Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Blog Tour: Pretty Instinct by SE Hall

“If opposites attract, then I am nothing. Because you, you are everything.”

There’s no easy road traveled to such an intense sentiment, one I never dreamt I’d feel…. 

But I also never planned on Cannon Blackwell climbing aboard my tour bus.

4 Star Review by Jennifer Hagen

Elizabeth is on a tour bus with her older brother, Conner, and her two best friends from the age of 10, Jarrett and Rhett.  Elizabeth isn’t in this for the money – she and Conner have all the money they will ever need.  This is more for the other members in the band – it is an opportunity for them to find where they belong and try to escape the darkness from their pasts.   They have recently given their bass player the don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out goodbye when they stumble across Cannon Blackwell at a rest stop.  Cannon was recently thrown out of his fiancee’s car with only his guitar and duffel bag…no phone.  He was patiently waiting for her to return, but after 3 hours he is assuming she isn’t coming back for him.  He has a guitar strapped onto his back and this gets all their heads thinking on the same page.

And yes, in a perfect world, this would appear to be divine intervention…guy with guitar conveniently located at same rest stop as band coincidentally in need of a guitar player, but I far from believe in a perfect world.

Elizabeth has every reason to doubt the world is making it easy for her.  Elizabeth bears a burden of guilt for leaving for summer camp when she was 16.  During this time an unspoken incident occurred at home that changed the lives forever of every family member.  Elizabeth places all the blame on their unhappy family life on her father.  Elizabeth is very distant from her dad and both of them make no qualms that there is a constant emotional  barrier between them.  It has been this way for 7 years and Elizabeth shows no signs of letting her hatred for her father let up anytime soon.

Cannon gets on the bus since he has no other place to go.  He was working for her fiancee’s father, lived in a house her father bought, and knows that neither of those places still justify his welcome.  What does he have to lose?

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and honestly,” he grins and shrugs, “it feels pretty f*cking good.”

It should be noted that Cannon Blackwell is HOT and has a sinfully sexy voice…What have I done?  I’ve knowingly invited a walking, talking panty shredder onto my bus!

Living on a bus with 4 small bunks and one bedroom that is claimed by the brother tends to become a little tight at times.  But yet this is the part that adds so much humor.  We get to see interactions between them all that normally wouldn’t be possible unless you were together 24/7.  Cannon fit in so well, although Rhett was a little cold to him at the beginning, but there’s a reason for this.  Cannon was like a god.  He knew instinctively when to back down from their questioning eyes and when to back away from Elizabeth to give her space.  Cannon knew exactly how to handle the emotional outbursts that were guaranteed to come.  There was no way I couldn’t fall for Cannon, and I wasn’t even on the bus with him!

Elizabeth lets her guard down and lets Cannon through her protective walls.  She has a hard time accepting that he could feel so strongly for her considering that he just ended an engagement.  This is what holds her back and questions whether he is on a rebound.  In true Cannon fashion, he has a fluency with words that could make me switch from Diet Coke to Diet Pepsi.

“Trust me with your pain, Lizzie, please.  Trust me with your anger, confusion, resentment, fear, and all those feelings of powerlessness.  Give it all to me.  I will carry it, you, and us to the other side.”

Did your heart just start fluttering? Cannon Blackwell is amazing!! This was a good read that included moments of drama, forgiveness, sexy scenes and swooning.  I will leave you with Cannon Blackwell’s signature line…

“Need a nibble.”
Pretty Instincts Cover


S.E. Hall Author Pic

S.E.Hall resides in Arkansas with her husband of 18 years and 4 beautiful daughters. When not in the stands watching her ladies play softball, she enjoys reading and writing. She's also being clutch at Baggo, when it's warm outside!

“I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?

“Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”

Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.

“He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”

“Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. That’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”

“You didn’t think it was gross when—”

“Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”

“On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.

Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.

Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his eyes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.

Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.

“Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”

I like to open subtly.

“No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.

“No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism.

“Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it back in its case.


“Not left-handed.” He shrugs as he straightens back up and captures my gaze.


He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”

Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.

“Why do you ask?” he rescues me.

“Our band.” I toss my head back toward the bus. “We need a bassist. And since you’re hitchhiking, I thought maybe—”

He drops down from his perch on the top edge of the bench and stands, well over six feet of sinister sex appeal stretching out before my eager eyes. “Do you know what a hitchhiker is?”

“What?” I shake my head to clear it and take a step back. “Yes, of course.”

“You sure about that?” He eats up the steps I’d retreated, placing his body close enough to mine that I can literally feel the battle of push and pull between us. “‘Cause where I come from, hitchhikers stand at the road, where you can see them. It increases their chances of actually landing a ride.” His left eyebrow curves up at one end and that same eye, I swear it, twinkles at me. “Seeing as how I’m sitting at the back of a desolate rest stop, I’m either the worst hitchhiker in history,” another step closer, “or you’re labeling me with the wrong tag.

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