Book Spotlight: Gone for You by Jayne Frost | Guest Post & Giveaway!

Hello, everyone! Today I have a special treat in store for you all. Author Jayne Frost has recently had published her new book, Gone for You. A sexy contemporary romance novel that you won’t need to turn up the heat—Gone for You has plenty! In this post, you can learn all about the book and the author as well as read a riveting guest post by Jayne. Oh, and let's not forget a GIVEAWAY to win a copy of your very own! 

Enjoy!

Title: Gone for You

Author: Jayne Frost

Available in Paperback & ebook, 174 pages

Published: April 28th, 2015 by Sixth Street Press

Genre: Adult - Sexy Contemporary Romance

As the guitarist for the rock band Caged, I know the rules: no relationships. No complications. Leave ‘em smiling when you go, but always go. Besides, it’s not like I’m ever in one place for more than a few days at a time. As the next hottest thing out of Austin, the band and me are riding the wave, and the music is all that matters. 

Until her…

Lily Tennison has “complication” written across her beautiful face. But I can’t get involved. The timing’s all wrong. But she’s under my skin, and I can’t resist her troubled eyes and sweet smile. And I do have a little time to kill. Not much, just a few days in Dallas.

So I’ll scratch the itch and move on, like I always do.

Simple, right?

CHAPTER 1 – GONE FOR YOU BY JAYNE FROST

My knee bounced up and down nervously as the cab inched along in the heavy afternoon traffic on I35. Pulling out my cell phone, I hit redial.

“Yeah?” Logan answered, sounding as frazzled as I felt.

“Have you heard anything?” Biting off a piece of my nail, I spit it on the floorboard.

From the front seat, the cab driver glared at me in the rearview mirror. I gave him an apologetic smile.

“Not in the last five minutes,” Logan said, his exasperation evident. “I told you I’d call if I heard anything. Where are you?”

Looking around, I tried to find anything that looked remotely familiar. I was from Austin, for Christ’s sake. The only time I ever ventured the two hundred miles north to Dallas was for a gig or a football game.

“Fuck, dude. I have no clue.”

“Just get here as fast as you can. Christian’s phone is still off.”

The exasperation in Logan’s voice had an edge of fear. The same fear I felt fluttering in my belly.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Just call if...”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Fuck. Lindsey just walked in. I gotta go.”

Before I could reply, the line went dead. I was a buffer between Logan and our half-witted manager, Lindsey. The insensitive bitch could work him up in a hot minute under the best of circumstances. I met the driver’s gaze in the mirror.

“Hey, man, how much farther?”

The cabbie gave me a half shrug. “About twenty minutes in this traffic.”

Taking off my sunglasses, I rubbed my tired eyes. When I got the call that Christian had been in an accident, I jumped in the first cab I could find, not bothering to wait for the car service the label had on standby. At the moment, I regretted that particular decision. The fucking cab looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a year, and the driver looked like he hadn’t bathed in just as long. His funk permeated the entire space.

Reaching over, I hit the button to crack the window. Nothing. I hit it again.
“Hey, man, can you open the window back here?” I barked over the music.
“No can do. Too many fumes out there.”
I stared at him incredulously. Unfuckingbelievable. It smelled like a dog’s ass in here, and the dude was oblivious. Dropping my head against the back of the seat, I closed my eyes.
“Before we get back to our super set, we’ve got some news,” the DJ on the local rock station began in a somber voice. “I’ve just gotten word that Christian Sears, bassist for the band Caged, has been involved in an accident this afternoon in Dallas...”
“Oh, man. That’s terrible,” his female counterpart cut in. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Sitting bolt upright, I leaned forward. “Turn that up!”
Startled, the driver reached for the volume button on the radio. The speakers crackled to life.
“We haven’t got any official word yet on his condition. Caged is scheduled to perform this Saturday at the AT&T Stadium. We’ll keep y’all advised. Our thoughts are with you Christian.” And just like that, the DJ went back into his cheery radio persona.
“And now back to our Monday super set. Here’s the latest from Caged, ’Above Me,’ on 97.1 The Eagle.”
I hit the cracked, vinyl seat with a balled fist.
“I knew you looked familiar,” the cabbie said, his smile fading when he met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “You’re Colin, right? The guitarist from Caged?”
“Cameron,” I said wearily. “Cameron Knight.” I managed to give him a halfhearted smile. “Man, I love your music.” Cutting across two lanes of traffic, he jerked the cab onto the shoulder, spitting up gravel. “I’ll get you there as soon as I can. Hold on.”
My chest contracted as the air left my lungs, my shoulders sagging in relief.
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”
As the cab barreled past the four lanes of gridlock, I curled my fingers into the edge of the seat so I wouldn’t slide around. The lump of dread in my throat was like coal—dry and bitter. I swallowed hard to dislodge it. And I prayed.

Romance.

I write romance. So when a story starts to take shape in my head, one of the first questions I ask myself: Is this romantic?

Since we are all the products of our own experiences, what I might think is romantic may not appeal to everyone.

When I wrote my first romance novel, I gave it to a friend to read. Since she was my friend, she gushed about the story and the writing, all the things that a friend is supposed to do. She did, however, make one comment that struck me.

“It’s a perfect story,” She said with a smile. “Even with the insta-love thing going on.”
Insta-love?
What did that even mean? Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?

I thought back to my own experiences, all the way back to my first love.

I met him when I was fourteen. And when I say met him, I mean a lightning bolt struck me down in the spot where I was standing because I knew this person was someone so important that I had to know him. He was a couple years older, but still just a boy.

He didn’t pick me up for our first date with flowers in hand. I think he spent most of his money putting gas in his car. Which is really practical, when you think about it. And besides, he didn’t come to the front door, so there was no place for me to put the imaginary flowers that I never received.

I was too young to date, according to my parents at least, so we met at a party. But it was a date, I assure you.

And a scant five days later while I was laying on the bedroom floor with the phone pressed to my ear, he uttered those three little words that changed my life: I love you.

It didn’t matter that we were in different places, geographically speaking, when he said the words. It was a school night, so I was at my place and he was at his. But he said them. I felt them. And we knew them, him and me. It was love.

Not everyone shared our enthusiasm. When I told my mother about my little romance, she was quick to give me her thoughts on the matter.

“It’s puppy love,” she said with a smile. “Enjoy it. “

My own smile quickly faded when she continued. “Because in a few months, you won't even remember his name. You’ll fall in love many times before you find ‘the one.’”

Since I believed my mother to be the vessel of all knowledge, I was crestfallen by that statement. But I didn’t take her advice. I didn’t play the field as she suggested. And my boy was right there, front and center on my fifteenth birthday a few months later. The silence that fell over the room when he handed me the little box that held the ring with the tiny diamond was deafening.

“Who gives a fifteen year old girl a ring?” I heard my mother tell my grandmother later that evening. “This is the nineties, not the fifties.”

The funny thing is, my boy never asked me to marry him when gave me that ring. He just wanted me to wear it. And I did. It wasn’t about an engagement or a wedding. It was about love.

My sixteen-year-old daughter found the ring in my jewelry box one day. The band was so thin that it bent in this weird oval shape and the diamond was so small, I don’t think it registered on the carat scale.

I quickly told her to put the ring back in the box, and no, she couldn’t wear it.

She gave me the oddest look as she gazed at the two-carat marquise solitaire on my wedding band.

“Whatever, mom.”

She put the ring back in the jewelry box. My husband had given me that box; it played the song from the first dance at our wedding.

As soon as she left, I took the ring out, like I'd done so many times before, and I slipped it on the ring finger of my right hand. That’s where I always wore it, mostly because my mother would’ve have had a cat if I put it on my left hand. Because that would have made it an engagement ring and “fifteen is too young for that kind of nonsense.” (I’m paraphrasing here.)

When my husband walked in and caught me sitting on the couch in our bedroom, he looked down at my hand.

“What are you wearing that for?” He asked, taking a seat next to me and pulling me in his arms.

I snuggled into his chest, still looking up at the misshapen piece of metal with the non-existent stone.

How could I explain what the ring meant to me? The token of affection

from the boy that told me he loved me five days after we met. It shaped everything that I am. It shaped my entire view on love and romance, the way I think about it, and the way I write about it. It was everything, that little ring.

I shrugged and looked up at the man I married, the father of my only child.

“Because you gave it to me.”

So at the end of the day, I will continue to write about insta-love and happily ever afters. And though I’m likely to have some readers admonish me for that, I won’t change it, because I believe in those things. I know they exist.

About The Author: Jayne Frost

You can find me at Twitter at @jaynefrostbooks, Facebook, Pinterest, and my website.

I guess I should start with the basics. The backstory. I was born and raised in California. At this point I'm usually asked what it was like to grow up near the beach, but sadly, I don't know. I grew up in the "other" part of California. Perfect for an aspiring writer, if you ask me. You learn a lot about keeping yourself busy when the nearest house is a mile away...and it belongs to your grandparents.

By the time I went to high school, I started writing romance. Why? Because I met my very own prince charming. I wrote love poems in my journal about the green eyed boy that stole my heart. He promised, the way all storybook hero's do, to sweep me away and take me on a grand adventure. And he did. 

We picked up and moved to the Lone Star State, and began the story of us. The best stories begin without a road map or a compass. Veering off course makes the journey so much more interesting. 

True to form, just when I thought my life was set, we started the next adventure. I traded in my cowboy boots and followed my green eyed boy to Las Vegas. My home will always be in Texas, but my heart is anywhere that he is. 

Writing is what I love. I might stray from the romance every now and then if that is what moves me...but I always come back. Some of the stories don't seem romantic at all. They are gritty stories about flawed characters that find each other and hold on tight. Those are the stories that speak to me. Because that's life. I believe that every story should have a happy ending- even the difficult ones.

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