To Catch a Sinner <— BOOK #1 IN THIS DUET & IT SOUNDS INTENSE!!! And the author is today’s newsletter sponsor, and she’s sent over an excerpt for us!!
So what’s is about?
From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Dylan Allen writing as Lucy Wilson-Tagoe comes the first story in her new Blurred Lines Duet series…
Who gets to tell this story?
The sinner who lived it?
Or the saint who stole it?Sin Sackey is driven by the same hardwired need as every eldest first-generation daughter—to make her family proud. And she built her career and chose her partners with that single goal as her north star.
Everyone said she had it all. And for more than twenty years, Sin let herself believe they were right. Until a near-death experience makes the truth impossible to deny. Her relationship is on life support. Her journalism career is in freefall. And the city she thought she’d conquer has chewed her up and spit her out. With everything to prove—and everything to lose—Sin moves back home to Washington, DC, determined to start over. No more chasing shadowy criminals. And no more men who look too good to be true.
But on the eve of the first day of the rest of her new life, the saying about old habits proves painfully accurate. A new lead falls into her lap, and Sin dives back into the story that nearly cost her everything. Then, when a man who is all the things she’s sworn to avoid invites her to dinner, she says yes. After everything she’s been through, it’s reckless.
But this story could resurrect her career—and take down an entire black-market empire. She’s closer than ever to catching its elusive leader, and she can’t let go now. And this man—who makes her blush, makes her laugh, and understands things she usually has to explain—could be the one. So, she lowers her walls just enough for him to climb over. But just when it seems her gamble might pay off, her lead starts to feel more like a trap. And the man she’s let herself love appears to be the one who set it.
To Catch a Sinneris a steamy, suspenseful friends-to-lovers romance between a relentless journalist and a mysterious lawyer with a complicated shared past. Set against a fictionalized Washington, DC, this fast-paced, high-stakes story explores reclaiming identity, challenging power, and the pursuit of a new American dream.
EXCERPT:
“Is Kwame your real name?”
His brows knit together and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Of course it is.”
His voice loses some of its lightness and I curse my loose tongue. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, it’s a Ghanaian name, you’re obviously not Ghanaian. I was—”
“You say that like you’ve seen my birth certificate.” His brows shoot up and his smile disappears.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m in a Ghanaian restaurant in Washington, DC, wearing an Adinkra pendant, my name is Kwame—I’m practically screaming it.”
I can tell I touched a nerve. “I’m sorry that I asked but…It’s just that all of those things could be true and you could be from Chicago.”
“Well, I’m not.” He takes a sip of his drink.
“And both of your parents are from Ghana?”
Ghanaians are known for being among the darkest skinned people in West Africa and his skin is the color of caramel.
He sighs. “Yes, but my father’s parents were both half Scottish.”
“Oh, okay…So you’re Fante?”
“Why do you say it like that?”
I frown at him. “I didn’t say it like anything.”
“Let me guess, you’re from Ashanti region?” His voice has lost its edge and he’s got a teasing glint in your eyes.
“I am. Did my regal bearing give it away?” I grin, glad I didn’t offend him enough to spoil the mood.
He snorts. “No, your judgmental ‘So you’re Fante’ did.”
I laugh at his impersonation of me.
“Why are you people from Cape Coast always so defensive?” I ask with a teasing grin.
“Because you people from Kumasi act like we’re not all the same people.”
I shrug. “We’re not the same.”
“How? We speak different dialects of the same language, eat the same food, have the same naming traditions, customs, systems.”
I smirk. “All of that doesn’t make up for the one major way we’re different.”
“What’s that?
“While we Ashantis were fighting the colonizers, your people were f*cking them.” I wink at him.
His jaw drops and my stomach dips for a second. I don’t know why I say things like that to people I don’t know.
I’m about to apologize when he throws his head back and looks at the ceiling. “Oh my God, it’s true.” He bursts into a good-natured laugh and reveals two rows of straight white teeth. I wonder if he wore braces or if he was made on a day God felt like showing out. His features aren’t symmetrical enough to call him classically handsome. But his proud, prominent nose, his wide mouth and full lips, the top one with an enviably perfect bow, are the perfect complement to his high cheekbones and exquisite bone structure. I look back at his hands again. The glint of gold from the signet ring on his right ring finger catches my eye. I can see it’s embossed with the same Adinkra symbol as the one hanging around his neck. How did I miss those details? I blame the cocktail for dulling my senses and thank the universe that he has a sense of humor despite how badly I put my foot in my mouth.
I clear my throat. “Listen, I know how it feels to have your identity questioned because you don’t fit the mold. I’m sorry.”
He pauses mid-sip, glass still at his lips and slides his eyes to look at me. “You are? Just like that?”
“Yes,” I draw the word out. “Why are you looking at me like I just performed a strange but cool circus trick?”
He huffs a laugh and shrugs. “Because I usually have to speak Twi, prove I know how to eat fufu, and produce my passport or birth certificate before most Ghanaians are satisfied that I’m one of them. And this is the first time anyone has ever said sorry for that shit.”
“Oh God. That’s awful. But you know how hard it is for our elders to say they are sorry. And unfortunately, it trickles down.”
“I’m used to it, but I’m always surprised when I have to remind other Ghanaians that the region was colonized and occupied by three different European countries. Cape Coast is full of people who look like me.”
“Have you spent a lot of time there?”
“I used to go every year. Usually at Christmas.”
“Do your parents live there or here?”
He nods without looking up. “Both. Anyway, enough about me.” He cuts into his food and takes a massive bite. His deflection piques my curiosity, but I let it go. For now.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Arsinoé isn’t very Ghanaian either.”
“Touché.” I laugh at his clever turnaround. “My parents went to Egypt for their honeymoon. It’s where I was conceived so they chose a name from there.”
To Catch a Sinner (The Blurred Lines Duet Book 1)
