{"id":2060,"date":"2013-12-17T00:33:38","date_gmt":"2013-12-17T05:33:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bookmaven623.wordpress.com\/?p=2060"},"modified":"2013-12-17T00:33:38","modified_gmt":"2013-12-17T05:33:38","slug":"promo-the-ever-trilogy-by-jasinda-wilder","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jackiepaxsonauthor.com\/index.php\/2013\/12\/17\/promo-the-ever-trilogy-by-jasinda-wilder\/","title":{"rendered":"Promo: The Ever Trilogy by Jasinda Wilder"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Today’s treat is a promo for Jasinda Wilder’s newest series.\u00a0 The first two books of the Ever trilogy, Forever & Always and After Forever,\u00a0 will be out on Friday.\u00a0 Today you are lucky enough to have an excerpt of the first chapter.\u00a0 Enjoy this preview because like me you will want to run out and get these books as soon as they come out!<\/p>\n

\"banner\"<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u00a0Forever & Always \u00a0and After Forever<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

(The Ever Trilogy)<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Jasinda Wilder<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Expected Release: Dec. 20th, 2013<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Add Forever & Always to Goodreads<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Add After Forever to Goodreads<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Hosted by: The Book Avenue<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Join the Release Party Here<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\"both\"<\/a><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

Synopsis<\/h1>\n
\n

Ever,<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

These letters are often all that get me through week to week. Even if it\u2019s just random<\/p>\n

stuff, nothing important, they\u2019re important to me. Gramps is great, and I love<\/p>\n

working on the ranch. But\u2026I\u2019m lonely. I feel disconnected, like I\u2019m no one, like I<\/p>\n

don\u2019t belong anywhere. Like I\u2019m just here until something else happens. I don\u2019t even<\/p>\n

know what I want with my future. But your letters, they make me feel connected to<\/p>\n

something, to someone. I had a crush on you, when we first met. I thought you were<\/p>\n

beautiful. So beautiful. It was hard to think of anything else. Then camp ended and<\/p>\n

we never got together, and now all I have of you is these letters. S**t. I just told you I<\/p>\n

have a crush on you. HAD. Had a crush. Not sure what is anymore. A letter-crush? A<\/p>\n

literary love? That\u2019s stupid. Sorry. I just have this rule with myself that I never throw<\/p>\n

away what I write and I always send it, so hopefully this doesn\u2019t weird you out too<\/p>\n

much. I had a dream about you too. Same kind of thing. Us, in the darkness, together.<\/p>\n

Just us. And it was like you said, a memory turned into a dream, but a memory of<\/p>\n

something that\u2019s never happened, but in the dream it felt so real, and it was more,<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t even know, more RIGHT than anything I\u2019ve ever felt, in life or in dreams. I<\/p>\n

wonder what it means that we both had the same dream about each other. Maybe<\/p>\n

nothing, maybe everything. You tell me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Cade<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

~ ~ ~ ~<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Cade,<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

We\u2019re pen pals. Maybe that\u2019s all we\u2019ll ever be. I don\u2019t know. If we met IRL (in real<\/p>\n

life, in case you\u2019re not familiar with the term) what would happen? And just FYI,<\/p>\n

the term you used, a literary love? It was beautiful. So beautiful. That term means<\/p>\n

something, between us now. We are literary loves. Lovers? I do love you, in some<\/p>\n

strange way. Knowing about you, in these letters, knowing your hurt and your joys,<\/p>\n

it means something so important to me, that I just can\u2019t describe. I need your art,<\/p>\n

and your letters, and your literary love. If we never have anything else between us,<\/p>\n

I need this. I do. Maybe this letter will only complicate things, but like you I have<\/p>\n

a rule that I never erase or throw away what I\u2019ve written and I always send it, no<\/p>\n

matter what I write in the letter.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Your literary love,<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Ever<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Excerpt<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

CHAPTER ONE\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

~ CADEN ~<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

It\u2019s always the hands that mess me up. I can never get the fingers right, somehow.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s something about the proportions between the knuckles, and the way the<\/p>\n

fingers are supposed to curve when at rest. I had an entire sketchbook full of failed<\/p>\n

attempts.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Even at that moment, in the passenger seat of Dad\u2019s F-350, I was sketching out<\/p>\n

another attempt. My tenth so far, and we weren\u2019t even to Grayling yet. This one was<\/p>\n

the best yet, but the middle knuckles of the last two fingers looked awkward, like<\/p>\n

they\u2019d been broken.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Which gave me idea. I glanced over at Dad, who was driving with his left hand,<\/p>\n

the right resting on his thigh, fingers tapping to Montgomery Gentry on the<\/p>\n

radio.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDad?\u201d A sideways glance and a raised eyebrow were the only acknowledgement I<\/p>\n

got. \u201cYou ever broke your fingers?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cYeah, broke most of my left hand, matter of fact.\u201d Dad took the wheel with his<\/p>\n

right and showed me his left hand. The knuckles were bulbous, the fingers crooked.<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t get \u2019em set right, so they\u2019ve always been kinda fucked up.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cHow\u2019d you break \u2019em?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

The fingers in question scratched at a shaved scalp, the stubble of a receding<\/p>\n

hairline whisking under his nails. \u201cMe and your Uncle Gerry were out in the back<\/p>\n

forty, riding the fence line, checking for breaks. My horse got spooked by a snake.<\/p>\n

He threw me, \u2018cept my hand was tangled in the reins. Dislocated most of my fingers.<\/p>\n

Then, when I hit the ground, his hoof landed on the same hand, broke the middle<\/p>\n

two pretty good. Your Gramps is a hardass, and I knew he\u2019d wallop me good if I<\/p>\n

came back without the job done. So I set the broke fingers best I could. There was a<\/p>\n

busted fence post, see, way out at the far corner, and Dad\u2019s prize Thoroughbred kept<\/p>\n

getting out. Gerry and I fixed the break and went home. I never told Dad about my<\/p>\n

fingers, just had my mom wrap \u2019em for me. Never really healed right, and even now<\/p>\n

when the weather\u2019s shitty my hand aches.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I\u2019d heard the stories of my father\u2019s childhood growing up on the Wyoming horse<\/p>\n

ranch that had been in the Monroe family for several generations. Every summer<\/p>\n

of my entire life had been spent on that ranch, riding and roping and tagging and<\/p>\n

birthing and breaking. Gramps didn\u2019t accept excuses and didn\u2019t tolerate weakness<\/p>\n

or mistakes, and I could only begin to imagine what it had been like growing up with<\/p>\n

Connor Monroe as a father.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Gramps was a tall, silver-haired, iron-hard man. He\u2019d served in both Korea and<\/p>\n

Vietnam before returning to work the ranch. Even as his grandson, I was expected<\/p>\n

to pull my weight or go home. That meant up before dawn, to bed past sunset, the<\/p>\n

entire day spent out in the field or in the stables, rarely even sitting for lunch. At<\/p>\n

fourteen, I was tanned, muscled, and, I knew, hardened to the point of looking older<\/p>\n

than I really was.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad had been the first Monroe son to pursue a career away from the ranch, which<\/p>\n

had caused a decades-long rift between him and Gramps, leaving Uncle Gerry to take<\/p>\n

over running the ranch as Gramps got older. Dad left Wyoming after high school,<\/p>\n

moving to Detroit on his own to become an engineer. He\u2019d started on the floor of a<\/p>\n

Ford plant, assembling truck frames and attending night school until he\u2019d completed<\/p>\n

his degree, and eventually he\u2019d been promoted to the engineering department,<\/p>\n

where he\u2019d worked for the last twenty years. Despite his decades as an engineer,<\/p>\n

Dad had never really lost the wild-edged intensity of his upbringing.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cWhy the questions about my fingers?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I shrugged, tilted the drawing into his line of sight. \u201cI can\u2019t get these damn fingers to<\/p>\n

look right. The last two look messed up, and I can\u2019t fix it. So I thought I\u2019d make \u2019em<\/p>\n

look broken, on purpose.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad glanced at the drawing and then nodded. \u201cGood plan. The relationship between<\/p>\n

your angles and curves is off, is your problem. I\u2019m more of a draftsman than an<\/p>\n

artist, but that\u2019s my two cents.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I made a surreptitious study of Dad\u2019s broken fingers again, adjusted the knuckles on<\/p>\n

the pencil-rendered hand, making them look misshapen and lumpy, then worked on<\/p>\n

the tips of the last two fingers, curving them slightly to the left, zigzagging the fourth<\/p>\n

finger to resemble Dad\u2019s. When I was done, I held up the drawing to show him.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad cut his eyes to the drawing and back to road several times, examining critically.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. Best one yet. The index finger still looks a little goofy, but otherwise good.\u201d<\/p>\n

He punched a button on the truck\u2019s radio, bypassing the commercial that was airing<\/p>\n

in favor of a classic rock station. He turned it up when Led Zeppelin\u2019s \u201cKashmir\u201d<\/p>\n

came on. \u201cI think this summer art camp will be good for you. Interlochen is one of<\/p>\n

the best art schools in the country.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I shrugged, bobbing my head to the beat, mumbling along with the lyrics. \u201cIt\u2019s weird<\/p>\n

to not be going to the ranch.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cGramps\u2019ll miss your help this summer, that\u2019s for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cWill he be mad at me for not going?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad shrugged. \u201cHe\u2019s Gramps. He\u2019s always mad about something or at somebody.<\/p>\n

Somethin\u2019 to stew on gives him reason to get up in the morning, I think. He\u2019ll get<\/p>\n

over it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t get over you moving to Detroit,\u201d I said, spinning my pencil between his<\/p>\n

fingers.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cTrue. But that\u2019s different. Every Monroe boy since before the Civil War has lived<\/p>\n

and died on the ranch. I broke a family tradition going back a hundred and fifty<\/p>\n

years.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Conversation faded after that, and I watched the road and the corn fields and the<\/p>\n

blue sky spotted by puffs of white, listening to Jimi Hendrix singing \u201cPurple Haze\u201d<\/p>\n

and twist the guitar strings into shrieking banshees. I-75 eventually was replaced<\/p>\n

by M-72, and I felt myself nodding off. A while later, I blinked awake and Grand<\/p>\n

Traverse Bay sparkled off to the left, a dozen sails flashing white in the distance.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cThought we were going to Interlochen?\u201d I asked, rubbing my eyes. The bay was<\/p>\n

farther north.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cNo rush. Thought we\u2019d grab some lunch before I drop you off. Ain\u2019t gonna see you<\/p>\n

for a while, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

We ate at Don\u2019s Drive-In, a retro burgers-fries-and-milkshakes kind of place, small<\/p>\n

and cramped, red plastic-leather booths, chrome table edges, and black-and-white<\/p>\n

checkered tiles on the walls. We didn\u2019t talk much, but then we rarely did. Dad was<\/p>\n

a reserved man, and I\u2019m a lot like him. I was content to eat my burger and sip my<\/p>\n

shake, worrying internally about spending an entire summer around a bunch of<\/p>\n

artsy kids I didn\u2019t know. I\u2019d grown up around silent, hard-bitten cowboys, men who<\/p>\n

chewed tobacco and swore and could\u2014and often did\u2014go days without much more<\/p>\n

than a grunt or two. I knew I was a talented artist, as capable with pens and pencils<\/p>\n

as with paint. What I wasn\u2019t good with was people.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be nervous, son,\u201d Dad said, apparently reading my mind. \u201cFolks are folks, and<\/p>\n

they\u2019ll either cotton to you or they won\u2019t. That was my mom\u2019s advice to me when<\/p>\n

I left for Detroit. Just be you. Don\u2019t try to impress anyone. Let your work stand for<\/p>\n

itself.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t like school,\u201d I said, dragging a fry through ketchup. \u201cI know where I fit<\/p>\n

there: alone in the corner, with my notebook. I know where I belong on Gramps\u2019s<\/p>\n

ranch. I know where I belong at home. I don\u2019t know where I belong at an arts<\/p>\n

camp.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cWherever you are is where you belong. You\u2019re a Monroe, Caden. That may not<\/p>\n

mean shit to anyone else, but it should mean something to you.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cIt does.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cWell, there you go.\u201d Dad wiped his fingers with a napkin and sat back. \u201cLook, I get it.<\/p>\n

I grew up surrounded by thousands of acres of open land, all hills and horses, rarely<\/p>\n

seeing anyone but Mom and Dad, Gerry, and the other hands. Even school was the<\/p>\n

same kids from kindergarten to graduation. I knew everybody in my world, and they<\/p>\n

knew me. When I moved to Detroit it was scary as hell. Suddenly I was surrounded<\/p>\n

by all these buildings and thousands of people who didn\u2019t know me or give a shit<\/p>\n

about whether I made it or not.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cPeople confuse me.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cThat\u2019s cause most people don\u2019t make a damn lick of sense, if you ask me. Women<\/p>\n

especially. Trick with women is to not try and figure them out. You won\u2019t. Just<\/p>\n

accept \u2019em as they are, and try to go with the flow. Good advice for life in general,<\/p>\n

really.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDo you understand Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad let out a rare laugh, but I didn\u2019t miss the way the corners of his eyes tightened.<\/p>\n

Things had been strange and tense around the house lately, but neither Mom nor<\/p>\n

Dad was the type to talk about what was bugging them. \u201cI\u2019ve known your mother<\/p>\n

for twenty-five years,\u201d he said, \u201cand been married to her for twenty-two. And no, I<\/p>\n

still don\u2019t understand her. I know her, I get her, but I don\u2019t always understand the<\/p>\n

way her mind works, how she comes up with ideas or arrives at her conclusions or<\/p>\n

why she changes her mind so goddamn much. Makes my head spin, but that\u2019s how<\/p>\n

women are and that\u2019s how she is and I love her for it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

All too soon, Dad was paying the bill and the truck doors were slamming and we<\/p>\n

were hauling down US-31 toward Interlochen. The ride was quick, and then Dad<\/p>\n

was parking and unstrapping my duffel bag from the bed of the truck and handing it<\/p>\n

to me. We stood toe to toe, neither of us speaking or moving.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad pointed to the rows of tiny wooden cabins. \u201cThat\u2019s the cabins. You know which<\/p>\n

one you\u2019re in? \u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cYeah, number twenty.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cAlright then. Well, guess I\u2019ll be going. Gonna be a long drive without you snoring in<\/p>\n

the passenger seat.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cYou\u2019re just turning right back around and driving home?\u201d I asked, then immediately<\/p>\n

hated how childish and whiny that had sounded.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad lifted an eyebrow in reproach. \u201cYou\u2019re here for three weeks, Cade. You expect<\/p>\n

me to sit on the beach and twiddle my thumbs for a month? Your mom needs me<\/p>\n

home, and I\u2019ve got projects to finish at work.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I felt the question bubbling up, coming out, and couldn\u2019t stop it from emerging. \u201cIs\u2014<\/p>\n

is everything okay? With you and mom?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad closed his eyes briefly, breathed in slowly and let it out, then met my eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll talk when you get home. Nothing for you to worry about right now.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

That sounded oddly like an evasion, which was entirely out of character for my<\/p>\n

gruff, straight-talking father. \u201cI just feel like things are\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cIt\u2019s fine, Caden. Just focus on having fun, meeting new people, and learning. Keep<\/p>\n

in mind that this is three weeks out of your entire life, and you don\u2019t ever have to<\/p>\n

see these people again.\u201d Dad stuck his left hand into his hip pocket and wrapped his<\/p>\n

right arm awkwardly around my shoulders. \u201cI love you, son. Have a good time. Don\u2019t<\/p>\n

forget to call at least once, or your mom\u2019ll have a hairy conniption.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I returned the embrace with one arm. \u201cLove you too. Drive safe.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Dad nodded and turned back toward his truck, then stopped and dug into his back<\/p>\n

pocket. He pulled out a folded square of $20 bills and handed them to me. \u201cJust in<\/p>\n

case.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been saving my allowance,\u201d I said. Dad always expected me to earn money,<\/p>\n

never gave it for free.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cIt\u2019s\u2026just take it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I stuffed the money into my hip pocket and shifted my weight. \u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cBye.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cBye.\u201d I waved once, and watched Dad drive away.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

I\u2019d spent months at a time away from my parents, lived on Gramps\u2019s ranch for<\/p>\n

months at a time. Goodbye was nothing new. So why did this one feel so unsettling?<\/p>\n

\n

Follow the<\/span><\/b><\/em><\/h2>\n

Promo Tour tomorrow to read Ever’s POV\u00a0<\/em><\/h2>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Author Profile<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

\"Jasinda<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda<\/p>\n

Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men<\/p>\n

and strong women. When she\u2019s not writing, she\u2019s probably shopping, baking, or<\/p>\n

reading.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\u200bSome of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon,<\/p>\n

Liliana Hart and Bella Andre.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York<\/p>\n

City and Toledo, Ohio.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a<\/p>\n

cupcake.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Jasinda is represented by Kristin <\/a><\/p>\n

Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Author Links<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
\n

GR<\/a>\u00a0|\u00a0Website<\/a>\u00a0|\u00a0Facebook<\/a>\u00a0|<\/b><\/p>\n

Twitter\u00a0|\u00a0<\/a>Amazon<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

GET JASINDA’S OTHER BOOKS<\/b><\/p>\n

Falling Into You (Special Price $1.99)<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

Falling Into Us (Special Price $1.99)<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Stripped ($1.99)<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Wounded (Special Price $1.99)<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Big Girls Do It (Free)<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\"books\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Giveaway<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

a Rafflecopter giveaway<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Today’s treat is a promo for Jasinda Wilder’s newest series.\u00a0 The first two books of the Ever trilogy, Forever & Always and After Forever,\u00a0 will be out on Friday.\u00a0 Today you are lucky enough to have an excerpt of the first chapter.\u00a0 Enjoy this preview because like me you will want to run out and…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"content-type":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[59,529,593,787],"class_list":["post-2060","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-promotions","tag-after-forever","tag-ever-trilogy","tag-forever-always","tag-jasinda-wilder"],"yoast_head":"\nPromo: The Ever Trilogy by Jasinda Wilder - Jackie Paxson Author Page<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/jackiepaxsonauthor.com\/index.php\/2013\/12\/17\/promo-the-ever-trilogy-by-jasinda-wilder\/\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:title\" content=\"Promo: The Ever Trilogy by Jasinda Wilder - 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