Your Sound by Katia Rose 💕 Book Blitz & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Contemporary Romance)

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Molly Myers is just your average groupie next door.

Literally.

The rock star whose posters cover her bedroom wall is banging her roommate right on the other side of it. Even for Molly, reigning queen of embarrassing moments, the situation is epically awkward. Every thump of the headboard is just one more reminder that the lead singers of famous bands don’t date bumbling shy girls too anxious to leave their own rooms.

JP Bouchard-Guindon wasn’t looking for Molly’s room when he accidentally burst through the door, but the wild-haired girl lying there in her underwear was certainly worth the detour.

As the keyboardist for Montreal’s latest indie rock sensation, JP has met his fair share of fangirls. He’s always ready to throw up some finger guns for a photo. What he’s not ready for is the way skittish, wide-eyed Molly Myers gets stuck inside his head.

A practical joker and a social recluse are the last people anyone expects a connection between. She’s silence aching for a voice, and he’s sound with a craving for quiet. Their differences will either pull them together, or fracture their worlds when they push them apart.

You know what they say: if you don’t have a weird roommate, you are the weird roommate.
I tip the contents of my laundry basket out on my bed and reach to turn up the volume on my speakers. My ‘Putting Clothes Away’ playlist—which features a lot of Adam Levine—is currently blasting out of the surround system. Along with my vintage record player, the speaker set is probably the only thing of value in my tiny, stuffy, and currently sweltering bedroom.
“Try to tell you no, ‘cause I’m busy folding up this dress. Try to tell you stop, ‘cause my laundry is all still a mess.”
The towel starts slipping off my head as I nod along to the beat of my improvised lyrics. I straighten it back in place and glance at the rest of my outfit—a ribbed green tank top, faded pink I’m-Down-To-My-Last-Pair-And-Desperate granny panties, and a Korean cloth face mask complete with nostril holes that makes me look like Voldemort had drunk sex with a mannequin.
Yeah, no way I’m the weird roommate.
-----

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Sorry for being so awkward. It’s just, I, um, I really like your music.”
“Well, thank you,” I tell Molly. “Are you talking about Sherbrooke Station, or my solo side project as Quebec’s premium francophone rapper?”
Her eyes spark. I’m definitely getting some crazy fan vibes here.
“You have a side project?” she asks, like I’ve just given her some kind of top secret government information.
“Yeah, it’s dope,” I tell her. “I wear a raccoon hat and a bandana. My first hot single is dropping soon.”
I pose like a gangster with my arms crossed and shoulders hunched, raising one hand in a fake gang sign. I lift my chin at Molly.
“Word,” I say gravely, “to your mother.”
She stares at me for a moment and then her face splits into a smile for the first time.

“You’re joking.”

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You know what they say: save a snare, bang a drummer.

Kay Fischer is well aware of what they say, and she intends to ignore it completely.

After her first step into the world of music journalism ended with a screw-up so royal it deserved a crown, Kay’s been struggling to re-stack the building blocks of her career. Salvation comes in the form of Sherbrooke Station, the latest alt-rock craze to grace Montreal’s legendary music scene.

A front page feature on the band everyone’s talking about seems like a foolproof shot at success, even after Kay meets their drummer. Matt Pearson might have a smile sexy enough to be the eighth deadly sin and a passion for music so powerful it makes her heart ache, but Kay’s got things under control.

She’s a professional, goddammit, and a professional would not get tongue-tied over a source, even a source who’s a six-foot, tattooed rock god with an affinity for tight jeans.

A professional would not find herself opening her door at an hour long past midnight to pull said source inside and lead him to her bed.

No, that’s not at all what a professional would do.

How do you teach a rock star how to meditate?

The number one question on Stéphanie’s mind sounds like the start of a bad joke, and life would be a whole lot easier if she actually knew the punch line.

Her meditation coach job description said nothing about private lessons for the most infamous lead singer in Montreal, but somehow Stéphanie still finds herself sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, right next to a pierced and tattooed music legend who’d rather be anywhere else.

Meditation classes are Ace’s final chance to convince his record label that the last bender he went on really was his last. The demons that have sent him to the bottom of countless bottles might not give a damn about ‘soothing rhythmic chanting,’ but it’s either this or game over for his career.

He’s not what she wants. She’s not what he’s looking for. Yet somewhere amidst all the incense fumes, the lines between student and teacher get blurred.

Even as their deep breathing exercises become nights filled with panting and gasps, Stéphanie can’t ignore the darkness that never quite leaves Ace’s eyes. It’s a darkness she knows far too well, and if she’s not careful, the cost of helping Ace find his way might just be losing herself.

Your Echo is part of the Sherbrooke Station Quartet, a series of steamy rock star standalones from author Katia Rose.

Katia Rose is not much of a Pina Colada person, but she does like getting caught in the rain. She prefers her romance served steamy with a side of smart, and is a sucker for quirky characters. A habit of jetting off to distant countries means she’s rarely in one place for very long, but she calls the frigid northland that is Canada home.