Thursday, August 9, 2018

Author Of The Month - Posy Roberts - Week Two

Welcome to our second week of celebrations for the amazing 

In this week's post, we'll take a look at Cheeky Hipsters And Jocks and Silver Scars, plus five little-known facts about Posy. There's also another chance to win one of her books!

First up, Cheeky Hipsters and Jocks


Jack has a secret hidden in his pants. Eli thinks he knows what it is.

Jack Cox has a secret he’s kept hidden for years until a fellow hockey player discovers a scrap of silk and lace hiding in his pocket. Elijah Mitten notices how anxious Jack is as the hot-pink fabric makes its way around the locker room, and when Jack throws it in the trash like it means nothing, Elijah guesses what’s beneath his stoic façade and possibly his pants.

When Elijah shows up on Jack’s doorstep looking for answers, Jack won’t admit anything. But when Elijah takes matters into his own hands, Jack has to make a decision: share his secret and risk losing hockey or keep it hidden forever.


Jack rifled through his hockey bag, praying there was still a spare pair of underwear hiding in the recesses. There was no way he could put on the underwear he’d walked into the ice house wearing.
No luck.
Jack cursed the traffic jam that had fucked up his entire game day routine and the ultra-needy client who made him leave the office late.
Damn you, Geoffrey! Damn all the former child actors everywhere.
Jack always, always stopped home to change between work and a game or practice. Never fail.
How the hell am I gonna explain going commando in my suit pants if these guys ask?
And he was sure they’d ask . . . if they noticed. After a few quick swipes of his deodorant, he decided to tug his undershirt and white button-down on first, hoping the shirttails would make what he was doing less obvious. Jack then turned to face the center of the room, ass to his locker as he bent over and stepped into his pants.
“What the hell is this, Jack, my man?” Steve Bear asked through a giddy laugh as he tugged the hot pink panties Jack had stuffed into his front pocket when he’d hidden in the toilet stall earlier to change. His pockets must’ve been gaping just enough that the fabric was visible.
Jack’s stomach dropped as he watched the Bear Cub paw at the material. It left him with a sick feeling as he managed to get his fly secured without pinching his bits. He was probably turning green. He sure as hell was ready to puke.
“Come on,” Jack semi-pleaded to the man-child who turned everything he possibly could into some frat house prank because he had no self-control.
“Did you have a lunchtime fuck?” With a ridiculous laugh, Steve tossed the lace and silk panties across the locker room where Jones grabbed them, holding them up to his hips while he swayed as he fluttered his eyelashes. The move drew the attention of the entire locker room to the scrap of fabric. Jones passed them over to Dietz who cracked some crude remark before moving them along.
Jack leaned back against his locker and tried to act like he had all the time in the world for this when Steve caught the panties and pulled them to his face, sniffing deeply.
Jack nearly shouted to stop him, but caught himself by clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth squeaked.
“Doesn’t smell like pussy at all.” Steve’s face was incredulous.
Elijah ripped the panties away from Steve, just keeping him from going in for a second sniff. “Drop it, Cub. You’ve had your fun. Leave it,” Elijah bit out when Steve reached for the panties again.
“Was just playin’, Captain. Fuck!” Steve looked thoroughly chastened as he stalked back to his locker.
“And apologize,” Elijah scolded, glaring as Steve jammed his feet into his shoes. Everyone else who’d joined in the fun returned to dressing themselves and talking about the bar again.
“Sorry,” Steve muttered under his breath, barely audible as he tossed his skates in his bag, zipped it up petulantly, then stalked out of the locker room.
“Don’t let the Bear Cub get to you, Jack,” Elijah said as he handed Jack the panties. “He’s an impulsive little shit.”
Jack took the offensively bright fabric from Elijah, stared at it a second, then walked over to the large garbage can, throwing the panties away. That pair hadn’t been cheap and they were one of his most comfortable pairs, but he had to save face as the eyes of every guy he played with watched how he handled this.
Even if this rec hockey league was fun and games to most guys, it was Jack’s one form of stress relief that truly succeeded at getting him out of his head, working the tension from his job away, and helping him loosen up. Nothing else in the world de-stressed him like hockey, so he couldn’t risk losing this. And he was positive he’d lose it. Keeping hockey was well worth the loss of a sixty-dollar pair of panties.
Jack hefted his bag onto his shoulder and smiled at the rest of the team. “I’m heading home. See you guys at practice on Friday.”
“Come on, man. Don’t let the Cub ruin the win for you,” Jones said followed by several other guys essentially repeating the sentiment and encouraging him to come out to celebrate.
“Sorry guys. I had a hellish day at work already and have a worse one waiting tomorrow.”
Elijah looked at Jack and smiled. “Have a good night then, Jack.”
“Thanks.” He waved absently before slipping out of the locker room.
* * *
As Eli watched Jack leave, he knew something was wrong..
He knew not to follow Jack. He’d read that non-verbal cue loud and clear, but he knew he had to do something. Jack was a valuable player and the team needed him.
Eli waited until the rest of the guys finished showering and dressing. They slowly filtered out of the locker room while he made himself look busy. As soon as the last person slipped past the squeaky door, Eli headed toward the trash. He confiscated the bright pink silk that had snagged on the corner of the rectangular can.
Jack had looked . . . worried, not smug about having panties in his pocket. Then he remembered Steve’s words.
Eli pulled the fabric to his nose and sniffed. He smelled man, not a hint of woman on this delicate fabric. He smelled balls and dick. The familiar scent made his mouth water.
Jack hadn’t stuck a woman’s panties in his pocket. They had to be a man’s . . . or his.

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Second in today's line-up, Silver Scars


You need people to love you, especially when you shove them away.

A bomb destroyed high-powered lawyer Gil Lemieux’s seemingly perfect life, and PTSD has ruled every decision since the explosion that left him scarred inside and outside. Moving home with his mom is meant to be a temporary measure, just like proofreading for a medical editorial firm is meant to be a stopgap. But two years after taking on the wrong court case, he’s still living in fear.

Keith Kramer might be based 1,500 miles away from Gil, but their shared work brings them together—a chance meeting that’s life-changing. Gil is drawn to Keith’s good looks and intelligence, but it’s his innate understanding that Gil is more than the scars on his skin that is truly attractive. He’s everything Gil used to be and more. It blows Gil’s mind that his attraction might be returned.

Only doubt could widen the distance between them. Keith’s hopefulness, borne out of surviving some tough challenges of his own, isn’t enough to bridge the distance alone. Gil will need to believe he has as much to offer as Keith if they’re to build a life together.


“Yesterday you mentioned an incident.” Keith’s voice is tentative.
“Yes . . .”
“Life-changing, I think you said. Were you not always a copy editor?”
Why did he go there? I know I come across differently than I used to, but maybe copy editor doesn’t fit the new me. “No. Lawyer. I was working in family law for over a decade.”
“Was,” Keith says under his breath as he nods. “Divorces, custody, things like that?”
“Yep. That and more.”
“And you left . . . why?”
My hands tremble, made more obvious by the single file I’m holding, which flutters with the movement. Keith glances down but then looks back at my eyes as if the file had moved only because of a stiff breeze.
“That bad, huh?” His mouth leaves seriously-concerned-land and is transformed by a warm, earnest curve. Over the last year and a half, I’ve discovered a genuine smile directed my way is not an easy thing to pull off. They almost always come off as pity.
I slap the file on the cabinet top, releasing some of my tension, and heavily sit opposite him. His eyes are so open right then. He relaxes back into his leather chair as though he has all the time in the world to listen to me rather than deal with an office in utter turmoil.
“I was attacked by someone I allegedly wronged,” I say too softly and resolve myself to speak with more confidence as I continue. “There was a homemade bomb. Thankfully I wasn’t in the spot he wanted me or I’d be dead. All I got was glass and small particles of hot metal in the face and skull. Some in the chest. Most of the shrapnel flew over me.”
Keith pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger and takes a few breaths. “Do you know who did it?”
I nod. “Toughest case I had. Abusive father, who was trickier than hell, covered all his bases. He blamed me for talking his wife into no visitation with his kids. She was the one who pushed for no contact, and with good reason.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to blame a lawyer than someone we still love.”
“I think you’re right.” I maintain eye contact rather than looking away like I yearn to.
“Do you not practice law because of the fear of reprisal?”

My hands shake again, drawing my gaze to my lap. I clench them together to make them stop, but that only makes the blood pulsing under my skin more evident; it’s getting faster, and molten heat slides over my body. I’m sure I’m beet-red.
I don’t talk about this sort of thing with anyone beyond my mother, Dr. Soto, and occasionally Frankie.
So why the hell am I admitting this shit to a coworker who walks around in impeccable suits with a useless cane to make himself look like a Dapper Dan? I scowl at his stupid walking stick, which leans against the inner corner of his desk. The rounded silver top has veins in it. It makes me think of a miniature pumpkin. Fucking vegetable on a stick? What the hell is that?
“I’m sorry I pried,” Keith says, obviously reading my frustration. He presses his fingertips to his lips for a moment but then lets them drop to his chin as he rests his elbows on the leather arms of his chair. “Sometimes I step beyond the bounds, and I don’t know it until I’m already on the other side. I’m truly sorry.”
He’s sincere, so I mentally kick myself for insulting him. “It’s not something I’m used to talking about. The simplest answer is I’m still dealing with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder from the explosion.”
Keith nods as he reaches for his walking stick to finger a seam in the silver top. It looks like a nervous response. I try not to think about the ridiculousness of the accessory. He stays silent, which isn’t helping things at all.
It’s too damn quiet in the room. On the whole stupid floor.
“But PTSD’s not a simple answer at all,” I say to break the oppression. “Anytime I tried to go back to work, I had panic attacks. I’d drive near my law office and taste bile. The explosion happened at my old house. I never went back. Hired people to pack everything up and move me. The house was on the market as soon as it was fixed. It’s stupid how I responded.”
“It’s not stupid,” Keith says, voice gentle. “It’s how our minds protect us.”
“I was all over the place, and as soon as my physical wounds were fixed, my mental healing started. It’s ongoing.”
“I understand that.”
How could you understand? I resist shouting by biting my inner cheek.
“And here I am.” My voice is wasted. Why the hell am I still talking? His face is so damn earnest. “I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man who’s back living with his mom and working part-time in a risk-free, dead-end job. I’ll probably never practice law again. Any sort of stress, even normal things can set me off, like going through airport security yesterday. And the dreams.”
“It’ll get easier as time goes by.”
“What do you know?” I say, my anger finally popping through.
Keith holds his walking stick tightly in his palm and rests on it as he stands. He takes a few halting steps around the desk, heavily leaning on the cane.
My blood runs cold like someone dumped a bucket of ice water down my back.
I’m such a jaded asshole.
He lifts his left pant leg, and I can see where a huge hunk of flesh is missing under his sock. I don’t know if it’s muscle or bone or both, but his leg is concave where it shouldn’t be. I’m thankful I’m already sitting down, because my immediate remorse turned my knees to water.
“What happened?” I can barely breathe.
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I stepped out on the street when two gangs decided to have a little gun fight.”
“Wow.” I stare at his leg while he lowers the hem of his trousers. He uses his cane to get back to his chair. Why doesn’t he use a more supportive one? I’ve been such a prick. And so what if Keith used the cane as a fashion accessory? How is that any different than my own pretentious bow tie or Paul’s notice-me glasses? “Does it hurt?”
Keith nods. “All the time. My doctors have worked hard to make it functional again. I’m not wearing it right now, but I usually have a brace on.” He reaches under his desk and pulls it out, waving it about like he hates it. “It was itchy earlier, so I took it off.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“I’m sorry that—he gestures to my face—“happened to you too. But we’re survivors.”
I let out a wry chuckle. “I feel like a victim.”
“I felt that way for a long time too. It got better. Eventually I wasn’t willing to live a half-life, but before I was ready, I was very content to live one.”
I bite my lips. It’s as if he knows exactly how I feel.

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Five little-known facts 

1. I started writing because I was angry about how a series ended. I wanted to fix it, but in the end, I dropped the original main character and ended up writing about two men in the series. That’s when I discovered what was known in fanfiction as slash. Little did I know at the time that this would turn into my career.
2. I love the color green. Like love it. When we moved into our house, I painted the basement family room a light shade of green. Later that summer, I painted my daughter’s room another green. Then a few years later, I painted my living room a bold green. When I was organizing all my paint chips, I discovered I’d painted all three rooms from the same sample card but in varying degrees. So apparently I looove that one particular tint of green! Haha.
3. I love building things, but more than that, I love tools. For years, I asked for power or garden tools for my birthday. I’ve built several things, but my gardening skills are crap. But I have nice garden tools. ;)
4. For years, I drove 30-60 miles to get to my job. That time on the open highway was my thinking time. When my hubby and I were first married and trying to blend our lives, we used to drive and discuss stuff we avoided at home. When my daughter needs to talk, we get in the car and drive up to Minneapolis. There’s something about driving that makes me open up, either to the people I’m with or to the thoughts wandering around in my mind. I’ve planned many a story while driving.
5. I fully intended to become a sex therapist. That was always the end goal. I was a couples therapist and would’ve loved to expand that to sex therapy, but in the end, life gave me too many detours. When I moved over to writing romance, it fit me so well. I’m not sure I’d go back to grad school again if I was given the opportunity. But who knows?

About the author:

Posy Roberts started reading romance when she was young, sneaking peeks at adult books long before she should’ve. Textbooks eventually replaced the novels, and for years she existed without reading for fun. When she finally picked up a romance two decades later, it was like slipping on a soft hoodie . . . that didn’t quite fit like it used to. She wanted something more.

She wanted to read about men falling in love with each other. She wanted to explore beyond the happily ever after and see characters navigate the unpredictability of life. So Posy sat down at her keyboard to write the books she wanted to read.

Her stories have been USA Today’s “Happily Ever After” Must-Reads and Rainbow Award finalists. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family and friends and doing anything possible to get out of grocery shopping and cooking.


Thank you for celebrating this fabulous author with us. Come back next week for more of Posy's book and another chance to win. Until then, happy reading!


  1. Thank you for the post. I enjoyed Cheeky Hipsters and Jocks and have planned to give Silver Scars a read. Thank you for sharing those facts about yourself. I can't imagine going that far for a job. Glad the long drive has been therapeutic.

  2. I love how you ended up writing because I think a version of it is how a lot of people ended up reading/writing MM books.


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