t check up on your big brother when I was doing your time in Jesup.” Desmond could have predicted the irritated eye roll that came. “Here we go with the martyr speech, like Jesup was Rikers or Folsom. You was literally at a camp serving white-collar time.” “Your time. Time you should have been serving. It doesn’t matter how much time I served or where I served it; it was supposed to be yours.” “You say that like I ain’t do time too.” Desmond’s upper lip twisted; he fought to keep his tightly gripped fists at his sides as he struggled to control his emotions. “You did a year, Shawn. After I served twice that before you showed up to take accountability. And had to be forced to do that.” “Look, man. As fun as it is to spar with you or whatever, I needed to find you because Mom’s not doing well. You need to roll by the house. Soon.” Shawn’s words felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He hadn’t kept in touch with his mother, and the news of her worsening health hit hard. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked. “Dad didn’t say anything about her being sick.” Shawn folded his arms, averting his eyes as if he was casing the basketball courts. “Just passing along the message. She’s been asking about you. Thought you should know.” Desmond stared at Shawn. “Thanks for the message,” he replied finally, then walked back to the basketball game. The damage, however, was done. His mind was already elsewhere. He played mechanically; his shots were off, his passes sloppy. He had no concentration or heart in the game. After a few minutes of effort, he snatched up his bag and headed back to his pickup. He arrived at his apartment visibly agitated. There were reasons he didn’t see his family, especially those that weren’t supportive of him while he was inside or after he’d come out. Now his energy was off, his routine was threatened, and he wasn’t sure how to get himself back on the right path. Desmond picked up his phone, looking for a distraction on Beyond Bars, but was scrolling through posts, not really reading them. An alert from Instagram popped up on his phone. im_thatcher has sent you a private message. He squinted, his brows nearly knit together. Imani sent him an Instagram DM? Without hesitation, he swiped the notification, opening the app to his direct messages. ‘I’m not stalking you, I swear. My phone must have pinged from the area because you’re showing up as someone I should follow. Weird, huh?’ He didn’t know whether to laugh or be creeped out by this coincidence. ‘Yeah, that’s weird how phones do that. What’s up. How is your Saturday?’ ‘Pretty good,’ she wrote back. ‘Deep cleaned my place, went to yoga. I dropped by the farmers’ market again but I guess I wouldn’t be lucky enough to see you two weekends in a row.’ Was Imani flirting? Or just being friendly? Were women ever just friendly? If she wasn’t interested, she’d never have reached out, right? She’d keep things strictly business. So…was she flirting? ‘Anyway, sorry if I am disturbing your weekend. I’m about to hit the Chick-a-Biddy close to your side of town, though. I thought you might want to meet up.’ She. Is. Flirting. Fuck. Desmond was starving. The oatmeal he’d eaten that morning was long burned off. Running into Shawn had decimated his appetite, but the conversation with Imani had reduced his stress…and he could eat. ‘You wear red bottoms to work but eat at a low-key neighborhood chicken joint?’ ‘Don’t make me have to prove I’m not bougie, Mr. Taylor. I like chicken. I’m leaving my place now. If you’re coming, I’ll see you in about a half hour. If not, I’ll see you Thursday.’ Desmond stared at his phone for a full sixty seconds, then got up and headed for his shower kit. His studio included a full bathroom but he kept everything in a caddy. You never knew when you were being moved and Desmond was always prepared. ‘See you in a few.’ Desmond quickly showered, lined up his beard and his hairline while he was in the mirror, slathered on lotion and threw on a t-shirt and jeans, then grabbed his keys and headed out. He pulled up to Chick-a-Biddy, parked next to Imani’s BMW in the lot, and walked in, spotting her immediately at a table in a sunny corner wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses. She wore a fitted Prince t-shirt and understated jewelry. Her hair, which was normally in a subdued style, was a halo of loose curls and twists around her face. He found he liked it, but he tried not to stare too long. “You made it,” she said, sliding a menu over for him to peruse. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your corporate fit on,” he said, sliding into the booth opposite her. Imani laughed, removing her sunglasses and setting them down on the table. “I have layers, Desmond.” “Yeah, yeah. Lemme see what shoes you got on.” He bent to peer at the rest of her outfit, smiling at the cut of her tailored leather shorts and impeccable, spotless leather and suede sneakers. “You’re not beating the bougie charges, Imani.” “I can’t help that I like nice clothes. You’re not looking bad, Mr. Has To Take A Shower To Eat Chicken.” “I had actually just got home from playing ball…” The conversation with Shawn flashed across his mind, putting a brief damper on his mood. “Let’s order,” Imani suggested. “And then we can both talk about what just happened to your face.” --- ABOUT CALCULATED RISK When heartbreak leads to love… All her life, Imani Thatcher has played it safe, making the smart moves that landed her a prime spot at one of Atlanta's top financial firms. When heartbreak shatters her carefully planned world, she finds herself questioning everything she thought she knew about love and life. Desmond Taylor has enough on his plate keeping Bright Pathways Youth Center running and Atlanta's at-risk teens off the streets. A polished financial analyst from the high gloss end of Atlanta should be the last thing on his mind, but from the moment she walks through his doors, he cannot deny the electricity between them. When it comes to matters of the heart, love is always a calculated risk. Find content advisories on my website HERE. Inspired by Two Black Cadillacs by Carrie Underwood --- Calculated Risk is almost here! You can read this book along with an impressive 45 other novels in the Book Baes & HEAs Exclusive Black Romance Promotion. The link goes live on April 1. Get thee to my newsletter list if you want to be one of the first to snag the link and pad your spring and summer TBR with exclusive, never before seen works from award winning authors. Want more Books by DL White? Shop my titles in eBook, print and audio HERE and check out my Short Fiction substack for serial novels, fan fiction and shorts. Subscribe for access to even more behind the paywall.

When a summer storm knocks the power out across Potter Lake, Evonne reluctantly accepts her landlord’s invitation to wait it out in the main house. Some wine, some sweet treats, and long-held secrets unleash an intimacy that can’t be walked back and a long-simmering attraction explodes. Two people who didn’t mean to fall find themselves unable to resist. ⚠️: This excerpt includes discussion of serious illness, cancer diagnosis, treatment, and recovery. --- “So…it’s your half of the pinky swear. Grab a donut and tell me your secrets.” I picked out a donut covered in a green glaze with large salt granules sprinkled on top. I wrapped my other hand around my mug of coffee and got comfortable. Then sat up again. “Hold up. I want to show you something.” I reached past her to grab an old but well taken care of leather-bound photo album. I scooted closer to her and opened it, flipping past the first few photos stuck between clear pages. About halfway through the book, I slowed, then stopped. Then slid the album over to her lap. She glanced at the photo. Then stared at the photo, mouth open. “Is this you? Are you in a hospital? You had a central IV line; that means it was serious.” She peered up at me, any hint of inebriation gone, her eyes wide and wild and full of concern. “What happened to you? And are you okay?” “I’m okay. When I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with B-cell Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. It’s the most commonly diagnosed type. Deadly if untreated, but a good many people that get a diagnosis make it.” “Oh my God…” She whispered, her words carried on the slightest of breaths. “How… how long were you…” “A long time. High dose chemotherapy and radiation, then a stem cell transplant from my youngest brother. Then recovery. It was a few years until I was cancer-free. Even longer to feel like I was safe, in the clear. I keep things in check, of course, but I’m well. Despite my mother calling every week to ask if I feel okay.” Evonne was, for the first time since I’d met her, speechless. She stared listlessly in my direction, but I don’t think she saw me. “I’m okay to talk about it,” I prodded. “It’s been a long time.” Her throat worked as she swallowed, then swallowed again, then glanced down at the photos of me at the hospital, doing my best to put on a brave face. I was thin but bloated, sallow, as pale as a dark-skinned boy could be. And scared. She fingered the photos through the plastic, almost caressing my young face. “I feel like I was so close to never meeting you. It just hit me that I’m so happy I did. I’m so glad you made it.” “Would have been sad if I didn’t, because Jaslene, my partner that night you came into the clinic? She had no plans to help you. You probably would have bled to death. Or got Gangrene, and your hand just fell right off. This girl I know heard about that on a podcast.” Evonne burst into laughter; the somber mood of the room instantly dissipated. She started flipping through the pages, smiling at photos of my family and me over the years. “That girl, Jaslene. Are you and she friendly?” Evonne asked. “Friendly?” Like I didn’t know that question was coming. I brought her up for a reason. “Like you and I, friendly? Or like friends who fuck, friendly?” “Either. But mostly the latter.” “We have been both.” “Mmmhmm.” She gave a single, resolute nod and flipped more pages, smiling at some of the photos of me with my brothers. “What does that sound mean? Are you disappointed? Upset? Indifferent?” Her eyes met mine long enough for me to see her roll them dramatically. “Definitely indifferent, Nurse Dude. I sensed something when I was leaving the clinic that night. You just confirmed it. She didn’t like me.” “It wasn’t about you. Not directly; she said I was flirting with you.” “You were.” “After I had turned her down earlier that night.” “Ohhh, ouch.” She laughed. “Not smooth, Nurse Dude. No wonder she didn’t like me.” “It’s not like it matters. Does it?” “Should it? Does it matter to you?” “Not anymore.” She stopped flipping pages and turned toward me. “I’ll bite. Why not anymore?” “Because we aren’t friendly anymore.” “Because you decided?” “Because she broke it off. She wasn’t happy when she found out who my new tenant was.” Evonne tossed her head back and let out a cackle that was more like a scream, replete with clapping and thigh-slapping. I might have let a chuckle roll out to laugh along with her. “Oh-kay! I moved in with her man, and she wasn’t having it!” “I had already decided I didn’t want to see her anymore. I told her that the day after you came through the house, and we uh…” I cleared my throat, searching for the words to describe the day I’d started daydreaming about my tenant. Evonne had no trouble with the words, though. “Almost had sweaty sex on the piano?” “I…” I paused, my mind speeding back to that hazy spring afternoon when I first tasted her. “Really?” Evonne smirked, a saucy smile on her lips and smoke in her eyes. “Don’t act like it didn’t cross your mind, Nurse Dude. What happened when you told her it was over?” “She accused me of playing games with her. She had suggested, a couple of times, that I should move her into that space. She was mad that I had decided not to do that. She threw some stuff around the supply room. Left in the middle of her shift.” I shrugged, splaying my hands in a helpless gesture. “I haven’t seen her since.” “Disaster. I bet you’re glad to have someone mature living so close to you.” “Oh, yes.” I nodded. “Definitely.” Then I licked my lips and leaned into her, eager to catch every word now. “Can we go back to sweaty piano sex? Really?” --- The lights are out in Potter Lake, but the sparks are flying! Want more of this steamy, funny, landlord-tenant romance? The Guy Next Door could be your next cozy #Blackromance binge, packed with small-town heart, humor and chemistry you’ll feel in your soul. Available now in eBook, print, and audio. THE GUY NEXT DOOR

On Sundays we sample a new or upcoming WIP. I'm really trying to have Grumpy Valentine up by V-Day. She might slide in just under the wire. Or maybe she’ll be slightly delayed. I don’t know… it’s done when it’s done! Until then, enjoy a sneaky peek.…

Bright Pathways Youth Center was a squat, single-story building that had seen better days. Fresh paint and new signage couldn’t quite hide the years of wear and tear. Imani parked her car, double-checking that she’d locked it, and approached the…