Cash In Hand by T.A. Moore – Blog Tour & #Giveaway

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Cash In Hand by T.A. Moore – Blog Tour & #Giveaway

Cash In Hand

By: TA Moore

Release Date: December 15th, 2020

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The Storyline of Cash In Hand

Cover Art

The last monster died a hundred years ago. At least, that’s what the monsters want you to think.

Half-monster Cash just wants to keep his head down and raise his daughter, Ellie, to be an upstanding member of monstrous society. Even if she’d rather spend the summer with her human friends than learn the art of man traps at Camp Dark Hollow.

So the last person Cash wants to see is her uncle Arkady Abascal, who’s also Cash’s ex-boyfriend.

Arkady has more than Ellie’s summer plans on his mind. He’s there to enlist Cash to find out who’s been selling monster secrets. Cash hasn’t gotten any better at telling Arkady no, but it’s not just his weakness for Arkady that makes him agree. The Prodigium thinks an Abascal exposed them to humans, and now the whole family is at risk—including Ellie.

Recruited to help Arkady identify the culprit—or frame a scapegoat—Cash finds the machinations of monstrous power easier to navigate than his feelings for Arkady. At least, at first. But when things get bloody, he wishes romantic disasters were all he had to worry about….

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Welcome (Back) to Book Gemz: T.A. Moore

Guest Post

First of all, thank you so much for having me! I’m thrilled to be here with my new release, Cash in Hand by TA Moore. Any of you who read Bad, Dad, and Dangerous very nearly got to read this in there. Cash in Hand was the first story I wrote for the anthology, the only problem with it was that it was…a bit long. It was a novel. So I was told to write another novella immediately, and Cash in Hand became a thing in itself! Which I hope you guys check out and enjoy!

For the blog tour I’ve written a short story set in the Prodigium world. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One by T.A. Moore

News spread by word of…mostly mouth, it was 85% mouth really, from butcher to baker to candle-maker (ok, that one wasn’t a mouth, but still).

There was to be a Wedding — the capitalisation audible in every voice no matter what said it–at the Abascal Hotel and Spa. Belladonna, the dark dame herself, was to host it.

In. A. Month.

There was obviously some machination there. A scandal to bury. A coup to discreetly boast about. That was for the cream of the Prodigium to worry about. For the rest of them they just needed to work how to source all the materials they needed to bid for the Abascal’s patronage on short notice.

After all, how did you find a gross of murderers’ hands to finish the table setting with when you only had a month to work with?

“No, really,” Astrid said. She picked up a sandwich from the lunch box and waved it in the air in exasperated figures-of-eight.  “How? I had a dozen in storage, of course, but where I am to get the rest? I’ve begged my contacts on Death Row to see if they could push a few through early, but it’s not like the old days. People don’t want to put themselves out.”

She took a sulky bite out of the sandwich and then pulled it away from her mouth to squint at it dubiously. Red goo leaked out over her fingers.

“This is jelly,” she said distastefully and pulled up the corner of the bread. “And…brown stuff?”

Dim tossed another load of dirt over his shoulder and straightened up. He braced the shovel against the dirt and leaned his weight on the scarred wooden handle. Sweat itched on the back of his neck and under his arms. He wiped his face on his sleeve, dirt on top of dirt.

“Peanut butter and jelly,” he said. “What were you expecting?”

She scowled down at him from her perch on the gravestone. “Brie,” she said. “Garlic butter sausage. Shaved skin. But you’re right. Once this wedding ruins us, we’ll have to get used to not having the finer things in life anymore. I’ll be eating peanut butter sandwiches and catering Bar Mitzvahs and you’ll be…mending socks on street corners.”

That possibility made her sigh heavily, but didn’t put her off eating the rest of the sandwich. She chewed on mordantly on the crusts as she swung her feet against the stone.

“I thought you were going to help,” Dim said.

“Uh, I did,” Astrid said. She gestured at the half-excavated grave. “The gravesite of an unconsummated bride? What more do you want?”

“Help digging?”

“Do I look like I dig holes?”

“You’re a ghoul! I know you do.”

“Not in this outfit,” Astrid sniffed. She stuck one long, bony leg out in front her. “These are designer jeans. I’m not getting corpse goo on them.”

Dim rolled his eyes and went back to work. Usually, he had people for this sort of thing, but every graverobber in Roanoke was booked out weeks in advance and this was a special request.

“Designer jeans, my ass,” he muttered under his breath as he dug. “Rip offs.”

“What?” Astrid snapped.


The shovel hit wood with a solid thunk. Finally. He used the blade to scrape the dirt away from the lid. A small, brass plaque was screwed to the wood. Dim crouched down, licked his thumb, and rubbed it over the gritty, warm metal.

“It says Dennis,” he said.

“The nose knows,” Astrid insisted. “That’s a bride dead on her wedding day, darling.”

“It says he was 92.”

There was a thump as Astrid finally jumped down into the grave. She shouldered Dim out of the way and squinted at the plaque herself for a second. As if he’d just forgotten how to read.

“Maybe it’s meant to say Denise,” she said and waved jam sticky fingers at the coffin. “They just ran out of room.”

Dim shook his head. “Let’s just get the lid off and see what we’re working with here,” he said. Even if he had to dig another hole, maybe he could use the materials from this one for something. “Can you–”

Astrid made a distressed noise. “I just got my nails done, Dimi,” she whined. “I don’t want to get them dirty.”


“Hold the torch?” Dim asked.

She thought about it for a second and brightened. “That I can do.” Clods of dirt thunked back down on the coffin lid as she scrambled back out. It took a second as she trotted back over to get the torch from the guard and then came back. She clicked it a couple of times and then it came on, a bright puddle of light splashed over the old coffin.

Dim used the shovel to break through the lid and pulled away chunks of treated, half rotten wood with his hands. Denis had been dead long enough that the smell was faded, the ripe bouquet of rot and embalming fluid faded to a dusty memory of corruption.

“Huh,” Dim said.

Astrid steadied herself on the headstone and leaned over to peer in. She raised perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Huh.”

In the coffin, laid out on stained satin, the desiccated mummy of an old man lay with his wizened fingers tangled through the ribs of a skeleton in a tattered, yellow wedding dress. An old, old stained bloomed pink on the lace.

It might have been wine.

Dim scratched his jaw. “I suppose I can work with this,” he said. “Toss me the sack, Asi?”

She dropped it on top of him, damp and smelly canvas. He neatly excavated the grave, scrambled out with the knobby bag on his back, and filled it back in again. The sod didn’t look quite how it had when they’d started, but it was an old grave. No one would look that closely.

Not once they dragged the guard’s body to the other side of the graveyard.

Astrid refused to give the lunch box back. It was retro, she said, and that was fashion forward.

“Would it count if you killed them yourself?” he asked as they got into his car. “I mean, not like any of them are properly hanged anymore.”

She paused for a second as she considered and then shrugged.

“I suppose if it doesn’t work, I’ll at least have my freezer stocked for the year,” she said. “I just have to find 120 murderers. Know any?”

Dim shrugged and started the car. “Who doesn’t?”

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Book Specifics

  • Book Title: Cash In Hand
  • Author:  TA Moore
  • Release Date: December 15th, 2020
  • Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
  • Genre/s: MM Paranormal Romance
  • Length: approx 183 pages
  • Stand Alone Book

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Buy Links for Cash In Hand

About the Author


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T.A. Moore is a Northern Irish writer of romantic suspense, urban fantasy, and contemporary romance novels. A childhood in a rural, seaside town fostered in her a suspicious nature, a love of mystery, and a streak of black humor a mile wide. As her grandmother always said, ‘she’d laugh at a bad thing that one’, mind you, that was the pot calling the kettle black. T.A. Moore studied History, Irish mythology, English at University, mostly because she has always loved a good story. She has worked as a journalist, a finance manager, and in the arts sectors before she finally gave in to a lifelong desire to write.

Coffee, Doc Marten boots, and good friends are the essential things in life. Spiders, mayo, and heels are to be avoided.

T.A. Moore’s Social Media Links

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads

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  • This post contains affiliate links.  They are no cost to you but help to keep my little site afloat.  Check out my disclosure.
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