Sight Unseen: A Collection of Five Anonymous Novellas
What stories would you tell if you could? Where would your mind take you, if you let it? Five of the top voices in romance dare you to explore the most distant corners of their imaginations as they test the limits of storytelling and break the boundaries of what even they thought possible, teasing and tormenting you shamelessly as they go.
But there’s a twist—the author of each story is a secret at the time of release. They’re each plumbing the depths of the human heart and mind in ways they’ve never attempted before. Taking you high, bringing you low, until you will be hardpressed to guess who wrote what. Can you tell? Want us to?
Too bad our lips are sealed . . . for now.
Frequently Asked Questions
- Who wrote what? If you want to be spoiled–and I do think it’s fun to read the book not knowing–Erin Satie authored Lost that Feeling, Meredith Duran A Clear View of You, I wrote Free, JA Rock Chariot of Desire, and Sherry Thomas The Heart is a Universe. You can read interviews with Erin here, Meredith here, me here, and JA and Sherry here.
- Why did you write a motorcycle romance?!@? Without any irony, I enjoy the subgenre, but I wanted to twist it around a bit. I also wanted to write about the region of Montana where I grew up, which is different from the Montana you usually see in romance. The Pinterest/inspiration board for the book is here.
- How long is Sight Unseen? Free is just shy of 30K, and the entire project is about 120K.
- What’s the heat level for Sight Unseen? Free is hot but not erotic. The rest of the collection is kisses only or fade to black.
- I’d like to review the book. Awesome! I hope you love it, but if you don’t, I support your right to review it honestly however and wherever you want. Reviews are for readers not writers. While bad reviews are unpleasant, I will live and won’t harass you about it. Promise.
Excerpt from Free:
I fiddled with my keys. The lock was a piece of shit. The casing was flecking off and the metal underneath was rusting. One good kick and the entire door would cave in, except no one in Fallow, Montana, was going to kick this particular door.
The lock shouldn’t have bugged me except for the stupid little pieces of fake brass on the carpet. Oh, and I couldn’t get my keys out of it.
“Need some help?” Brad’s smile was in his voice.
“Darlin’, I haven’t needed help since I was twelve.”
I did that around him—dropped the g’s off my words—because he’d wince, and it was funny. I also pronounced creek crik, picture pitcher, and sometimes even threw in the occasional ain’t. It made him twitchy. Brad never had fit in in Fallow.
That didn’t stop him from being a smart-ass. “Yeah, you’re right. You have the situation firmly in hand.”
“Thanks for noticing.” I tried my keys again, this time tugging as hard as I could. Nothing. They didn’t move a millimeter. “It’s not me,” I whined. “This lock is crap.”
“You need to twerk it a bit.”
“You need to twerk a bit.”
“Frankly I don’t have the ass for it.”
He didn’t. The guy was rangy. Not short, just wiry. I could see all the bones in his wrist. The skin seemed to pull too hard over the round bump at the bottom of his hand. Sometimes I wanted to run my teeth over it to see how taut it was. It wasn’t a sexual thing; I only wanted to gnaw on him.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said slowly. “How about you demonstrate for me and I can give you some pointers?”
His eyes moved from the lock—my key was never coming out of it—to me. First to my hips, then up my middle before landing on my breasts. And landing was the right word, because I felt his gaze.
Men looked at me. They did. I didn’t understand why. I was totally ordinary looking. I’d always suspected my mother must have been able to sense my ordinariness and that’s why she’d named me Wren, except she’d died of breast cancer when I was twelve, and I hadn’t thought to ask her before then. Nothing was more usual than a wren. Little, brown, abundant: that was me.
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