Skip to main content

 
The Box Set is here!!
The box set is now out! The entire four book series, now out on Amazon. 

Connor Beauregard is no stranger to audacious dreams, but when he stumbles upon the golden ticket—medical marijuana legalization—he's ready to turn the world into his playground. In the heart-pounding Cannabis Preacher series, join Connor, his best friend Rafael, the magnetic Kayla Montecito and the mysterious Al Ivers as they navigate the treacherous landscape of high-stakes finance, legal drug dealing, and the elusive pursuit of success. As fortunes rise and fall, alliances shift, and danger looms, the series guarantees an adrenaline-fueled ride through the ruthless world of corporate greed, money and deals. Brace yourself for a roller-coaster of ambition, betrayal, and unexpected alliances as Connor's journey unfolds across four gripping novels. In the ruthless landscape of the cannabis industry, our characters face not only cutthroat competition and relentless financial pressures but also the constant threat of betrayal from those they trust. As they navigate a world where fortunes can be made or lost overnight, the personal stakes intensify, weaving a narrative that explores the delicate balance between ambition, loyalty, and the harsh realities of an industry that demands everything and forgives nothing.

The Cannabis Preacher box set is your ticket to an immersive experience, featuring nearly half a million words of edge-of-your-seat action and twists that will keep you guessing until the very end. Are you ready to take the plunge into the gripping unknown?

Find out what the hype is all about. Check it out on Amazon and thinkingdogpublishing.com. #boxset #thrillerbooks #thrillerseries #indieauthor #thrillerbooktok #thinkingdogpublishing #crime #suspense

 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

A Bird Pooped on My Head and Other Life-Changing Moments

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...