Similar authors to follow
Manage your follows
About Robyn Peterman
NYT and USA Today best selling author, Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. She writes snarky, sexy, funny paranormal and snarky, sexy, funny contemporaries.
Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a Yeti cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals.
A former professional actress, with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the south with her family and too many animals to count. Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where she can work in her sweatpants works really well for her.
Customers Also Bought Items By
With a new job I didn’t apply for and an extended family I didn’t know I had—midlife has become somewhat problematic. Gluing ghosts back together is easy compared to my new celestial occupation.
The Grim Reaper wants to put a ring on it. Tim wants to be a father. Candy Vargo has lost her damn mind and Jennifer thinks we’re all sparkly vampires. I’ve been given an impossible task with catastrophic consequences for failure, but it wouldn’t be my midlife without another crisis.
What’s the saying? When in Crazytown, embrace the insanity or go insane. It’s time to lean into the madness. I’m putting down roots, pulling up my big-girl panties and getting down to business. With one month to succeed, it’s time to grow a bigger pair of lady-balls and play in the big league.
The rules are unclear. However, when it’s a matter of midlife and death, I’m making the rules. And I will win.
Midlife is sheer madness, and the facts of midlife are not taught in school. Unfortunately, some lessons are hellishly hard to learn.
I thought I had it figured out. I was wrong.
Proving I’m the Angel of Mercy is turning into a sh*tshow of epic proportions.
Not too long ago, I was a forty-year-old gal with a stable and boring life ahead of me. Now? Not so much. I have celestial siblings who are no walk in the park. Their decisions can destroy my future.
And of course, my predecessor has given me a month to do the impossible or I’ll lose everything that means anything to me.
Gluing ghosts back together is turning out to be the easiest part of my job.
Fine. If this is my fate, I accept. Nothing is impossible if you believe.
I choose to believe.
Once upon a time there was a paranormal romance author who caught her husband in a compromising position. One divorce later, she’s free and ready to start her new life at forty-two. Right? Wrong.
Divorced idiot ex: Check
Saved idiot ex from getting murdered by his new nasty gal pal: Check
Idiot ex accused me of trying to kill him: Umm check
Still seeing my fictional characters: Check
Teeny tiny crush on my lawyer: Check check
Town under siege by dark forces: Of course
Crazy enough to try and stop it: You bet
With the darkness on the horizon, I need to clear my name and get to work. Forming a Goodness Army is on the top of the list. Shockingly, my army consists of my wacky tabacky smoking aunt, my high school counselor who can shift into a house cat, the town gossip who turns invisible after downing five beers and a few fabulous others with nefarious talents. And of course, a cast of fictional characters…who I created and definitely have an opinion on how I should proceed.
What could possibly go wrong?
I’m going on pure gut instinct at this point, and I can’t wait to see how the plot turns out. I may be wrong. I may be write. Either way, I’ll just keep turning the pages until I find my happily ever after.
Not to mention a mission...with no freaking directions.
So here I sit in Asscrack, West Virginia trying to figure out how to complete my mysterious mission before All Hallows Eve when I’ll get turned into a mortal. The animals in the area are convinced I'm the Shifter Whisperer (whatever the hell that is) and the hotter-than- asphalt-in-August werewolf thinks I'm his mate. Now apparently I'm slated to save a bunch of hairy freaks of nature?
If they think I'm the right witch for the job, they've swallowed some bad brew.
Featuring 19 all new tales spotlighting women forty and over having the time of their midlife.
Those aren't gray hairs, they're strands of glitter letting the world know you're fabulous. So adjust your crown and join us as we celebrate women who are fabulous, over forty, and aged to perfection in this magical paranormal women's fiction romance collection. Includes stories from some of today's top PWF authors, NY Times and USA TODAY bestsellers, as well as new emerging voices in the genre.
Includes 19 brand new never before released stories from:
Mandy M. Roth--Running with the Devil
Michelle M. Pillow--Merely Mortal
Robyn Peterman--My Big Fat Hairy Wedding
Kristen Painter--Code Name: Mockingbird
Yasmine Galenorn--Weaver's Web
Milly Taiden--Surviving Midlife
Renee George--The Age of Inno-Scents
Jenna Rivers--Spell of a Time
Reggi Dupree--Midlife Collision
Shéa MacLeod--Day of the Were-Jackal
Christine Gael--The Bargain
Charise M. Studesville--The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose
Christine Zane Thomas--A Touch of Twilight
Macy Dixon--Midlife Shelf Life
Stephanie Berchiolly--Train Bound to Forty
Bobby Leigh--Snow Hill: Hexed On A Feeling
Jade Greenberg--Magic Takes Manhattan
Aaron M. Cabrera--The Invention of Magic
Whoever said life begins at forty must have been heavily medicated, drunk, or delusional.
Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good.
But as they say, all good things come to an end. I’d honestly love to know who ’they’ are and rip them a new one.
One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed and breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semi-transparent people has become a side job—deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there. I think they need my help, but since I don’t speak dead, we’re having a few issues.
To add to the heap of trouble, there’s a new dangerously smokin’ hot lawyer at the firm who won't stop giving me the eye. My BFF is
thrilled with her new frozen face, thanks to her plastic surgeon, her alimony check, and the miracle of Botox. And then there’s the little conundrum that I’m becoming way too attached to my ghostly squatters… Like Cher, I'd like to turn back time. Now.
No can do.
Whatever. I have wine, good friends, and an industrial sized box of superglue. What could possibly go wrong?
All in all, it’s shaping up to be a wonderful midlife crisis…
It’s Christmas at the Cressida House and all Hell is breaking loose.
Tree? Decorated and lit. Elf on a Shelf? Seated with style. Baby Jesus on the mantle? Fourteen neatly in a row. Life sized Nutcracker? Creepy, but standing proud. Invitations sent to entire immortal family to celebrate the holiday? Possibly the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever done.
Mixing Heaven and Hell on my cousin’s famous birthday seemed like such a brilliant idea. I wanted my baby’s first Christmas to be special—memorable. I’d like chalk my heinous idea up to having been fallen down drunk, but that won’t fly as it’s insanely difficult for a Vampyre to tie one on. So instead I’ll deal with obscene gifts from relatives, kidnapped rock stars and catering by Mother Nature.
To complicate matters, our new family pet thinks the whole house is his toilet. Ethan and I can’t even find a room with working lock on the door to spread a little holiday cheer.
Never, never again. Christmas from now on will be at a freakin’ spa for the undead—no poles for dancing and no slumber parties with the Devil.
I just have to make it through the next twenty-four hours without beheading a beloved one.
Merry freakin’ Christmas—and Happy New Year.
It’s all fun and games until someone throws a dirty jumper rollup and you lose out in the Cornhole tournament of life.
According to Baba Yoscarybutt, it’s time for me to witch up or step back down into the Cornholio minor leagues. While Cornhole is definitely not my beanbag, I can’t stand to lose.
I don’t want to be the next Baba Yaga. I’m doing just peachy as the Shifter Wanker who heals the clumsy idiots of Assjacket, West Virginia. I love my life. My werewolf mate is hotter than asphalt in August, my twins are adorable, my dad and brother rock, and I have real friends for the first time in my life.
However, when my evil nemesis, Medusa Jones, steps up to throw a floppy bag and steal the title of Future Baba Yaga from me, all bets are off.
I will challenge the nasty piece of work to win back the job I didn’t want in the first place.
With Sassy and Fuc*ing Derrick by my side, I will finally own my destiny. Of course, Fuc*ing Derrick is prone to meltdowns and Sassy is trying to learn Canadian, but one deals with the floppy bags they’ve been dealt and tosses them anyway.
It will be dangerous.
It will be cornfusing.
It will be fashionably disastrous.
It will be televised on the magical Charm Channel.
Whatever. A few four baggers, a couple of woodies, a Bigfoot and spell or two should do the trick.
The future of the magical Universe is on the line and I’m the only one who can save us.
May the Goddess help us all.
And the crisis… it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Being forty is supposed to be freaking fabulous not fatal.
Taking on a daunting new job minus the description isn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, even if it was to save a friend. Hopefully, it doesn’t turn out to be the stupidest… or deadliest.
Why can’t things stay the way they were? I love my old job. Supergluing ghosts back together and solving their issues is its own reward. Not to mention, I’m seriously good at it. Although, I must say, I’m ridiculously excited for the new Death Counselor’s arrival in nine months...
Adding to my problems, there are four new angels in town who are riding my butt and judging every move I make. Literally. Who knew destroying one Immortal could cause me so much trouble? If I’m found guilty, I’ll be pushing up daisies.
Luckily, my nutty friends have my back and the Grim Reaper has my heart. What could possibly go wrong?
Nothing is impossible. I am living proof. Let’s just hope I live to prove it.
~Make a map of every closet and bathroom in your home if you enjoy having sex. Sleep deprivation can cause confusion and a map will help if you only have seven minutes and thirty-one seconds. You’re welcome.
~Parenting books are useless if you're not human. If your child is half Vampyre/ half Demon I would suggest not using parenting books at all--they can backfire like a mother humper. Trust me on this.
~When your child tells you he has an imaginary friend, do not discount this as fantasy. Often times your child isn't imagining anything. If he persists with alarming and violent stories about this fictional buddy it's probably a Troll. Do a thorough search of your home and kill it. Decapitation works best. Some imaginary friends are harmless. However, it's wise not to take chances.
~Have sex again.
~When in large crowds, make sure you hold tight to your child's hand. Losing a child in an amusement park is terrifying. If you're truly paranoid a parent could consider putting a chip in their child. If you do this don't discuss it at dinner parties. People will think you are weird.
~At least cuddle.
~Playing with dolls is fun. Being one? No so much. If your child ever finds a Genie in a bottle, flush it immediately. Many children wish for things that are very difficult to reverse...like being doll sized. If this happens, move to Oz. There are many people of small stature there. And yes, it really does exist.
~Find a closet and go to town.
Welcome to my own personal Hell.
Occupation: Vampyre Warrior—one of the deadliest in the world.
I plan. I fight. I win. Always.
However, it’s never taken me this damned long to get what I want before.
Only I would be blessed with a Vampyre mate I’d have to chase for two centuries. The chemistry between us is steamy and the sex is sizzling, but I want more—I want it all.
Now just as I’m finally wearing Raquel down, I find I have competition—not for my mate's hand—but for her very existence.
Raquel may run and she may hide, but she is mine and I will no longer take no for an answer. Whatever is in the way between us doesn’t matter. We were made for each other.
Nothing anyone can do will change that simple fact…except maybe the Trolls...or the Wraiths...or the reclusive, insane Vampyre sister of my King who wants to drink my mate dry for reasons no one will freakin’ explain to me.
Damn it, I thought the chase was difficult…keeping Raquel alive might prove to be my undoing.
At forty-two I’ve had my share of ups and downs. Relatively normal, except when the definition of normal changes… drastically.
NYT Bestselling Romance Author: Check
Amazing besties: Check
Lovely home: Check Pet cat named Thick Stella who wants to kill me: Check
Wacky Tabacky Dealing Aunt: Check
Cheating husband banging the weather girl on our kitchen table: Check
Nasty Divorce: Oh yes
Characters from my novels coming to life: Umm… yes
Four months of wallowing in embarrassed depression should be enough. I’m beginning to realize that no one is who they seem to be, and my life story might be spinning out of my control. It’s time to take a shower, put on a bra, and wear something other than sweatpants. Difficult, but doable.
With my friends—real and imaginary—by my side, I need to edit my life before the elusive darkness comes for all of us.
The plot is no longer fiction. It’s my reality, and I’m writing a happy ever after no matter what. I just have to find the write hook.