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Meg Amor
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Romance erotica writer, reluctant emotional medicine healer, ex-therapist, sporadic metaphysician
Romance erotica writer, reluctant emotional medicine healer, ex-therapist, sporadic metaphysician

214 followers
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✰ . . ✰ (•.¸(´*•.¸(*•.¸¸.•´)¸.•*´ 99 CENTS ´*•.¸(•.¸(´*•.¸(*•.¸¸.•´) ✰ . . ✰

Sexy, sweet, holiday read ~ excerpt and blurb ~ Has Saint Nicholas come early this year?

I’m sitting here staring at the computer screen. Hoping the Muses might arrive back from their six-month snorkeling trip to the Bahamas. Surely to God, their visas are up by now. I rely on the “Muses.” They’re my writing team.

Usually they turn up out of the blue, noisy and fervent. They slam into my brain, toss their tennis rackets in the corner, saying, “Gosh, that was jolly hot work, let me get a drink, then I’ll sit down and tell you a story.”

I generally just type like a mad woman as they talk. Then abruptly they stop. I’ll look up from my keyboard and hours have literally gone past.

But not today…

And not for a while…

On a whim, I’d bought a wee apple cider drink to heat in the microwave. The smell of cinnamon is overpowering. I usually like the American Christmas smells, but it’s all getting to me this year. It’s not surprising, but I wish I was through this bit already. I’m sick of feeling like shit. Either sleeping too much, or not at all.

All part of the grieving process. I know.

It just seems like a long, long evolution. I no longer measure my life in weeks or months, but days, or a week. It all blends into one long blur. I need a new life. Just scrap this one and start again. Sometimes you’ve burnt so much crap on the bottom of the roasting pan, the only choice is to toss the bloody thing out and get a new one. I wonder what store sells new lives? I could ask Santa for one. Oh to still be a kid where we wished for things, and Santa magically delivered!

I’m ready to resign as an adult. Hand someone my car keys, check book and drive off with my handbag on the seat and cat carrier in the back. Oh…suppose I’ll need the car keys and cash card. Fuck. As a kid, you didn’t think things like this. That was the magic of it. You just did things.

“Okay, Santa,” I say out loud. “I need a ton of money, a gorgeous lover who adores me and has waited his whole life to meet me. That’s what I’ll have for Christmas, thanks.”

A loud knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. Shit. I hope the windows are closed, talking to myself has become a bit of a “thing” lately.



Rat-a-tat-tat again. Shit. Earth to Daisy! More like Daze-y. I laugh. Now, I’m laughing at my own attempts at humor. I should consider just signing myself in somewhere for a psych evaluation and be done with it.

I open the front door. Oh, bloody hell. I bet I look like shit on a stick.

“Hey.” Adonis is all smiles.

“Aloha,” I say automatically.

“You always say that, how come?”

“I used to live in Hawaii, it’s my American home state.”

“Ah, okay, very cool. I like that,” he says decisively, like it fills a gap in his knowledge base.

Crikey. I wonder what he’s doing here. Damn, wrong time to think. Now I’ve gone completely blank.

“Um…I…I brought your card back.” Perhaps the planets are out of alignment, he’s also drawing some blanks.

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “My card?”

“Oh yeah, shit, sorry.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open, sliding out my ATM cash card.

“Oh fuck, thanks, Adonis,” I say automatically. Bugger…I’ve just called him Adonis.

He laughs.

“Is that what you call me?” He grins.

“Sorry! I know your name.” God, how embarrassing is this?

He’s rocking back and forth on my doorstep, a huge grin from ear to ear.

There’s a bloody Christmas reindeer dangling from his ear now. He must rotate the damn things around.

“Good reindeer,” I say. Once again, proving I can speak, just not very well.

“One of the kids gave it to me.” He fingers it.

What a sweetie. And married… Oh joy.

“I love your earrings, they’re fun.”

“It’s good to have fun,” he says.

I nod, agreeing with the sentiment, if not the execution right now.

He gives me my card, touching my hand, and an electric current sizzles up my arm. He expels air, like he’s also felt the same thing.

Our eyes lock.

He inhales slowly, a slight hesitation. “Will you ask me to come in?”

“Yes,” I say softly. My brain grapples for something that makes sense. I’ve just had the sensation of slipping through a portal again.

“That’s a really silly earring,” I say.

“My nieces are funny little girls,” he says, very seriously. Then a hint of mischief creeps into his now dark eyes.

“Nicky…Nick…”

“Ah, so you do know my name.” He grins.

Oh God, I called him Adonis in what feels like hours ago, but probably only five minutes has passed. Time’s disappeared on me.

“I have this really hideous apple cider someone’s gone berserk on the cinnamon with, do you want some?” I ask.

“Actually…no.”

“Oh well…no, well…that’s fine,” I say, flapping my hand, feeling like an idiot. Of course, he doesn’t want some crappy microwave cider you ning nong.

“I have a better idea,” he says slowly. “You say no one’s romantic any more…”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Just the way I’m feeling probably.” I shrug apologetically.

He leans forward to take one of my hands. Time slips away. We both gasp. I spring back, shaking my head, trying to clear it. God, how weird. Again, I have a flash of something. A blue uniform, peaked cap and pencil thin moustache. I nearly blurt out, “I’d love to have this dance with you.”

Note to self: Stop listening to Glenn Miller music.

He’s also flustered. Perhaps me leaping back like he’d slapped me didn’t help. Shit.

“Would you like to come for a drive with me? By the river… Pretty, um…relaxing…” He spreads his hands. I get the feeling he’s equally at a loss for words.

I nod enthusiastically like one of those mad looking bobbing head doggies in the back window of cars.

“Bring a wrap, ayapi mou, keep warm.”

This touches me more than I can put into words. My throat closes and tears threaten. Oh God. Not now. I rush into the bedroom and grab my cape.

He smiles on my return. I manage to smile back. He’s really bloody gorgeous. My brain doesn’t quite seem to be connecting to the situation, but that’s nothing new these days. My life has become a wee bit of a blur.

He hands me into a 750 Beemer. I do miss my own one. Although, I’ve always had 540’s—all that power, grunt and luxury—hard to beat.

I sink back into the creamy BMW seat and part of me sighs with pleasure and relief. My grieving self slips away for a short time. I close my eyes, unwinding with the familiar smell and inherent comfort a Beemer always has for me. I used to have a lot of money. Neil went through most of it, and I let him. I often wonder what else I managed to let him take from me. My passion for one thing. I’m a fiery passionate redhead, with a wild streak. Where the bloody hell has that gone these past few years?

It all pours into my writing now. But it has eaten away at my soul, only having it there on the page, and not anywhere else in my life. I sigh… There are so many layers to Neil dying. Sometimes I don’t know which part I’m grieving—the death of our relationship, or his actual death? All of it in reality, the layers are so intertwined. I also grieve my loss of lifestyle. One I haven’t acknowledged to myself for a long time. In the lovely soothing presence of the 750, it brings it back with a vengeance.

I come back to the present with a bang, realizing I’ve been off in some reverie. Not even talking to Nick. I look over at him, but he seems relaxed.
“Sorry,” I say, apropos of nothing.

“No sorries, ayapi mou. It’s nice to see you relax.” He smiles.

My god, he’s just beautiful. The original Greek God. Fuck. What am I doing? He’s probably married…no, he mentioned nieces…but that doesn’t mean he’s not married. I feel like giving myself a mental head slap. His European wedding ring finger on his right hand, sports a large filigree band.

“Are you married?” I blurt out.

“Not any more,” he answers.

“What happened?”

“Long story, but basically she went back to Greece. Hated it here. Too hard for her culturally. And me. She hated me too. I’m just not Greek enough for her.” His fingers do the air quotes either side of the steering wheel.

I startle myself by laughing out loud. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s the way you said it. You seem very Greek to me.”

He laughs. “It’s okay. We’re still friends, but I’m too American for her. Not macho Greek man, you know. Too ‘metro.’ She complained about my earrings. A few other things.” He raises his eyebrows.

“I love earrings on a man.”

He shoots me a sultry look. A jolt of hot desire shoots straight down my stomach, exploding between my thighs. Holy hell. I squirm in my seat.

SAINT NICHOLAS

A beautiful heartfelt, sensual erotic romance story—New Zealander, Daisy struggles with the death of her husband, her days become blurs of unreality. There doesn’t seem to be any light at the end and if there is one—it’s probably a train.

Life has become slightly surreal. Nobody told her death would be like this. That she’d feel so exhausted some days, even brushing her teeth would seem like the ascent on Everest without oxygen.

Her one bright spot is picking up a lotto ticket at the local store where the gorgeous Greek owner Nicky Constantine works. His dancing Aegean-blue eyes and jet black wavy hair are as attractive as his long fingers. She notices them every time. He’s flirty and fun—he’s probably nice to everyone. Good Greek Boy, she thinks in her sarkier moments.

But one day, Nicky touches her hand and she’s transported into another time and era—she sees a flash of a heavy sheepskin flight jacket and peaked service cap. In her confusion, she leaves her cash card at the store.
Unbeknown to Daisy, Nicky’s only flirty with her. He’s been watching her for months, concerned for this lovely, fragile woman.

Finding her card, he takes up her challenge that men aren’t romantic anymore. He arrives at her door with an invitation to drive down to the river.

He’s packed champagne and candles…

Christmas is right around the corner...has Saint Nicholas come early this year?

MuseItUp Publishing
Cover Art © 2014 by Celairen
Edited by Lea Schizas
Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/htc88vs
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A very interesting soul this one - Willy Cartier :)
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Willy Cartier - beautiful inside and out
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Mele Kalikimaka!!! Merry Christmas in Hawaiian :)
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Pineapple Christmas tree topper. :) I want :)
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✰ . . ✰ . . ✰ . . ✰ FREE ON KINDLE UNLIMITED ✰ . . ✰ . . ✰ . . ✰

NEW EXCERPT

Feedback I just received. I was thrilled. :) Thank you Sam Thorne.

"The topography is again absolutely awesome and the prose flows so well. Henry and izzy have this amazing chemistry and I really do like it that Henry's not this young, strapping thing but a man who's trying to live a second life, in a way, brought back to life by izzy"


Izzy:

Shit, I told Henry I loved him. Who said it first? Oh God, was it me? No, hang on, he did. Maybe he thought he should say that, some standard thing said when you’d unexpectedly had sex in the garden.

That doesn’t make sense. Gentle, kind, loving Henry.

He’s undressed me when I’ve been sick, washing me carefully and putting me to bed after a rark up at a stupid party. He held my hair back as I threw up in the toilet for God’s sake. I’ve fallen asleep in the car, and he’s carried me inside, gently removing my shoes, and looking after me with such care.

Now he’s built a garden of love for me.

I sit back so hard, the toilet lid nearly snaps. It’s the shock of realizing Henry…loves…me. He’s loved me from the first day he saw me. A rush of freedom blasts through me. The truth is, I’ve loved him just as long. Brett and I are good friends, but not much else.

Now I have to act completely normal. Face my family. Marie. Mea with her raised eyebrows. Brett. Shit.

My mind soaks up every look, gesture, word, touch, and moment of being with Henry. I’m startled out of my daydream with a knock at the door.
It’s Mea. “Are you all right? Everyone’s out by the pool.”

Shoving my sodden panties into the hamper, I usher her in. She hands me a glass of champagne, and I guzzle it down.

Mea’s known me since I was twelve, she knows me.

I tell her everything, and she’s not surprised.

But I am. “Why?”

“The last trip out here, you guys were really close.”

“Shit. Does everyone know?” I look like a startled hedgehog in the mirror.

She shakes her head. “He loves you.”

“Yes, he does…how do you know?”

“I know you. Henry adores you. He’d do anything for you. He’s completely besotted. So gentle and caring, a real honey. Nice looking too. Is he good in bed?”

“Yes.” I nod emphatically. Crikey. Today. Fuck. The enormity of the situation now making itself known.

“So, what’s he like in bed?”

A bolt of electricity shoots up my spine, and I flap my hands about. “Mind-blowingly good.”

She grins. “Good kisser?”

“Ohhh yes…gorgeous. No, I’m not answering the next question. Not small, put it that way.” We both laugh and clink glasses.

“Bloody hell. I’m a walking cliché; I’ve just had sex with my pool man,” I say, trying to make a joke of it.

“There’s more to it than that,” she says seriously.

I sigh. “I know. But what do you mean?”

“It’s like you’ve known each other forever, across many lifetimes, like some…” She shrugs. “Eternal flame or something. He’s always been there for you.”

She’s right. The connection’s strong. We’d been guided to each other. I don’t know how many horrible houses Brett and I looked at before we came here. I’d finally thrown a wobbly, and we’d changed to another agent.

She’d sized me up immediately, and said, “Look, there’s a gorgeous old place in the Garden District, but…it’s a wreck. I have a feeling it’s right, though.” She’d grinned.

Tyrell warned us it was gutted. A hardware store’s wet dream—not in those words, but that was the gist of it. Brett looked a wee bit startled, but I’d perked up. “I’ll go with a feeling.”

As soon as we walked in the door, I knew. This was the place.

Brett looked like a stunned mullet when I said, “It’s perfect.”

She’s called Four Seasons, and I fell in love with her instantly. “I’ve always wanted to live at the Four Seasons,” I joked.

“Bloody optimistic person who named it that,” grumbled Brett. The heat drove him up the wall sometimes.

There are only two seasons in New Orleans, a mild winter, and a hotter than hell summer. There wasn’t much in between, but I like the steamy heat, so does Henry. I’d lived in Singapore, Queensland in Australia, the Big Island of Hawai’i, and Florida. The tropics sang to my soul and something had called me to the languid, sultry warmth of New Orleans.

Henry and this house…

Tyrell hadn’t been underselling it. It had been gutted, stripped down to studs. The outside walls, hallways, staircase, floors, and basic bathrooms remained. The kitchen was gone. The guy selling it had ripped out interior walls making the spaces larger and airier.

Thank God.

I love these old houses but they often had small rooms, decorated with ancient Victorian furniture, heavy drapes, and lace curtains. Or nasty uncomfortable French furniture, designed to keep chiropractors in business for years. The only reason they’re a bloody antique is because they’ve never had a chance to wear out or become matchsticks through overuse. A large clock often ticks sonorously in the background. It fits the period of the houses, but it depresses me.

The rubber plantation look always grabs me, though. Lots of cane, wicker, bamboo, and Asian black lacquer furniture. Interiors painted in light airy pastels or strong tropical colors. Every single piece of trim, door, and ceiling painted in boring Greek white, but it brings these lovely ladies into a fresh space with their high ceilings and days of grandeur feeling.

I’d asked Tyrell if she knew anyone who could help us. We needed someone handy, who knew contractors, and these big old houses, and you know…I’d trailed off, unsure what I was really asking.

She gave me the oddest look. I thought I’d offended her, but she scrolled through her phone, hitting an entry.

“Hey, Marie, Tyrell here, is Henry about?” She’d told him what we needed, then looked at me. Covering the phone, she said, “I don’t suppose you need a chef as well, do you?”

I’d thought about it for half a second. The thought of never having to cook a meal again unless I wanted to and having decent food on tap when we didn’t eat out was hugely appealing.

“Yes,” Brett and I said in unison.

She laughed, gave the address, and hung up.

“This is not how things are usually done, but this feeling is strong. I hope it’s okay. My cousin and his daughter are coming over. Y’all will like them. He’s a phenomenal sax player, but his wife passed a few years ago. He’s slightly lost, but he’s a house restorer, amazingly creative with these big houses and gardens. Marie’s a ball of efficient energy, and a fabulous chef. It might work for you.”

“Thanks.” I was impressed—my universal dollar, hard at work with things clicking into place already. It was right.

When he’d turned up, I felt I knew him. He was a tall, distinguished, rather arresting looking black man, with striking eyes. A wee bit shy, but my hand touched his arm, and we seemed to click. I felt like I talked a mile a minute, like a parrot on speed.

We’d gone outside to the pool area. Holy shit.

Brett said, “Fuck, let’s just fill it in and start again.”

“What a mess,” I said. It was revolting actually, but it had potential.

“Don’t let this bother you, Ms. Izzy.” It was the first time Henry called me that. “I’ll re-tile this, take out the dancing dolphins, and re-rock the waterfalls.”

But my mind hadn’t gone there.

“Oh no, it’s fabulous. So cool and kitschy, let’s restore it.”

Brett’s mouth dropped open. But Henry gave me one of his gorgeous smiles, and his eyes twinkled. “I’m happy to do anything for you, Ms. Izzy.”

Oh God, what a lovely man.

In the briefest of flashes in and out, so quickly I barely registered it—I thought, and someone who knows me on a deep level. Mea’s right about us. There’s an unbroken connection over many lifetimes.

I can’t question it now. Donning a halter neck sundress, we join everyone by the pool. Conversation flows around me, barely touching me.

Dad notices I’m off with the fairies. “Earth to, Isolde, come in.”

I’m startled out of my daydream. “Oh sorry, I must be jet lagged.”

He gives me an odd look with his eyebrows raised. “A three-and-a-half-hour flight from Vegas?”

Thank God Marie announces Henry will start the barbecue soon. Oh shit. In my sex-hazed brain, I’d forgotten. We always do a Southern barbecue for visitors, and Henry always cooks it.

Bugger.


Henry:

The call came to fire up the grill. How the hell will I do this? What’s Izzy thinking? Maybe I should send a text to her and say what?

Hi Izzy, how are you feeling? No…

How was today? Worse.

How’s the get together? Awful.

I examine myself in the full-length mirror. Izzy says she loves me. What does she see in me? A crushing thought—what if it was said in the heat of the moment, a thing she’ll want to retract later. I give myself a mental shake. This is Izzy. She’s genuine.

But the idea bothers me. How will I act up at the house I pop in and out of several times a day?

I throw on causal clothes after my shower. Is this shirt dressy enough? My brain’s whirling, trying to find the normalness in my life. What would I usually wear? Things have tilted on their axis, and I’m at a loss.

I’m afraid to see Izzy, what if she’s changed her mind? I’m scared of what will happen next.


Izzy:

Here comes Henry, so beautiful, that long easy stride of his.

“Henry.” I do a half wave like I might be trying to stop traffic. He smiles and waves back, but he looks nervous too. He asks how everyone is. How are the drinks? Let me get the grill started.

He’s so normal! Maybe it isn’t that big of a deal to him? Part of me is outraged and hurt. It must show on my face because Mea whispers, “It’s okay.”

Henry doesn’t come over to talk to me, and I fight back tears. This is ridiculous. I tell myself off. Henry’s being “busy” with the barbecue, checking the gas, which he would have done earlier. He fusses, disappearing into the house, not looking once at me. Oh my God, he’s embarrassed about what happened, how awful.

I can’t stand it, and go in to “help” Henry. He’s in the butler’s pantry randomly folding and unfolding napkins, his back to me.

“Henry,” I say rather sharply.

“Izzy,” he states flatly, facing the wall, leaning his hands on the bench, exhaling abruptly.

My heart’s in my throat, and panic engulfs me. I touch his arm and long brown fingers shakily rub my hand. Someone comes into the kitchen area as I say softly, “Henry, please tell me today wasn’t a mistake.”

“Izzy…”

He pauses, and my throat’s closing up with fear.

“If I could steal a moment in time…” His fingers drum on the wooden bench. “I would never let you go.”

I deflate with relief, nearly sinking to my knees. “And I would not go.”
He turns to face me, and I say softly, “Please talk to me.”

“Izzy, today was not a mistake…for me.” He pauses again, gently rubbing my arms, and looking into my eyes, breathing in, his nostrils flaring. “I love you, Izzy—always have and always will. The future’s unknown, but I know I need you in it.”

A rush of air expels from my lungs in intense relief.

Marie barges in. “What the heck are you two doing?”

We both start guiltily.

“The meat needs to go on, none of the plates are out, come on, let’s go.” She swans off.

I look at Henry and start to laugh. His eyes dance and his rolling laugh is triggered, sending glee down my spine. He hugs me, kissing me on the forehead. “Can we talk?”

I nod. “God knows when, though.” I’m just as desperate.

Before I can get out another word, Marie reappears; loading us up and no more can be said.


Henry:

Oh God. I’ve just seen Izzy. So extraordinary, she takes my breath away. I said I loved her, and she didn’t say it back. What the hell am I doing? We have to talk.

Right now, I’m working the grill, smiling and laughing, acting normal. And dying inside. Why didn’t she say it back? Jesus, maybe she doesn’t. I’m shaking again. Has anyone noticed what a wreck I am? Yes, Marie’s giving me odd glances. She’ll say something soon, and what will I say?

My hands show age spots. I run my hand over my face, it feels grainy. Hell, I’m an old man. What was I thinking? Izzy can’t want me. Maybe I’m a “bus stop syndrome” thing. Mea said, it’s when you haven’t had sex in forever and even the guy at the bus stop starts looking interesting. I bash the meat, nearly pounding it into oblivion.

I’ve loved her forever. Please let this be real, I can’t lose her. I feel like an idiot, trying to keep it together. Not knowing if Izzy feels the same way. She said some things but hell, maybe I got them all twisted and wrong in my head.

Oh God…my eyes prick. More fluid has exited my body in the last six hours than the last six years. Like someone’s hit the “open floodgates” button on my whole damn system.


HENRY AND ISOLDE


Henry Bovary, an older black musician and house restorer feels his life is nearing its end—until he takes on the restoration of Izzy and Brett’s big old grande dame of a house in the New Orleans Garden District. What he’s not counting on is walking in the door and falling in love with the much younger, exuberant Izzy. She touches his arm and part of him that has been missing his whole life gets plugged back into the life-force, and clicks into being. In his fantasies, he whisks her away to a life with him, crashing back to earth with the realization he’s her employee, an old man, and a black man in the South for God’s sake.

Izzy Buchanan is a passionate, outspoken, New Zealander, with wild red curls to match her personality but she’s also lonely and isolated in her life. She and Brett are mates, but not much else—they’ve missed the boat emotionally and physically in their marriage. Some mysterious force draws Izzy to New Orleans, though, and the house. Despite the house being gutted and a hardware stores wet dream, she knows it’s right when she walks in the door. What she doesn’t bargain for is the instance connection to Henry when he turns up to inspect it—she feels like she knows him.

Their friendship turns into a steamy, passionate relationship when Izzy seduces Henry in the secret garden he’s built for her. His life goes from fifty shades of beige to a rainbow of textures, sights and sounds, but most of all—feelings he’s allowed to have. As their love grows, and inhibitions die, Henry comes into his sexuality for the first time in his life. The deep friendship, love and breathtaking romance revitalizes Henry’s old bones. But will he be able to keep up with this achingly beautiful, younger woman? And will she leave her husband?

Their growing relationship exposes family secrets. When Henry suffers an emotional crisis, a surprising World War Two lifetime memory resurfaces. It reveals Henry and Izzy’s intense connection to Henry’s best friend, Charlie Laralde, another musician from a wealthy Creole family. He and Henry have known each other since the day he was born. Charlie’s gorgeous and charming but he’s lost the ability to be vulnerable, and a connected lover with someone. He can’t open his heart, carrying deep wounds from a relationship that ended in tragedy.


When Izzy comes into their lives, an old heart and soul connection between them all brings surprising desires to the surface. How does Charlie fit into their lives? It's complicated...

A trilogy romance that spans a decade and two past lives between New Orleans, England, and France. It takes Charlie, Henry, and Izzy from friends to lovers, a part of the chi circle where the flame still burns and love never dies. Three souls who reach across more than one lifetime to rekindle a deep love between them.

New Orleans, city of soul, is home to the first of the new Troika Trilogy series ~ Henry and Isolde, a steamy, deeply sensuous love story.

A coming of age romance about three friends, Charlie, Henry and Izzy who become three lovers, across three lifetimes.


Website: www.troikaromance.com

Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/pdreuxc

Amazon UK: http://tinyurl.com/o49zfjw

Amazon AU: http://tinyurl.com/olfsx6r

Amazon FR: http://tinyurl.com/qjdvnkl
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Brina Brady's new xmas book!!!
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