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Under Her Spell
Genre: Christmas YA Romance
Publication date : December 16, 2021
Kaito wanted was a cute girlfriend, but after he decided to pick Akemi, an
oversize girl, in a goukon because no one else did. Now, Akemi is obsessed over
chasing him and leaving him no space to find another.
This is a short Christmas YA romance set in Japan.
Bonus story: Jenci's Trouble
Jenci was having problems figuring out how to get noticed by the cool college girl who seemed to be surrounded by good-looking guys he can't compete with, but wait... maybe... maybe there's away.
#KindleFreebie #FreeBookFriday #ChristmasFreebie #FreeBook #YARomance #ChristmasRomance #JapaneseRomance #YAHolidayRomance #Free #AmazonFreebie
“Get up. It’s time to go.”
“I’m already up,” Santos, aka Santa Claus, replied while rolling his hips, which earned him a scowl from me and a giggle from his companion.
I turned to the blond bimbo. Okay, to be fair, I had no idea if she was a bimbo. Santos had the ability to pull pretty much all women from rocket scientists to, er, candy cane lickers under his seductive spell. Truth be told, they all became candy cane lickers once he set his sights on them.
“Listen, honey, he’s a one-and-done kind of guy. He’ll use you to get his rocks off”—Christmas euphemisms were Santos’s thing, not mine—“and walk away and never talk to you again. Is that what you really want?”She eyed the still-impressive bulge in his shorts. “If I get an orgasm out of it, I’m game.”Mentally, I slapped my palm against my forehand. In actuality, I ground my teeth. “You’ll be out of luck. Giving, at least in that respect, is not how he rolls.”
“Hey—” Santos started.
“How do you know?” Blondie interrupted.
“Yeah, do tell,” Santos added. “Did I miss something along the way? Did I stuff your stocking and neglect to eat your milk and cookies? Maybe we need a do-over.” He eyed me like I’d seriously ever give him a first time let alone a do-over.“Never have I ever, and never will I ever,” I proclaimed. “I know of him. His reputation. We’ve run in the same circles for a long time.” A few centuries too long, but who was counting?Blondie’s focus shifted to my outfit. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”
“Yeah,” Santos said, “you should take them off. Unwrap that present for me.”
Blondie giggled. I glared at her. “Do you even realize that he’s flirting with me?”
She shrugged. “He flirts with everyone. And everything he says makes Christmas sound so dirty.” There she went, staring at his candy cane again.
I bent and grabbed a sheer wrap and tossed it at her before slapping Santos’s leg. “Time to go, Father Christmas. You’re under my protection now.”
He groaned. “You aren’t seriously still doing that whole saving souls gig, are you, Des?”
“As you well know,” I retorted, “since you’ve been dodging me for days now.”
“Sugar plum, if I’d known you were chasing me, I would have slowed my sleigh so you could have a ride.”
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Should I call you Mrs. Claus instead?”
“Don’t ever fucking call me that.”
The jerk had the gall to laugh at my obvious indignation.
“Do you ever stop?” I demanded.He rolled his hips again. “Wanna climb my North Pole and find out?”
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“I love you.” Margaret leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Our usual spot?” Alex said coyly.
Alex lingered as he watched the little green Hyundai pull away. A cold tickle ran along his left arm. He pushed the sleeve of his hoodie up to the elbow. A scant number of bumps cascaded from his bicep—goosebumps. He quickly surveyed the area. No sign of any afterlife activity. Maybe you’re just cold, McKenna. He chuckled to himself. Dismissing the incident, he scurried into the comfort of forced heat and a billowy comforter.
Nestled tightly under a pile of covers that adorned his bed, he slid his arm out and quickly checked it again. The goosebumps were higher and now mapped their way over most of his
arm to his shoulder. Something was going on, and it wasn’t just from the chill of a winter’s night in Floral Park, New York. Ever since he could remember being aware of his connection to the
dead, his goosebumps served as a sort of warning. Whenever he encountered a spirit or something was about to happen, they’d stand at attention and alert him. The size and severity were the key. The worse they were, the bigger the issue. Tonight’s warning system started to worry him. They’d grown considerably in the past hour, indicating danger.
“Jacob, can you let me see you?”
The precocious six-year-old materialized. He was sitting in the chair at Alex’s desk.
“I knew you were here.”
“No. Well, yes, but no.”
“You’re silly, Alex.” Jacob giggled.
“I knew you were here because I smelled peanut butter. You playing with Wilby again?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. And I do have goosebumps, but they’re not from you. Something else is going on, but it hasn’t revealed itself to me yet. You hear anything or see anything different lately?”
“Okay, buddy, thanks. And stop hiding the peanut butter from Wilby. You’re making him crazy. Besides, when he gets the Know and can see you, he’s gonna want to get you back.”
“But it’s fun. And I think he knows it’s me.”
“I’m sure he does. But he can’t see you yet, and that’s not nice. Get it?’
“Yeah.” The little boy twirled in the chair.
Alex rolled over to his side and faced the wall. The looming feeling of dread had left him restless and unable to fall asleep. He decided to try a technique his great gram had taught him. Closing his eyes, he imagined a large, two-story house with a wraparound porch in the country. He was sitting on the steps facing the backyard. An old-fashioned clothesline ran the length of the yard from the detached two-car garage to one of the posts supporting the porch roof. Stark white cotton sheets were clothes pinned to the line and gently waving in a light breeze. The sun was bright but not hot, and Alex held a cool glass of lemonade—homemade, not that powder, store bought imitation. He took a sip. The chilled sourness coated his throat, quenching the thirst he wasn’t aware of. It felt good. Looking up to a canvas of baby blue and white puffs, he smiled. Life was perfect.
His eyes grew heavy and fluttered gently. He took a deep breath and sighed. The weight of sleep pressed softly on his limbs, spreading peacefully over the rest of his body. He tilted
his head to let a brush of warmth paint across his cheek. This was a good place. A safe place. As his breath slowed, he turned on his back and wriggled slightly into the curves of the mattress.
The night was taking him.
Startled, Alex abruptly sat up.
“Yeah. I feel weird.”
Alex rubbed the impending sleep from his eyes and turned toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you? The room is too dark. I can’t see you.”
“I’m right here in front of you.”
“Hang on.” Alex reached for the chain on a small lamp sitting on the end table by his bed. Yanking on the brass string, the 25 watts emanated a soft halo of dim light. “Okay, stop messing with me. Where the hell are you? Are you in the closet?”
“No. Alex, I’m right here. I’m scared. I don’t feel right at all.
What the fuck is going on?”
The runaway train racing along his veins acted like a puppeteer pulling the strings. Alex leapt out of bed. The slick, newly waxed oak floors would normally make him wince in the
dead of winter. The extreme temperature piercing the pads of his feet and travelling along the muscles in his calf was the reason he normally slipped on a pair of thick socks, but not tonight. He barely felt the sub-zero temperature razor his flesh as he pivoted around, searching for his love.
“Alex, look at your arms.” The little boy pointed.
“Jacob, what are you doing?”
“Please, Alex. Your arms.”
Alex unzipped his hoodie, swiftly pulled it from his body, and threw it on the bed. Extending his arms in front of him, he stepped closer to the light. The bumps had gathered in a tight pattern completely covering every space of smooth flesh. He lifted the front of his tank; the same formation had taken over his belly and chest.
“Margaret! Where the fuck are you?”
“Alex, she’s standing right beside you.”
“You can see her, Jacob?”
“Yes.” The boy squeaked.
“Wait. Jacob?” Margaret asked.
“Margaret, can you see Jacob?” Alex’s voice cracked.
“Yes.”“No, no, no.” Alex paced the room. “Babe, what’s the last thing you remember?”
About the Author:
Originally from New York, Vicki-Ann currently resides in Nevada. Writing Young Adult paranormal, she finds inspiration from events that have been in her life for as long as she can remember. Inheriting the sensitivity to the supernatural from her family, they continue to be an endless source of vision.
Released in September 2019 from The Parliament House, Alex McKenna and The Geranium Deaths. The first book in a YA, Paranormal, LGBTQ series, that features a seventeen-year-old, transgender boy with paranormal abilities.
Book Two, Alex McKenna and The Academy of Souls debuted October 2020.
Vicki-Ann has several titles that have received Reader's Favorite Five Star
seal, as well as the 2017 and 2018 winner of, 50 Great Writers You Should Be
Reading. Most recently, Alex McKenna and The Geranium Deaths, received the Gold
medal in the Readers Favorite Book Awards for Young Adult, Paranormal.
Amazon Author Page https://amzn.to/3klBUQo
Author Website http://www.vickiannbush.com
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/vickiannbushGoodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2947321.Vicki_Ann_Bush
I narrowed my eyes at Damien. “Does that mean we would have to work together?”
Damien smirked. “Yes.”
I groaned. As it was, Damien set my nerves on edge in so many different ways. I wasn’t sure I could stand to be close to him. Every f*cking day. And the way he touched me? His hands on my hair? My senses swam when I recalled that embrace.
“Though I don’t like the way I was thrust into this situation, I believe you now. Except for the bracelets. I don't know if you put them on my arms or if they’re even still there. But what can I do to help?”
He raised his eyebrows, and a flash of heat blazed in his eyes. “Thrust, huh? I like your choice of word.”
My cheeks burned, and Iwas sure I was turning all shades of red.
Then, as usual, his expression snapped back to ice. “But this is no game.”
I opened my arms wide. “I'm aware of that. Explain it to me. What would I have to do?”
Still holding the folder, he crossed his arms and jutted out his chin. “Give up your life and join the FBI.”
I frowned at him. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation? You work with them?”“Correction. The Fae Bureau of Investigation.”
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Evan tipped his head and eyed the ceiling. Prompt replies, punctual people. Striking deals and hitting deadlines. These items made his world tick. Not loitering around a miniscule airport pulling a Waiting for Godot moment on infinite repeat for a no-show, flakey designer from California.
God grant him patience and balls of steel when he showed up without the designer and the all-important wedding dress, because his future sister-in-law Darci would certainly be unhappy. […]
He took a deep fortifying breath and froze. Airport smells assailed his senses—the sharp tang of bleach and lemon-scented cleaners, […] coffee, donuts, fried fast food, and under it all, the distinct musk of wolf.
She smelled damn good. His wolf perked up, and his legs propelled him toward the empty baggage claim, where one bright-pink suitcase covered in Hello Kitty stickers sat, unclaimed, on the unmoving L-shaped conveyor belt. Her scent, stronger here, socked his gut, and his gaze shot to the corner.
The chaos around the woman stunned him silent. Large, paper coffee cup, half-eaten banana, and a quarter of a powdered doughnut perched on a brown paper bag next to her. Crumbs splattered the linoleum and the woman’s long-sleeved blue blouse in a thick layer of white, sugary dust. On her other side, two pink garment bags lay like corpses, along with a bubblegum-pink unzipped duffel as long as her outstretched, denim-clad legs. Some of the bag’s contents—pads of drawing paper and large swaths of fabric—protruded over the opening, the fabric splaying over her legs in a rainbow-colored blanket. Her feet peeked out of the mess, encased in sparkling pink UGGs. Good grief, sequins? She smacked her shiny boots together in a poor imitation of Dorothy and bobbed her head from side to side in time to some music only she seemed to hear. Her shoulder-length red hair, the color of ripe dark cherries—his favorite fruit—gleamed under the harsh airport lighting and curtained most her face from his view, save a pert nose and small chin, both speckled with a generous amount of freckles.
He’d always liked freckles.
Clearing his throat, he stepped closer, but she didn’t flinch in surprise or look up. Her attention remained on the tablet on her lap, the stylus between her pale, freckled fingers swiping without hesitation over her screen. […]
He positioned himself right in front of her wiggly, booted feet. “Excuse me, J—”
“Sh.” She raised her arm and flicked her hand in the universal get lost gesture.
He gaped at her. “Excuse me?”
Another wave of her hand while her stylus streaked across her tablet screen with the other. “Not interested.”
Nice voice. Low and husky. Her attitude, on the other hand… “But—”
“Go away.” Her velvet voice carried a stubborn edge.
In other circumstances, he would’ve admired her strength. But he’d wasted copious amounts of time hunting for the clearly inconsiderate and irresponsible female. “Fine. Get your own damn ride to Los Lobos. Jasmine.”