Julie Garwood Novel Novels & Stories

Somewhere in the city—several stories above, in a steel and glass building—Julian Blackwood lay in his dark, sleek bedroom, staring at the book she had given him. He'd never intended to keep it. When Lena Carter had offered it to him—those gentle words, that thoughtful crease between her eyebrows—he'd intended to refuse. But something in her eyes had taken away his intention. It was neither flirting nor pretense. It was genuine. Silent. Generous. He hated kindness. It broke things open. Julian gazed down at the book. The cover was unadorned, the title in gold print: *A Man Called Ove*. He remembered Lena's words:

says Baruz. “They are watching everyone, as always,” the werewolf leader says, getting into a tinted jeep. The car took off. In the depths of the forest, veiled eyes carefully watched the departing machines. With a snort, the dark figure took off and sped away into the woods. Julia closed the thick book and, with a disappointed face, carried it back to the shelf. “I spent so much time on this stupid little book, but there is nothing useful in it,” she thought to herself. Julia walks past Dook, who is sitting in a chair. He stares off into nowhere as if in a trance, clutching a brand new book.

Slowly, I raised my head up and saw Julia and Gwendolyn standing with their arms folded. I closed the book and removed the earphones from my ears. "Hi?" That came out as a question because I was confused about their presence here. "She said "hi"." Julia said and both of them snickered. I frowned slightly with my brows furrowed. What's the problem? I wondered. Julia bent to my eye level and snatched the book from my hand, and pretended to go through the book. "A werewolf romance? Girl, ewww! You're so fucking gross." She said, with her face contorted in a disgusting expression.

As Julia accepted his proffered clothing, her eyes lingered on Shiloh's casual ensemble, a reminder that comfort and protection could be found in the most unexpected of places. "Gratitude was swept away in mid-air, as the garments Shiloh clutched were spirited from his grasp by the swift intervention of Jared. In a graceful display, Jared effortlessly returned the clothes to Shiloh before striding into the villa, a wheelchair awaiting his dignified entrance. Julia watched this scene unfold, a perplexing puzzle of actions that left her brows knitted in confusion. A sudden chill cut through the air, causing Julia to shiver and wrap her arms around herself, yearning for warmth and answers.

Press that could tear a collection apart before a single model stepped on the runway. But what Juliette hadn’t counted on? Zara wasn’t the same girl she once bullied in Milan. She wasn’t just a hustler now. She was Alec’s woman. And she had claws of her own. She picked up her sketchbook, flipping to the last design—a gown sewn in silence, its silhouette molded from the fragments of her rage. Smoke and shadows. Power and pain. She would wear it for war. Behind her, the soft shuffle of footsteps warned her Alec had woken.

The air hung thick with expectation in the grand chamber of the New York Hilton. Sun rays filtered through the building's glass Windows, cast a dappled pattern on the polished floor where a mass of neatly dressed men and women buzzed with energy. Julie Garfield in her well ironed panty suit, a stark discrepancy to the muted tones of the cityscape outside, navigated the mass with a small leather bound tablet gripped in her hand. The air vibrated with the electric hum of ambition, the true substance of the city she had left behind years ago.

“It can be boring. I’ll take boring.” “Then here’s a fact.” Julie turned fully to face him with the expression of someone about to deliver a verdict. “I am a woman who finished writing a six-hundred page novel in four months while also holding a part-time job and helping my best friend navigate a fake—” She stopped. Cleared her throat. “A very complicated personal situation. I do not have the patience or the interest for whatever this is.” She gestured between herself and him. “So. Move.” Julius looked at her for a moment.

​The space between two people who have survived a war is a delicate, razor thin corridor for two years, I had walked down that corridor believing it was paved with solid stone, believing that the foundation we poured on this isolated Pacific bluff was pure and absolute,Standing in the dark of the master bedroom, the heavy wool duvet tossed aside like a discarded skin, I realized the terrible truth the stone was only a veneer underneath it, the floor had always been hollow Juliann didn’t follow me right away

We worked side by side, talking quietly while the kitchen filled with the smell of coffee and bacon. By the time we carried everything to the dining room, the table looked almost respectable. Almost everyone trickled in. Everyone except Grandmother. And Zeden. My stomach squeezed tighter. Julie arrived first, lips already pursed. She stopped short when she saw the spread. “You know I won’t touch this, right?” she said, voice dripping acid. “I won’t accept whatever garbage you scraped together just because you think playing house makes you one of us. You’re still the same lowlife scrub who used to mop these floors. An expensive dress and a ring don’t change that.”

Julia’s stomach dropped as if the floor had given way. The sound came closer. Close enough that the boards complained faintly. Julia froze, documents suddenly burning hot against her palms, her mind snapping from revelation to survival in one brutal breath. Quickly! Julia’s hands moved before her thoughts could catch up. She stuffed the documents into her apron so fast the paper edges scraped her skin through the cloth and the stitching at her waist gave a strained little protest. For a heartbeat she was sure it would tear—sure the sound alone would damn her.