New Release: "Secrets of the Cryptids," by: Sharon Buchbinder

 Hello readers and friends. Today I am following up with a new release tour for author Sharon Buchbinder. She just released her book "Secrets of the Cryptids," at the beginning of the month. If you haven't heard about this paranormal romance slash romantasy novel then lucky you. You can check out all the details below and find a sneak peek to enjoy. Make sure to purchase your copy today to have something fun and romantic to read over the weekend. Happy reading everyone :).

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She never belonged to the pack—until fate led her to him.

Secrets of the Cryptids

Cowboys and Cryptids Book 1

by: Sharon Buchbinder

Genre: Paranormal Romance, Romantasy

Hayil had the advantage of excellent night vision—super vision compared to other humans. Plus, she possessed an almost uncanny ability to connect with most wild and domestic animals. Hayil mentally grimaced. She could also thank her grandmother for her long overdue ability to shift. What would it take to trigger her body into the lupine version of herself? Was it like a growth spurt that hadn’t hit her body yet? Or was Hayil destined to remain the one person in her pack who wasn’t able to wolf out?

Once again, her mother’s constant refrain came back to her: “You’re a late bloomer, like your grandmother. She was older than you when she shifted. All in good time. You’ll see.”

Sure, Mom.

Hayil knew her mother wanted the best for her, but found her cheerfulness a bit forced. Beneath her mother’s optimism, Hayil sensed an undercurrent of concern about her thirty-year-old daughter’s ability to integrate into the red wolf clan. This missing piece of Hayil’s identity called to her like a siren’s song, demanding she complete herself. Would she ever be a true part of the pack? Or would she forever be the unmated one? What then? She was an anomaly, something the pack didn’t tolerate well. Tradition dictated that if a pack member didn’t shift by the end of their third decade, they were banished.

A chilling thought struck Hayil mid-stride.

If I don’t shift this year, will they force me out of the pack?

They were the only family she’d ever known. Her mother would fight for her to stay and would probably win. But at what cost?

Hayil would be an outcast. She’d never be invited to pack meetings, deliberations or celebrations. Those were reserved for shifters. If she married a non-shifter, the pack would drive her out, of that she was sure. What if her offspring were able to shift? Would that make things better? Would the pack let her stay then? It wasn’t as if she could go to a genetic counselor and ask for a DNA test for werewolves.

The thought of losing her extended family through no fault of her own made her gulp back tears. Angry at herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that dark rabbit hole, Hayil reminded herself she was a scientist. Review the facts, not the fears.

Fact one: Grandma had been in labor with Hayil’s mother when she’d shifted for the first time.

Fact two: The majority of the pack members had shifted when they’d hit puberty.

Fact three: Hormones! It had to be related to hormones! The rush of hormones at puberty and the flood of pregnancy hormones had to be related somehow.

Hayil was long past puberty and the associated mood swings and acne, thank you very much. She was not ready to be pregnant. For starters, she would need a romantic partner in her life. She’d had zero luck on that score so far.

“I still have time. It’s not too late. I won’t give up hope.”

Shaking her head to clear her mind, Hayil double-checked her wild animal deterrents. All in place. Then she tugged her knit cap down over her ears and pulled her hands-free headlamp into place. She zipped her fleece jacket against the breeze and adjusted her twenty-five-pound backpack. With an altitude gain of almost nineteen hundred feet, she planned to take her time, pacing herself for the strenuous four-hour hike. She grasped her lightweight hiking poles and took a last look up at the stars. Time to see that spectacular view at the top.

As promised by the trail blog, the dirt path was well maintained. The morning air was cold and crisp, layered with the woodsy scent of damp earth and pine needles. An owl hooted, and Hayil spotted movement in the brush between the thick pines beside the trail. Her headlamp reflected in the eyes of small critters, all of whom skittered deeper into the woods.

For three hours, all she heard was the crunch of her hiking boots on dirt and gravel, the rasp of her own breaths, the glug of water when she drank and the jingle of her bear bells. She looked at yet another incline on the trail and decided she needed a hiking song for inspiration.

“Country roads, take me home,” she sang, belting out “Mountain Mama”—and something crashed through the bushes ahead on the trail. Something large.

She froze.

An enormous black bear stood on its hind legs at the top of the hill.

Shit, shit, shit. If only I could shift, shift, shift!

The animal had its back to her, but if it got her scent, it could turn and charge at her in a flash.

Heart pounding like a jackhammer, she placed her hand on the bear spray.

A breeze sprang up, making her eyes water with its intensity. The good news was that it meant she was downwind of the bear. The bad news was that the air smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a dead animal. The worst news was that the bear turned and looked right at her.

Omigod. It’s not a bear. What the heck is it?

BLURB:

She never belonged to the pack—until fate led her to him.

Cybersecurity expert Hayil Rufus Rose has spent her life hiding one impossible truth: she’s a werewolf who has never shifted, a failure by her pack’s rules and a woman on the brink of exile. A solo hike in Glacier National Park is meant to clear her head—but instead, a chance meeting with Will Penn, a guarded federal agent with powerful instincts and secrets of his own, changes everything.

As Hayil becomes entangled in a missing persons case involving Will’s brother, she uncovers corruption, cartel money laundering, and violence threatening the Blackfeet Nation. She forms an unexpected bond with a Bigfoot family, who are not monsters, but an ancient people who recognize her latent power. Through trauma, loyalty, and near fatal danger, Hayil finally undergoes her full transformation, claiming her identity at last.

Secrets of the Cryptids launches a thrilling paranormal romance series about found family, fierce hearts, and the courage it takes to become who you were always meant to be.

*** NEW RELEASE ***

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Sharon Buchbinder is an award-winning author who has been writing stories since she could hold a pen. The paranormal romance genre is her writing home, a place where the impossible is simply the beginning, where women find their power in the most extraordinary circumstances, and where love is always worth the danger of seeking it.

A Maryland-based author with a background in healthcare and higher education that has informed her vivid, grounded storytelling, Sharon is drawn to heroines who have been underestimated — women who carry something extraordinary inside them and spend the whole book learning to trust it. Sharon believes passionately that readers deserve stories where the heroine doesn’t just survive — she transforms. When she’s not writing, Sharon can usually be found unplugging in her garden, obsessing over cryptid mythology, and convincing her pets they are not, in fact, supernatural.

Learn more about Sharon...

WEBSITE | FB | INSTAGRAM | BLUESKY | BOOKBUB | AMAZON | GOODREADS | NEWSLETTER | SUBSTACK

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The Book Junkie Reads . . . 

August 9th

Now on Preorder: "Recipe For Love," by: Sharon Buchbinder

 Hi everyone. Today I am featuring Sharon Buchbinder's current preorder that releases this month. Her book is "Recipe for Love." A vampire paranormal romantic comedy that you will enjoy as part of "A Cat's Paw Cover Series." Dive into the details below and preorder your copy today. Happy reading :).

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Love, laughter, and a little kitchen chaos are on the menu in Recipe for Love!

When a sous chef with secrets clashes with a showrunner chasing a viral hit, sparks fly hotter than the stove.

Recipe for Love

A Cat's Paw Cove Book 24

by: Sharon Buchbinder

Genre: Paranormal Romantic Comedy

Prologue

Los Angeles, California

Memorial Day Weekend

Present Day

Devon Winger stared at the nightscape of LA. In the distance, a red river of taillights indicated yet another major traffic jam. Horns honked.

In the apartment below, an enthusiastic midnight tuba player took his chances at getting pummeled by a disenchanted audience member. Devon grabbed a broom, turned it upside down, and pounded on the floor. The tuba music stopped mid-toot.

Devon’s apartment was not in a luxurious area, but it was costly. He looked at his email inbox again. Yup, it was still there. The message hadn’t disappeared.

Subject: Overdue Rent.

Devon Winger, this is our third attempt to reach you. Per your contractual agreement, rent is due on the 15th of every month. If you are unable to pay the past-due amount in full, we will work with you to pay it off with my partner’s company, EZ Credit, at a generous 25% interest rate. If you are unable or unwilling to work with us or to pay the past 3 months’ rent in whole or in part, our collection agency will contact you, and eviction proceedings will begin in accordance with the City of Los Angeles’ laws.

Please respond to this email to acknowledge receipt.

Your generous overlord and landlord,

Skeezy McWheezy

Overlord and landlord, indeed. Why had Devon allowed himself to be talked into renting from the sleazeball? Oh, that’s right. Skeezy had been a friend, and the apartment, according to his buddy, was cheap. As in, so cheap, Devon should have wondered why a fully-furnished, two-bedroom, one-bathroom flat with a balcony and view of the LA skyline went for such a low, low price. Hook, line, sinker—and the next thing he knew, per the contract’s very small print, the rent went up like a balloon. Signed, sealed, and stuck in this rat-infested place with a leaky sliding glass door that let the rain and bugs in. His roach motels were so full, they were convention centers.

Devon had tried to keep the place clean, but had become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the hovel in which he lived. The refrigerator reeked of dead fish, despite the fact that he had never left so much as an unopened can of tuna in it. The toilet ran day and night, and the shower dripped in syncopation with the kitchen faucet. The wooden kitchen table had so many water rings, it looked as if an over-sexed octopus had made love to it.

One of the two bedrooms was a closet. If he could find a narcoleptic roommate who slept standing up, he could almost afford the place. Every night, he dreamed he was being devoured by a monster. In reality, it was the pull-out sofa bed and its sagging center forcing him to sleep with his butt on the floor and his head, arms, and feet in the air. The capper on this apartment of landfill rejects was the dresser with no drawers. His clothes, when clean, folded, and stacked on top of the bureau, leaned against each other like drunks at a frat party. When dirty, they simply piled up in the “second bedroom” and gathered six-legged groupies. Every day, Devon kicked himself for allowing Skeezy to sucker him into this rat trap.

A gamer friend from college, Skeezy had inherited a block of questionable real estate from a sketchy uncle. Rumor had it the uncle had been whacked for not paying off a gambling debt. When Skeezy had inherited the apartments, he’d been informed that he now had to pay off his uncle’s overdue bills and the vig. Skeezy had tried to sell the real estate, but these same “friends” of his uncle had blocked the sale.

They didn’t want a one and done. No, these scary dudes desired an annuity, if you will, a steady income to support their other ventures. They had become not-so-silent partners with Skeezy, as collectors and enforcers.

Devon shook his head. He liked Skeezy. It wasn’t his friend’s fault his uncle had dropped all this baggage on him a year ago. He wished there was some way Skeezy could get out of this mess, too. Maybe lightning could strike the place when no one was in it and burn it down? Ha! What was the likelihood of that happening? Now they were both lemons in the mobsters’ game of making lemonade. 

If only Devon could come up with an idea for a new series on ShowFlix. They loved his work. His last series had run for almost two seasons—and been killed by a badly behaving actor. Maybe it was time to do a reality TV show. Less likely to have megastars and their egos.

Devon’s production team had abandoned him, moving on to paying work. With a year from idea development to a sale to a streaming service, time was not on his side. If he didn’t come up with something soon, he’d be forced to go back to valet parking and sleeping in his car.

He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Okay, World Wide Web, let’s see what you have for me tonight.”

He clicked on the data forum. Pounds of cheese by state. Number of cockroaches per city. Ha. LA was only number thirteen. Shocker. Number of funeral homes by state. Mmm. Of course. It’s God’s waiting room. Number of nursing home residents by state. Wait. He hit the back button. Well, duh, of course, they go together. Proportion of males to females by state. Gentlemen, stay out of Alaska if you ever want to get a date.

Meh.

“Lady Luck,” he whispered. “Where are you? Are you dead? In a coma on life support? I need you. Now.”

His VideoGo subscription was running out. He’d take one last shot at it before they cut him off the list for non-payment.

Idiots doing dumb stunts. Yes, we know that show.

He clicked on the title DIY Wedding Gifts. This ought to be interesting.

“Take a bar of soap,” a middle-aged blonde with a seventies bouffant and black eyebrows as wide as his thumb squealed. “Any color, but I love, love, love this green one because it smells fresh! Use four pushpins to make little feet for the bar of soap. Now, wrap a contrasting-color ribbon around the sides and secure it with a piece of double-backed tape. Add your plastic flowers by sticking them into the top of the soap.” She held the final product up to the camera. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

No, it is not. It is ugly. In fact, it is so bad, it has possibilities.

He looked at the number of views of the DIY video. Ten, including himself. Good grief.

Going to the search bar, he entered the word “trending” and hit return.

Cats, cats, cats. Who watches all these cat videos? He stopped. Aww that’s cute. No, not cute, a time waster.

Dogs, dogs, dogs. Pigs. Elephants. A veritable zoo of animal antics, not one marketable.

Toddler meltdowns. Go to the grocery store if you want to see those.

Off-key singers. No. No. No.

More pranks. “Ouch! That had to hurt!” Are these people working for the emergency rooms of America?

Devon took a deep breath and beseeched Lady Luck. One, please. All I need is one hit show.

He closed his eyes and hit enter.

A woman cackled. “Hello! Welcome, and thank you for joining Grandma’s Witchin’ Kitchen, where you eat what you’re served!”

He blinked and stared at the screen.

A round-faced elder with short salt and pepper hair wearing a shell necklace beamed at the audience. “I’m Grandma Redbird, and this is my friend and co-star, Madame Jinniyah.” She waved a hand at a woman wearing a gold lamé blouse and a feather-topped red turban.

Madame Jinniyah grinned. “We have a special recipe to share with you this evening, one that is sure to become a family favorite.”

“Indeed,” Grandma chirped. “My grandkids can’t get enough of this and beg for it at every meal.”

The feather in Madame Jinniyah’s cap quivered as she pointed at the counter. “All the ingredients are right here, and we’re going to show you how to make the magic.” Lined up before her were a row of cans. “Two fourteen-ounce cans of spaghetti and meatballs, opened; one can of green beans, drained; one can of diced carrots, drained; and four rolls of biscuit dough.”

Grandma pointed to the oven. “We’ve preheated the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees, and we’ve greased this fluted bundt pan. You can use a tube pan, but this one makes a prettier presentation.”

Madame Jinniyah popped the biscuit tubes and lined the bundt pan with two cans of the white dough. “Be sure to crimp the dough over the edges to keep this in place for the next step.”

Grandma poured the spaghetti and meatballs into the pan. “Even this layer out for the vegetables.”

Madame Jinniyah sprinkled the cut green beans and the diced carrots over the pasta. “Take the rest of the biscuits and place them evenly over the top. Now we’re ready to bake.”

“Wait!” Grandma shouted. “We forgot an ingredient!”

“Oh, yes.” Madame Jinniyah waved her hand over the prepared food. “We make every dish with a dash of magic and love.”

Grandma smiled and placed the creation in the oven. “Bake it until the biscuits turn light brown.”

Madame Jinniyah gave Grandma a sly smile. “We can’t wait to show you the results, so we made one ahead of time for our viewers.”

The camera panned to another counter where a basketball-sized puff ball sat in a pan.

“Beautiful!” they yelled in unison.

“It smells like fresh baked bread.” Grandma grabbed a pair of oven mitts. “Now let’s get ready to slice this into individual portions.”

Madame Jinniyah slid a platter under the bundt pan, and Grandma flipped the metal container over. Amid “oohs” and “ahhs” of the chefs, the bundt pan was lifted away, leaving the gleaming, golden mold of the inverted fluted bundt pan resting in grandness.

There was a moment of silence—and then the golden globe erupted like Mount Vesuvius, spraying bits of bread, spaghetti sauce, tiny meatballs, diced carrots, and green beans all over the kitchen—and the chefs.

Stunned, they stood there for a moment, red rivulets mixed with chunks of orange and green running down Grandma’s face and Madame Jinniyah’s turban. Grandma flicked a green bean off Madame Jinniyah’s eyebrow—and burst out laughing.

Giggling so hard she snorted, Madame Jinniyah gasped, “That’s it for today! Thank you for joining us at Grandma’s Witchin’ Kitchen, where you eat what you’re served!”

The screen rolled to a video of bears jumping on a trampoline.

Devon hit replay and scrolled down. The comments ranged from “Holy crap, what are they doing?” to “I think I’m going to hurl, but I can’t stop watching!” to “Imma gonna try this recipe!” and “When is the cookbook coming out?”

The views! Holy cow, the views. A million views. No, two, three, four million—he couldn’t keep up.

He knew how to pitch this show: a mashup of cooking and comedy with two quirky old ladies destined to steal America’s hearts.

“Lady Luck, thank you! I owe you a big one. Now, where are these women?”

BLURB:

When it comes to love, all bets are off…

Karmen Artos, a sous chef at Feline Fine Retirement Home, is horrified when two of the residents hijack her kitchen. Worse yet, they’ve created an Internet cooking show that has gone viral. The recipes are revolting, but viewers are wild for 'Grandma's Witchin' Kitchen!'

Devon Winger, a down-on-his-luck showrunner, arrives in Cat's Paw Cove to convince the eccentric elderly Internet stars to take the show to the next level -- a ShowFlix series. The magical stars are tickled at the idea, but Karmen is dead set against revealing the sanctuary for supernaturals to the world.

Can Karmen convince the sexy Devon that the show will be a dud? Or will Devon realize there's more to the quirky retirement home than meets the camera’s eye?

Preorder your Copy Today!

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Sharon Buchbinder

Sharon Buchbinder has been writing fiction since middle school and has the rejection slips to prove it. A retired RN and professor, she is the author of the Hotel LaBelle Series, the Jinni Hunter Series, and the Obsession Series. She also has seven books in the Cats Paw Cove Series, a magical place where anything can happen--and does! When not writing, she can be found walking her dogs, herding cats, or breaking bread and laughing with family and friends.

Follow Sharon at the Following Links:

WEBSITE | FB | INSTAGRAM | BLUESKY | BOOKBUB | AMAZON | GOODREADS

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Author Sahara Foley