With Christmas coming, it’s time to break out the sentiment. And A Broken Christmas is a book that’s full of sentiment.

A BROKEN CHRISTMAS is a passionate powerhouse of a story. Have the tissues ready!” ~Stephanie Cage, author of Desperate Bid

Falling into his ingrained household routine, Kyle used his cane to pull himself out of the couch and hobbled to the thermostat. He kicked it up from sixty-two to seventy-three. Multiple surgeries had changed one thing permanently—he no longer possessed a tolerance for cold. A slight chill cramped the muscles in his injured leg and spread a dull ache all the way up his spine.

When the heater kicked on, he made his way into the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee. Aimee glanced at him while she furiously beat eggs in a bowl. He lifted an eyebrow at her obvious agitation.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head then tossed the whisk into the sink. It clattered noisily against the porcelain. Uh-huh. Everything was as right as rain.

“Thank you for the blanket.”

Aimee acknowledged his thanks with a curt nod. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.” She
gestured at the skillet of sausage patties. “Those are almost done.”

As a rule, Aimee liked mornings. She got up, bustled around the kitchen, dodged him until he had a chance to fully wake up. Once he spoke, however, she chattered endlessly while he sucked down coffee by the gallon and tried to make sense of what she said.

This was not his normal, smiling, aggravating, morning-person wife.

Ex wife.

He took another long sip and leaned his good hip against the counter top as she stabbed her two-pronged fork into a patty with a little too much zeal.

“Aimee, you’re killing the sausage. Care to tell me what’s on your mind?”


The way she methodically set the fork down, turned off the burner, and reached for something tucked behind the sugar canister tripped him into high alert. He knew how to read her signs loud and clear, and this one said he was in trouble. As she slowly turned around to face him, Kyle eyed the clenched fist she dragged across the countertop.

Her palm smacked against the Formica. Something he couldn’t identify fluttered to the ground and disappeared behind her long robe. Her voice rang with a hard insistence he’d never heard from her before. “I want answers.”

As she lifted her hand, Kyle stared at the pile of ripped up photographs he’d tossed into the trash.

Oh, shit.


Come back Monday for a chance to win A Broken Christmas


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"Victorians used the term 'limbs' as a euphenism for legs, which were thought to be so sexually exciting to a man, even a glimpse of a table leg could incite him to sexual frenzy. Table skirts were invented to prevent any unnatural unions between men and furniture."
(History Channel International)



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