Title: Accidentally in Love With…a God?
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Series: Accidentally Yours, #1
Genre: Romance, Contemporary, Paranormal
Length: 88,000 words
Source: CBLS Promotions
Buy: Amazon | B&N | Smashwords
Twenty-two-year-old Emma Keane has a secret friend. He’s powerful, mysterious, and devastatingly handsome. In her dreams, anyway.
In real life, he’s an enigma. Maybe just a teensie jealous. Definitely overbearing. He’s also a voice only she can hear.
So who or what is he? He won’t say. But if she wants to be free, to be normal, Emma will have to trek to the jungles once ruled by the Mayans and find the forgotten ruin holding the answers.
However, the ruthless deity she’s about to unknowingly unleash on the modern world might not be so easily extracted from her life. Bottom line, he’s got enemies, and now, so does she.
WHO ARE MY BOOKS FOR?
I happen to be a firm believer in the saying, “Life is short.” Because it is. That’s why most of us go to bed every night making a mental list of the things we didn’t get to. And if you’re like me, I never have enough room in my life for the appropriate amount of fun! And don’t you JUST hate it when you finally do something nice for yourself, like see a movie, only to wish that you could have your two hours back once it’s over?
So, in the spirit of helping others effectively manage their time, I thought I might help you figure out if my books are for you before you pick one up.
These few True/False questions should do the trick:
I love books that are like long, leisurely walks through the woods where you smell the foliage and the cool, clean scent of pine.
My books are more like hitting the Drive Thru window on a hot summer night. You are likely to end up with something that is, perhaps, not so good for you, but yummy and cool! So, if you answered FALSE, then my books are for you.
Before the romance happens, I like deep character development where we know everything about the hero and heroine, right down to their underwear preference.
I do often divulge whether or not the hero is a boxer brief, regular boxer, or—my fav—commando kind of guy (never, ever tightee whities). But part of the story’s fun is the characters’ journey of self-discovery. By the end, you should have a fairly solid sense of their personalities…and if the hero is naked under his leather pants. So, if you answered FALSE, my books are likely for you.
I want to really feel the emotional bond that tether the hero and heroine together.
Oh yeah. You definitely get that. But the relationships always start out with a strong attraction they don’t really “get.” It takes them a while to come around…but they always do.
I hate it when I find a good book—cool characters, captivating plot—but then I end up skimming half of it to get to the good parts.
If you answered TRUE to this, then my books are for you! I hate long “breaths” in a book. I want every part to be a “good part” with something fun or juicy happening. I want the story to move so fast it practically knocks my head off. I try to do that with my stories.
I love it when the author spoon-feeds me the plot. I don’t want to think too hard.
I’m not a huge fan of spoon-feeding. Personally, my litmus test is my mother.
If she reads the book and can keep up, then that’s good enough. If she says, “Honey, I don’t get this part…” then I know I need to add a clue. To be clear, my mom reads more Paranormal Romance than anyone I know and she’s super sharp. Naturally, I assume my readers are just like her…
Nothing bothers me more than whining.
Okay. I hate whining too. But I find it hysterical when characters reflect on how messed up their situations are, crack jokes about themselves, and then move on with life. So if you loath any form of whining, then my books are not for you.
I hope this was helpful and that if you find yourself reading one of my books, they make you smile from page one.
Have a great day!
How About A Little Excerpt or Two?
Chapter 1 – Present Day
Wasn’t dating supposed to be fun? Because this was anything but. At any moment, a man I’d never met—approximately six-foot-three, brown hair, and soul-piercing blue eyes, according to his online profile—would walk through the door of the Conga Lounge, give his name to the hostess, and scream hysterically at the sight of me. Okay. He wouldn’t scream. Aloud, anyway. Not that I was heinous, but anyone who looked closely enough might notice I was…different.
I eyeballed the door, contemplating making a mad dash before he arrived.
No, you can do this, I thought while staring at the condensation channeling down my glass of water, my leg bouncing under the table. Why had my date picked a corny theme-bar that looked like Gilligan’s Island threw up? What sort of man goes novelty on the first date? Bad sign. Bad sign.
At least the other patrons—seated around the faux-torch lit room, leisurely sipping Bahama Mama’s and Mai Tai’s—were oblivious to my impending meltdown.
I felt the gentle whoosh of summer evening air as the door swung open and the noise from the traffic-packed New York street poured in. A tall man with sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders, and tousled brown hair floated in—yes, floated—as if he’d ridden in on a cloud straight from Hot-Man Land. He wore a black polished-cotton shirt, which hugged his well-constructed chest, and low slung jeans that molded to his lean physique. He wasn’t just good looking, he was Milan runway edible.
“Oh, sweet Virgin of Guadalupe, please be Jake,” I muttered under my breath.
Like a cliché from a movie, our eyes met from across the room, and his face lit up with a dimple-framed smile. My heart nearly stopped. “Thank you, Virgin,” I said, releasing my breath.
He strutted across the restaurant, a magnet for every female in the room.
“Emma?” he said in a deep slow-churned voice then smiled and held out his hand. I stood up in a daze, mentally pinching myself.
“You are Emma, right? Curly, shoulder-length, red hair, five-three. Several crazed female stalkers for best friends?”
Oh, no. What had my roommates done? Since the whole online-blind-date thing was their idea, they assured me they’d carefully “screened” the guy. But I thought they were just joking about breaking into his apartment and rummaging through his underwear drawer. And dammit, they hadn’t even bothered to dish. Tighty whities or boxers?
I looked down at his outstretched hand. Oh, shoot. Shake hands. “Sorry, it’s just—I wasn’t expecting someone so…” I swallowed and placed my palm in his. It was warm and inviting, just like his eyes. “Um…so tall.”
“And I wasn’t expecting a woman so…” He paused to look me over like a dog eyeing a giant juicy steak. “…adorable.”
“Adorable?” said the deep male voice inside my head. “What kind of moron compliments a woman with the word ‘adorable’? Does he think you’re a goddamned puppy?”
Couldn’t I have one, just one lousy day without the voice? My blood began to boil instantly, but I resisted the urge to snap back with something lame like, “Well, maybe Jake senses I want to lick him from head to toe. Maybe even have a go at his leg.” But then I thought better of myself. Because tonight, I was on a mission, and nothing would stop me from climbing my own mental Mt. Everest: convince myself that I, Emma Keane, could feel attraction for a real live man with ten fingers, ten toes, arms and legs, and the other necessary dangly bits needed to make a relationship normal. All I needed was the right man.
The other person I needed to prove this to wasn’t exactly a person. Okay—truth be told, he was a mysterious voice only I could hear. Yes. A luscious, deep velvety voice so seductive that it could turn me into a quivering mindless puddle of need with one little sigh. Sound crazy? That wasn’t the half of it. But it was why I had to do this. If I wanted a shot at normal, I had to take this first step.
With his golden face beaming, the man smiled as he stroked my sopping wet hair and cradled me against his warm, smooth chest. “I love this dream,” I said with a breathy voice, then stretched my arms above my head, gazing happily into the most striking set of luminescent, turquoise green eyes I’d ever seen.
To boot, they belonged to a breathtaking, masculine face, a face one would expect to see on the cover of a magazine named something like, I’m Way Too Hot to Be Your Man, or In Your Dreams, Honey.
Oh, yeah. Without a doubt, I’d topped myself this time. Sculpted cheekbones, thick dark lashes, chiseled jaw, and lips so full they simply had to be meant for kissing or eating something really juicy. He was way hotter than the specimen of perfection from my last dream, and bonus, he didn’t have that scary vibe. I reached up and ran my fingertip along the ridge of his hard-lined warrior nose.
“Emma, what in the name of the gods’ creation are you doing?” he scorned. “We really don’t have time for your immature little fantasies. We’re in the middle of a crisis. Do you not remember?”
I blinked and slowly moved my eyes from side to side.
Jungle? I was in the jungle. And my clothes were wet. Come to think of it, for a dream, I didn’t feel so hot. My lungs burned, my body felt like it’d been chewed up, and my head was throbbing. So, aside from the perfect man with long, damp, wavy black hair holding me in his arms, none of this felt like a dream. It felt…
“Holy Mother!” I pushed myself away and rolled into the dirt, pointing in disbelief. “Wha—you—you—?”
“Aaah. So eloquent as always, my sweet. It is astounding; you actually have a college degree, yet cannot find better words.” He pushed himself up off the ground.
As he rose, my heart stopped, started, then went into overdrive. His legs and spine straightened into a towering mass of unforgiving muscles. With shoulders like a lumberjack and thick, powerful thighs, I didn’t know if I wanted to run away or climb him like a tree. He was utterly enormous. Jolly Green Giant enormous. Except, obviously, not green. More golden brown. He was a gorgeous, towering mass of golden brown perfection.
No. Definitely not a cave-dwelling, wart-infested troll. Great. Just great. Now I knew I wasn’t crazy—Guy was definitely real—but now I also knew I was way over my head. He was gorgeous.
I stood in awe, my mouth gaping as my eyes attempted to register every rope of muscle, every capacious curve packed with power. Christ, he had to be at least seven feet tall.
“Six nine, actually,” he said, guessing my thoughts.
“This can’t be possible,” I whispered, my eyes continuing to dart up and down the length of his body, stopping right on dark trail of hair that started just below his navel and continued down, down, down to his enormous beast of a—“Oh! You’re naked.” I turned sharply, but only to stop myself from reaching out to touch it; no man could be that…that…endowed. Wow. “This can’t be happening.” I covered my face.
“Emma,” he moved behind me, placing his powerful hands on my shoulders. A jolt shivered its way through my body.
I was wrong about the vibe. Way wrong. This man, or whatever he was, radiated hazard. He should come equipped with a set of blinking lights or flares. He was…“Bad. Very, very, bad,” I mumbled, pinching the bridge of my nose.
And pathetically, after everything that had happened, all I could think about was this naked, hard-bodied, glorious “man” who’d just permanently seared his image inside the storage compartments of my female DNA. All men from this day forward would have to survive a mental side-by-side comparison against him. They’d all lose.
About the Author
Before taking up a permanent residence in the San Francisco Bay Area, Mimi spent time living near NYC (became a shopaholic), in Mexico C
ity (developed a taste for very spicy food), and Arizona (now hates jumping chollas, but pines for sherbet sunsets). Her love of pre-Hispanic culture, big cities, and romance inspires her to write when she’s not busy with kids, work, and life…or getting sucked into a juicy novel.
She hopes that someday, leather pants for men will make a big comeback and that her writing might make you laugh when you need it most.