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GUEST POST and INTERVIEW with Heather Hill, & EXCERPT of “The New Mrs. D”

December 9, 2015 2 Comments

heather hill

About author, Heather Hill: Heather is a Scotland based comedy writer, author and mum of five (not the band). She is one of a rare kind; the rare kind being one of only 0.5% of women who are colourblind. She has been known to leave the house with blue eyebrows on at least one occasion. Her debut novel, ‘The New Mrs D’ is being pitched for film by a British TV comedy producer and Snipper Films.

**Contact Heather: Website   Instagram   Twitter


GUEST POST

Three Reasons Why Authors Should Never Give Up

At the age of forty, I was working in an office doing a job I hated. I had been overlooked for promotion or even a pay rise after being instrumental in creating some fantastic money saving administrative tools for the company that weren’t seen as part of my job. I just did them because I could and I offered, thus saving the company thousands of pounds as they were going to have to hire an outside contractor for the work had I not volunteered to do it.

One day, I was standing at a photocopier, making four copies of over four hundred documents for my boss, thinking, ‘what am I doing with my life?’ I thought of all the jobs I’d held over the years and how I had made almost all of them more interesting for myself by doing work outside of what was expected of me – mostly creative stuff – and always underpaid, handing it over to those on far larger salaries than mine with a smile and a ‘here, have this.’

That afternoon, I quit my job.

More recently, (and after I had finished my first book), I watched Steve Jobs talking about the pathway to success in his address to Stamford on YouTube. He said, ‘you’ve got to find what you love.’ He talked about how all the courses and jobs he had done in his adult life, no matter how insignificant he thought they were at the time, had played some small part in his pathway to success. He said, ‘you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward.’

I began to connect my dots.

I began to think of all the jobs I’d ever done and all of my life experiences to date and a little girl of eight or nine who used to write short stories that her father loved so much, he encouraged her to submit them to publications. None of them made the grade and her father died when she was fifteen, taking with him all those magnificent ideas that she could write things people might like to publish. It was twenty five years before she remembered them. She, was me.

And if you are reading this now with interest, she is also YOU.

So, to my three reasons why authors should never give up:

  1. Because no one can make you give up except yourself and you’re not going to do that, are you?
  2. Because if you are a true writer, all you can think about doing with your life is writing. And as Steve Jobs said, ‘you have to find what you love.’ If you have found what you love and it serves you well, you should never let it go.
  3. Because if you are lucky enough to have been blessed with a talent, you should spend every day in gratitude for it and you have absolutely no right not to use it.

Good luck, fellow writers!


 

INTERVIEW

Describe your writing style in five words: Conversational, comedic, acerbic, stream-of- consciousness, observational.

Have you always wanted to be an author? Not at all. I always loved to write but never believed I had it in me to be a writer until I hit what I can only describe as a ‘what am I doing with my one and only life’ crisis at forty. Up until then it was my dearest wish to be a nurse, but I failed the course miserably in my twenties.

What is your writing/editing/publishing process like? I am most definitely a night owl as for whatever reason, it is when my head hits the pillow for some much needed sleep that ideas start to hit me. More recently, I realised I was spending too much time on my bahookie (that’s Scottish for ‘bum’) and so bought myself a treadmill to give myself a workout every day. I’ve now discovered I get my best ideas on the treadmill. Like getting off it.

Editing is a way too slow process for me. I’ve been editing my latest book now for over six months which is shocking. But I do feel I have to put my completed manuscript aside for a good while before I can really look at it again with fresh eyes and see all the clangers. So in truth, the best way to really describe my editing process is laughing out loud at my clangers for four months before thinking, ‘ooh, I better get on with this.’

Hard/paperbacks or eBooks? I have loved books for my entire life. The smell, the feel, the joy of spending hours and hours in a book shop or library – you can’t beat any of it so yes, the hard copy wins every time for me. Having said that, the ebook is a Godsend when you have very little money, as new writers often do. You have to do what Stephen King advises when you are a writer: read. Write. Read. Read. Read. Write. Read. There is no doubt that since ebooks came about I am now able to afford so many more books and have exactly what I want in my hand the minute I think of it. That is pretty intoxicating stuff.

At what time of day do you think you work best? Night time. I’m either a vampire or an owl, because my mind seems to come alive at night, even though I do feel tired. But I’d die if I ever found a dead mouse in my bed so I must be a vampire…

Tell us about what a typical day is like for you: I’m a mum of five, although three have now grown up and left home so I now hold down no less than four jobs. I write, I spend time promoting my writing, I supplement my income with some blog writing for businesses and I look after my eighteen-month old grandson while my eldest daughter goes out to work. So my writing is a luxury, most often left for after hours as it is hard to think of new comedy plot lines while there’s toddler running all round the room shouting ‘biscuit!’ at you. Although the shape sorter lid he often wears as a hat does help with the comedy thought process.

How do you come up with the title of your book, The New Mrs. D? Confession time: I didn’t. It’s a long story but I had a very dear friend, who I actually met on Twitter, who encouraged me to write a book after telling me how much my jokes cheered his day. You see, he was dying of cancer when we began conversing and has since passed away. His name was Hywel Jones, but he told me he was adopted and his birth name was David Dando.  I travelled 200 miles to visit him just days before he died and promised to name a character in the novel he had encouraged me to write in it. When the book was finished, I named it ‘Mrs David Dando’ – the premise being that the main character had completely assumed the name of her husband, thus relinquishing her own identity in marriage. (She would drop this in the end).  But my agent advised me to change the title, eventually coming up with ‘The New Mrs D’ herself when my other ideas, such as ‘Elle McPherson Stole My Body’ just didn’t work.

What is your favorite part about being an author? It is being able to take an idea from the deepest recesses of your mind and share it with a wider audience. Even when the feedback isn’t complimentary, I still get a buzz knowing someone in Australia sat one day reading my book. No matter where I end up in life, I wanted to write and I reached readers around the world. I will always feel grateful for that.

Is the social media a help or a hinder? It can be both if you let it. But I began writing after opening a Twitter account, tweeting random funny thoughts and jokes from my own head and cultivated quite a good following. Then I was voted one of the funniest women on Twitter by The Huffington Post and I thought, ‘wow, I can make people laugh.’ So, my writing career was actually born out of social media so I would have to say a big, BIG, help.

Every author must have (a): Huge shoulders for shrugging off criticism. It is so hard putting your ideas, creative work and thoughts out into that big, wide world which has suddenly become much smaller thanks to the internet. Now every man and his dog can leave you a scathing review and no matter who you are, they can hurt if you aren’t able to develop a good, healthy attitude to it. I firmly believe the fear of being criticised stops many people from even attempting to write a book and that is a real shame. You have to remember that you can’t please everyone and it is a rare writer indeed who can produce books every ardent reader on the planet will love. Comedy in particular is very, very subjective. Writing takes inordinate passion… and with inordinate passion comes inordinate criticism. You have to not let it sway you away from the path of doing what you love. Who wants to die thinking, ‘what if I’d tried?’ Not me. Not you.

What do you want your readers to take away from your books? With ‘The New Mrs D’ I genuinely hoped to make people think and open up quite a taboo subject for debate. It is about porn addiction and only shows one woman’s opinion of that and how it has affected her. I am the first to admit that her reaction isn’t how everyone would react, but it is after all a representation after months and months of research on how women are coping with discovering their husband’s porn use on the internet. I talked to many women who have been afraid to admit, even to their closest friends, that they felt threatened enough by it to leave. The other aspect is having a character with huge personality flaws and who marries a man in haste. I got a lot of criticism about that. People saying, ‘why would any woman be that dumb?’ I can assure you it is neither dumb, nor as unusual as you might think. It is a point that I think puts people off when they begin reading the book. But characters aren’t interesting to me unless they are as flawed as real people.

What are you working on right now? It is a fast-paced, fun-filled tale about three widows in their sixties, who decide to try and get a reading from a world famous psychic medium for one last message from their late husbands. After failing to be chosen at the show which was to be his last before retiring, they embark on a road trip to his house on the Isle of Islay in Scotland to beg him to do one last reading… and end up accidentally kidnapping him.


the new mrs d

Blurb: Four days into their honeymoon in Greece, Bernice and David Dando have yet to consummate their marriage and after having accepted his almost non-existent desire for sex throughout the relationship, Bernice finally discovers the reason; he is addicted to porn. Learning that the love of her life chooses the cheap thrill of fantasy over her is devastating but then, ‘every man does it; it’s just looking, right?’ If she leaves the relationship because of virtual adultery, will she be labelled as pathological, overreacting, or even worse, frigid?

When funny, feisty, forty-something Bernice plans the adventure trip of a lifetime, she doesn’t expect to be spending it alone. But as it turns out, unintentionally contributing to a Greek fish explosion, nude karaoke and hilarious misadventures with volcanoes are exactly what she needs to stop fretting about errant husbands and really start living. But when Mr D tries to win her back, Bernice has a decision to make: is this a holiday from her humdrum life, or the start of a whole new adventure?

EXCERPT

‘Why are you alone?’

The question came from a little girl sat at the next table with her parents –who were both engrossed in the game. She had long dark hair, green eyes and peered at me polishing off the last of my meal over small, round glasses. Pretending not to notice she was speaking to me, I ignored her and waved to get the waiter’s attention.

‘Could I have some water please?’ I said, pointing to my glass and giving him a wink, in case it was international waiter/customer language or something. After dinner and one half of a carafe of wine, I was beginning to think I might need scissors to get the crushing Spanx pants off later. And wasn’t I supposed to be cleansing myself of all this boozy living?

‘Well, why are you?’ the little girl continued to question me.

I looked at her and forced a smile. ‘Because that’s the way I like it,’ I said.

‘By yourself?’

She continued to stare without blinking, making me shift in my seat like a Mastermind contestant on their fourth pass.

‘What happens just before a man…’

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

‘I’ve started so I’ll finish! …ejaculates?’

‘Ooh… err… I used to know this one! Oh, it’s been a long time… Erm… Oh, pass!’

‘Evie!’ The brusque voice of the little girl’s mother brought me back to reality. ‘Don’t be so rude! I’m so sorry.’ The woman smiled at me before turning Evie back round to face her. ‘Leave the poor lady alone.’

The words, ‘poor lady’ stung a little. It was how I must have looked – a poor, lonely lady.

Sighing, I picked up my handbag and headed for the toilets. As I checked my reflection, I reaching into my handbag for some lipstick, but instead found some kind of wire coiled inside. I tugged on it and out popped a bulbous object I recognised. Oh for heaven’s sake! I’d dropped the damn pelvic toner in my bag! I pulled the machine out and stared at the cone, wondering if this was a sign telling me I was to be condemned to Slack Vaginasville for forgetting today’s session. Maybe I could just nip back to the apartment after my meal and have an early one? I could phone Suzy while I was squeezing. Urgh, noooo. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Anyway, could I hold a vaginal cone in for twelve minutes without a toilet break after a half carafe of wine? Deciding against it, I shoved it back into my bag, which I threw over my shoulder, checked my hair in the mirror and hurried back outside.

As I strolled back to my table, there was a tug at my shoulder.

‘What’s that thing?’ It was Evie, and the cheeky little minx was tugging on my handbag!

Turning to see what she was referring to, I froze on the spot. To my horror, I realised she was pulling on the wire from the pelvic toner, which was hanging out of my half-closed bag.

‘Get off that!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to…’

‘Wow! What is that?’

As the entire thing came free into her hands, she stood gazing at the cylindrical bulb in wonderment. It was time to think up some very clever explanation and fast. However, I was pants at that.

‘It’s a… it’s a…’

Looking around the taverna it was clear everyone was – thankfully – focussed on the football, which by now had now kicked off.

‘It’s a mini karaoke machine,’ I lied. ‘But it’s broken, so give it back to me please.’

‘A karaoke? Oh, I love singing! Can I have a go?’

‘Well, you could but as I said, it’s broken so…’

She rolled the vaginal cone around in her hands, fiddled with the buttons on the monitor and stared back up at me. ‘How is it broken?’

‘See, there’s no music. Now if you’ll just give it to m…’

‘Mummy, look at me! This lady gave me a microphone! She wants to hear me sing! Can I?’

Her mother was still engrossed in the TV and without turning waved a hand at her. ‘Okay, that’s lovely Evie, now shhh!’

’Water for you?’

My waiter had appeared, giving Evie the chance to break away, skipping round the back of the tables holding the vaginal bulb to her mouth as a makeshift microphone.

‘BAYBEE, BAYBEE, BAYBEE OHHHH!’

I looked at the waiter, who was now watching her with a bemused look on his face.

‘Please,’ I said, grasping his arm. ‘I’m actually feeling a little sick. Do you mind if I cancel the rest of this order and just pay my bill?’

**Buy “The New Mrs. D”: Amazon – UK   Amazon – US   Paperback

**Also available to order at all UK Waterstones, Foyles Bookstores & WH Smiths branches


 

**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter to win a $50 Amazon Gift Card!


The New Mrs. D

**Click HERE to see more stops on Heather’s Chick Lit Plus Blog Tour!


Filed Under: Heather Hill, The New Mrs. D Tagged With: Author Interview, Books, Chick-Lit, CLP blog tours, Giveaway, Guest Post, Heather Hill, Romance, The New Mrs. D, Women's Fiction

EXCERPT and INTERVIEW with Vicki LeSage, author of “Christmas Confessions & Cocktails: A Humorous Holiday Memoir with Sassy Drink Recipes”

December 8, 2015 4 Comments

vicki lesage

About author, Vicki LeSage: Bestselling author Vicki Lesage proves daily that raising two French kids isn’t as easy as the hype lets on. In her three minutes of spare time per week, she writes, sips bubbly, and prepares for the impending zombie apocalypse. She lives in Paris with her French husband, rambunctious son, and charming daughter, all of whom mercifully don’t laugh when she says “au revoir.” She penned the Paris Confessions series in between diaper changes and wine refills. She writes about the ups and downs of life in the City of Light at VickiLesage.com.

**Contact Vicki: Website   Facebook   Twitter


INTERVIEW

Describe yourself in five words: Outgoing, friendly, loyal, sassy, and chatty, if I do say so myself.

Tell us about your writing/editing/publishing process: Nerd alert! It involves lots of spreadsheets. I like to get a rough outline going in a spreadsheet and then I track my word count as I go. Not all chapters have to (or even should be) the same length, but it’s a good way to keep an eye on things as they go so I don’t end up with a book that’s ridiculously short or embarrassingly long. Also, having a spreadsheet helps me focus: I usually try to write one chapter and edit one chapter per day, and the magic spreadsheet lets me know where I’m at on that. For the actual writing part, I do try to let myself go a little more. I’ll sit down with an idea in mind and just roll with it.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer? I still don’t know if I want to be a writer! This gig is hard. But it’s fun, and every time someone says they enjoyed one of my books, I’m reminded of why I do it.

Hard/paperbacks or eBooks? While I love the feel of a “real” book, I don’t have room for books in my tiny Parisian apartment! So I love ebooks. I can have as many as I like!

At what time of day do you work best? I work best in the morning right after my first sip of coffee. Assuming the kids aren’t around to knock over my coffee mug or whine about something or fight with each other.

Salty or sweet? Salty. One time for “dessert” I made myself some mashed potatoes with hot dogs. It’s weird, I know. And my husband will NEVER let me live it down. “What kind of cake would you like for your birthday? Mashed potatoes and hot dogs?” Don’t tempt me!

Is the social media a help or a hinder? I love it but talk about a time suck! I’ll go on social media to post about something and I’ll get totally distracted by all the funny/interesting/cute stuff my friends post and then I can’t remember what I came on there for. Kind of like when you open the fridge and forget what you were looking for. But worse because at least with the fridge I can probably find some wine 🙂

If you could meet any author, who would it be? Tina Fey. That chick is pure awesome. I know she’s not strictly an author but hey, she wrote a book so it totally counts.

Where do you see yourself in five years? While I love living in Paris, my family of four is going to outgrow our one-bedroom apartment by then, so we will probably have to leave Paris. Maybe go to the US? (And yes, you read that right: My husband and I share a room with our 3-year-old and our baby. Glamorous, no?)

Every author must have (a): Support system. Mine is my husband, my mom, and my business partner at my indie publishing house, Velvet Morning Press. And I have a wider network of author friends that help in all sorts of ways. Even if you’re an author who’s an introvert, you still need a support system to get through everything this career will throw at you!

What do you want readers to take away from your books? I hope I can make readers laugh, either at me or with me. I’m not picky. And I hope I can give them a glimpse of what it’s really like to live in Paris. We don’t always ride bicycles while holding baguettes and wearing berets. Just most of the time.

What are you working on right now? I am working on my first chick lit novel–quite a huge departure from my series of memoirs. I’m also working on getting more than 5 hours of consecutive sleep in a night, so it might be a while before this book is done!


 

christmas confessions and cocktails

Blurb: American-turned-Parisian Vicki tells it like it is, from her crazy Christmases growing up in the Midwest to her even crazier holidays in her new home in France. Bizarre gifts, stomach-turning food, and holiday travel disasters are just some of the tales you’ll chuckle at in this installment of the Paris Confessions series.

This Christmas-themed memoir features 25 funny and heartwarming essays, all with a tenuous tie to Christmas, and pairs each with a delicious drink recipe. So grab your martini shaker and get ready for tasty cocktails and hearty laughs this holiday season!

EXCERPT

Years later, I married the love of my life, Mika. It would be hard to find a bad quality about this guy. He’s patient. He’s kind. He’s funny and smart. He’s a wonderful husband and an amazing father.

But he absolutely sucks at killing bugs.

His technique: Grab a paper towel and stomp loudly toward the bug, usually scaring it away before arriving on the scene. If the stupid thing sticks around, it’s only because he’s thinking, “Get a load of this guy and his soft, fluffy paper towel. What’s he planning to do with that? Tuck me in to bed and sing me lullabies? Sounds lovely!”

Mika’s “plan” is to gently cover the area the spider is occupying, and to—I don’t know—just hope the spider crawls into the paper towel’s pillowy folds, leading itself to death? Of course the spider darts away each time and now Mika’s just wasted a paper towel.

“You have to smash it. With force,” I said, with all the knowledge of a backseat driver. “The paper towel is just to protect your fingers from the carnage. You actually need to kill it with your hand.”

He gave me a look like, “Holy hell, who did I marry?”

I gave him a look back like, “You better kill the next one or you won’t stay married for long.”

One week later, I was minding my own business (so, ending world hunger or spending too much time on Facebook) and I heard a loud SMACK in the kitchen.

“Check this out,” Mika said, entering the living room with a smile on his face and a dark smear on a paper towel.

Ah, my technique worked.

*****

This doesn’t solve my mom’s problem, though. My newly-trained bug-killing husband was thousands of miles from St. Louis. My step-dad, Doug, will take care of any insect problem, but what does my mom do if he’s not there? She would never kill an intruder herself, but she can’t stay frozen in one spot all weekend.

Enter the best Christmas present ever, courtesy of SkyMall: the bug vacuum.

I’d traveled home for Thanksgiving one year, opting for the cheaper international fares for that time period compared to Christmas. After reading the in-flight magazine cover to cover (or at least taking the Mensa quiz to feel smart), I perused the SkyMall catalogue.

Have you ever looked in that thing? I wanted to buy everything on every page! And I nearly did.

Toy gun that shoots marshmallows? Perfect for my trigger-happy, sweets-loving brother. (Bonus: New way to play fetch with Chopper.)

A glass display case for children’s artwork where you slide in their new artwork while cleverly hiding their previous masterpieces so that you don’t have a house full of scribbles? Perfect for my colleague who has two adorable, prolific, artistic children.

Collapsible silicone wine glasses that you can—get this—fold up and tuck in to your back pocket so you’re ready for any occasion? I might just have to get those for myself.

A bug vacuum with extendable arm and a circular shield to trap the bug before being sucked away to get zapped by a jolt of electricity go live on a farm in the country? Perfect for my easily-spooked arachnaphobic mother. She talks smack about bugs, but can’t handle actually smacking any.

Bonus gift: A battery-operated bug-zapping tennis racket for the flying critters. Plus it counts as exercise because it has “tennis” in the name.

I filled out the order form and dropped it in the mail when I landed. Christmas shopping had never been so easy.

Bug vacuum: $64.95

Battery-operated bug-zapping tennis racket: $16.95

Living in a bug-free house: Priceless

**Find the book: Amazon   GoodReads


**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter to win a copy of “Confessions of a Paris Party Girl”


Christmas Confessions & Cocktails

**Click HERE to see other stops on Vicki’s Chick Lit Plus Blog Tour!


Filed Under: Christmas Confessions & Cocktails: A Humorous Holiday Memoir with Sassy Drink Recipes Tagged With: Author Interview, Books, Boox Excerpt, Chick-Lit, Christmas Confessions & Cocktails: A Humorous Holiday Memoir with Sassy Drink Recipes, CLP blog tours, Giveaway, Holiday reads, Vicki LeSage

EXCERPT: “The Restoration of Otto Laird” by Nigel Packer

November 24, 2015 Leave a Comment

restoration of otto

“The Restoration of Otto Laird” by Nigel Packer

Blurb: Retired architect Otto Laird is living a peaceful, if slightly bemused, existence in Switzerland with his second wife, Anika. Once renowned for his radical designs, Otto now spends his days communing with nature and writing eccentric letters to old friends (which he doesn’t mail). But Otto’s comfortable life is rudely interrupted when he learns that his most significant and revolutionary building, Marlowe House, a 1960s tower block estate in South London is set to be demolished.

Otto is outraged. Determined to do everything in his power to save the building, he reluctantly agrees to take part in a television documentary, which will mean returning to London for the first time in twenty-five years to live for a week in Marlowe House. Once Otto becomes reacquainted with the city he called home for most of his life, his memories begin to come alive. And as he mines his past and considers life moving forward — for himself and his building — Otto embarks on a remarkable journey that will change everything he ever thought he knew.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

It was not uncommon, these days, for Anika Laird to return from one of her morning trips to town to find her husband standing naked in the kitchen window. The first time it hap- pened she was mildly surprised; by now it had become the stuff of routine. She would catch a peripheral glimpse of Otto as she cycled up the pathway, but the oblique angle of her approach, and a remnant of brick wall standing just beyond the window, prevented a more detailed study as she pedalled round the side of the villa to the front door. Once she was in- side, the image that greeted her as she propped up her bicycle and paused in the kitchen doorway was always the same. Otto stood with his back to her, his pale buttocks luminous in the gloom, and stared through the window with a still intensity. Sometimes, during rain, she would discover him pressing his fingertips lightly to the pane, one arm stretched before him in an attitude of silent reverence.

Anika watched in fascination from the cinnamon-scented doorway. Otto’s ageing body was transformed by the quiv- ering half-light into something elegant and weightless: an elderly sea lion, moving through the depths. He never seemed to hear her enter the house, or wheel her creaking bicycle through the hallway, and so she would watch him quietly for minutes at a time, breaking the silence with a soft call of his name. Invariably Otto came to with a start, the rim- less spectacles (his sole attire) bouncing on the bridge of his nose.

‘Anika,’ he would say, turning without embarrassment, ‘such terrible weather we are having – you must be soaked right through. Let me fix some luncheon for you while you change.’

Then he would gather up his discarded silk kimono from the stone floor, pull it about his unusually tall frame and tie the strings firmly round his scarred belly, closing each episode with a decisive gesture that seemed to rule out any need for explanation.

Rubbing a towel through her hair before the bathroom mirror, Anika pondered this odd, recurring scene with her husband. It troubled her to find Otto staring into space like that, not least because the kitchen window had no view. It was the only room in the house without one. Positioned immediately beyond it, the crumbling section of wall – part of an old cottage that once stood upon the plot – effectively blocked any sight of the surrounding hills, save for a hint of open landscape through a gap where some bricks had eroded. Despite Anika’s protests, Otto had insisted on leaving the wall in place when overseeing construction of the villa some eight- een years earlier. This was done partly from a sentimental attachment to vernacular architecture, partly from a sensuous attraction to the rough mauve bricks, with their regular intervals of vivid moss strata.

All the same, Otto’s choice of this particular window for his episodes of silent communion struck Anika as perverse. They had chosen this location specifically for its spectacular natural setting. Otto had designed their home with the greatest of care in order to maximise its potential. For anyone lucky enough to enter the Lairds’ hillside villa, the interior of the building never failed to draw gasps. It offered a dizzying profusion of light, glass and distant vistas; a three- dimensional frame through which to admire the pristine beauty of the Franco-Swiss borderlands. The blue hills of the Jura could be seen to the north; southward, the giant peaks of the Savoy Alps. Broken and discoloured as a dentist’s dream during summer, they were restored each year to a glinting perfection by the first winter snows. Underscoring this rampant geology was the wide expanse of Lake Geneva: implausibly blue when bathed in sunlight, impregnably grey when not. This, all of this, was available to the Lairds for moments of quiet contemplation; the same timeless land- scapes that had once inspired Voltaire, the Shelleys and Byron. Yet Otto – thinker, visionary, the avant-garde’s answer to Sir Christopher Wren – Otto seemed much happier with his piece of crumbling wall.

‘The inscrutability of genius,’ Anika told her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

In truth, she was not convinced by the term, but others had used it when describing her husband, so who was she to argue?

Wandering about naked, too. He must be losing his marbles. Thank God we don’t have neighbours for him to scare.

She thought of a Dutch phrase, and spoke it aloud.

‘Een gek. A crazy man. Whatever was I thinking?’

But she smiled to herself as she spoke.

Combing out the damp strands of vanilla hair, as long and striking now, when she was in her early sixties, as it had been when she first met Otto more than twenty years before, Anika glided from the bathroom to the south-facing lounge, paus- ing for a moment before its great wall of glass. An autumn breeze rippled the surface of the lake, while Mont Blanc in the distance lay truncated by the dark clouds troubling its heights, a legacy of the morning’s storm.

I could always knock it down, she told herself, thinking once more of the length of wall. One day when he’s off at a conference somewhere.

She would blame it on the bise, the brutal northerly wind that sometimes froze the lake-edge solid during winter, and could turn even the mildest spring days suddenly raw and hostile.

Otto entered the room, looking perplexed. He was carry- ing a tray laden with two mugs and a silver coffee pot. Setting down the tray on a low glass table, he retrieved a rolled-up magazine from the silk folds beneath his armpit, tossing it down with venom.

‘Unbelievable,’ he said, pausing to find a better word, before settling on the one he had already. ‘Quite unbelievable.’

Recognising the masthead of The Architectural Eye – Otto’s last remaining link, via monthly subscription, to a profession he had once helped to shape – Anika searched out her glasses in the pocket of her bathrobe and slid them onto her nose. The contours of the masthead sharpened before her as she picked up the magazine.

‘What’s upset you?’ she asked.

‘Page five, bastards,’ said Otto, whose habit of compressing two separate thoughts into a single phrase was familiar enough to Anika for her not to take offence. The expletive, she realised, wasn’t directed at her. She found the page and absorbed the headline.

MARLOWE HOUSE TO GO.

‘One of yours,’ she said.

‘They want to demolish it, buggers,’ said Otto.

There was a pause. Anika was browsing through a mental scrapbook of Otto’s landmark buildings, but she couldn’t place Marlowe House with any certainty. She took a chance.

‘London.’

He nodded.

‘The concrete tower block south of the river. The one that looks a little off balance?’

‘That’s the one,’ he replied, somewhat testily.

Built in the early 1960s, Marlowe House had been one of Unit 5’s defining achievements. Anika remembered Otto once telling her it had won a major architectural prize.

‘And what’s their reasoning?’

‘People don’t like living there, apparently. The local news- papers have been campaigning for years. Finally they have their wish. The plan is to knock it down and replace it with private apartments. Stupid arseholes, the lot of them.’

Otto bent angrily to pour out the coffee. He struggled to tailor his movements to the task in hand, spoiling the delicate operation with a spill and a low muttering.

Anika was reading the article.

‘But I thought it was listed,’ she said, looking up at him above the frame of her glasses.

‘They listed its twin, Taylor House, the building out west. But not Marlowe House. It was always the more problematic of the two. The wrong part of London. Social problems and poor maintenance. No fashionable young people to buy up the apartments and trumpet their architectural value. Still consists almost entirely of local-authority tenants, as far as I’m aware. Damned shame we never tried for a listing, though. It’s much the better building.’

He became lost in memory then, an increasingly common occurrence during recent years. Unlike most of his work, scattered around the world and rarely visited by Otto after completion, Marlowe House was a building he had observed for many years at first hand. This came about by chance, rather than design, as its distinctive profile could clearly be seen from the stands at the Oval cricket ground, a place where Otto, a keen follower of the game, had spent many a spare summer day during his three-and-a-half decades in England. Consequently, during quieter moments in matches, or in the blissful afternoon reverie that usually followed a teatime scotch, he would find his attention wandering from the field of play, over the gasworks and across the skyline, before coming to rest upon Marlowe House, its lines in the lower- ing sunlight as crisp and elegant as a well-timed shot to the boundary.

**Buy “The Restoration of Otto Laird”: Amazon   Barnes & Noble   Books-a-Million   Indi Bound


About author, Nigel Packer: Nigel is a former journalist, whose eclectic writing career spanned from music reviews for the BBC to a reporting officer at the International Committee for the Red Cross. He received his BA in Archaeology from the University of York and an MA from Leiden University. Nigel lives in London and The Restoration of Otto Laird is his first novel.


 

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Filed Under: Nigel Packer Tagged With: Books, Giveaway, New Release, Nigel Packer, The Restoration of Otto Laird

INTERVIEW with Courtney Psak, and EXCERPT of “Thirty Days to Thirty”

November 19, 2015 1 Comment

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Author, Courtney Psak: Courtney is a New Jersey native who grew up with a passion for reading and writing.

After traveling the world, she settled into New York City where she earned her Masters in Publishing.
She is a member of the National Writers Association and the Women’s Fiction Writers Association.
She currently resides in Hoboken with her husband.

She spends her weekends seeking adventure through hiking, skiing and traveling.

**Contact Courtney: Website   Goodreads   Author Central/ Amazon   Twitter   Instagram   Facebook   Blog

INTERVIEW

Describe your books in five words: Funny, inspirational, adventurous, friendship and romance.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer? I don’t know if it was so much of a decision as it was something I always did since I was little. It came naturally to me the same way someone realizes they like to paint or sing. I finally pulled the trigger on publishing this book since I am getting close to my thirtieth and considering the spirit of the story, I figured I would take my own character’s advice and accomplish one of my all time bucket list items.

Salty or sweet? Salty Sweet. Chocolate covered pretzels are my weakness.

What is the writing/editing/publishing process like for you? The writing process is great. It’s fun and it’s an amazing feeling to create a story of characters that you fall in love with.  The editing for me is a nightmare as I’m the worst editor ever. As far as the rest of the publishing process, which is building your author platform and marketing, it has been a scary but a fun learning experience.

At what time of day do you work best? On weekends it’s in the morning and on weekdays I’ll write a night.

If you could meet any other author, who would it be? James Patterson. He has the same quick writing style that I at least try to have. Plus the man knows how to market.

Where do you get ideas for your books? They really come organically. So my ideas come from everywhere really. For this book in particular I realized a lot of my friends, including myself, started to get the ‘quarter-life crises.’ We were upset over the fact that we were not where we thought we would be by this point in our lives. What I started to realize though, was that when life happens, it’s going to bring you places you never could’ve imagined you would be. In the process of trying to be a particular version of ourselves, we in fact, discovered who we really were.

What is the best advice anyone’s given you? Believe in yourself and never give up.

Hard/paperbacks or eBooks? I like to read multiple books at a time so ebook is my best friend.

Every author must have (a): Courage and confidence.

What do you want readers to take away from your books? That it’s not necessarily about the goals in life, but what you learn along the way.

What are you working on right now? I’m currently working on a book about a Hollywood Socialite who ends up on a reality TV show as the maid of honor to her best friend who is marrying her ex-boyfriend. The five words I would use to describe that book is funny, dramatic, dysfunctional, personal-growth (technically two words there).


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“Thirty Days to Thirty”: What if you were on the cusp of marrying the guy of your dreams and reaching that career goal you set for yourself, only for all of it to be taken away in one fell swoop?

What if this all happened a month before you turned 30?

This is the story of Jill Stevens, who after moving back home, finds a list she made in high school of thirty things she wanted to accomplish before her thirtieth birthday.

With a month left and hardly anything crossed off her list, she teams up with old friends to accomplish as much as she can before the big 3-0. Along the way, she discovers her true self and realizes it’s not about the material successes in life but the journey.

EXCERPT

“So do you want to talk about it?” my mom finally asks me, taking a seat next to me with a cup of tea.

“I’m not really ready to recap,” I tell her with a mouth full of peanut butter. “I’m still trying to process everything.”

My mother basically got the hysterical gist of it when I called her at midnight, crying, and all she could make out was “pig head … boyfriend … cheated on me … fired … homeless.” She sat on the phone with me while I tried to pull myself together, and finally ordered me to pack up and get on the next train home.

“I understand,” she says, sounding disappointed. “We can talk about what you want to do for your birthday coming up.”

I look up mid-bite to stare at her.

“It’s your thirtieth, it’s a big deal,” she presses.

Yes, I know it’s a big deal. It’s a big deal because that’s when you’re supposed to have your life together. “Mom, that’s really the last thing I want to think about right now.”

“Fine,” she says getting frustrated. After a few minutes of silence, she leans forward as if to say something and then retreats.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her, knowing I won’t be able to avoid hearing what she wants to say.

“Well, I mean, aside from wanting to know what happened, I want to know what your plan is to get past this? I don’t want you just sulking around the house for the next few weeks.”

“Come on, Mom it’s been twelve hours since my life fell apart. I can’t get a full day to mourn here?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she defends herself, shaking her head as if I’ve blown things all out of proportion. “I was just reading this pamphlet about how to handle adult children living at home that I downloaded off the Internet.” She stands up and pulls it out of a drawer underneath the phone. Then she hands it to me. I scan it over. “When the Empty Nest Becomes Full Again,” I read. “I don’t plan on being here that long,” I say, handing it back to her. “Think of it as a two-week vacation.”

She doesn’t say anything. She simply shrugs and puts the pamphlet back in the drawer.

Finally, I give in and proceed to tell her what happened. My father, who’s come in from the garage to get his keys out of the drawer, listens in and eventually joins us at the table.

“Those bastards,” he contributes.

“Tell me about it,” I say, looking down at my milk and swirling the liquid inside the glass.

“Can you sue them?” my mom suggests.

“For what, exactly? Even if I could, it’s a law firm. You ever try to sue a bunch of lawyers?”

They’re both silent for a moment and give each other nervous looks. It’s obvious they’re trying to be supportive but they don’t really know what to say.

“It’s fine.” I try to convince them and myself. “I’m going to call a headhunter first thing Monday morning and I’m going to bounce back from this in no time. I’ll start looking at apartment listings today. Everything will be fine.” I stand up from my chair.

“I think you should at least stay here until you find another job,” my mother says. “There’s no sense in you getting an apartment somewhere and finding out your job is a far commute.”

Stay here? I do a double take. I can’t imagine doing that. “Mom, it’s New York. No matter where I get an apartment, as long as it’s in Manhattan, the commute will be doable.” I stand up and dump the remainder of my milk in the sink and load my glass and plate into the dishwasher.

“Well, what if you don’t get a job in New York?” she says, turning around in her chair to face me.

“Why wouldn’t I get a job in New York?” I ask, confused, as I close the dishwasher and stare out the window. I feel my body turn to ice at the thought.

“Well, Jill,” my dad says, “the job market is pretty bad, and as great as your resume and your education are, there may not be a lot of opportunities out there.”

“All we’re saying is maybe you’ve outgrown the city, and maybe now it’s time to settle somewhere closer to home. Maybe you’ll meet someone and settle down,” my mom concludes.

“Really?” I say, shaking my head. “You’re really giving me the you-aren’t-getting-any-younger speech when I’m already at the lowest point in my life?” I start to storm towards the hallway. I really don’t need to be hearing this right now.

“Sweetie, it’s not that I’m trying to kick you while you’re down, I’m just saying maybe it’s time to start reassessing your life.” My mom stands up to follow me.

“Thanks for the talk,” I say, walking past her and back up to my room. I suddenly feel like I’m a teenager again as I slam the door to my room.

“Marilynn, she just got home. Go easy on her,” I hear my dad defend me.

“Martin, I’m just following the pamphlet,” she insists.

“Well stop reading,” he says. “This is our daughter, not a case study.”

Living at home with my parents in my thirties? Maybe I really am a case study. I barely made it out alive the first time, how the hell am I supposed to do it all over again?

**Buy “Thirty Days to Thirty” now!: Amazon   Barnes and Noble   Smashwords


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Thirty Days to Thirty (2)

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Filed Under: Thirty Days to Thirty Tagged With: Author Interview, Books, Chick-Lit, CLP blog tours, Courtney Psak, Excerpt, Giveaway, Romance, Thirty Days to Thirty, Women's Fiction

EXCERPT of “First & Goal” & GUEST POST by Laura Chapman

November 18, 2015 1 Comment

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“First & Goal” by Laura Chapman

Blurb: When Harper Duquaine’s no-nonsense approach to work unintentionally ruffles the wrong feathers at her new job, she joins her co-workers’ fantasy football league to prove she can hang with the guys. Only problem: she doesn’t know a sleeper from a keeper (or any of the other lingo thrown her way).

Embroiled in a world of lineups, stats, and trades, Harper’s quest to make nice topples when her competitive streak emerges. And her promise to herself that she’ll be a strong, independent woman and leave the drama and heartache behind is seriously tested when she catches the attention of her two biggest competitors: J.J., a local celebrity determined to win a fantasy championship, and Brook, the mild-mannered coach who seems too good to be true. Both threaten her resolve to remain single… and, more importantly, her chances at winning the prize pool.

With a slew of conflicting advice in her real and fantasy worlds, Harper must figure out how to play the game and come out a winner.

**Buy “First & Goal” now: Amazon   Barnes & Noble   Kobo

* * * * *

EXCERPT

While I dig through piles of green and yellow shirts, I call my younger brother, Christopher. I need advice before the draft. I may not be in this for the glory of victory or the money, but I don’t want to embarrass myself by coming off as an idiot.

His sleepy voice answers a second before it goes to voicemail. “What’s going on?”

Not wasting any time, I explain the situation. After giving him a minute to get the laughter out of his system, I tell him what I need from him. “I need a crash course in drafting a team.”

“Why do you care if it isn’t about winning?”

“Pride?”

He snorts. “Fair enough. Do you have a pen and paper?”

My hands freeze on a long-sleeved green and yellow rugby style shirt. “Not on me. Should I grab some?”

He busts out laughing again. This time I struggle to stay patient while he pulls himself together. “Can we get through this?” I ask. “Today if possible?”

“Calm down, BK.”

I glare at the pile of shirts. “I told you not to call me . . . that.”

“Technically, you told me not to call you—”

“Don’t even say it. And don’t pretend saying BK is any different.” I walk over to a rack of jerseys. “Tell me your ‘rules.’”

Christopher clears his throat and begins. “Rule number one: Don’t draft a kicker or defense until the last few rounds.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter if they show up as the highest-rated available player or if someone else makes a grab for kickers and defenses early. It’s a wasted pick. The guys in your league will make fun of you for the rest of the season if you do something so amateurish.”

Noted. Saving myself humiliation is the primary objective.

“Number two,” Christopher continues. “Don’t try to draft every player from your favorite team.”

“Why not? The Packers are good.”

“Yeah, but what happens if they have a bad week?”

I feign mock outrage. “Are you actually suggesting our beloved Packers would have anything less than a perfect season? What would Dad say?”

“Trust me on this one, Harper. Your Sunday . . . or Thursday or Monday will be a million times worse if you’re dealing with a Packers and fantasy loss.”

“Okay, avoid drafting the entire Packers starting lineup. Got it.” I’m going to have to do some fast research to find out who else I might want on my team. Basically, all the players I know are in Green Bay. “What’s next?”

“Have you found out what pick you have?”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Pick?”

“Where are you in the draft order?”

Oh. “Fourth.”

“The first three people have selected the top three running backs in my mock drafts.” I want to ask what he means by ‘mock draft,’ but there’s no time. “You can have a little fun with being fourth, but I say you should take the Pope. You’ll impress the guys in your league.”

“Who’s ‘the Pope?’”

“John-Paul Massa. An underrated but totally badass running back.”

“Massa it is.” I stare at the Chad Baker jersey in front of me. “When can I draft Baker?”

“No sooner than the second round, but try to hold off until the third. You want to make sure you get a solid wide receiver, and they tend to go fast after the top six running backs are off of the board.”

“But I want Baker.”

“He’ll be around,” Christopher assures me. “And if things get hairy during your draft, you can always text me.”

“Is there a fourth rule?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat again and hesitates. Content with my clothing selections, I walk toward the checkout line. “My fast and final rule: Don’t let the guys seduce you into giving them the best players.”

My gasp of outrage draws attention from the person standing in front of me. I dart an apologetic grin, before hissing at my brother. “Why would you even go there?”

“Harper, you’re smart and driven.”

“But . . .”

“You’re an idiot when it comes to men.” He releases a heavy sigh. “Maybe it’s because deep down you’re a sweet person or maybe you’re too trusting, but you have a talent for giving it up to douchebags.”

I want to argue back on principle. I am a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t need a man to succeed. But, a glance back at my dating track record gives Christopher’s commandment some weight. Maybe I should tell him I’m a new woman after what happened with the last guy. Instead, I thank him for his advice and pay for the new football gear.

* * * * *

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**About the author: Laura Chapman is the author of First & Goal, The Marrying Type, and Hard Hats and Doormats. Her work also appears in Merry & Bright, A Kind of Mad Courage, and All I Want For Christmas. A native Nebraskan, she loves Huskers and Packers football, Netflix marathons, and her cats, Jane and Bingley. Laura is currently in pursuit of a fantasy football championship while penning her next novel.

**Contact Laura:

Website   Blog   Facebook   Twitter   Instagram

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* * * * *

GUEST POST

No two days are exactly alike. That’s the beauty of being an author. One day you’re plotting, another you’re navigating your way through a tricky passage, and on the next you’re swearing at your computer, because your marketing plan hit a hiccup. While I’m a big plotter, one of my favorite parts about being an author is that it challenges me to adapt as the situation changes—which is every day.

When Isabella asked me to write about my life as an author, I found I couldn’t put it succinctly, because it’s always evolving. Rather than speak in generalities on the subject, I figured I’d share a few days that illustrate the world of Laura Chapman: My Life as an Author.

November 30, 2010

Only 1,000 more words to go. I note the time on the display in the corner of my computer monitor. It’s after seven—plenty of time to meet my deadline, yet it doesn’t seem like enough. It won’t be the end of the world if I don’t finish. No one will die, no wars will break out, and no one will care. Except for me. I will care.

When I started National Novel Writing Month on the first (Has it really been a whole month?) I was out to prove something. I had to show myself that I could do it—I could write a book if I sat down and made myself finish what I started. Finishing would be the key difference this time. The partial manuscripts rotting in a folder on my desktop were evidence of my inability to complete what I began. “Laura Chapman likes to start stories,” they seem to scream. “But she doesn’t have the follow-through to reach the end.”

Not this time. This time, I will hit the 50,000-word mark. And then I will keep at it until the story is done.

With only 1,000 words more words needed and a few hours until midnight, when I have to verify my word count online, I pack my laptop and drive to Indigo Bridge Books. The local bookstore has the vibe I need. People are always writing there, and productivity sizzles in the air. It will be good to spend some time around like-minded people. The bookstore also has another distinct advantage over staying home: it has Internet.

I’m two years out of college, and I’m still in a financial crunch. The recession hit mere months after I earned my diploma. I’m lucky to have a job, even if it doesn’t pay much. Tack on the student loans, rent, and the debt I accrued when I moved to and from Houston during the past eighteen months, and Internet is a luxury I can’t afford.

But I need the Internet tonight to verify my words. And I need to finish writing those words.

Settled in at a small table with a mocha latte and my laptop, I type away furiously. I can do this, I can write 1,000 more words tonight. I can paint the picture of Lexi Burke’s quirky world on the Gulf Coast. I can show her chemistry with Jason Beaumont. Oh man. Jason Beaumont. I may have broken the mold with this character. To my twenty-four-year-old self, he’s the epitome of male perfection. He has a good job, the motivation and drive to succeed, a sense of humor, and the everyday southern charm I witnessed countless times while I lived in Texas. And like Mr. Darcy, he has a pretty bitchin’ house. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a big sprawling home with a pool? I bet he has Internet, too.

And so I type and type away, giving pause every so often to check the time and my word count. What would Lexi do? Write it down. Keep going. Around nine, I do it. I pass the 50,000-word mark with some change. Adrenaline pulses through my veins. I did it. I wrote 50,000 words in one month. I still have a ways to go until I type “the end,” but this is a huge step in that direction.

Feeling like I just scored a six-figure advance from a major publisher, I pull up the NaNoWriMo website so I can let them know I finished. The page takes a full minute to load, and another minute passes before I get to the word verification section. I copy my document and paste the contents into the form. Blood pumps loudly in my ears. I click “verify my word count.”

And nothing happens.

The spinny wheel of death pops up and still nothing. I refresh the page, only to find I have to copy and paste my text once more. This time I wait longer. I’m about to break a pencil in half when an error message appears on the page. What the eff. I try a few more times without success. I hit up Twitter to see if anyone else is having issues. Just as I expect, the frustrated tweets flow on screen. Due to an influx of traffic, the NaNoWriMo website is having problems loading.

Well hell.

Not one to sit in my failure for long, I call a few friends with faster, stronger Internet connections until I find one who can help.

“CanIsendyoumynoveltoverifyformeplease?”

“Sure.”Of course Aja will help. We’ve been friends since first grade. We were in the same Brownies troop. Aren’t the Girl Scouts always preaching preparedness? Or is that Boy Scouts? At the very least, I’m quite certain we sang a song about being friends until the end. And this is as close to the end as I’ve ever come.

Staying on the line, I give Aja my password to log-in. I send her my document, and she runs through the same motions I had earlier. Only this time, instead of a spinny wheel of death or an error, a congratulatory message pops up on her screen.

“’Congratulations,’” she reads to me. “’You did it.’”

While she enters in the necessary information to complete my winner certification, the excitement returns. My eyes burn with unshed tears. For the first time ever, I feel like an author. I can do this. I can live my dream.

September 10, 2015

This isn’t a great time to be leaving town. My third novel launched yesterday, and there’s still a lot to do in the way of promotion. But I did my best to plan ahead. I sent out interviews and guest posts to more than thirty bloggers, and I scheduled my tweets and Facebook posts during the next few days. For the most part everything has gone like clockwork.

Except for one crucial element: one vendor still doesn’t have First & Goal available for sale. Oh, they say it’s available on the publishing dashboard, but the null searches on the purchasing side beg to differ. I suppose this isn’t a big deal—or so I keep telling myself to avoid having a stroke. It doesn’t look terribly professional to have to keep saying “It will be up soon,” to waiting readers, but what can you do?

You can have a heart attack or cry. I’ve come close to both, but to what end? I have a flight to catch for a previously planned business trip. Death and hysteria aren’t practical options.

At least the screening lines at the Lincoln Airport are fast. The small municipal airport usually gets you in and out without much fuss. That’s a good thing. I didn’t sleep much last night—or the night before. In addition to releasing a novel, I spent the previous day wrapping up a bunch of projects at my other job. Then I had to do laundry and pack my suitcase. As icing on the cake, I had to draft a crappy fantasy football team at almost midnight. It wasn’t my best draft, and there’s a lot of opportunity for heartbreak this season.

There’s always next year, I suppose.

Successfully through the TSA search, I park at the gate and pull out my laptop. Maybe there’s something I can do to help my book’s cause before I fly to Indianapolis by way of Chicago. Sure enough a new email appears from my publisher. Great news. The rogue distributor finally has First & Goal up on its site.

“We’ll begin pre-boarding for Chicago, please…”

With limited time, I update my blog and website. I post to Facebook and Twitter. Hopefully this helps me with a few more sales. Almost as quickly, I repack my suitcase and board the airplane. Crammed into the tiny puddle jumper, I check my social media pages and email until we are collectively asked to turn off our mobile devices. We taxi around the tiny tarmac then come to a halt.

A few minutes later, the captain’s voice booms over the intercom. “We’re experiencing some slight delays getting into Chicago. They’re a little backed up on account of some weather in the area. We’re going to hang out here for half an hour, but we’ll get you there as soon as possible.”

Sneaking out my phone, I check the status on my other flight. Still on time. Normally that would be great, but I only have a forty-five minute layover. And my gates are on opposing sides of the airport.

I guess that’s why the phrases “just one of those days” and “it’s always something” exist. Hell.

February 23, 2020

“Just five more minutes,” I plead. “I’m almost done with this scene.”

I said the same thing ten minutes ago, but this time I mean it. I know we should be out the door an on our way already, but there’s no stopping inspiration when it strikes. I’ve always written when the mood arises. I did it ten years ago when my stories were ideas, and I do it now that I’m a best-selling novelist. I can’t change who I am just because someone is in a hurry to hit the Red Carpet.

Not that I can blame him. My husband is up for an Academy Award—again—but this time I have no doubt he’s walking away with Oscar gold. He’s deserved it every time he’s been nominated, but the Academy would have to be crazy not to reward his ingenuity on screen. Besides, this year he has his good luck charm—me. At least that’s what he told me when he walked away with his Golden Globe and SAG awards earlier this season. I’m not sure if there’s any truth to the superstition. But if there is, well, my lucky charm skills can only be stronger now that we’re good and truly married.

(That’s between us right now, though. How we managed to sneak off to Germany for a simple, but beautiful, wedding with only our families and closest friends without alerting the media is still a mystery to me. But it will only be a secret for a few more hours. I snuck a peek at his acceptance speech—the one he won’t carry on stage, but has memorized. I distinctly saw a note to thank his “magnificent wife.” He actually called me magnificent. I’m living a fairy tale.)

I guess luck really is on our side this year. I’m married to one of the sexiest and most brilliant men alive—who is hours away from having “Academy Award winner” attached to his name—and my last five novels have hit number one on the bestseller lists.

And not to toot my own horn too much, but the screen adaptation for one of those books begins filming next month. The hubby and I are headed to the set after we take our overdue honeymoon. I helped pen the screenplay, so who knows? Maybe I’ll be adding “Academy Award winner” to my list of accolades one of these days too. For the moment I’m perfectly content with everything I have, including the scene I am just about to finish—

“My dear,” he calls out. “You know I could sit here and watch you write all day, but the studio will kill me if I don’t make a couple of stops on the Red Carpet. I’d hate to have Harvey tell me I’ll never work in this town again.”

I tear my eyes away from the screen and freeze. No matter how many times I see him in a tuxedo, I never seem able to keep myself from gaping. It’s hard not to—the man looks like he was born wearing an Armani suit.

Swallowing hard, I find my voice at last. “I’m done.” I slam the laptop shut, not caring whether or not I’ve saved the current draft or finished the scene. I rise from the desk in our hotel suite and gently smooth out any wrinkles that might have formed in my vintage Oscar de la Renta gown. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He captures my hand and raises it to his lips. “Worth waiting for.”

My stomach tumbles. It’s just like I’m seeing him for the first time when we met at that bookstore in London. He was picking up a couple of books to take on a shoot. I was finishing up a signing. That was almost two years ago, and here we are now.

He nods toward my laptop. “Are you at a good place for stopping? We can take a few more—”

“It’s good—great,” I correct myself, squeezing his hand. “And anyways, we can talk about the book later. You won’t have much of a choice when we’re on our way to Fiji. But tonight is about you.”

I can’t resist straightening his already perfect tie, just because I can.

“Your phone is charged?” I nod. “Then you can sneak in another scene in the car or during the commercials. And if any of the acceptance speeches go too long . . .”

Laughter about to erupt, I silence him with a kiss. We pull apart at last, and I can’t even remember what we were talking about. He does that to me. With my thumb, I smooth off the lipstick I inadvertently left on his lips. My shade of red does look nice on him though.

“Shall we?” he asks, taking my hand in his once again.

I nod. He leads me out of the room, down the elevator, and through the lobby to the waiting town car.

The driver scurries to open the door for us. “Ms. Chapman. Mr. Fassbender.”

If this isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what else could possibly compare.

* * * * *

**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

* * * * *

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**Click HERE to see other stops on Laura’s Chick Lit Plus Blog Tours!

Filed Under: First & Goal, First & Goal - Excerpt, Laura Chapman Tagged With: Author Guest Post, Books, Chick Lit Plus Blog Tours, Excerpt, First & Goal, Giveaway, Guest Post, Laura Chapman, Romance, sports, Women's Fiction

EXCERPT: “Clutch: A Novel”

November 3, 2015 1 Comment

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“Clutch” A Novel” by Lisa Becker

Blurb: Clutch: A Novel is the laugh-out-loud, chick lit romance chronicling the dating misadventures of Caroline Johnson, a single purse designer who compares her unsuccessful romantic relationships to styles of handbags – the “Hobo” starving artist, the “Diaper Bag” single dad, the “Briefcase” intense businessman, etc. With her best friend, bar owner Mike by her side, the overly-accommodating Caroline drinks a lot of Chardonnay, puts her heart on the line, endures her share of unworthy suitors and finds the courage to discover the “Clutch” or someone she wants to hold onto.

EXCERPT

Mimi Johnson was casually dressed in a brightly-colored blouse with enormous turquoise jewelry and equally-oversized glasses.  Despite that largesse, the only thing truly bigger than her personality (and her bosom) was her handbag.  It was always perfectly matched to her clothing, shoes, and jewelry.  She was like a walking Chico’s advertisement, if you added forty years, forty pounds, and a Virginia Slims cigarette.  From her Mary Poppins-like bag, she pulled out a box, impeccably-wrapped in glossy pink paper with a white grosgrain ribbon bow.  A cigarette teetered between her two fingers while she produced a lung-hacking cough.

“Open it… <cough, cough> …sweetie.  Open it,” she said to her seven-year-old great niece, Caroline, a beautiful and vibrant girl with long blonde hair and oversized blue eyes.

Alive with anticipation, sweet young Caroline eagerly took the box and smiled up at Mimi.  She gingerly removed the ribbon, planning to save it for later.  The glossy paper was less of interest and she ripped through it quickly.  She opened the box and gently lifted out a hot pink purse, adorned with pale pink flowers and rhinestones.  An enormous smile overcame her.  Caroline nearly set her own hair on fire from Mimi’s cigarette as she bounded into her aunt’s arms.

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Mimi.  It’s lovely.”

And that was when Caroline’s love of handbags began.  From big and loud ones that would make Mimi proud to unimposing wristlets, from bowler bags to satchels; it didn’t matter if they were made of canvas or calf-skin leather, were distressed or embellished with metal studs.  Hell, she didn’t care if you called them pocketbooks or purses.   She just loved them all – almost as much as she loved Mimi.

By the time she was a junior in high school and well on her way to being class valedictorian, it was the hundreds of bags Caroline owned that helped her conceptualize her ticket out of her suffocating small Georgian town. She would design handbags.  And it was Mimi who was her steadfast cheerleader.

“Caroline, sweetie… <cough, cough> …you find something you love and you just hold onto it.”  It had never mattered if Caroline was asking Mimi’s advice about a friend, lover, or career.  The advice was always the same: “Find something you love and hold onto it.”

Mimi’s words ever-present in her mind, Caroline headed to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising and spent four years in Los Angeles learning everything there was to know to pursue her passion. Then, right out of college, she spent three years working in the design and marketing departments of two of the world’s leading high-end handbag designers.

She was schooled in beauty and how to accessorize the perfectly-coiffed women on the way to their Botox appointments. But Caroline was pulled by the nagging feeling that the very person who had inspired her career, Mimi, could never afford the bags she designed, even if Caroline used her generous employee discount on Mimi’s behalf.  And God forbid Mimi would ever accept one as a gift, always preferring to give rather than receive.   But Caroline believed there was no reason for anyone to be denied the ultimate in accessories. She saw an untapped market of designing beautiful and affordable bags, but she just wasn’t sure she was start-up potential. Again, it was Mimi who nudged her to learn the business side of things and apply to MBA programs. When Caroline was accepted to Harvard Business School, Mimi of course encouraged her.

“You’ve got this, sweetie. <cough, cough>,” she said.  “It’s in the bag.”

***

Caroline was sitting in Financial Reporting and Control on her first day of Harvard classes (and yes, the class turned out to be as boring as it sounded).  That’s when she first eyed Mike, who was wearing a faded pair of Levi jeans, a washed-out vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt, and Converse sneakers.  He oozed charisma.  Turning her head away from him and back toward the front of the lecture hall, Caroline thought that if he were a handbag, he would be a grey leather tote – confident and dependable, but not trying too hard.

Mike surveyed the large lecture hall as he walked in, a Starbucks coffee cup in each hand.  After descending the steps slowly, he took a seat next to Caroline and planted one of the white and green cups on her desk.

Flashing a wide, dimpled smile, which she mused he reserved for getting girls to drop their panties, he said, “Here.  You look like you’re going to need this.”

“Thanks,” she replied in a suspicious tone, turning her head sideways to look at him and raising an eyebrow.

“I’m Mike,” he said, again flashing a smile and reaching out for a handshake.

“I’m Caroline.  Thanks for the…”

“Latte.”

“Latte,” she confirmed.  “Thanks.  But just so you know, I’m not gonna sleep with you,” she said in an apparent attempt to establish up front she wasn’t taken in by his obvious charm.

“I know,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Before she could respond, Professor Beauregard, a stout man with excessive eyebrows, spoke up.

“Please take note of where you are seated.  I will send around a seating chart for you to mark your spot.  This will be your seat for the remainder of the semester.”

“Looks like we’ll be seatmates,” Mike said, grinning at her.

“Looks like it,” she replied.

***

About three months into the first semester, Caroline learned that her fun-loving, easy-going new best buddy Mike wasn’t exactly who he appeared to be.

* * * * *

About the author: In addition to Clutch: A Novel, Lisa Becker is the author of the Click Trilogy, a contemporary romance series comprised ofClick: An Online Love Story, Double Click and Right Click.  She’s written bylined articles about dating and relationships for “Cupid’s Pulse,” “The Perfect Soulmate,” “GalTime,” “Single Edition,” “Healthy B Daily” and “Chick Lit Central” among others.  She lives in Manhattan Beach, California with her husband and two daughters.

**Contact Lisa: Web   Facebook   Twitter   YouTube   Pinterest

* * * * *

**GIVEAWAY**

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**Click HERE to enter to win a Beaded Clutch from Mei Vintage!

* * * * *

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**Click HERE to see other stops on Lisa’s Chick Lit Plus Blog Tours!

Filed Under: Isabella Tagged With: Books, Chick-Lit, CLP blog tours, Clutch: A Novel, Excerpt, Giveaway, Lisa Becker, Romance, Women's Fiction

RELEASE DAY and REVIEW of “Plan Bea”

October 14, 2015 2 Comments

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It’s release day for “Plan Bea” by Hilary Grossman

Blurb: How well do you really know the people in your life?

Annabel O’Conner has the perfect husband, two adorable children, an amazing job, and the mother from hell! Annabel doesn’t like it but has come to terms with the fact that her relationship with her mother, Bea, deteriorated to the point of forced and strained communications. However, an unscheduled call from Bea turns her world around and makes Annabel question everything she believed about her life.

Despite the fact secrets, lies, and misplaced blame have destroyed the women’s relationship; Annabel reluctantly agrees to help Bea plan her wedding. Little does Annabel know the impact of her decision.

In this Women’s Contemporary Fiction novel, Hilary Grossman explores the complex relationship that exists between mothers and daughters in a light-hearted and relatable manner.

My Review:

When I first read the blurb of Hilary Grossman’s second novel, my interest was very piqued. After all, I enjoy her first book, “Dangled Carat,” so I knew I was going to like this one, too. Well, I ended up loving it!

I would love to be friends with Annabel, her husband, and of course, her two little ones. Hilary’s writing is so powerful that I was easily drawn to Annabel’s mother, Bea, even though she was sarcastic and witchy, at times, though, at the end, I understood why.

“Plan Bea” was an amazing book, one I will never forget. With all the twists and turns in this book, it wasn’t predictable, but rather a quick page-turner. If you’re looking for a book that will make you wonder if repairing a mother/daughter relationship is possible, I highly recommend this book. It makes you wonder what you can learn by communicating, especially when secrets and horrible events take place, only to discover that years could’ve gone by without so much pain and hurt.

While I’m blessed to have a wonderful and loving relationship with my mom, I could often relate to Annabel’s feelings, and was happy she had her loving husband and his family to lean on. **Warning, when reading this book, it’s a must that you have tissues next to you. I can’t tell you how many times I cried, and cried, and cried even more.

I give “Plan Bea” 5 stars!

**Find “Plan Bea”: Amazon US   Amazon UK   Barnes & Noble   Goodreads

* * * * *

HilaryGrossman**About the author: Hilary Grossman loves to find humor in everyday life. She has an unhealthy addiction to denim and high heel shoes. She likens life to a game of dodge ball – she tries to keep as many balls in the air before they smack her in the face. When she isn’t writing, blogging, or shoe shopping she is the CFO of a beverage alcohol importer. She lives on the beach in Long Island.

**Contact Hilary: Website   Facebook   Instagram   Twitter

* * * * * 

**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter to win a $25 Bath & Body Works Gift Card

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To help celebrate Hilary’s new release, she’s put her debut novel, “Dangled Carat” on sale for $0.99, until Sunday, so click HERE to get your copy now, (US only)!

**Click HERE to see my review of “Dangled Carat”!

Filed Under: Book Review, Plan Bea - Release day and review Tagged With: Chick-Lit, Family, Giveaway, Hilary Grossman, Love, Mother/Daughters, Plan Bea, Release Day, Review, Weddings, Women's Fiction

BOOK EXCERPT: “Up To I Do”

September 30, 2015 1 Comment

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Blurb: Emerson Sinclair, twenty-seven year old hotel heiress, has said yes. With just over a year to plan her extravagant, over the top nuptials to Logan Worthington, it’s all hands on deck with the wedding plans. A Sinclair marrying into the Worthington family is the talk of their small New Hampshire town, and ideas include filming the wedding for a TV segment. But as the items get checked off the list, plans start to go … not as planned. From not getting a designer dress to a selfish bridesmaid and unaccountable best man, Emerson is afraid her wedding will be more a joke than anything. 
When both her mother and sister seemingly begin to lose interest in her wedding plans in favor of their own personal lives, Emerson fears her big day will turn into the forgotten wedding. With the pressure to pull off a beautiful and elegant event that everyone expects from their respectable families, Emerson starts to forget the reason why she is saying I Do in the first place.

EXCERPT

Chapter Nine

MyWeddingPlans.com Status Update: Nearly lost a bridesmaid today. #needaredo #redhotmess

The day of the bridesmaid dress appointment felt similar to picking out my wedding dress. Once again, Mom, Grams, Milly, Sienna, and the rest of the bridesmaids gathered at the house for breakfast. Delilah had even made the trip down once again, and we were going to have a sleepover at Milly’s that night with the three of us. I couldn’t wait.

Once we were finished eating, we were off in the limo once again to the bridal shop where I had purchased my dress. I had to put my foot down on this. Evie (and also Honor and a tad bit of Tatiana if I’m honest) pushed for a New York trip to find the bridesmaid dress, throwing out all these top-notch shops filled with designer dresses. But . . . if I couldn’t have a designer dress, why would my maids wear one? I had finally come to terms that I had my dream dress and it just happened not to be a big name designer. I couldn’t handle if the other girls had one. The men were wearing Vera Wang for God’s sake. Cut me a little slack here.

Once we arrived at the store and were greeted warmly by Sandra, the owner, she ushered us to the back and I sat on the throne—a big fluffy red chair reserved for brides. Milly handed me scorecards that she had made so I could rate each dress from 1-10, and Sandra explained what would happen. We had fifteen minutes to walk around the store and grab dresses, then the fun would begin. Pretty simple.

On her mark, the lot of us scattered like marbles on a wood floor, on the hunt for the perfect bridesmaid dress. I managed to pull two, getting overwhelmed quickly by all the choices. How would I ever find one? Maybe each girl could wear a different dress in the same color. Would that be too busy? Did I care? Why was I here? Couldn’t I have made Katrina handle this on her own? But no, she probably would have been sucked into going to New York as well. It was better I was here and in control.

“Time!” Sandra stood in the middle of the floor, and I realized then that we were the only people in the store, which I had to think was unusual for a Saturday morning. I wondered if Mom had reserved the space solely for us. That was sweet and a necessity I hadn’t even thought of because I wasn’t sure I could concentrate if a bunch of other bridesmaids were traipsing along the aisles.

After handing my choices over to Sandra and taking a seat at the throne, I waited anxiously for the girls to come out. Each was coming out first in a pick of their own, and I was curious to see what each girl’s style was going to be. Milly was the exception. Since she was my maid of honor, I was going to let her off the hook for trying dresses on. I figured we had enough girls around. She had thanked me profusely that morning for the favor.

“Got your scorecards at the ready?” Sienna asked me, her eyes bright. As the countdown to the big day got closer, Sienna seemed to be more and more in her element. I think Mom was relieved she was taking some of the pressure off her, especially with the pageant taking up more time than she expected it to.

I held up the thick cards that Milly had clearly put a lot of time into. “Ready to roll!”

Sandra cleared her throat and started listing off the designer names and the dress features. Honor was in a strapless dress that fell to the knee, with a belted waist and crumb catcher top. Delilah’s dress also featured a crumb catcher top (these two were so alike it could be scary) but hers had no belt and was less structured than Honor’s. Tatiana had a long strapless dress with a keyhole in the chest area—a little too risqué in my opinion. Evie . . . Evie. Evie was in a short hot pink dress that dipped low in the back, nearly to her crack, and her boobs were pushed up so high I was sure a nip slip was going to happen in the store. How in the world that was a suitable bridesmaid dress for anyone was beyond me. I couldn’t even look at her.

“Gabby’s dress is my favorite out of this group,” I said, my eyes immediately going to her soft chiffon dress with delicate straps and a ruched bodice. It fit her well and looked so pretty and feminine. And to be honest—a crumb catcher scared me. Even the name was just plain weird.

“You have a little diversity here with styles and even lengths,” Sandra said, standing by me. “Let’s focus on Honor and Delilah first, since they are similar. Do you like the crumb catcher top?”

I held up a scorecard with a 4 on it. “Sorry, ladies. I think those tops are weird.”

“Emerson!” They both screeched, looking at one another and laughing. Milly joined in from her perch on the chair next to me.

“I bet this would look great in your wedding,” Delilah said, patting Honor on the arm, who I think turned a little pale at that. “Or yours, Milly. And I can’t wait to hear all about this Miles tonight!”

Milly blushed as we all—even Grams and Sienna—hooted at her. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get back to the task at hand. So nothing fashion forward for the bride. No crumb catcher. Got it.”

“How about Tatiana’s? What do you think of a long dress?” Sandra asked.

I flipped through my stack and held up a 7. “I like this one more, but I’m not sure about long. Most of the pictures I’ve been pinning are short.”

“Long tends to work better for more formal weddings,” Mom said as her cell phone started to ring, piercing through the quiet store. “My gracious, my apologies. I thought I turned the ringer off.” She fumbled in her Prada for her phone, looking at the screen and frowning. “It’s the pageant. Again. Third call this morning. I’m sorry, let me just step outside quick and I’ll be back in a shake.” She rushed outside without even grabbing her coat, and I stared at her retreating back, frowning. For someone who was donating her time and efforts to the pageant cause, she sure was pretty invested in that event.

Shaking my head, I focused again at the task at hand. “Let’s keep it long then,” I said. “I like the idea of a more formal wedding, so if that will help with the pictures, let’s do it. And it’ll be September, so not like the girls will be overheated or anything.”

“Long it is,” Grams confirmed.

“Let’s move to Gabby’s,” Sandra suggested.

“I thought you didn’t want chiffon,” Milly said, remembering a conversation we had in the past about bridesmaid dresses.

“I didn’t think I did, but seeing it on her, it looks really good. I especially like how it’s tight in the middle. I think it would be really flattering on everyone.” I eyed the dress, liking it more with each passing second. I held up a 9. “This is a serious contender.”

Sandra cleared her throat. “And how about . . . Evie’s?”

Everyone was silent. “No,” I said simply.

Evie stomped a foot. “But, Emerson, this color is gorgeous! And not to diss any of these other top-notch dresses, but this one really is the best.” Her tone dripped in sarcasm.

I raised a brow. “No,” I said again. “I’m not even going to touch on how hideous that dress is—no offense, Sandra—or how inappropriate it would be for not only my wedding, but the majority of weddings that take place. Now go back, pick a dress that is actually suitable, and come back. Or leave. I honestly don’t care which.” I folded my arms and stared at her.

She wavered under my glare—I saw it. “Fine.” She flounced away and everyone stood frozen to their spots, not sure of what to say.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Well, um, a successful first round. Let’s head back into the dressing room and I’ll do one of your picks, Emerson, along with picks from the others in the group.” Sandra ushered my maids away and I leaned back in the chair, replacing all the score cards and gearing up for round two.

**Check out the “Up To I Do” book links: Amazon   Barnes & Noble   Kobo   Goodreads

* * * * *

SamanthaMarchNewPic**About the author: Samantha March is an author, editor, publisher, blogger, and all around book lover. She runs the popular book/women’s lifestyle blog ChickLitPlus, which keeps her bookshelf stocked with the latest reads and up to date on all things health, fitness, fashion, and celebrity related. In 2011 she launched her independent publishing company Marching Ink and has three published novels – Destined to Fail, The Green Ticket and A Questionable Friendship. When she isn’t reading, writing, or blogging, you can find her cheering for the Green Bay Packers. Samantha lives in Iowa with her husband and Vizsla puppy.

**Keep in touch with Samantha: Instagram   Facebook   Twitter   Youtube

* * * * *

**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter to win a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card!

* * * * *

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**Click HERE to see other stops on Samantha’s Chick Lit Plus Blog Tour!

Filed Under: Up To I Do - Book tour Tagged With: Books, Chick Lit Goddess, Chick Lit Plus, Chick-Lit, Excerpt, Giveaway, New Release, Samantha March, Up To I Do, Weddings, Women's Fiction

COVER REVEAL: “Plan Bea”

September 9, 2015 1 Comment

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“Plan Bea” by Hilary Grossman

Blurb:

How well do you really know the people in your life?

Annabel O’Conner has the perfect husband, two adorable children, an amazing job, and the mother from hell! Annabel doesn’t like it but has come to terms with the fact that her relationship with her mother, Bea, deteriorated to the point of forced and strained communications. However, an unscheduled call from Bea turns her world around and makes Annabel question everything she believed about her life.

Despite the fact secrets, lies, and misplaced blame have destroyed the women’s relationship; Annabel reluctantly agrees to help Bea plan her wedding. Little does Annabel know the impact of her decision.

In this Women’s Contemporary Fiction novel, Hilary Grossman explores the complex relationship that exists between mothers and daughters in a light-hearted and relatable manner.

* * * * *

**Click HERE to add “Plan Bea” to your Goodreads list!

**GIVEAWAY**

**Click HERE to enter the Rafflecopter to win a Chanel fragrance, for her (Coco Mademoiselle) or for him (Bleu de Chanel)!

* * * * *

HilaryGrossman**About the author, Hilary Grossman: Hilary Grossman loves to find humor in everyday life. She has an unhealthy addition to denim and high heel shoes. She likens life to a game of dodge ball – she tries to keep as many balls in the air before they smack her in the face. When she isn’t writing, blogging, or shoe shopping she is the CFO of a beverage alcohol importer. She lives on the beach in Long Island.

**Contact Hilary: Blog   Facebook   Twitter   Pinterest   Instagram   Goodreads   Amazon Author   Newsletter Signup

Filed Under: Plan Bea Tagged With: Books, Chick-Lit, Cover Reveal, Giveaway, Hilary Grossman, Plan Bea, Romance

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