He was supposed to be waiting ...
Winner CIPA EVVY Award 2024. Shortlisted for 21 Book Awards.
You could say my radar is a little broken.
Charmers. Cheaters. The worst of the worst.
I blame my father.
The man who taught me that love comes with strings attached.
So I keep moving.
New York.
Congo.
Anywhere I can do some good and avoid hanging around long enough for someone to hurt.
Then I meet him.
Blond hair.
Broad shoulders.
An unrestrained smile that should come with a warning label.
Dan.
Brilliant. Funny. Passionate about the same things I am.
The kind of man who doesn't flinch when I get mouthy.
Who gives as good as he gets.
Who somehow makes sleeping in a dusty volunteer compound feel more like home than Manhattan ever has.
So I don't ask too many questions.
Don't push when he dodges one of mine.
Everyone has secrets, right?
I tell myself that whatever he's not saying...
It'll all come out in its own good time.
At least, that's what I thought.
Until I was forced to realize how little I really knew about him.
Then I got mad.
And once that happened...
I couldn't stop looking for answers.
I should have been more afraid of what I might find.
Haunting, explosive and tender. BUY NOW to read the hot new romance that grabs you from the very first page.
Readers can't get enough of The Secret:
"If you're searching for a novel that will speak to your heart and soul, this is the one." - Natasha, Bookstagramer
"A beautifully written page-turner!!!" - Nichole Cuny, Book Blogger
"This book is an example of how good a romance novel can be." - Reader Views, Book Award
"I devoured it like chocolate cake." - Emma Jay, Book Blogger
"Their story is so passionate, romantic, and real!" - Nola Nerds, Book Blog
"I couldn't put it down. You definitely need to read." - Nikki Lamers, Romance Author
"The Chemistry between Liss and Dan was off the charts!" - Nese Gordon, Goodreads Reviewer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved
Chapter 1
"You asshole!"
Stéphane lifts his head from where he's stirring his coffee and all the color drains from his face. I turn around to see a blonde woman weaving through the tables of the NYU café toward us, and when I look back at Stéphane, he's thrown back his seat and is heading around the corner of the table. What's going on?
"You thought you could have some whore on the side and get away with it, did you?" What?
The clink of dishes and buzz of conversation die down as everyone cranes their heads to see what's going on. I try and grab Stéphane's hand but he's already beyond my outstretched fingers, making his way toward her. When he reaches her, her hand flashes out and he ducks. Her swipe at him skims across the top of his head like two cartoon characters in a fight and a giggle presses at the back of my throat.
"You thought your wife wouldn't find out, didn't you, you f*cker!" she shouts.
His wife?
Oh crap. My head sinks into my hands.
Then I hear Stéphane's voice, low and urgent. "We can't have this conversation here."
He can't ...
I push back my seat to stand, and several eyes on the neighboring tables swing over to me, riveted.
The woman is the polar opposite of me. Dyed blonde hair, long red nails, and thick makeup plastered over her impeccable features. I'm wearing the gear I need for riding my bike in the rain, my pants splattered from the road. No way did I have any time to put on makeup this morning. Then I meet her gaze, now homed in on me as I head toward them, and her lip curls.
She shoots out a hand that waves up and down my body. "This is her? This ... witch?"
Witch? I beg your pardon. I smooth a hand over my wild curly black hair. I'm not carrying a wand, lady. The laughter presses back up. I've never been described that way, but my concentration has moved from her to him and, f*cking hell, his face is contorted into the kind of grimace I think you never want to see on the face of someone you're sleeping with.
He picked me up, goddammit. There was no wedding ring, no texts or calls he tried to hide. And he was always available at weekends and evenings ... I mean I was surprised a guy of forty-five was single, but by God he was persistent. And he knew what he was doing in bed. No insecurities, just a ton of confidence in what he did to me.
F*ck. Him.
"You have a wife?" I say loudly, and he winces.
He'd started talking to me about what we might do together in the future. I am so bored with guys like this. I like to flirt and I enjoy men. Men like that too, right? So why does it always go wrong? My history is sh*t. Fair enough, I've done everything you shouldn't do: cheated, gone out with the best friend, flirted with other guys to rile them up. You're a game player, Liss. Not in a btchy way, though perhaps all games are btchy in the end; more in a test-their-sticking power kind of way. Every time something like this happens I'm reminded that I need to switch it up, but then along comes another sexy guy and I start imagining what he can do to me in bed, and so I flirt and somehow it all gets out of hand. Really, this is the last time I'm doing this. Stéphane seemed like a decent guy. F*ck all men who present one thing but underneath are something else entirely. I tuck that reminder of my past away as sourness settles in my gut.
"Liss ..." he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture as he turns toward me.
"I didn't need to know her name, you f*cker," his wife hisses. "And don't even think about coming back home tonight."
He lives with her? Oh God. Well, I guess it's not surprising because she's his wife but ... Her eyes narrow as she opens her mouth, but Stéphane takes hold of her arm as if he's going to manhandle her out of the café ... She wrenches it out of his grip, taking a step back and bumping into the table behind her. As she looks around to apologize, a smile stretches over her red lips, and she leans down and the next second Stéphane has chocolate fudge cake with whipped cream slapped in his face.
I kind of want to applaud. His expression is so comically surprised, and a smile curls over my face as cream slides down his trendily unshaven jaw. Oh my God. Maybe metrosexual designer stubble was a warning sign. Yes, Liss, add that to your already too long list of what to avoid in men in the future.
My watch buzzes at me with the forewarning of an impending alarm. Oh, f*ck, my lecture! A sigh seeps out as I take one last look at Stéphane and turn on my heel.
