Hell Hath No Furry

Mikaela “Mike” Mitchell, reporter for Daisy, TX, and maid of honor for her best friend’s wedding, has everything under control—until she trips over a dead guy in a fur-suit.

She promised the big day would be purr-fect—and an active crime scene just isn’t the vibe she’s going for. Unfortunately, with the annual Cowbells and Crops adults-only convention in town, the complications keep piling up.

So instead of organizing tents and tablecloths and writing articles on how to have a spanking good time, Mike's going to catch a killer—whether her growly boyfriend, Ryder, likes it or not.

And that would be…not. But what’s the big deal? The killer isn’t coming after her. Right?

Tropes

Cozy mystery meets erotic romance, amateur female sleuth, former military hero, small quirky town, whodunit

Excerpt of Hell Hath No Furry

What did one wear to a spanking demonstration? Mikaela “Mike” Mitchell investigated her closet for the third time, shifting hangers with clever grammatical t-shirts and various shades of denim jeans. She glanced down at her current outfit. The glow-in-the-dark bat inviting people to the dark side was perfect October attire, but not for a seminar at the Tool Shed. The first event of the Daisy, Texas annual kink convention—Cowbells and Crops—required something a bit more serious.

With a sigh, she selected a plain black V-neck and black jeans. If she paired them with her flat black boots and silver earrings, she’d blend—with the BDSM crowd, at least. There was no blending with the furries that attended the event, unless she finally ordered that unicorn onesie she’d had saved in her Amazon account forever. And based on some of the elaborate gear the attendees had been dragging in with them to the inn, a onesie would get her laughed into the lake.

After quickly spreading on a fresh layer of deodorant, she donned her all-black camouflage. Then she tugged her long brown hair into a high ponytail and rushed out the door with a granola bar in one hand, cell in the other. The Tool Shed, a boutique sex-toy shop right behind the Flour Bed Bakery, was practically across the street from her home in the Daily Peat office.

Two steps onto the sidewalk, her phone rang—her bestie, the almost bridezilla.