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The End Zone was never supposed to happen. I don’t usually write novellas. I love evoking my readers’ different feelings and there’s nothing I enjoy more than slow-burn romances. At the same time, I felt like I needed to give you something sweet and cute for the holidays, and I hope I did just that.
I would like to thank the following people from the bottom of my heart:
My beta readers, Tijuana Turner, Mia Sparks, Lana Kart, and Paige Jennifer. Thank you so much for putting up with my crazy schedule and for your attention for detail. You make my books so, so much better.
To my editors, Paige Smith and Tamara Mataya. I love our journey together. Your advice and guidance are everything an author could wish for and more. I am constantly honing my craft and you push me to my limits as I grow as an artist.
To Letitia Hasser. Please don’t hate me. I know I don’t know what I want half the time, but if it makes you feel any better, you have to put up with it a few times a year. My husband needs to tolerate it three-four times a week at a restaurant or when we choose furniture! Imagine that.
To my unicorn team—my amazing agent Kimberly Brower at Brower Literary, Sunny Borek, Ella Fox, Ava Harrison, my street team, and my formatter Stacey Ryan Blake. Thank you for being true professionals through and through. I am so, so lucky to have you.
To the Sassy Sparrows—I love you! Thank you for brightening my day, every single day. Going through this journey with you is such a blessing.
Last but not least—dear readers, thank you so much for making me what I am today. An author, an artist, and against all odds, someone who can stay at home and write for a living. I do not take that lightly. I will not let you down. There’s so much more to come, and I’m excited for all of it.
I’m leaving you with a treat I’ve been wanting to share with you for so long—the first chapter of my next full-length, standalone, Midnight Blue. This novel has put me through the ringer and I cannot wait to give it to you. Hope you enjoy!
Thank you,
L.J. Shen xoxo
“Mommy, can I have a cock?” My three-year-old daughter is staring at me with the intensity of a drama major, all big, crayon green eyes and molten gold locks like her father. I spray my coffee evenly between the morning newspaper, the iPad Sage got me last Christmas, and my usual uniform of yoga pants and flirty tank top.
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at my little baby. My. Little. Baby. Let those words sink, Jolie. Who taught her that word? I think I’m going to throw up.
“Yusss.” Elle hops up on the chair beside me at the breakfast table, making a show of spreading her arms wide before hugging an invisible cock to her chest. Okay. Now I’m definitely going to throw up. Side note: my child is very optimistic as to the size of cocks.
“My friend Staci has one.” She clutches the invisible cock to her chest, nuzzling her nose against it.
“Your friend Staci has a cock?”
Elle nods. “And the cock has a wife. And soon they’ll have little, baby cocks.”
“Oh. Ohhh. You mean that kind of cock.” My heart rate slows back to beats that don’t threaten to smash through my ribcage. I’m kind of embarrassed my mind drifted automatically to that place. Then again, I’ve been hornier than a unicorn recently. I pat my cheeks with my palms to cool them down and stand up to grab a dishtowel to clean the mess I’ve made.
“What other kind of cock is there?”
One day you’ll know, my child. But hopefully not before thirty.
“I want all the cocks in the world. The mommy, the daddy, the kids…”
“That could be arranged, if you’d only be so kind as to use another name for the family,” I mutter absentmindedly as I wipe off the fresh stains of coffee on the table. I tell Elle to go pick a pair of shoes ahead of her school day. I know it’s a task that will take her ten to fifteen minutes at the very least. Girl is Oscar-ready every time she sets foot in that pre-school.
From that point on, I do everything on auto-pilot. Clean the breakfast table. Wash the dishes. Water the plants. Dump food inside Rebel’s bowl (he is our Yorkshire terrier, no need to call CPS). I bend down to pick up a stray Cheerio Elle must’ve tried to slam-dunk into Rebel’s bowl, when my world stops spinning on its axis and hangs over an abyss of darkness.
The first word going through my mind is no.
Followed by: Oh, hell no.
The panic dribbles into my bloodstream in drops at first. Drip, drip, drip. But the trickle soon becomes a stream, and the terror turns to anger as I snatch the small thing from under Sage’s usual chair and stand up, feeling dizzy.
