Get a Grip (A Bluewater Bay story) by LA Witt | Cat's Review, Excerpt & #giveaway @RiptideBooks @GallagherWitt ~ '

If a tree falls in Bluewater Bay . . . could it be fate?

A year after his divorce, Shane Andrews isn’t interested in dating—not that he has time, between three kids and a demanding job as a grip. When a windstorm knocks a tree onto one of the Wolf’s Landing soundstages, Shane’s there to help with the mess . . . and so is firefighter Aaron Tucker.

A former smoke jumper, Aaron’s an adrenaline junkie and way too restless and reckless to be relationship material. As far as he’s concerned, monogamy is for penguins, and he’d rather be alone than tied down. Signing up to be a stepparent? No, thank you.

But after a scorching-hot night together, they’re hooked. Aaron is a taste of the excitement Shane’s been lacking, and Shane’s pushing buttons Aaron didn’t know he had. The more they’re together, the less Aaron craves wild nights with other men . . . but the more Shane wants to play the field like he never got to in his twenties.

This could be the love neither man knew he needed, but only if Shane gets his feet back on the ground before Aaron walks away.

Buy links: Riptide | Amazon US | Amazon UK

Cat gives this one 4 Meows with a 4 Purr heat index...

Cover Love: I can really image these guys as Alex and Shane.

Shane is thirty-something father of three that has never had a chance to sow his wild oats. he took responsibility of his daughter at the age of 19 when his boys came along a few years later. Two divorces in and he is ready to live but still feels guilty having the children home or with his ex-husband. Then a tree falls on the sounds stage at Wolf's landing where he is a grip.

Alex is in his forties but sworn off relationships. He is retired from fire-jumping, owns his own garage, works part-time as a volunteer fireman. He finds his release on apps like Grindr.

I liked both of these characters. Of course, a man like Shane is swoon-worthy putting his kids first. Even though it's not a major difference in age it is there and I love this trope. The story itself is good, the sex hot and as with any LA Witt book its worth a read!

Excerpt...

Chapter One

Shane

“So if a tree falls in Bluewater Bay and no one’s around to hear it, does it still make a fucking mess?”

Beside me, my coworker, Dan, whistled. “Yeah, I’d say it does.”

Standing there in the gravel parking lot with Jase, another grip, we surveyed the disastrous scene in front of us. Namely, what was left of Soundstage Two. Other buildings on the production studio property had been damaged as well: a branch had smashed through a wall, and one of the outbuildings had been squashed by another tree. My biggest concern was the soundstage, though, especially since I was pretty sure the water had made it past the sandbags that had been placed around the buildings before the storm came. We’d find out once Anna arrived and gave us permission to go in. She’d ordered everyone to stay out of the buildings for now.

The place was deserted anyway because all production had been canceled until tomorrow. The studio would probably have a conniption about it, but Anna had had the foresight to realize Bluewater Bay would be a mess after the storm, and she didn’t want people trying to make it in when the roads were a disaster. Plus people would have damage to their homes.

We didn’t have to go inside to see the soundstage was an unholy mess. It probably would’ve withstood the storm as well as the buildings next to it had, but it hadn’t been built to catch a hundred-foot cedar blown over by seventy-mile-an-hour winds.

Jase shifted his weight, gravel crunching under his boots. “So, what do we do?”

“Nothing until Anna gets here.” I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. “And, anyway, with all that water and electrical equipment in there, I don’t want to take a chance of the power coming back on.”

Dan grunted in agreement. “Isn’t like we need to rush inside. Anything that’s salvageable will still be there in an hour or two.”

Jase glared up at the sky. “Assuming it doesn’t rain again.”

I scowled at the thick gray clouds. They were swirling lazily and heading east; with any luck, they’d keep going and dump their cargo on Seattle. At least that would give us some time to get in and salvage what we could. Ideally before any electronics were fried or mold had a chance to set in.

But there was nothing we could do now except wait.

They’d called it a fifty-year storm. One of those massive almost-typhoons that whipped through the Pacific Northwest once or twice a century. And it might not have been so bad, or at least not done so much damage, if the Olympic Peninsula hadn’t been getting hammered by torrential rain for two solid weeks. With the ground saturated with water, this had been a disaster waiting to happen, and last night, it had.

That enormous tree had probably been there for a hundred years or more. Thanks to last night’s winds, coupled with waterlogged soil, it had uprooted and come crashing down through the roof. At least it had hit the soundstage and not one of the other buildings. A tree that big would have crushed anything smaller, like the production office, any of the storage sheds, or the houses on the lot that we used for certain scenes.

I’d gotten the call from Dan two hours ago. He’d come to the set to borrow a couple of tools to try to fix some minor damage to his house—not really something we were allowed to do, but nobody ever said anything when we did—and had discovered this mess. Right away, he’d notified me, Jase, and the higher-ups. Our key grip was stuck in his neighborhood thanks to another fallen tree, and that asshole producer Finn Larson couldn’t get out of his driveway, but Anna Maxwell was on her way. Jase and I both lived on streets that had been spared the brunt of it, so here we were.

Beside me, Dan and Jase started muttering about climate change, and I walked away. I wasn’t ignorant of the problem, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear about it this morning. It didn’t really matter right now if this was because of catastrophic global warming or if a butterfly had farted in the Amazon six months ago. The fact remained that a large tree was now reclining on the soundstage, and the mess inside . . . Well, we’d find out before too long.

While I waited for Anna to show up and call the shots, I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed my daughter.

“Hey.” Desiree sounded disinterested and barely awake. Typical fifteen-year-old.

“Hey,” I said. “Just wanted to check in with you guys. Is the power back on?”

“Not yet.”

“Figures. It might be a few hours—I didn’t see any utility trucks near the neighborhood when I left.”

“Great.”

“Your brothers awake yet?”

“Yeah. They’re outside playing in the mud.”

I laughed. That didn’t surprise me. “Keep an eye on them, okay?”

She clicked her tongue. “Dad, I’m—”

“All I’m asking is to check on them occasionally. There’s a lot of branches down in the backyard.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Thanks, kiddo. I gotta go. I’ll check in when I can.”

“You don’t need to. We’re just hanging out here.”

I suppressed a chuckle. I’d expected the teenage years to drive me crazy, but admittedly, her Dad, oh my God, stop being such a Dad tone amused me more than anything. “Okay. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

To read this excerpt in its entirety or learn more about the Bluewater Bay series, visit Riptide Publishing!

L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer who has finally been released from the purgatorial corn maze of Omaha, Nebraska, and now spends her time on the southwestern coast of Spain. In between wondering how she didn’t lose her mind in Omaha, she explores the country with her husband, several clairvoyant hamsters, and an ever-growing herd of rabid plot bunnies. She also has substantially more time on her hands these days, as she has recruited a small army of mercenaries to search South America for her nemesis, romance author Lauren Gallagher, but don’t tell Lauren. And definitely don’t tell Lori A. Witt or Ann Gallagher. Neither of those twits can keep their mouths shut . . .

Connect with L.A.:Website: www.gallagherwitt.com