We are so excited to share with you the amazing cover and exclusive excerpt of All I Do by Tamara Lush, out October 4th!
About All I Do:
Each book in this series can be read as a standalone.
Charter fishing boat captain Remy Hastings is known as the Playboy of Paradise Beach, and he can’t believe his luck when a gorgeous mermaid literally swims up to his boat. She’s not a real mermaid, of course, but a woman with a gorgeous… tail.
Leilani Kostas is opening Mermosa, a mermaid-themed bar on Paradise Beach. She’s intrigued by the bronze-skinned, amber-eyed Remy. But she’s always had questionable taste in men, so she’s not mer-mazed when she follows him back to his sailboat for a hot night of fun.
Before they hook up, Remy lays down the law: no-strings sex. He doesn’t have the time. Leilani enthusiastically agrees, because she doesn’t either.
But for the first time, Remy wants more than one night. Leilani makes him feel like a fish out of water. Trouble is, his ethereal mermaid fled in the middle of the night, and he never got her number.
Then the local Chamber of Commerce pairs the new business owner with a mentor — and it’s Remy. Now they have to compete together for a cash prize that could help her new business, and that means long hours in her bar. And on his boat.
And in his bed.
No strings turns into a tangled knot, and for the first time ever, Remy’s casting a net for only one woman…
According to what women have told me in the past, me and my hard abs are “a snack.” (That’s a direct quote).
Clearly Sexy Siren agrees, because she can’t take her eyes off my stomach. I’m sure she’d enjoy what’s directly below that, too. I’m pretty well endowed in that department. But it’s not like I can just take off my swim shorts and show her my dick, which is feeling the most pleasurable tingles. But I’m not an animal, for god’s sakes.
Anyway, Tate, Isabella, and their ridiculous farting dog are with me, so it’s not like I’m going to score with Miss Mermaid right here and now. I need her name and her number — hell, what am I going to write with, I’m in swim trunks — then nail down a time when we can be alone. As in, tonight, if at all possible.
She’s still grinning. Her eyes shimmer, and that’s when I notice her skin also has a sheen to it. Like she’s wearing body lotion that doesn’t come off in the water or something.
“I love a challenge,” I retort, loving the flirtation.
She floats a foot closer to the boat.
I lift myself up on the rail, hoping my arm muscles are pronounced. Really, though, I’m trying to get a better grip on the boat’s rail so I can get check out her bronze, shiny skin. That’s when my hands slip.
I tumble over the side and splash into the six-feet deep water, right in front of her. For a split second, I’m worried that I’m going to fall on top of her and knock her out cold. But she’s obviously nimble in the water, and I sense her body moving aside.
I allow my body to submerge in the warm Gulf, so I can have a beat of recovery from my stupidity.
Normally I’m pretty suave around women — there’s that Playboy of Paradise Beach thing again — but falling overboard wasn’t graceful at all. Especially for me, a seasoned boater.
But if I’ve learned anything about women over the years, it’s that making them laugh goes a long way, more than any muscular chest or rock-hard abdominal muscle.
So I’ll play this off as a joke. Like I intended to be a buffoon.
I surface, laughing, slicking back my hair and wiping the water from my face. I stand, rising to my full height. She’s bobbing in the water and looks up with those sky-blue eyes. Her lips part, and her pink tongue slips out of her mouth to wet her pouty top lip.
We’re now only about eight inches apart, and my laughter fades. Because the breath has been sucked from my lungs.
There’s that summer lightning again. Only this time, it’s like one of those intense storms that send bolts of pure fire down from the sky. The kind of lightning strikes that incinerate trees and houses and people on golf courses. The attraction between us has rendered me senseless. I open my mouth, but I’m not entirely sure what to say.
You mermaid my day.
I think you’re mer-mazing.
Can I kiss you, please? Yes, I will beg.
Yeah, none of those will work.
My dick is the only thing on my body that’s functioning, because I’m sporting a raging hard-on. Thank God my crotch is underwater. I’ve never been this instantly hot for a woman before. It’s something primal that I don’t quite understand. Don’t want to. Going to just ride this wave to shore. With her. Preferably my bed.
“Hey,” I say softly, finally finding my voice and my balls. “What’s your name?”
The electricity crackles between us. I take in her long eyelashes, the freckles on the tops of her cheekbones, the perfect bow of her glossy upper lip. Her wet hair is tousled, draped over her shoulders. And I was right — there’s a sheen to her skin. I inhale sharply and detect notes of a coconut-based sunscreen.
She blasts me with a suggestive smile, then turns and dives headfirst into the water. Her body sinuously dips below the surface, revealing a perfect ass in that blue mermaid outfit. The tail is the last thing to go under, flicking upward like a dolphin. Little drops of water land on my face.
And she swims away. My heart dissolves into the water.
I blink and wonder if I should go after her. But she’s too fast, and within seconds, she’s almost to the far tip of the sand spit. I turn and look up at Tate, Isabella and Chunky.
They’re all laughing. Well, Tate and Isabella are. Chunky barks twice, a low snuffle noise.
“Did that just happen? Was that for real?” I ask.
Because I’m not sure what did just happen. All I know is that for a few minutes there, my world shifted off its axis, and I’m not certain if it will ever be the same.
About the Author:
Tamara Lush writes steamy and emotional contemporary romance stories set in tropical locations. Her recent book, Constant Craving, was a 2018 RWA RITA® finalist in erotic romance.
She’s married to an Italian and lives near a beach in Florida. For many years, she was an award-winning newspaper journalist. In 2017, she was one of 24 writers chosen by Amtrak to ride around the United States on a train and write fiction.
Tamara’s a fan of vintage pulp fiction book covers, Sinatra-era jazz, 1980s fashion, tropical chill, kombucha, gin, tonic, seashells, iPhones, Art Deco, telenovelas, coloring books, street art, coconut anything and strong coffee.
Twitter: http://twitter.com/tamaralush | @TamaraLush