Want to know more about the author?
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandykenauthor.com
EMAIL ME: rachelvandykenauthor@gmail.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Rachel-...
The dare is Rachel's new upcoming novel. It's to be released 8th July. Are you guys excited? I am. Its the third book in the bet series.
Boring Beth Lynn has always lived up to her nickname… until she wakes up in a hotel bed next to a sexy as sin state senator she re-connected with at a wedding the previous night.The biggest problem? She can't seem to remember anything about the night before except for crying into a box of cookies, and she’s pretty sure Grandma Nadine slipped something in her drink. And what should have been a one night stand turns into a six day adventure when Grandma whisks them off to Hawaii to save them from the ensuing media firestorm.
Jace isn't looking for commitment — he believes he made that clear when he left the wedding with Beth. Then again, he can't remember much of anything other than the way her skin felt beneath his hands. Now he's stuck with her at some lame couple’s retreat and trying his hardest to fight the attraction only a woman like Beth could invoke.
He doesn’t think it can get any worse.
But one spider attack… A donkey ride from hell… And an unfortunate episode with Viagra tea — and there’s one thing Jace knows for sure: He should never have agreed to Grandma Nadine’s suggestion in the first place.
Because if this isn’t paradise, and it isn’t a vacation — that only leaves one option.
Survival.
But to make it through alive… they might lose their hearts in the process.
Expert ....
“Here, Jace,” Grandma poured some cloudy liquid into a white cup and handed it to him, “this will make you all better. You do want to get better, don’t you?”
“Yes.” His jaw flexed.
Holy crap. He was going to do it. He was going to drink the tea. I almost didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it. He brought the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and grimaced before pulling it back. A small feather attached itself to his lips.
“Oh dear, it was a male chicken. I can always tell these things.” Grandma pulled the feather from Jace’s lips and chuckled. “Back when I sexed chickens, well, it was my job to figure out which was which.”
“Sexed. Chickens?” Jace repeated, his voice hoarse. “That’s not a job, Grandma. And I doubt this works.”
You’d think Jace would have already learned his lesson: Never doubt Grandma. And when she says something that just shouts crazy, don’t engage. Just back away and leave it alone. Because it was a guarantee that something insane, illogical, and, nine times out of ten, illegal would be shared in her presence.
“It works, and it is too a job. Want to know how to tell the difference between a female chicken and a male chicken?”
“No. No, I don’t.” Jace shook his head. “I’m sick. I want a good night’s sleep without visions of you sexing chickens.”
“Not until your tea’s finished,” Grandma instructed, urging the tea closer to his mouth. He seemed to pale as the cup was brought closer to his lips.
Jace’s eyes darted to mine. I knew that look. It was fear, pure fear. I took pity on the guy; after all, he was drinking feather tea.
“Tell me, Grandma,” I grabbed her hands and had turned her toward me, while behind me, Jace slowly poured the tea into the potted plant next to the bed. We’d just committed murder via feather tea. Poor plant would be lucky to survive the next five minutes, let alone an entire day.
Best bet, the plant dies or turns into a hybrid chicken plant that Grandma takes credit for discovering.
My imagination was running away from me. I really needed to get normal friends.
“Well, the males’ are jagged, whereas the females’ are smooth,” Grandma said, serious as a heart attack. “You see, there’s feather sexing and feather venting.”
I had no words.
Jace cleared his throat, “Venting?”
“Oh yes.” Grandma chuckled. “But there’s a school for that.”
I felt my eyes widen in horror as Grandma chuckled and pulled a feather from the giant tea pot.
“After all, doctors don’t graduate high school and start performing surgeries! They need expertise. So do sexers.”
“Is that what they’re called?” I shouldn’t have asked, but my curiosity was destroying me.
“Yes.” Grandma nodded. “Sexers. But like I said, I wasn’t a chicken sexer, per se. I sexed the feathers.”
Jace pursed his lips together. “You… sexed the feathers?”
“How does one—”
“Beth.” Jace started coughing wildly.
“Oh dear!” Grandma reached for the kettle. “Do you need more tea?”
“No!” Jace and I said in unison.--The Dare
“Yes.” His jaw flexed.
Holy crap. He was going to do it. He was going to drink the tea. I almost didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it. He brought the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and grimaced before pulling it back. A small feather attached itself to his lips.
“Oh dear, it was a male chicken. I can always tell these things.” Grandma pulled the feather from Jace’s lips and chuckled. “Back when I sexed chickens, well, it was my job to figure out which was which.”
“Sexed. Chickens?” Jace repeated, his voice hoarse. “That’s not a job, Grandma. And I doubt this works.”
You’d think Jace would have already learned his lesson: Never doubt Grandma. And when she says something that just shouts crazy, don’t engage. Just back away and leave it alone. Because it was a guarantee that something insane, illogical, and, nine times out of ten, illegal would be shared in her presence.
“It works, and it is too a job. Want to know how to tell the difference between a female chicken and a male chicken?”
“No. No, I don’t.” Jace shook his head. “I’m sick. I want a good night’s sleep without visions of you sexing chickens.”
“Not until your tea’s finished,” Grandma instructed, urging the tea closer to his mouth. He seemed to pale as the cup was brought closer to his lips.
Jace’s eyes darted to mine. I knew that look. It was fear, pure fear. I took pity on the guy; after all, he was drinking feather tea.
“Tell me, Grandma,” I grabbed her hands and had turned her toward me, while behind me, Jace slowly poured the tea into the potted plant next to the bed. We’d just committed murder via feather tea. Poor plant would be lucky to survive the next five minutes, let alone an entire day.
Best bet, the plant dies or turns into a hybrid chicken plant that Grandma takes credit for discovering.
My imagination was running away from me. I really needed to get normal friends.
“Well, the males’ are jagged, whereas the females’ are smooth,” Grandma said, serious as a heart attack. “You see, there’s feather sexing and feather venting.”
I had no words.
Jace cleared his throat, “Venting?”
“Oh yes.” Grandma chuckled. “But there’s a school for that.”
I felt my eyes widen in horror as Grandma chuckled and pulled a feather from the giant tea pot.
“After all, doctors don’t graduate high school and start performing surgeries! They need expertise. So do sexers.”
“Is that what they’re called?” I shouldn’t have asked, but my curiosity was destroying me.
“Yes.” Grandma nodded. “Sexers. But like I said, I wasn’t a chicken sexer, per se. I sexed the feathers.”
Jace pursed his lips together. “You… sexed the feathers?”
“How does one—”
“Beth.” Jace started coughing wildly.
“Oh dear!” Grandma reached for the kettle. “Do you need more tea?”
“No!” Jace and I said in unison.--The Dare
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