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One Night Band Stand
Julia Kent
(Get What You Need, #2)
Publication date: September 30th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her alumni band director?

Yep. Me.

I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped on some valve oil and accidentally landed on his baton during a rousing chorus of Stars and Stripes Forever.

That’s not quite how it went.

But the alumni band director is really, really skilled with that baton, if you know what I mean.

So what am I supposed to do now, as I walk into the morning’s rehearsal — three feet from the podium because of course I play piccolo — and find the guy I ghosted on this morning … right there, smiling at me like he remembers exactly what tempo I prefer?

He’s perfect. Too perfect.

He’s a widowed dad of two adorable little kids that — oh, by the way — he forgot to mention.

But I also haven’t mentioned the seventeen-year-old I live with, either. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m his guardian. He’s autistic and non-speaking, and he’s been my whole world since I was nineteen.

I want Mr. Band Director. He wants me. Nothing — not the secrecy, not the awkwardness, not the 500 miles between his life and mine — will make this chemistry stop.

Except for three pesky little things: the secrets we’re hiding from each other. Three very human secrets.

I’ve never felt so seen before. He gets me. I get him. But we’re buried in responsibilities and loyalties that get in the way. When I’m with him, I can play. Really play.

And not just music.

He can’t quit his job and move his kids to be close to me. I can’t uproot a fragile teen who needs round-the-clock care and is still mourning his parents. The odds are stacked against us.

But who ever let that get in the way of love?

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EXCERPT:

There are naked boobies in my bed, and they are not my wife’s.

What have I done?

My body goes cold and hot, skin pulsing against the sheets, blood pooled in morning wood. Wood that rests against my not-wife’s thigh. My eyes widen. My beard itches around my lips, lips that feel raw, my tongue a bit overused at the tip, like I just had sex with –

I cheated on my wife.

I cheated on my wife.

My beautiful, amazing wife who tells me she loves me ten times a day. Who laughs at my stupid music jokes. Who smiles like she’s actually interested in my high school band stories. Who —

Told. Laughed. Smiled.

Past tense, Jared. Two years, two months, four days of past tense.

— is dead.

Stacey’s dead. Right. Damn it.

I close my eyes, jaw tight, inhaling slowly, my nose cold inside, the physicality of it breaking through panic. The unreality of her death still shatters my sleepy self every morning like a car alarm I can’t fully disable, one blissful second of not-knowing, then the loop of grief.

That sour taste. The shock. The anger. The pain, physical and emotional.

Stacey is dead.

Which means I’m not cheating. I’m just in a hotel room with a very naked, incredibly alluring woman who isn’t my wife.

So then who the hell is this in my arms?

She’s cute. Warm. Soft.

So soft.

The arm Ms. Not-Wife is sleeping on went numb in my sleep. I haven’t moved it one millimeter, shoulder locked, neck doing that isometric thing as her weight presses into my bicep. It should be uncomfortable. It isn’t, and somewhere in sleep my hand found her arm and started stroking it. I just realized it’s doing this. My hand likes her.

My cock sure does, too.

I really like the softness. Naked softness takes the liking up several notches.

Another clue this isn’t my wife: I’m on the bathroom side of the bed.

Ms. Not-Wife’s hair is blonde and straight, spread across my arm. Stacey’s was darker, curly, and Stacey had to pee constantly, especially after giving birth to our oldest, Molly. Every apartment, every house, every hotel, every guest room, every beach rental for nineteen years: Stacey got the bathroom side.

The woman in my bed is not Stacey.

The HVAC unit hums on an E-flat that’s four cents flat. Not concert E-flat. An E-flat that vibrates like it’s committing a felony against freon. It is the most passive-aggressive sound in Indiana, and that’s saying a lot, because have you ever gone to a church picnic in this state? Those ladies are lowkey brutal.

The print above the bed is a seashore painting, a Thomas Kincade knockoff, something a lifelong southern Indiana resident thought would evoke Cape Cod but instead makes me think Dungeons and Dragons on acid. It goes with the burnt-orange carpeting somehow. I half expect a Jello-O egg mold as part of the continental breakfast downstairs in the bar where I picked up… this woman.

I actually approached a woman at a hotel bar, and she chose to sleep with me.

Me.

Not-Wife’s hand is on my chest. She has short nails, no polish, the thumb hooked into the dip below my collarbone like she put it there on purpose. Her thumb knows what it’s doing, which is more than I can say for the rest of me. Her ribcage moves into my ribcage every four or five seconds and back out, long even breathing so constant I’ve started matching it without meaning to.

Waking her up means having to talk, and I don’t know what you say after you pick up a woman in a hotel bar and now you’re both naked under the sheets, vulnerable and freaking out a little, yet liking it.

A lot.

Not-Wife smells like vanilla and sex and the chemical-linen scent of every business hotel pillowcase put into circulation since 1994. The bar lighting was bad last night, so I’m seeing things this morning I couldn’t see then: a mole on her cheek. Long dark lashes against it. A dimple at the corner of her mouth that’s there even when she’s not smiling.

She’s gorgeous.

Morning-gorgeous, unadulterated. Her face was not-yet-defined last night, just a woman who was blonde and smiling under bad bar lighting. She has lips I kissed last night, a tongue that danced with mine and tasted so good, and her breasts are smashed against my side like little pets curled up, seeking warmth.

I have forgotten how nice this is.

A person breathing into your neck. A warm softness against your body. Your bare skin against theirs. I took this for granted for too many years, and once it was gone I felt the absence like a phantom limb.

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2.5 million books, with 5 New York Times bestsellers and more than 23 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French, German, Dutch, and Italian, with more titles releasing in the future.

From single dads to cinnamon roll heroes to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).

She lives in New England with her husband, three children, and a Havanese dog named Walter. She is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls (Walter gets a pass).

She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, on Facebook at @jkentauthor, and on Instagram @jkentauthor. Visit her at http://jkentauthor.com

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MAIN STREET FRINGE by Matthew Lavoie Banner

MAIN STREET FRINGE

by Matthew Lavoie

August 31 – September 25, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Main Street Fringe by Matthew Lavoie

Detective Theo Barnes thinks he has the world figured out, though he knows it’s a fixed game. Do your job well. Protect your family. Steer clear of the system.

Until his sting operation brings down a powerful state Senator. Doing the right thing thrusts him over a line that can’t be crossed, and the system bites back, hard.

His career… over. Reputation… obliterated. The truth… beyond reach.

Amidst the rubble, a clandestine cabal of conspiracy fanatics hellbent on annihilating the “true power” behind America anoints Barnes as a symbol of their own plight. They think Barnes is one of them, abused by society and martyred by the Deep State.

The FBI is incapable of infiltrating these zealots and they turn to Barnes for help. Desperate for answers and redemption, he reluctantly agrees to go undercover, using the most dangerous identity possible… his own.

As real life and the investigation blur, Barnes’ impossible choices drag his family into the crosshairs. Every move, every word, contains unspeakable danger. As the cabal’s atrocities collide with the conspiracy that destroyed him, he must separate lies from truth, or he won’t survive.

His quest for salvation rests on one question. Is there enough of his soul left intact to save not only his family, but the country?

Praise for Main Street Fringe:

“MAIN STREET FRINGE had me in its grip from the opening pages and never let go. A timely take on political culture in this country, Lavoie has used his D.C. background to write a twisty thriller that crackles with authenticity. Don’t miss this stellar debut.”
~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

“Embroiled in conspiracy and betrayal, this sharp paced thriller climaxes when brotherhood reaches a bitter and fatal flashpoint and two worlds collide into one. Engrossing and timely.”
~ David Swinson, author of The Second Girl

“MAIN STREET FRINGE is a deep and thrilling dive into the dark heart of the current political climate—made all the more terrifying by Matthew Lavoie’s experience in Washington. This guy knows what he’s talking about, he knows where the bodies are buried… and that makes this a must-read.”
~ Rob Hart, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Warehouse and the Assassins Anonymous series

“MAIN STREET FRINGE serves up a sumptuous and scintillating smorgasbord of action and intrigue set against a conspiracy-fueled landscape populated by villains for whom reality is a relative term. Matthew Lavoie has crafted one of those rare thrillers that challenges our sensibilities and makes us think at the same time, shading his tapestry in gray tones in which even the good guys wade in and out of their own moral quagmires. A blistering, bracing bombshell of a tale and major debut in the thriller genre.”
~ Jon Land, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

“One man’s patriot is another’s radical, and the line between the two blur in Matthew Lavoie’s crackling debut thriller. MAIN STREET FRINGE is an adrenaline-fueled joyride that won’t let you loose until the gut-check of a conclusion.”
~ James L’Etoile, award-winning author of RIVER OF LIES and the Detective Nathan Parker series

Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 1, 2026
Number of Pages: 381
ISBN: 979-8898203351
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter Two

Detective Theo Barnes lit a smoke, a rare allowance to tamp down the adrenaline. His brain buzzed as the nicotine hit all the right spots while watching a squad car containing Andrews drive away. He texted his wife, reminding her today would run long. A few cases ago he’d forgotten and caught hell for missing dinner. Rayna was sexy when she was angry, but it wasn’t worth missing sleep to stay up arguing.

Once he hit the filter, he’d oversee the bag and tag efforts at the scene and head to the Charlottesville county jail for the interrogation. Raids of Andrews’ home and Senate office were executed simultaneously. The limitations of being in one place at a time drove him nuts. He inherently trusted his team of Virginia State Troopers. Just not as much as himself.

He had always been this way. Those aware of his origins don’t blame him. His unyielding dedication compounded as he aged, particularly in the four years since he’d taken over the Internet Sex Crimes Division. Convictions hang on the smallest detail. Considering how far he’d stuck his neck out, he’d be hip deep in every aspect of the investigation until prison doors slammed shut on Senator Andrews.

“You ever think about the irony of a sex crimes investigator who needs a cigarette after every bust?” said the blonde as she approached. Among many contributions, Shannon Williamson served as Barnes’ lure for the stings.

“Funny. Here I was concerned about Rayna raking me over the coals and you gotta toss in some Freudian shit to boot.” Defiantly, Barnes took one last deep drag and flicked the butt into the motel parking lot.

Barnes knew he’d hit the jackpot having her on the squad. A rising star at the FBI out of college, promoted early and often, she’d made it as a profiler. Then came her father’s stroke. Her mom passed on when she was in elementary school. With no caregiver, she came home to Charlottesville, signing on with the Troopers once he’d recovered.

“Deep psychological analysis of your soul is why you pay me so large.” She glanced up at him. “No matter how many times we do this, I’m always surprised at how much they cry. Between you and me, it’s my favorite part with these scumbags.”

“He thought you were fourteen and he got me instead. Your pigtails in those pictures sold it. Sorry you’re always the worm on the hook for these, but, well—” He shrugged.

“I’m thirty-five but look like jailbait. I don’t mind. I like the field action. But you’ll need to recruit a new carrot for these sickos. I won’t fit what they’re looking for much longer.”

Her hand rested on her stomach as she exaggerated a baby bump.

“Really? That’s great! You and Rick must be over the moon.”

“It’s a seesaw between thrilled and freaking out. Need you to keep me

level since you’re the parenting expert. I do wonder about the world I’m bringing the kid into.”

“One with another predator off the street. And as far as parenting goes, Rayna does the heavy lifting with the boys. I come off the bench to give her a breather. When are you due?”

“Thanksgiving. You’ve got me six more months, but don’t go giving my job away. I’m coming back.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without you anyways. Let’s make sure everything is tight as a drum. I can’t wait to sit across the table from this asshole.”

* * *

Barnes, having shed motel customer garb for a shave, suit, and tie, watched the shackled State Senator Andrews shuffle into interrogation. Of all the post-sting grillings, he can’t recall a suspect this calm. Andrews’ light, self-satisfied smile suggested a guy up for a promotion inside The tears he’d shed were a distant memory.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m not talking without my lawyer,” Andrews said.

Barnes reflexively clenched his fist. He paused before plowing ahead with the time-tested approach. “I understand why you’d want your lawyer. This is the worst day of your life. We’ve got you dead to rights. I’ll even allow that you’re sorry. I know you’re scared. We have chat transcripts of your conversations with the girl, the way you groomed her. All of it directly traceable to you.”

Despite his previous statement, Andrews can’t allow the challenge. “Maybe I don’t even need a lawyer. This is a set-up. It’s fake news. Nothing happened. In fact, she’s the one who led me on.”

Barnes shook his head and smiled. This revelation was his favorite part. “Actually, Senator, I was the one leading you on. But we both know you did the grooming.”

The initial review of Andrew’s home and office computers had returned zilch. Andrews couldn’t possibly know this. His slimy bullshit sourced elsewhere.

“I can prove that you thought she was fourteen and intended to have sex with her. When we parade the things you brought to the motel in front of a jury, the sex toys, the lube, and most damning, your secret video camera, they won’t buy your excuses. You know, people like you tend to have a rough go in prison.”

Andrews’ breathing hitched. Some of his cocky attitude faded. His head shook involuntarily. Barnes stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, you’ll be ok. Can we get him something to drink here?” The guard brought a bottle of water.

Andrews drank and tried breathing deep. Barnes returned to his seat. “There’s no turning back the clock here. But if you help me, you’ll make things easier for yourself when you go before judge and jury. I can be a friend.”

Andrews snorted. “How kind. That was my first thought, this guy is my friend. Trust me, I’ve already got the right friends.”

Maintaining the good cop persona grew increasingly harder. “You’ve got one chance to help yourself and you’re blowing it. Confess, save us the trouble of a trial. How’d you locate those sites and chatrooms? They don’t pop up in a Google search. Come clean. Maybe we can close a loophole. You throw us that info and I’ll see that it earns points with the judge and the

District Attorney.”

“I have something to offer people much higher on the food chain than the local D.A. Prison isn’t in my future.” Andrews leaned back in his chair. “Lawyer, now.”

Now Andrews got the uncompromising Barnes, who’d walked through fire to get here. “Fine, lawyer up, but let me tell you this. There are a few ironclads in this life. Don’t mess with the church’s money, don’t piss off people who handle your food, and don’t ever, and I mean ever, threaten children. Even if you think prison’s not in your future, jail most definitely is.

You’re spending tonight in County’s general population and I swear every last inmate will know why. Sleep tight.”

Barnes trusted Andrews’ the worst visions were his best ally. He’d turned

the doorknob when he heard a sigh of resignation.

“Wait. I might know a few things. Maybe a couple of names. But then I want my lawyer. You swear to keep the animals away?”

“For the next few days,” Barnes pushed a pen and paper across the table.

* * *

Captain Butch Holland, Barnes’ commanding officer, stewed behind the two-way mirror. His bushy mustache resembled a walrus, matching his bulk. His police hat covered up his hair’s disappearing act. Vanity wasn’t quite enough to get him on a treadmill though. As Barnes entered the room, Holland’s face flushed, and he opened at peak volume.

“Happy? I ordered you, very clearly, not to pursue this. But you know better than everyone and look where we are. No confession, half a case, and a big pile of shit.”

Barnes eyed Holland with disdain. “I know better than you. We’ve got him because I do my job. You worry about kissing ass upstairs. I don’t give a shit if it’s a state Senator, an ambassador, or the goddamn President. He’s garbage and he’s going down.”

Holland had tabled his retirement, desperately hanging on to walk with a Major’s pension. He bristled at the accurate insinuation that he played the political game.

“You’ve got the Governor’s office breathing fire and I’m not taking heat for you.”

Sure, Barnes thought. The only thing you take is credit. He’d spent a lifetime internalizing beatings, verbal or otherwise, and spinning them out as motivation. It usually worked, as long as nobody undercut his integrity.

He balled his fist over and over. “You don’t have to take anything. We’re on our way. Sometimes it takes a minute, but they always break in the end.”

“Explain that to Colonel Prescott tomorrow. He’s coming down and bringing the Attorney General. Let’s see how Saint Barnes handles that.”

“Fine, Captain.” Barnes poured tabasco on the big man’s title. “I’ll promise you something. Nobody walks on my watch. See what happens to anyone standing in my way when I’m dragging someone to hell.”

Holland’s mustache twitched with the hint of a smile. “So, you say. Before the day’s out, I want the originals on all your paperwork and a full tick-tock. It’s going straight to the Colonel.”

The Captain’s smirk irritated him but frustration over the request took precedent. “Christ, let me do my job. I’ve got to get out to reinspect the house and office. Bureaucracy doesn’t close cases.”

The Captain pointed a pudgy finger. “Prescott demanded it. When the head of the State Police barks, you do it before he fucking bites.”

Holland stormed from the room, almost steamrolling Shannon. An agile spin kept her from becoming roadkill. She leaned against a filing cabinet, the only furniture in the spartan room beyond two steel folding chairs.

“Congrats on another successful interaction with the brass. Never thought I’d see a detective with the best closure rate universally hated by the higher ups.”

Barnes seethed. “Fuck him and fuck the rest of them too. I’m not playing their games, I’m doing the job.” He kicked a chair and it slammed into the wall with a satisfying bang.

“Easy, I’m not the enemy. The martyr act won’t get you anywhere. You might consider playing nice.”

Occasionally, Shannon glimpsed behind Barnes’ carefully constructed wall. While he was certain it unnerved her, she still spoke her mind. “Sorry. Someone’s always gunning for me. Being the best doesn’t allow time for anyone else’s agenda. I’m not about to change.”

“Fine,” passing on a losing battle. “What’s our next move? I only heard Holland’s side. You solid on what we did today?”

“Andrews is a pervert. We’ve got enough, but tonight’s a paper night. Prescott’s coming and we make sure it’s watertight.”

Shannon frowned and rubbed her temples. “Holland wants to show everyone he’s got his thumb on us. I don’t care that he takes credit sometimes, but this is taking away from the real work. Damn him.”

A sly smile materialized. “Now who needs to play nice?”

“Shut up. I’m not the one with four reprimands for insubordination. You think Andrews will spill? It’s a long time since you didn’t get the confession right away.”

“It’s not insubordination when I’m right. Andrews dropped a few names, but I think they’re bullshit. He’d stick his hand in a pit of rattlesnakes to draw a get out of jail free card.” He paused. “A night or two in a cell will do it.”

But Barnes didn’t believe that. Three cigarettes and creeping concerns consumed his trip to the Barracks. He couldn’t shake the idea there was something rotten about this case, and not just around the edges. Andrews’ arrogance held court in his mind. What’s up your sleeve, you sick son of a bitch? What do you know about what’s coming my way I don’t?

***

Excerpt from Main Street Fringe by Matthew Lavoie. Copyright 2026 by Matthew Lavoie. Reproduced with permission from Matthew Lavoie. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Matthew Lavoie

A policy expert and political operative for some of Washington’s most influential power brokers, Matthew Lavoie has spent his career evaluating the how and why of American political and cultural movements and observing some of the biggest shifts in American and geopolitical history. MAIN STREET FRINGE is his debut novel. He is a member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With Matthew Lavoie:

MatthewPLavoie.com
Instagram – @matthewlavoie8181
Facebook – @MatthewLavoie8181
YouTube – @MatthewLavoie8181

 

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All That Remains
Samantha Grosser
Publication date: September 15th 2026
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance

A choice shaped by war. A life in its shadow. One last chance to make peace with the past.

1998. Eva Marlowe has never asked her husband if he regrets his decision – she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer. But when news arrives that his estranged son has died, she feels the foundations of their marriage begin to shift beneath her. Then the funeral draws them back to Silverwood Hall where it all began, and she can no longer avoid the question.

1939. As Europe teeters on the brink of war, young socialite Eva Ravensby has been sent home from the Riviera in disgrace. Grounded at the family seat of Silverwood Hall, she chafes against the constraints of her upbringing, until her brother brings aspiring writer Ben Marlowe home for the summer.

Ben is utterly compelling. And wholly unsuitable. So when he asks Eva to marry him the night before he leaves for war, she refuses. Duty must come before love, and her father would never forgive her. But how can she possibly know the train of events her answer has set in motion? As the war takes its toll on them both, her refusal shapes their lives in ways they can never undo. Then, in the aftermath, an unexpected second chance arises. But the price they must pay for it is more than they could have imagined.

Now, decades later, as Ben grieves for the son he never knew, Eva faces the question she has spent a whole marriage refusing to ask: was she ever truly the life he chose?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Nobles / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

On the day of the funeral, Eva drives with her signature brand of recklessness and skill. When they were young, the thrill of it was intoxicating: Ben can still recall with absolute clarity the heady feeling of that long ago summer before the war – an awareness of their youth and vitality and a belief in the wonders the future had in store for them. He had never felt so alive. But as he grew older and more aware of his mortality, each swerve and near miss became nothing short of terrifying.

Now, watching Eva in profile as she slams her palm with impatience against the steering wheel at a slow car ahead of them, he finds himself thinking it would actually be quite a fine way to go, wrapped together in tangled metal, a definitive end.

Eva lets out a curse as the column of traffic slows to a crawl and he quenches a smile, taking the opportunity to watch her a little longer. He will never tire of looking at her face, marvelling at the fine chiselled lines of her cheekbones and her jaw, the forget-me-not blue of eyes that are still as bright and clear as on the day they first met. She catches him watching her from the edge of her eye and turns her head.

‘Are you all right?’

Her question drags his thoughts reluctantly back to the purpose of their journey.

George’s funeral.

His son.

He shifts awkwardly in the seat of the car. The trousers of the wool suit are rough and itchy – it’s been a while since he’s worn it and his skin has become more sensitive with age. He stretches out as much as he can in the confined space and tries not to think about how stiff his hips will be after an hour and a half in the car.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, and they both know it’s a lie.

He’s still in two minds about going at all and with each successive roundabout they come to, it crosses his mind to ask Eva to drive right around it and take them back home. But he says nothing, and the Audi bears them in sleek leather comfort ever closer to their destination.

‘We don’t have to go,’ Eva offers, reading his discomfort with her usual clarity.

‘But you think I should,’ he replies, which is unfair, because they’ve talked about it endlessly in the days since the letter arrived and they came to the decision together. But he’s in no frame of mind to be reasonable. Anger seethes in his gut, bitter and relentless, and he only hopes he can contain it once they get there. Eva says nothing, eyes trained with uncharacteristic attention on the road ahead.

Abruptly, the anger slides into guilt. Such a pointless emotion, but he’s spent most of his life in its grip, one way or another. Guilt for dreaming and wanting more; for hurting people and for poor decisions; for living a life that is full of regret for what he lost instead of gratitude for all he has. He loves Eva desperately and always has, but he’s conscious he has not always been the best of husbands. He lets out a low sigh.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offers.

His wife flashes him a quick look of forgiveness, and he touches his fingers to where her hand rests on the gear lever. The last person in the world he wants to fight with is Eva.

Author Bio:

Samantha Grosser is a very British author who doesn’t function without tea. Having spent many years teaching English in Asia and Australia, she has now made her home on the sunny beaches of Sydney, Australia, where she lives with her husband, son, and a very small dog called Livvy.

She is the author of wartime dramas Another Time and Place, The Officer’s Affair, and Out of the Ashes, and the historical novel The King James Men. When she isn’t writing or reading, (which isn’t often) you can find her either doing yoga, going for long walks, or watching old movies.

You can find out more at samgrosserbooks.com

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