We Are So Close!

We are getting SO close to the release of CAPTURE ME. Don’t forget, you can PRE-ORDER this book and have it delivered automatically right here: https://www.amazon.com/Capture-Me-Amber-Thielman-ebook/dp/B07CVDNV6Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1525632973&sr=8-1&keywords=amber+thielman

If you’re interested in an ARC in exchange for a review, please contact me.

Xo, A.

#amwriting #reading #RomanceBooks #ontheporch #readinglist #Amazon #KindleUnlimited #kindledeals #indieauthors

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Capture Me Sneak Peek

He picked up the bouquet of roses and tossed them into the trash bin near the TV. Then, still holding his beer, he gathered what he needed and dropped them into his bag. He thought he was smarter than that. He had been certain he wouldn’t let emotions get in the way. She was just a girl. Just a stupid, naïve, pain-in-the-ass–

“What are you doing?” Startled, Logan spun towards the bathroom door, spilling his beer in the process. Foam poured over the top, running down his shirt and onto the floor. He set it down on the TV stand, shaking the droplets of booze from his fingers. Kass stood in front of him, dressed in Levi’s and a tank top, drying her brown hair between the folds of a towel. On her chest, where the top didn’t cover her skin, droplets of water clung to her skin. At first, he didn’t know what to say. He’d expected her to be long gone. And yet, here she was, standing in front of him. Still here.

And she was smiling.

“I thought you’d left,” he said. It was all he could think of to say as she dropped the towel onto the floor and ran her fingertips through her hair. Then she crossed the room, peering into the waste bin. She reached in and pulled the bouquet out.

“Who are these for?”

“Uh. I–” The words he couldn’t say felt heavy on his tongue. He picked up the bottle of beer and took a swig, wishing it was a flask of whiskey instead. Some liquid courage would serve him well right about now. He turned away from her. “You, I guess.”

She said nothing, only put her nose in the buds and smelled the flowers like it was the most natural thing in the world. Logan sat down on the bed and watched her, taken by the way she moved across the room, the way her hips sashayed and her wet hair clung to her cheeks.

“Are you going to offer me a beer?” she asked. Before he could respond, she leaned over him and reached for a Bud. She smelled only of hotel shampoo and soap, but it caught him off guard, anyway. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to reach up and touch her skin. As she straightened up, he caught sight of her cleavage peeking through the top.

“Christ.” He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the bottle out of her hand as he did so. Kass stared at him, taken aback.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Logan stared at her, eying her up and down, and then lifted the bottle in his hand and pointed it at her. “Why are you still here? Why haven’t you left?”

He watched her pop the cap off her beer and take a drink. She looked down at her hands, and her shoulders rose and fell slightly.

“I don’t know, Logan. I don’t have an answer for you.”

“Bullshit.” He set his beer down again, irritation boiling in his chest. “I gave you an out, Kass. I gave you an out, and you didn’t take it.” He crossed the room, taking her face in his hands. She met his eyes, but he couldn’t read the story behind the pain. “Why didn’t you leave?”

A tear appeared in the corner of one eye, and she tried to pull her head away, but he forced her to stand still.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I’m still here, Logan.” She yanked away from him with surprising strength and backed up. Her hands were trembling. She sat down on the edge of one of the beds, cradling the beer between her legs. Then she looked up, meeting his eyes once more. He saw the confliction in her expression, hidden behind the stillness of her face.

“I hoped you would have an answer for that.”

Calling All Beta Readers and CP’s!

It seems like every time I finish the rough draft on a book, I’m blindly scraping around trying to find some CP’s with the time to read and offer feedback. I really need a small group I can rely on for betas, and I am happy to return the favor 🙂

If you’re interested in being a critique partner and are willing to read and rip apart my manuscript, please email me at amber.thielman@yahoo.com.

I’m currently looking for readers interested in contemporary romance, more specifically a romantic thriller this time around.

Thank you, fellow readers and writers ❤

WIP Snippet….

It’s brisk outside for a May summer night in the city, but I don’t mind because the heat radiating off the crowd of concert-goers is stifling. As the stadium fills, the temperature rises, and soon I must locate the nearest exit for a breath of fresh air. The excitement inside the walls is tremendous, but I can’t bring myself to share their enthusiasm. It’s late, and I haven’t eaten anything all day but an egg salad sandwich which I’m pretty sure was putrid. The so-called chic pair of Levis I mistakenly chose to wear tonight are squeezing my midsection in the most distressing of ways. Not only am I tired, hungry, and chafing from the sweat buildup, but I haven’t been able to take a real deep breath since stepping out of my hotel room at six AM this morning. Not for the first time today, I wish I was back home in Detroit.

I take a seat on the edge of a marble fountain outside of the venue, moving slowly so I won’t rip a hole in the crotch of my pants. I plan on throwing them out later tonight, of course, but there’s no way in hell I can traipse back into that stadium with my Vampire Diaries underwear flashing the crowd. Not everyone may appreciate Damon Salvatore like I do, and I’m not going to force it on them.

My cell phone rings as I start to fan myself with an abandoned paper plate sitting near the garbage pail. There’s something that resembles taco sauce dried to the inside of it, but I can’t even bring myself to care because the hot flash dilemma is real. As my phone goes off, vibrating awkwardly against my thigh, I jump so high in surprise that the plate I’m holding drops into my lap and smears not-so-dry sauce all over my not-so-chic jeans.

“Fuck,” I say. Some lady with a kid jerks her head in my direction and narrows her eyes. Her eight-year-old looks like he’s stifling a laugh as I fish my fingers into the pocket of my pants and pull it out. Cell-phones–like most electronics that test my patience and my skills–are on the list of things I could probably live without. Unfortunately for me, my new boss made it clear that I have it on me at all times. You know, just in case he needs to give me a ring and check up on things. It’s only been a day, and he’s already abused that power twelve and a half times—the half being when he butt-dialed me and sang “I Will Survive” at the top of his lungs for six minutes before I finally hung up. The other twelve times wasn’t for anything terribly important, only to check up, as if he kept expecting I would lose my shit, ditch the phone, and get on the first plane back to Michigan. At this point, I was seriously considering it.

“Harper,” I say, raising the phone to my ear. I figure if I’m going to act the part, I can at least try and sound professional.

“Quinn?” Daryl shouts in my ear. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I say. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s been me the last dozen times. I pull the phone slightly away from my head, looking around. It’s quiet out here, most of the crowd has finally moved inside, but Daryl is yelling like someone’s blowing a French horn in his ear.

“Are you at the venue, my dear?” he howls. Not for the first time, I wonder if he’s hearing impaired and just pretends to have his shit together.

“I’m at the venue.” I turn down the volume on my phone, flashing an apologetic smile at a woman who’s glaring at me. It seems to be traveling from one person straight to the other, honestly. This girl is flaunting a tee-shirt with the Man-of-the-Night’s face on it: the one and only Chris Shearon, Rockstar. You’d think that her being here is excitement enough, but my phone call annoys her, anyway.

“How come I don’t hear any music?”

“Because it’s seven forty-five,” I mutter, glancing at my watch. “The concert starts at eight.”

“Are you inside?” Daryl demands. I’ve come to find in the short time I’ve known him that Daryl Dickenson assumes everyone is incapable of doing their job if he doesn’t check in every fifteen minutes. He takes the phrase micromanager who a whole new level.

“I needed some air. It’s hot in there.”

“You’re outside?” Daryl asks. “Why? Why are you outside when your job is to be inside? Why?”

“Because I–”

“Don’t bore me,” he snaps. “Just get inside that building and do what I’ve hired you to do.”

“On it,” I say, and hang up the phone before he drills me some more. He doesn’t call back immediately, so I stuff the cell phone back into my pocket and stand up, adjusting the fabric around my waistline. Some teenage boy walks past and gives me a once-over, but not in a way that suggests he wants to get-all-up-on-that. He’s smirking. I stick out my tongue at him because I feel I’ve offended quite enough people already. As I head back inside, I pull out the camera Daryl sent me, along with a notepad for possible interviews later. I have to nail this because Chris Shearon– mega-celebrity and heart-throb–has the future of my career resting in his slimy, wealthy hands.

Capture Me Sneak Peek

“Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?” Kass said. Logan was sitting back in the seat now, still tapping his foot. A bit of ash fell from the cigarette burning between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice. After a moment, he rolled down the window and flicked the cigarette out into the rain. Kass did the same, realizing that it hadn’t done much for her besides make her mouth taste bad and Ryan’s car smell like a bar. He was going to be so pleased when she returned it to him.

“Not really,” he said. “You can drop me off wherever.”

The rain had lifted, though not by much, and a few minutes later Kass pulled into the little town of Lakewood, an area just on the outskirts of Seattle. In this town, children went to grade school together, they partied together as teenagers in high school, and some of them even retired together. In this town, Kass knew everybody. Except for him. She didn’t know Logan.

“This is as far as I go, then,” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” She pulled to the curb and turned off the engine, disappointed that she wouldn’t be seeing this kid around anymore. He seemed like good company and he was easy on the eyes.

“Thanks for the ride,” Logan said. “Sorry about your bruise. Don’t, you know, fall into any more doors. No one deserves that shit. Kill the door.”

There was silence in the air as they stared at each other. Kass’ cheeks were flaring again with heat, and she had to suck in a mouthful of air to keep breathing regularly. She opened her mouth to reply to his comment, then thought better of it and closed it. She averted her gaze back to the front window, squinting into the darkness as her eyes caught sight of the deputy’s patrol car lit up near the convenience store. The lights were blurry through the rain, but there was no mistaking them.

“Must be another robbery from one of the punk kids,” she said. She cleared her throat and rolled down the window a crack, feeling a wave of heat overcome her. Beside her, Logan hesitated in his seat, his gaze following hers, eyes catching sight of the same flashing lights.

“Cops,” he said. Kass didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself.

“Lakewood’s finest,” she said. Small town cops were a joke, but flashing lights were capable of scaring even the most innocent of people. The small buzz from the booze was starting to wear off, and Kass was tempted to go back to the party and get smashed, with or without Ryan. Get drunk, fall into bed and try to sleep, then wake up and go to class. Every day, all day.

Lost in her thoughts about an assignment she forgot was due, it took a moment for Kass to fathom that there was no immediate reaction from beside her. As she averted her eyes from the flashing lights in front of them and looked over at Logan, her heart fluttered unnaturally against her rib-cage. She knew there was something wrong before it even happened. She could feel it—like walking into a graveyard at night or hearing footsteps in an empty house. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Logan made his move. She felt something sharp against the side of her abdomen and she barely trusted herself to flinch.

“Turn on the car and drive us out of here right now, or I’ll have to kill you.”

Romance University Sneak Peek

Chapter 1


      “A wise man by the name of Nelson Mandela once said, “To deny people their human rights is to challenge their very humanity.”

      For centuries, America has been a safe-haven for innocent men, women, and children caught in a war zone with no escape. We call them refugees, but the term seems to come with a bad rap. They are harmless and frightened people who want nothing more than our help to survive. You would think that as such United, American people, we are capable of—”

      “Good morning, Grace.”

      My head whipped up and I dropped the pencil in surprise. The rough draft temporarily abandonedmy train of thought derailed and off the tracks. My boss and newspaper editor, Gavin, was staring at me with his eyebrows raised. He didn’t look pleased, but he rarely did.

      “Sorry,” I said. “I was working on a draft.”

      “It can’t possibly be a story for this paper because I haven’t given anyone their assignments yet. We’re you off in your little world again?” Gavin asked, and the rest of the room chuckled. This wasn’tthe first time I’d been called out for fantasizing during a lecture, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

      “Yes,” I said. “But I digress.”

      “Do you need some coffee?” He pointed at the ghetto machine in the corner that was brewing a large pot of something I wasn’t even positive could pass as edible. It was making a strange gurgling noise, spitting partially brewed coffee grounds into the pot.

      “I‘m all right,” I said. “But I think it’s time we invested in a new coffee maker.”

      “Talk the Dean about cutting the Chess Team’s ridiculously enormous budget, and then come speak with me,” Gavin said.

      Despite my boss’s delight in giving me crap on a daily basis, I liked Gavin quite a bit. Like me, our editor took his job at The Bengalseriously. I mean, as seriously as one could take writing an article about the cheerleading team’s new outfits, or how the University’s coffee shop was now offering iced beverages and not just hot ones. While most the work we did for the school’s paper at times seemed minuscule and irrelevant, it was a foot in the door to future opportunities. I would do well not to complain. Regardless of the subject, there was something about putting words down for the world to enjoy that gave me such a warm feeling inside. I loved to feel absorbed in my work, relished in the rare moments of bliss that came from creating something from nothing.

      “How much do you want to bet he’s going to give me more assignments on the stupid Chess Club?” Shawn Pinkman leaned over and whispered to me. A good friend and fellow staff writer, Shawn was the kind of person that had very few acquaintances, even if it wasn’t necessarily his fault. He was a bit like me in the lack-of-social-skills department, and every time he met someone new he’d end up passively-aggressively insulting them without meaning to. That was usually all it took for every potential new friend to bail. Not that I could blame them.

      “You like the Chess Team,” I reminded him. “You’re just bitter because when you tried out last year, they told you that you were too competitive to join.”

      “That girl in the competition was cheating, and no one else would call her out for it,” Shawn said. A frustrated flush was rising on his neck, the ugly vein on his forehead expanding.

      “She was fifteen,” I said. “Throwing the Queen piece at her probably wasn’t the way to go.”

      “Like the new dent in her face even made a difference from before,” Shawn said. Before he could go into excruciating detail as to why people were, indeed, stupid, Gavin spoke up. Our editor glanced down at the yellow legal pad cradled in his arms and then looked back up.

      “Sports,” he said to the room. “It’s football season.”

      At the mention of the word “sports,” I found myself starting to tune him out again. Gavin said something about the teams this year, and there were some murmurs of agreement and nods throughout the room. I didn’t catch much of it, a few words here and there that didn’t grab my attention. I was in the middle of trying to pick up where I’d left off with my article when I realized Gavin was looking at me again.

      “You’re okay with that, right, Grace?”

      I sat there for a moment like a deer in headlights, mentally trying to determine what it was that I was supposed to be okay with.

      “Sports?” I repeated. I hoped that’s what we were still talking about, anyway. “I don’t do sports.”


      “Gavin, I do anything but sports. Put me on something else. Please?”

      Everyone was looking at me now, probably wondering how long and hard I’d try to fight him on this before I had to forfeit. Arguments with Gavin were ineffective and usually ended with said student forced to write about the school’s refusal to hand out condoms in the counselor’s office. (I wasn’t positive there was even a rule about that, but Gavin managed to rile things up just to stroke his own ego, even if it wasn’t true.)

      “You’re just bitter because you don’t know anything about football,” Shawn said. He was grinning in the seat next to me, but he certainly didn’t raise his hand and volunteer.

      “Neither do you,” I said, and that shut him up quick. For some reason, I was the only staff writer who hated sports. In fact, I despised sports. And even more than I despised sports, I despisedthe people who played them. Okay, not all of them, but it seemed like a prerequisite for some athletes that you had to possess a certain amount of douchiness to try out for the team, and I simply wasn’t fond of the douchiness.

      “It’s our golden boy’s last year,” Gavin said as if I cared. “I need you to go to the games, interview him, and write about it. Easy.”

      “Him?” I repeated. “Him as in Jackson Tate?”

      Of course, everyone knew who Jackson Tate was; star football quarterback of the University. He truly was the golden boy—and he was also a total jerk. A womanizer. If I never heard the name Jackson Tate again, it would be too soon. I turned in my seat to look at Shawn.

      “Trade me?”

      “Nope,” he said. “I want homecoming.”

      “Moving on then,” Gavin said brightly. I dropped my head onto the desk and pursed my lips to keep from saying something stupid. So much for a fabulous start to Senior year. If there was anybody on the planet that could single-handedly demolish my entire life, it was Jackson Freaking Tate.