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Finding Tiegan by Hanna Park is an intoxicating book worth reading #pnr #paranormalromance #bookboost #booksworthreading #wrpbks



Title – Finding Tiegan

Author  - Hanna Park

Genre – Paranormal Romance - Erotic

Publisher – The Wild Rose Press


Book Blurb –

 

A holiday in the Algarve of Portugal…sunshine…fun-shine. It’s what I need. It’s time to be me. Time to find the woman I was before the nightmares, outlandish dreams, and sleepwalking. But I wasn’t expecting to find Tomás Ferreira, a man made for pleasure. And now, my heart throbs with unfulfilled excitement, fire burns in my belly, and swirling flames lick my thighs. I’m a glorious mess.


Where did Tiegan Moss come from? And why is she suddenly here on the day of the dead, the day the door to the otherworld swings open, the day the veil is thin? I’d hidden in the shadows, content, a life barely lived. You’ve changed everything. You make me want. You make my blood sing. Lost in your kaleidoscope eyes, trapped in the pout of your lips, I can’t escape. And I don’t like it one bit.


Can our two haunted souls find a future together?

 

Excerpt –

 

Leaving the din of voices behind, I follow narrow alleys passing gated estates, courtyards, and bursting orange groves, sprawling branches heavy with fruit. The citrusy scent tickles my nose as I ascend one hill after another, but a pang of hunger puts an end to my explorations, turning me back toward town.


I find what looks like the real deal, a step above a greasy spoon but a classic diner just the same—the kind of restaurant people just know about. We have one back home: The Blue Dog on Main put our little town on the map with its Friday special: the double bacon cheese mushroom melt—an ungodly mouthful of homemade goodness.


This place is called Casa Rosalia. Outdoor tables sit under an awning of blue stripes, the pages of a menu scotch-taped to the entrance door. Parked on an angle in front of the restaurant is a Ducati: not just a motorbike, but a big black fire-breathing monster. My pulse kicks up a notch. My fingers itch to touch the shiny handlebars, the bulbous tank, the hard leather seat. Could this be the home of the bad boy Christina warned me of? I run my fingers through my hair and push the door open.


Casa Rosalia has a familiar, homey feel—muted walls, painted orange, a plank floor, the color of beat-up coffee beans, a ceiling beamed with heavy timber. A refrigeration unit sits at the entrance, displaying today’s catch—beady black eyes pierce mine, silver scales glisten. The kitchen is visible through an open window. A man in a black skull cap chops vegetables, and a girl with a pink ponytail polishes cutlery, but the place is empty. Have I made a bad choice? I turn to leave when a voice stops me dead in my tracks.


“I’ll be there in a moment.”


A smooth rumble resonates through the empty room. It is melodic, almost lyrical. It echoes in my mind, and I am overcome with a moment of bewilderment, a sense of déjà vu. I know that voice. A man dressed all in black appears on the far side of the dining room.


“Can I help you?”


“Yes, please, I was hoping for lunch. Are you open?”


His scent hits me first, sandalwood with an undertone of musk. My mouth dries. My throat thickens.


“No, we open at six, for dinner, if you’d like to come back.” His voice, that velvet murmur wraps around me like a soft blanket.


“Oh, I’m sorry. The door was open.”


Razor-sharp, intelligent eyes bore into mine—two bottomless pools of chocolate, flecked with gold. A woman could get lost in those eyes.


“I’m Tomás Ferreira, the owner of Casa Rosalia.” He extends his hand. I offer mine in return.


“And you are?”


“Tiegan...Tiegan Moss.” I am intrigued by those eyes that burn with gold fire, by the liquid heat racing through my veins. Christina’s review of this man was bad, all bad. In the back of my mind, warning bells clang. I ignore them.


With outright arrogance, he turns my wrist, holding my fingers within his. He brushes the palm of his thumb along the ridge of my knuckles. “You’re new around here.”


My breath catches, and I forget to breathe. A daring question? No, not a question, a statement. It strikes me Tomás Ferreira is a man used to getting what he wants. I want to jerk my hand away. I want to trail my fingers along the underside of that square jaw, taste those wide, luscious lips. I wish I were five inches taller. Damn. “Yes, I just arrived. I’m visiting a friend for a few months.”


“And where did you come from?” His eyes narrow, leaving me with the impression he is somehow confused.


“From Canada—Mabou, Cape Breton, to be exact.”


“You’ve traveled a long way for lunch.”


“Yes, I guess I have.” I chuckle. “It’s nice to meet you, Tomás, but as you said, the kitchen’s closed. I should be on my way. I’ll come back, maybe another day,” I say, in a voice too quick. I’d like to take those words back—say something eloquent or funny, but I’m not good at off-the-cuff kind of stuff. I make no move to retreat.


“I would like you to stay.”


“You would?”


“Yes, I would.”


“Well, okay. If it’s not too much trouble.”


Tomás guides me to a table for two by the window. He steps to one side, offering a chair.


I sink into the padded leather seat, quaking—from the touch of his fingertips strategically placed on the small of my back, each one a slow-burning ember radiating heat.


“If you like seafood, I would recommend the bacalhau. It’s one of our specialties.”


“Bacalhau? Is that cod?”


“Yes, salted cod, soaked for twenty-four hours to remove the salt, and then roasted.”


“It sounds wonderful. I love seafood. Are you a chef?” I ramble, the tenor of my voice too high. I’m on my left foot, and I don’t know why.


“No, I’m not a chef.” His eyes flicker with amusement. “Would you like wine, Tiegan?”


He carries himself with maturity beyond his years; he exudes confidence. I cannot imagine many women or men saying no to Tomás Ferreira.


“Please. That would be lovely.”


“A red or a white?”


“I like red, thank you.”


He opens a tall cabinet, exposing a floor to ceiling rack of wine. I study him through the fringe of my eyelashes. A stray forelock, a thick curl of blackstrap molasses falls onto his forehead. A handsome guy? No, he is more than that. Angled and hard—sculptured—an Adonis, and I could be his Venus. No. No. No. This is so not good. I should leave. I should run and hide.


He presents a bottle of wine: Portuguese, Tinto da Ânfora. With the art of a sommelier, he uncorks the bottle and pours a splash into the stemmed crystal bowl. He swirls the wine while his eyes hold my soul ransom.

 

Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub) –

 

 

 

 

 

 


Author Biography –

 

I began my writing career in the pre-dawn of a winter morning while my husband snored like a train. We could call my husband the catalyst. If it weren’t for him, I would never have gone to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, feed the cat, and sit on the loveseat in front of the fire. It was there, in those moments of wondrous quiet, that I did something I had never thought possible. I opened my laptop, and while the coffee went cold, I wrote a story. My husband had no idea that these sojourns to the loveseat in front of the fire would become a daily occurrence, that writing would become an obsession, but the cat knew. She knows everything.


I write stories that make you laugh, make you cry, and make you love. Thank you, friends, for reading!


In the beginning, there was an empty page.


I am a writer who lives in Muskoka, Canada, with a husband who snores, a hungry cat, and an almost perfect canine––he’s an adorable little shit.

Hanna Park

 

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