Close by Fen Wilde
I am voluntarily reviewing this ARC.
Close is a compelling book. For me, this was a psychological sort of romance. It was dark and gritty. Some of it was very hard for me to read. I hate cheating in a story most of the time, and in this story, there were moments that I was yelling, out loud at some d/ bag move. The story felt believable and real. It was deep and reflective. I feel very conflicted about whether I loved this book or hated it. I guess there were parts that made me mad, but I also loved it.
Therapist. Stripper. Loner.
Sultry, secretive and not looking for love.
Businessman. Playboy. Showjumper.
Seductive, charming and used to getting the girl.
As long as she doesn’t try to get close to his heart, that is.
Drawn together by an attraction that defies their guarded hearts, they’re soon caught up in secrets, lust and lies.
A meeting that wasn’t accidental.
A death that isn’t as it seems.
A craving to get closer.
Everybody has a dark side.
But sometimes, the biggest lies are the ones we tell ourselves.
Close is a steamy romantic suspense that explores the terribly ordinary events that break us and the beautifully ordinary things that make us whole.
GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36154768-close
PRE-ORDER LINKS – 99c pre-order price
Amazon Live Release Alert: https://www.subscribepage.com/close
When my mother showed me a picture of his body, the thing that struck me first was not how grey he looked, how at odds with his habitual golden glow.
Nor was it how small he looked—his six-foot frame and broad chest somehow diminished. Childlike and vulnerable. Rendered irrelevant by death.
It wasn’t even the feelings—the tsunami of feelings that would rush in later and blindside me. Given that I had barely seen him in years and had never been close to him to begin with, the feelings were surprisingly ferocious.
Those things came later. They came and hit me—less like the proverbial sledgehammer and more like a subtle self-combustion. Invisible to an observer. But damaging nonetheless. Suffocating me. Crushing me from the inside out.
But not then. Not at first.
The thing that struck me initially was that she had coolly snapped a picture. As though this was another moment in time to capture for posterity. More striking because what other mothers might have captured, she had never bothered with.
First tooth. No snap.
First step. No snap.
First birthday. No snap. No cake, either, for that matter.
But first death?
Snap, snap, snap.
Fen Wilde writes gritty contemporary erotic romance and romantic suspense novels.
A social worker by profession, she is particularly interested in the complex things that drive us towards keep us out of connection with each other – how fragile, how beautiful, how flawed we all are.
She lives in Melbourne, Australia with her partner, two children and Burmese cat.
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