Spotlight & Giveaway: MY KILLER VATION by Tessa Bailey

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Tessa Bailey’s new release: MY KILLER VATION

A brash bounty hunter and an energetic elementary school teacher become the murder-solving team no one asked for—but they’re stuck together, come hell or high tide, until a killer is found in this enemies-to-lovers spicy rom-com featuring a brand-new bonus novella from Tessa Bailey, #1 New York Times bestselling author of It Happened One Summer.

It was supposed to be a relaxing vacation in sweet, sunny Cape Cod—just Taylor Bassey and her beloved brother—but discovering a corpse in their rental house has really thrown a wrench into their tanning schedule. Now a rude, crude bounty hunter has arrived on the back of his motorcycle to catch the killer and refuses to believe Taylor can be helpful, despite the countless hours she’s spent listening to true crime podcasts. Not to mention her fulfilling teaching career of wrangling second graders.

Myles Sumner is only there to do a job, not babysit an amateur sleuth. Although…it is becoming less and less of a hardship to have Taylor around. Sure, she’s stubborn, distracting and can’t stay out of harm’s way. She’s also brave and beautiful and reminds him of home. In other words, the insatiable hunger and protectiveness she’s awakening is a threat to his peace of mind. Before Myles sinks any deeper into this dangerous attraction, he needs to solve the murder and get back on the road. Only now there are two threats—and the biggest one is to his heart.

The exclusive bonus novella, My Killer Role, gives readers the romance between fan favorite characters Jude and Dante from My Killer Vacation.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from MY KILLER VATION 

Get this over with.

Slowly, I peer back over my shoulder and find a young woman, rownish-blond hair, maybe in her midtwenties, watering a flow-rpot on the front porch of a house. She’s completely missing the ot, though. Water is pouring from the spout straight down onto he floorboards, splashing up onto her bare calves. And she doesn’t eem to notice at all.
“Can I help you?” I bark in a hard tone.
She drops the can with a loud clatter, spins on a toe and runs ead-on into the front door, bouncing right off the damn thing. ven from a hundred yards away, I can see the canaries spinning round her head. That’s what you get for being nosy.
I dig another antacid out of my jeans pocket, pop it and con-nue on my oh-so-merry way across the street, ripping the cau-on tape off the front door and letting it flutter to the ground. ’m halfway over the threshold when I hear footsteps approaching rom behind. Nimble, girly ones. In the reflection of the storm oor, the nosy neighbor approaches. And boom, I’m already nnoyed. “Listen, you want to call the cops?” Scowling, I turn round partially to face her. “Be my . . .”
It’s extremely weird, the way I just sort of forget what I’m saying. This has never happened to me before. Every word out of my outh has a purpose and whoever I’m talking to better damn well sten. I just . . . don’t really know why I was planning on being o mean to her is all. Didn’t she just run into a door? That had to urt. Plus, there are water splatters all over her legs and she is . . .
Facts are facts. She’s cute as a button.
I don’t look twice at cute women. Anything cute, really. That ould be like a tractor admiring a dandelion. Looking might eem like a fine idea, but tractors are built to mow down dandeli-ns. It’s what they do. So there isn’t very much use in me noticing he way freckles just kind of . . . scatter all the way from her nose

pink one. The color alone makes me feel guilty for looking, but hell, they’d fit right into my hands. A lot of her would. Those hips. Her knees. The sides of her beautiful face.
Christ. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. What the hell is the matter with me?
I clear my throat. Hard. “As I was saying, you want to call the cops, half-pint? Be my guest. They know I’m here.”
“Half-pint?” she gasps. Sputters. Pushes a big hunk of hair be-hind her ear so I’m impacted by the full force of her eyes. Green ones. Fuck. “I’ll have you know,” she continues, “that I’m the tall-est one at my job.”
“You either work alone or you’re a kindergarten teacher.”
A split second’s hesitation. Subtle shift from right to left.“Wrong.” I wink at her and she bristles. “I’m never wrong.”
Is that a flush creeping up her neck? God, she has to be eight or nine years younger than me. Midtwenties to my midthirties. So I’m definitely not noticing the spot where her bikini strap digs into her shoulder, ever so slightly. Just this side of too tight. I’m definitely not thinking of tucking my finger beneath it and drag-ging the little strip of material down her arm. Unwrapping her like a birthday present.
Jesus, I need to get laid. That fact wasn’t obvious until right now, when I’m lusting after this stranger in the heart of Middle Class Vacationville wondering what her nipples would look like in the sunshine, all licked up in my spit. She’s probably married. Single girls in their twenties don’t vacation in Cape Cod. Provinc-etown, maybe. But not this family-oriented section of Falmouth. So why isn’t she wearing a ring?
She notices me looking for one.
Dammit.
In response, her posture changes. Her hands drop to her sides

ver her shoulder. Kind of like she’s only now, this very second, ecoming aware that I’m a man and she’s approached me in a ikini and ridiculous cutoff jean shorts that cover only slightly ore than a pair of panties. And that I’m interested enough to onder if she’s already got a man waiting for her in that saccha-ine sweet house with heart shapes cut into the shutters. She’s guring all of that out and hiding none of it on her spectacular ace.
Great. We’ve gone from beautiful to spectacular.
She’s definitely married, you idiot. Do your job and get gone.
“Go water your flowers. I’m busy.”
“I know. I was just . . .” Her hands flutter around until she folds hem at her waist. “Well, I was just wondering if you had any heories yet.”
“I just got here.” I tip my chin at the bike. “You saw me arrive, ight?”
“On your death trap. Yes. But I assume you’ve gotten some ind of advance . . . dossier. Or case file. Right?”
I give her a narrow-eyed stare, hoping she’ll cower and slink way like everyone else who is unlucky enough to be on the re-eiving end of this look.
“Fine. Be coy about it, Mr ”
“Don’t worry about my name.”
That throws her off for a second, almost like she’s disappointed. ut finally, she shrugs. “I just thought you might like to speak ith me.” With a prim little once-over, she turns and heads back cross the street. “Since I’m the one who found the body and all.”
“Come back here.” “I don’t think I will.” “Half-pint.”

“Come back here and tell it to me, then.”
What in God’s name is wrong with me? Am I really following this young woman, who is definitely married, probably to someone named Carter or Preston, across the street? I should be in the mur-der house taking pictures, checking for blood spatter or missed evidence. I should not be suddenly desperate to know this woman’s name. But hell if I can stop following in her wake when her ass moves like an ass ought to move. Damn.
She spins on a dime and I almost mow her down, just like a tractor always does with a dandelion. We end up toe-to-toe, only I’m a good ten inches taller, so her face is tipped up to the sky and blanketed by sunshine. Something flips in my chest. Something I really don’t like.
“You found the body,” I say, trying my best to stick to the job.
That’s what this is.
Get in and get out. No entanglements. That’s what I do. It’s what I like.
Her gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, but it’s enough to make my briefs feel like an XL instead of an XXL. “Uh-huh.” Why does my skin turn clammy thinking of her around a dead man? A recently murdered one? She shouldn’t have to see some-thing like that. Not this woman who waters flowers and runs into doors. “Tell me you got out of the house immediately. In case the
murderer was still on the property.”
“Oh.” She scrunches up her nose. “No. We . . . did not.”
We. There it is. I grunt, because it’s not a good idea to speak with my heartburn acting up. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s why everything south of my neck is off-kilter. “You and your husband.”
“Me and my brother.”
Where did my heartburn go? It must be coming in waves. “You’re here with your brother,” I confirm, wincing over the thread

She nods, eyes serious. “Who discovered the body is very im-ortant information. It probably should have been in the dossier.” Now I have the damnedest urge to smile. Obviously I need my ead examined. “We don’t call it a dossier, half-pint.”
Curious head tilt. “What do you call it?”
“Notes. Boring old notes. And that’s what this case is going to
e. Boring, fast, open and shut. Dude was spying on a bunch of irls and got caught. Dad lost his temper. Physical altercations end n death a lot more often than you’d think. Either someone loses he fight and wants payback. Or one of them can’t let it go. That’s hat happened here.”
“But you were hired by Lisa Stanley? Oscar’s sister?” “Technically, yes, though I’m doing her boyfriend a favor.” “Did you speak to her? Didn’t she tell you about the issues with
he peephole theory?”
My head falls back on a gusty sigh. “You’re one of those ama-eur sleuths, aren’t you? You’ve watched a couple of sensationalized ocumentaries on Netflix and now you think you’re an honorary ember of law enforcement.”
“Podcasts are more my thing, actually—” I send a groan toward the clouds.
“—but that’s not relevant. I’ve always liked to leave things neat nd tidy. For instance, there is a loose thread on your shirt and I am ying to trim it off.” She wiggles her fingers at it and I come very lose to stepping forward to give her access to the thread, just to get er touching me. “There is no reason for two peepholes if filming he guests was the goal. Only one would be necessary. Someone ad to have spied with their two eyes at one time. And Oscar Stanley ould never have fit into that crawl space.”
“Maybe he drilled the holes first, then realized he’d miscal-ulated his ability to fit.” Chewing on her lip, she says nothing.

“There isn’t always a rhyme or reason to a person’s behavior. And a lot of time, people just make mistakes. Sort of like me taking this job.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. Seriously, I need her to go back to her cookie-cutter vacation house across the street because she’s fucking with my peace of mind. I’m starting to notice things about her. A little mole beneath her navel. The way she sucks in a breath before she starts speaking. Her apple orchard scent. “Run on home. I’ve got this covered. Like I said, I’m going to wrap this up quickly.”
After a moment, she nods and begins to back away. And it’s like she’s pulling my stomach along with her. The odd sense of loss doesn’t make any sense. Ignore it.
“Okay,” she murmurs, adjusting her bikini strap. “Well, when you need the guest book, I have it in my luggage.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m half turned when I realize what she said. “Wait a second. You took the guest book from this house?”
She keeps walking, that sexy butt ticking side to side. “Let me know if you need it.”
“You can’t just take evidence from a crime scene.”
“What was that?” She cups a hand around her ear. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the ripping of caution tape.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” I growl. “I’m a professional.”
Stopping at the bottom of her porch stairs, she cocks a hip. “Neither one of us is qualified to collect evidence because we’re not police officers. Lisa said that you’re a bounty hunter, correct? And I’m a second-grade teacher.”
A second-grade teacher.
I was mostly right. That’s why she’s the tallest at her job.
She must know what I’m thinking, because she gives me a grudging smile.
Before I can stop myself, I smile back.

Excerpt. ©Tessa Bailey. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: 3 copies of MY KILLER VATION by Tessa Bailey. Open to US only

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Meet the Author:

#1 New York Times bestselling author Tessa Bailey can solve all problems except for her own, so she focuses those efforts on stubborn, fictional blue-collar men and loyal, lovable heroines. She lives on Long Island avoiding the sun and social interactions, then wonders why no one has called. Dubbed the “Michelangelo of dirty talk,” by Entertainment Weekly, Tessa writes with spice, spirit, swoon and a guaranteed happily ever after.
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