Not All Who Wander are Lost
What's
the first thing you do when you are a 400 year old Elf Guardian who is
being sent to protect a reckless, smart ass, smoking hot young mechanic
who is destined to change the world? Visit a cobbler. Crimson knows you
need a good pair of boots and a lot of self control for a job like that!
But things are not always what they seem. Everyone has secrets,
everyone has an agenda. Things are spiraling out of control. Can Finn
and Crimson fulfill their entwined destinies and change the world?
Purchase Link: http://www.amazon.com/Not-All-Who-Wander-Lost/dp/1494757028/
About Shannon:
Shannon
Cahill lives in Spokane, Washington with the love of her life, her 3
rotten children, and her elderly border collie. When she's not writing,
she's reading. She is especially fond of trashy celebrity biographies
and passionate love stories, but cannot pass up a good vampire or zombie
story.
Prologue
F
|
inn was fully absorbed by the oil change he was doing
when he heard the sound of heels clicking and then a soft, throaty voice say,
“Excuse me, you there, can you help me?” Intrigued by a sexy accent that he
couldn’t quite place, he slid partway out from under his truck to get a better
look at the owner. He came face to face
with the smallest pair of 6 inch heeled thigh high boots he’d ever seen, and
above the boots, what could only be described as a mini version of his wildest
dreams. He felt himself harden as he struggled to regain his composure.
“How can I help you?” he breathed. His words coming out a
little cracked, like he was a teenager again. He knew he was in trouble.
The tiny girl bent over to be closer to him and said in
that devastating voice, “My car seems to be having a bit of a problem. Well,
actually, more than a bit. It is making a horrible sound and I fear I’ve done
some real damage. Can you look at it for me?”
Finn swallowed and tried to find his voice. From that
angle, he could see that she may be small, but not where it mattered. She
looked to be just under 5 feet tall, even in the soaring heels, compact, but
curvy as hell. He couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering on the low neckline of
the tight black dress she was wearing. He found himself wanting desperately to
tangle his big hands in the long black riot of curls falling into her face. He
noticed her eyes were an unusual shade of brown—almost wine colored--and the
same shade as the streaks in her hair. She was stunning.
Struggling for control, he found his voice at last. “Of
course. Let me get out from under here. Where are you parked?”
“Just outside, “she purred.
At that, she turned and started to walk to the door, then
stopped and looked back over her shoulder, “I’m Crimson, by the way. Crimson
Thorn.”
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