Book Crazy: Book Blitz & Giveaway: Played by Naima Simone!

Excerpt!

“Oh fuck.” I groan, squeezing my eyelids together. But when I open them, the person approaching the house with two bouquets of roses in his arms is still there.

Ma, what the hell?

He isn’t familiar to me, but then again, he is. I don’t need to have met this man before to understand who he is and why he’s here. I’ve met about eleven of them before in the last year. He makes a clean dozen.

“Oh, good, Kyle. You made it,” my mother announces from the porch behind me, as if we all can’t see Kyle standing there. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Ma descends the front steps, a wide smile stretched across her pretty face. She might be able to pass for my older sister or younger aunt, but I can never forget this is the woman who birthed and raised me. And right now, it’s only my respect and love for her that’s keeping me from demanding What the fuuuuck?

’Cause a bitch is tired of Viviane Wright playing the Millionaire Matchmaker. Sans the millionaire.

“Oh, we have another guest.” Ma glances at me, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited someone else to dinner? Hi.” She stretches out a hand toward Solomon. “I’m Viviane Wright, Adina’s mother. And you are?”

I snort, and Solomon cuts a look at me even as he accepts Ma’s hand, shaking it.

“I’m Solomon Young. A . . . friend of your daughter’s.”

“The Solomon Young?” Kyle grows animated like a live-action cartoon. “Oh my God, I knew you looked familiar. Wow. I can’t believe this.” If he held up a sign with I <HEART EMOJI> #19 painted on it, I wouldn’t have been more stunned.

Ma shifts her attention back to me, a little furrow wrinkling her forehead. I shrug.

“I’m sorry, I hate to sound rude,” she says. “But should I know you?”

“Only if you’re an NHL fan, ma’am.” Solomon dips his chin. “I play for the Pirates, Providence’s team. But I understand if I’m not familiar to you. Adina informed me you’re more football fans than hockey.”

I almost snort again, but as if he’s read my mind once more, he slides a don’t-get-fucked-up glance my way, and I huff out a breath.

And squeeze my thighs. Because goddamn. That was hot as hell.

“Ah, okay. Well, that’s ni—”

“Can I get a selfie?” Kyle cuts Ma off, already dipping inside of his dark-blue sports coat and emerging with his cell in hand. “Do you mind? Your arms are longer.” He passes the phone to Solomon with a wide grin. He’s not lying; Kyle isn’t a short man, but Solomon is a damn giant. I might’ve looked up his stats: six feet, four inches and two hundred and thirty-five pounds. “That’s awesome. Thank you, Solomon.” Kyle cheeses as if they’re pals.

Though that stoic, slightly menacing mug remains on his face, Solomon does take the phone, and snaps a couple of shots.

“Oh man.” Kyle shakes his head, fingers flying over his phone. “I have to post these now. No one would ever believe me.”

This whole thing has taken a sharp turn into the surreal. And by surreal, I mean the what-the-fuck-is-happening-here zone.

Ma clears her throat. “Uh, Kyle. Kyle?” She calls his name again, and this time, his head pops up, a grin still lighting up his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Wright.” Chagrin seeps into his expression, and he tucks his phone away again. “I just got a little”—he waves a hand toward Solomon—“excited.”

“Yes, I see,” she murmurs. “Can I introduce you to my daughter?”

“Of course. My apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mother speaks very highly of you. If I may?” He lifts the forgotten-for-a-selfie bouquets in his hand. “These are for you.” He passes one to Ma and then extends the other to me. “And these are for you. Your mother didn’t lie. You’re as beautiful as she said.”

Nope.

Uh-uh.

Not today, Satan.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure Kyle is a nice guy. I mean, my mother loves me, so she wouldn’t try to fix me up with a douche. But every man she has invited to a family dinner just isn’t my type. I can’t even identify what my type is, but it’s not the parade of guys she’s wined, dined, and offloaded on me.

You don’t know your type, huh?

The bitchy voice in my head pipes up.

And without my permission, my gaze slides over to Solomon. Arousal throbs low in my belly, thumps in my sex.

“Dina.” Ma elbows me in the side, and I mouth ouch to her.

Right. The flowers.

As I take them, Kyle smiles bright, and his regard dips down, lingering on my breasts, hips, and thighs.

Okay, no.

I can’t. I just can’t.

“Thank you, Kyle.” I beam at him, and though Kyle’s smile brightens, Solomon stares hard at me. Taking the flowers, I sidle over to Solomon until I’m standing next to him. He stiffens, but I don’t let that stop me from switching the bags over to the same one grasping the flowers and sliding my now free arm through Solomon’s. “But I think my boyfriend might have an issue with another man giving me flowers.”

“The fuck?” he hisses.

USA Today bestselling author Naima Simone heats up the page with intensity and wit in this romance between a pro hockey player and a firefighter, both struggling to move on from the past.

Being a firefighter isn’t easy. Especially for a Black woman. Working with family helps a little. But when somebody from your company doesn’t come back from a call, it’s brutal—as in, “How’m I supposed to go on?” brutal.

And one death took me to a really dark place.

A year later, I’m at the Pirates’ hockey training facility. Just another day on the job. Until I find a charred journal. I look inside for the owner’s name, but the words on the page punch me in the gut. It’s like reading my own thoughts. Reliving my own pain.

The journal belongs to Solomon Young, left-winger for the Pirates—a father and widower. When I return it, I’m racked with guilt for the invasion of privacy. The look Solomon gives me is cold as ice.

But damn if that man isn’t hot as hell.

Now he’s stuck in my brain. And fate seems intent on making us face off.

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Author bio:

Published since 2009, USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone loves writing sizzling romances with heart, a touch of humor and snark. Her books have been featured in The Washington Post and Entertainment Weekly, and described as balancing “crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters caught in emotional turmoil.”

She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.