First Look: Queen Move by Kennedy Ryan

Today is the first look for Queen Move by Kennedy Ryan. Queen Move is a second chance romance from RITAยฎ Award-winning and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Kennedy Ryan. This book is releasing on May 26th! Make sure to enter the giveaway on Kennedyโ€™s site to win a QUEEN BOX, stuffed with a signed paperback and all the things youโ€™ll need to treat yourself like a queen!

**QUEEN MOVE will have the special pre-order and release week price of $3.99. After that, the price will increase.**

Title: Queen Move
Author: Kennedy Ryan
Series: standalone
Genres: Contemporary Romance

The boy who always felt like mine is now the man I can’t haveโ€ฆ

Dig a little and you’ll find photos of me in the bathtub with Ezra Stern.
Get your mind out of the gutter. We were six months old.
Pry and one of us might confess we saved our first kiss for each other.
The most clumsy, wet, sloppy . . . spectacular thirty seconds of my adolescence.
Get into our business and you’ll see two families, closer than blood, torn apart in an instant.
Twenty years later, my “awkward duckling” best friend from childhood,
the boy no one noticed, is a man no one can ignore.

Finer. Fiercer. Smarter.

Tell me it’s wrong.
Tell me the boy who always felt like mine is now the man I canโ€™t have.
When we find each other again, everything stands in our way–secrets, lies, promises.
But we didn’t come this far to give up now.
And I know just the move to make if I want to make him mine.

First Look at Queen Move:

Two Years Before Present

Is there anything sadder than a daddyโ€™s girl at her fatherโ€™s funeral?
My motherโ€™s quiet sniffs a few seats down give me the answer.
A grieving widow.
โ€œHe was a good man,โ€ someone in the long line of mourners offering condolences whispers to her.
Mamaโ€™s head bobs with a tearful nod. In this day and age, she still wears a pillbox hat and veil. Itโ€™s black and chic like Mama, channeling tragic Jackie Kennedy or Coretta Scott King. My father was not just a good man. He was a great man, and everyone should know he leaves behind a widow, grieving deeply, but ever-fly. I squeeze the funeral program between my fingers, glaring at the printed words.
Joseph Allen leaves behind a wife, Janetta, three children, Kayla, Keith and Kimba, and six grandchildren.
He leaves behind.
Daddyโ€™s gone, and I donโ€™t know how to live in a world my father does not inhabit. The casket is draped with sweet-smelling flowers in the center of the funeral tent. When we leave the cemetery, itโ€ฆhe will be lowered into the ground with unfathomable finality, separated from us by white satin lining, six feet of dirt and eternity.
Kayla, my older sister, sobs softly at the end of our familyโ€™s row. Her four children watch her carefully, probably unused to seeing their unshakeable mother shaken and reduced to tears. Even Iโ€™d forgotten how she looks when she criesโ€”like sheโ€™s mad at the wetness streaking her cheeks, resentful of any sign of weakness.
Itโ€™s not weak to cry, Daddy used to say. Itโ€™s human.
โ€œBut doesnโ€™t the Bible say even the rocks will cry out?โ€ Iโ€™d challenged him when I was young, loving that something from Sunday school took. โ€œSo maybe tears arenโ€™t just for humans.โ€
โ€œYouโ€™re getting too smart for your britches, little girl,โ€ heโ€™d said, but the deep affection in his eyes when he kissed me told me he was pleased. He liked that I asked questions and taught me to never accept bullshit at face value.
I miss you, Daddy.
Not even a week since his heart attack, and I already miss him so much.
Humanity blurs my vision, wet and hot and stinging my eyes. I want this to be over. The flowers, the well-dressed mourners, the news cameras stationed at a distance they probably deem respectful. I just want to go to the house where my parents raised us, retreat to Daddyโ€™s study and find the stash of cigars that only he and I knew about.
Donโ€™t tell your mother, he used to whisper conspiratorially. This will be our little secret.
Mama hated the smell of cigars in the house.
Who would call me by that name? Now, when the only people who use it, my family, are all preoccupied with their own pain? A tall man stands in front of me, his thick, dark brows bunched with sympathy. I donโ€™t know him. I would remember a man like this, who stands strong like an oak tree. A well-tailored suit molds his powerful shoulders. Dark brown, not quite black, hair is cut ruthlessly short, but hints at waves if given the chance to grow. His prominent nose makes itself known above the full, finely sculpted lips below. His eyes are shockingly vividโ€”so deep a blue theyโ€™re almost the color of African violets against skin like bronze bathed in sunlight. No, a man like him youโ€™d never forget. Something niggles at my memory, tugs at my senses. Iโ€™d never forget a man who looked like this, a man with eyes like thatโ€ฆbut what about a boy?
โ€œEzra?โ€ I croak, disbelief and uncertainty mingling in the name I havenโ€™t uttered in years.
It canโ€™t be.
But it is.

Keep Going!
Read the REST of the prologue and enter the QUEEN BOX giveaway on Kennedyโ€™s website.

About the Author:
Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestseller and RITAยฎ Award Winning author, Kennedy Ryan, writes about women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.

She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son. She has always worked with charity and non-profit organizations, but enjoys raising Autism awareness most. A contributor for Modern Mom Magazine and Frolic, Kennedyโ€™s writings have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today and many others. The founder and executive director of a foundation serving Atlanta Autism families, she has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for families living with autism.


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