Dear Reader,
Here’s the unglamorous truth: I took a cold shower because I went grocery shopping. That’s the whole story. I came home so overheated that for the first time in my life, I turned the faucet all the way to cold. I never believed anyone would take a voluntary cold shower, but there I was.
Unlike Liam and Peyton, the lead couple in my new book Fall For Me, who have much better, sexier reasons for partaking in freezing showers. These two will have to share a bed almost from the get-go while agreeing to keep their hands off each other, so cooling off becomes a recurring theme in the book.
If you enjoy forced proximity, the fake dating trope, and only-one-bed situationships where absolutely no one sleeps on the floor, this book is for you. (Also, if you dream of a crisp, cooler season—fall can’t come fast enough this year—I hope this book will bring sweater weather vibes to you a bit early.)
I hope you enjoyed reading chapter one of Fall For Me last week. I got many messages saying you can’t wait for the book to be out. Me too 🙋♀️. Even if releasing a story I wrote is mildly terrifying every time, no matter how many times I’ve done it. All your support messages, posts, and constant encouragement mean so much to me. Thank you.
So, fingers crossed today you’ll be eager to jump into chapter two and meet the motorcycle-riding, billionaire lead man, Liam Rockwood. I love to write cinnamon rolls, but I prefer when you have to dig under a few layers of leather and banter before you get to the goo. Counting on you falling for him as hard and fast as my writer’s heart did—starting in the previous book, Rein Me In, where Liam features in a bad-boy billionaire cameo.
(By the way, if you haven’t read book 1 yet, Rein Me In is now available in Amazon Prime Reading and Kindle Unlimited, and, like all my books, also in Kobo Plus (ebook and audio), and Spotify Premium) or at your favorite bookshop in all formats.
📖Remember to scroll past the chapter for all current bookish deals…
📖And if you want to listen to me talk about my books and creative process, please check out Here for the Story, a cozy podcast about books, creativity, and connection:
If you missed chapter one of Fall For Me, you can read it on my website.
I’m late. By only twenty minutes, but it might as well be an hour. My father measures tardiness in the same way a bomb squad measures seconds: with zero margin for error.
I twist the throttle, and the Ducati under me answers with a hungry growl that vibrates up through the handlebars, through my gloves, into my spine. Power surges through the frame, pinning me to the seat. Italian engineering at its finest—responsive, precise, fast.
The speedometer climbs as I race down the empty streets, and the bike’s headlights carve through the gathering dusk. Riding is one of the rare moments I’m able to outrun the noise. The endless meetings, the quarterly reports, my father’s disappointed sighs. The engine’s roar drowns everything but the road.
But tonight, I can’t outrace my thoughts. My father will have my head mounted on his office wall for being late. He must be already at the resort working the room, shaking hands with stockholders who flew in expecting to meet the whole family. Grandfather is bound to be there too, telling some story about the early days of the outdoor shop, back when Rockwood Outdoors was one store on Main Street and not a national chain. The investors eat that stuff up. The folksy origin tale dressed up as the American dream in work boots.
They don’t need me for that part.
But they’ll notice if the heir apparent never shows—or is late.
I grit a curse between my teeth. I blame the assholes at Stonefield Gear. They kept me on the phone for two hours, listening to their bullshit about “evolving market dynamics” and “direct-to-consumer pipelines.” Polite corporate speak for: we think we can make more money without you. The exclusivity deal I brokered four years ago almost evaporated in a single call. It took a lot to get them to sign. I flew out to their headquarters in Colorado, spent a week hiking their products through the wilderness to prove I knew what I was selling. I convinced them that our retail presence—our staff expertise, our customer relationships, our darn legacy—was worth more than whatever margins they’d squeeze out of a website.
But now they’re back at it. We turned from a trusted partner to the middleman they want to cut.
I threw them bones—better placement, a marketing budget that will make our CFO weep, a revised revenue share that my father will disapprove of. But they agreed not to “reconsider the relationship” for another two years.
By the time I hung up, I was late.
Now I’m speeding through downtown like a bat out of hell, already in my tux. The plan is to ditch the bike at the valet, slip into the resort from the service entrance, and appear at the gala looking like I’ve been there all along. Smooth and controlled, as befits a Rockwood.
I lean into the curve that slingshots onto Main Street, my knee dropping so low it almost kisses the pavement. My father wouldn’t approve of this move either. He prefers his heir in one predictable piece driving four wheels.
I straighten up, accelerating down the last stretch—
A flash of white.
A shape appears in front of me. Dark hair, pale skin, and an impossible amount of fabric billowing in the wind.
It’s a woman.
Crouching in the middle of the fucking street.
In a wedding dress.
My hands react before my mind has finished processing what I’m seeing. I slam both brake levers, front and rear, squeezing with everything I have. The anti-lock system judders beneath my gloved fingers. Behind it comes the sharp stink of burning rubber. The rear tire loses its grip, and the back end of the Ducati kicks out, a violent slide to the right as the bike fishtails.
The woman stays frozen, a literal deer in headlights. Her white dress glows in the beams, her face a pale smear of shock. She has her mouth open but no sound is coming out.
No amount of braking will stop me in time. I’m going to hit her.
I make the only choice I have and wrench the handlebars hard to the left, dumping the bike on purpose.
The world spins as the horizon goes vertical and the Ducati tilts horizontal on top of me. I fly for a second that feels like a lifetime, and then the street rushes up to meet me.
My left elbow and shoulder hit the ground first, but the protective pads in my jacket cushion the blow. My hip is not so lucky and pounds into the concrete with a brutal, jarring impact that knocks the wind from my lungs. And my leg has it even worse as I slide on the pavement and the asphalt becomes an industrial sander against my knee. The bike screeches beside me in a shower of sparks as the fairings grind against the street.
But my left leg. My fucking leg. It feels like it’s emitting sparks too. The fine wool of my tux pants is useless against a concrete cheese grater. I never ride without the proper gear, but I changed into my tux at the office after finishing that damn call because I wouldn’t have time to change later.
I’m regretting that choice now as the street chews through fabric, then skin in an explosion of white-hot, searing pain. The burn is so absolute, it numbs itself.
I come to a halt a few inches from the curb. The bike is ten feet beyond me, lying on its side. Metal ticks as the engine cools, matched by the ragged rasp of my breath inside the helmet.
I lie face-up on the street, staring at the dark sky through my visor.
Then her voice cuts through.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
The question slices through the ringing in my ears. I push myself up on my elbows, my body screaming in protest. Adrenaline washes away the initial shock and leaves pure, unadulterated fury in its wake.
I rip off my helmet and surge upright; the pain in my left side becomes fuel.
“No, I’m not okay,” I spit. “What are you doing in the middle of the street?”
I get my first proper look at her—dark hair pinned up in an elaborate arrangement that’s half-collapsed, makeup smeared, wedding dress dirty and torn. Her expressive brown eyes are widened, and her full lips are bluish-purple. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or a style choice. She looks like a ghost. Or a corpse bride. An angry one.
Her gaze blazes with a rage that mirrors mine.
“I stumbled off the curb,” she snaps back. “And this is a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. You were speeding way past that. You’re reckless.”
“I’m reckless? I’m not the one taking a break in the middle of the damn road.” I take a step toward her, and she falls backward on her ass. I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you drunk?”
“Gosh, I wish. No, I’m perfectly sober, thank you,” she says, lifting herself up. She hugs herself as a shiver runs through her body. The dress is ridiculous—strapless, leaving her shoulders bare to the icy wind and slow-dripping rain.
I’m about to ask if she needs help. A deep, inconvenient part of me feels sorry for her despite my injured leg and the warm wetness that’s trickling down my shin. Blood is soaking through what’s left of the suit pants. But she speaks again before I can offer.
“Are you drunk? At least my poor decisions don’t involve potential manslaughter.”
“Well, congratulations,” I taunt.
“To you, too.”
“For what?”
“You almost killed me, but your midlife crisis is still on track.” She gestures at the bike.
My jaw clenches. “Midlife crisis? I’m thirty. And I’m the one bleeding all over Main Street while you don’t have a single scratch on you.”
“I wasn’t the one driving a million miles per hour in a busy city center.”
I look around at the ghost town that is Main Street and want to laugh. A gust of wind blows inland from the lake. She shivers again as goosebumps pepper her arms.
My anger cools a few degrees, replaced by confusion.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. “Wearing a strapless dress with a storm coming.”
Her face closes like a fist. “It’s none of your business. Leave me alone.”
“Fine.” If she wants to freeze to death, that’s her prerogative. “I’m late, anyway. I don’t have time to waste on crazy ladies in bridal cosplay.”
I turn my back on her, ignoring the protest from my bruised, scraped limb. My hands are shaking as I pick up my helmet. I inspect it for cracks, find none, and shove it back on my head.
Lifting the Ducati is agony. My knee screams as I put weight on it, but I get the bike upright. The bodywork is a disaster, scratched to hell, but the engine responds on the first try with a defiant roar.
I swing my good leg over, grit my teeth, and don’t look back as I ride away, leaving her a solitary figure in white, standing alone in the middle of the street.
The Rockwood Resort blazes into view a short stretch of road ahead. Valets in crisp uniforms rush forward as I pull the bike to a stop near their booth. Their standard-issue smiles dissolve into masks of confusion and concern when they register my appearance. The shredded pants, the blood running down my shin and soaking into my sock.
“Mr. Rockwood, are you…” one of them starts.
“I’m fine.” I wave them off, swing my leg over the saddle, and nearly collapse as my left knee refuses to hold my weight. “Hide this somewhere.”
I hand them the bike, helmet, and gloves and limp past them up the steps, through the grand glass doors, and into the lobby—no time for detours at a side entrance.
I head straight for the concierge desk. Adam looks up from his computer, his professional calm in place until he gets a look at me. His eyebrows climb toward his styled hairline.
“Adam,” I say, my voice raspy. I lean on the marble countertop. “Send a car to Main Street. They’ll find a woman in a wedding dress.”
“Sir?”
“She’s impossible to miss. Instruct the driver to take her wherever she needs to go.”
###
Pre-order now at your favorite bookshop:
All other bookshops, audiobook shops, and libraries…
I’ll be revealing the title of book 3 soon.
Rein Me In: cowboy romance, single dad, enemies to lovers, grumpy sunshine, she has a secret (Available now at all booshops in ebook, print, and audiobook. Included in Kindle Unlimited, Kobo Plus (ebook and audio), and Spotify Premium)
Pre-orders:
Fall for Me: billionaire, runaway bride, marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, only one bed.
Book 3: sports romance, second chance romance, he falls first, injured athlete / physical therapist
Check out the entire series at:
Amazon - Apple Books - Your favorite bookshop
The duet is now out at all retailers in all formats.
Amazon (in Kindle Unlimited)
Kobo (Both books included in Kobo Plus in eBook and Audiobook)
All other bookshops, audiobook shops, and libraries
Chirp price drop on audiobooks usually at full price 🚨ends soon!
In the same series of standalone interconnected romcoms:
The Love Theorem 3.99
Love Quest 3.99
Love To Hate You 3.99
Other audiobooks on sale not in the series:
Baby, One More Time 3.99
If the Ring Fits 3.99
Check out my books that are included with a Kobo Plus ebook subscription Kobo Plus Audiobook subscription
Check out my books that are included with a Kindle Unlimited subscription
Author Store, use coupon code (valid on all available eBooks—my indie ones): 16RN5Y7PLQ (All the e-books in my store are now also available as signed eBooks)
Don’t Kiss and Spell is zero dollars at Apple Books
Many of my audiobooks are discounted to 3.99, 4.99, and 5.99 at Chirp, Apple Books, and Spotify. My audiobooks are also included if you have a Kobo Plus subscription. And a Spotify Premium subscription.
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Currently writing:
I wrote the first few bantery back-and-forths for book 4 in Blue Crescent Harbor and am kicking my feet! For now, I can only tell you that these two are so bookish… 🥹
Until next time...
xoxo,
Camilla
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