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The Vintage Bliss Bundle (PAPERBACK BUNDLE)

The Vintage Bliss Bundle (PAPERBACK BUNDLE)

save with a 4 Book Bundle!

Regular price $47.99 USD
Regular price $63.96 USD Sale price $47.99 USD
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Get 4 vintage standalone novels by Sapphic Romance Bestselling Author Harper Bliss in a special holiday bundle.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "The whole book had a feel of nostalgia, building tension and the letting go of the past and pain. Plus it's pretty steamy too in parts."

This bundle features four of the earliest standalone novels published by Harper Bliss for 25% off their regular price. For a limited time only!

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Such a wonderful love story!"

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Wow! Really, really well written!"

    Books included in the bundle

    • At the Water's Edge
    • Once in a Lifetime
    • The Road to You
    • Far from the World We Know

    Shipping Information

    Print books are printed to order and shipped by BookVault from the US (for US customers) and from the UK (for all other countries). It usually takes between 3 and 10 business days to print. Shipping times vary per location.

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    Themes and tropes

    • Recovering from trauma
    • Friends to lovers
    • Family relationships
    • Second chance
    • One true love
    • Power play
    • Opposites attract
    • Enemies to lovers
    • Slow burn
    • Small town romance

    Full description

    AT THE WATER'S EDGE

    Sometimes you need to go back to where you came from.

    When Ella returns to her hometown to recover from trauma, she makes a connection with Kay, the owner of the local lake resort.

    Ella thought she didn’t have time for love, but this extraordinary woman may just prove her wrong.

    ONCE IN A LIFETIME

    True love deserves a second chance.

    Leigh Sterling and Jodie Whitehouse share a passionate connection. Unfortunately, their differing visions of the future force them apart.

    Life goes on, but their attempts at other relationships fail to measure up to the love they once shared.

    When they see each other again after more than a decade apart, they realize they may be soulmates. Can they ever find their way back to one another?

    THE ROAD TO YOU

    Opposites attract... or do they?

    Workaholic Katherine and free-spirited singer Ali have disliked each other since college. Fate, however, keeps bringing them together and the paths of their lives keep crossing.

    Are some differences in personality simply too vast to overcome? Or are some things just meant to be?

    FAR FROM THE WORLD WE KNOW

    How far must you run to escape the past?

    Broken from past trauma, Laura heads to small-town Texas for a life of solitude and recovery. She crosses paths with sharp-witted Tess, the charming editor of the town paper.

    Tess is determined to break down the walls Laura has built up. Laura isn’t ready to open up again, but her feelings for Tess are undeniable…

    Will Tess be able to get past Laura’s defences? And will Laura allow herself to love, and live, again?

    Read a sample of Once in a Lifetime

    Chapter 1

    Jodie has always looked too damn glam to be a social worker. Look at her. She’s only just gotten out of the shower, and already she seems to have this sheen to her. A sheen I used to find irresistible—all glossy and inviting and yes-I-will-let-you-do-that-to-me—but now it shrouds her in a distance I can’t seem to bridge anymore. As if she’s made her decision already.

    On top of that, she knew I didn’t want to come here. Not to Gerald’s place, with all its man things, and a few of Troy’s toys always lingering, no matter how many times the cleaner comes before we arrive for the weekend—I guess even people who get paid to tidy get tired of the never-ending task of stowing a child’s toys.

    Jodie has her arms wrapped around her body, clothed in the light-blue silk robe she always wears after taking a shower. She looks out over the beach, as if answers are there, in the sand that has been brushed clean overnight by the ocean. Answers to how to resolve this always-returning argument between us, the one that’s been wearing us down for months.

    “Hey,” she says, finally, turning away from the window. “Did you manage to get some sleep?”

    I wonder how I must look to her now. And how would Gerald feel about his ex-wife’s partner sleeping on his Chesterfield sofa in nothing but a t-shirt and panties?

    “Some.” In the beginning, when Jodie and I had just gotten together, it was a thrill to come to her ex’s lavish Hamptons beach house for a dirty weekend. But now, six years down the line, when she suggested coming here as a sort of last resort it felt more like she was trying to tell me something. The way she also does sometimes without words. Her face all brooding and unreadable, although I don’t need to see her eyes anymore to know that it’s over.

    I could have slept in Gerald’s room—or Troy’s—but deciding to sleep on the sofa last night felt like a defiant stand. Now, in the cold hard light of day, it feels like a decision made by someone foolish enough to put stubbornness before a good night’s sleep. At thirty-three, I’m not old by a long stretch, but, all the same, my bones prefer a soft bed.

    It’s only Saturday morning, and already we’re in the middle of this fraught stand-off. How will we get through the next twenty-four hours without biting each other’s heads off?

    “Coffee?” Jodie asks. Her expression is not unfriendly but her face is not exactly folded into a peace-making one either. And I can’t help myself. I suspect she’s naked underneath that robe, and I still feel it—I still want her—but too many ugly words have passed between us and neither one of us knows how to take them back.

    “Sure.” I sit up straighter. Stare at the coffee table. I have to hand it to Gerald; he has excellent taste in furniture. If we got along better, I’d ask him where he got this table, as a way of making small talk and being civil and all that, but Gerald and I have been wrapped in a silent, mutually agreed upon mild hostility since we first met, and I never had the inclination to do anything about it. I’m not in a relationship with Gerald, so why bother?

    “Can’t you try a bit harder?” Jodie used to ask me in the beginning. “If not for me then at least for Troy’s sake?” I can still see her shake her head at me. “You can be so ruthless sometimes.”

    “My mother is called Ruth,” I would tell her. “And as long as she’s alive, I will never be Ruth-less.” The first few times I used that line Jodie actually giggled and dropped the subject.

    I get up and sit at the breakfast bar, looking out over the ocean, which is savage this time of year, the waves loud and brash—the way I like it.

    “The waves are like you,” Jodie once said, “they never know when to stop. They just keep on going and going. The tide may retreat twice a day, but it always—always—comes back with full force.”

    “That analogy does not add up at all, Jodes,” I’d said. “You’re just babbling.” And I had grabbed her, pushed her down on Gerald’s sofa, and shown her what it was like to just keep on going while she looked out over those waves.

    “What would you like to do today?” I ask. Her hand trembles a bit as she pours me a mug of coffee and she spills a few drops on the counter. Neither one of us cares.

    Disappear, her face seems to say. It’s so pale, it seems all pigment has drained from her body. Jodie’s always pale, what with her Irish blood and skin, but I can tell this… phase we’re going through has worn her out. If only it were just a phase. “Go for a walk, I guess.” She actually shrugs when she says that, as if it doesn’t matter anymore what we do. “Maybe have lunch at Gino’s.”

    I shake my head before sipping. The coffee is strong, the way we both like it.

    “What?” Jodie stopped bothering to keep the irritation out of her voice months ago.

    “What are we even doing here?” I know she’ll blame me again for actually saying something, but I can’t stand this anymore. All the love I had for her, everything we’ve built between us over the years, is not enough anymore to bear this.

    “You know why we’re here.”

    I look up from my coffee. Try to find something inviting in her eyes. I come up empty. “It feels to me like we’re here for one thing only.” I pause, ignoring the nervous contractions in my stomach. Something I learned to do in my first year in court. It’s harder to do when a relationship is at stake. “To break up.”

    Jodie’s eyes narrow. “If you want to leave me. You’re free to go.”

    I purse my lips together and nod in mock understanding, my chin going up and down in the most passive-aggressive way I can muster. “Sure. Because if this ends, of course I’ll be the one leaving you and you will have nothing to do with that.”

    Jodie just sits there shaking her head. “I can’t change you, Leigh,” she says after a while. “I want what I want, and you want what you want.” Her voice breaks a little. We’ve said these things to each other before—in different versions, with alternative words—a million times, as if they need to be said a certain number of times before a decision can actually be made. If we’re waiting for the pain that comes with them to go away, we’ll have to wait until that ocean outside freezes over.

    “Let’s get out of here.” I don’t want to stay in this house with her. I don’t want to spend my weekend drowning in this tension and not finding my way to the surface. My lungs are full of spite and anger and resentment already. Maybe it’s better for her if she can hate me. After all, I’m the bad one here. I’m the woman who has the audacity to go through life without any apparent desire for motherhood. “Or better yet. I’ll go.” I’ll pack up my things and be out of our apartment by the time you get home tomorrow evening, I want to add, but I can’t say the words. “It’s time,” I say instead.

    That she doesn’t burst into immediate, passionate protest is like a knife in my gut, but it’s not as if this was ever going to be pain-free.

    “I think it is, as well. This is killing us one day at a time.” We don’t look at each other. In my case, for fear of seeing something in her face, her demeanor, or anything else, that I could latch onto. And I’m tired of fighting. Of coming up with arguments that won’t win her over, because some things are just how they are, and no reasoning stands up to them.

    But can this really be how it ends? The pair of us drinking coffee in Gerald’s house? After all the shouting has been done, and the harshest words have been spoken, can it just be this calm conclusion that we draw?

    “Okay. I’ll go.” I don’t get up though. How can I? How can I walk away from Jodie Whitehouse? The woman who has given me everything. Why can’t I be a bit more accommodating? After all, I don’t mind Troy being around. It’s not as if I detest children. It’s not as if Jodie expects me to become a full-time mother. But it feels as if I have to give up a crucial piece of myself to stay with her and honor her wishes. Her fierce desire to have another child clashes so ferociously with my own wishes and it’s laying bare a fundamental difference between us—one that can’t be overcome by a thousand conversations, or the best sex we ever had in our lives.

    “Leigh.” Her leg touches mine for a split second, but is gone before I even get the chance to register her touch properly. “I—” But Jodie has run out of words, too. We knew months ago that words wouldn’t save us.

    “It’s fine.” This time, I do get up. Gerald’s place has floor heating, so I don’t even get punished with cold tiles under my feet. On the surface, it may look like I’m walking away scot-free, all limbs intact, no skin broken. Beneath my ribs, though, my heart breaks because I know what I’m walking away from. I know all too well, yet, I can’t stay. Because staying would only mean more of this, more of this chipping away at what we once had, at each other’s confidence and essence. It has to stop sometime. It stops today. At 11.34 a.m. on Saturday, the twenty-second of April 2003. The day Leigh Sterling and Jodie Whitehouse cease being a couple.

    And we were a good one. We had it, that unidentifiable chemistry, that boundless passion, the knowledge that we saw each other for who we were and that, just maybe, this might be forever. But it wasn’t enough. And the mere fact that even a love like this, a love like ours, is not enough, scars my soul here and now. I head to Gerald’s guest room—the room Jodie and I have always used—where I left my bag last night, just to pretend that there might be a possibility of us sleeping in it together.

    I don’t bother showering; just throw the few items that made it out of my bag back in, slip into a pair of jeans, a washed-out gray hoodie, and my trainers. I glance at the bed Jodie slept in. The sheets are twisted and the pillows scattered, indicating she had a rough night. Nights before break-ups usually are. It was a quick drive to get here last night, because no one goes to The Hamptons when the weather is gray and heavy like this, and the icy silence in the car was only broken by muffled radio voices and nostalgic songs from the oldies channel. I guess our break-up was already a done deal and coming here just a formality. As if we couldn’t break up in our home, as though the many memories we made there would stop us. The sight of our bedroom door, some paint peeled off the upper right corner. The picture of us above the fireplace, of Jodie and me in Hawaii, when, perhaps for the last time, we looked immeasurably happy. I’d just left the D.A.’s office for Schmidt & Burke and we’d splashed out. Maybe I should never have left the District Attorney’s office. Perhaps me crossing over to the other side was what kick-started this entire process.

    But I know I’m only fooling myself. I know very well what has brought me here, bag in hand, ready to leave this weekend place where we never really belonged anyway. It’s me, and the immutability of what I feel inside, of not being able to meet Jodie halfway in this—not even a quarter of the way really. I know what I’m walking away from, however, and it hurts so much I find it hard to put one foot in front of the other, to leave this room in which we haven’t slept together for a very long time. We came here to talk, to smooth things out, or, at least, that’s what we told ourselves. It’s not as if we could say, “Hey, let’s go to The Hamptons and finally get this break-up over with, shall we?”

    But then I somehow find it in myself to start walking. I descend the stairs for the last time—because why would I ever come here again? Jodie is in her robe, her hands clasped around that coffee mug that should be empty by now. What do we do? How do we say our final goodbye? I can’t just walk away. Not after six years with her. There needs to be a gesture of closure.

    “This is it, then,” Jodie says, fingers wound tightly around the mug. Outside, the wind howls, and I feel its echo in my heart. My heart wants to scream. I want to cry. But I need to hold it together, need to make it to the car in one piece.

    “Will you be okay getting back?”

    But Jodie is a public transport girl, and she can train her way out of anywhere. She nods. Why am I prolonging this agony? Her hair is almost dry now. I always envied how she can wear it long and never has to do anything to make it look fabulous. “It just dries into perfection,” she used to say when she was feeling sassy.

    Will she walk toward me? Or, because I’m the one who’s doing the leaving, should I make a detour? I’m by the door already, but only because the stairs end there. Again, I’m frozen in my spot. Am I doing the right thing? I recognize this last question as panic. Last-minute nerves. Fear. What am I going to do without her? Without our apartment to go home to? Where am I going to stay? And what will she tell Troy when he gets back from Gerald’s on Monday evening?

    “Bye,” Jodie says, her voice a dagger in my heart.

    “Yeah.” The way we’re doing this stands in such stark contrast to how we were as a couple that, perhaps, it’s fitting. Perhaps this is the only way.

    I reach for the handle and open the door.

    Read a sample of Far from the World We Know

    Chapter 1
    Laura

    I’ve left the past behind, I think, as I flatten the last cardboard box. This one held the few books I brought. I stacked them next to Aunt Milly’s on the built-in shelves in her living room—my living room. It’ll take some time before I can think of this house as mine, especially because it’s not—not legally anyway. Aunt Milly’s name is on the deed and she’s still very much alive, though not so much kicking anymore.

    Sweet Aunt Milly, who understood, without me having to say a word, that I needed to leave Chicago, if not for good, then at least for a long time. She’s the only person I know in Nelson, Texas. Speaking of which, it’s almost time for my daily visit to Aunt Milly at Windsor Oaks, the retirement home she now resides in. I offered—basically insisted—for her to stay in her house. It’s surely big enough for the two of us, and I work from home, so I could have taken care of her every need, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

    “It’s time for me to leave as well,” she’d said, and, in turn, I had understood her meaning in those few words.

    I put the flattened box in the garage with the rest and go in search of my running shoes. Windsor Oaks is in the center of town, about two miles from where I live. Running back and forth doesn’t come close to the distances I used to run along Lake Michigan, but it’ll do for now. I find myself exhausted after four miles these days. “This could be a result of the severe trauma you suffered,” the last doctor I visited in Chicago said. He must have been right. And then, out of nowhere, there are the flashes in my mind again. The ones I’m so powerless against. Blood pooling on the living room carpet and the sound of bone breaking, over and over again. I shake my head and refocus on tying my laces. Running is the only thing that makes that distorted movie in my brain stop.

    * * *

    “Are you taking care of my spider plant?” Aunt Milly asks, as she does every single day.

    In response, I show her a picture I’ve taken this morning on my phone.

    “How do I know you’re not showing me the same picture every day?” she asks with a grin.

    “You know because I’m your favorite niece and I wouldn’t deceive you like that.”

    “I have no choice but to believe you, but my favorite niece you are.” Her face goes blank for an instant. Every time it does, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s thinking about what I’m thinking about. About the events I asked her not to speak of anymore. That doesn’t mean every single second of it doesn’t still occupy my mind. 

    “How was your run?” she asks. “It must be getting hot out there.” The temperature in Aunt Milly’s room is always exactly the same, no matter the conditions outside, and warm enough for the sweat to keep pearling on my forehead. “This is nothing,” Aunt Milly says, then falls silent again.

    I wish, for her sake, that I was the kind of person who could make endless chitchat, but that’s not me. So we often sink into a companionable silence for minutes on end, me racking my brain for a tidbit of safe information I haven’t shared with Aunt Milly yet, and, judging by how her eyelids sometimes droop, my aunt dozing off in her chair. As long as she knows she’s not alone, I think, as I always do when I fail to come up with more words.

    “Any exciting plans this weekend?” she asks, as her eyelids flutter.

    “Tending to your garden.” Although garden is a big word for the patch of overgrown grass and weeds at the back of the house. After she broke her hip last year, Aunt Milly wasn’t able to take care of it anymore.

    “It’s your garden now, dear.” By the time she gets to the word dear her voice has lost its oomph and I can tell she’s getting tired. She takes a few seconds to catch her breath. “Why don’t you go to Sam’s Bar on Saturday? It’s not good for you to be on your own all the time.” This last statement seems to have zapped the last conversational energy from her body.

    “I’m not though, am I?” I give her a kind smile. “I have you.”

    She just nods.

    “I’ll let you rest now.” I push myself out of my chair.

    “That’s okay, dear. Just stay a little while longer.” Aunt Milly closes her eyes.

    I sink back into the chair and wait until I hear her breath steady itself and she breaks into a gentle snore. Every day I come here, we perform a different variation of this conversation, and every time, when we reach this bit—contemplative for me, drowsy for her—I think exactly the same thing: being alone is good and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

    * * *

    After I return home and take a quick shower, I stand in front of the fridge and realize it’s empty. I quickly push back the memory of how a not properly stocked refrigerator made Tracy feel. I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve become so lax about grocery shopping simply because I can now, then head to the supermarket. Nelson only has one and, when I first arrived, I was amazed by how spotless and brand new it looked. It’s not massive, but the aisles are wide and I never feel rushed when I push my cart through them and examine what’s on offer.

    I don’t get out much—Aunt Milly is surely correct about that—so when I do, I like to take my time. I wasn’t born a hermit. And a daily run works for me now, but I know its magic will cease to be enough soon. So I make a point of nodding at everyone I encounter, sometimes even throwing in a smile. I’m not out to make friends just yet, but having a chat with someone closer to my age range wouldn’t be a bad thing, I guess. I’m just afraid of what might slip out if I let my guard down even a little.

    I scan the vegetable aisle, pondering what to make for dinner, when another shopping cart crashes into mine.

    “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” a woman says, but she doesn’t pull her cart back. “I was rushing again, as usual.”

    “Never mind.” I give her a smile so as to reassure her that it’s really no big deal.

    The woman stares intently at me for a second too long. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” she asks. “I’ve seen you run along Main Street. I have my office there.” She paints a big smile on her face and extends a hand. “I’m Tess Douglas, managing editor of The Nelson Ledger, which basically means I do everything.”

    “Nice to meet you. I’m Laura.” I barely touch my palm to hers. “And yes, I am new.”

    Tess flicks a strand of hair away from her shoulders and looks at me again. “Welcome to Nelson,” she says. “Are you here to stay? Where did you move from?”

    “From Chicago. And I—I might be.” I start pulling my cart out of the way, anxious to get back to my shopping and not prolong this conversation.

    “Do you work here?” Tess quirks up her eyebrows. She really wants to know everything.

    “I’m a freelance graphic designer, so I can work pretty much anywhere.”

    “Oh!” She clasps a hand over her mouth. “You might just be what I’ve been looking for, Laura,” she exclaims, her voice going all high-pitched.

    I should be amused by this comment, but it terrifies me instead. What does this woman want from me? I pull my cart a bit farther away from her to indicate that I want to move on.

    TNLThe Nelson Ledger—has been ready for a makeover since I started working for it in 2006… Well, actually, come to think of it, long before that, but I digress. I finally scraped a budget together and I’m ready to start talking about it to people like you.”

    “I’m very sorry, Tess,” I say with a firm voice. “I’m currently not looking for new clients.”

    Tess’s posture deflates a little. Then she inhales, and it’s as though the oxygen she sucks in instantly replenishes her bravado. “Maybe you can recommend someone then?”

    This woman really will not let up. “Maybe,” I mutter.

    She reaches into her purse and gets out a business card. “Here. Call or email me if you think of someone… or when you do have time for new clients.” She follows up with a wide smile, baring a row of ultra-white teeth.

    “Sure.” I take the card and, without looking at it, drop it into the side pocket of my jacket. “It was nice meeting you.”

    “Yes,” Tess, who suddenly seems a bit flustered, says. “Take care now.” With that, she spins her cart around and heads into the opposite direction.

    Full on much, I think, as I follow her with my gaze. She’s tall and her full hips sway a little as she walks. Her blond hair comes to well below her shoulders and… her stare unsettled me a little. Perhaps I could have been more polite, but she made me feel so cornered, what with her cart blocking mine—though I could have just turned around.

    I refocus my attention on the vegetables to steady myself. I think I’ll have sweet potatoes with my dinner tonight.

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