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Overview
Discover the magic of New York Times bestseller Melissa Foster's writing, and see why millions of readers have fallen in love with the Remingtons and the rest of the Love in Bloom contemporary romance collection. The Remingtons are a series of stand-alone romances that may also be enjoyed as part of the larger Love in Bloom series.
In USA Today bestseller SLOPE OF LOVE...
Olympic gold medalist skiers Jayla Stone and Rush Remington have been best friends for years. They've seen each other at their best and worst and have kept each other's secrets without fail. Only there's one secret Rush has kept close to his chest. After months of introspection, Rush realizes he's been filling his bed but not tending to his heart. He's changed his womanizing ways, and the only woman who can fill his heart has been right by his side all this time.
Years of intimate conversations and the sharing of hopes and dreams collide when Rush reveals his secret, and one toe-curling kiss changes everything between Rush and Jayla. They're no match for the passion that kiss ignites, or the pull of true love. But being Rush's best friend means knowing all about his revolving bedroom door--and Jayla has a secret of her own that could jeopardize her career and her relationship with Rush. Even their love may not be enough to overcome Rush's past or secure Jayla's future.
***
WANT MORE Remingtons?
THE REMINGTONS
Game of Love (Dex)
Stroke of Love (Sage)
Flames of Love (Siena)
Slope of Love (Rush)
Read, Write, Love (Kurt)
Touched by Love (Boyd)
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780991046881 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | World Literary Press |
| Publication date: | 04/25/2014 |
| Series: | Love in Bloom: The Remingtons Series , #5 |
| Pages: | 392 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
THE TIDE LAPPED at the sandy shore beyond the deck of the cedar-shingled bungalow where Kurt Remington sat on the deck of his cottage, fingers to keyboard, working on his latest manuscript. Dark Times was due to his agent at the end of the month, and Kurt came to his cottage in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, to hunker down for the summer and complete the project. He lived just outside of New York City and he wrote daily, sometimes for ten or twelve hours straight. In the summers, he liked the change of scenery the Cape offered and was inspired by the Cape’s fresh air and the sounds of the sea.
He’d bought the estate of a local painter a few years earlier with the intent of renovating the artist’s studio that sat nestled among a grouping of trees on the far side of the property. Initially, Kurt thought he might use the studio as a writing retreat separate from where he lived, with the idea that leaving the cottage to work might give him a chance to actually have a life and not feel pressure to write twenty-four-seven. What he found was that the studio was too far removed from the sights and sounds that inspired him, and it made him feel like even more of a recluse than he already was. He realized that it wasn’t the location of his computer that pressured him. It was his internal drive and his love of writing that propelled his fingers to the keyboard every waking second. The idea of making the studio into a guest cottage crossed his mind, but that would indicate his desire to have guests, which would mean giving up his coveted writing time to entertain. So there it sat, awaiting…something. Though he had no idea what.
The cottage was built down a private road at the top of a dune, with a private beach below. A curtain of dense air settled around him. Kurt lifted his eyes long enough to scan the graying clouds and ponder the imminence of rain. It was seven twenty in the evening, and he’d been writing since nine o’clock that morning, as was his daily habit, right after his three-mile run, two cups of coffee, and a quick breeze through the newspaper and email. Once Kurt got into his writing zone each day, other than getting up to eat, he rarely changed his surroundings. The idea of moving inside and breaking his train of thought was unsettling.
He set his hands back on the keyboard and reread the last few sentences of what would become his thirteenth thriller novel. A dog barked in the distance, and Kurt drew his thick, dark brows together without breaking the stride of his keystrokes. Kurt hadn’t risen to the ranks of Patterson, King, and Grisham by being easily distracted.
“Pepper! Come on, boy!” A female voice sliced through his concentration. “Come on, Pepper. Where are you?”
Kurt’s fingers hesitated for only a moment as she hollered; then he went right back to the killer lurking outside the window in his story.
“Pepper!” the woman yelled again. “Oh God, Pepper, really?”
Kurt closed his eyes for a beat as the wind picked up. The woman’s voice was distracting him. She was too close to ignore. Get your mutt and move on. He let out a breath and went back to work. Kurt craved silence. The quieter things were, the better he could hear his characters and think through their issues. He tried to ignore the sounds of splashing and continued writing.
“Pepper! No, Pepper!”
Great. He was hoping to squeeze in a few more hours of writing on the deck before taking a walk on the beach, but if that woman kept up her racket, he’d be forced to work inside—and if there was one thing Kurt hated, it was changing his surroundings while he was in the zone. Writing was an art that took total focus. He’d honed his craft with the efficiency of a drill sergeant, which was only fitting since his father was a four-star general.
More splashing.
“Oh no! Pepper? Pepper!”
The woman’s panicked voice split his focus right down the center.