tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89183286205352134152024-03-18T19:24:56.575-04:00WTF Are You Reading?WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.comBlogger1410125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-71204482578059051692023-10-24T02:08:00.000-04:002023-10-24T02:08:05.292-04:00Second Chance Romance, The Magic Of Christmas, And So Much More Awaits At The Christmas Cabin. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCN8XjKp_cxZLeHEwb5AFRspJ8PWc9hct2uCe_ruU4PodZTpKgXTjdx5n3mtgblYjxCg2b2zOlwSApyMyZ-PuBvFjPOHGgb8f7wBQ-vr8qmBRPKnr1pAqBNESZjrpfFOhyphenhyphenQu0L4gRPpQcual1r6Yw6zALxTZep5Suu8KxuJQR7AbJeh9sAoCICOoej2c/s1500/125164804.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="953" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCN8XjKp_cxZLeHEwb5AFRspJ8PWc9hct2uCe_ruU4PodZTpKgXTjdx5n3mtgblYjxCg2b2zOlwSApyMyZ-PuBvFjPOHGgb8f7wBQ-vr8qmBRPKnr1pAqBNESZjrpfFOhyphenhyphenQu0L4gRPpQcual1r6Yw6zALxTZep5Suu8KxuJQR7AbJeh9sAoCICOoej2c/s320/125164804.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><br />Title: The Christmas Cabin<div>Author: Michelle Major</div><div>Format: ERC </div><div>Length: 384 pages</div><div>Expected Date Of Publication: October 24, 2023</div><div>Publisher: Canary Street Press</div><div>Rating: 4.5 Stars</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 3%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><br /></div></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div></div><div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 3%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">There’s no place like home for the holidays…</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />As a girl, single mom Lauren Maxwell hated Magnolia, South Carolina. And she thought she’d left her hometown in the rearview mirror years ago, but a message from her beloved baby brother, Brody, changes all that. He’s getting married on Christmas Eve. So a holiday at Camp Blossom, the rustic sleepaway camp that had been a haven during her growing-up years, it is. Lauren won’t even have to see her dictatorial father. Or her ex-husband, Ben…<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />When Ben greets her at the surprisingly decrepit cabin, he’s just as stubborn—and as irresistible—as ever. And when she discovers he’s working with her estranged father to buy the campgrounds and rebuild them as luxury housing, Lauren is furious. She won’t let the man who broke her heart win. So she and her daughter stay in town to block the sale.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />But the magic of the Christmas season brings back memories Lauren tried so hard to forget: his crooked smile, their daughter’s laughter at the breakfast table, the feel of her hand in his. As the spark between them rekindles, Lauren realizes that second chances are real. And they’re worth fighting for.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Bonus Novella!</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">A Carolina Song</i><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Country Western singer Walker Calloway thought he was making romantic progress with shy and lovely schoolteacher Meghan Jacobs. After all, he’d written her a love song! But she thought it was for his ex. Now it’s up to him to prove that his heart already belongs to Meghan…for keeps…</span></span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Christmas Cabin</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><br /><div style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 250px;">
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<td>“But it does suck,” Hannah complained. “If you’re trying to annoy me, it won’t work,” Lauren answered, leaning forward to gaze through the rainsplattered front windshield. It wasn’t as if she could see very far in the darkness of the early December evening. Her headlights managed to illuminate enough of the gravel driveway that led into Camp Blossom, situated on an inlet of the North Carolina coast, that she wasn’t worried about driving into a ditch. At least not totally worried.</td>
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My Thoughts </div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">What do a small town. named Magnolia, unchecked sibling rivalry, a teenager with a DUI, a second chance romance, a summer camp named Blossom, and Christmas have in common.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Well nothing... actually!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The fact that they are part of the plot of the newest offering in the Carolina Girls series not withstanding.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">That's right.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvHZSmxpPqb6dg6-pEIuO7AtqM9T3mPQ2NRDKjzmM4DqoFkup8HIUaEcuQ-fmniq15kbZ1MSkKnWr2Swlc7FXPkHM_koS91PsRDk2RjJ6n3YpHznsfmmsSpcaIPAvW8pKi3DyqCe-9_An4Pa5PgQtNxjVhnZuBcRWeGbf6I5vKUML8hoVKu5beQLessM/s320/4pages.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvHZSmxpPqb6dg6-pEIuO7AtqM9T3mPQ2NRDKjzmM4DqoFkup8HIUaEcuQ-fmniq15kbZ1MSkKnWr2Swlc7FXPkHM_koS91PsRDk2RjJ6n3YpHznsfmmsSpcaIPAvW8pKi3DyqCe-9_An4Pa5PgQtNxjVhnZuBcRWeGbf6I5vKUML8hoVKu5beQLessM/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Book #6 is hot off the presses.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Loaded with more family drama than an all day Dr. Phil marathon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">A second chance romance plot twist so heartfelt that Hallmark should be taking notes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">All tied in the perfect bow of love and forgiveness that only stories set in the Christmas season can provide.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Yes...its true.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The Christmas Cabin is all that and a bag of Christmas cookies.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">That is once the oldest two siblings decide to grow up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The younger brother stops playing the martyr.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Everyone learns to ignore the overbearing ass of a father.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">And the teenager with the DUI proves on more than one occasion that she is the most emotionally intelligent person in the room.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">This is a quick, if not light read that is sure to touch your heart in the way that dogs that are so ugly they can't help being cute, and surly old grampas do.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">With an unmistakable charm and real world honesty that is not to be missed.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Thanks to Negalley and Harlequin for providing the review copy on which this honest critique is based.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book may be read as a standalone. Though it is the 6th in a continuous series.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book also contains bonus material.</span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">About Michelle </span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231023_201242_721.sdocx--></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEinJzii8oLe8elO2a7qlHt4QOjSXgqotEOQVGDyr8OphX4YZKsoztHmS8n2LaFnvQPaSCpsN97leScd8zY9JjUsoM23jZFob1U7B82p3d78J3r6StBt7Y0IoSRTBwERxoCLfW5Z6naUa9GtGCPwqELh5OioIhjauumCaUEtDVpYDHvbZEQZdANuplnqY/s266/6468588.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="190" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEinJzii8oLe8elO2a7qlHt4QOjSXgqotEOQVGDyr8OphX4YZKsoztHmS8n2LaFnvQPaSCpsN97leScd8zY9JjUsoM23jZFob1U7B82p3d78J3r6StBt7Y0IoSRTBwERxoCLfW5Z6naUa9GtGCPwqELh5OioIhjauumCaUEtDVpYDHvbZEQZdANuplnqY/s1600/6468588.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><br />Michelle Major grew up in Ohio but dreamed of living in the mountains. Soon after graduating with a degree in Journalism, she pointed her car west and settled in Colorado. Her life and house are filled with one great husband, two beautiful kids, a few furry pets and several well-behaved reptiles. She’s grateful to have found her passion writing stories with happy endings. Michelle loves to hear from her readers at www.michellemajor.com<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231023_202226_543.sdocx--></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITbFDtndG8bERjUELoQ0W2ybI3oa4G86bJAUQXXNuJ1yMSe6_K5_Q-HJzRSsMGkMHMnZiCX2LvGYXWfaJ3Mbye5YnaMJ5ahHWiGNimlTZQ9NemSFUqy8ctfLpMMcJYdjD-dmPaw5hyDlsl1MJ0MXUUWp7TcG3laMECEYOjOtc2eYIzaSBOgVgR1UI9SQ/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITbFDtndG8bERjUELoQ0W2ybI3oa4G86bJAUQXXNuJ1yMSe6_K5_Q-HJzRSsMGkMHMnZiCX2LvGYXWfaJ3Mbye5YnaMJ5ahHWiGNimlTZQ9NemSFUqy8ctfLpMMcJYdjD-dmPaw5hyDlsl1MJ0MXUUWp7TcG3laMECEYOjOtc2eYIzaSBOgVgR1UI9SQ/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Cabin-Carolina-Girls-ebook/dp/B0BQZ19XJ3?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1698126415&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=38e87bec39fff73e06f41aa30194535c&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0BQZ19XJ3&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&l=li2&o=1&a=B0BQZ19XJ3" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-69305692503294106202023-10-24T01:45:00.000-04:002023-10-24T01:45:33.479-04:00Andy Carpenter Is Giving The Humbug To Crime In "T'was The Bite Before Christmas"<b></b><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 3%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: left;"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnfq3gJ51pZMhOwccec8ucTGgSmHhbvWM1I7_NnvlTopdXiOapYhQ3TTp4rIh-p29hdweU6Bub1_gDMbVl2qPmgN_ZXG8iTyq43RlkpKn7Qa9OHLqn9uqn4ckgH_q3N69PUtXt-FPRwHMqz8G-v6T59Sr0d5H-JTgxUk0tpNt8pnh5iT3dcPH-iwTJV8/s400/65213890.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="266" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnfq3gJ51pZMhOwccec8ucTGgSmHhbvWM1I7_NnvlTopdXiOapYhQ3TTp4rIh-p29hdweU6Bub1_gDMbVl2qPmgN_ZXG8iTyq43RlkpKn7Qa9OHLqn9uqn4ckgH_q3N69PUtXt-FPRwHMqz8G-v6T59Sr0d5H-JTgxUk0tpNt8pnh5iT3dcPH-iwTJV8/w266-h400/65213890.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />Title: T'was The Bite Before Christmas<br /></span></span><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Author: David Rosenfelt<br /></span></span><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Format: ERC<br /></span></span>Pages: 304<br />Publisher: Minotaur Books<br />Rating: 5 Stars </div><div style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In National Bestseller David Rosenfelt’s ‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas, all through the Carpenter house, five dogs are stirring, and not even Andy can get out of working this latest case at his door.</span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Reluctant lawyer Andy Carpenter is at the Tara Foundation’s annual Christmas party. The dog rescue organization has always been his true calling, and this is one holiday tradition he can get behind because every dog that’s come through the rescue—and their families—are invited to celebrate.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />This year’s party is no exception. But before the stockings can be hung by the chimney with care, homicide detectives ruin the evening. Derek Moore, one of the foundation’s best foster volunteers, is arrested for murder.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Andy discovers Derek—whose real name is Bobby—is in the witness protection program after giving evidence against his former gang. The police believe Bobby murdered a member. But Bobby swears to Andy he didn’t do this. He’s built a new life, a new business, has two new dogs after being a double foster-failure.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />There isn’t much Andy likes about this case, but he likes Bobby. If he’s innocent, Andy wants to help. Before Andy can settle down for his long winter’s nap, he has a client’s name to clear, a murderer to catch, and two new dogs to look after: a golden and a Dalmatian. Andy’s golden retriever, Tara, will have to adjust to not being the only golden at the house while Andy gets to the bottom of this one…</span></span></div><p style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;">Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from:<br /><i>T'was The Bite Before Christmas</i></p></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div>
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<div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">I don’t like eggnog, and I dYoubt that anybody really does. It’s too thick and too sweet for my taste . . . like drinking melted chewing gum. I just tried some again anyway and found that sucking some of this batch through a straw requires either a serious pair of lungs or a hydraulic pump; it’s not nearly good enough to justify that amount of work. But the reason I doubt that anyone really likes it is that it’s only popular at Christmas. Good food or drink should not require a holiday to justify consumption. As evidence I point to the fact that there’s no such thing as French Fry Day, or pizza season. Those foods are timeless. I feel the same way about fruitcakes and candied yams; if you like them, eat them all year. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear about them. Right now I am particularly focused on eggnog because I am currently doling it out. It’s Christmas party time at the Tara Foundation, the dog rescue group that I run with my friend Willie Miller and his wife, Sondra. It’s named after my golden retriever, who is so great she should have an entire planet named after her.
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My Thoughts<div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas for Andy Carpenter and company. In this the 28th offering from author, David Rosenfelt.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And while it seems that everyone in the Carpenter household, as well as those associated with Andy's beloved Tara Foundation, are up to their eyeballs in seasonal good cheer. He is facing the holiday in usual Andy fashion.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuK7DDI8OHAnRWwrCTuvYNGrNpK-q6XNoQPtOBfQHqzY0fTsemam_99SXf4lKH8InqsQ3d79rYewVT9k0oeqfYQs4E3ujcomOhiNgyvkSeCEdaKP4I3s5ABh-8CBpHFWfTFCNpuIeiNI7-Av1DNbQlys_rSQrOM82YmXaMjG5v1ocApycIO4yJsMFwsiI/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuK7DDI8OHAnRWwrCTuvYNGrNpK-q6XNoQPtOBfQHqzY0fTsemam_99SXf4lKH8InqsQ3d79rYewVT9k0oeqfYQs4E3ujcomOhiNgyvkSeCEdaKP4I3s5ABh-8CBpHFWfTFCNpuIeiNI7-Av1DNbQlys_rSQrOM82YmXaMjG5v1ocApycIO4yJsMFwsiI/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Complete with sardonic wit, a touch of self deprecation, and a dash of pet fur thrown in for good measure.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima you;, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Until family friend and pet foster turned ower, Derek Moore, finds himself going from serving eggnog at the foundation's holiday shindig. To possibly serving prison time for murder.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Leaving him and his beloved pets Sasha and Jake in need of help that only Andy can provide.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This book has everything.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Witness protection, mobsters, vendettas, murder, plot twists...</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And Andy of course.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">There is never a dull moment.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Every time you think that you have things figured. something happens to make it very apparent that YOU DON'T.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This book offers that perfect escape into whodunit goodness. With a side of holiday happiness. That is far from the toothache inducing sweetness that is pumped out by the page full around this time of year.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Reviewer's Note</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Special thanks to Negalley and St. Martin's Press for providing the review copy on which this honest critique is based.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Though this book is part of a continuous series. It may be read as a standalone.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915;">About David</span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><div>I am a novelist with 27 dogs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have gotten to this dubious position with absolutely no planning, and at no stage in my life could I have predicted it. But here I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>My childhood was relentlessly normal. The middle of three brothers, loving parents, a middle-class home in Paterson, New Jersey. We played sports, studied sporadically. laughed around the dinner table, and generally had a good time. By comparison, "Ozzie and Harriet's" clan seemed bizarre.</div><div><br /></div><div>I graduated NYU, then decided to go into the movie business. I was stunningly brilliant at a job interview with my uncle, who was President of United Artists, and was immediately hired. It set me off on a climb up the executive ladder, culminating in my becoming President of Marketing for Tri-Star Pictures. The movie landscape is filled with the movies I buried; for every "Rambo", "The Natural" and "Rocky", there are countless disasters.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did manage to find the time to marry and have two children, both of whom are doing very well, and fortunately neither have inherited my eccentricities.</div><div><br /></div><div>A number of years ago, I left the movie marketing business, to the sustained applause of hundreds of disgruntled producers and directors. I decided to try my hand at writing. I wrote and sold a bunch of feature films, none of which ever came close to being actually filmed, and then a bunch of TV movies, some of which actually made it to the small screen. It's safe to say that their impact on the American cultural scene has been minimal.</div><div><br /></div><div>About fourteen years ago, my wife and I started the Tara Foundation, named in honor of the greatest Golden Retriever the world has ever known. We rescued almost 4,000 dogs, many of them Goldens, and found them loving homes. Our own home quickly became a sanctuary for those dogs that we rescued that were too old or sickly to be wanted by others. They surround me as I write this. It's total lunacy, but it works, and they are a happy, safe group.</div><div><br /></div><div>http://us.macmillan.com/author/davidr... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JUnc3rJI8a4dPrdW1457J515OZdc-UkgZ1c0I1aPJpXaArcp6uiyLM3Sq8Ld05r9Rt4r1zQl1qbBmCK28_byHVVpi17h5o6CuEJsB4q6KOO3KhgUpKBHv6CDn8_GSFqZ0GG2cOxxXrvhE0cf3JI9brxQjqaE4Max_O9toQ4a3n5WqDgWgiRyWCbgYCI/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JUnc3rJI8a4dPrdW1457J515OZdc-UkgZ1c0I1aPJpXaArcp6uiyLM3Sq8Ld05r9Rt4r1zQl1qbBmCK28_byHVVpi17h5o6CuEJsB4q6KOO3KhgUpKBHv6CDn8_GSFqZ0GG2cOxxXrvhE0cf3JI9brxQjqaE4Max_O9toQ4a3n5WqDgWgiRyWCbgYCI/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Buy The Book Here...</span></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Twas-Bite-Before-Christmas-Carpenter-ebook/dp/B0BQGH3KB7?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1698124865&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=e940ef991da97e82c6914d59698548fa&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0BQGH3KB7&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&l=li2&o=1&a=B0BQGH3KB7" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-63152696138223293962023-10-24T00:00:00.033-04:002023-10-24T00:00:00.142-04:00Upstairs / Downstairs Romance Makes Way For An Unforgettable Forever In "The Duke Starts A Scandal"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeSs7DalNdK8n4IXRu85zENmfzFVH7HT8KJk58ReoQTp5DXnkMAhcTrBJJUYWmQ6HZxGc5UsohEZ93yA_-h9BkV3ja6BvXjLrwIpDSx1d19fK-FEADQBIw_35bhfH78mQY4dc8yRG9WW_KHtqFoGxfX7EahkNQCYVVt3XAIxQgo-cJzV_IJ_cEmKUJS4/s400/90586130.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="252" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeSs7DalNdK8n4IXRu85zENmfzFVH7HT8KJk58ReoQTp5DXnkMAhcTrBJJUYWmQ6HZxGc5UsohEZ93yA_-h9BkV3ja6BvXjLrwIpDSx1d19fK-FEADQBIw_35bhfH78mQY4dc8yRG9WW_KHtqFoGxfX7EahkNQCYVVt3XAIxQgo-cJzV_IJ_cEmKUJS4/w253-h400/90586130.jpg" width="253" /></a></div><br />Title: The Duke Starts A Scandal<div>Series: The Duke Hunt #4</div><div>Author: Sophie Jordan</div><div>Format: ERC</div><div>Length: 352 pages</div><div>Expected Date Of Publication: October 24, 2023</div><div>Publisher: Avon</div><div>Rating: 5 Stars</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">A gentleman never dallies with the help, but the new Duke of Penning is no gentleman in this steamy fourth and final book in <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">The Duke Hunt</em> series by <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">New York Times</em> bestselling author Sophie Jordan.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">A duke with secrets.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Lucian, the newly minted Duke of Penning, has much to prove-- to himself, his family and the </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">ton</em><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">. Craving spotless respectability, he must find an aristocratic wife. Unfortunately, he can't keep his eyes--and thoughts--off his deliciously distracting housekeeper. Such a dalliance can only mar the facade he's constructed to protect his sisters' future from the demons of his past...but this fiery passion is a temptation he cannot resist. While Susanna may not the bride he needs, she is everything he desires.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">A woman with a past.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">As the housekeeper to one of the grandest estates in England, Susanna Lockhart has worked determinedly to become all that is proper and efficient, and she </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">never</em><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> steps over the line. Romance is an indulgence for the upper class, not for her--and most especially not with her employer. But every smoldering glance from the surly, handsome duke calls to the long-buried reckless wanton inside Susanna. A love between them can never be, but will Lucian and Susanna risk being together...</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Even if it starts a scandal...</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Please enjoy the exclusive excerpt from</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>The Duke Starts A Scandal</i></span></div>
<center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a>
<div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">It was her own fault, she supposed. She should have known better than to be caught out in the countryside after dark amid a storm. She was no green girl. No untested maid. Susanna Lockhart was the Duke of Penning’s housekeeper, and she held herself higher than such foolish behavior. Susanna minded her steps in the falling darkness. She knew these lands well. Every well-trod path, every pasture, every field of wildflowers was known to her like the back of her hand. Still, in the fast-fading light, one could not be too careful and she had no wish to turn an ankle. The last thing she needed was to be relegated to her bed. How would she serve Penning Hall then? Her boots plodded along cautiously over the ground, for all that she was eager to reach the warmth and safety of the hall. She was envisioning the cozy fire in the kitchens, a bowl of Cook’s heavenly pottage waiting for her, the fragrant steam wafting to her nose as she filled her stomach with the thick, savory broth. Susanna shook her head in disgust. She should have returned hours ago. She had spent far too long in the village. At least the basket she held was now empty and lighter for it. It swung easily looped around her arm. The vicar and Mr. Gupta had been most grateful for the baked goods she brought them today. The Penning cook was renowned in these parts, and Susanna made certain to spread the wealth of her culinary talents to the good people of Shropshire. The storm had rolled in suddenly, darkening the skies prematurely. She should have had another hour of light. The rain started with a few fat drops, landing on her nose, cheek, hair. Then the skies opened in a heavy deluge. She was soaked immediately. Her steps grew labored, the wet, spongy ground sucking at her boots. The familiar path curved and she stopped, breathing heavily, looking down the hill to the grand residence of the Duke of Penning spread out in sprawling splendor below. Lights twinkled in the many windows, beckoning her. Home. It should not have been to a woman of such humble birth, but it was more home to her than the one she left behind so many years ago. Almost there. Dry clothes, a warm fire and a hearty meal are only a short away. She heard the horse and rider before she saw him. The pounding of hooves rang like thunder, rivaling the loud rumblings in the sky. The staccato thuds increased, growing closer. She turned, whirled around just as beast and man rounded the path, straight for her. Her scream was lost in the air, swallowed up by rain and the clap of thunder and the horse’s panicked neigh. She flung up an arm in front of her as though that would stop the violent impact. As though that would shield her—save her from imminent collision. As terror seized her, so, too, did a sense of mortification. Regret coupled with a sense of shame that she should die this way and not in her bed at a ripe old age. Indeed not. Trampled to death. That would be her ignominious end. The horse reared. Hooves clawed the air overhead in a wild frenzy and she fell back, landing hard on the wet ground in her attempt to scramble out of the way. She bit the inside of her cheek and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She turned her face and jammed her eyes tightly shut, recoiling, shrinking inside herself as she waited for the sensation of steel hooves to come down, to cut into her flesh and bones and smash her apart, leaving her broken in the mud. They never came. There was no pain. No breaking of her body. Instead a litany of stinging curses burned her ears and the earth shook as the horse came down near her head, shuddering the ground, spraying her with fresh mud. Near her head, though. Not on her head. A body landed not far with an oompf. A long groan followed. She could not move at first, breathless and stunned, gazing up at the water-soaked night. She pressed a hand over her chest. Her heart felt like it might burst through her rib cage. “What in bloody hell is wrong with you?”The hard voice tore through the storm raging around them. She blinked against the falling rain, sitting up slowly and looking around, finding the rider inches away, unmoving on his back. Her lips parted, moving without making a sound. Her voice was lodged in her throat. In the gloom, she could see very little of his face, but she could hear the heavy huff of his breaths . . . and, of course, his cruelly biting words: “Are you trying to kill yourself, lass? Or just me?”She scowled, finding her voice finally. “You’re talking, aren’t you?”He grunted. “Then you are not dead,”she added succinctly. “No, thanks to you.”With another grunt, he sat up. “It was no easy trick, but I avoided you.”He hauled himself to his feet, his hand going to his side, rubbing at some invisible ache with a hiss of breath. “Even if that meant flinging myself off my horse.”“So heroic,”she tsked, even though she allowed, to herself, at any rate, that it was quite the feat. “You should not have been riding so recklessly,”she charged. “Me? Reckless?”he scoffed with a wide wave of his arm. “What do you call someone strolling about the countryside in the dark in a storm?”Disliking how vulnerable she felt sitting at his feet, she lifted herself up, slipping on the slick ground but managing to catch and balance herself. That was little better. Goodness, he was big. On her feet again, she could see at once that he still towered over her. His shadowed figure moved, cloak whipping around him as he inspected his horse for injuries—all the while grumbling beneath his breath. “This is private property. Who are you?”she demanded. He continued attending to his horse, ignoring her as though she were so very . . . ignorable. “Do you not hear me? This is the Duke of Penning’s estate,”she pressed. “I am certain he would not approve of you tearing about at night on his lands like some, some wild—”He whirled around to face her. Rain fell between them like needles, but he fixed his attention on her, no longer ignoring her. “I am the Duke of Penning.”She hesitated only a moment before letting loose a laugh. “No. You are not.”She knew the duke. She was his housekeeper, after all. “Oh, yes. I am.”He pronounced this with such complete confidence that her laughter faded. A small current of apprehension trembled through her. Then her certainty reasserted itself. The newly minted Duke of Penning and his son had been in residence for months now. This man was lying. He was a liar. He was a lying liar. Doubtlessly he thought she was someone who did not know any better and would not question him on the matter. Her chin went up and she lifted her voice over the increasing pound of rain. “You lie.”“I lie?”He snorted. “Yes. You’re lying . . . a liar,”she added at the end as though she wanted there to be no confusion about it. “I do not know what game you are playing at, sirrah, but the Duke of Penning is down that hill, cozily ensconced in his drawing room.”The stranger took his mount’s reins in hand, and moved then, gingerly. Evidently his tumble had not been the easiest of falls and was not without physical cost to himself. He stopped in front of her and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. In the falling rain, she was granted a shadowy view of his features. Deep-set eyes. Thick, slashing eyebrows. A patrician nose. A wide mouth that now moved, over-enunciating his words as though to encourage her understanding, as though she were somehow slow to comprehend what he was telling her—or perhaps he wished to simply be heard over the storm. “I play no game. I am the Duke of Penning, and I am here to claim what is mine.”He nodded in the direction of the manor house, water streaming from the brim of his hat. “That man down there is a pretender. A fraud . . . cozily ensconced in my drawing room.”She flinched at the echo of her own words hurled back at her, but she forced a mirthless laugh. Nervously. Awkwardly. Shaking her head, she spit out, “No . . .”She could say nothing more than that. It was all she could manage as doubt took hold of her, creeping in and sinking deep. He countered with a simple: “Yes.”Lightning lit the sky, illuminating his face and she gasped. He was handsome. Young. And angry. Very angry. She saw that at once. Recognized it. He continued, “I am the legitimate heir to the dukedom with agents of the estate traveling in a carriage behind me to prove it. That man—”He nodded down the hill to the house. “—is an imposter.”Water glinted in his lashes as he looked her drenched person up and down like she was something unsavory, and in her present state, she was certain she looked it. “And who are you?”“I am . . .”The duke’s housekeeper. Your housekeeper? She gave her head a hard shake. After this bit of awkwardness, she hoped she still was. The corners of his wide lips pulled down in a frown. “Are you unwell? Did you hit your head, lass?”She felt as though she had. She felt as though she had suffered a great blow and didn’t know what to think. For weeks now she had been serving two very nice men who claimed to be the duke and his son and now this rude, ill-tempered man was telling her she had been duped—that he was the true Penning, that he was her employer. With a grunt of disdain, he moved ahead of her, leading his horse back onto the path and in the direction of the hall. “You coming?”he called over his shoulder. Another flash of lightning lit the night sky. With little choice, she picked up her basket and followed him.</div></a></blockquote><p> </p></center>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My Thoughts</div><div style="text-align: left;">Susanna and Lucian's story is less one of upstairs/downstairs. With her being the housekeeper. To his newly minted Duke of Penning. More upstairs meets downstairs on a midway landing.</div><div style="text-align: left;">As both the maid and the master are trying their best to out live pasts that if discovered would see them each disgraced.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkZTmhJPvLuoriKBv398fJipdMwC_ysT2tM5w7UrehFoJOZ49yQeT5EXPZwY6f7YpyVRA0XyRn1E4ZD_Yu4JMumbzEZQ3wk0Gg9g1QHX5Z5hGH2L8SdHBZP_T0t8hbmsVmZkkcL0UwUKie3O3O0RPF07cO-LQ_UsAE31P7VEOz7qHbcm6NlATu_drwcs/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkZTmhJPvLuoriKBv398fJipdMwC_ysT2tM5w7UrehFoJOZ49yQeT5EXPZwY6f7YpyVRA0XyRn1E4ZD_Yu4JMumbzEZQ3wk0Gg9g1QHX5Z5hGH2L8SdHBZP_T0t8hbmsVmZkkcL0UwUKie3O3O0RPF07cO-LQ_UsAE31P7VEOz7qHbcm6NlATu_drwcs/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Making matters worse...</div><div style="text-align: left;">There is a very inconvenient attraction that try as they might, both find it hard to ignore.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And as fate does...it sets about doing its best to see that they spend as much time exploring said attraction as possible.</div><div style="text-align: left;">This book is a different take in plot expression.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Seeing as there is little to no sex for the majority of the story.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Giving both readers and each the other time to come to know the things that endear, entice, and enchant.</div><div style="text-align: left;">A most Herculean task indeed.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Seeing as most of the time. The two main characters spend most of their time trying to out run their unfortunate pasts and each other.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lucian coming off as a very lovable and lost lead in the process.</div><div style="text-align: left;">A great help to the legitimization of Susanna and Lucian's relationship comes unexpectedly by way of the discovery of Lucian's sister in the arms of his valet.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So...</div><div style="text-align: left;">By book's end. Readers are routing for the success of not one, but two romances.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Both built on love, respect, desire, and understanding.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Reviewer's Note</div><div style="text-align: left;">The <i>Duke Starts A Scandal </i>is the fourth and last book in the Duke Hunt series. As such, it may be read either as a stand-alone or as part of its intended series.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Thanks to Netgalley and Avon Books for providing the review copy on which my honest critique is based.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview1310925280"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview1310925280"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"> </span><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">About Sophie</span></span></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1239986541p5/89439.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #6c6c6c; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="Sophie Jordan" border="0" height="320" src="https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1239986541p5/89439.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(148, 92, 118); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="243" /></a><span style="color: red;"><b></b></span><span id="freeTextauthor89439">Sophie Jordan took her adolescent daydreaming one step further and penned her first historical romance in the back of her high school Spanish class. This passion led her to pursue a degree in English and History.<br /><br />A brief stint in law school taught her that case law was not nearly as interesting as literature - teaching English seemed the natural recourse. After several years teaching high school students to love <em>Antigone</em>, Sophie resigned with the birth of her first child and decided it was time to pursue the long-held dream of writing.<br /><br />In less than three years, her first book, <em>Once Upon A Wedding Night</em>, a 2006 Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Nominee for Best First Historical, hit book shelves. Her second novel, <em>Too Wicked To Tame</em>, released in March 2007 with a bang, landing on the USA Today Bestseller's List</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><span id="freeTextauthor89439"><a href="http://www.sophiejordan.net/" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Web</a> / <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/89439.Sophie_Jordan" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> / <a href="htps://twitter.com/SoVerySophie" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Tweet Her</a> / <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sophie.jordan.980" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><span id="freeTextauthor89439"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here...</div></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0063035758?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1689205206&sr=1-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=c2e191c280fc8d747b5cda8ab5de9b35&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0063035758&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=0063035758" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-17633889444646613092023-07-25T00:00:00.001-04:002023-07-25T00:00:00.141-04:00'Not That Duke'...Although Well Written...Lacks The Power Of Surprise.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkBkXwLWWkoZFBZRIvSLPa2U3D8Y45mVHcJUFjvDk-3dkp4YZdfVuICvBaMXGd9HU28pJiYKQrhb84gT6EBbbAY1wOrdVsjulqyYUj8oEr_Y07uhWxlVRmJfopltwbPVTEGuicEYOSNRy0C2W1vzC2QMILgcRF3tnDQDRctobH597NwhuzyaUX1PcS-Q/s400/63135522.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="253" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkBkXwLWWkoZFBZRIvSLPa2U3D8Y45mVHcJUFjvDk-3dkp4YZdfVuICvBaMXGd9HU28pJiYKQrhb84gT6EBbbAY1wOrdVsjulqyYUj8oEr_Y07uhWxlVRmJfopltwbPVTEGuicEYOSNRy0C2W1vzC2QMILgcRF3tnDQDRctobH597NwhuzyaUX1PcS-Q/s320/63135522.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><br />Title: Not That Duke<div>Series: Would-Be Wallflowers #3</div><div>Author: Eloisa James</div><div>Format: ERC</div><div>Length: 384 pages</div><div>Expected Date Of Publication: July 25, 2023</div><div>Publisher: Avon</div><div>Rating: 3.5 Stars</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">The Duke of Huntington has no interest in an eccentric redhead who frowns at him over her spectacles…until he realizes that she is the only possible duchess for him. A new enemies-to-lovers romance by <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">New York Times</i> bestselling author Eloisa James.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Bespeckled </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">and</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> freckled, Lady Stella Corsham at least has a dowry that has attracted a crowd of fortune-hunting suitors—which definitely doesn’t include the sinfully handsome Silvester Parnell, Duke of Huntington, who laughingly calls her “Specs” as he chases after elegant rivals.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And then—</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The worst happens. Marriage.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">To the duke. To a man marrying her for all the wrong reasons.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">How can Silvester possibly convince Stella that he’s fallen in love with the quirky woman he married? Especially after she laughingly announces that she’s in love—but not with that duke.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Not with her husband.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Please enjoy the exclusive excerpt from:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Not That Duke.</i></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">February 20, 1816 12, Mayfair Place The Duke of Huntington’s townhouse “I’ve found your duchess.”Determination was stamped all over the dowager duchess’s face. “Lady Stella Corsham is perfect for you: the granddaughter of a marquess, with a sizable dowry. Able-bodied, well-bred, and original.”In an act of profound self-control, Silvester Parnell, Duke of Huntington, did not roll his eyes. Or otherwise indicate that in demanding her son marry a version of herself—a short, opinionated woman, albeit with spectacles rather than a monocle—his mother had lost her mind. “‘Original’is not a characteristic that interests me,”he said, instead. His mother’s eyes sharpened. “I suppose you are looking for a girlish nitwit who will entertain ladies for tea and never embarrass her children.”He pretended to think about it. “Does she have to be a nitwit?”“Yes,”the dowager snapped, adding: “Because you want her to swill tea all day long.”When his parents first married, rather than redecorate the ducal country house as did most new duchesses, Her Grace had redesigned the chimney on her husband’s first experimental steam engine. In the years since, she had delighted in flouting society with everything from her clothing (unconventional) to her entertainments (Julius Caesar performed by trained rats was a notable example). Silvester and his sisters had grown up with the full knowledge that “polite”society considered his mother—and by extension, her family—to be eccentric, if not mad. Once sent to Eton, where he routinely engaged in fisticuffs in his parents’defense, Silvester came to the conclusion that although he adored his mother, a less divisive duchess would be preferable. “Do you think I am unaware of how much you and your sisters wish that I would blend into the wallpaper like most of the noodling nobility?”she demanded now. “I am proud of your chimney,”Silvester said, meaning it. His mother’s clack box feed pipe for locomotives had survived four iterations of ducal steam engines and was still in use around the country. “Lady Stella—”Silvester interrupted. “Which doesn’t mean I want to marry Lady Stella.”To be clear, he didn’t mind Stella’s lack of height or her spectacles. Certainly he appreciated her rather glorious bosom. The eccentricity? That he minded. Rumor had it that she’d read the entire Encyclopedia, which explained the fact that their conversations were often startling. And interesting. He liked arguing with Stella; he just didn’t want to marry her. “Want to? Want to?”The dowager pounced like a robin on a worm. “What does want have to do with it? You need a duchess. Lady Stella is suitable.”“My fiancée will be of my choosing, Mother. I would like to be in love with my wife.”She snorted inelegantly. “Romance is a fool’s game, nothing to do with marriage. You’re making a laughingstock of yourself mooning about after Yasmin Régnier.”Fool he may be, but Silvester intended to marry Yasmin. She had charm, hair the color of old ducats, a naughty giggle . . . More than that, he and Yasmin were friends, never mind the fact that he’d love to bed her. He felt the pull of her in his bones, deep in his gut. Perhaps even in his heart. “Moonblind.”The dowager waved her monocle at him. “Lady Yasmin is not for you.”His mother was small in stature, but she made up for it with gargantuan will power. “I intend to ask Yasmin to marry me,”Silvester told her. His mother replaced her monocle and eyed him. “You’d better open the Dower House. Lady Yasmin won’t want to live with me.”A full renovation of the master bedchamber and Dower House at the ducal estate, Huntington Grange, was already in progress. “You will come to love Yasmin,”he said, not at all sure, but it was worth a try. Her Grace snorted again. “Every Season, one woman attracts all the men like seagulls on a gutted fish.”“A lovely metaphor,”Silvester commented. “A lady who tolerates fools will make a dreadful wife.”“Why?”Silvester inquired, though he didn’t really care. “Because she tolerates fools,”his mother repeated. “She has no bollocks!”“No woman has bollocks, as they are male appendages,”Silvester said. “May I point out that Stella has as many suitors as Yasmin?”“Fortune hunters and third sons,”the dowager said contemptuously. “You’d be the only duke. My point is that Lady Stella braves ballrooms in spectacles, although society dictates that ladies should blunder blindly around the dance floor.”“An idiotic rule,”Silvester agreed. “Don’t you see?”his mother demanded. “You need to find a woman who has backbone, not just a woman at the center of a crowd.”His mother was a brilliant tactician. She delivered that line with just the right amount of scorn. If women were allowed to debate in the House of Lords, the opposition would wither. Luckily, he had a lifetime’s worth of experience thwarting her demands. “No,”Silvester stated. From the moment he entered Eton at the age of eight, he had carefully shaped a reputation for easy charm to counter his family’s reputation for eccentricity. That didn’t mean he hadn’t inherited his mother’s steely core. Or his father’s entitled ferocity. “I will never marry Lady Stella.”The best debaters know when to retreat. His mother bounded to her feet and headed for the drawing room door. “You won’t marry Lady Yasmin, either,”she said over her shoulder. He opened his mouth to retort—But she was gone.
</div></a></blockquote></center>
My Thoughts</div><div>The smart, pudgy, shy, girl might get the guy in this read. </div><div>But the question still remains.</div><div>Is he the right one?</div><div>You would think that would NOT be an issue. Given the 'beggers can't be choosers' tone of her family and the people around her.</div><div>But choose she does.</div><div>Problem...</div><div>The person she chooses is not leading man, Sylvester Parnell, Duke of Huntington.</div><div>Nope.</div><div>She instead is carrying quite the bright torch for Giles Renwick, Earl of </div><div>Lilford.</div><div>Problem.</div><div>Giles has a thing for one Lady Yasmine Regnier!</div><div>But then, EVERY breathing male on two legs seems to have a thing for the beautiful, blonde, willowy, and very French, Lady Yasmin.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Rn-EwcFcAhL74mvi50eZ93VX9-_5_YfcKO9ipzuwCE5kfLyOPT5nNon8OxKmfyKj6W408BGxz_53zdzA-gfO8EjzGWJz09SS9o9LwZm_GmFXK6fdVBaz98rkVFSXz_2EOK1F8ckMkUyzPOArGArPVCYwT0XgCZfyQ_HameOvCbtCkNj4y6-amvn3LZY/s320/3%20Stars.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Rn-EwcFcAhL74mvi50eZ93VX9-_5_YfcKO9ipzuwCE5kfLyOPT5nNon8OxKmfyKj6W408BGxz_53zdzA-gfO8EjzGWJz09SS9o9LwZm_GmFXK6fdVBaz98rkVFSXz_2EOK1F8ckMkUyzPOArGArPVCYwT0XgCZfyQ_HameOvCbtCkNj4y6-amvn3LZY/s1600/3%20Stars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>While it is true that things in this story would be a lot less complicated if someone had just bothered asking the lady who SHE WANTS.</div><div>This is one a Regency Romance.</div><div>So no chance of that.</div><div>So...</div><div>On we go with the confusion and misunderstandings that make this story a story. And leave readers shaking their heads and looking for the nearest exit.</div><div>Because even though Sylvester spends more and more time with Stella.</div><div>Is known to be longtime friends, and ONLY friends with Lady Yasmin.</div><div>And is doing everything but climb the walls and beat his chest in attention to Stella.</div><div>She is still consumed by the belief and fear that he is in love with Yasmin.</div><div>Ohhhh kayyy!</div><div><br /></div><div>This is one of those reads that you want to enter into without having read the previous book.</div><div>In fact.</div><div>In order to really enjoy this series.</div><div>This reviewer suggests that you read the series last book first. </div><div>The reason.</div><div>The ends of books #1and #2 give away the pairings of the books to follow.</div><div>Self spoilers ahoy!</div><div>And one of the major reasons for the 3.5 star rating.</div><div>That and the incessant misplaced whining about Yasmine by EVERYONE!</div><div><br /></div><div>Much to the book's credit, however.</div><div>The character development and flair as seen in the devious Lady Lidiya.</div><div>The Sylvester's eccentric moth mother.</div><div>And even Stella's kitten 'specs'.</div><div>Not to mention Lisa James' Stella writing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note</div><div>Thank you to Netgalley and Avon for providing the review copy on which this honest critique is based.</div><div><i>Not That Duke</i> is part of a closely related series. It may be read in any order.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">About Eloisa</span><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /><a href="https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1375996000p8/86778.jpg" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; clear: left; color: #6c6c6c; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1375996000p8/86778.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(148, 92, 118); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; max-width: 625px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" /></a><span style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> </span><span id="freeTextauthor86778" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><i>New York Times</i> bestselling author Eloisa James writes historical romances for HarperCollins Publishers. Her novels have been published to great acclaim. A reviewer from <i>USA Today</i> wrote of Eloisa's very first book that she "found herself devouring the book like a dieter with a Hershey bar"; later <i>People Magazine</i> raved that "romance writing does not get much better than this." Her novels have repeatedly received starred reviews from <i>Publishers' Weekly</i> and <i>Library Journal</i> and regularly appear on the best-seller lists.<br /><br />After graduating from Harvard University, Eloisa got an M.Phil. from Oxford University, a Ph.D. from Yale and eventually became a Shakespeare professor, publishing an academic book with Oxford University Press. Currently she is an associate professor and head of the Creative Writing program at Fordham University in New York City. Her "double life" is a source of fascination to the media and her readers. In her professorial guise, she's written a <i>New York Times</i> op-ed defending romance, as well as articles published everywhere from women's magazines such as More to writers' journals such as the <i>Romance Writers' Report</i>.<br /><br /><i><b>Eloisa...on her double life:</b></i><br /><br />When I'm not writing novels, I'm a Shakespeare professor. It's rather like having two lives. The other day I bought a delicious pink suit to tape a television segment on romance; I'll never wear that suit to teach in, nor even to give a paper at the Shakespeare Association of America conference. It's like being Superman, with power suits for both lives. Yet the literature professor in me certainly plays into my romances. <i>The Taming of the Duke</i> (April 2006) has obvious Shakespearean resonances, as do many of my novels. I often weave early modern poetry into my work; the same novel might contain bits of Catullus, Shakespeare and anonymous bawdy ballads from the 16th century.<br /><br />When I rip off my power suit, whether it's academic or romantic, underneath is the rather tired, chocolate-stained sweatshirt of a mom. Just as I use Shakespeare in my romances, I almost always employ my experiences as a mother. When I wrote about a miscarriage in <i>Midnight Pleasures</i>, I used my own fears of premature birth; when the little girl in <i>Fool For Love</i> threw up and threw up, I described my own daughter, who had that unsavory habit for well over her first year of life.<br /><br />So I'm a writer, a professor, a mother - and a wife. My husband Alessandro is Italian, born in Florence. We spend the lazy summer months with his mother and sister in Italy. It always strikes me as a huge irony that as a romance writer I find myself married to a knight, a <i>cavaliere</i>, as you say in Italian.<br /><br />One more thing...I'm a friend. I have girlfriends who are writers and girlfriends who are Shakespeare professors. And I have girlfriends who are romance readers. In fact, we have something of a community going on my website. Please stop by and join the conversation on my readers' pages.</span><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /><span id="freeTextauthor86778" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"></span><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwquiqXtQitPa-iRtRwBdPWIz1Fy-YsmBBdLk_7NP9Xy7v48-IH6CLdfCcwV-pNq9XpT4oFGuPFZVn26p-B8J7NsjlW2CVdpwgumU6p6TDpfsKecgWWwZ1kU04mdPDo03rPIS8fUI3ll5nZ1hCVBTg6zD6iKiMfC99dB4mQKDEHNb-GYOGp4lg-He8kw/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwquiqXtQitPa-iRtRwBdPWIz1Fy-YsmBBdLk_7NP9Xy7v48-IH6CLdfCcwV-pNq9XpT4oFGuPFZVn26p-B8J7NsjlW2CVdpwgumU6p6TDpfsKecgWWwZ1kU04mdPDo03rPIS8fUI3ll5nZ1hCVBTg6zD6iKiMfC99dB4mQKDEHNb-GYOGp4lg-He8kw/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-54618129384639788202023-04-04T09:13:00.000-04:002023-04-04T09:13:07.702-04:00Berkley Presents: What The Hex<div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 4%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><p style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih52wIpQ6xHSZyqcmjUtRGKiQ8OKeSvSN4Q92TCuMvdV1ueKVeDWqqLodS8SnH_lUkYvQwrNms0OrZDwmyYQE0Pf0YLLi0PHvJJDKd7pKsGwuSXweuZzT7uF1T-K7sHJmNAefwihT6ZYgE7zLdre6dHjQ6SgnCRKtB_Mknf3spHa3FgvPdzS9OVnUD/s802/61423835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="532" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih52wIpQ6xHSZyqcmjUtRGKiQ8OKeSvSN4Q92TCuMvdV1ueKVeDWqqLodS8SnH_lUkYvQwrNms0OrZDwmyYQE0Pf0YLLi0PHvJJDKd7pKsGwuSXweuZzT7uF1T-K7sHJmNAefwihT6ZYgE7zLdre6dHjQ6SgnCRKtB_Mknf3spHa3FgvPdzS9OVnUD/s320/61423835.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Title: What The Hex<br />Author: Jessica Claire<br />Date Of Publication: April 4th, 2023<br />Length: 336 pages <br />Publisher: Berkley <br />Rating: 4 Stars </p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Enemies-to-lovers has never been more enchanting in this witchy romantic comedy from the New York Times bestselling author of Go Hex Yourself .</span><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Penny Roundtree wants nothing more than to be a familiar to a witch. She’s been a member of the Society of Familiars ever since she was old enough to join the Fam. There’s just a small problem—no one’s hiring. Witches and warlocks are so long-lived that there are far more familiars available than witches to train them. So when an unorthodox arrangement to apprentice under the table to a forbidden warlock presents itself, she takes it.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /> <br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Willem Sauer is banned from having a familiar due to past transgressions, thereby limiting his magic-casting abilities. Unfortunately for the surly, Prussian warlock, he has no choice but to work with enthusiastic Penny as a familiar. They immediately clash like dried roan horsehair and honeycomb gathered by moonlight (it’s a terrible spell combination, ask anyone).<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /> <br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Casting spells has delightful perks Penny never could have dreamed of, but also greater dangers. Someone is targeting Penny. Willem and Penny must work together to catch their enemy, and if their ploy requires a little kissing on the side, who is to question the rules of magic?</span></span></div></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><ul aria-label="Top genres for this book" class="CollapsableList" style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </ul><ul aria-label="Top genres for this book" class="CollapsableList" style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>What The Hex</i></ul></div>
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</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"> Sir?”I look up from the book in my lap, annoyed that one of the servants has bothered to disturb me in my study. Putting aside the treatise on the casting benefits of various types of dried beetles as spell components, I eye my housekeeper. “Is there a problem?”She gestures feebly toward the front of the house. “It’s happening again.”My annoyance disappears immediately, replaced with surging anger and frustration. I jump to my feet, racing out of my study and down the hall. “Where?”“M-mailbox,”she calls after me. “Dorothy found a dead bird in your mailbox.”I storm out the front door and into the neighborhood. My house is in a little suburban community of other witches and warlocks, because it’s easiest to have neighbors that won’t call the police on me at all hours. I scan my lawn and the driveway. Nothing seems amiss, but the mailbox is hanging open. Biting the inside of my cheek, I manage to keep a bland expression on my face as I stalk toward the curb. One quick glance inside the mailbox shows that Dorothy did not lie. There’s a dead dove inside, nestled atop my mail. That weasel. I knew he’d come after me, especially after I’d just stolen his prized library. It’s an affront that can’t go unrecognized. Still, to frighten my housekeeping staff feels petty. He’s lucky they’re well aware I’m a warlock . . . even if they’re not aware that I’m a stifled one. I pull out the dove, irritated. The breast of the dead bird has been painted with runes, and I’m sure if I opened it up and examined the contents of its stomach, I’d find laurel leaves and a pebble from a hero’s grave. It’s a specific sort of spell that my nemesis is casting, one designed to break my wards and make my house vulnerable to others. This isn’t the first time that my old master Stoker has tried this sort of stunt. Ever since I left his service, he’s tried to have me killed. However, it is the first time he’s cast a curse at my current house. The house I’d had built to my specifications ten years ago, after I’d been forced to move from the last one because Stoker had found me again. He wants to make my life hell. And since I can’t cast to protect myself, the only thing I can do is avoid him. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have stolen his books. Ten years ago, I thought moving would solve my problems. My enemies would no longer have my address, and I’d finish the rest of my probationary period out under the radar. It’s clear that Stoker won’t rest until he finds me, and it doesn’t matter how many times I move. The man’s held a grudge for 250 years. Of course he’s going to attack me while I’m vulnerable. Well, no more. I’m not retreating. I’m done hiding. I made the first move, so I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s retaliating. Still, a dead dove is a little . . . over the top. I take the dead bird inside with me and hand it to the housekeeper, who makes a sound of protest. “Get rid of that.”“But, sir—”“I’ll be in my study.”I head for the bathroom, wash my hands, and then walk back to my study, locking the doors behind me. I want to go down to my laboratory, but I never go when the help staff is here. No one can know about the secret door I’ve had built that leads down to my lab and my trove of stolen spell books. For now, I have to wait. I take a deep breath, thinking through everything I need to get done. New wards around the house—that’s the first priority. An obfuscation spell to hide my address from anyone looking it up online. Each spell will wear me out for at least a week. All of them together and I’ll be out of action for well over a month. Without a familiar to act as my power source, I’ll be forced to rely on my own limited pool of energy. That means everything will take twice as long to cast and will leave me vulnerable. I can’t pay another witch or warlock to do it for me, because they’ve been forbidden to assist in my casting. It’s part of my “punishment.”Only ten more years to go. The thought is a dismal one. Maybe I should start out with scrying, I decide. See what exactly Stoker plans—A loud chirp echoes in the room. My eyes snap open, and I look at the “mailbox”atop the mantel of the fireplace. An envelope is inside, delivered by mystical means. It’s the only way my old master—my other old master, the one that’s not trying to kill me—communicates with me. I stride over toward it and tear the wax seal off the back of the envelope, reading the contents of the letter. Stoker is on the move. Be aware. —Abernathy I crumple it and toss the notice to the ground. “Thanks for nothing, but you’re a bit late.</div></a></div>
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My Thoughts <div>If you are looking for a sweet, light, and oh so magically delicious romance. Look no further than Jessica Claire's <i>What The Hex</i>.</div><div>Leading lady, Penny Roundtree, is a standout character from the word go.</div><div>With her bubbly personality, rainbows and unicorns packaging, and go-getter approach to life. Is it any wonder that she would do anything other than to turn the otherwise staid and colorless life of exiled warlock, Willem Sauer, upside down?</div><div><br /></div><div>The fun of this book is found in the secrets tha the two main characters are forced to keep.</div><div>And the questions that those secrets force others and them to both ask and answer. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6EqP_FLh9VDm6tmOn3vLWaTxAqRLqKrbA0q5arhc9lx8MZBSCsYPDoBC5nRWgGYGxrlFB3V_vYP-3Rk3QNhJgKELVplC4rg_hqTJm7fq8HviPcKKql5HRRxWAb1cYdYfnqI4KujXRYyyjSShvS6iEQ-ITQUyVXcTNKTUSHSEUkjPfg3Mu2HGc0_X/s320/4pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6EqP_FLh9VDm6tmOn3vLWaTxAqRLqKrbA0q5arhc9lx8MZBSCsYPDoBC5nRWgGYGxrlFB3V_vYP-3Rk3QNhJgKELVplC4rg_hqTJm7fq8HviPcKKql5HRRxWAb1cYdYfnqI4KujXRYyyjSShvS6iEQ-ITQUyVXcTNKTUSHSEUkjPfg3Mu2HGc0_X/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Are they friends?</div><div>Can they be lovers?</div><div>Will they ever be free of the ever present threat of Willem's old Master?</div><div>Will Willem ever be able to clear his name?</div><div>...and so much more. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seeing the evolution of Willem as a character as he and Penny grow closer.</div><div>So sweet.</div><div>And the sex!!!</div><div>HAWT!!!</div><div>The incorporation of the FAM, and all of the color and intrigue provided by the supporting cast.</div><div>Just fabulous...</div><div>And the right amount of funny to boot.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>What The Hex</i> is the second book in the <i>Hex</i> series. But it could make a great first forey into wonderful Spring romance reading for all the magically inclined lovers of love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Netgalley and Berkley Books for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXYBei8ICsQ-_-RpBaEUL_bC5tzb3dSM-rR-FDJNbQxKYCe7S1dklLQYSYir0CTpHi4cIHk6wiIfqKlp1R8NcX4AVC4NOob3yre1aXOK2PNC0wn9JQfo_CuD-MvBvwEXBBB8fe8GLxFRZoDIoIDaqxb03o69wiC-9-hAeffOt0IG0a6ORxJQvj8Xa/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXYBei8ICsQ-_-RpBaEUL_bC5tzb3dSM-rR-FDJNbQxKYCe7S1dklLQYSYir0CTpHi4cIHk6wiIfqKlp1R8NcX4AVC4NOob3yre1aXOK2PNC0wn9JQfo_CuD-MvBvwEXBBB8fe8GLxFRZoDIoIDaqxb03o69wiC-9-hAeffOt0IG0a6ORxJQvj8Xa/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="freeTextauthor2884305" style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nrJSCvotoqhrXZrrIHZdcExn5w1UKcEGUoDna2iMCvOS38IHGXdUfLAT9CGD2m1bQeaWIy7Puufy0q116lW5RBOo6jNHhjxoCyck6109dZ554tzbaS_uj5HGKdcruC__mAabQVqKJ351mvd1ugrSBoeN_Hwt9-21VbnI68yWYABCclCHQsKC-i9j/s561/2884305.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="561" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nrJSCvotoqhrXZrrIHZdcExn5w1UKcEGUoDna2iMCvOS38IHGXdUfLAT9CGD2m1bQeaWIy7Puufy0q116lW5RBOo6jNHhjxoCyck6109dZ554tzbaS_uj5HGKdcruC__mAabQVqKJ351mvd1ugrSBoeN_Hwt9-21VbnI68yWYABCclCHQsKC-i9j/w200-h159/2884305.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />This is a pen name for <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2923539.Jill_Myles" rel="nofollow noopener" style="color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;">Jill Myles</a>.<br /><br />Jill Myles has been an incurable romantic since childhood. She reads all the 'naughty parts' of books first, looks for a dirty joke in just about everything, and thinks to this day that the Little House on the Prairie books should have been steamier.<br /><br />After devouring hundreds of paperback romances, mythology books, and archaeological tomes, she decided to write a few books of her own - stories with a wild adventure, sharp banter, and lots of super-sexy situations. She prefers her heroes alpha and half-dressed, her heroines witty, and she loves nothing more than watching them overcome adversity to fall into bed together.</span><span style="color: #181818;"> </span></span></div>
<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-What-the-Hex/dp/B0B9QF4Y1W?crid=3VHNFAREX3N46&keywords=what+the+hex+jessica+clare&qid=1680609663&sprefix=what+the+hex%2Caps%2C119&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=acce8950532430f969d3ab4033dadcbe&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0B9QF4Y1W&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B0B9QF4Y1W" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-84120050442201105322023-03-21T09:06:00.000-04:002023-03-21T09:06:05.642-04:00Berkley Presents: Smolder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIqBCFey_MtTQwPElI1hOmZ5pvfze8DH8SgbJ8sueGIrJ28OMR1K7McNrWgkW0OFGUtgVFmcyF0WGyXhWGWCt9BFbG9u1Xynaj9ljFzOFBfmMMHw1R7lcbzEVvM3w0DyxKx6cgySZUrdo3GHuhK1gBpKxhN5yb5AfQMXxVoOrqExYUrXF7UGqoVNu/s2560/60738079.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIqBCFey_MtTQwPElI1hOmZ5pvfze8DH8SgbJ8sueGIrJ28OMR1K7McNrWgkW0OFGUtgVFmcyF0WGyXhWGWCt9BFbG9u1Xynaj9ljFzOFBfmMMHw1R7lcbzEVvM3w0DyxKx6cgySZUrdo3GHuhK1gBpKxhN5yb5AfQMXxVoOrqExYUrXF7UGqoVNu/s320/60738079.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />Title: Smolder <div>Series: Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #29</div><div>Author: Laurell K. Hamilton </div><div>Date Of Publication: March 21st, 2023</div><div>Length: 496 pages</div><div>Publisher: Berkley Books </div><div>Rating: 5 Stars</div><div> </div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: inherit;">The wedding of the century between vampire hunter Anita Blake and the vampire king of America Jean-Claude is almost here, but an ancient evil arrives in St. Louis and even Jean-Claude’s unmatched power isn’t enough to save them. Only with the return of a lost love can they hope to combat the monster and save their loved ones and every vampire in the country from being consumed by darkness</span><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">.</span></div><div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Smolder</i></div>
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</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">EDWARD STOOD IN front of the half circle of mirrors getting fitted for the wedding clothes he’d be wearing as best man in my wedding. I’d been his best man/ person less than a year ago, so turnabout was fair play. He was even hating the clothes almost as much as I hated the formal-length dress that his bride had forced me to wear at the last moment when I thought I’d get away with a tux like the men. Now it was his turn to think he’d get to wear a tux and find out he was half right. Since I was marrying someone who either designed or helped design most of his own clothes, Jean-Claude had ideas for spicing up the traditional boring clothes that most modern men wore. Normally his fashion sense wouldn’t have bothered Edward, who had a very traditional style, but now as he glared at himself in the mirror he was bothered, very bothered. “You have got to be kidding me,”he said. His blue eyes were already starting to turn pale like winter skies, which usually meant he was about to kill something, or that he wanted to kill something. Peter, his very grown-up son, and I sat in little chairs that were usually reserved for mothers of the bride, or other members of the female side of the wedding, because men didn’t have to come to the designer wedding couture side—ever. Edward was my bestest friend, but I grinned at him, because I was enjoying the men getting outfitted in something they hated so much more than any normal tux. “You look great,”I said, smiling, and that at least was true, unlike me in every bridesmaid dress I’d ever been forced to wear. He looked to Peter for a different opinion. “This is ridiculous.”He spread his arms out to his sides so that Peter could get the full effect of the black leather and cloth tailcoat with its high, stiff collar that framed about half Edward’s head. His blond hair looked brighter yellow than I’d ever seen it, maybe it was the black leather framing it? Or maybe it was his desert tan, which wasn’t tanned by most standards, but it was the most color I’d ever seen on Edward’s skin. “Except for the collar, the jacket looks great on you, and the collar isn’t bad, it’s just”—Peter made a waffling motion with his hand—“it’s odd, like it shouldn’t be there, but I really like the leather over the shoulders, and the scalloped leather over the forearm looks like a leather bracer from armor. It’s really cool, Ted.”Peter’s desert tan was a lot darker than Edward’s; technically they were stepson and stepfather, but for them it wasn’t about genetics, it was about love. Edward’s glare softened a little and turned back to the mirrors. He took a visible deep breath and let it out slowly as if he were counting to ten. He pulled on the edges of the jacket as if it needed to be settled in place, but it fit him perfectly; the little bump of the tails on the coat actually drew the eyes to his ass, and since we had never ever been anything but friends I didn’t usually notice Edward’s body like that. I’d thought of tailcoats as old-fashioned until I saw the first of our wedding party in them and realized that they actually accentuated everyone’s booty a lot more than modern jackets did. “Why do I hate this so much, besides the stand-up collar?”he asked. “Maybe it’s just so different from your usual cowboy–U.S. Marshal aesthetic?”Peter suggested. I looked at Edward, and finally said, “It’s the most fitted thing I’ve seen you in since you slimmed down for your wedding. You look slender, more . . . delicate almost, and in all the years we’ve been friends, delicate has never been a word I used for you.”He nodded at himself in the mirror. “That’s what it is, I look smaller even to me.”“You’re in the fiercest shape I’ve ever seen you in, unless you’ve put on weight since I saw you at the pool during the wedding trip. You’re all muscle. Hell, Ed”—and I had to stop and force myself to say, “Ted, I didn’t even know you had a six-pack under there until that weekend.”“I hadn’t. Not since I was in the military twenty years ago, so never since you’ve known me.”“All the moms and most of the daughters at martial arts class think I have the hottest dad and that includes the male instructors.”Peter said it with a touch of pride, unlike some twenty-year-old sons who would have felt competitive with their fathers. Of course, Edward had never been competitive with Peter either. “High praise, I take it, since I haven’t seen your instructors,”I said. Peter grinned. “Yep.”“Since you’re one of the instructors now, very high praise,”Edward said, and he smiled at his son with a pride that I never thought I’d ever see in his eyes for anyone. When we first met, Edward and I had both been so alone, and neither of us had ever expected that to change. Now here we were, both of us happier than I’d ever seen us. Sometimes life was good. Peter looked embarrassed but pleased. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d made instructor, Peter? Congratulations.”“It’s just part time.”“But you’re still in college, so part time is all you can really do,”I said. “There’s really not a lot of money in owning a good martial arts school, and instructors make less. You have to be a belt factory or offer kickboxing as a fitness class or something sell-out like that to earn enough money to pay full-time staff, full-time wages,”Peter said. “You talked to Bill like I suggested,”Edward said. “Bill owns the school,”Peter explained to me, “and yes, I talked to him. I’d need another job that paid better if I wanted to be full-time at the dojo.”He made quote marks with his fingers when he said full-time. “How’s the double major going?”I asked. “I’m really enjoying Preternatural Primates this semester. I never knew how many species of trolls there were, and did you hear new DNA testing split the Yeti into three species instead of just the two?”“Really? I hadn’t heard about that.”“I can send you the link to the article our prof shared with us.”“Please,”I said. “But now I want to see some of the trolls we have in this country in person.”“I’ve seen the Lesser Smoky Mountain Trolls.”I almost added that I knew someone who had their doctorate on the trolls, but the person in question was my ex, Richard Zeeman, and the last time Peter had seen him, someone we both knew had died. Today was a good day; we didn’t need to rake up horrible memories and ruin it. “Really, when?”“They’re indigenous to the area of Tennessee where one of my mentors lives. I don’t remember if I’ve talked to you about Marianne.”“The witch who helped you learn to control your magic, right?”“Yeah, I guess I did talk about her.”He shook his head. “Nathaniel told me after the trip when he went with you and Micah to try and learn how the magical energy worked between the three of you.”I knew that Nathaniel talked to Peter even more than I did, and Marianne was out of the broom closet as a witch, so I guess it was okay that Nathaniel shared. Besides . . . I looked at his eager face so happy in college, learning new things that he’d call up to share, and realized that I trusted Peter. He knew how to keep secret whatever needed kept. “Your face went all serious, Anita, what are you thinking about?”he asked. I smiled. “My first thought was that what Nathaniel had shared could get Marianne in trouble, and then I realized that I trusted you. Trusted your judgment, trusted you to keep secret what needs keeping.”He smiled at me like I’d said something wonderful; maybe I had, but it was one of the best smiles I’d seen on his face since he got to watch his parents walk down the aisle together. “Thanks, Anita, that means a lot.”“You’ve earned it, Peter.”“He’s starting to like his biology classes better than his criminal justice ones,”Edward said, still tugging at the perfectly tailored coat. “Are you still fast-tracked for preternatural law enforcement, or did the trolls lure you to the biology side?”“I still want to be a preternatural marshal like you and Ted, but I failed my blood test for lycanthropy so they’re letting me stay in the program, but they aren’t sure about my future in it.”“I’m sorry, Peter, really,”I said, and patted his arm. “It’s not your fault, Anita.”“You got hurt protecting me.”“If I hadn’t been there the weretiger would have killed you. I don’t regret what I did, and you shouldn’t either.”I looked at that calm, wise face, and thought, When did he get so grown-up? “I’ll do my best to be all healthy and therapy-evolved, but I am sorry that you popping hot on the test is keeping you out of the military and law enforcement.”“I don’t shift, and my test is undetermined just like Ted’s.”“And it’s my fault both times.”“I’m still a marshal, and that you and I got to keep our badges sets a good precedent for Peter to get into law enforcement.”“True, but if it’s my blood getting all up in your wounds when we were both cut up by wereanimals, why don’t both of you show full-blown Therianthropy at least on the test? I mean I don’t change form either, but my test always comes back listing every type of Therianthropy I have inside me.”“The doctors don’t know,”Ted said. “They were interested in the fact that both Ted and I test the same because we were father and son and they thought they had a theory, until they found out we’re not genetically related.”“I went in with Peter last time so the doctors could talk to us together.”“And draw more blood,”Peter said. Edward nodded. “And draw more blood.”“Dr. Lillian wants to draw more blood tomorrow from both of you and from me so she can compare it. Sorry.”“No, we came here to figure out what’s happening to us,”Edward said, then tugged on the jacket as if it didn’t fit right, but I’d never seen him in a piece of clothing that fit him better and that included the tux he’d worn for his own wedding. “And to try on beautiful wedding clothes,”I said, smiling. The seamstress rejoined us then; she had the pants that were supposed to go with the jacket instead of the temporary ones that she’d forced Edward into so she could see how the jacket fit. The pants were black leather. “You are so going to owe me for this,”Edward said. “One, I’ve seen you wear leather for undercover work before. Two, I wore a formal-length dress on a beach with bedazzled flip-flops for your wedding.”“That was not this bad,”he said, motioning at the pants that the patient woman was holding up for him. “I tried on dresses that were so low that I flashed an entire bridal store when I tripped over the hem.”He grinned, then shook his head. “Okay, that’s fair.”“If I said I’m sorry I missed you trying on dresses, would you be mad?”Peter asked. “Yes,”I said, firmly. He and Edward both laughed. I tried to hold out, but I finally gave in, and we laughed until Edward had to go into the changing room and get into the freshly hemmed leather</div></a></div>
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My Thoughts <div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Oh my dearest Laurell...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">How I love you and your uber-complex plots.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">With title 29 in the <i>Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter</i> series; offering nothing less than sheer supernatural delight. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Staring the delectable Jean-Claude, Asher, a much more alpha Nathaniel, Angel, Devil, and even the return of Richard. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Although I must admit that the absence of Micah is much felt this go round.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Marriage for Anita. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Hmmmmm...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eHow-SoyT1vY_i-HRPzqJLdsk5TGNNH_x0dwgEOGP210NnawgW9ocKw-CXrB4_8Asd4slbMJU7fEALMR56yufLxsJe1JJG0_Xagd8LTrodJHgtq4577jab72HreB7KeJ689aq8kyUrvyiJ0_3AOTJLvtwQbpZ7eU5EOAgGgmy62bhdCdmWZMhV6o/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eHow-SoyT1vY_i-HRPzqJLdsk5TGNNH_x0dwgEOGP210NnawgW9ocKw-CXrB4_8Asd4slbMJU7fEALMR56yufLxsJe1JJG0_Xagd8LTrodJHgtq4577jab72HreB7KeJ689aq8kyUrvyiJ0_3AOTJLvtwQbpZ7eU5EOAgGgmy62bhdCdmWZMhV6o/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Can't wait for that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Although the peek at her past that this read offers is just as off putting as the time that we got to go home with Jason.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">It looks as though this read and it's eons old demigod baddie are going to carry over into the following book.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">That is worth a serious</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">... Yay!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book really let us see the relationship dynamics of Anita's life. And how the "sliding doors" effect of her polyamory has its good and not so good aspects. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">It seems that everyone as done a great deal of evolving. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">None to a more attractive degree than Nathaniel. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Oohh la la...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Richard, I can't say that I trust yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Although there is a part of me that really really wants to.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Oh well...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">I guess we'll just have to wait for <i>Slay</i>, to see how what was so deliciously started in <i>Smolder</i>, plays out.</span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230321_082848_911.sdocx--></div></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Reviewer's Note </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Thanks to Netgalley and Berkley Books for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><i>Smolder</i> is the 29th book in an interrelated series. It is recommended be read consecutively. To maintain continuity. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRW92KMu4vS_8Fn1Wu71UumHDPeARB-Hd6YCUGhsblH-r1pPn5kjFgG-GSA89dKSK7Lkgcz3MiAKh73iEKfCad7Bsj7O6gHWid-ZMM2F8am-0UI3B-8mC0KastlqUGjaAODGpN6K0kR_IgtcwsN7vbiZvoMgIhaY3SppKhAcDKrRrI8PhNktLRX-G/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRW92KMu4vS_8Fn1Wu71UumHDPeARB-Hd6YCUGhsblH-r1pPn5kjFgG-GSA89dKSK7Lkgcz3MiAKh73iEKfCad7Bsj7O6gHWid-ZMM2F8am-0UI3B-8mC0KastlqUGjaAODGpN6K0kR_IgtcwsN7vbiZvoMgIhaY3SppKhAcDKrRrI8PhNktLRX-G/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">About Laurell</span></div><div><span><div style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextContainerauthor9550" style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s700/9550.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #a7a7a7; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s280/9550.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(148, 92, 118); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; box-sizing: border-box; max-width: 100%; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="280" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Laurell K. Hamilton is one of the leading writers of paranormal fiction. A #1 New York Times bestselling author, Hamilton writes the popular Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter novels and the Meredith Gentry series. She is also the creator of a bestselling comic book series based on her Anita Blake novels and published by Marvel Comics. Hamilton is a full-time writer and lives in the suburbs of St. Louis with her family.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">See Her Socially: <a href="https://www.laurellkhamilton.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Web</a>/ <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9550.Laurell_K_Hamilton" rel="nofollow" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">GR</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/lkhamilton" rel="nofollow" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Twitter</a>/ <a href="https://m.facebook.com/LaurellKHamiltonOfficial" rel="nofollow" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Buy The Book Here...</span></div><center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Smolder-Anita-Blake-Vampire-Hunter/dp/1984804499?&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=428cb2ecbc50d7df93d70c106a5e3079&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=1984804499&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=1984804499" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>
WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-79011935937176327282023-03-20T08:46:00.002-04:002023-03-20T08:46:35.968-04:00Berkley Presents: In Isabeau's Eyes <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvjBAyQxx_ZLUUt81VIecwbWcz9ritL6NnJT_Vq3f8HhSsWw6xLvg4a0EZifNFn9fLvDRn7pixVJ3MVLkl8h39YK07CES1cej9GmJobbn_LX8-i2GlDS44u0n2GQfU_XMYbbxFz4h6Ev_sdvO9aO4tz1Ysl4OhdoI7owudPiGvfDP7xSVjK2ig49j/s500/40949436.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvjBAyQxx_ZLUUt81VIecwbWcz9ritL6NnJT_Vq3f8HhSsWw6xLvg4a0EZifNFn9fLvDRn7pixVJ3MVLkl8h39YK07CES1cej9GmJobbn_LX8-i2GlDS44u0n2GQfU_XMYbbxFz4h6Ev_sdvO9aO4tz1Ysl4OhdoI7owudPiGvfDP7xSVjK2ig49j/s320/40949436.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />Title: In Isabeau's Eyes </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Series: Kentucky Nights #1</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Author: Lora Leigh</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Length: 352 pages, Kindle Ed.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Date Of Publication: March 21st, 2023</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Publisher: Berkley </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Rating: 4 Stars </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">The first novel in a new series from #1 <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">New York Times</i> bestselling author Lora Leigh—you've met the Mackays; now it's time to meet their friends.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Danger is stalking Isabeau Boudreaux. After the deaths of her parents ten years ago during a violent attack that left her blind, remnants of her vision are returning. But a series of accidents has convinced her friends the Mackays of Somerset, Kentucky, that someone wants her dead. When a roadside blowout proves to be almost fatal for Isabeau and her good friend Angel, Angel’s brother mercenary Tracker Calloway knows this was no accident.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">After a particularly bloody job, the last thing Tracker wants to do is get involved. But whoever is after Isabeau almost hurt his sister, and Isabeau is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Tracker is determined to protect her but knows staying away from Isabeau is impossible. He begins a steady seduction to tempt the innocent woman into a world of hunger like she could have never imagined. And keeping her is the only option—if he can save her from an unknown enemy as her sight begins to slowly return.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Isabeau's Eyes</i></div>
<center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a>
</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">SHE’D ALMOST DIED. AGAIN. AND THIS TIME, THE NEAR miss had nearly taken someone else as well. Isabeau Boudreaux sat still and silent in the front seat of the pickup she’d been led to, the door open, fighting the misty blurriness of her eyesight and her own fear. For ten years she’d been fighting to live, and for nine of those years it seemed bad luck was determined to kill her where her father had failed. If it was bad luck, as her brother, Burke, was wont to say. “Goddammit, Angel.”A new voice, filled with anger and disgust, rose amid the others that had arrived at the site where Angel’s truck had nearly gone over a sheer cliff after the tire had exploded. “What the bloody fuck is going on here? That was no convenient blowout. That tire was shot out, and you and I both know you’re experienced enough to see it.”Isabeau froze, her fingers tightening on the handle of the cane she carried as the accusation drifted to her over the distance between the truck she sat in and Angel’s truck a good fifty feet away. She was guessing the unknown male was one of Angel’s brothers, most likely the eldest brother, who they called Tracker. She’d met the younger one, Chance, and rather liked him. But even angry, his voice wouldn’t sound like this. She couldn’t hear Angel’s response, but the male didn’t care if he was heard or not. Rough, dark, and raspy, it was a sexy sound, despite the anger filling it. “And you damned well know that woman is a walking target and has been for years,”he snapped again. “Why didn’t you stay the fuck away . . . ?”Isabeau flinched; the pure fury in the man’s voice and his words whipped across her emotions, pulling at the guilt she already felt, and a fear she’d fought for years. Unfounded fear, she was told often, but a fear all the same. Of all her accidents in the past ten years, law enforcement hadn’t found a single shred of evidence that they were anything more than bad luck. Even her brother, as strong and suspicious as he was, and the friends he surrounded himself with, couldn’t find so much as a rumor that they were anything more than accidents. She was blind. Shit happened. Right? Her blindness hadn’t been an accident though. The bullet she’d taken to her head when she was fifteen should have killed her. Instead, it had somehow lodged in her skull, taking her sight rather than her life. And her memory of that night. “Dammit, Tracker, I said shut the hell up.”Angel’s demand had come too late; the words had already been said. “Stop being an asshole just for the sake of it.”“I’m never an asshole for the sake of it, little sister,”he countered with a snarl. “And you damned well know it. It comes naturally.”Isabeau heard the heavy sigh next to her where the door had been left open by the young woman keeping her company. Annie Mackay was eighteen, and very sensitive for her age. That sound was heavy with sympathy, and Isabeau hated it. The girl felt sorry for her, when that was the last thing Isabeau wanted. “Tracker is Angel’s brother,”the young woman said softly. “Sort of. He and his family raised Angel after Aunt Chaya thought she’d been killed in a hotel bombing. He’s like her foster brother.”“Angel told me,”Isabeau said. “He has a right to be angry. She was almost killed.”“But it wasn’t your fault,”Annie stated, her voice soft. “Tracker’s just really worried about her. He always worries more now that she’s pregnant. And that would have been a really bad accident.”Isabeau tightened her fingers on the cane once again, the all-too-familiar feeling of helplessness, of dependence, strangling her. She couldn’t even leave, not without asking someone to take her home. And how could she do that, after Angel had nearly died driving her to the remote location where the weekend gathering hosted by the few friends she made was being held? The invitation to the Mackay reunion weekend had filled her with such excitement when Angel had extended it and told her she could ride to the property with her. Three days and nights at the lake house getting to know the rest of the Mackay family amid good food, music, and bonfires. Now, she just wanted to hide in the small house she owned in Somerset, Kentucky, and decide if she should call her brother and tell him about this latest incident. One more time, he’d warned her, and she was returning to the ranch with a bodyguard. He was tired of the accidents that made no sense and defied explanation. He’d protect her himself if he had to lock her in the ranch house to do it. A miserable existence. She didn’t want to go back to Texas. She loved her brother, Burke, and his father and stepmother. His half sister, Kenya, was fun to be around, but Texas wasn’t home. It was dusty and too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter. The sound of cattle filled the air constantly, along with the shouts of the cowboys on horseback who worked them. But she didn’t want anyone else hurt because of her either. This accident had been too close. If the truck had gone over the cliff, she, Angel, and Angel’s unborn child, would have died. “It was an accident.”Annie broke into her thoughts with the assurance, but Isabeau heard the doubt in her voice. An accident. Like the truck that nearly ran her over in Beaumont, the attempted abduction outside her college dorm, the gas explosion in the empty apartment next to hers when she’d moved to Dallas—and those were just the highlights of her bad-luck adventures, as she’d been calling them. Just an accident. But evidently, this one hadn’t been. Tracker Calloway had told his sister that she had enough experience to know that the tire was shot out. That meant it had been deliberate. Someone had shot it as Angel rounded the sharp curve in the narrow mountain road. It was no accident, Isabeau thought as she fought back the sudden terror that wanted to rise inside her. Had someone really been causing the “accidents,”and had they finally grown tired of failing and decided to use a bullet? She rubbed at the side of her head, her fingers finding the scar beneath her hair that marked where the bullet had struck her the summer she turned fifteen. “Uh-oh, here comes Tracker,”Annie murmured. “And Dad and Duke.”Dad being Rowdy Mackay, and Duke being Angel’s husband. “Annie, go with your mom,”Rowdy directed his daughter, his tone warm and caring when he spoke to her, but Isabeau heard the undercurrent of tension. “We’re going back to the lake house now.”“Okay, Dad.”Annie moved back, the blurred shadow of her form hesitant as she moved. “Isabeau, this is Tracker Calloway with me,”Rowdy told her as Annie left. “He’ll be driving you back to the lake house.”Isabeau’s felt the lash of trepidation as it rushed through her. “Ms. Boudreaux,”Tracker spoke as he opened the driver’s side door and slid in. She jerked, flinching away from him a second later as the huge shadow suddenly moved closer, his arm reaching across her. “Seat belt,”he seemed to bite out as he grabbed the latch and pulled it across her. The complete lack of respect the move indicated was like a slap in the face. “I’m blind, not incompetent.”The words burst free from her before she could hold them back. “And I can buckle my own damned seat belt.”It snapped into place even as she spoke. “Tracker,”Duke spoke from behind Rowdy, his voice holding a warning. “Politeness counts.”It seemed to be a repeated order, if Duke’s tone was anything to go by. “As does common sense,”Tracker snorted. “Now close the damned door so I can get her to the house. Hopefully without either of us going over a cliff.”Isabeau barely stilled a gasp at the not-so-subtle accusation in his tone and her own surprise at how deep it seemed to hurt. “Why don’t you let someone in possession of that common sense drive instead,”Rowdy snapped as the tension shot up by several degrees. “Because the rest of you actually give a damn if you live or die,”Tracker growled, his voice deepening, becoming more graveled as Isabeau felt anger beginning to burn between Tracker and Rowdy. “Looks like me and Ms. Boudreaux are the only two who don’t give a flying fuck. Now close the goddamned door so I can leave.”“Like hell . . .”Rowdy snapped, his body shifting closer to her as though he intended to jerk her from the truck. She actually wouldn’t have put it past him. “Rowdy, I’ll be fine,”Isabeau hurriedly injected as she lifted a hand helplessly, looking between the two men, the fiery tension building around them too much for her to take in or to deal with. The shadows of both men standing beside her suddenly seemed far more dangerous as they’d stepped closer to where she sat. “Get out of the truck, Isabeau,”Duke ordered. “Some of us aren’t nearly the asshole Tracker’s making himself out to be . . .”Making himself out to be? “It’s not an act, Duke. You of all people should know that,”Tracker snorted, the complete assurance in his tone almost amusing as he voiced her own thoughts. Amusing if the situation hadn’t had the potential to be so disastrous. “I’m certain it isn’t,”Isabeau assured him as she did the unruly students she occasionally dealt with. Despite his gruff words, she sensed he wouldn’t hurt her. “And you do it very well.”She turned back to Duke and Rowdy. “Mr. Calloway and I will get along fine, I promise. Tell Angel I’ll talk to her later.”Reaching past Duke she felt for the door handle, gripped it, and eased it toward her slowly. She was rather surprised when the two men shifted back and allowed her to close the door. The truck slid into gear and moments later began backing along the road only to swing into what she assumed was a wider spot to turn and continue along the steep incline of the mountain. Folding her hands in her lap, Isabeau faked composure. She’d learned how to do that years ago, after first losing her sight, to appease Burke, who had been enraged for more than a year because of their mother’s murder, and Isabeau’s father’s attempt to kill Isabeau as well before he’d killed himself. That was what the official police report concluded, as had the coroner. That her father, Carmichael Boudreaux had killed his wife, Danica, and believed he’d killed his daughter, then turned the gun on himself. Her gentle, laughter-filled, loving father had seemingly found some reason to believe they should all die. There had been no suicide letter, no indication that he harbored such darkness inside him. Friends hadn’t noticed anything unusual in him, no hint of depression or financial worries. Yet he’d killed his wife and attempted to kill his daughter. Isabeau’s accidental survival had amazed the doctors and surgeons. The fact that she’d recovered, with only the loss of sight, had astounded them. “I’m not one of your teenage students.”Tracker’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I don’t like being patronized, Ms. Boudreaux.”She’d known all that offended male pride would escape soon. Most men dislike being talked to as though they were teenagers. Especially when they were acting in that age group. “Then don’t act like a schoolyard bully,”she suggested calmly. “As I understand it, you know both Duke and Rowdy fairly well. Infuriate their protective instincts, and fists are going to start flying. You should</div></a></div>
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<div>My Thoughts </div><div><i>In Isabeau's Eyes</i> marks the beginning of a new adventure for authoress, Lora Leigh. </div><div>And a new series to love for her readers.</div><div>Isabeau Boudreaux is a character that one can't help loving from the start. </div><div>Who even though she was blinded by an as yet unknown assassin. Who did manage to kill both her mother and father. When she was just a girl of fifteen. Has never stopped striving to live her life on her own terms.</div><div>Now a woman grown, and having weathered many more attempts on her life.</div><div>This tough cookie has shown time and time again. That crumbling is not on her agenda. </div><div>That is until a failed car crash involving Isabeau and her best friend Angel. Brings her face to face with the man who; while determined to save her body. Just might steal her heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tracker Calloway...</div><div>Rough around the edges. Determined to be the "white knight " in Isabeau's situation. And totally unprepared for the feelings that this "force of nature" of a woman will inspire.</div><div>If he can keep her alive.</div><div>That is...</div><div><br /></div><div>And now for the technical support...</div><div>This first book in the <i>Kentucky Nights</i> series. Is classic Lora Leigh. </div><div>Strong leading man with a past.</div><div>Meets strong leading damsel with a past. And oftentimes quite a dangerous present. </div><div>From which he is then obligated to save her.</div><div>They then fall in uncontrollable lust.</div><div>Resulting in some of the best written sex scenes known to human kind.</div><div>Yada...yada... impending peril...saving of the day...yada yada...declaration of love...grand gesture...HEA!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F-3sXgGASDijGw9eQQseOV5Boxibf-vTKJp0dmI2hPJlIEYKRWA8GC-H7MHDyFTTJzCnvaDjICKvGKea6G9yKXeyXlKMEOh4qGELCuFEflfrHZwSzJa-4QNNS2cqBoDekiVR-jQPKTpA6YRLoX-rIVS2a272kLRVMSjaHr70IEgm7Asg7c1gQU93/s320/4pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F-3sXgGASDijGw9eQQseOV5Boxibf-vTKJp0dmI2hPJlIEYKRWA8GC-H7MHDyFTTJzCnvaDjICKvGKea6G9yKXeyXlKMEOh4qGELCuFEflfrHZwSzJa-4QNNS2cqBoDekiVR-jQPKTpA6YRLoX-rIVS2a272kLRVMSjaHr70IEgm7Asg7c1gQU93/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>And for the most part we got that this time around. </div><div>But we also got something a little bit special because of Isabeau's disability. </div><div>That served to her, her peril, and her romantic entanglement all the more interesting. </div><div>At least for a while anyway. </div><div>As well as making up for some of the confusion that comes about when trying to clarify the origin story of the mysterious bad guy. Trying to kill our girl. And his relationship to both her and the good guys trying to save her.</div><div>Because this story has some rather serious "six degrees of separation" action going on between cast mates. </div><div>Someone is always someone's cousin's sister’s brother twice removed. </div><div>And then there is the insta-attraction between Tracker and Isabeau. </div><div>Really?</div><div>As I stated earlier, it did lead to some really hot sex.</div><div>But...</div><div>Really?</div><div>The second time they meet?</div><div>Really?</div><div>Ok...</div><div>Then There is the whole regaining her sight thing.</div><div>Which while a good thing in most cases. Just made this book run of the mill for me.</div><div>All of that being said however.</div><div>This is a good book if you want something light. That you can read in one sitting and will make your heart and libido race.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note</div><div>Thank you to Netgalley and Berkley Books for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9hdrSsC0IOAisPDT3WcQSX6All-u_NsaTwgcRNRI4YUU5JNIe-k7FqlUWP29sPYsnNhI1-1pcR3QXQffxa2T5LQTS1n2Y38CdW8RasSEjCPfEItir6Gorz_ALESamjV_KJjz1xpw7ETmE0yWwJk4FKI4PyieyIb1I3LoCrkTgcvhjwPHzX26QXNA/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9hdrSsC0IOAisPDT3WcQSX6All-u_NsaTwgcRNRI4YUU5JNIe-k7FqlUWP29sPYsnNhI1-1pcR3QXQffxa2T5LQTS1n2Y38CdW8RasSEjCPfEItir6Gorz_ALESamjV_KJjz1xpw7ETmE0yWwJk4FKI4PyieyIb1I3LoCrkTgcvhjwPHzX26QXNA/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Lora</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wTmJD3llM9GY6J1OGD7VfU4wuJJo1bCik3jLx8Reup8EwY6GFT7PLRk0luZ0-run9ocvhN8xy11Jhrq-XkTje_MgLmlrnqpYLjvdz_W-g-BKQEHxDzefwxxlx6jYb9UD3uUBIMe49siQ0YodB1OtTwIpqa-NqWyl_-WrXBKCMeB7vdHk47YUUy7b/s200/2614.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="150" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wTmJD3llM9GY6J1OGD7VfU4wuJJo1bCik3jLx8Reup8EwY6GFT7PLRk0luZ0-run9ocvhN8xy11Jhrq-XkTje_MgLmlrnqpYLjvdz_W-g-BKQEHxDzefwxxlx6jYb9UD3uUBIMe49siQ0YodB1OtTwIpqa-NqWyl_-WrXBKCMeB7vdHk47YUUy7b/s1600/2614.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />Lora Leigh lives in the rolling hills of Kentucky, often found absorbing the ambience of this peaceful setting. She dreams in bright, vivid images of the characters intent on taking over her writing life, and fights a constant battle to put them on the hard drive of her computer before they can disappear as fast as they appeared. Lora’s family, and her writing life co-exist, if not in harmony, in relative peace with each other. Surrounded by a menagerie of pets, friends, and a teenage son who keeps her quick wit engaged, Lora’s life is filled with joys, aided by her fans whose hearts remind her daily why she writes.</span><br style="color: #181818;" /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buy </span>The Book Here </div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Where-Heart-Lies-Kentucky-Nights-ebook/dp/B07FRYX89K?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1679286873&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=e370a396dd324eb3edb2fd536d8e9568&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B07FRYX89K&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B07FRYX89K" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-89249989435142484552023-03-14T09:23:00.006-04:002023-03-14T09:23:49.736-04:00Berkley Presents: The Last Russian Doll
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntdAW2jMe_dNa5Nxz2iwW4D4Gis7vVDSMBxY0Wc9UWlRm_P76pP7k7_Z6X1rwuLjlvbP-Qk28Ri4Geb9K8UIjq70mVoUsvA2vOerTXl2gC7IyknPNc_tWiQiEuB7CMX2HSVbYiu_Pn1iHZ81yjOenqOczTrpIPe3WR_70CM7n3kWydLpYNDskzXdl/s2775/61261034.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntdAW2jMe_dNa5Nxz2iwW4D4Gis7vVDSMBxY0Wc9UWlRm_P76pP7k7_Z6X1rwuLjlvbP-Qk28Ri4Geb9K8UIjq70mVoUsvA2vOerTXl2gC7IyknPNc_tWiQiEuB7CMX2HSVbYiu_Pn1iHZ81yjOenqOczTrpIPe3WR_70CM7n3kWydLpYNDskzXdl/s320/61261034.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>Title: The Last Russian Doll</span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Author: Kristin Loesch</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Format: ERC</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Length: 384 pages</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Publisher: Berkley Books </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Rating: 4 Stars </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><br />A haunting, epic novel about betrayal, revenge, and redemption that follows three generations of Russian women, from the 1917 revolution to the last days of the Soviet Union, and the enduring love story at the center.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">In a faraway kingdom, in a long-ago land...</i><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915;">...a young girl lived happily in Moscow with her family: a sister, a father, and an eccentric mother who liked to tell fairy tales and collect porcelain dolls.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915;">One summer night, everything changed, and all that remained of that family were the girl and her mother.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915;">Now, a decade later and studying at Oxford University, Rosie has an English name, a loving fiancé, and a promising future, but all she wants is to understand--and bury--the past. After her mother dies, Rosie returns to Russia, armed with little more than her mother’s strange folklore--and a single key.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915;">What she uncovers is a devastating family history that spans the 1917 Revolution, the siege of Leningrad, Stalin’s purges, and beyond.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915;">At the heart of this saga stands a young noblewoman, Tonya, as pretty as a porcelain doll, whose actions—and love for an idealistic man—will set off a sweeping story that reverberates across the century....</span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>The Last Russian Doll </i></span></div>
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</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">In some faraway kingdom, in some long-ago land, there lived a young girl who looked just like her porcelain doll. The same rusty-gold hair. The same dark-wine eyes. The girl’s own mother could hardly tell them apart. But they were never apart , for the girl always held the doll at her side, to keep it from the clutches of her many, many siblings. The family lived in a dusky-pink house by the river, and in the evenings, the children liked to gather around the old stove and listen to their mother tell stories. Stories of kingdoms even farther away and lands even longer ago, when there had been kings and queens living in castles, stories of how those castles had been swept away into the midnight-black sea. The many , many siblings would drift away to sleep on these stories, and then the mother would take the girl and the doll into her lap and tell tales of the girl’s father. He’d had the same rusty-gold hair, the same dark-wine eyes, in some other faraway kingdom, in some other long-ago land. But one evening after supper, as the stove simmered and the samovar sang and the mother spoke and the children listened, there came the sound of footsteps outside the house. Stomp-stomp-stomp. There came a knock on the dusky-pink door. Rap-rap-rap.</div></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">My Thoughts </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The Last Russian Doll</i> offers readersa very forthright journey through time. As experienced by three generations of Russia. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Starting with Rosie, her mother's stories, a mysterious key, and memories of the night that changed her life for ever.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Leading Rosie to the story of Tonya, and her love of a revolutionary...</div><div style="text-align: left;">And a web of secrets, stories, lore, and love that will answer the seeming unanswerable. And tie everyone and everything together across time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTzYyVcozuIOHC8YT7Kwy4ZYSVYm_JA7C1jMreGMJO8AmljWEGJm1ltbA5EoOricK4k45jvtTwrf0lBqGJwxsrHeY68sCgkhMleOMTwaTXF85H76CvtgA9JSt_SgTy9GyPwGHT6SVLetMWCIa9KoM2lurocFV0dKqoT1tOa1geYXkvKCyqZhwP_T0/s320/4pages.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTzYyVcozuIOHC8YT7Kwy4ZYSVYm_JA7C1jMreGMJO8AmljWEGJm1ltbA5EoOricK4k45jvtTwrf0lBqGJwxsrHeY68sCgkhMleOMTwaTXF85H76CvtgA9JSt_SgTy9GyPwGHT6SVLetMWCIa9KoM2lurocFV0dKqoT1tOa1geYXkvKCyqZhwP_T0/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is a very beautiful book. That takes a very close, and sometimes unflattering look at love. Its costs, rewards, failings, successes, and consequences. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Though we know this to be a work of Historical Fiction. The incorporation of Russian lore into the story, gives a feel of magical realism.</div><div style="text-align: left;">That when combined with the mysterious aspect of the tale, make this a story that is truly a world apart. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Reviewer's Note </div><div style="text-align: left;">Many thanks to Berkley and Netgalley for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkU7yDEvh-5FRfe3PTjoQ4NLhfe8Lm8pQmSpMgbbdF_Zke97iXE9Qt3-T0iG9lVi0UmPBn3yN35gNvtPZDUwgF_Yzsszz8lsEuDJUysWp1yr62m87wQ3g6nWzbhu5LNpDFTbc42gVSNaktku17kQNOcqr8kChAARZ5-x_Ub46wOfUJZn3IhKYBHyj6/s320/WTF%20Banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkU7yDEvh-5FRfe3PTjoQ4NLhfe8Lm8pQmSpMgbbdF_Zke97iXE9Qt3-T0iG9lVi0UmPBn3yN35gNvtPZDUwgF_Yzsszz8lsEuDJUysWp1yr62m87wQ3g6nWzbhu5LNpDFTbc42gVSNaktku17kQNOcqr8kChAARZ5-x_Ub46wOfUJZn3IhKYBHyj6/s1600/WTF%20Banner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">About Kristen</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="aboutAuthorInfo" style="color: #181818; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span id="freeTextContainerauthor20767973"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kristen Loesch grew up in San Francisco. She holds a BA in History, as well as a Master’s degree in Slavonic Studies from the University of Cambridge. Her debut historical novel, THE LAST RUSSIAN DOLL, was shortlisted for the Caledonia Novel Award and longlisted for the Bath Novel Award under a different title. After a decade living in Europe, she now resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and children.</span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here </div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B3GVJZZY?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678794669&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=042e0e2c868c43621832f739af89795d&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0B3GVJZZY&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B0B3GVJZZY" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-76999345153472522692023-03-08T16:27:00.001-05:002023-03-08T16:27:21.790-05:00Berkley Presents: A Sinister Revenge <div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9qXqGbvw84qvdTm6D7bRkUfTruiq3mMbhem1X3vSC9wddfxga7Rq50m4qJgDBQo6uqf9tOIYDMdGuIwZb8JuF4dEG34wzMKkSHyY60szuXj1mggj4upDHQKkauARuZPurqONfK82KpUgbq3vAGgjIyAzOfToOdk995RuxiHNphOFAhtgmZIb1zK/s400/61260992.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9qXqGbvw84qvdTm6D7bRkUfTruiq3mMbhem1X3vSC9wddfxga7Rq50m4qJgDBQo6uqf9tOIYDMdGuIwZb8JuF4dEG34wzMKkSHyY60szuXj1mggj4upDHQKkauARuZPurqONfK82KpUgbq3vAGgjIyAzOfToOdk995RuxiHNphOFAhtgmZIb1zK/s320/61260992.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />Title: A Sinister Revenge </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Series: Veronica Speedwell #8</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Author: Deanna Raybourn</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Length: 336 pages</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Date Of Publication: March 7th, 2023</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Publisher: Berkley </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Rating: 4 Stars</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Veronica must find and stop a devious killer when a group of old friends is targeted for death in this new adventure from the New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award–nominated author Deanna Raybourn.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Veronica’s natural-historian beau, Stoker, has been away in Bavaria for months and their relationship is at an impasse. But when Veronica shows up before him with his brother, Tiberius, Lord Templeton-Vane, he is lured back home by an intriguing job offer: preparing an iguanodon for a very special dinner party.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Tiberius has received a cryptic message—along with the obituaries of two recently deceased members of his old group of friends, the Seven Sinners—that he too should get his affairs in order. Realizing he is in grave danger but not knowing why, he plans a reunion party for the remaining Sinners at his family estate to lure the killer out while Veronica and Stoker investigate.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">As the guests arrive and settle in, the evening’s events turn deadly. More clues come to light, leading Veronica, Stoker, and Tiberius to uncover a shared past among the Sinners that has led to the fatal present. But the truth might be far more sinister than what they were prepared for.</span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>A Sinister Revenge </i></span></div>
<center><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=0593545923" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /><center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a>
</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">Bavaria, September 1889 You must not go into the forest at night,”the innkeeper warned, his voice trembling with fear. “Something dangerous walks there in the darkness.”He carried on in this vein for some time as I applied myself to a stein of Weissbier and a plate of crisp, excellent sausages. My friend and traveling companion, the Viscount Templeton-Vane, listened politely as the fellow grew more vehement. “The creature that walks by night, it is part wolf, part man. It has but one eye, the other a gaping hole of deepest black. It keeps to the shadows, and if you dare to come near, it snarls like a bear,”he went on, his eyes round in his chubby, shiny face. He was a character straight from a storybook, plump and bearded, an imp of a fellow, with lines of good humour etched upon his face. But there was no mirth to be found upon his visage as he told his tale, only fear, brightening his eyes and causing his mouth to tremble ever so slightly. Behind him, a lurking barmaid whose ample charms were scarcely contained by the lacing of her dirndl, threw her apron over her head and fled through the door to the kitchens. The viscount—Tiberius to his friends—quirked up one expressive brow. “My good man, calm yourself. Surely this is some piece of local lore meant to frighten the feeble. We English are made of sterner stuff.”“But it is true,”the fellow insisted, colour pinkening the cheeks above the white fringe of his beard. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I have seen it, a hulking shadow, moving in the silence of the firs. And when I stepped in its direction, it reared back and it growled with the fiendish fury of a hound of Hell.”Tiberius, usually a man of cool logic, looked startled. “Growled, you say?”“Like a wolf,”the man confirmed. I sighed. It was time to put an end to this. “My good man,”I said politely to the innkeeper, “whilst I must concede that your use of alliteration is impressive, I think we can dismiss the notion of a hybrid monster roaming these mountains.”He gave me a look of profound injury and slunk away, muttering. Tiberius met my gaze. “Can we? I realise the local folk are a superstitious lot, but how exactly would you explain the existence of such a creature?”I ticked off the qualities as I said them. “A tall, unsociable creature that keeps to the shadows, shuns the society of respectable people, and growls its displeasure? Tell me, who does that seem to describe?”Tiberius’mouth went slack, then curved into a smile. “You mean—”“Yes, Tiberius. I think we have, at long last, found your brother.”•••The Honourable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane—Stoker, familiarly—had not been lost so much as slightly misplaced. For some months Stoker and I had enjoyed an intimate relationship that had proven thoroughly fulfilling, indeed enrapturing, in all the particulars. We were work colleagues, engaged in the endlessly fascinating work of preparing museum exhibits for our employer, Lord Rosemorran. We were also neighbours, each of us inhabiting a small folly on his lordship’s Marylebone estate. And we were occasional partners in detection, as falling over corpses had become something of a habit. In short, our lives were so fully entwined it was difficult to say where one left off and the other began. We enjoyed it all—from the scientific work to the investigation of crime, to the exuberant physicality of our more private endeavours. (Stoker is singularly suited to the amatory arts through a combination of bodily charms, robust stamina, and an enchanting thoroughness that might have startled a less experienced or enthusiastic partner than I.) But following a painful interlude, Stoker had taken himself off to nurse his wounded feelings. When last he and I had been together, there had been a complication regarding my marital status. Not a complication so much as a husband—one I had believed dead and whose resurrection was most unwelcome. The fact that we had nearly died as a result of Harry’s dramatic appearance into our lives had not endeared him to Stoker, and he had taken his leave of England whilst still believing me bound forever to a man with criminous tendencies.* As his parting words had been a directive to grant him time and privacy to smooth his ruffled feathers, I had naturally concurred. By the next morning he was gone, leaving only a hastily scribbled line to explain he was off to Germany in pursuit of a trophy—as a natural historian, his employment entailed procuring and improving a vast array of specimens—but no invitation to join him ensued. At almost precisely the same moment, a letter had arrived from Tiberius urging me to come to Italy, where he had persuaded his hostess, an aging papal marquise, to part with a prized collection of rare birdwing butterflies. I am, first and foremost, a lepidopterist. I did not hesitate to pack my carpetbag and board the first train out of London. Through the end of the spring and the whole of that summer I accompanied Tiberius as he made his way through Italy, sending boxes of butterflies back to Lord Rosemorran’s burgeoning museum. From Stoker, I had not a single line, although Lord Rosemorran frequently alluded to Stoker’s peregrinations through the Black Forest in his own letters. I thus had a vague idea of where Stoker was, and I was not at all distressed by our lack of communication. I knew two things: the depth of our feelings for one another and the fact that absence makes the heart as well as the libido grow stronger. I had little doubt that Stoker missed me—all of me. No, the fact that he had taken his leave so abruptly and with no effort at a proper good-bye did not distress me in the slightest. And while another woman might have grown increasingly irritated that the post forwarded from England brought not the merest scrap of a postcard to say nothing of a proper letter, I naturally devoted myself entirely to the study of lepidoptery. I passed my days in hunting specimens that flittered and fluttered from the Dolomites to the Sicilian hills and back again. I grew leaner and more firmly muscled from scrambling over peaks and pastures. I set out at daybreak each morning from our lodgings, when the night’s dew still bespangled the grasses at my feet. I did not return until the languid golden sun dropped beyond the horizon, leaving a few last gentle rays to show me the way back. I never used my net; its presence was merely a habit from my previous expeditions. Instead I followed the butterflies, making careful study of their mazy peregrinations, their behaviours and habitats. And when I returned to the solitude of my room, I spent long hours writing up my findings both for my private notes and for publication in the Aurelian journals. Invariably, I dropped into bed exhausted by my exertions, only to rise at dawn and repeat the process. Not for me the languid evening passed in mournful contemplation of the distance—both literal and figurative—between myself and the person I considered to be my twinned soul. I would not permit myself to waste away in pining and regret. I had the celibate consolations of science, and I made full advantage of them. If I am to be strictly honest within these pages—and I have sworn to be so—then I will admit to the occasional wakeful night or interminable afternoon when I found my thoughts inhabited by his familiar form and face. When these moods came upon me, so strong was my longing for him, it required all of my discipline to refrain from flinging my things into a bag and dashing to him. The only remedy was another strenuous day spent in pursuit of my studies, driving myself physically harder than ever before even as I enumerated his flaws. I cataloged them as I strode the Italian hills, whipping up my annoyance. “What sort of man just leaves? And without so much as a proper kiss good-bye,”I muttered to the nearest rock in a fit of particular frustration on the isle of Capri. “What kind of fellow thinks it is acceptable simply to disappear for months on end and send no assurances of his well-being? Not a telegram, not a semaphore flag, not so much as a scrap of a postcard with his current address? An ass,”I told the rock. But even as I said the words, I knew Stoker was not entirely to blame. He had left still believing I was the wife of another man. Only a handful of hours had passed between Stoker’s departure and my learning the truth of my marital status—that I was not, and never had been, legally married. Why then did I leap at Tiberius’invitation instead of rushing after Stoker to stop him before he left England? It was some months before I could face the answer: I was a coward. When I learnt of Stoker’s resolve to leave, to take time for himself to consider our attachment, my initial reaction, the longing of my heart, had been to go to him. And therein lay my terror. I, who had laboured and loved independent of real connection for so long, was entirely and besottedly enraptured with this man. When I most had need of a confidant, I had not turned to him out of fear of dependency, and when he left, the desire to run to him had kindled that fear once more. So I drove it out with hard physical exercise, with time and distance, hoping I could blunt the sharp edge of my resistance to committing myself fully to Stoker. My demeanour, ordinarily so tranquil as to be remarkable, was frequently waspish as I came back, always, to the fact that even if I wanted to go to him, he had insisted upon the gift of time. If time was what he wanted, he should have all the time in the world, I decided. In fact, I would grow weary and withered and ancient before I would stir a single step towards him. If I suffered from the loss of his company, then he should suffer as well, I decided. I had my dignity, after all. I do not know how long I might have maintained my lofty determination to wait for him to make the first move. I might still be wandering the Lombard hills, butterfly net in hand, had Tiberius not appeared one morning at breakfast, bags packed and travel arranged. Our hotel, a converted castello, was very fine and comfortable but with few of the comforts so beloved of the English traveler. The beds were hard, the pillows nonexistent, and the mosquitoes particularly aggressive. Worst of all possible woes, the tea was unspeakable and I had almost resigned myself to drinking coffee. I was peering into the murky depths of the teapot when Tiberius took the chair across from me. “I wish to find Stoker,”he said flatly. “Do you know where one might run him to ground?”I put aside the crime that passed for tea in those parts and gave him a level look. “Somewhere in Bavaria, if Lord Rosemorran’s letters are accurate. But his lordship can be vague about such things, and this is, after all, Stoker of whom we are speaking, a man inclined to follow his most wayward impulses. He might be in Batavia. Or Bolivia. Or Bechuana.”He did not respond to my little witticism and I gave him a close look. Tiberius was, like all the Templeton-Vane men, a singularly handsome fellow. But there were plummy shadows under his eyes, and a line, slim but severe, etched its way across his brow. “Tiberius, why</div></a></div>
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<div><br /></div>My Thoughts <div>This eighth offering in the Veronica Speedwell series, finds both Stoker and Veronica both closer and farther apart than ever. With more than enough murderous goings-on to keep readers guessing and pages turning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fresh from a protracted bout of hurt feelings and wound licking while tramping through the wilds of Bavaria. </div><div>Stoker finds himself not only reunited with our dear Miss V. But also on a quest to prevent the murder of his brother, Tiberius. </div><div>During a house party at the family estate. </div><div><br /></div><div>Written with plot stylings favoring those of the classic, <i>And Then There Were None. </i> <i>A Sinister Revenge</i>, offers readers a very atmospheric read. Allowing scenes to be set as much by the house, grounds, and character interactions. To the same or greater degrees as any other plot elements. </div><div>Sweetening the most suspenseful pot. The ever present guessing game of who will be the next to die. With some serious Regency Romance flavors thrown in. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbj_v8DE_ktY-QCl_l5bNmPKXuvhv2sacN0QOUT3VUPYXipeDz55HAFhzws9_vtJrQ7EpPceU4Na_M9_kn9yqep9agMgZNuztEqFpX3FVaV-DPOkZM9Q-33ZVL3Cz1TcaHSs2up4vF1Rqfi5rVKy27-VwbDiq2hCoq3iOpCdXJivs9wwdHs7TKYYE/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbj_v8DE_ktY-QCl_l5bNmPKXuvhv2sacN0QOUT3VUPYXipeDz55HAFhzws9_vtJrQ7EpPceU4Na_M9_kn9yqep9agMgZNuztEqFpX3FVaV-DPOkZM9Q-33ZVL3Cz1TcaHSs2up4vF1Rqfi5rVKy27-VwbDiq2hCoq3iOpCdXJivs9wwdHs7TKYYE/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>As well as the more pressing and personal question of whether Stoker and Veronica's tattered relationship can survive the 'husband debacle' of the previous book.</div><div>As well as a closer look down the rabbit hole into Stoker's past.</div><div>It must be said that this book as well as its predecessor offers a more intimate experience. That while a nice change from the more traveled and action packed stories of the past. May take a little more time to draw the reader in than one is accustomed to.</div><div><br /></div><div>All in all...</div><div>This is a middle of the road read for what is a stellar series. </div><div>Here's hoping that the journey will continue in coming reads.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZOFpIvI9gjRmbwE1lkINbphbRYGYOfT1E8nmAAmvmUnHljvqVIWTYA_cUusXhUBY6fAzf1j_944LUd6GT6SVAkDWBVMfFcka-ALaD6zhhxCkn7ih0SSUaB4-Jk1AI9KYg8-tqXnwh-FZEzWBl6W2tOW5WNK3Su-uG5RKz4iM81pyiMLaXUxpvOxY/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZOFpIvI9gjRmbwE1lkINbphbRYGYOfT1E8nmAAmvmUnHljvqVIWTYA_cUusXhUBY6fAzf1j_944LUd6GT6SVAkDWBVMfFcka-ALaD6zhhxCkn7ih0SSUaB4-Jk1AI9KYg8-tqXnwh-FZEzWBl6W2tOW5WNK3Su-uG5RKz4iM81pyiMLaXUxpvOxY/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Deanna </div><div><span id="freeTextauthor156327" style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU75qLt-ggvyIs4WaFH-b4P50_2EHBb1mznnTgjHetjexXVJkI1hECwIQWbpEleaWL8XdJjJaWQ58S5eseDLA-Fi7gT4LRkku9mwG6Dc4UOwYCBxGkBxvjn7BcZj40EkJVH9TAUOHDUOr0uyjsLxx2-pir6v2DUpNlhVpvZ-EVY027WZnFt08h9RO9/s883/156327.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU75qLt-ggvyIs4WaFH-b4P50_2EHBb1mznnTgjHetjexXVJkI1hECwIQWbpEleaWL8XdJjJaWQ58S5eseDLA-Fi7gT4LRkku9mwG6Dc4UOwYCBxGkBxvjn7BcZj40EkJVH9TAUOHDUOr0uyjsLxx2-pir6v2DUpNlhVpvZ-EVY027WZnFt08h9RO9/s320/156327.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br />New York Times and USA Today bestselling novelist Deanna Raybourn is a 6th-generation native Texan. She graduated with a double major in English and history from the University of Texas at San Antonio. Married to her college sweetheart and the mother of one, Raybourn makes her home in Virginia. Her novels have been nominated for numerous awards including two RT Reviewers’ Choice awards, the Agatha, two Dilys Winns, a Last Laugh, three du Mauriers, and most recently the 2019 Edgar Award for Best Novel. She launched a new Victorian mystery series with the 2015 release of A CURIOUS BEGINNING, featuring intrepid butterfly-hunter and amateur sleuth, Veronica Speedwell. Veronica has returned in several more adventures, most recently AN IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSTOR, book seven, which released in early 2022. Deanna's first contemporary novel, KILLERS OF A CERTAIN AGE, about four female assassins on the cusp of retirement publishes in September 2022. (Please note: Deanna is not active on GR.)</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here </div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0593545923?ie=UTF8&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=629d66afd6acc3ded13042f512d2d6d3&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0593545923&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=0593545923" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-46618777373620809632023-03-01T06:42:00.000-05:002023-03-01T06:42:16.063-05:00Berkley Presents: Cold Blooded Liar <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatybnsc7BD_Xa6OMyoYcPJV-EhOhCXlfeuKPgPljWeNVg8q2Z949gHvRv_afnZRk_Oa74Yr9mQ5NqOKMely4DOdRNpXHQSknSndI47owAEpHjuaFEliP6vFGAlkntZPlxN8Lol06FYWN_AstFUKyzMiDpp7n8ExEsaNSE9npc8ZVc8HPVmvwoMODU/s346/61327513.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="229" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatybnsc7BD_Xa6OMyoYcPJV-EhOhCXlfeuKPgPljWeNVg8q2Z949gHvRv_afnZRk_Oa74Yr9mQ5NqOKMely4DOdRNpXHQSknSndI47owAEpHjuaFEliP6vFGAlkntZPlxN8Lol06FYWN_AstFUKyzMiDpp7n8ExEsaNSE9npc8ZVc8HPVmvwoMODU/s320/61327513.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>Title: Cold Blooded Liar<div>Series: San Diego Case Files Book #1</div><div>Author: Karen Rose</div><div>Length: Mass Market Paperback 528 pages</div><div>Review Format: ERC</div><div>Date Of Publication: February 27th, 2023</div><div>Publisher: Berkley </div><div>Rating: 5 Stars </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 4%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sam Reeves is a kindhearted psychologist who treats court-ordered clients. After one of his patients--a pathological liar--starts revealing plausible new details from a long-unsolved serial murder case, he's compelled to report anonymously to the SDPD tip line, though his attempts to respect patient confidentiality land him facedown and cuffed by the aggressive (and cute) Detective McKittrick.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />San Diego homicide detective Kit McKittrick loves the water. She lives on a boat, and when she's not solving crimes with the SDPD, she's assisting her foster sister with her charter fishing business, scuba diving, or playing with her poodle. But there's nothing that intrigues Kit more than a cold case, so when an anonymous caller leads her on the path of a wanted killer, she's determined to end the decade-long manhunt.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Sam is soon released but goes home with both a newfound distaste for the SDPD and a resolve—not unlike Kit's—to uncover the truth. Kit and Sam repeatedly butt heads in their separate investigations but are forced to work together to find one of the deadliest serial killers the city has faced in a decade.</span></span></div></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cold Blooded Liar </i></div>
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</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">She’s gone. Katherine’s hand trembled as she gripped the barn door handle. Her whole body trembled. Her stomach churned so violently that she thought she’d be sick. She’s gone. And it’s all my fault. So many things she could have done. Should have done. Will do. But she didn’t know where to start. However, she did know where she needed to be. Alone. In the barn. In the place where they’d first huddled together as frightened twelve-year-old runaways to get out of the cold night. In the place where—much later—they’d come to talk about . . . everything. Well, Wren would talk. Katherine would listen. Katherine was a good listener. She’d had to be. She’d learned to hear the nuances in a person’s speech. To know if they’d help. Or hurt. To know if they were lying or telling the truth. She didn’t want to listen now. She wanted to be alone where she could scream her fury, where she could unleash her rage. Where she couldn’t hurt anyone else. Because Wren was gone. Her eyes burned and she swallowed the sob that rose in her throat as she slid the barn door open just enough to slip inside. She was so skinny, she didn’t need it to open much and she knew just how far she could slide the door before it creaked. She didn’t let it creak. It would be all right if she did, but she still found something satisfying about sneaking in where she wasn’t supposed to be. At least not right now. She was allowed to be in the barn anytime she wished, but she was supposed to be sleeping right now. Except she hadn’t slept in nearly two weeks. Tonight would be no different, so she’d given up trying. Someone had turned the night-light on, its soft glow spreading through the barn, leaving shadows lurking in the corners. She wasn’t afraid of the shadows. She knew every one. This was her place. This was where she came to think. Now it was where she came to grieve. She breathed deeply, drawing in the scents of horses and fresh hay—and even fresher motor oil. The latter was unexpected. Usually the motor oil smelled old. Tools were strewn on the floor around the old tractor that sat parked along the far wall. It had been broken for months. No one had had the time to fix it. Looked like someone had been working on it tonight. Someone who was still here. She tensed, hearing the labored breathing coming from one of the empty stalls. No, not breathing. Someone was crying. She started to turn and run, but the cries became sobs. Deep, racking sobs that ripped at her heart. At least someone else is missing Wren. Which wasn’t fair, she knew. Everyone in the big house missed Wren. How could they not? She crept farther into the barn, listening intently, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but now needing to know who’d come to her private place to grieve, even though she thought she knew. The tuned-up tractor had been her first clue. A big, burly man sat on the floor of an empty stall, back against the wall, shoulders heaving as he cried. In one of his massive hands was a piece of wood. In the other, his carving knife. Harlan McKittrick. Her foster father. She’d never seen him cry, not in the three years that she’d lived here, not even at the funeral today. He’d been stoic, his expression immovable, like a statue’s. He’d held his arm around Mrs. McK as she’d cried her eyes out. He’d spoken a few words over Wren’s coffin in his deep, gravelly voice, about peace and eternity and God. Katherine had wanted to scream then. She’d wanted to hit someone. She’d wanted to hit Mr. McK for being so . . . together. For being unfeeling. But she could see now that she’d made a big mistake. The man was not unfeeling. He’d just saved his grief for when he was alone. Just like I did. She took a step back, intending to leave him in peace, to find somewhere else to scream her rage, but his head shot up and he met her eyes in the dim light. For a long moment, neither of them moved. His tears continued to fall and she was poised to run. Finally, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. “Kit,”he said gruffly. “I’m sorry,”she whispered. “I’ll go.”He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to. This was your place, hers too. I should have known you’d come here tonight.”Her cheeks heated. She’d been caught out of bed at three a.m. There were rules, even here. “I’ll go.”“No, honey. I’ll go. Mrs. McK is probably wondering where I’ve got myself off to. You can stay.”He rose, wincing as he stretched his back. “I’m too damn old to be sitting on barn floors. I came out here to do some whittling, but . . .”He trailed off with a sigh. “It kind of hit me. You know how it goes, huh, Kitty-Cat?”He always called her Kit or Kitty-Cat. Not ever Katherine, and she’d often wondered why. But she didn’t hate it. She might have even liked it. A little. Talk to him. Say something to make him feel better. Because Mr. McK was a nice guy. And McKittrick House was so much nicer than any other place she’d ever lived. And she’d lived in a lot of places. Mr. and Mrs. McK were good people. They never yelled, never hit. Never . . . took advantage of the girls or the boys, like so many of the other fosters had. They’d let her stay even though she was not . . . good. They’d let her stay and they’d told her to call them Mom and Pop McK if she wanted to, just like all the other kids did who’d come through their big, warm house that always smelled like apple pie and clean laundry and lemon furniture spray. She never had, though. She’d stuck with “Mr.”and “Mrs.,”anything to keep them at arm’s length. They’d never made her feel bad for doing so. Now she wanted to make him feel better, because he was crying and it shook her hard. He was big and rough and gruff, but he was crying. For Wren. She pointed to the carved wood in his hands. “What are you making?”He seemed surprised that she’d asked. Which was fair. Katherine didn’t talk much. She never asked anyone anything remotely personal. Never answered any question with more than “Fine”or “Okay.”And when they’d offered to adopt her, to make her an official McKittrick, she’d said only “No, thank you.”Because nobody was that nice. Nobody really cared. It would end. They’d grow tired of her and make her leave, and then she’d be even worse off. Mr. McK stared down at the carving in his hands. “A wren. You know, like the bird.”A sob flew from Katherine’s throat before she could shove it back in. “A wren?”she asked, her voice breaking. He nodded, his eyes on the little bird. “I put one in her coffin, y’see. In her hands, so she’d have something to hold.”His smile was wobbly. “To maybe remember us by. So she wouldn’t be alone.”Katherine pressed her hand to her mouth. Keep it in. Keep it all in. “You did?”she asked, the words muffled. “I did. And, um, this one is done.”He held it out to her. “It’s for you. To remember her.”For a moment she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Just stared at Mr. McK’s outstretched hand holding the small bird. She could see it clearly now, delicate and beautiful. Like Wren had been. Mr. McK was still holding the carving on the flat of his palm, so that she could take it without touching him. They knew that she didn’t like to touch anyone. Wren had been the exception. Her sister, even though they’d shared no blood. Katherine’s hand crept forward, one finger extended. She stroked the little bird, expecting a rough surface but feeling only smooth wood. Mr. McK simply stood there, the bird on his palm. She gingerly picked it up and held it tightly against her chest. “To remember her,”she whispered. Like she’d ever forget. Wren was all the good, sweet things. Everything that Kit was not. Mr. McK smiled down at her, so sadly. “We’ll always remember her, Kit. She was so special and deserved to have the best life.”“But now she’s dead,”Kit choked out, clutching the little bird so tightly that even the smooth edges cut into her hand. “Someone killed her and no one cares.”“We care,”Mr. McK whispered back fiercely. “Nobody else does,”she snapped, her voice echoing off the barn walls. “None of those cops who came and asked questions. None of them cared.”“I don’t know. I can’t see their hearts. I only know my own and Mrs. McK’s.”Now the rage was back. Now the rage was building. She wanted to throw something, but the only thing she could throw was the little bird and she clutched it even tighter. She’d never throw the bird away. She’d never throw Wren away. “They said she was a runaway. That she’d come back!”Katherine was shouting now and couldn’t stop herself. The horses shifted in their stalls, one whinnying in dismay, but Katherine couldn’t stop herself. “They said she wanted to go. They said she was probably on the streets, taking drugs. They didn’t care!”Katherine took a step back, then another. Mr. McK continued to stand there, watching her with eyes so brokenhearted that she wanted to scream at that, too. “Then they found her body in a dumpster and didn’t even tell us for five days!”she screamed. “Like she was trash and it was okay that she’s dead!”“They said,”he said calmly, “that it took them five days to ID her.”“That was five days too long! Five days that she lay there in the cold morgue all alone.”Her shouts became choked and finally, finally the tears came. Like a dam had burst and she couldn’t stop the flow. “They said they were busy. That they were backed up. That they were sorry for our goddamn loss.”Mr. McK wiped his eyes again. “I know, Kit.”“They’re not even looking for who did this. No clues. Case has gone cold. It’s been a week since they found her, and they’re not even pretending to look.”She dropped her gaze to the little wooden bird in her hand. “Well, I’m going to look. I’m going to find out who did this. Who took her from us.”From me. Mr. McK opened his mouth, then closed it, saying nothing. She stared up at him defiantly. “What? Not gonna tell me it’s too dangerous? Not gonna tell me that I’m too young? That I’m only fifteen? Not gonna tell me it could be me next?”He exhaled quietly. “Why should I tell you any of those things? You already know them.”She looked away, knowing that he was right and hating it. “I should have watched her better. It should have been me.”He sucked in a harsh breath. “No, Kit. No. It shouldn’t have been either of you. It should never be anyone’s child. Please. It should never have been you.”She shook her head, all of her words gone now. All used up. “You’re ours,”he said, his voice ringing so true that she almost didn’t doubt him. She didn’t want to doubt him. “You might not think so or you might not want it official on paper, but you are ours, Kit Matthews. You are ours to protect. Ours to love. Whether you want that love or not. That we didn’t protect Wren will haunt</div></a></div>
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<div>My Thoughts </div><div>Kit McKittrick, the SDPD, and poor Dr. Sam Reeves. </div><div>All he wanted to do was to be the good guy. After sitting through one too many sessions with his pathological liar of a client. Who may or may not be dropping hints about the murders of young blonde girls. When he isn't claiming to lunch with the Queen of England.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyq1zt2Tf938-qqEBbiBqTgZf8wjnTuA3Bi0trwUdjAl-jz7bhoP9SR5Hfo9rW6_LBoacxsxSdUT7JxSeVRTeLB88dBmdKHoRv8C1IcfhrrI7aKLQIvtN5ntsqtTZeGbNnDdheIEwMOYNrRk8ITEFu7kT5wxyHYycbEWMIU5cy-8rYXgCOJlltp21k/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyq1zt2Tf938-qqEBbiBqTgZf8wjnTuA3Bi0trwUdjAl-jz7bhoP9SR5Hfo9rW6_LBoacxsxSdUT7JxSeVRTeLB88dBmdKHoRv8C1IcfhrrI7aKLQIvtN5ntsqtTZeGbNnDdheIEwMOYNrRk8ITEFu7kT5wxyHYycbEWMIU5cy-8rYXgCOJlltp21k/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>So...</div><div>With one phone call...</div><div>Sam Reeves offers all the information that he has. And himself as the prime suspect. </div><div>Until Sam's client is fingered as the killer and his suicide the answer to everyone's prayers. </div><div>Except that it isn't. </div><div>And the murders don't stop.</div><div>And all the evidence seems to point to the one person trying so hard to help. </div><div>Sam.</div><div><br /></div><div>This book has it all. Kit and her backstop will draw readers in from word one.</div><div>The hunt for the killer, coupled with Sam's likable nature is enough to tear at the heart of readers. Because while you want to see the killer brought to justice. You just don't want it to be Sam.</div><div>The twists and turns that Sam and Kit go through while investigating this case bring them closer together. And make you want to see them as a couple. Often implying the possibility of the pairing. Without allowing that implication to interfere with the very serious nature of the overall plot.</div><div><br /></div><div>Adding to the gripping nature of this read?</div><div>The addition of characters from the couple's personal lives.</div><div>Right down to Sam's ex.</div><div>Whose role can best be described as 'surprising'.</div><div>This book is nothing less than procedural suspence at its best.</div><div>And this reviewer can't wait for book two in what promises to be a stellar series. </div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note </div><div>Thank you Berkley and Netgalley for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZMhM6ou3iM5OtqarEiy7d5Iw1MHkz2L2rL31vdxdXT7Ws14b0T-OSMmSlQrKplqrl27-ZTGV-ujxslBnRf0eqIPXOqQYsAUrI3uquuaV2sWOipUIFfmN4MKzqbNl6zyRaoJV1nDQkoaxSj6rPi0Je0_JsLW9HEF0HEtAVzs-hJ5EKn8RK_KoB6BL/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZMhM6ou3iM5OtqarEiy7d5Iw1MHkz2L2rL31vdxdXT7Ws14b0T-OSMmSlQrKplqrl27-ZTGV-ujxslBnRf0eqIPXOqQYsAUrI3uquuaV2sWOipUIFfmN4MKzqbNl6zyRaoJV1nDQkoaxSj6rPi0Je0_JsLW9HEF0HEtAVzs-hJ5EKn8RK_KoB6BL/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Karen</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2145161034121426179" itemprop="articleBody" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-size: 15.84px; line-height: 1.3; position: relative; width: 364px;"><div style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(148, 92, 118); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #6c6c6c; float: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 8px; position: relative;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Karen Rose" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1452535736p5/75375.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px;" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.672px; text-align: center;">Author Karen Rose</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Karen Rose is the award-winning, #1 international bestselling author of some twenty novels, including the bestselling Baltimore and Cincinnati series. She has been translated into twenty-three languages, and her books have placed on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany's der Spiegel bestseller lists.</span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">See Her Socially: <a href="http://www.karenrosebooks.com/" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Web</a> /<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/75375.Karen_Rose" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"> Goodreads</a> / <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KarenRoseBooks" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Facebook </a>/ <a href="https://twitter.com/karenrosebooks" style="color: #6c6c6c; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Twitter</a></span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here...</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0593548841?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1677666964&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=c23e24c30f1756e5942486d649643f96&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0593548841&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=0593548841" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-48597805044492154202023-02-21T09:09:00.002-05:002023-02-21T09:17:38.017-05:00Berkley Books Presents: Harmony Of Lies <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPouQblF8vxzccD4l_6eKf-0EsSFCXtt4GR7PjvAZUN-eoG7zhjLpE7ah2Ig032c8HhwXO5S0RoZpz0uWT9S-hBPFf_9V8t0He5tEKbbAA7VOsaIfNRYUyHOQPBMUdB59CruyFvWBGsTcNj4klKI3xZjMPSvhhdJ44q6WUoDMoPZlFh3ZFDVvf58IY/s2295/HarmonyofLies.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2295" data-original-width="1403" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPouQblF8vxzccD4l_6eKf-0EsSFCXtt4GR7PjvAZUN-eoG7zhjLpE7ah2Ig032c8HhwXO5S0RoZpz0uWT9S-hBPFf_9V8t0He5tEKbbAA7VOsaIfNRYUyHOQPBMUdB59CruyFvWBGsTcNj4klKI3xZjMPSvhhdJ44q6WUoDMoPZlFh3ZFDVvf58IY/s320/HarmonyofLies.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br />Title: Harmony Of Lies</div><div style="text-align: left;">Series: Alice And Owen #2</div><div style="text-align: left;">Author: Brian Feehan </div><div style="text-align: left;">Length: 336 pages</div><div style="text-align: left;">Date Of Publication: February 21st, 2023</div><div style="text-align: left;">Publisher: Berkley Books </div><div style="text-align: left;">Rating: 4 Stars</div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Danger threatens to shatter the hope for a new beginning in a world of angels and demons in this explosive paranormal romance by author Brian Feehan, son of legendary #1 <i>New York Times</i> bestselling author Christine Feehan.<br /><br /><u></u><u></u></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After being forced away for seventeen years, Alice is finally home. But home isn’t what she thought it would be, and every day the secrets she holds from her parents grow with weight. But how do you tell your mother and father that you’re not normal? That the world is a far more dangerous place than they have ever known and you are anything but the small, innocent child who was torn from their arms all those years ago?<br /> <br />Owen can’t say goodbye, and Alice can’t hold on to him tightly enough as the pressures of danger and obligation grow stronger and stronger. With a broken heart, Owen is headed to San Francisco with his crew of musicians. But the Golden City is filled with history and secrets, and brutal deaths are just lying in wait for Owen and his people. To survive these trials and this city, Owen will need everything he has—even the broken parts he gave to Alice—to have any hope of doing the impossible one more time.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Harmony Of Lies </i></div><div style="text-align: center;">by</div><div style="text-align: center;">Brian Feehan </div>
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<p class="04BodyText">An old wooden ladder led up toward the space Owen had
claimed for himself. More importantly, it was private.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“We aren’t going up there tonight.” Owen smiled, and in
that smile it was easy to see he had been looking forward to this moment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“We aren’t going up to your bed? That’s a first. Where are
you taking me?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“This way,” he said, leading beneath the loft and deeper
within. They moved past a trove of shovels and tools until she spotted a door
she hadn’t used before. Owen pressed hard, and hay and dust fell off the frame
as another wave of the night air broke over them both.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“So what’s out here?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“It’s a surprise. It took a little work, but Max and I
finished it this morning.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">Alice’s eyesight adjusted to the low light as Owen shut the
barn door behind them. She took a glance around. She had thought this side of
the barn was just where the farmer parked his rusted tractor and broken-down
truck. Toss in a couple of old oil barrels and some leftover parts, and there
wasn’t much to look at, particularly at night. She couldn’t fathom why Owen had
brought her out here.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“You know I’m not really a tractor kind of girl. If you’re
thinking we are getting kinky on that old thing, you’re far better off taking
me back up to the loft.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">Owen laughed, and she felt it down deep.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">It was nice spending time with the others, but every time
they found a chance to be alone she saw it was easier for Owen to be himself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Back here. I set this up for us,” Owen said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">They weaved around an old rusted oil barrel and some empty
propane canisters until she spotted a large something covered up by a sheet of
old gray plywood and blue tarp.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“It’s not jewelry or a gun. For the record, I like both
those things. What is it?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Patience,” he said, letting go of her hand and moving
around the side. With practiced ease, Owen spread his long arms and grabbed
both the old plywood and tarp beneath. A gentle pull and lift and a large,
curved wooden hot tub was uncovered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“How in the world did you find this? We are in the middle
of nowhere.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“We found it right off. It took some heavy lifting and more
than one hour of cleaning. But the real problem was the pump and heater. You
like it?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“It’s clean?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Of course.” Owen used his foot to flip the metal switch
that started the pump. Already there was steam rising into the air.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“And bubbles. Owen, I feel you’re giving me the full
treatment.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">Owen didn’t answer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">There was something about the night sky mixed with the
back-glow of the barn that framed Owen. He stood there watching her but was
lost under the weight of leaving, leaving her. She could see it as clearly as
his deep green eyes and strong face.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">Owen reached over toward an instant propane heater and
clicked it on. She heard the whoosh as gas met spark.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Owen?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“Are you okay?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText">“I have never met someone like you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="04BodyText"><span class="ITAL">And I don’t want to say goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="04BodyText">It was his thoughts that drifted in the air between them,
but she thought she could hear him and understood his view. For the last couple
of weeks, he had made a point of talking about the chaos of his life. How every
road traveled twisted and turned, and those devoted to living as a musician
changed with every trip. In short, he was saying that now that it was time to
leave, this could be the end of their relationship. That he didn’t know where
he going, but he was sure he couldn’t come back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Excerpted from <b>Harmony
of Lies</b> by Brian Feehan Copyright © 2023 by Brian Feehan. Excerpted by
permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be
reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
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<div><br /></div><div>My Thoughts </div><div><i>Harmony Of Lies</i> is Brian Feehan's second offering in the <i>Alice and and Owen</i> series. Pairing the ethereal rocker and his angelic assassin of a lady love. In a musical battle that means literal life or death to the supposed loser.</div><div>As he or she plays a famed red piano. In a supernatural battle of energetic wills. Against a vengeful ghost.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw10B97PFo2c4g7QwuSoQGFFe5ovgLirglR8LZbMS-lrpeUgR6WMH2S_WfEcz36yNVLtuwSvpIpWGY5Eylb2m4eSdEY4tysGATDzxk8qVfGg0AlfEZx63yPpMxOKlOky3HaxfChJ-G7IPwSksNo4zo3FRKlN7gi6tlkyyg8mh9zot1fh5NzOe4N-CQ/s320/4pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw10B97PFo2c4g7QwuSoQGFFe5ovgLirglR8LZbMS-lrpeUgR6WMH2S_WfEcz36yNVLtuwSvpIpWGY5Eylb2m4eSdEY4tysGATDzxk8qVfGg0AlfEZx63yPpMxOKlOky3HaxfChJ-G7IPwSksNo4zo3FRKlN7gi6tlkyyg8mh9zot1fh5NzOe4N-CQ/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Add to this a web of lies and secrets fanning out from those closest to Owen. To the mayor of San Francisco, and possibly beyond. </div><div>It is in fact, this very cloak and dagger approach to the story that works as its sure-fire saving grace. Given the disjointed nature of the love affair; and rather lack luster romantic interactions between the title characters. </div><div>Which is the main reason that this book did not manage to garner a 5 star rating.</div><div><br /></div><div>This book as written is a better fit to the category of Paranormal Suspense than that of Paranormal Romance.</div><div>The writing, scene setting, nonromantic character interactions, and story building are all first rate, however. </div><div><br /></div><div>All in all...</div><div>This series is shaping up to be one well worth following. And this reviewer is holding out great hope that the few chinks in the armor of this book will be worked out in future offerings.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note </div><div>This second book is part of a continuing series that must be read in printed order. As the first books are directly linked. Each to the other in storylines. </div><div>Thank you to Netgalley and Berkley Books for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiBHq_1Ydz7-kRqp418zXpqpH33aRn-tLX-_LM11mIcXtd0t5XXWpQ95FkoEfNsgJ3vS1fqnvUfbVQpqTyyxiIyzL1xFt8ONaRv9ao_boASPpYYnqIx_l86_cOIE8anql6Jwczl0mi3lG-vEBecXeZEXT_wTE30-dPjDyQAiuQsemKEnBbZffRkgT/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiBHq_1Ydz7-kRqp418zXpqpH33aRn-tLX-_LM11mIcXtd0t5XXWpQ95FkoEfNsgJ3vS1fqnvUfbVQpqTyyxiIyzL1xFt8ONaRv9ao_boASPpYYnqIx_l86_cOIE8anql6Jwczl0mi3lG-vEBecXeZEXT_wTE30-dPjDyQAiuQsemKEnBbZffRkgT/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Brian </div><div><p class="m_7181231956964652313MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in;"><b><u><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></u></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NKKnB7lWBFADg3StTnc97xHWHS3Rp6q-yZrXv8ibInfNic3dgXVs9H30tiVocddZ-FFcBX9VF5xnvTExzozMav7vti7zvjB2sdPHQmpDiA4qv422MJ7hwVuPntpk38OLjmlOUSFTOdwTwgicNmh1FnQNhikPa3DV0m2q0LGb8O-Rwheto2-Ry_If/s6032/Brian%20Feehan%20Head%20Shot%20Color_c%20Michelle%20Greene.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6032" data-original-width="4032" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NKKnB7lWBFADg3StTnc97xHWHS3Rp6q-yZrXv8ibInfNic3dgXVs9H30tiVocddZ-FFcBX9VF5xnvTExzozMav7vti7zvjB2sdPHQmpDiA4qv422MJ7hwVuPntpk38OLjmlOUSFTOdwTwgicNmh1FnQNhikPa3DV0m2q0LGb8O-Rwheto2-Ry_If/s320/Brian%20Feehan%20Head%20Shot%20Color_c%20Michelle%20Greene.jpg" width="214" /></a></span></u></b></div><b><u><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />About the Author<u></u><u></u></span></u></b><p></p><p class="m_7181231956964652313MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Brian Feehan</span></b><span> lives in his mind, creating vibrant characters who talk very loud and far too often. When real life comes knocking, it is likely to be the love of his life, Michelle, or their son, Dylan. The three of them live on the northern coast of California, which is far different from any other part of California. Learn more online at <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://brianfeehanauthor.com&source=gmail&ust=1676493282352000&usg=AOvVaw3sHnBkM8-mpurDTZ3UgmH9" href="http://brianfeehanauthor.com/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #4285f4; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">brianfeehanauthor.com</a>.</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><u></u><u></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><u></u> </p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here...</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Harmony-Lies-Alice-Brian-Feehan/dp/0593440552?crid=1T2D1UW6VF4TI&keywords=harmony+of+lies+brian+feehan&qid=1676976849&sprefix=harmony+of+lies%2Caps%2C128&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=3702aa1648b67633a87365953579a228&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0593440552&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=0593440552" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-52652482269715941392023-02-15T18:25:00.000-05:002023-02-15T18:25:32.730-05:00Romance Never Tasted Sweeter Than In "Ruby Spencer's Whiskey Year"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD7wvICb_sfDIjpQMHA_esBCNIj0mzBav-_C2nCyr8WpyZP42S9Qj-ItNd9PZ-xZ9Rk4X2Py7PLJjIox2v9hy_t5WGg5g91zxpwDKdkNKJUrntYCyrV49A-a7WBE2IK8BAIJXro0i047uVzWNLyYRtmffWdOS3cvEhvzS7chmXzYrCkgwEfuSbyzl/s400/61111297.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD7wvICb_sfDIjpQMHA_esBCNIj0mzBav-_C2nCyr8WpyZP42S9Qj-ItNd9PZ-xZ9Rk4X2Py7PLJjIox2v9hy_t5WGg5g91zxpwDKdkNKJUrntYCyrV49A-a7WBE2IK8BAIJXro0i047uVzWNLyYRtmffWdOS3cvEhvzS7chmXzYrCkgwEfuSbyzl/s320/61111297.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />Title: Ruby Spencer's Whiskey Year<div>Author: Rochelle Bilow</div><div>Length: 368 pages</div><div>Date Of Publication: February 14th 2023</div><div>Publisher: Berkley </div><div>Rating: 5 Stars</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Ruby Spencer's Whiskey Year </i></div>
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</i></a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><i>Ruby Spencer was absolutely, positively sure about three things. 1. Quitting her job and moving to a random town in the Scottish Highlands for a year to write a cookbook was the craziest thing she had ever done. 1.5. (Would ever do.) 1.75. (( The crazy thing was the Scotland part, not the cookbook part.)) 2. In all her thirty-five years, she had never lived anywhere as beautiful as this tiny stone cottage, overgrown with ivy and moss, with its sweet mint-green door. 2.5. Even if it didn’t have a kitchen. 2.75. Hahahahaha. 3. After two delayed flights, a canceled one, an overnight snooze on a bench in Heathrow Airport, and one missing piece of luggage later . . . her armpits absolutely, positively stunk. Ruby set her canvas duffel on the cool floor, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. God, I smell awful. On her next breath, she focused her attention on the cottage around her. She wiggled her toes inside her Keds and shimmied her shoulders on the exhale. The air inside the cottage smelled sweet and heady, like cinnamon and smoke, black tea leaves and vanilla. Which was nice. Which was much better than her armpits, which smelled like curry and garlic. She kept her eyes shut as she listened for the tiny sounds that tend to hide in old stone Scottish cottages. To her right and slightly above: the wind whistling through the chimney and into the hearth. In front of her and through the window: gentle clucking from a flock of hens scratching at the ground. Behind her, the creak of the heavy wooden door she’d left open, swinging on its hinges. To her left: nothing. But wait—Ruby pressed her fingers into her palms and bit the inside of her cheek. A frenetic scamper, followed by a squeak. A mouse! Ruby’s eyes flew open and she laughed. The mouse had gone, but, she surmised, not for long. “Of course,”she said, running her palm down her messy fishtail braid. “I would be disappointed if there weren’t mice.”Next, Ruby held her arms out by her sides and felt the air on her skin. It was mid-April, and the Highlands were still chilly, but, as mentioned, she was a bit ripe. She had stripped down from her three-season traveling jacket and sweater to jeans and a cotton camisole, and the breeze was a treat. The air inside the one-room home she had agreed to rent—Sight unseen! After a few short phone calls with the owner! For a whole year!—hung cold from years of vacancy. But it was thick with potential. Ruby could tell that much was true. She sniffed a little and caught heather on the breeze. Classic Scotland, right there. It’s just like I imagined, she thought. Ruby wondered what other Scottish stereotypes would prove to be true. She hoped the one about strapping bearded men who guzzled whisky and whispered sweet nothings was. But maybe she had just been watching too much Outlander. Her mind trotted past the image of a sexy Scot kissing her against a pile of oak barrels to Benjamin. She immediately cringed. No. Mustn’t think about Benjamin here. The man had occupied far too much of her brain space for far too long. The breeze picked up again and Ruby was pulled into the present. She reached for the sweater she’d tied around the duffel straps and slipped it over her head. It was cream colored and cable-knit, long in the sleeves and reached halfway down her thighs, but it was soft and comfortable, perfect in the way that favorite sweaters always are. She looked around and drank in the scene. There was a massive stone hearth, almost large enough to hold the height of her five-foot, two-inch frame. The fireplace dwarfed the rest of the cottage. Or perhaps anchored it? Hard to say. It was big. Directly across from the door Ruby saw a dusty window held together by thin timber muntins; one of the glass panes was missing and was nailed over with a wood board. This was the sort of thing that would have driven her mad in Manhattan, an injustice that would’ve had her hollering at her landlord for a replacement and reduction in rent. But she was in Scotland! So now it was charming, and she didn’t have to be angry about it. In front of the window sat a bed to rival the hearth. It was made from wood, like every other piece of furniture in the cottage, with an enormous head- and footboard, and thick posts for legs. It looked like it weighed a ton. Two tons? Numbers were not Ruby’s strong point. The mattress was covered in a white sheet and a worn velveteen green quilt that looked about a trillion years old. Again: super charming. Because, Scotland. Spread across the quilt, at the foot of the bed was a real sheep’s pelt. Ruby touched it with her fingertips and brought them up to her nose; she could smell the lanolin. There were plenty of pillows, both functional and furry, piled against the headboard, giving the whole bed a look that was at once soft and wild. Ruby kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the mattress. It was surprisingly comfortable, although she would’ve dealt with it no matter what. Having sold all her earthly possessions and moved across an ocean, she didn’t have much room to be picky about details like beds and mattresses. On the other side of the cottage, pushed up against the stonework, was a small writing desk and minuscule chair. A tapestry throw was artfully draped over the desk. On top of that, a tapered candle in a brass holder and a delicate vase holding a few yellow cowslips. Ruby reached off the bed and rummaged in her duffel bag for her dictionary, which—okay, yes, she had brought a dictionary in her carry-on luggage. And, yes, she realized ten minutes into her wait at the security check that it had been a monumental (and monumentally heavy) mistake. The thing of it was, Ruby really wanted to make a fresh start here: not just to write a cookbook but to become the sort of person she wished she was. The sort of person she never got around to becoming in New York. The sort of person who, when reading novels and encountering a word she didn’t know, looked it up in an actual dictionary, rather than grabbing her phone and googling “meaning of alacrity”or whatever. To be clear, not the sort of person who immediately exited the dictionary.com app and spent the next forty-five minutes blacking out on Instagram’s explore tab. Not naming any names, but . . . ugh. Ruby’s life had become very stale and very uninspiring over the course of the last few years. The dictionary felt like—what? A reminder of that intention? Sure. Let’s go with that. Anyway, she placed the dictionary—Oxford, not Merriam-Webster, because, Scotland—on the writing desk. There. Transformation complete. She was now a calm and stable human who could do hard and good things, like move to the UK in her midthirties and learn new words. The cottage couldn’t have been more than eight by eight feet; if Ruby wanted to, she could cross the whole thing in one big step (and a half). But how did they measure things in Scotland? Centimeters? Ruby wasn’t positive. She had a moment of panic. How could I have moved to a country without knowing their units of measurement? Ruby grabbed her phone to google it. Wait. No Wi-Fi in the cottage. Right. She’d look it up later. It probably didn’t matter that much, honestly. What did she need to measure? She was only writing a cookbook. Sigh. She stretched her arms over her head, then brought her hands down underneath her sweater. She scratched her rib cage and yawned, bone-tired from the international flight, the train ride from Glasgow Airport to Inverness, the taxi ride from the station, and the polite touch-base conversation with the cottage’s proprietor, Grace Wood. “It’s perfect,”she murmured to herself now, curling up into a small ball in the center of the bed. The door caught a lively gust and slammed shut with a thud. Somewhere along the baseboard, the mouse exclaimed in surprise. Ruby pressed her palms together and tucked her hands underneath her cheek. She imagined the rodent wearing a miniature kilt and drinking from a thimble of whisky. Scotland is going to be great. Everything will work out. This was definitely not a mistake. Nope. Not at all. No mistakes here. Not a single one. Ha ha. And then, even though her brain very much wanted to keep thinking about the cottage; about her future cookbook; about awful Benjamin; about how she’d earn enough money to live here for a year; about why the hell she’d thought a cottage with no internet would be charming; and about every single embarrassing thing she’d ever done in her whole life, exhaustion overtook her body. Her fringe of dark lashes fluttered once, and she was asleep. •••When Ruby woke, it was dark. How long had she been sleeping? The cab had dropped her off at the pub shortly after noon; it couldn’t have been much past one when she drifted off. She rose and fumbled around the walls for a light switch. The fixture on the ceiling crackled and sparked a few times before it settled into a dim glow. Two weeks ago, a rustic cottage in the small town of Thistlecross was all she could think about. And she was finally here. She was about to spend an entire year exploring Scotland and drinking whisky. So why did it suddenly seem . . . less awesome? Harder? Ruby needed better ambiance; that would help, for sure. She found a box of matches in the desk drawer, struck one, and lit the candle. Light threw itself against the stone walls and made dancing shadows. “Oh, that’s nice,”she said, and rifled through her bag for a toothbrush and some clean jeans. Ms. Wood had set a pitcher of water on the windowsill, along with a ceramic mug. Ruby filled the mug and drank it down, then brushed her teeth. There was a small bathroom tucked in the southern corner of the cottage. She’d shower later. Eventually. She wasn’t in a rush; there didn’t seem to be anyone to impress in Thistlecross. She slid into her shoes again and walked outside, around to the back and surveyed her domain in the dark, stretching her legs and doing a couple of yoga poses to move her spine. Buck up, girl. You wanted this. Why had she wanted this, exactly? Ruby had figured that the minimalist setup and a “closer to nature”existence would help her write her cookbook: reduce distractions and keep her focused on the task at hand. Plus, it seemed romantic and poetic. Very Walden Pond. Very literary. But had Thoreau had a small pub nearby? Ruby seemed to recall </i>some sort of story about him doing laundry at his mom’s. Ugh. Just like a man. She looked around for the hens; it appeared they had retired for the night in the coop near the rowan tree. Ruby ducked back inside and shrieked. One of the hens had decided to roost in the cottage instead of its perfectly decent home, and was perched on a bedpost. (Mental note to close the cottage door in the future.) She approached the hen, who careened around the cottage. What was she going to do . . . catch it? No. That was absurd. She could not. She would not. Maybe she could just guide it out of the cottage. Ruby smacked her hands together to startle it into action, which resulted in her clapping after a hen and shouting “Go home! Go home!”for no less than seven spins around</div></a></div>
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<div>My Thoughts </div><div>Quit your job...check!</div><div>Move to Scotland...check!</div><div>Try to write and sell a cookbook...check!</div><div>Fall in love with the town hottie...check!</div><div>Try right wrongs, save a town and its landmarks...check!</div><div>Live happily ever after...maybe!</div><div><br /></div><div>This book is utter light and happy "girl adventure," "let fate be your guide" romantic fabulousity.</div><div>Ruby has a very relatable newbie's naivete about the people, places, and things Scotland. </div><div>Which serves to provide readers with the perfect person to cheer for.</div><div>The relationships that she builds with not only the townspeople but the town itself is so endearing that you want to move there.</div><div><br /></div><div>And as for leading man, Brochan.</div><div>Can we say dreamboat?</div><div>Along with the additional plot thickeners of his past. And her present relationship with the town mayor. And the loop that makes to his past.</div><div>Oh boy!!!</div><div>And let's not forget the WHISKEY!</div><div>This book is nothing less than romantic GOLD!</div><div>In fact, there are so many great characters in this book whose back stories and HEA's I would love to see written. </div><div>Hint...hint!</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note </div><div>Thank you to Netgalley and Berkley for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWJjrav5DeJUdpSEc04Co6Z8iyMAKkqla0ElRgjqJ9rmCcd_1bpvfRk_9umcv6vwTjIGl_RSvK9Mz63ktUh580ehovKlpZBNVdSMkSpkmVgE4AS--MbinJKix9ZqSHyUocrL30l1JmAFT1yA-sNtsSyM_32xIm-BNVGi9DQGnskGFHlRDMVdSOGpm/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWJjrav5DeJUdpSEc04Co6Z8iyMAKkqla0ElRgjqJ9rmCcd_1bpvfRk_9umcv6vwTjIGl_RSvK9Mz63ktUh580ehovKlpZBNVdSMkSpkmVgE4AS--MbinJKix9ZqSHyUocrL30l1JmAFT1yA-sNtsSyM_32xIm-BNVGi9DQGnskGFHlRDMVdSOGpm/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>.</div><div>About Rochelle </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1ajVfe3NXqGAqTumPO6WLL04r95oKz4v7oEZaGtKfyJJRwww6-S0srkFM8TqZBL0eH_5OhFS97eJ5GF_TjViXJ_17AadXCtPWblV3rf11B0Mb_5L8gyk25UHxO430LA4JiofJlTWiJLvnYgQWr5eSq0NCOPfGWiRb0cGB8C2jStB0bGfIUtmh0EC/s933/7864478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="622" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1ajVfe3NXqGAqTumPO6WLL04r95oKz4v7oEZaGtKfyJJRwww6-S0srkFM8TqZBL0eH_5OhFS97eJ5GF_TjViXJ_17AadXCtPWblV3rf11B0Mb_5L8gyk25UHxO430LA4JiofJlTWiJLvnYgQWr5eSq0NCOPfGWiRb0cGB8C2jStB0bGfIUtmh0EC/w133-h200/7864478.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br />Rochelle is a professionally trained cook and food writer and has worked as an editor at Bon Appétit and Cooking Light Magazines, as well as a line cook, a farm cook, and a wine spokesperson. She holds a grande diplome from The French Culinary Institute, and her food writing has been featured in a variety of national publications, including The Kitchn, Serious Eats, and Spruce Eats.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ruby-Spencers-Whisky-Rochelle-Bilow-ebook/dp/B09ZRTBTYF?crid=23ISR8EHOVR3&keywords=ruby+spencer%27s+whisky+year&qid=1676467269&sprefix=Ruby+Spe%2Caps%2C137&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=00221e1fd71d23903972d9dd73870fea&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09ZRTBTYF&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09ZRTBTYF" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-17814804804100413622023-02-13T10:56:00.001-05:002023-02-13T10:56:28.721-05:00Find The Best Of Romantic Beginnings With "End Of Story"<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc65lZd4RvEkZT0smdkFq9m2gOFsfhkgVqfIcB7XgS0KVC8NpaWwC7U0DTwd4q8wWO_gFzMarzilX0S5RGWvbYZsJ13cRGQUynyP8-OCdBZCHoJBTTaD1kchYvXLCxT4ABbrOCli1kLUae8a6HdjxiHTPIvXbIC2NtMJfffT-fCqZc34nJy80pdEGs/s3200/End%20of%20Story%20Cover-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3200" data-original-width="2125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc65lZd4RvEkZT0smdkFq9m2gOFsfhkgVqfIcB7XgS0KVC8NpaWwC7U0DTwd4q8wWO_gFzMarzilX0S5RGWvbYZsJ13cRGQUynyP8-OCdBZCHoJBTTaD1kchYvXLCxT4ABbrOCli1kLUae8a6HdjxiHTPIvXbIC2NtMJfffT-fCqZc34nJy80pdEGs/s320/End%20of%20Story%20Cover-1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Title: End Of Story </div><div>Author: Kylie Scott</div><div>Length: 320 pages</div><div>Format: ERC </div><div>Publisher: Graydon House </div><div>Rating: 5 Stars</div><div><br />Fans of bestsellers like In Five Years will fall for this unexpected love story about a</div><div>woman and her contractor who discover a divorce decree with their names on it … dated</div><div>ten years in the future.</div><div>When Susie inherits a charming fixer-upper from her aunt, she’s excited to start living her best</div><div>HGTV-life. But when she opens the door to find that her contractor is none other than her ex’s</div><div>(very good looking) best friend Lars—the same man who witnessed their humiliating public</div><div>break-up 6 months ago—she isn’t exactly eager to have him around. But, beggars can't be</div><div>choosers and the sooner the repairs are done, the sooner she can get back to grudgingly</div><div>accepting the single life.</div><div><div>Things go from awkward to unbelievable when Lars knocks down a bedroom wall and finds</div><div>a divorce certificate dated ten years from now…with both their names on it. It couldn’t</div><div>possibly be real...could it? As Susie and Lars try to unravel the document’s origins, the</div><div>impossibility of a spark between them suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. But is any kind</div><div>of relationship between them doomed before it’s ever begun?</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>End Of Story </i></div>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; break-before: page; line-height: normal; margin: 1in 0in 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">C</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">HAPTER ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;">“This is awkward.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">The big
blond man standing on my doorstep blinked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How
are you, Lars?” I gave him my very best fake smile. “Nice to see you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Susie.
It’s been what…five, six months?” Setting down his toolbox, he gave me an
uneasy smile. It was more of a wince, really. Because the last time we saw each
other was not a good night. Not for me, at least. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Something
like that,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“This
your new place?” He nodded at the battered arts and crafts cottage. “The office
said you had some water damage you wanted to start with?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah,
about that. I was told Mateo would be doing the work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Family
emergency.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Oh.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
gazed down at me with dismay. The man was your basic urban Viking marauder, as
his name suggested. Longish blonde hair, white skin, blue eyes, short beard,
tall and built. I was average height and he managed to loom over me just fine.
In his mid-thirties and more than a little rough around the edges. Nothing like
his sleek and slick bestie. An asshole whose continued existence I’d prefer to
be reminded of never. But we don’t always get what we want.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I took
a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll show
you…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Don’t
worry about taking your boots off. The shag carpet isn’t staying.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Heavy
footsteps followed me through the living room and into the dining room where we
turned left to enter the small hallway. From this point we had two options, the
bathroom or the back bedroom. We headed for the latter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“The
water was getting in through a crack in the window for who knows how long,” I
explained. “I only inherited the place recently. There were all these boxes
piled up in here. No one could even see it was an issue.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
grunted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
spent the first month just sorting through things and clearing the place out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Beneath
the window frame, a large stain spread across the golden-flecked wallpaper. As
if it weren’t ugly enough to begin with. That was the thing about my aunt
Susan; she wasn’t a big fan of change. The two-bedroom cottage had belonged to
her parents and everything had pretty much been left untouched after they
passed. Apart from the addition of Susan’s junk. Which meant that while the
wallpaper and carpet were from the 1970’s, the bathroom was from the 1940’s,
and the kitchen cabinets from the 1930’s. At least, that’s what I’d been told.
The place was like an ode to 20<sup>th</sup> century interior design. The good,
and the bad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He got
down on one knee, inspecting the damage. “The bottom of this window frame is
warped and needs replacing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Can
you do that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah,”
he said. “I need to have a look behind here. You attached to the wallpaper?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Heck
no.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
almost smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“The
sooner I can repaint and get new flooring down, the better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Nothing
from him. A knife appeared from the tool box, sharp-pointed with jagged teeth.
He punched the blade through the drywall with ease and started cutting into the
wall.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How is
he?” I asked the dreaded question. Curiosity was the worst. “Enjoying London?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah,”
was all he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And
how’s Jane?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“We’re
not together anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Not a
surprise. Lars went through various girlfriends during the year I’d been with
what’s-his-face. Neither he nor his friend were down with commitment. Which was
fine if you just wanted to have fun. But Jane was a keeper, smart with a wicked
sense of humor. Lars definitely had a type. All of his girlfriends were petite,
perfect dolls who behaved in a ladylike manner. The opposite of buxom,
loudmouthed me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
pried a square of drywall loose. “You thinking of living here permanently or
flipping and selling the place, or what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Haven’t
decided.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Great
location. A bit of work and it’d probably be worth a lot of money,” he said,
keeping the conversation on the business at hand. As was good and right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Using
the flashlight on his phone, he inspected the cavity. The man was all handyman
chic. Big ass boots, jeans, and a faded black tee. All of it well-worn. And the
way his blue jeans conformed to his thick thighs and the curves of his ass was
something. Something I hadn’t meant to notice, but oh well, these things
happened. Maybe it was the way his tool belt framed that particular part of his
anatomy. For a moment, I couldn’t look away. I was butt struck. Which was both
wrong and bad. It would not be smart for me to notice this man in the sexual
sense. Though it was nice to know my thirst meter wasn’t broken.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I don’t
know if Lars and I were ever really friends. We had, however, been friendly.
Though that was romantic relationships for you. One moment you had all of these
awesome extra people in your life and the next moment they’re gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
tugged on the end of my dark ponytail. An old nervous habit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“At
this stage, it looks like the damage is only superficial,” Lars said. “These
two sections of drywall have to go. Once I’ve done that, I’ll have a better
idea of what we’re dealing with.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“But it
wouldn’t surprise me if some or all of that one needs replacing too.” He
pointed to the wall the bedroom shared with the bathroom. “See how there’s
bubbling along the joins of the wallpaper there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do I
have your approval to get started?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">None of
this was exactly unexpected. Old buildings might have soul, but they could also
have heavy upkeep. Renovations cost big bucks. While my savings were meagre,
lucky for this hundred year old house, my aunt left me some money. Which was a
point of contention for a few of my family members. Like any of them had time
for Aunt Susan when she was alive. Besides being my namesake, she was also the
black sheep of the family. A little too weird for some, I guess. But weird has
always been a trait that I admired.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
going to make myself coffee,” I said. “Would you like some?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah.
Thanks.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How do
you take it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“White.
No sugar.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You’re
sweet enough, huh?” And the moment those words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d
made a mistake. Talk about awkward.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
snorted, then said, “Something like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: blue; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
didn’t mess around. By the time I returned, he’d removed the first two panels
of drywall. Hands on hips, he stood staring at the interior of the wall with
the problematic window. Mostly it looked like a lot of dust and a couple of
cobwebs. But then, I’m not a builder. When I handed over his mug, he gave me a
brief smile before taking a sip.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How is
it looking?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Your
house has good bones.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Great.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“As
long as the damage on that wall is due to the moisture spreading from the
window and not a leaky bathroom pipe, this should be pretty straightforward,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I’d
taken over the main bedroom, but this room still held a lot of sentimental
value for me. Whenever Mom and Dad were busy or needed a break from us kids, my
brother would stay at a friend’s house and I’d be packed off to Aunt Susan’s—to
this bedroom in particular. Which was fine with me. Andrew was an outgoing jock
while I’d been kind of awkward. In this house, I was accepted for who I was. A
nice change. With my parents divorced, growing up between three households and
living mostly out of a school bag sucked. But Aunt Susan gave me the security
that was lacking elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Is the
floor okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Let’s
pull up some carpet and see.” He set his coffee on the windowsill. Then, knife
back in hand, he got busy with the shag. It was impressive how the tool became
a part of him. An extension of his body. “You’ve got good solid hardwood under
here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Ooh,
let me see.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
tugged the tattered underlay back further. “Oak, by the look of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Wow.
Imagine covering that beauty up with butt ugly brown carpet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No
sign of water damage. You were lucky.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
smiled. “That is excellent news.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Now
let’s see what’s behind this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I took
a step back so he could start removing the next section of drywall. He had such
big capable hands. Watching him work was pure competence porn. . As a mature
and well-adjusted thirty year old woman, I definitely knew better than to have
sexy times thoughts again. The best friend of my ex is not my friend. Confucius
probably said that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Looks
like there’s something back here,” he said, setting a panel of drywall aside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Something
good or something bad?” I winced as a big hairy spider scurried out of the
cavity. “Ew.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
just a wolf spider. Nothing dangerous.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“But
there might be more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Without
further comment, he reached down and picked up a piece of paper. It looked old.
Which made sense. Lord only knew how long it had been in the wall. It was kind
of like opening a time capsule.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
is it?” I asked, more than a little curious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">His gaze
narrowed as he read, his forehead furrowing. Next his brows rose and his lips
thinned. His expression quickly changed from disbelief to fury as he shoved the
piece of paper at me. The open hostility in his eyes was a lot coming from a
man of his size. “Susie, what the fuck?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Is
this your idea of a joke?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.
I…” The paper was soft with age and the writing was faded but legible. Mostly.
Superior Court of Washington, County of King was written at the top. There was
also a date stamp. This was followed by a bunch of numbers and the words Final
Divorce Order. “Wait. Is this a divorce certificate?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah,”
he said. “For you and me. Dated a decade from now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
scrunched up my nose and ever so slightly shrieked, “<i>What</i>? Hold on. You think I put this in there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No,”
he said, getting all up in my face. “I know you put it in there, Susie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Take a
step back, please,” I said, pushing a hand against his hard chest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He did
as I asked, some of the anger leaching from his face. Then he grumbled,
“Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Thank
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Why
would you do that? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Find someone else for the job,”
he said, gathering up his tools. “I’m out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Can
you just wait a second?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Apparently
the answer was no. Because the man started moving even faster. “I don’t know
what game you’re playing. But I’m not interested in finding out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I took
a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I did not put this in the wall, Lars.
Think about it. You’re a builder. Had any of the wallpaper or drywall been
disturbed in the last forty or fifty years?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
could have accessed it from the other side. I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
didn’t even know you were coming here today.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
grunted. “Only got your word for that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And
I’ve only got your word that <i>you</i>
didn’t put this in in the wall for some stupid reason,” I said, thinking it
over. <i>How did that not occur to me?</i>
“Of course you put it there. I wasn’t the first one to have access to that
space. You were. A quick sleight of hand is all it would have taken. This is so
unprofessional.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Very
nice. I’m sure you prepared that speech at the same time you planted it,
knowing I’d inevitably be the one who first touched it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And
I’m sure <i>you</i> prepared that speech at
the same time you planted it, knowing I’d suspect you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
glared at me. “Why the hell would I, Susie?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Why
the hell would <i>I</i>, Lars?” I bellowed.
“This is ridiculous. I just want my house fixed. That’s all. And I specifically
asked who would be doing the job because I didn’t feel the need to see you again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">With
his back to me, he paused.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No
offense. But I knew it would be wildly uncomfortable.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Why’d
you use the company I work for then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Because
I know they’re reputable and do good work. You yourself said that’s one of the
main reasons why you’ve stuck with them. Because they don’t encourage you to
cut corners or use shoddy materials and they treat their staff well. Also, they
pretty much do everything. These things matter.” I raised a finger. (No. Not
that one.) “Take car repairs for instance. Because I know little to nothing
about cars, I get ripped off by repair shops—I’m sure of it. I didn’t want that
to happen here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Another
grunt. What an animal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I wish
neither to marry nor divorce you, Lars. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s
mutual. So this piece of paper I’m holding in no way benefits me. Look at me.
Am I laughing? No, I’m not. Nor am I enjoying all this drama. Confrontation
stresses me the fuck out,” I said, my shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what
else to say. This is ridiculous.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
already said that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
worth repeating.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He gave
me a look over his shoulder. “If you’re messing with me…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
not. Are you messing with me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Then
what the hell is going on?” I asked the universe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Without
another word, he got to his feet and strode out of the room, heading straight
into the bathroom next door. There he made quick work of checking everything.
The tiling and paintwork, around the white pedestal basin, inside the mirrored
cabinet set into the wall, and the end of the claw foot bath tub. Then he
turned around, face set to cranky. “Access point for the attic?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Hallway.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">In no
time flat, he had the ceiling hatch open and the ladder down. Then up into the
darkness he went. His cell phone doubled as a flash light again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Lot of
stuff up here,” he commented.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That
does not surprise me. My aunt was kind of a hoarder. Not as bad as the people
on those TV shows, but…yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
sneezed. “A lot of dust, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Bless
you. I haven’t even been up there yet,” I said. “Cleaning and clearing space
out down here has taken all of my time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">His big
boots disappeared up the last rungs of the ladder while I waited below. After
all, I’d only be in the way. It had absolutely nothing to do with my fear of
creepy crawlies. Someone had to wait below with the weird ass document. The
sounds of him stomping about and things being shifted came next. Something
heavy was pushed aside. Something else fell and glass broke.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Sorry,”
Lars called.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
sure it was nothing valuable. Hopefully.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Then
his face appeared in the dark hole overhead. “Looks like they built the attic
to use as another bedroom or office at some stage. The floorboards and
everything are tight. No real access into the walls below.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Mm.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Plus
there’s about an inch of dust on the ground and no sign of any footprints other
than mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Good
work, Nancy Drew,” I said. “Is the basement next?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He gave
me a flat, unfriendly look. “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Maybe
I’d be better off finding another builder. In fact, I knew I would be. Though
it would only be trading one peace of mind for another. While Lars would no
longer be in my face, I wouldn’t be able to trust the new builder’s work to the
same degree. Which would be anxiety-inducing and possibly costly. Talk about a
no-win situation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Back
into the dining room then through to the kitchen at the back of the house, we
went on our not-so-merry adventure. I opened the door to the dingy staircase.
“I like to call this the murder room. Dark, dank, dangerous. It’s got it all.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">No
response from him as we made our way down. Tough crowd. It was just a basic
concrete room with a boiler, laundry area, and more assorted crap. But the old
boiler, the one before this one, used to make creepy noises. Hence my childhood
fears of the basement. Helping with the laundry was always an ordeal. I usually
avoided it by offering to do the dishes instead.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
began examining the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“When
did you find out you had this job?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Around
eight this morning. The office called,” he said. “Mateo’s boyfriend got hit by
a car riding to work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Is he
okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“A few
bumps and bruises and a sprained wrist.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Phew.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yeah,”
he said. “The job I was on was close to finishing and they could spare me, so
they asked me to come here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
gets me is that the paper looks old. I mean, the way the text is faded and
everything.” I carefully turned the certificate over in my hands. “I wonder if
we could get it tested, somehow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
scoffed. “You don’t actually think it’s real?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
honestly don’t know,” I said. “What I do know is, if you didn’t put the
certificate there to mess with me—and I guess I believe you when you say you
didn’t—then I can think of no rational explanation for how it got there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
frowned harder and kept right on inspecting the ceiling. Even he had to admit
that it was highly unlikely I’d put the decree of dissolution in the wall.
Surely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Does
your middle name start with A?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Alexander.
Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“So the
details are right, at least. No money judgement ordered. No real property
judgement ordered. This marriage is dissolved. The petitioner and respondent
are divorced. Not much information there to go on.” I chose my next words with
care. “You know, my aunt, she was kind of eccentric. She was always burning
candles and buying crystals.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Looking
back over his shoulder at me, he raised a questioning brow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“The
thing is, she used to talk to the house sometimes,” I finally said. “Like it
was an actual living breathing entity. And yes, maybe she was lonely or a
little strange. Please don’t say anything mean or dismissive about her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
not going to say anything about your aunt.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Thank
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
didn’t even blink. “But it’s not supernatural, Susie. This was no ghost or
spirit or whatever you’re suggesting.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay.
Fine. I just thought I’d put that out there,” I said. “Did you find anything
down here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“So now
what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Face
set, he walked over, staring into my eyes as if he could read my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Susie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Lars.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I want
to believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it. You always seemed
like a pretty honest person to me,” he said. “A bit too honest, sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How
so?” I asked, only mildly annoyed—although I was exercising great restraint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Some
of the stuff you come out with sometimes is…unnecessary.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Let’s
agree to disagree,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
shook his head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
would point out, however, that I’m not brutal. Ever notice how people who say
they’re <i>just being honest</i> usually
are?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">His
nostrils flared on a deep breath. How that was in any way attractive I had no
idea. Something must be wrong with me. Guess my vibrator was getting a little
boring. Maybe it was time for me to get out there and meet some men. Then
again, not dating for the rest of my life would also be great.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“For
the last time,” he said, speaking nice and slow, “did you put that piece of
paper in the wall?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No. I
swear.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Fuck,”
he muttered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Fuck,”
I agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
sighed. “Someone’s messing with us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; break-before: page; line-height: normal; margin: 1in 0in 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">CHAPTER TWO<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;">“Correct me if I’m
wrong, but I thought you just said that you couldn’t find any way for someone
to slip the certificate into the wall,” I said, confused.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’ve
got to be missing something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Like
what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
don’t know,” he said, voice thick with frustration.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Let me
think.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why don’t we go pull off
the other panels on that wall? See if they left anything else for us to find.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
gazed off at nothing for a moment before nodding. “Good idea.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Nothing
about this made sense. I couldn’t think of anyone who might have put the
divorce certificate in the wall to mess with me. The other thing was, I’d made
the choice to not get married a long time ago. My parents divorced when I was
five. They’d given up on having children about a decade before, when my brother
arrived out of nowhere. They then compounded the problem by having me. I read a
study once that showed that children of divorced parents are almost seventy
percent more likely to have their marriage end in divorce. While I dreamed of
finding The One, there would be no big white dress for me. And I didn’t need
one. If love and commitment weren’t already present in the relationship, then a
marriage certificate wasn’t going to fix a damn thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">It took
no time at all for Lars to remove the next section of drywall in the second
bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Nothing.
Just more dust and cobwebs. But as for the third…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“There’s
a hole down at the bottom of this one,” said Lars, bending to inspect the
drywall. The hole was about the size of his hand and cunningly hidden behind a
flap of wallpaper.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Notice
how the carpet is darker?” I asked, pointing. “There used to be a set of
drawers here. No one would have even known the hidey hole was there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He cut
into the drywall once again, revealing the house’s insides.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Bingo,”
muttered Lars.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
brushed off the front of the magazine. “Porn.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Sure
enough, a blonde hippy wearing a sheer floral dress contemplated her toes on
the cover. Bet she had natural bush and everything. And good for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Playboy.
April 1972.” I inspected the thing. “Oh, good God. Do you know what that must
be? My father’s teenage masturbation material!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He bit
back a smile. “Probably.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Gross!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“At
least the pages aren’t stiff.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
not funny,” I said, tossing the magazine onto the ground. “I need to go bathe
in bleach.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
returned to the wall. “The drywall is well-attached to the studs. Not much room
to slip anything through.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Studs
are the pieces of wood making up the frame of the house?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Even
if you could get your arm in the hole, I don’t see how you could get a piece of
paper past the first stud, across the space between, then past the second stud
to place it where we found it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”
He scratched at his short beard. Or maybe it was long stubble. “I’m out of
ideas. How about you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
shrugged and slipped the folded up certificate out of the pocket in my black
cotton dress. Because in a right and good world, dresses should have pockets.
“I can’t think of anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Why
don’t I get back to work?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You’re
really going to stay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">His
turn to shrug. Then he picked up his now cold coffee and downed half of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
smiled. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: blue; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">While
the sawing and hammering commenced in the bedroom, I got busy with my own work.
First I responded to comments on today’s posts. Defused an angry customer with
a twenty dollar gift card. Then I started working on future promotions. Such
was the joy of being a social media manager. I got to work from home the bulk
of the time. But I had to be friendly, funny, creative, a problem solver, and
available just about around the clock. My main clients were an organic and
recycled clothing company, a fleet of coffee trucks, and an online menstruation
products store. I loved my job.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">By the
time I took a lunch break several hours later, I was ready to return to solving
this whole mystery divorce certificate thing. I was also ready to eat. “You
hungry?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
gazed up at me. “Starving.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">There
was a certain satisfaction in seeing a man on his knees. Too bad it was only
renovations-related. But I digress. “BBQ?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Let’s
do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Thanks
to the magic of delivery, we were soon sitting on the front porch with our food
in hand. It was a typical pleasant summer’s day. Blue sky, birds, the usual.
The mountain was out which meant you could see Mt Rainier. Always a nice thing.
While Seattle was known for its rain, we do get some good weather. And all of
the wet meant the grass and trees were a shade of green I’d never seen anywhere
else. The plot of land the cottage sat on was about the size of a postage
stamp, but there was room for a small garden in the front and back. I’d killed
more than my fair share of houseplants. Perhaps this was my chance to develop a
green thumb.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Thought
of a few questions,” Lars said, piling up his fork with coleslaw. “Who’s
visited since you moved in?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Didn’t
we already establish that there was no way someone could have hidden the
certificate without the drywall being removed?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Humor
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay.”
I took a sip of water. “It’s not like I’ve been throwing parties or anything. The place isn’t ready for that
yet. My friend Cleo has been over a few times.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
gazed out at the quiet street for a minute. “Don’t think I ever met her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No, I
don’t think you did either. And leaving that in the wall isn’t something she
would do. It’s not even like I would have mentioned you to her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Harsh.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
were the best friend. Not the boyfriend.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Women
only talk about relationships?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
wrinkled my nose in disgust.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What?”
he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That
question was just so stupid I honestly don’t know how to answer it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He gave
me a dour look.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Women
talk about a lot of things, Lars. I just didn’t particularly talk about you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“All
right,” he said. “Who else?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Just
my family.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do
they know about me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Maybe
I mentioned you in passing,” I said. “But certainly not to the degree that
they’d feel the need to pull a stunt like this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Is
there anyone in your life who would?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I have
an uncle who put fake dog poop in my shoe once. I was twelve at the time.” I
wiped my mouth with the napkin. “But that’s about it as far as tricksters go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
about neighbors?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
about them?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do you
know any of them?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I shook
my head. “Aunt Susan knew some of them, but…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">We ate
in silence for a moment. Then he held up his half-eaten plate of brisket,
coleslaw, and cornbread. “You want to swap?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
passed over my pulled pork, mac ‘n’ cheese, and collard greens. No idea how it
started, but swapping meals was something Lars and I used to do when we all
went out to dinner. Double dating or whatever. We had similar tastes and this
meant we could sample more of the menu. After all, who wouldn’t want to try two
different desserts?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
tapped my fork against my lips, thinking deep thoughts. “Just to reiterate, no
one knew you were coming here today before eight o’clock this morning?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Right,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“This
is so bizarre. It’s like something out of a movie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He took
a bite of cornbread and nodded. After he swallowed he said, “This isn’t the
first time we’ve found stuff behind walls during renovations. Newspaper for
insulation, tools that got dropped when the place was being built, old bottles
from Prohibition, even.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Wow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“One
job I heard about, they found a gun and some money.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Wish
we’d found money.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
would you have done with it if we had found ten grand?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Something
frivolous. Like go to Paris or buy a pair of Prada heels.” I smiled. “What
about you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Nothing.
Your house, your walls, your porn collection. The money is all yours.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Say we’d
have split it down the line.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“In
that case, add it to the fund for my business startup.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How
sensible and mature.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said. “We’re old enough, we should have our
act together.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I have
a house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Not
because you saved up and worked for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Ouch.”
I opened my eyes painfully wide. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been building up my
business for years.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Sounds
like I hit a nerve.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Oh,
you think?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
cocked his head, and didn’t say a word.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
make me sound like some profligate,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
didn’t mean–”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yes,
you did. And it’s true, I enjoy pretty things, but I work damn hard for them. I
invest back in my business often and my credit card and car are paid off in
full.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Men
like you do my head in. You know, you call yourself nice guys. So laid back and
easy going. But then you sit back and judge the absolute shit out of people.
And more often than not, those people are women.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">For a
moment he just stared at me, then he sighed. “I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Are
you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yes,”
he said. “You’re right. I was out of line.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
glad you see that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
and I have a bad habit of rubbing each other the wrong way. Always have.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Guess
we do.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
shoved an agitated hand through his golden hair, pushing it back off his face.
He had a nice face. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Too bad he could be an
utter jerk. The Ex had a tendency to see things in black and white too. As if
the world were full of absolutes. Small-minded people terrified me. Imagine
thinking you already knew everything there was to know. That you were never
wrong. How the hell would you ever learn anything new?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m no
longer wondering why we got divorced, at least.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
did the raising one eyebrow thing again. “It’s not real, Susie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
know, I just…” I watched a butterfly fluttering around the lavender plant by
the front steps. “We don’t even have any chemistry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
paused. “I wouldn’t say that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Wouldn’t
you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”
And he said it so matter-of-factly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">My
eyebrows all but kissed the sky. “Huh.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Not
that it matters,” he said. “You dated my friend so there’s no way.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Ah,
the bro code.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
dudes, you’re so principled. I love that about y’all,” I drawled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">The
hint of amusement was back in his gaze. “Susie, in another life, if we actually
got together, I honestly think we’d kill each other. Don’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Probably.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">And
then he smiled. He had a great smile. Dammit. So maybe there was something
there. Just not anything that would ever be acted upon. That much was certain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: blue; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
<i>wild</i>,” said Cleo later that night on
the phone. She was a photographer, and a kindred spirit. We met years ago
through work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do you
think the house is haunted?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I love
that you ignored logic and jumped straight to that conclusion.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">She
laughed. “There’s a reason we’re friends.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I was
thinking that the hole is a split in the space-time continuum.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That
would work,” she said. “Though that would also require you to marry and divorce
him at some point in the future.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Not if
it was from a parallel dimension.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Okay.
I’m buying it. Carry on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
know, I tried to tell him it might be supernatural and he wouldn’t listen.” I
lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Plain white, thankfully. Unlike the
walls and floors, it had escaped any ugly interior trends from bygone eras. The
certificate lay on the mattress next to me. I had carried it around all day. As
if the strange thing might disappear if I took my eyes off it. “Though the
house isn’t haunted, that I’m aware of. I mean, it creaks now and then. But all
old homes do that, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Mm.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
not like I’ve sensed Aunt Susan’s presence or anything,” I said. “I think I’d
like to see a ghost, but I’d also be terrified to see a ghost.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Agreed.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Maybe
we should have a séance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Knowing
our luck, we’d accidentally open a portal to hell,” she said. “And my mama
would be appalled we were messing with that sort of thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Right.
No séance.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
certainly a very odd discovery.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Lars
is convinced someone is screwing with us. Which is the most likely conclusion,”
I said. “I just can’t imagine why.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
definitely don’t think he put it there when you weren’t looking?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No, I
don’t.” I frowned. “At first, he was baffled like me, but then he was furious.
Like I was playing a game or stirring up trouble. He was ready to walk out
until I talked him down. Not that I actually want him here. I’ve only just
gotten over his idiot friend dumping me in front of everyone that he knew.
Having Lars around is not my idea of a good time. Too complicated. Too many
memories. He basically called me fiscally irresponsible and immature today.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What a
poopy head.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And if
you wanted payback against your fool of an ex you’d do it in a mature and
sensible manner.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Exactly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Like
egging his house or something.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Actually,
that sounds fun. How are you doing in the condo on your own?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’mturning
your old room into my office,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Good
work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Josh
wants to move in with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Oh,
yeah?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It
would help with the rent,” she said. “And I don’t mind him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Aw.
True love.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Cleo
laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a big step and I’m enjoying having the
place to myself. After the divorce I didn’t think I’d want a man in my space
again. Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever want to date.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“There’s
no rush.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”
She sighed. “Guess we’re both divorcees now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Sure.
Sort of. Though mine is still out there lurking in the future, apparently.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
better have asked me to be your bridesmaid.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">A
plaintive meow had me turning my head. “There’s a cat sitting on my bedroom
windowsill staring at me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Little
pervert,” she joked. “Are you dressed?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“He’s
grey with pretty green eyes. I wonder who he belongs to,” I said as the animal
sat back and starting cleaning its belly. “Oh, he’s a she. Thanks for the view,
friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Probably
belongs to a neighbor,” she said. “What did you find in today’s boxes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Cleo
helped me unpack the first few weekends after I moved. We scrubbed and vacuumed
and sorted. With Mom in Michigan with her new husband, Dad having moved to head
office in Florida, and my brother in a state of woe over having been left out
of aunt Susan’s will, Cleo’s been a life saver. Now that I’m on my own, I’ve
been going through a box of Susan’s junk a day. Separating the important from
the trivial, from the puzzling. Making way for the future by clearing out the
past. That’s how I tried to look at it. The idea of this task had quietly
terrified me for years, but now that I’m neck deep in it, it’s been bigger than
I ever imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“The
one I opened had holiday and birthday cards from the eighties. A stack of
projector slides from the seventies documenting family holidays. A pair of
cracked white leather knee high disco boots, some cool and colorful plastic
bead necklaces, and the ashes of a dog named Rex.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Rest
in peace, Rex.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Amen.
I wish she was here to tell me the stories behind some of this stuff.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Mm.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“At
least now the main floor of the house is clear,” I said. “Anything that still
needs to be sorted has been put down in the basement. Though there is the
attic. I may just pretend it doesn’t exist.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
not a bad idea. We still on for lunch on Thursday?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Absolutely,”
I said. “How are the shots for the florist shop coming along?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Should
be finished with the final edits tomorrow. The client was happy,” she said.
“You know, maybe whoever left the fake certificate in the wall will come
forward. Point and laugh at you. That sort of thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“At
least then I’d know what was going on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
watched this court room TV drama one time where they had a forensic document
examiner,” she said. “They gave testimony about a birth certificate being
falsified. Maybe that’s the sort of person you need.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Maybe.
Or maybe one of the ghost-hunters from those TV shows.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Keep
me updated,” she said. “I love a good mystery.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: blue; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">To my
great disappointment, no one has come forward to claim responsibility. Though
it’s only been one day since we found it. And no more documents appeared while
Lars continued working yesterday. Which was probably for the best. Sandra
Bullock and Keanu Reeves might have been cool with sending messages through
time in that movie, The Lake House, but I found the experience to be less
romantic and more of a mind fuck.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
arrived bright and early the next day. He immediately got busy fixing the
warped window frame. The man said few words, but whenever our paths crossed he
gave me sideways glances. Super sketchy ones. And if he wanted to go back to
doubting me about the divorce certificate then there was no way I would be
making him coffee. We ignored each other until it was time for my lunch break.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Any
other contractor/handyman I could have largely ignored and left to their own
devices. But Lars existed in a gray zone. He sort of felt like a guest in my
house rather than a worker, but not really. It was complicated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
making lunch,” I said. “Would you like a sandwich?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Fine,”
I snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">You
don’t mess with a woman when she’s pre-menstrual and hungry. Everyone knows
that. Lars, unfortunately, was an idiot. Because he gave me another of those
dubious as all hell sideways glances. The bastard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
can’t believe we’re back to this again,” I said, hands on hips. “Do you have
something you’d like to say?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You’re
sure about that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
smoothed down the front of my black tank top, and straightened the waist of my
cropped jeans. The black polish on my toes shone bright, which did wonders for
my confidence and looked great with my strappy flat leather sandals. “Let me
guess, you went home last night and your little brain started working overtime.
<i>Where could the divorce certificate have
come from? I didn’t put it there. Susie was the only other person present. It
must be her. Burn the witch</i>!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He gave
me a dry look.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Well?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No one
knew I was going to be here,” he growled. “It’s the only thing that makes
sense.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Give
me strength. No-one, including me, knew you were going to be here. And this
leads you to believe I must have planted it. Where’s the logic in that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
like they say on that TV show. If you rule out the impossible, then whatever’s
left, however improbable, must be the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“If you
really believe that, then pack your things and get out,” I said. “Ask your
office to bill me for the work that’s been done. We’re through here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
froze. “Are you serious?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
bet your ass I am. I don’t need this tension in my life. In <i>my</i> home while I’m trying to work. If you
honestly believe I’m up to something, that I’m trying to mess with you, then
go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Today
he wore a faded Pearl Jam tee which was kind of the uniform in this town. And
he wore it well. “It’s like you said yesterday. Another builder might rip you
off. Not do the work right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
do you care?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">For a
long moment, he just looked at me. Then he sighed. “I always liked you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
didn’t know what to say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Not
like that.” He hung his head. “I just…this shit is wild. It makes no sense.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
agree. But how about instead of turning on each other, we do something
constructive?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Such
as?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
crossed my arm and leaned against the doorframe. “A friend gave me an idea
about how best to ascertain if the document is real.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It’s
not.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
shrugged. “Fine. So we send it to the forensic document examiner and rule out
the possibility.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“But
it’s not real. There’s no point.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do you
have any better ideas?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“No,”
he admitted, eventually.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
already called them and got a quote. I’m doing it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“All
right then.” His expression spoke clearly of the suffering he endured at the
hands of womankind. “Whatever you want, Susie.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Good
answer, Lars.” I gave him two thumbs up. “In the future, why don’t you just
lead with that?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">In
response, he cracked his neck. “I lied. I would like a sandwich.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Of
course you would.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: blue; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
are your plans for out here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">We sat
out back in the two old Adirondack chairs beneath the Japanese maple to eat
lunch. The area consisted of a patch of grass and a collection of bright
ceramic pots filled with various herbs, a tomato plant, green onions, beans,
and lettuce. I hadn’t managed to kill them yet. Fingers crossed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’d
love a small fire pit,” I said. “Make it a nice space to hang out at night.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
nodded. “What about the exterior?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It
definitely needs a fresh coat of paint. I was thinking some shade of blue. That
way if I do decide to sell, it has broad appeal.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Another
nod.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Don’t
look now, but we’re being stalked.” I nodded to the side of the house where the
gray cat sat watching us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Lars
smiled and took a bite of his sandwich. Roast beef, mustard, cheese, tomato,
and lettuce. Comfort food was the best. Then he tore off a bit of meat and
tossed it to the feline. I’ve never seen an animal move so fast. Or look so
happy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">The
messenger from the forensic document examiner had already picked up the
document. But it would be two weeks before her report on the divorce
certificate would be ready. A bummer since patience had never been my thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What’s
the plan for removing the wallpaper and carpet?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Mateo
and Connor will be on site tomorrow to help with those jobs. This afternoon I’m
going to measure some of the siding that needs to be replaced. Maybe take a
look at that front step that’s a little loose.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You’re
a useful man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">A
grunt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“So
what have you done with your life in the last six months?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“What
have I done?” He raised a brow. “Let me think…worked on this cool houseboat
that a friend bought. That was fun.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And
I’ve been doing some hiking.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“How
athletic of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Went
on a winery tour the other weekend. That was okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That
sounds like a date,” I said. “Who’d you go with?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Just a
friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“And
you’re such a friendly guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He
gripped the back of his neck. “I forgot how much you like to bust my ass.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Oh
now, don’t feel special. I do it to everyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I
don’t know. Seems like you were always pretty sweet to–”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Do <i>not</i> say his name.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">For a
moment, he said nothing. “What about you? What have you been up to?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“My
aunt passed soon after the last time I saw you. That was hard.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I’m
sorry,” he said in a low voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
nodded. There were a lot of things you could say about losing a loved one. But
there wasn’t a single word that would bring them back. “Work has been good.
Busy. This place has taken up most of my time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Must
be strange, dealing with all the debris from someone else’s life.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“It
is,” I agreed. “There’s a lot of history here. I’m the third generation of our
family to live in this house. No one but me is really interested in any of it.
Guess that makes it easier in some ways, deciding what to do with it all. What
to keep and what to rehome. But it’s sad too, you know?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">He just
watched me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Are
you close to your family?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">One
side of his mouth turned upward. “Yeah. I’m the oldest of three. My sister’s
married with two kids down in San Diego. I share a condo with my brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“You
live with your brother? I didn’t know that. Are you enjoying it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“I am.”
He gazed around the little yard. “We have a couple of investment properties
together. It’s all part of a business plan we’ve been working on for a while.
Eventually we’ll get sick of living in each other’s pockets. But for now
everything’s good.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“That’s
great. I’m glad.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Me
too.” Something started buzzing and he pulled out his phone. The expression
that crossed his face… I couldn’t read it. “Excuse me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">“Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">Then he
was up and out of his chair, walking away. “Hey, man. How’s London? What time is
it over there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">I
stared at him as he wandered around the side of the house out of listening
range. Not that I wanted to hear a damn word. Shame on me for relaxing for a
moment and forgetting. Lars and the Ex were tight and had been since he moved
in next door at the age of eight. No way could I ever trust someone who had
such appalling taste in besties. It was a fundamental flaw in his character.
There was no getting past it. Therefore there was nil chance I would ever marry
or divorce him. Guess Lars was right about getting the document examined, after
all. A total waste of time and money. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 116%; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.9pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 116%;">End of
story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal">Excerpted from End of Story
by Kylie Scott. Copyright © 2022 by Kylie Breakey. Published by arrangement
with Harlequin Books S.A.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<!--EndFragment--><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 250px;"><tbody><tr><td> </td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div></a></blockquote></center><div>My Thoughts </div><div>Lars and Susie have been friends through proximity. Due to her now defunct relationship with his best friend.</div><div>So when she needs work done on the house that she has inherited from her namesake aunt. She has no problem hiring him to do some much needed renovation. </div><div>No problem until...</div><div>The divorce decree...</div><div>With both their names and a future date...</div><div>In a wall...</div><div>And the adventure begins.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgZY1aJK8JKxfYU5i3_rORqtgb-jMkNWYXk4ZQvOyH8eJIDt3MEXJTNyfwA9bxVdrElDHGfo5q4UeJuqx6_ZlfmsiKNdvU6YMYTFK2wSnz5rZE71NQt6Ch2DSTsg27xNhVoHk2yQ2rOFv3zFGq-KWUMPVan8hrQUGY0-LqOVHvyrzfARmZtjSOUUN/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgZY1aJK8JKxfYU5i3_rORqtgb-jMkNWYXk4ZQvOyH8eJIDt3MEXJTNyfwA9bxVdrElDHGfo5q4UeJuqx6_ZlfmsiKNdvU6YMYTFK2wSnz5rZE71NQt6Ch2DSTsg27xNhVoHk2yQ2rOFv3zFGq-KWUMPVan8hrQUGY0-LqOVHvyrzfARmZtjSOUUN/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />This is one of the best sort of friends, to best friends, to forever. That this reviewer's had the pleasure of for quite some time. </div><div>Seeing these two navigate feelings, realizations, personal growth, friendships and family situations. Both alone and as a burgeoning couple. Is the sweetest of romantic treats. Decorated with the realism and humor that keeps pages turning and reader's emotions high.</div><div>Even as one wonders if the divorce decree is both real, and if it will be the true end for the couple that one comes to love.</div><div>Leaving one to wonder...</div><div>Would you still read the story if you thought you knew the ending?</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note </div><div>End Of Story is the first offering of a related series.</div><div>It may be read as a standalone. But reading it as part of its series is strongly recommended. </div><div>Thanks to Netgalley and Graydon House for providing the review copy upon which my honest review is based. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dgqGRhuOgS7B_HiuheU7DK61p14NyUdUZi-5Ua5lkwsmNS_CFChejjfGYTnbBa01iElzQ8wy8LR8IXoRjJkv58CGmycVpYkzLcf3G3ai9d6cjmDO55LGSzR32MBSjpP9cAnfpb1E2EK1ebX294s_GCGySOBRIwwlv792zoudp5FK9qfsd8AhzajE/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dgqGRhuOgS7B_HiuheU7DK61p14NyUdUZi-5Ua5lkwsmNS_CFChejjfGYTnbBa01iElzQ8wy8LR8IXoRjJkv58CGmycVpYkzLcf3G3ai9d6cjmDO55LGSzR32MBSjpP9cAnfpb1E2EK1ebX294s_GCGySOBRIwwlv792zoudp5FK9qfsd8AhzajE/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
About Kylie<div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxf4CJKg--anxhz-XmNJACCJaye5Qy32sgs98kKvtRqcfs7nOYLhNbctJwCP_NCQWPQDBK51iPMV_gOzhJL78dzjQXvGjiC5PsG6KN6ZNm0xged_Z1sTBu2HkbVj4h10wDSoqVy9sgGeuXgwwq7_VAgP5puVqJ8NKnH0U7vo-ozcSEl4qsXjwvt96m/s6020/Kylie%20Scott%20Author%20Photo_Credit%20Annie%20Ray.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4085" data-original-width="6020" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxf4CJKg--anxhz-XmNJACCJaye5Qy32sgs98kKvtRqcfs7nOYLhNbctJwCP_NCQWPQDBK51iPMV_gOzhJL78dzjQXvGjiC5PsG6KN6ZNm0xged_Z1sTBu2HkbVj4h10wDSoqVy9sgGeuXgwwq7_VAgP5puVqJ8NKnH0U7vo-ozcSEl4qsXjwvt96m/s320/Kylie%20Scott%20Author%20Photo_Credit%20Annie%20Ray.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>Buy Links:</div><div>BookShop.org</div><div>Harlequin</div><div>Barnes & Noble</div><div>Books A Million</div><div>Amazon</div><div>Social Links:</div><div>Author Website</div><div>Twitter</div><div>Facebook</div><div>Instagram</div><div>Goodreads</div><div><br /></div>Kylie Scott is the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and international</div><div>bestselling author of 19 novels including the Stage Dive series, the Dive Bar series, the</div><div>Larsen Brothers series, and West Hollywood series. Her most recent release, Pause,</div><div>debuted on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into fourteen</div><div>languages, and she has sold over 2 million copies worldwide.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbwjcdtXkI6NqtEyPQJiGquhQPptkLrXVG8jlM0Xn5-WkRf0sAk66pgEHJLEvoDMESqC6Vp2O9ECpyow3_ZkvYpWHTmC2NtYSmRcyihZZjLjPV-nrSbaNIoLE27J_bKv1XJzQSDQjRGZQeIdnBd9SaC1PzwodDxFIAZNWwJwAzZ_x4fYXRiFyJ1bO/s1600/673-HTP-Banner---ROM-COM-for-Google-Form.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="1600" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbwjcdtXkI6NqtEyPQJiGquhQPptkLrXVG8jlM0Xn5-WkRf0sAk66pgEHJLEvoDMESqC6Vp2O9ECpyow3_ZkvYpWHTmC2NtYSmRcyihZZjLjPV-nrSbaNIoLE27J_bKv1XJzQSDQjRGZQeIdnBd9SaC1PzwodDxFIAZNWwJwAzZ_x4fYXRiFyJ1bO/s320/673-HTP-Banner---ROM-COM-for-Google-Form.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-11396737207207911582023-01-24T14:17:00.000-05:002023-01-24T14:17:07.989-05:00"Recovery Road" Serves As The Glue That Holds The Series Together
<div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 4%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><p style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col); text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdYux_lfHeTueWsD0Ty4WvGjgFKB09Ar5b8hp9OcxvekrJJ6yAsiU3hhOSGd42YaVMdqCXA1G4QTyec8JQMu3-kG-k_uCLUBL68N5XsxkHfcf-kb9oRjg5u88HUx-80oIkYJuANNPksCQ6AJpVSpUEUSxBMhjl6eOCtylNcSSnxyHJbMN8vA6LWTf/s1346/61033975.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1346" data-original-width="824" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdYux_lfHeTueWsD0Ty4WvGjgFKB09Ar5b8hp9OcxvekrJJ6yAsiU3hhOSGd42YaVMdqCXA1G4QTyec8JQMu3-kG-k_uCLUBL68N5XsxkHfcf-kb9oRjg5u88HUx-80oIkYJuANNPksCQ6AJpVSpUEUSxBMhjl6eOCtylNcSSnxyHJbMN8vA6LWTf/s320/61033975.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Title: Recovery Road</b></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Author: Christine Feehan </span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Length: 410 pages</span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Publisher: Berkley </span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rating: 3.5 Stars</span></div></span></div><p></p><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">broken man finds a woman worth living</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> for in the new novel in #1 </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">New York Times</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">bestselling author Christine Feehan’s Torpedo Inkmotorcycle club series.</span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kir “Master” Vasiliev doesn’t care whether he lives or dies. He’s a burnt-out shell with no one and nothing but his club. Whatever Torpedo Ink needs, Master will put himself in harm’s way time after time. If he doesn’t make it back, he’s certain everyone will move on just fine.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Investment banker Ambrielle Moore knows her own mind, and she’s not willing to settle for anyone. So when a second-rate gangster and his thugs try to coerce her into marriage—and giving up all of her family’s money—she’s having none of it. Until they turn to cold-blooded murder.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Grieving and enraged, Ambrie is ready to go scorched earth on her captors when Master shows up anticipating a damsel in distress. But Ambrie is nothing like he expected, and everything he never knew he desired....</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /></span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Please enjoy this excerpt from <br /></span></span><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Recovery Road</i> </span></span></div></div></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"></div>
<center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a>
</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline !important; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">Everyone had a breaking point. Everyone. Kir “Master”Vasiliev was well aware he had been past that point when he agreed to take the assignment. He never should have done it. Burning out when behind bars with no backup was a bad idea, especially if he didn’t give a fuck whether he lived or died—which he didn’t. The only reason he didn’t kill the two guards and the four prisoners right then and there was because he had a job to do, and he never let a job go unfinished. That was drilled into him. His club, Torpedo Ink, needed the intelligence, and he had been given the assignment to get the information and then kill the four men who had threatened their president and his family. That meant the two dirty guards who were involved with them had to die as well. The eighteen charter members of Torpedo Ink had grown up together in a place loosely called a “school”in Russia. Their parents had been murdered by a powerful man named Kostya Sorbacov. He took the children of his political enemies and placed them in one of four schools supposedly to become assets for their country. That was true of three of the four schools, although all of them were brutal. The fourth school was located far from the city where the criminally insane prisoners—the ones the government refused to acknowledge existed—were housed. Pedophiles. Rapists. Serial killers. These were men and women Sorbacov utilized as the instructors for the children in the fourth school. Supposedly the children were to become assassins—assets for their country. What they really were, were playthings—toys for Sorbacov and his friends. Over twenty years, two hundred eighty-nine children entered that school. Only nineteen survived. Destroyer, the nineteenth survivor, had recently found his way to them and joined Torpedo Ink. Like Master, Destroyer knew his way around prisons, but Master had been trained to take these missions from a young age, and Torpedo Ink relied on him. Of all the members, he was the only one with a record in their new country. They all had impeccable paperwork, thanks to Code. Even Master’s prison records were mostly manufactured. Still, the fact that he was officially dirty, when the rest of his club was officially clean, set him apart. Only Destroyer would understand that concept. Torpedo Ink now spent a good deal of their time hunting pedophiles and those running human trafficking rings. None of them could ever live normal lives after what had been done to them as children, teens and young men and women. To survive, they had turned their bodies into weapons and developed what others might refer to as psychic talents. Czar had explained that he believed everyone had talents, they just didn’t have to use them so they never worked at making them strong. The members of Torpedo Ink had started as young children to practice in those long, endless days and nights in the basement of their hideous torture school. Master was positive the cameras in the laundry room where the guards had brought him had been turned off. After all, the guards wouldn’t want it to be caught on film if the four prisoners about to beat the shit out of him accidentally killed him. Still, that didn’t stop him from making certain the cameras weren’t working. He wasn’t about to take any chances. He never did. That was what kept him from ever getting caught. Master had been sure to offend these specific prisoners several times in the yard that afternoon, even after he’d been warned. He’d done it out of anyone’s hearing so that when the prisoners and the guards were found dead in the morning, and he was back in his cell, no one would think to connect him with the bodies. That was always key in this kind of mission. As the primary assassin, you were never caught with the target, not by anyone. There was nothing to connect you to the death. If you had to draw attention to yourself to get put into solitary, you picked a fight with some other prisoner, not the target. It had taken time and expert maneuvering to get locked up near these four men so they would share the same yard and floor. Torpedo Ink had to be certain the intelligence was right about them. Once they’d locked onto them, Master had been put in place. Then it was a matter of finding out who was aiding them—passing on messages to them and allowing them out into the world when they were needed. Master knew every classic way to hide an assassination team. Master had been placed in several prisons, hidden there, to be used when Sorbacov deemed it necessary. These four men were protected in that prison. They came and went, and they had special perks. Women were brought to them when they asked for them. They had whatever kinds of meals they wanted. Cush rooms. Master recognized it all, because he’d lived that life from the time he was a teen and could pass for an adult. It was a shit life to live. He spent a lot of time fighting, killing, getting beat by guards, pacing in small cages, trying to stay sane. Master stood against the wall, where the guards had thrown him. Just waiting. This was such a common scenario. He couldn’t count the times he’d been in it, the new prisoner, stupid enough to cross those older ones who ran the prison and bribed the guards. It was always the laundry room or some smaller, concrete room with a hose to wash down the blood. Sometimes there were small windows where guards watched and bet on the action. He knew this wasn’t going to be one of those times because it was probable the intention was to kill him. As if he gave a fuck. He didn’t. And that was bad. For him. For them. Mostly for them. The guards hadn’t bothered with cuffs. Why would they? Four big Russians were about to beat the fuck out of him for his “indiscretion.”The guards locked the laundry room doors and sat back to watch the show. They parked themselves on the long table that prisoners used to fold the laundry, grinning from ear to ear. This certainly wasn’t the first time they’d brought someone for the four Russian assassins to teach a lesson to. “He’s a big fucker, Boris,”Shorty, one of the guards, said. “Strong as an ox.”Boris didn’t bother to answer the guard or even look at him. “You got something to say to me now, freak?”he hissed. Master raised an eyebrow. Answering in Russian, he called him several names, including degenerate, a brainless, obnoxious pig who could only hang with monkeys. He indicated the other three men with him. He was fluent in several languages, but like Boris and the other four prisoners, he was born and raised in Russia. He might look all brawn, but he had a brain. He was born with the odd talent of seeing in numbers. He could compute numbers almost faster than any computer. His brain just worked out any problem and spit out the answer. He had instincts for investments, and when Code, their resident genius hacker stole money from criminals, he knew how to utilize that money to the fullest. As treasurer of the club, he oversaw the money and made the investments. He also played several instruments, and his main job was construction. He had an affinity for wood. Now, looking passively at Boris, he taunted him in a bored voice, getting creative with his insults, because he was a creative kind of man. Boris roared and came at Master, his arms spread wide. Master stayed with his back against the wall, on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, and as the other man came in, he snapped out his hand like a knife, driving it straight into the exposed throat. Boris choked, coughed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he went down to his knees, both hands going up to wrap around his throat. Master followed up with a strike to the back of his skull, driving him hard toward the cement floor. Boris face-planted so hard the sound seemed to reverberate through the entire laundry room. “Damn!”Shorty laughed. “That was fast. Should have been taking bets on the new guy.”“Too late now,”Longfellow, the other guard, said mournfully. He moved a little closer to survey the damage Master had done to Boris. The Russian assassin was vomiting, but not lifting his head, so he was by turns choking and getting the mess all over his face. He lay gasping for breath, desperate to breathe around the endless retching. The three other Russians fanned out, coming at Master from three sides. They were silent as they tried to surround him, their faces the masks they’d learned from their teachers in the schools they’d attended, but they couldn’t hide the fury—or slight trepidation—in their eyes. In their experience, no one had ever bested Boris in the prison. Most likely they had never dealt with anyone as fast or as calm as Master. Master didn’t move, keeping the wall at his back and Boris on his left. That meant he only had to deal with two of them immediately and the guards. The third had to get around the body of his fallen friend before he could actually be of some help to his friends. Kir “Master”Vasiliev had been in this scenario too many times. He knew their moves before they made them. They might be faster than any who had come before, but Sorbacov’s sick trainers had forced him to learn these tactics in very brutal ways. That fourth school, the one he’d attended, had been right there with its own prison on the grounds. The instructors had plenty of opportunities to teach a young boy how the prison system worked. How corrupt the guards could be. How complicit. How the inmates could be beaten, raped or killed by other stronger, more powerful prisoners in just such setups as this one. He’d learned all of the various setups because he’d lived through them all. His training hadn’t been simulated. Unlike other children who had been sent into the prison to be “trained,”he hadn’t died. He’d survived. He’d become a warped, scarred, dead soul of a man with a hefty criminal record. He was the only member of Torpedo Ink that still had that record, and it was ongoing. Absinthe could get rid of the charges eventually, but they were still out there, looking as if he had been freed on technicalities. He waited, knowing what was coming, and there it was, without warning: the familiar adrenaline rushing through his veins like a drug. The need for violence. The only time he felt alive. He wasn’t like Reaper and Savage, or even Maestro. He didn’t need or want to take an opponent apart. That wasn’t his thing and never would be. No, he needed the actual war, the fight, the pounding of fists, the slash of the knife, the precise blow of the foot sending so much power and energy through a human body that the shock shattered internal organs. He had spent a good portion of his life behind the walls of some kind of prison. That had been his specialty, what Sorbacov had him trained for. He was the chameleon, able to, even as a teen, get into the right block, assassinate the right prisoner and never have an ounce of suspicion directed his way. In order to gain those skills and accomplish the mission, again and again, he’d been beaten and raped repeatedly from the time he was a toddler. He’d learned to kill. To make weapons out of nothing. To make himself into a weapon. </div></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">My Thoughts </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">There are peaks and valleys in the storylines of the best series.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">As such...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">It seems that Christine Feehan's <i>Torpedo Ink</i> saga has come to one such valley. In the form of its eighth offering <i>Recovery Road</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The story of </span><span style="font-size: 17px;">Kir Vasiliev, aka Master, and Ambrielle Moore.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">She's an investment banker. Just living her best life. Until the day when she finds herself kidnapped and forced to marry into the criminal underworld. As her parents are murdered in front of her.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-CZ2S8EQA1mfsn9zRUvzIRbppI_GYA1HNWm8z_BzLMXmPVYiHe5a4aNAHXvTV8WO-lYhQ4EypHN_xVgXWyepyaqU13VnqE_a69q_KP3r79i1bNUdUK2APcSlWd9KGkZlTdRbqGBK-irp3Ufnggi3PoFhuWzwlYqB0iwJW3B-FCW5eXbiirb9TmQ3/s320/3%20Stars.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-CZ2S8EQA1mfsn9zRUvzIRbppI_GYA1HNWm8z_BzLMXmPVYiHe5a4aNAHXvTV8WO-lYhQ4EypHN_xVgXWyepyaqU13VnqE_a69q_KP3r79i1bNUdUK2APcSlWd9KGkZlTdRbqGBK-irp3Ufnggi3PoFhuWzwlYqB0iwJW3B-FCW5eXbiirb9TmQ3/s1600/3%20Stars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Master...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Torpedo Ink's Treasurer and Prision Assassination Specialist. Has always been a man sentenced to live life as a criminal, a prisoner..</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Until he marries the woman that can set more than just his heart free.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Book eight spends more rehashing the tortured pasts of its members than other books. Simply because the antagonist is a blast from club president, Czar's past. Who is now out to dismantle his future. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The heat romatic/heat level of this book would be considered a "slow burn". In relation to Ms. Feehan's other books in the same series. Though it must be acknowledged that the emotional intensity shared between the couple more than compensates for the shortfall in sexual creativity.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book really allows Ambrielle to save the day in some really unexpected and heartwarming ways. Without infringement upon Master's 'tarnished white knight' status.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">As he works to facilitate his lady love's revenge upon the men who killed her parents.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span><span style="font-size: 17px;">For the most part...<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book seems to serve more as a link in the series continuity chain. Than a story that really adds something truly new and different to the series.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 17px;">But that in no way means that it is no less worth the read.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;">Reviewer's Note </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;"><i>Recovery Road</i> is the 8th book in a continuing and interrelated series. It may be read as a standalone or as part of its intended series. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Thanks to Netgalley and Berkley Books for providing the review copy upon which this honest review is based.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J84NTi9yGcmdFH2Z_CgJ5YrNcSx2D4ncy0KRzm1koNrQPpfseyU6AhiuIN3Nw0ONdk56nvJt0rPoDvRHHXn_YsAqlahNEcLbYxrs9WqzG5V4yHMrcAvjyanAJYKh0DNAQzkKYf4E0dPIsNqTl0mgBAZ_ZkOrGCEQAaVgc2maWza7-2zu_JTjoumV/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J84NTi9yGcmdFH2Z_CgJ5YrNcSx2D4ncy0KRzm1koNrQPpfseyU6AhiuIN3Nw0ONdk56nvJt0rPoDvRHHXn_YsAqlahNEcLbYxrs9WqzG5V4yHMrcAvjyanAJYKh0DNAQzkKYf4E0dPIsNqTl0mgBAZ_ZkOrGCEQAaVgc2maWza7-2zu_JTjoumV/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span><br /><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230124_124425_784.sdocx--></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">About Christine </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MeY0DDkQNuqMI84FcS9gZFeVkbdKB7RywmbGaa84VwVDU_idNNOJDdzHSHbN1Sk_NwhtNraewwi2jLySNjvxd-V2BxTdEDHgyHF1LvHw8hyxqr8JLOiVyhhkJlm0P5StOMX1tBJ11DYpRjJPwnOWChtvp_vIf7Q0QOWmdkiegv4gCzrj-GnsPj4Q/s108/6268._UX87_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="108" data-original-width="87" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MeY0DDkQNuqMI84FcS9gZFeVkbdKB7RywmbGaa84VwVDU_idNNOJDdzHSHbN1Sk_NwhtNraewwi2jLySNjvxd-V2BxTdEDHgyHF1LvHw8hyxqr8JLOiVyhhkJlm0P5StOMX1tBJ11DYpRjJPwnOWChtvp_vIf7Q0QOWmdkiegv4gCzrj-GnsPj4Q/s1600/6268._UX87_.jpg" width="87" /></a></div><br />Christine Feehan is a #1 New York Times bestselling author multiple times over with her portfolio including over 90 published novels, including five series; Dark Series, GhostWalker Series, Leopard Series, Drake Sisters Series, the Sisters of the Heart Series, Shadow Riders and Torpedo Ink. All of her series have hit the #1 spot on the New York Times bestselling list as well. Her debut novel Dark Prince received 3 of the 9 Paranormal Excellence Awards in Romantic Literature (PEARL) in 1999. Since then she has been published by various publishing houses including Leisure Books, Pocket Books, and currently is writing for Berkley/Jove. She also has earned 7 more PEARL awards since Dark Prince.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Her series include:<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The Dark Series - <a href="https://www.christinefeehan.com/darkbooks/index.php" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.christinefeehan.com/darkb...</a><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The GhostWalker series- <a href="https://www.christinefeehan.com/ghostwalker/index.php" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.christinefeehan.com/ghost...</a><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The Leopard Series - <a href="https://www.christinefeehan.com/leopard/index.php" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.christinefeehan.com/leopa...</a><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The Shadow Series- <a href="https://www.christinefeehan.com/shadowseries/index.php" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.christinefeehan.com/shado...</a><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Torpedo Ink series- <a href="https://www.christinefeehan.com/torpedoink/index.php" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.christinefeehan.com/torpe...</a><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />IN HER WORDS:<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I've been a writer all of my life -- it is who I am. I write for myself and always have. The ability to create pictures and emotions with words is such a miracle to me. I read everything; I mean everything! All kinds of books, even encyclopedias. I am fascinated by the written word and I love storytellers. It is a great privilege to be counted one myself. (<a href="http://www.christinefeehan.com/" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">www.christinefeehan.com</a>) </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here...</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Recovery-Road-Torpedo-Ink-Book-ebook/dp/B09Z67YLL3?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1674579083&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=fa4f27b81bba62677dded5e9f921a27a&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09Z67YLL3&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09Z67YLL3" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-81645845321966644292023-01-17T10:06:00.000-05:002023-01-17T10:06:22.661-05:00"A Love By Design" Is The Perfect Fit For The "Fight For Your Rights" Romantic<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ora8bnDTttG5lZXeQaPxQFCiWrm-la9YUojhotp8WQipJscFjecQGXCmlXHarhvDUWohN0hrafVUzb5e5JGEslHHCbP--zX2LncdVq7wEanTp-4ZgMHtMggLr9O7hFmenwDouFaoner8skZnuwGwBL_G8IDjDRMIy0dEZLD_Dd2ndUQWLWrtoI5j/s2560/57334447.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1707" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ora8bnDTttG5lZXeQaPxQFCiWrm-la9YUojhotp8WQipJscFjecQGXCmlXHarhvDUWohN0hrafVUzb5e5JGEslHHCbP--zX2LncdVq7wEanTp-4ZgMHtMggLr9O7hFmenwDouFaoner8skZnuwGwBL_G8IDjDRMIy0dEZLD_Dd2ndUQWLWrtoI5j/s320/57334447.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />Title: A Love By Design <div>Series: The Secret Scientists Of London #3</div><div>Author: Elizabeth Everett </div><div>Length: 336 pages</div><div>Format: ERC</div><div>Publisher: Berkley Books </div><div>Rating: 4 Stars</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">You couldn't design a better hero than the very eligible and extremely charming Earl Grantham. Unless, of course, you are Margaret Gault, who wants nothing to do with the man who broke her youthful heart.</b><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Widowed and determined, Margaret Gault has returned to Athena's Retreat and the welcoming arms of her fellow secret scientists with an ambitious plan in mind: to establish England's first woman-owned engineering firm. But from the moment she sets foot in London her plans are threatened by greedy investors and--at <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">literally </i>every turn--the irritatingly attractive Earl Grantham, a man she can never forgive.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />George Willis, the Earl Grantham, is thrilled that the woman he has loved since childhood has returned to London. Not as thrilling, however, is her decision to undertake an engineering commission from his political archnemesis. When Margaret's future and Grantham's parliamentary reforms come into conflict, Grantham must use every ounce of charm he possesses--along with his stunning good looks and flawless physique, of course--to win Margaret over to his cause.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Facing obstacles seemingly too large to dismantle, will Grantham and Margaret remain forever disconnected or can they find a way to bridge their differences, rekindle the passion of their youth, and construct a love built to last?</span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Please enjoy this excerpt from</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A Love By Design</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>by</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Elizabeth Everett </i></div>
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</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">GRASS THINNED BENEATH the willows, giving way to patches of cool, hard earth. The scent of wet stone itched the inside of Georgie’s nose as he made his way to the streambank. Black water rushed toward a distant outlet and giggled against the silent rocks. A rare contentment settled in his chest. Pushing aside the curtain of willow branches, Georgie paused. Below the chimes of the stream’s rapids came a low, snuffling noise. He knew that sound. Disappointment washed through him. Someone had breached his refuge and the excitement of the morning was lost now. For a moment, he considered finding another place downstream where he could be alone. When the sound came again, Georgie rolled his eyes up to heaven and shook himself all over, like a dog shaking off the wet, ridding himself of his frustration. Small for his eight years and good with neither letters nor numbers, yet already George Willis knew when a woman was crying, a man was generally the cause of it. Huddled in the nest of interlaced roots at the bottom of the tree, a scrawny lass in a sky blue frock lifted her head and peered at him. Her fiery red hair had been plaited and hung limply over one shoulder, crimson splotches around her eyes, nose, and mouth contrasting with the milky whiteness of her skin. “Hullo. Broken heart, izzit?”he asked, letting the branches fall behind him as he walked under the dome of the great willow. “A broken heart? Don’t be stupid,”the lass said with the ladle-like dip of a well-heeled accent. “Are you lost?”he asked. The girl couldn’t be from the village with that accent. Pulling a lace-trimmed handkerchief from a pocket in her pretty half apron, she blew her nose, honking like an angry goose. “No. I’m a guest at Grange Abbey.”Folding her handkerchief, she finally stared him straight on, scrutinizing him with a mixture of interest and distaste. Ah. That made sense. The stream lay on the border of the Viscount Grange’s vast estates. The viscount had four daughters—could have been five. They were loud and constantly moving so Georgie had a difficult time telling them apart except the oldest, Violet, who was his same age and obviously up to no good. He liked her. If this girl were a guest, why wasn’t she at the Abbey with the rest of the family? He’d glimpsed them playing pall-mall in the garden, the youngest girls lisping their displeasure at having to hit the balls with their mallets and not one another. Perhaps she was a poor relation like Mam had been before his father put a baby in her belly and had to marry her. Maybe she was like the girls in the stories Mam told him, the ones down on their luck until a handsome prince showed up to rescue them. That was ripper, then. He’d save her, wouldn’t he, then on to some fishing. “Hungry?”he asked. “I’ve some tommy I can share with you.”She turned her cherry red nose up at his overture, but Georgie didn’t take any offense. Instead, he clambered over to the pile of rocks where she sat and squatted, unwrapping the bundle the Abbey’s cook had given him. A gorgeous aroma of yeast and wheat had him near fainting with pleasure. He’d been at the estate asking for work. His father had been gone for months now and what coin his mam brought in with her lace could not keep them fed and clothed for much longer. Although his father disavowed them most times, Georgie’s mam swore they had been married before he was born. Most of the villagers didn’t believe her but they were kind to her just the same. Georgie tolerated her trying to raise him like a gentleman’s son, but his empty belly and threadbare clothes had finally convinced her to leave off with lessons and let him earn some coin on his own. With great reluctance, Georgie kept himself from yothering the rest of the bread. He would save it for supper and let Mam have the last of the stew. The gardener had given him a job starting tomorrow including a penny as footing. Georgie would be the man of the house from now on and his mam would never have to suffer his father’s wrath again. To distract himself from the gnawing in his belly, George inspected the lass more closely. Her frock was clean, and she wore real kidskin boots, but her collar needed mending, the boots were dirty, and a faded and frayed ribbon pulled back her hair. “Was Miss Grange cruel to you?”he guessed. “No.”The girl rested her chin on her knees. “Not Miss Grange. She’s not cruel, a’tall.”“Witch locked you in a tower and you’ve gone an’escaped?”he guessed. The lass snorted in derision. Hmmm. “Suffering a curse?”“Don’t be daft. I’m not cursed,”she exclaimed. “I’m not . . .”She swallowed, then fixed her gaze on the water. “I’m not anything special.”Georgie’s good humor deserted him as she curled into a secret. This was his private space she’d invaded for no good reason as far as he could see. He’d come here to celebrate his good fortune, to throw stones at things and avoid going home to his mam’s worried sighs and the slate board that mocked him with its unanswerable questions. No broken heart, money enough for sturdy shoes, and a belly so used to food, she could refuse a slice of delicious bread without a second thought. This lass didn’t need rescuing. He leapt to his feet, fists on hips, and scowled down at her. “If no one was cruel and you’re not lost, why don’t you go home and cry to your mam?”With a guttural roar, she rose to her feet. George had to tilt his head to see the top of her. Lawk, the lass was tall. “Why don’t you shut up?”Later, much later, he claimed the element of surprise sent him falling back onto the hard-packed earth when she punched him in his empty belly. The truth was this girl had the power to bring him to his knees with or without a blow. When he looked at her, she appeared almost ethereal, backlit by the prisms of sun that shone through the diamond-shaped spaces between the willow leaves. Georgie considered for a moment that she might be an escapee from an asylum like he heard tales of from Mrs. Morgan, the postmistress, who read aloud the stories from the broadsheets of London. “You din’t have to kill me,”he complained. “You’re not dead,”she retorted. Being a gentleman, born if not raised, he wasn’t allowed to punch her in return. He stood, brushed off his clothes, and slapped his threadbare cap against his knee, watching her all the time, ready for the next assault. Scowling at him, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot as if her show of ill temper would drive him away. This was his secret spot. He wouldn’t give up his refuge to an interloper, no matter how terrifying. She huffed, staring at the water as though the crisp patter of the stream was a confidence she’d been longing to hear. “I apologize,”she muttered. “I have a most unladylike temper.”As well as a most unladylike left hook. He left that part unsaid. Apologies could be more difficult to part with than coin. A linnet serenaded them from the other side of the stream and Georgie lifted his face to the early May sunshine. “Is your mam dead?”he asked. With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled her hands into fists and he braced for another attack. “No, but I wish she were,”the lass said boldly as if daring Georgie to condemn her. For wasn’t that the worst thing you could say? He came to stand next to her, pretending to stare at the water as well. The skirts of the willow behind them billowed protectively around their bodies as they stood in silent communion. “I wish my father were dead as well.”For the first time, he said aloud the words in his heart. The stream took their secrets on its way and the side of her arm brushed his shoulder. A skitter of odd sparks followed the touch. Open and closed, her fingers curled around invisible balls until she stooped and grabbed a handful of rocks. “Can you hit that tree over there?”she asked. Not looking at him, she held the rocks out in her open palm. An offering of solidarity. Surreptitiously rubbing the ache where she’d punched him, he took a rock. The linnet’s song and the plunk of stones falling into the water filled the silence between them that day as Georgie Willis fell irrevocably in love with Maggie Strong.</div></a></div>
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</div><div>My Thoughts </div><div>This third offering in the <i>Secret Scientists Of London</i> series.</div><div>Is, in a word...captivating. </div><div>Why?</div><div>Well.</div><div>There is the "lost love found" story of Gorgie and Maggie.</div><div>Who were as idealistic youths all set to run away together. She following him into his chosen career of military service. Or "following the drum," as a military wife. Until some harsh words and a fateful decision on his part changes the trajectory of both their lives forever. </div><div>Sending him into the service as planned. </div><div>But his lady love a world away to Paris, a marriage to another man, and a life as a respected engineer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfoYX01r7nBbZ0Z0TKHtJwUJqT0IuL4SS0OlGp4pJ9VDtcNILE88uIs9SYaduB9R8tI6xgizfDXSQe8vPxXExuwWITRbWYX0UYmNoye2JTEZzFp_vLRPvo5kPLjTucQkLLPGyJJiW2b5vGZGYf4a9NP9Uk2PqBArepHjK5n2Y97Uu7AVwB3w-eFb4/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfoYX01r7nBbZ0Z0TKHtJwUJqT0IuL4SS0OlGp4pJ9VDtcNILE88uIs9SYaduB9R8tI6xgizfDXSQe8vPxXExuwWITRbWYX0UYmNoye2JTEZzFp_vLRPvo5kPLjTucQkLLPGyJJiW2b5vGZGYf4a9NP9Uk2PqBArepHjK5n2Y97Uu7AVwB3w-eFb4/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>But now it seems that things have changed for these two most star-crossed of lovers.</div><div>As he is now Earl of Grantham.</div><div>And she is now the widow Gault. </div><div>Back in London determined to build her own engineering firm, and rebuild her life.</div><div>But it seems that the male dominated work place and society are a lot less ready for a woman engineer than she is to take both by storm.</div><div>But her completion of a secret and very daunting project could change everything. Or be the key to her forever ruination. </div><div>It's a good thing that she can rely on George and all the memories and longings that he inspires to destruction her when the going gets misogynistic.</div><div>Ahem...</div><div>Needless to say, this book will set any blue-stocking, feminist, woman forward reader's heart pitter pattering.</div><div>If for no other reason than the way that the social constraints and obstacles make the romance.</div><div>With George's dogged support being the cornerstone of Margaret's success. </div><div>And her achievements being the one thing assured to heal his heart.</div><div>Swoon...</div><div>This is a bit of a slow burn writing wise. But the story does find its feet quite well by the third chapter.</div><div>The romantic heat is a moderate one. Playing nicely with social commentary and character conflict. For a very mature and well rounded read on the whole. </div><div>It must be said that at the time of this review. I have not had the pleasure of reading the previous two books in the series. So all opinions are based solely on this story. </div><div><br /></div><div>Working girls, reclaimed hearts, social change and romance.</div><div>Signed sealed and delivered with unmistakable flair and panache. </div><div>Yes please. </div><div><i>A Love By Design</i> is and will always be the perfect fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note:</div><div>This review is based on a copy of the above referenced work provided by Netgalley and Berkley. </div><div>All opinions expressed are my own.</div><div><br /></div><div>About Elizabeth </div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKhsJUHVKwWLrpkjAtOODnjAW4Lw-00-gVyGk7uU3pR3R_WE_l2D1gvQXglN3I8SRQPNGt7KrHOH0fH5UmGQAGNCdQxE0-h6aZ-_KSwOymaLX-JDA3upXI6SqRCObKYJwPbahww1afJRJoVLiCb6kX-ggDbGME6sAs-m9qV7dmzkJZlGPYsErJegj/s109/20443364._UX87_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="87" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKhsJUHVKwWLrpkjAtOODnjAW4Lw-00-gVyGk7uU3pR3R_WE_l2D1gvQXglN3I8SRQPNGt7KrHOH0fH5UmGQAGNCdQxE0-h6aZ-_KSwOymaLX-JDA3upXI6SqRCObKYJwPbahww1afJRJoVLiCb6kX-ggDbGME6sAs-m9qV7dmzkJZlGPYsErJegj/s1600/20443364._UX87_.jpg" width="87" /></a></div><br />Elizabeth Everett lives in upstate New York with her family. She likes going for long walks or (very) short runs to nearby sites that figure prominently in the history of civil rights and women's suffrage.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Her Secret Scientists of London series is inspired by her admiration for rule breakers and belief in the power of love to change the world.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Head over to Elizabeth's website and <a href="http://eepurl.com/hdKjBf" rel="nofollow noopener" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;">subscribe</a> to The Rule Breaker's Report for the latest news on The Secret Scientists of London series, exclusive excerpts from Elizabeth's books, giveaways, and much more!<a class="jsHide hideAction" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20443364.Elizabeth_Everett#" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;"> </a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZxzkNNb6r-vpU5QLDz4JIQBjqJMnZCiKdq77646VdG9ICTNql2h1a1YCh4N5C-sNsoVsBm17j4ASYnTloECyMeMVwBnXLB4weTA7M7XTla9yObRX4EObK2wxliUwHRMuSEUSOUpyLLBGzvD57W_cYukvhQdpW2nOqRFF3vYu5JAu2McIwGzrLme4/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZxzkNNb6r-vpU5QLDz4JIQBjqJMnZCiKdq77646VdG9ICTNql2h1a1YCh4N5C-sNsoVsBm17j4ASYnTloECyMeMVwBnXLB4weTA7M7XTla9yObRX4EObK2wxliUwHRMuSEUSOUpyLLBGzvD57W_cYukvhQdpW2nOqRFF3vYu5JAu2McIwGzrLme4/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here:</div><div><br /></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Love-Design-Secret-Scientists-London-ebook/dp/B09Y54ZDQM?crid=16G7GJS2B73LB&keywords=a+love+by+design+elizabeth+everett&qid=1673967357&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIxLjM4IiwicXNhIjoiMS4yMSIsInFzcCI6IjEuMjIifQ%3D%3D&sprefix=A+Love+By+Desi%2Caps%2C480&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=bdb5df671793e1b24476fc3974d70101&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09Y54ZDQM&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09Y54ZDQM" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-26043173535859542842023-01-04T12:38:00.001-05:002023-01-06T16:21:16.853-05:00"Back In A Spell" Weaves A Romantic Enchantment That One Never Wants To Leave...<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb56qYBKbf0YU4zg6EgWZg8xLGfAGpvHSCJSCvZXvRj9VSUENH3Xqs7LpxhqGWzdMkuCECc0Xjh6simG3e3lSbfQqkrziMThI53EiKPtbIMbjq6YzPNIiBVIkN_P_zRCWEsm1DPR7IXdLTGozmrgxDkLO5IJyby0E6bb8_YrAbitOsldjVQn0HFYzA/s112/60846802._UX75_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="112" data-original-width="75" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb56qYBKbf0YU4zg6EgWZg8xLGfAGpvHSCJSCvZXvRj9VSUENH3Xqs7LpxhqGWzdMkuCECc0Xjh6simG3e3lSbfQqkrziMThI53EiKPtbIMbjq6YzPNIiBVIkN_P_zRCWEsm1DPR7IXdLTGozmrgxDkLO5IJyby0E6bb8_YrAbitOsldjVQn0HFYzA/w268-h400/60846802._UX75_.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>Title: Back In A Spell</b></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">Series: Witches Of Whistle Grove #3</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">Author: Lana Harper</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">Format: ERC</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">Length: 336 </b></span><b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">pages</b></div><div><b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">Publisher: Berkley</b></div><div><b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">Rating: 4.5 Stars</b></div><div><b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;"><br /></b></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box;">An awkward first date leads to a sparkling romance between one of the most powerful witches in town and a magical newbie in this rom-com by Lana Harper, <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">New York Times</i> bestselling author of <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Payback’s a Witch</i>.</b><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Even though she won’t deny her love for pretty (and pricey) things, Nineve Blackmoore is almost painfully down-to-earth and sensible by Blackmoore standards. But after a year of nursing a broken heart inflicted by the fiancée who all but ditched her at the altar, the powerful witch is sick of feeling low and is ready to try something drastically different: a dating app.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />At her best friend’s urging, Nina goes on a date with Morty Gutierrez, the nonbinary, offbeat soul of spontaneity and co-owner of the Shamrock Cauldron. Their date goes about as well as can be expected of most online dates—awkward and terrible. To make matters worse, once Morty discovers Nina’s last name, he’s far from a fan; it turns out that the Blackmoores have been bullishly trying to buy the Shamrock out from under Morty and his family.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />But when Morty begins developing magical powers—something that usually only happens to committed romantic partners once they officially join a founding family—at the same time that Nina’s own magic surges beyond her control, Nina must manage Morty’s rude awakening to the hidden magical world, uncover its cause, and face the intensity of their own burgeoning connection. But what happens when that connection is tied to Nina’s power surge, a power she’s finding nearly as addictive as Morty’s presence in her life?<a class="jsHide hideAction" href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60846802-back-in-a-spell#" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;"> </a></span><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Back In A Spell</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">by</div><div style="text-align: center;">Lana Harper</div>
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<div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">Let It Snow I’VE NEVER BEEN what one might call a winter person. Witches are supposed to feel naturally aligned with the Wheel of the Year, receptive to the charms of every season—and nowhere is that easier than in Thistle Grove, where every type of weather is utterly and gorgeously flamboyant, the most extravagant cosplay version of what it might look like anywhere else. In theory, I could appreciate the extremeness of its contrasts; all that diamond-faceted white, blazing against the blue of windswept skies and the stark black silhouette of Hallows Hill. I could even get behind winter chic, when it came to sleek après-ski wear. And then there was Yule, with its fragrant wreaths and crackling logs and sea of candlelight. Arguably the most luminous and magical of the solstices. But in practice? Winter is horribly inelegant and messy, almost impossible to calibrate. One too many layers leaves you sticky and sweltering, while one too few lets the chill creep into your bones. Your hair turns into kindling, or poufs into a staticky halo immune even to glamour spells. You can’t even run properly in winter, unless you’re a die-hard marathoner with no self-preservation instincts left intact. All around cruel and unusual. At least we rarely suffered more than two months or so of such yearly punishment in Thistle Grove. But this year, strangely, winter seemed to suit me. This year, I found every fresh snowfall soothing, almost meditative. There was one raging right now beyond the frost-rimed window of the Silver Cherry, where I was grin-and-bearing my way through a jewelry-making class; a feathery whirlwind, like being inside a shaken snow globe filled with drifting down. It felt hypnotic, a chaotic escapade of white that made it hard to hold on to any single thought for long. Which, these days, was more than fine by me. These days, my thoughts and I didn’t tend to be on the best of terms. “Sweetheart,”Jessa said, in that delicate tone she’d taken to using on me, like one harsh note might topple me over, damage me in some irreparable way. She didn’t have to be quite that careful with me, but I loved that she wanted to be. “You’re doing your depressed mime face again.”The words themselves didn’t tend to match up with the spun-sugar tone all that often, because she was still Jessa, and I loved her for that, too. “What?”I mumbled, finally tearing my eyes from the window. “My . . . what?”“You know.”She rearranged her adorable, ringlet-framed features into a truly dismal expression, drooping puppy-dog eyes and a dramatically downturned mouth like a melancholy bass. “Like you’re about to perish of chronic woe. Or possibly planning to re-create that scene from The Giver, where the kid and his little brother escape into the snow to die with their emotions.”“It’s been a while since middle school English class, but even so, I’m fairly sure that wasn’t supposed to be the takeaway,”I told her with a snort. “And hard pass on that cold demise. If I absolutely have to die somewhere with my emotions, I’d rather go all nice and toasty.”Dragging my attention back to my little work tray, strewn with a glittery mishmash of wire and beads, I saw that I’d been halfheartedly tooling around with making earrings before the blizzard got the best of me. Once upon a time, I’d have crafted something gorgeous given an opportunity like this, painstakingly applied myself until I had it just right. Too bad “once upon a time”felt like several eons and an infinity of wrong turns ago. “Burn you at stake, then, noted,”Jessa quipped—though of course, thoroughly normie as she was, my best friend had no idea how close to home that hit. As far as I knew, Jessa had never once seriously considered the notion that our charming postcard of a town really was settled by witches, exactly like Thistle Grove legend would have you believe. To her, I was just Nina. Best friend and partner in crime from our shared law school days, now in-house counsel to my family’s extensive business interests. Not Nineve Cliodhna of House Blackmoore, second in line to the most powerful witch dynasty in Thistle Grove. “Don’t worry, buddy,”I assured her. “I do still have considerable will to live. Just not, like, enough zest to care about these earrings, apparently.”Jessa pooched out her lower lip, abandoning the complicated (and suspiciously BDSM-looking) beaded choker she’d been working on. “But that’s the point,”she insisted, smooth brow wrinkling with concern. “That’s what these classes are for, Nina. We’re supposed to be nurturing our creative selves, meeting new people, rediscovering your zest. Unearthing it.”She looked so crestfallen that for the barest moment, I entertained the idea of assembling the pitiful bead hodgepodge into something pretty with a simple transmutation spell of the pumpkin-into-carriage variety, but even more basic. The raw materials were already right in front of me, half-threaded. I could have done it with just a few words, using a single, purely distilled thought as a vehicle of my will. But that wouldn’t have been honest or fair, which was part of the reason I never did magic in front of my best friend. For the safety and the continuing preservation of our town, as per the Grimoire—the spellbook that also held sway over the conduct and governance of Thistle Grove’s witch community—only long-term, witchbound partners were permitted access to that secret. And for all that I adored Jessa to pieces, our friendship wasn’t the kind of love the founders had had in mind when deciding who should be privy to our magic. Letting the oblivion glamour cast over the town take hold of her, erasing her memory of whatever spell I’d worked, would have felt . . . traitorous. A little gross, even. And it would have been a cop-out at best. Jessa was the kind of delightful whirlwind of a person who effortlessly transformed strangers into friends—or short-lived partners, as the case may be—wherever she went, and I knew she’d been hoping a little of that joie de vivre might rub off on me. Tonight’s jewelry-making class was the fourth hopeful outing of its kind, following a disastrous wine-and-paint night (during which I’d gotten the not-artistically-conducive kind of wasted), an equally catastrophic pottery class that had reminded me of Sydney’s love of ceremonial teacups and sent me spinning into a meltdown, and a flower-arranging class that had only managed to unearth memories of the ivory-and-rose-gold palette I’d chosen for the flowers at my own wedding. A wedding that was never going to happen, much like the perfect life with Sydney that had been meant to materialize thereafter. A life that now seemed not just fictional, but so fantastically unbelievable that I, a flesh-and-blood descendant of the sorceress Morgan le Fay, couldn’t conceive of it as a reality. “You’re talking about me like I’m some archeological dig, Jess, and we’re troweling for ancient potsherds of joy. What if there’s no zest to unearth? What if I’m just a barren wasteland?”I dropped my chin, the familiar, hateful well of tears pressing against my eyes. I was so damn sick of crying at the slightest provocation, like some weepy damsel stuck in a mire of never-ending distress, but I’d apparently won the sob lottery. Team #Leaky4Life over here. “Permanently broken?”“Everyone’s fixable, sweetheart,”Jessa assured me, slipping a soft arm around my shoulders and tilting her temple against mine. She favored those subtle skin-musk perfumes that you couldn’t detect on yourself—the kind I’d never go for, because what was the point if you couldn’t catch indulgent whiffs of it throughout the day?—but that made her smell gorgeous, a vanilla-cedar scent that hit somewhere between gourmand and woody. Being hugged by her felt like free aromatherapy. “Even that guy you dated, with the towering manbun?”I asked, a little damply. “You say that like there’s only been one . . . which, would that were the truth.”“The one who drank so much bulletproof coffee it was like he was speaking in fast-forward all the time,”I clarified. “And did biceps curls while taking dumps.”“Fuck no, not him.”She shuddered delicately against me, sticking out her tongue—which was pierced, something no other estate lawyer I knew could ever have gotten away with. Apparently a deceptively angelic face like Jessa’s covered a multitude of sins, even when it came to the most uptight of clients. “Everyone but Chasen, then.”“Of course that was his name. And what about dictators? Or sex cult leaders? Or serial killers?”“Now you’re just being difficult. Allow me to rephrase, counselor.”She shifted sideways against me, just enough to boop me on the nose. “You are fixable, sweetheart. Eminently so.”“Then why can’t I get into even this, the most emotionally undemanding of activities?”I asked her, that relentless ache lurching in my chest again. A panging disorientation that felt almost like homesickness, as my gaze skimmed over the dozen or so other people happily crafting beneath the cherry cutouts dangling from the ceiling, the recessed lighting spilling over them in a mellow glow. Mostly clusters of women around Jessa’s and my age, along with a few mothers with their tweens in tow. Even the solitary goth enby with the pentagram neck tattoo—likely a tourist drawn to the Silver Cherry by its affiliation with Lark Thorn, who was not only teaching this class but also sold her line of enchanted jewelry here—looked to be having a more exuberant experience with this mortal coil than I was. “What kind of mess can’t focus on stringing beads together? Or letting loose on a pottery wheel?”I swiped at my eyes, trying in vain to keep from smearing my eyeliner. “It’s been a whole year, Jess. How long is this emotional fugue state even supposed to last?”My voice rose enough that on the other side of the room, Lark Thorn abruptly straightened from where she’d been instructing one of the tweens. She turned just enough to flick a concerned glance at me over her shoulder, deep brown skin glowing against the vivid turquoise of her scoop-neck sweater, her dark eyes liquid with sympathy. The Thorns were empathically attuned to each other’s feelings, and acutely sensitive to others’emotional landscapes, too. Though I doubted Lark even needed their particular brand of ESP to detect the seismic rumble of my distress. The Nina I used to be had been unshakably sure of herself, vacuum-sealed into her composure. But these days, the old me felt like a fossil, a crumbling memory. These days, I was more of a tempest in a teacup. A flailing, distractible tempest that just could not seem to get it the hell together. I twitched my lips into an “everything’s just peachy over here”smile, wincing inwardly as she gave me a lingering look before turning away. I wouldn’t have agreed to come here tonight at all, had I remembered Lark’s connection to the studio. Given how the Blackmoores’standing in this town had declined since the debacle of last year’s Gauntlet of the Grove—not to mention the fact that my little brother, Gawain, had briefly come under suspicion when one of the Avramovs’dearly departed ancestors cursed the Thorns this past Beltane—the last thing I needed to be doing was signaling weakness in front of a member of one of the other families. The thought spurred me into taking a breath, stiffening my spine a little, and leaning away from Jessa as if she wasn’t, in fact, my load-bearing support column. Trying to act as though I at least remembered who I was supposed to be. “I don’t think heartbreak’s an exact science, sweetie. Though I will concur that maybe we’ve been going about this the wrong way,”Jess concluded thoughtfully, nibbling on her lip. “You</div></a></blockquote></center>
<span style="font-size: 17px;">My Thoughts</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Nineve Blackmore is the sensible one. Buttoned up...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Dependable...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Pearls and sweater sets classic...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">And...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Ready for love?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Ìt seems so.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">After a year of recovering from the broken heart that her ex-fiancèe, Sydney, left behind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">It seems that her bestie (non magical...btw.) Is determined to find the perfect mate to free her most buttoned up buddy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Enter one Morty Gutierrez. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Decidedly non magical. At least in the spells and charms sense of the word.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">But that does little to stop this beautiful, non binary person being absolutely "magically delicious" in every other respect. </span>
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5z2wu6Lgn4pNDrJq5lrG2Rk62gzhdYotenx-fYv5b-xdd-gRlf6YHy4hA6Sgd6acgFN9YO973uJblU39u-i5eP2rpTK71hZ297lQ84qOf9OmhJYRFaCAgM2Qt_JqJNDE8ZPenTlx3GMeeIR7rm-A8SI0eBJhicpFyoDXVjh0SEsqjhMl2g1411QTT/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5z2wu6Lgn4pNDrJq5lrG2Rk62gzhdYotenx-fYv5b-xdd-gRlf6YHy4hA6Sgd6acgFN9YO973uJblU39u-i5eP2rpTK71hZ297lQ84qOf9OmhJYRFaCAgM2Qt_JqJNDE8ZPenTlx3GMeeIR7rm-A8SI0eBJhicpFyoDXVjh0SEsqjhMl2g1411QTT/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Back In A Spell</i> is the third offering in the <i>Witches Of Thistle Grove </i>series. And shows readers a softer and more emotional side of magic.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Most of which is brought to the fore by Morty.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">But things really get interesting when the previously 'normie' Morty, is getting more magical. The closer he/they get to their lady love.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book is a wonderful addition to the WOTG stable.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">The sensitivity, humor, romance, and magic; make the hours spent reading pass faster then one can say ABBRACADABBRA.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">In short...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">This book is wonderful!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Now...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 17px;">Where's the next one? Lol!</span><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Reviewer's Caveat</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">There has been much unnecessary ado about the use of Morty's pronouns within the scope of his and Nineve's relationship. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">To this, as a card carrying member of the rainbow squad.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">I say PLEASE STOP!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">He said that his pronouns were he / they. Giving her a CHOICE of which to use.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">If you would rather sit and debate proper pronoun usage in fiction. Rather than enjoy a great story. Knock yourself out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">I'm sure Merriem Webster would be proud.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">As for the rest of us...</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">We'll be reading and loving the book.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Reviewer's Note</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">The opinions expressed in this critique are those of WTF Are You Reading?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">And have not been influenced by Berkley or any third-party.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;">Many thanks to Berkley and Netgalley for providing the review copy on which said review is based.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 17px;"><i>Back In A Spell</i> can be read alone. But is best enjoyed as part of its intended series.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEv6H9dwFCk3ALr6-UIXZW6gRsHrheCh80V4tB9XkbMcdP0JYomFqIhW_N0wWiPe3ouB5CsfpSCzg6zTVTe0dXTfX0uddR8CBw9fZ1vkhI-TAkAw5dnR8_lXmdaHdNFh-iFR8DS92u7uwClnSrTIEhWeABQ98QIzfrK3VZ5f5g-HcoHIVCqwV8z0q/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEv6H9dwFCk3ALr6-UIXZW6gRsHrheCh80V4tB9XkbMcdP0JYomFqIhW_N0wWiPe3ouB5CsfpSCzg6zTVTe0dXTfX0uddR8CBw9fZ1vkhI-TAkAw5dnR8_lXmdaHdNFh-iFR8DS92u7uwClnSrTIEhWeABQ98QIzfrK3VZ5f5g-HcoHIVCqwV8z0q/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br />About Lana</span></div><div><div class="row sqs-row" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_79" style="background-color: #fcfcfc; color: #030303; margin-left: -17px; margin-right: -17px; width: auto;"><div class="col sqs-col-6 span-6" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_78" style="float: none; width: auto;"><div class="row sqs-row" style="margin-top: 0px; width: auto;"><div class="col sqs-col-5 span-5" style="float: none; padding-right: 0px; width: auto;"><div class="sqs-block html-block sqs-block-html" data-block-type="2" id="block-yui_3_17_2_3_1463619400182_6441" style="clear: none; height: auto; padding: 17px; position: relative;"><div class="sqs-block-content" style="outline: none;"><p style="line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lana is the <em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">New York Times</em> bestselling author of <a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/paybacks-a-witch-1" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Payback's A Witch</em></a> and the forthcoming From <a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/from-bad-to-cursed" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Bad to Cursed</em></a><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;"> </em>from Berkley Books. Writing as Lana Popovic, she is also the author of YA novels <a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/wicked-like-a-wildfire" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Wicked Like a Wildfire</em></a>, <a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/fierce-life-a-firestorm" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Fierce Like a Firestorm</em></a><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">, </em><a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/blood-countess" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Blood Countess</em></a>, and <a href="https://www.lanapopovicbooks.com/poison-priestess" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-left-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-right-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); border-top-color: rgba(17, 17, 17, 0.2); color: #111111; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;"><em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Poison Priestess</em></a>. Lana studied psychology and literature at Yale University, law at Boston University, and is a graduate of the Emerson College publishing and writing master's program. She was born in Serbia and lived in Bulgaria, Hungary, and Romania before moving to the United States, where she now lives in Chicago with her family.</span></p></div></div></div></div></div><div class="col sqs-col-6 span-6" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_99" style="float: none; padding-right: 0px; width: auto;"><div class="sqs-block image-block sqs-block-image sqs-text-ready" data-block-type="5" id="block-yui_3_17_2_1_1641717146359_6978" style="clear: both; height: auto; padding: 0px 17px; position: relative;"><div class="sqs-block-content" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_98"><div class="image-block-outer-wrapper layout-caption-below design-layout-inline combination-animation-none individual-animation-none individual-text-animation-none sqs-narrow-width" data-test="image-block-inline-outer-wrapper" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_97"><figure class="sqs-block-image-figure intrinsic" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_96" style="margin: auto; max-width: 3225px;"><div class="image-block-wrapper" data-animation-role="image" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_95" style="line-height: 0; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-align: center;"><div class="sqs-image-shape-container-element has-aspect-ratio" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_94" style="overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 292.583px; position: relative;"><img alt="" class="thumb-image loaded" data-image-dimensions="3225x2743" data-image-focal-point="0.5,0.5" data-image-id="61da9dfd0eceaa077fc1a0c7" data-image-resolution="750w" data-image="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/570bc7d41bbee072080827ef/b24dbf4e-a6fb-47b8-8020-725419ff29ce/about+image.png" data-load="false" data-src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/570bc7d41bbee072080827ef/b24dbf4e-a6fb-47b8-8020-725419ff29ce/about+image.png" data-type="image" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/570bc7d41bbee072080827ef/b24dbf4e-a6fb-47b8-8020-725419ff29ce/about+image.png?format=750w" style="border: 0px; display: block; height: 292.583px; left: -0.241667px; max-width: none; opacity: 1; position: absolute; top: 0px; transition: opacity 0.3s ease-out 0s; vertical-align: middle; width: 344.483px;" /></div></div></figure></div></div></div></div></div><div class="row sqs-row" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_121" style="background-color: #fcfcfc; color: #030303; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 22px; margin-left: -17px; margin-right: -17px; margin-top: 0px; width: auto;"><div class="col sqs-col-3 span-3" style="float: none; width: auto;"></div><div class="col sqs-col-9 span-9" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_120" style="float: none; padding-right: 0px; width: auto;"><div class="row sqs-row" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_119" style="width: auto;"><div class="col sqs-col-6 span-6" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_118" style="float: none; width: auto;"><div class="sqs-block image-block sqs-block-image sqs-text-ready" data-block-type="5" id="block-yui_3_17_2_1_1641717146359_12461" style="clear: both; height: auto; padding: 17px; position: relative;"><div class="sqs-block-content" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_117"><div class="image-block-outer-wrapper layout-caption-below design-layout-inline combination-animation-none individual-animation-none individual-text-animation-none sqs-narrow-width" data-test="image-block-inline-outer-wrapper" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_116"><figure class="sqs-block-image-figure intrinsic" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_115" style="margin: auto; max-width: 2315px;"><div class="image-block-wrapper" data-animation-role="image" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_114" style="line-height: 0; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-align: center;"><div class="sqs-image-shape-container-element has-aspect-ratio" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1672852271109_113" style="overflow: hidden; padding-bottom: 145.917px; position: relative;"></div></div></figure></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230104_112624_816.sdocx--></div></div></div></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-7627286303935217182023-01-04T10:28:00.006-05:002023-01-04T10:28:36.796-05:00"Token" Offers Readers So Much More Than A Flash In The Pan When It Comes To Romance<span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmp16rHyY6Y4pFSnvQlZaSSJKunkaKmBbQBlYPxsJi7SmDVUHb-IrOS7IFvPaI-ojqcqD4BGzxbjtBhfgdIEbxkBPS-NfScPRmnLON7juxI3uvrzAvsUJTXUygupLxjpkV7v7G9HRBpgh8ooB3ynt36CxxO6rGOftncjs8clIFVcUi1aE8HpNZ6Cp/s400/61155411.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmp16rHyY6Y4pFSnvQlZaSSJKunkaKmBbQBlYPxsJi7SmDVUHb-IrOS7IFvPaI-ojqcqD4BGzxbjtBhfgdIEbxkBPS-NfScPRmnLON7juxI3uvrzAvsUJTXUygupLxjpkV7v7G9HRBpgh8ooB3ynt36CxxO6rGOftncjs8clIFVcUi1aE8HpNZ6Cp/s320/61155411.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>Title: Token</strong></span><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Author: Beverley Kendall</strong></span></div><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Format: ERC</strong></span></div><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Length: 368 pages</strong></span></div><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Publisher: Grayson House</strong></span></div><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Rating: 4 Stars</strong></span></div><div><span><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br />She’s brilliant, beautiful…and tired of being the only Black woman in the room.</strong><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Two years ago, Kennedy Mitchell was plucked from the reception desk and placed in the corporate boardroom in the name of diversity. Rather than play along, she and her best friend founded Token, a boutique PR agency that helps “diversity-challenged” companies and celebrities. With corporate America diversifying workplaces and famous people getting into reputation-damaging controversies, Token is in high demand.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Kennedy quickly discovers there’s a lot of on-the-job learning and some messes are not so easily fixed. When Kennedy’s ex shows up needing help repairing his company’s reputation, things get even more complicated. She knows his character is being wrongly maligned, but she’s reluctant to get involved—professionally <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">and </span>emotionally. But soon, she finds herself drawn into a PR scandal of her own</span><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif">.</span><a class="jsHide hideAction" href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61155411-token?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=c6VDSOYrWM&rank=3#" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: border-box; color: #00635d; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none;"> </a><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Token</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">by</div><div style="text-align: center;">Beverley Kendall</div>
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<td>Looking for a job sucked. Getting laid off sucked even more. Three weeks ago, Kennedy Mitchell found herself in both unenviable positions. While searching for a new job in her field of expertise—marketing and five solid years of it—she’d accepted a fourweek receptionist position to tide her over. Hey, student loans didn’t pay off themselves and they couldn’t care less about your employment status. But, as grateful as she was to have money coming in, she hated the part of the job that had her slapping herself awake every five minutes. That also sucked. It would be one thing if the place were a bevy of human activity (she generally liked people and they tended to like her back). Nope, that wasn’t even close to what she was dealing with. Per the visitor log, a grand total of six had passed through the first-f loor lobby of ECO Apparel in the two weeks she’d been there. Three on one day alone. And during the hours when the employees were upstairs ensconced at their desks, the place resembled a ghost town. Seriously, she wouldn’t be surprised to see tumbleweed roll past the reception desk one fine windy day. Although, for a ghost town, the lobby was sleekly modern, all sharp angles, and glass and chrome. Glancing down at her cell phone, Kennedy released a longsuffering sigh. How was it possible that only three minutes and not an hour had passed since her last five-minute checkin? This was usually when she prayed for one of two things: the power to control time, or another job. Since the chances of either happening within the next seventy-two hours were zero to none, she grudgingly resigned herself to her fate and tapped the keyboard, bringing the sleeping monitor back to life, and the email from an interested recruiter back into view. Seven hours to go, and the jury was still out on whether she would make it until noon—much less to the end of the day. The ding of the elevator broke the lonely silence and was soon followed by the click of heels on the faux marble f loors. Twisting in her seat, Kennedy spotted Nadine from Administrative Services striding purposely toward her, folder and purse in hand. She hastily closed out of her email and treated the brunette to a bright smile. “Hey, Nadine, is it break time already?”The pretty admin assistant usually came to relieve her for a midmorning break at ten. Currently, it was an hour shy of that, and taking a break right now would upset the monotony of her day. How would she cope with the upheaval? “Mr. Mullins wants to see you in his office, and I’ll be filling in for you for the rest of the day,”her co-worker announced abruptly. Kennedy stiffened and her eyebrows rose at the hint of annoyance and resentment threading Nadine’s tone. Well good morning to you too. What the hell happened to the pleasant, chatty girl of not even twenty-four hours ago? And why on earth did the director of Human Resources want to see her in his office? Especially as she, like Nadine, reported to the manager of Administrative Services. Then Nadine’s folder landed with a splat on the desk near the monitor. Kennedy’s gaze f lew to hers and she found herself on the receiving end of a very pointed come on, get a move on, girlie. There’s only one chair and you’re sitting in it look. That was enough to galvanize Kennedy into action even as her jaw ticked and she prayed for calm. She hurriedly collected her purse from the bottom drawer before surrendering her seat to her visibly impatient co-worker. As if it’s my fault she’s getting stuck down here answering the phone. Despite Kennedy’s own growing annoyance, she paused and turned before leaving, her shoulders squared, and chin lifted. “Any idea why Mr. Mullins wants to see me?”Her voice was stiff but scrupulously polite. Since her interaction with him was limited to a brief walkby wave on her first day during a tour of the offices, she was at a loss. Nadine gave a bored shrug. “I hear no evil and speak no evil. They tell me nothing. I just go where I’m told to go, and do the work they pay me to do, if you know what I mean.”Kennedy’s heart instantly softened, and she excused Nadine’s uncustomary churlishness for what appeared to be the frustration that came with being the Jane-of-all-menial-work of the company. “Believe me, I know exactly what you mean.”They shared a commiserative what we women have to put up with look before Kennedy took the elevator up to the eighth f loor. Honestly, the drawbacks of possessing a vagina were sometimes too much. Giving birth was only one of them. Or so she’d been told. Her turn in the stirrups hadn’t come yet, but she assumed one day it would, and it wouldn’t be pretty. The company directory alone pointed to an obvious gender bias. Not one woman held an executive, director, or seniorlevel management position. Not. One. And it had been eight years since the previously all-male clothier had ventured into female clothing. One would think that one woman would have made it to the ranks of at least a senior manager position by now. What were they waiting for, a march on Washington? But wait, if she didn’t think it could get worse, it did. Kennedy had yet to see one Black face of any hue in the parade of employees who walked by her every day—that is, unless she looked in a mirror, and her hue skewed to the lighter shade of that spectrum. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the reasons she’d been picked to grace the reception desk. In the twenty-first century, one would think that impossible. Especially in the city that didn’t sleep, and could be touted as America’s United Nations, every race, ethnicity, language, and sexual orientation duly represented on the postage-stamp island. Be that as it may, Kennedy knew better than most that the city tended more toward separate individual dishes—separate being the operative word—rather than one big old melting pot. Once off the elevator, she detoured to the bathroom where she freshened her lipstick, powdered the shine off her forehead, and gave her long, thick, brown curls a few twists. With her hair and face in order, she ran a critical eye over her outfit, a purchase of pure indulgence. Although had she even the vaguest idea that she’d be unemployed a week after she bought it, she most assuredly would not have indulged. But the cream pencil skirt and the baby blue fitted shirt ensemble had called out to her. Buy me. I come in your size. Your body will thank you in the end. And Kennedy, self-proclaimed clotheshorse that she was, hadn’t been able to resist the Siren’s call. Okay, so maybe due to financial constraints she was more a clothes pony. After ensuring no visible panty lines ruined the overall effect of polished professionalism and stylishness, she proceeded to Mr. Mullins’s office. She found him at his desk, the door to his office wide open. Upon seeing her, a smile broke out across his face. “Ah, Miss Mitchell, come in.”Kennedy met him halfway, where they shook hands, and she offered a pleasant greeting. He then gestured toward the table and chairs at the other end of the room. “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”Average in height and build, hair graying and thinning at the crown, the man himself was as nondescript as middle-aged white men came. If his smile—wide and genuine—was any indication, she could relax, which she did one vertebra at a time. It didn’t look as if she was about to be let go early. Typically, people didn’t smile like that when they were about to deliver bad news. Unless, of course, they were psychopaths. No, they tended to furrow their brow, feigning concern and sympathy. Kennedy took a seat where instructed as Mr. Mullins swiped a sheaf of papers off his desk before joining her. She looked around for somewhere to put her purse that was not on the table or the f loor and found nothing suitable. In the end, she simply plopped it on her lap. Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, Mr. Mullins glanced down at the papers in front of him before directing his attention back to her. “So how are you settling in? Everyone treating you alright? No one bothering you I hope.”Yeah, nope! Absolutely not. No way was she falling into that trap. This was the kind of throwaway question people asked when they didn’t want or expect an honest answer. “No, everyone has been great.”She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that two of the managers had asked for her number and the head of IT asked her out for dinner. As someone personally opposed to mixing business with pleasure, and that included dating co-workers—been there, regretted that—invitations like that were shot down faster than a clay pigeon at a skeet shooting competition. “Good, good, good. Now, I’ve just been looking over your résumé—”he paused, glanced at it and then back at her over the rim of his glasses “—and by the looks of things—your previous experience and education—it’s apparent that you’re overqualified for the receptionist position. Any receptionist position for that matter.”For the measly sum of two hundred and fifty grand—the majority of which had been covered by scholarships or else she wouldn’t have been able to afford a school like Columbia—for both her undergraduate and graduate degrees, she sure hoped she was overqualified for the task of greeting visitors and forwarding calls. “Yes, but this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. The agency said it was a four-week assignment.”Mr. Mullins nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been told Nancy should be back in a few weeks.”He lowered her résumé, but still held it loosely between his fingers. “Does that mean you aren’t interested in a permanent, full-time position? I might have thought you’d prefer something in Marketing.”Kennedy watched as he turned the situation over in his mind. He seemed determined to solve the mystery of the overqualified temporary receptionist. But this wasn’t Agatha Christie–level stuff. No amateur sleuthing required. “I was laid off and this just sort of fell into my lap. The right job at the moment,”she stated simply. There were layoffs and then there were layoffs. Hers had been the latter as she’d been assured she’d keep her job after the merger. The following week, she’d walked into the offices of Kenners in the morning and was carting a box with every personal item she’d accumulated over the course of five years—including a dazzling pink slip—out the front door by the time the clock struck noon. Just like that, five years of job—no, financial security—ripped out from under her. And to add insult to injury, two weeks of severance was all she had to show for years spent busting her ass putting in fifty- and sixty-hour weeks. God how she hated them, pink slips, which shouldn’t be pink at all. They should be black like the hearts of the people who played favorites with other people’s livelihoods. “Completely understandable,”he replied, nodding. “Now, getting to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I assume you’ve heard of Sahara, right? She’s a singer. Won several Grammys. I believe she’s recently gotten into acting. Really a lovely young woman.”Had she ever heard of her? Almost everyone on planet Earth had heard of Sahara, and she wasn’t just some wannabe actress. Her first role garnered her an Oscar nod. Not too shabby for a small-town girl from New Jersey, who bore such a striking resemblance to Aaliyah, some people in your stuff here</td>
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My Thoughts <div>It's not easy being a big fish in a small pond.</div><div>Especially if you happen to be a big, black, and very female fish. In the very male and very white pond of corporate pr.</div><div>Just ask our heroine. One Kennedy Mitchell. Once doomed to languish amid the drudgery and doldrums of the corporate reception desk. Despite her Columbia degree. Killer business acumen and exceptional style.</div><div>Until the day that her bosses at a certain fashion giant; start looking to woo the likes of a certain entertainment powerhouse. And realise that they need just that splash of color that Kennedy can provide.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl1xe8gcVmjg-pDSFHime2wmAcxksW-4tfxA3cExJPPQxdbqi34W7NP3yo_86rrFi53WPGlpECNXeIlekTPlt34oS_ZH1spO7Jrv3wLyE-_nMI4ZMzzfe3mjxGkhk8cZgAYQ6I61ufdnO2-_v63fPksUFsEDQ8LeY1w_mbxiijtrCSQIub3iuHd8w/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl1xe8gcVmjg-pDSFHime2wmAcxksW-4tfxA3cExJPPQxdbqi34W7NP3yo_86rrFi53WPGlpECNXeIlekTPlt34oS_ZH1spO7Jrv3wLyE-_nMI4ZMzzfe3mjxGkhk8cZgAYQ6I61ufdnO2-_v63fPksUFsEDQ8LeY1w_mbxiijtrCSQIub3iuHd8w/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Now...</div><div>Let's flash forward a little shall we. Kennedy is doing well for herself as the Olivia Pope-esque "fixer" of racially tone deaf Corporate PR.</div><div>Blonde, mega-rich, bestie, Aurora in tow.</div><div>When a certain tech billionaire/ big brother to aforementioned bestie/ Kennedy's first. Shows up with all of his good looks, charm, and a PR nightmare that only his ex can fix.</div><div>If that is...</div><div>She is game to becoming his sort of not ex.</div><div>Hmmmmm...</div><div><br /></div><div>Well.</div><div>Let's see...</div><div>It appears that the time has come to get as they say "down to the brass tacks" of this review.</div><div>So here we go.</div><div>Is this a sweet, funny, poignant, and sometimes overly obvious "acknowledge the black woman struggle romance?</div><div>Yes.</div><div>Is it habitually readable?</div><div>Yes.</div><div>Is its inclusiveness charming without being overdone.</div><div>Yes.</div><div>Is it expertly written?</div><div>It is.</div><div>The character development and interplay is some of the best around.</div><div>And the emotional appeal is stellar.</div><div>The one thing that took away from some of the appeal.</div><div>The " only black face in the crowd" on repeat.</div><div>We get that.</div><div>Its a given...</div><div>Can we move on?</div><div>And I say this a a black woman.</div><div>It troubles me sometimes that in black writing the characters spend so much time being black. That readers are deprived of the experience of seeing them as anything else.</div><div>Same here...</div><div>Right down to the supposed tongue in cheek name of Kennedy's company.</div><div>Token.</div><div>Really!?</div><div>Oooooh kay!!!</div><div>But I digress.</div><div>All in all this is a good, sweet, and very readable romance. With a heart melting HEA.</div><div>So much more than its name implies...</div><div>Token is no proxy...</div><div>Literary or otherwise. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mgbQo_Hw_sOqRPzZASp_3WrK3rXw2ngdeAgVu5Ht0llnGwak11_PODqFcV5wTMygJu2m6x6e-A0Dop-cImPu7D2jnGSFx6g84GFy810JTyGoCG9zn2nEg6O1Zfn0VXisT_tkFQGV2KLAn9muPcHqXDvL3qegWr31f5GbTysSlRQuV62DOjYwCiM0/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mgbQo_Hw_sOqRPzZASp_3WrK3rXw2ngdeAgVu5Ht0llnGwak11_PODqFcV5wTMygJu2m6x6e-A0Dop-cImPu7D2jnGSFx6g84GFy810JTyGoCG9zn2nEg6O1Zfn0VXisT_tkFQGV2KLAn9muPcHqXDvL3qegWr31f5GbTysSlRQuV62DOjYwCiM0/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>About Beverley</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br class="clear" style="clear: both; color: #181818; display: block; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px;" /><span id="freeTextauthor3005897" style="color: #181818;"><a href="http://beverleykendall.com/" rel="nofollow noopener" style="color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><strong>Click here to sign up for my newsletter to receive news about future releases!</strong></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATQVrwmYHje2sX1ewOpwTZBuHFpp6_XWCPt35LvUKqu_NBPSF4RVavBWKMmJqpaXc9oLLdFTFopUnJ8bwSa0m3Ula1KuAENJ79el-SlzZQOHpUOhq4UnzHlZV4q46KNCTIIuexd5o6kfIE3wR4R9og9p7owXGm0VQSAGyJtlNCmKfomn5-kIBnnGk/s214/3005897.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="200" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATQVrwmYHje2sX1ewOpwTZBuHFpp6_XWCPt35LvUKqu_NBPSF4RVavBWKMmJqpaXc9oLLdFTFopUnJ8bwSa0m3Ula1KuAENJ79el-SlzZQOHpUOhq4UnzHlZV4q46KNCTIIuexd5o6kfIE3wR4R9og9p7owXGm0VQSAGyJtlNCmKfomn5-kIBnnGk/s1600/3005897.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Beverley Kendall has lived on two continents, in three countries, two provinces, and four states. She stopped her nomadic existence and settled in the southeast with her young son. All things artistic feed her creative passion, but none more than writing.<br /><br />Connect with me on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/beverleykendallauthor" rel="nofollow noopener" style="color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><strong>Facebook</strong></a><br />Communicate with me via <a href="mailto:beverley@beverleykendall.com" rel="nofollow noopener" style="color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;"><strong>beverley@beverleykendall.com</strong> </a></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here:</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Token-Novel-Beverley-Kendall-ebook/dp/B0B1JM2HDF?keywords=token+beverly+kendall&qid=1672845674&sr=8-2&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=beab22cd2ce3ad4f4e70a0673ae73a72&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0B1JM2HDF&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B0B1JM2HDF" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-31657223834005690892022-12-15T14:09:00.000-05:002022-12-15T14:09:00.126-05:00"Firting With Fifty" Offers Readers So Much More Than A Passing Fancy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEWIYld4yudc1FKAXSpg0CQcpnWAkZw3NLw7CKHAA1Pzw8xyh3vfvfK39VyN3OFZnar3uCt0Ea2ymOQthkHbVAwfItN5xZwm5bmvfMkbNk02xBXbRy94Lkm842pdquDWTiOyiv4NDYsvG6j2rTzVPAsO-2-bnvVAeHrt5EuEyK8Rsb75He109RDQN/s400/58936419.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="248" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEWIYld4yudc1FKAXSpg0CQcpnWAkZw3NLw7CKHAA1Pzw8xyh3vfvfK39VyN3OFZnar3uCt0Ea2ymOQthkHbVAwfItN5xZwm5bmvfMkbNk02xBXbRy94Lkm842pdquDWTiOyiv4NDYsvG6j2rTzVPAsO-2-bnvVAeHrt5EuEyK8Rsb75He109RDQN/s320/58936419.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><br />Title: Flirting With Fifty<div>Series: Modern Love #1</div><div>Author: Jane Porter</div><div>Format: ERC</div><div>Length: 336 pages</div><div>Publisher: Berkeley</div><div>Rating: 4.5 Stars</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">A sexy and sparkling later-in-life contemporary romance about a woman who leaps out of her comfort zone and takes a chance on love by <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">New York Times</i> bestselling author Jane Porter.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Paige Newsom is finally at a place in her life where she's comfortable. She loves her job as a college professor in Southern California, lives close enough to her mother to visit her regularly, and has three daughters who are flourishing in their own careers. Paige has no plans to upend her life again after her divorce eight years ago, but she's about to embark on a new adventure: co-teaching a course that includes a three-week international field study.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Paige can think of a dozen reasons why she shouldn't go, one being a dazzling Australian biologist who will be teaching alongside her. Professor Jack King is charismatic, a world traveler, and more like Indiana Jones than Indiana Jones, all of which unsettles Paige, who prides herself on being immune to any man's charms. As the two co-professors lead the rigorous program together, first on campus, then in beautiful Tanzania, Paige's biggest challenge will be working closely with Jack while resisting the undeniable chemistry she feels when she's with him.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please enjoy this excerpt from</div><div style="text-align: center;">Flirting With Fifty</div><div style="text-align: center;">by</div><div style="text-align: center;">Jane Porter</div><div><br />
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<td>IT WAS HOT. And Paige Newsome was angry. No, make that boiling, as she stared steadily at Dr. Zayed Nair, her department chair. She wasn’t going to have a tantrum. She wasn’t a little girl. At forty-nine, she was strong, disciplined, and professional to the core. But really. Seriously? Dr. Nair wanted her to teach another course now, two weeks before the semester started, a course where she’d team teach with a visiting instructor? “This is a lot to take in,”she said tightly, wishing Dr. Nair would just once, once, turn on his air conditioner when temperatures were in the nineties. His office felt like an oven, and normally she could just leave, but she couldn’t just leave now. Dr. Nair claimed he thought better when he was warm, but she felt as if she’d melt. Or explode. “I don’t know what to say.”Dr. Nair’s hands lifted, gestured broadly. “‘Yes’would be nice?”They both knew that wasn’t the answer she wanted to give. They both knew he’d promised not to put her in this position again, but here she was. Paige squared her shoulders, gave her right arm a faint shake, making the bangles on her wrist softly clink. “There’s really no one else who can do this?”“I’ve asked.”She could feel the scratchy weight of her ponytail against her neck and the bold cat eyeglasses she liked to wear slip down her nose. She wasn’t glowing, but sweating, and if she’d known this was why Dr. Nair wanted to meet with her, she would have just stayed home. “No grad students who could take it on?”“It’s not appropriate for a grad student. We need someone with experience, someone with an outstanding reputation. You have both.”“I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Nair, but how hard did you try to find a replacement before you decided on me?”“I put out a call via email to the entire department, there were no takers.”Paige had noticed that as well, but she hoped he’d done more than just send the one email. She hoped he’d actually reached out to individuals directly. “Am I the first one you approached?”“Esther suggested you.”“And here I thought Esther was my friend,”Paige muttered. Dr. Nair gave her a patient smile. “She is. That’s why she suggested you. You’ll be teaching with the legendary Professor King.”Paige pictured an elderly man leaning heavily on a cane. “What makes him legendary?”“He’s one of the most respected teaching scientists in the world.”“And he’s going to be teaching for Orange?”She couldn’t mask her incredulity. “It’s a huge win for us. We’ve got him for a year, and we want to take advantage of this opportunity. The alumni are thrilled. Dr. Keller is thrilled. Jack King’s a fantastic instructor—”“Jack King?”she interrupted, skin prickling. She’d known a Jack King, thirty odd years ago, and he wasn’t an elderly man leaning on a cane. He’d been a PhD candidate, participating in an international forum she’d attended in Paris. He’d also been sex on two legs. She was fairly certain they weren’t one and the same, but still. Paige hadn’t thought of him in years, and yet it was still so easy to picture him. Tall, broad shoulders, handsome. A great kisser. Adventurous in bed. Her cheeks heated at the last. “He’s one of the leading epidemiologists in the world, and he’s going to bring the college a lot of publicity. It’ll be good for Orange. Alumni are already writing checks.”Paige was still trying to figure out if the legendary Jack King was her Jack King—not that he was hers, that was stretching it. But she needed to know. Dr. Nair was still talking, hands gesturing broadly. “Private universities depend on donations, and thanks to Professor King, we will see some significant funding for the Veneman College of Science and Technology.”Paige couldn’t complain about that. The College of Science and Technology had been overlooked for years. It needed new technology, new laboratories, an upgrade to the building itself. “That’s a win then.”“It is.”Dr. Nair gave her a sympathetic look. “So, we’re all good? You’ll take Esther’s course?”“I still don’t know anything about it.”“You’ve taught statistics for years. It won’t be a problem for you. You’ll just be using a different book and syllabus.”“Which book?”Dr. Nair shuffled through papers on his desk before shaking his head. “I don’t have the details here. But Jack should be able to fill you in on everything. You’ll be meeting him tomorrow. He flies in tonight from Delhi.”“Delhi?”“He was speaking at a conference. He does that a lot.”“He won’t be too jet-lagged?”“Jack assured me he’ll be fine.”Jack King couldn’t be that elderly then. Not unless he was Superman. “Where will we be meeting?”“I’ll text you the time and place. I’m trying to find something convenient for everyone.”“You’ll attend?”Dr. Nair nodded. “I’m looking forward to meeting Jack. And so are the alumni. We’re hosting an event Friday night at President Keller’s house. Make sure to save the date. You’ll want to be there.”Paige stood, feeling more than a little queasy. “‘Want to be there’as in, it’s required to be there?”He smiled, as if she’d made a joke. “Everyone from the College is attending. It’s important we put on a good show.”As Paige left Dr. Nair’s office, she got a sympathetic look from his secretary, Andi McDermott. “Sorry,”Andi mouthed. Paige nodded grimly, grateful for Andi in a department dominated by men. “Did you know?”she asked, aware that Andi had been an ally ever since Paige joined the Orange faculty. “I tried to suggest a few others, but Dr. Nair was convinced you were the right one.”“Thank you for having my back.”“Always.”Paige continued down the hall to her office, a narrow shoebox of a space, but she loved the tall window that let in lots of light and gave her a view of the historic quad, surrounded by two- and three-story, white plaster buildings topped by handcrafted red tiles. Located ten minutes from the mission in San Juan Capistrano and twenty minutes from the ocean, Orange University had been founded in 1896 as a university for men but shifted in the early thirties to include women. Closing her door, she turned on the fan positioned on top of her filing cabinet and stood in front of the whirling blades, trying to cool down. She was hot and sticky and annoyed. As well as slightly panicked. Someone else should have been tapped to teach the course. Someone else should have stepped up to teach with the legend. This was the second time in less than two years she’d been squeezed into a last-minute assignment. The second time Dr. Nair was in a bind, with no other options. It seemed rather ludicrous that she was the only option he ever had. Or was she the only one he could count on to say yes? A light knock sounded on her door before it opened. Greg Hsu, an assistant professor in the Biological Science program, stuck his head around the door. “Hey,”he said. “Bad time?”“No,”Paige said, adjusting the fan so that it could better circulate the air. “Come in.”She gestured for him to take a seat across from her desk. Greg was one of her favorite people in the college. They’d both been hired the same year, although he was twenty years younger and ten times funnier. “You’re back,”she added. “I am.”“Did you have a good summer?”He dropped into the empty chair and folded his arms behind his head. “I did, but I’m exhausted. I think three kids is plenty. No more.”“I like my three,”she agreed, sitting on a corner of her desk. “You guys did that national park road trip, didn’t you? How did it go?”“Eight parks in four weeks. Four thousand, six hundred, twenty-nine miles.”“That’s a lot of driving.”“A lot of campgrounds. A lot of crying and fighting. A lot of dump stations. Glad to be home.”“I’d like to see the parks, but I’d do hotels, maybe those big lodges. Not a big fan of camping or cooking over an open fire.”“No open fires anymore, at least during summer.”“So how do you make s’mores?”“Over a propane grill.”“Not the same.”“Kids didn’t mind.”Greg leaned forward. “And congrats. I just heard the news.”Her stomach did a flip. She felt like throwing up. “Who told you?”“A school-wide email went out a moment ago.”Now she really felt like throwing up. “But I just left Dr. Nair’s office.”“I think everyone knew it was pretty much a slam dunk. Let’s face it, you make us look good. Smart, loyal, devoted to both students and faculty. You have an impeccable reputation.”“I sound like a well-trained Labrador.”He laughed. “And that’s why I like you so much. That very dry sense of humor.”“Not so dry. You just happen to get me.”“I do. You’re my favorite person in this department.”Greg looked hopeful. “When do you meet him?”“Tomorrow.”“Lucky dog—sorry, no pun intended.”She rolled her eyes. “None taken.”“You know, Jack King is one of the reasons I focused on ecology and epidemiology of infectious diseases.”“So, you know who he is?”“I do.”She was dying to ask the questions hovering on the tip of her tongue. How old is Jack King? Is he hot? Is he Australian? Instead she forced the questions back and managed a careless shrug. “Too bad you can’t teach the course with him.”“I don’t teach math, you do.”“Math is part of what you do.”“Yes, but this is an interdisciplinary course between the science and math departments. You represent math. Dr. King represents science. I’m not needed.”Greg’s watch buzzed, and he glanced down. “It’s the babysitter. Wife’s working. I better take this. But I’ll see you Friday night at President Keller’s?”“See you there.”Paige forced a smile, but the moment the door closed, she wanted to scream. There were thirteen math instructors. Thirteen who could have taught the course. And as much as she appreciated Greg’s vote of confidence, surely there was someone else on the faculty with a more stellar reputation? Until two hours ago Paige had been looking forward to the start of the Fall semester. This summer had been unusually quiet, and she was excited about classes resuming. It hadn’t been a typical summer. Summer was usually when she saw her girls, but this summer her daughters were busy with their own lives—working, traveling, auditioning—and instead of traveling to see them, Paige made frequent trips to Paso Robles to see her mom, as well as picking up tutoring jobs when she could. Paige wasn’t good at relaxing. Life was just easier when one was busy. But life wouldn’t be easier if she was team teaching with a man, much less one she’d slept with thirty years ago. It was just one night, a crazy, hormone-fueled hookup that shouldn’t have ever happened. She blamed Paris and the moonlight. Thank goodness she hadn’t gotten pregnant. She’d gone on to earn multiple degrees and have a real life—Her phone rang, interrupting the thought. Paige reached across her desk, checking the number. It was Nichole, her middle daughter, a chemical engineer working in Chicago. Paige popped in her earbuds and took the call. “This is a nice surprise,”she said, sitting down in her chair. Of her girls, Nichole was the most independent, and the one who reached out the least. “How are you?”“Not so good,”Nichole said flatly. “Andreas and I broke up.”“Oh, Nichole, no.”“We’ve been fighting a lot lately. I just got to the point I couldn’t take it anymore. </td>
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<div style="text-align: left;">My Thoughts</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Paige Newsome has it all. A great career as a professor at a college in SoCal. </div><div>A home that she adores.</div><div>Three grown daughters that she loves dearly. </div><div>Friends...</div><div>What more could a woman on the verge of the big 5-0 ask for?</div><div><br /></div><div>How about the chance to revisit feelings for the one who got away.</div><div>Or...more tongue point...</div><div>The one she ran away from.</div><div>After one passionate night in Paris. When she was 20 and he was 25.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjUhZCKoI9RiBmZpcrtXw33IePCf7oOKIHU-zgDynJQ8IdoBZyXjxCxzwsMPQIm88Ri7hEGUnZDW640t6u6tcpR8SqCPan8SwicFY07UR2rtjzWbqYyNurXQ6xFzrW_ZuBeFkLJjMl5dHS7XjHDWcQGxvCUy8oGTOq9qCoigqpYqVj9HoYlHS2BEQ/s320/4pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjUhZCKoI9RiBmZpcrtXw33IePCf7oOKIHU-zgDynJQ8IdoBZyXjxCxzwsMPQIm88Ri7hEGUnZDW640t6u6tcpR8SqCPan8SwicFY07UR2rtjzWbqYyNurXQ6xFzrW_ZuBeFkLJjMl5dHS7XjHDWcQGxvCUy8oGTOq9qCoigqpYqVj9HoYlHS2BEQ/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Call it fate, kismit, or some cruel cosmic joke.</div><div>But there seems to be no where for Paige to run. When her lost paramour, now a world renowned biologist, is slated to cost each with her for a semester.</div><div>Wait... what?</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep!</div><div>Jack King, hot Australian, world traveling conservationist...</div><div>Is...going...to...co-teach...for...a...semester...with...Paige!</div><div>How complicated could that possibly get?</div><div>Oh...the fun of reading to find out.</div><div><br /></div><div>This book is...</div><div>LIFE!</div><div>Really!</div><div>The scenario is one that is so relatable.</div><div>Especially for the intended audience; slated to leaf through these glorious pages.</div><div>Both Paige and Jack don't necessarily need each other.</div><div>Their livs are literally full to bursting. But seeing them come to the realization that they want each other. And that the spark that was ignited all those years ago. Has become a flame that each has carried for the other through time and circumstance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Juxtapose the romance of it all against Paige's daughter unexpectedly returning home.</div><div>A class trip to Tanzania.</div><div>And various surprises that won't be mentioned here.</div><div>And the question of whether not there can be a second chance for these two.</div><div>Becomes a heads or tails toss up between trust issues and the willingness to forgive.</div><div>The most impressive thing about this story however.</div><div>The story itself.</div><div>In a youth driven culture. It is so refreshing to see that fifty can be sexy, vital, and fulfilled.</div><div>With just the right amount of drama, of course.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65nt_KzqMDRRkLkTC8M-d371jGiFVAKW-bYx7HTwLEWGWFlDXSFnfMeectx9gu4pbO7ZURudzP5KEMxc8yvyeMCv0eITN1fg5BTnKRZMkkGibZ_vsa4U7IHO_xsgmUl_db-4VXOxLATDzo0aAtR5bREWFKQbMTuIe3qRTK3rG2XNwwGYm1wPila5u/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65nt_KzqMDRRkLkTC8M-d371jGiFVAKW-bYx7HTwLEWGWFlDXSFnfMeectx9gu4pbO7ZURudzP5KEMxc8yvyeMCv0eITN1fg5BTnKRZMkkGibZ_vsa4U7IHO_xsgmUl_db-4VXOxLATDzo0aAtR5bREWFKQbMTuIe3qRTK3rG2XNwwGYm1wPila5u/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br class="clear" style="clear: both; color: #181818; display: block; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 1px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px;" /><span id="freeTextauthor12693" style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q2a0ohm5zqKMN94YjJGRHDYyA_vHinvVp52KObeld01rd71TiyMGhEUSJMueetZWWiGntHiQ_ZO0IVL52K-2pK-4Rn6YDAwDYGy73foGcIqK4NVcfu3V97R74eV_S4Mn8tontqVKukYRg_SlIw0_Ph2osB-9gM6Kk1tMcbrlkaSyFGXfvksYktvl/s933/12693.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="636" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q2a0ohm5zqKMN94YjJGRHDYyA_vHinvVp52KObeld01rd71TiyMGhEUSJMueetZWWiGntHiQ_ZO0IVL52K-2pK-4Rn6YDAwDYGy73foGcIqK4NVcfu3V97R74eV_S4Mn8tontqVKukYRg_SlIw0_Ph2osB-9gM6Kk1tMcbrlkaSyFGXfvksYktvl/s320/12693.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">About Jane</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Born in Visalia, California, I'm a small town girl at heart. I love central California's golden foothills, oak trees, and the miles of farmland. In my mind, there's nothing sweeter in the world than the heady fragrance of orange blossoms on a sultry summer night.<br /><br />As a little girl I spent hours on my bed, staring out the window, dreaming of far off places, fearless knights, and happy-ever-after endings. In my imagination I was never the geeky bookworm with the thick coke-bottle glasses, but a princess, a magical fairy, a Joan-of-Arc crusader.<br /><br />My parents fed my imagination by taking our family to Europe for a year when I was thirteen. The year away changed me (I wasn't a geek for once!) and overseas I discovered a huge and wonderful world with different cultures and customs. I loved everything about Europe, but felt especially passionate about Italy and those gorgeous Italian men (no wonder my first very Presents hero was Italian).<br /><br />I confess, after that incredible year in Europe, the travel bug bit, and bit hard. I spent much of my high school and college years abroad, studying in South Africa, Japan and Ireland. South Africa remains a country of my heart, the people, the land and politics complex and heart-wrenching.<br /><br />After my years of traveling and studying I had to settle down and earn a living. With my Bachelors degree from UCLA in American Studies, a program that combines American literature and American history, I've worked in sales and marketing, as well as a director of a non-profit foundation. Later I earned my Masters in Writing from the University of San Francisco and taught jr. high and high school English.<br /><br />I now live in Seattle and Hawaii with my three sons. I never mind a rainy day, either, because that's when I sit at my desk and write stories about far-away places, fascinating people, and most importantly of all, love. I like a story with a happy ending. We all do.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book:</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Flirting-Fifty-Jane-Porter-ebook/dp/B09F5MZKYD?crid=15D91PXLEI9CG&keywords=flirting+with+fifty&qid=1669498846&s=digital-text&sprefix=Flirting+with+fi%2Cdigital-text%2C193&sr=1-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=09cd5b1907e45c1ca9abeb6bc61d6153&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09F5MZKYD&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09F5MZKYD" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-60934691734240031012022-12-08T13:57:00.003-05:002022-12-08T14:09:48.052-05:00"Her Lessons In Persuasion" Are Best Taught In Romance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsclopSqMSrBvusTKJNeNvG5O8mz-mzIpmzSRoSWiKZEJ0kQZEyujd0y86ii4RrwpypFZlWVIHf6RJfp16y8_ORZmU2DHTk4GHGwRJaWL8NyI2yQ9F-WkTvm56zlXOAmcSpyq4lLr8qmIcs59JOe1_IiXWcRQRWEq61eWErDi2NrN8OICZaRNpj9x/s1000/61062992.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsclopSqMSrBvusTKJNeNvG5O8mz-mzIpmzSRoSWiKZEJ0kQZEyujd0y86ii4RrwpypFZlWVIHf6RJfp16y8_ORZmU2DHTk4GHGwRJaWL8NyI2yQ9F-WkTvm56zlXOAmcSpyq4lLr8qmIcs59JOe1_IiXWcRQRWEq61eWErDi2NrN8OICZaRNpj9x/s320/61062992.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Title: Her Lessons In Persuasion</div><div style="text-align: center;">Series: School For Scoundrels #1</div><div style="text-align: center;">Author: Megan Frampton</div><div style="text-align: center;">Format: ERC</div><div style="text-align: center;">Length: 384 pages</div><div style="text-align: center;">Expected Publication Date: January 24, 2023</div><div style="text-align: center;">Publisher: Avon</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Rating: 5 Stars</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Megan Frampton dazzles in the first book in her new series, A School for Scoundrels. Five gentlemen with unbreakable bonds navigate life--and love--in London. Perfect for fans of Sarah MacLean and anyone who loves BRIDGERTON!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">To Lady Wilhelmina Bettesford, the "game" of finding a husband is a competitive sport she wants no part of...until her much-younger step mama forces her to play it. So when her stepmother asks sexy barrister Bram Townsend to pretend to woo the amateur astronomer to boost Wilhelmina's popularity, it's up to Wilhelmina to navigate a fake courtship that will keep the family from forcing her into a marriage--</span><em style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">any</em><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> marriage--before she finally receives the inheritance that will allow her to live as she wants.</span><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The trouble is every time Bram takes her in his arms she has a most difficult time remembering theirs is an act...the make-believe passion feels </span><em style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">very</em><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> real indeed.</span><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Bram Townsend is a man on the way up: living for his books and his beliefs. Squiring Lady Wilhelmina through London's dusk-to-dawn social whirl is hardly an ordeal--she's beautiful, bright, and bold, everything he finds tempting in a woman. Their deal means he can meet the "best" people while she keeps her family at bay. The challenge is he quickly finds himself wanting her to say "yes" when she's so determined to say "no." She persuaded him to make this impetuous bargain, but how can he convince he</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">r to make</span><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> it </span></span><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">real</span>?</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Please enjoy this excerpt from</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Her Lessons In Persuasion</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>by</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Megan Frampton</i></span></div><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" />
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<td>London in the evening was a dangerous place if you had money in your pocket. It was already dark by the time Bram Townsend left his office, clapping his hat onto his head as he shut the door behind himself. An ordinary man with coins jingling in his pockets would, perhaps, hail a hackney cab to take him from where he was in the depths of The City to the fine streets of Mayfair. Far safer than walking. That he did have money, despite his ignominious birth, made him far from ordinary. Unusual, even. Distinctive. Bram didn’t take his good fortune for granted. He’d worked hard to become a barrister, making sure justice prevailed in England’s courts of law. He had ambitions of becoming a judge to serve justice even more widely. He had no time for anything save his profession and his friends—four fellow orphans who’d also been at the Devenaugh Home for Destitute Boys, more famously known as the School for Scoundrels. That was why he was walking on foot, despite the danger. His long stride and quick pace would get him to where he was going far faster than a hackney would. This evening he was on his way to meet his friends for their monthly meeting, where they discussed books and their respective lives. They’d be debating Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton tonight, and he was already preparing his arguments. Which were numerous. Bram didn’t spend any time heeding the calls of certain women to come find his pleasure with them as he walked. He also ignored the lively chatter that spilled into the streets from pubs catering to all sorts of people—even, he knew, gentlemen who had the audacity to work for their livings as he did. Not only would it make him later, it wouldn’t be proper. And since he already had the black mark of illegitimacy tied to his name, he took care to keep his behavior proper at all times. “Was Gaskell using the murder to illustrate the plight of the Bartons?”he muttered. It felt, while reading Mary Barton, that he had suffered along with Mary as her life took precarious turns. The night was cool, the temperate warmth of the early spring day having ebbed as the sun set. Bram liked how it felt to be a bit chilled—his offices and the courts could get swelteringly hot, all the bodies, both washed and unwashed, pressing together in search of justice. His path took him across the Blackfriars Bridge, the wind a bit colder when there were no buildings to shield him from it. He dug his hands farther into his pockets and lowered his head, making it so he almost didn’t see the altogether inexplicable figure of a woman perched on the parapet, her long cloak flapping in the wind. She wore no hat, and her hair streamed behind her, the moonlight limning her silhouette. For a moment, his fanciful part—which until that moment he hadn’t realized he even had—wondered if she was an angel come to earth, or some other sort of otherworldly creature. A fairy, a goddess. A water sprite. But first of all, he didn’t believe in any of that nonsense, and second of all, why would an otherworldly creature choose to alight on Blackfriars Bridge? And then she wobbled, and he knew she was a mere mortal who was in very great danger of falling off said bridge into the cold depths of the Thames. A mere mortal who was courting great danger, and even greater notoriety. “Stop,”he roared, rushing forward to wrap his arm just below her knees, jerking her backward as she yelped in surprise. She tumbled off, the fabric of her cloak clinging to him as she pitched backward. She landed on top of him while he landed right on the hard surface of the bridge. “Mmfargh,”she said as he made an equally inarticulate groan. They both lay there still for a moment, him already cataloguing what hurt: everything. She scrambled off him, hitting a few tender places with his elbows and knees, then rolled so she was on her knees, flinging her cloak over her shoulder. “What,”she began, “did you do? How dare you?”“Stop,”he said again, grabbing her ankle. “I can’t—”“Let go of me, you ruffian!”she replied, wriggling her foot. He held on tight, clasping her ankle with his other hand as well. “I will not,”he said, his tone low and intense. “I cannot let you do this—”“Let me?”she said in a squeak. “Who are you to have anything to say about what I do?”He looked up at her. “Surely it’s not worth it,”he said, groaning as he shifted onto his side. “I am certain we can find you some help. If it’s money you need, I can give you some now, and perhaps try to find you employment. If it’s something else,”he said, thinking of his own illegitimate birth, “there are resources there, too.”He couldn’t see her face since the moon was behind her. Was she mortified someone had seen her? Aghast she hadn’t been able to do what she’d originally intended? Relieved she’d been saved? “Help?”she said, her tone outraged. Neither mortified, aghast, nor relieved, then. “You think I needed help? Employment?”She twisted around to punch him hard on the arm, almost making him fall onto his back again. It had the added bonus of getting him to release her ankle. “I do not need help, you interfering baboon.”He blinked up at her. “You—?”he began. “No!”she interrupted. Her speech was that of a lady’s, which was even more surprising. No lady would venture into either of the two neighborhoods the bridge served, and certainly not alone. That wasn’t even taking into account the whole “standing on a narrow piece of stone that would hurl you into the River Thames if you misstepped”thing. “I was not trying to harm myself,”she said, sounding exasperated. “Which you would have known if you had simply inquired.”His lips twitched. “So you wished me to ask if you were planning on ending your life before I saved you? What if the answer was yes, should I have said, ‘Please proceed’?”He continued speaking. “And if the answer was no, then I should have saved you? But what if in the course of answering the question your footing grew more unsteady, and you ended up falling in? You would certainly have drowned, even though I had inquired, and you had told me ‘no.’”He paused. “In that case, my intention would have been noble and appropriate, certainly, but it would have had disastrous results. I far prefer my method.”He rolled onto his knees, wincing at the pain he felt in his back. He took a breath, then rose all the way up onto his feet, holding his hand out to the lady, who still knelt on the ground. “I don’t want your help,”she said, and he didn’t need to see her face to know she was frowning at his hand. “Nevertheless, I must insist you take it,”he replied, grasping her forearm and hauling her up before she realized it. “You must know it is dangerous to be out here this late at night, especially for someone like you.”She slapped his hand away. “Dangerous because strange men might assault me?”she asked pointedly, and he winced, shoving his hand deep into his pocket. The moonlight shone on her face, revealing her more clearly than before. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in gentle waves, though he couldn’t determine its exact color. Her eyebrows were dark wings over her narrowed eyes, and her mouth was generous, looking as though she liked to laugh. Even though her lips were currently pressed together in a thin line. “I didn’t—I was not—”he sputtered, and she crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a fierce glare. “You have proven that this bridge is dangerous, thank you so much,”she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Making him twitch with the desire to argue with her faulty supposition. “The help you gave nearly pitched me into the water!”she added. She uncrossed her arms to withdraw a cloth from her pocket and, before he realized it, she was dabbing at his face. He was so startled he just allowed it, but of course not so startled he couldn’t continue to argue. “Which you proved by standing on a parapet,”he said dryly, instinctively holding his head still so she could continue her ministrations. “Yes, I can see that.”She growled in response, at which he held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I promise, I have no plans to assault you. I am merely pointing out the obvious flaw in your logic.”“Are you always this infuriating?”she asked, now frowning at his face as she continued to dab. He had to admit it felt pleasant—albeit unusual—to be taken care of like this. “Or is it just me?”Bram chuckled in amusement. “I’m fairly certain it is not just you.”If his friends were here, they would most definitely agree. She was likely beautiful when she wasn’t glowering, he realized. She was glowering now. Her head reached to the middle of his chest, which made her of medium height for a woman. She was young, but not so young to make him believe this was some sort of wayward misbehavior of youth. She looked close to his own age of thirty, and he had to wonder what kind of woman reached her age without having somebody responsible for her. The kind of woman you should stay away from, a voice said inside his head. Not that he had plans to go near any women at all—he had no time for them. Even though a part of him wanted to know precisely who she was and what she was doing. The curse of being someone whose job was ferreting out information. “Well, you’ve saved my life, so why don’t you be on your way?”She shoved the cloth she’d been using into his hand, then made a shooing motion with her hands. “I cannot leave you here,”he bristled. “What if you try it again?”“Thank you, Mr. Helpful.”That sarcastic tone again. “I have already told you that was not my intention. If it was, you would have to spend the rest of your life with me to prevent that. It is not as though—if that was my intention—that I would be deterred forever because some strange man tackled me.”“I did not tackle you,”he replied stiffly. This woman was clearly far more outspoken than any lady he’d encountered before, and he did not like it. At all. “I believed you were in danger—in fact, I know that you were in danger—and I merely removed you from it.”“By tackling me,”she finished, the tone of her voice making it sound as though she’d landed a hit. He flung his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. I tackled you. Can you please allow me to escort you from the bridge so I can ensure your safety?”He could not believe he was having this discussion with someone whose judgment was so faulty she would get herself up onto a bridge for a reason other than self-harm. Someone who would do something so untoward that might bring unwanted attention to herself. “If you had just left me up there, I would be perfectly safe and not sore for having fallen,”she remonstrated. Apparently nearly as unwilling to give up a point of contention as he was. So they had something in common. Even if it was an infuriating thing. “And what were you doing there anyway, if not—?”he asked. “I was,”she said haughtily, “merely trying to get a better look at</td>
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<div>My Thoughts</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Bram...Bram...Bram...</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This man made this story. From his high jinx at trying to save a lady that did not want to be saved. To his honest attempts not to marry the self same lady who did want to be married. To him.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And right down to his brooding, argumentative, devilishly handsome, virgin toes.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Yes...</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">That's right!</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">He's a virgin!</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This man keeps pages turning without a doubt.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And to top it all off he doesn't have to be a Duke or Earl to do it.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">As for our leading lady. One Wilhelmina Bettesford.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Well!</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">She is the headstrong, take no prisoners, bookish type. Always trying to learn something that the boys say she shouldn't. (In this case, astronomy.)</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And be somewhere which by virtue of her sex. The boys say that she is not allowed. (In this case, The Stars Above Society.)</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This "boy from the wrong side of the blanket" makes good. Meets girl from "the right side of side blanket". But on the wrong side of society. Offers readers a far more "everyday" experience of a love story. Than the usual Lord and Laaaady! Let's take a stroll around the ballroom. Get caught kissing by her mother, and have to marry drivel.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This is a story to love. Right down to the interfering, but smart like a fox younger stepmother, Alathea. And the sweet little dog named Dipper.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And sweetening the pot even more for those of us chomping at the literary bit. This is but book one in this delightful series.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: ; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And because this read has proved to be heaven sent indeed.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Who knows what romantic lighting will strike in book two.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: ; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Reviewer's Note:</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">All opinions expressed in this critique are my own. And have in no way been influenced by any outside party.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Thank you to Netgalley and Avon Books for providing the review copy on which my review is based.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">About Megan</span><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1480618437p5/686916.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #6c6c6c; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="Megan Frampton" border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1480618437p5/686916.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(148, 92, 118); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Megan Frampton writes historical romance under her own name and romantic womens fiction as Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with her husband and son.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><br style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="http://meganframpton.com/" style="color: #7f655f; text-decoration-line: none;">Website</a></b><b> | </b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/meganframptonbooks" style="color: #7f655f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Facebook</b></a><b> | </b><a href="https://twitter.com/meganf" style="color: #7f655f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Twitter</b></a><b> | </b><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/686916.Megan_Frampton?from_search=true" style="color: #7f655f; text-decoration-line: none;">Goodreads</a></b></span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div></div></div><div style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="background-color: #f1e9d7; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Her-Lessons-Persuasion-School-Scoundrels-ebook/dp/B09ZBB6QM7?crid=396V49P5N98J7&keywords=her+lessons+in+persuasion&qid=1670523182&s=digital-text&sprefix=Her+Less%2Cdigital-text%2C190&sr=1-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=e6a65d80c8fb854c7de7c6007307be84&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09ZBB6QM7&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09ZBB6QM7" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-92146423013824725752022-12-07T12:37:00.001-05:002022-12-07T12:39:26.383-05:00"Pride And Puppies"...Cute But...Is Cute Enough?<div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiO9-N7IvWH8COkSbCVaGKWml6RAoj_ZTxQ6_3qFvW9xAxasydwmNlMo6XY8ktBC9dnXAYq4ZJZUyQWatjURDcJGqFiScAes8hWOlBpaz3eXm81vPpyK0gSXvRmUJfXYi3Ncckg76rpyp1GOsxqO7aGIOIkmM13R0romLfhxHDtDd0tdGiwilKewRy/s400/60568476.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="262" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiO9-N7IvWH8COkSbCVaGKWml6RAoj_ZTxQ6_3qFvW9xAxasydwmNlMo6XY8ktBC9dnXAYq4ZJZUyQWatjURDcJGqFiScAes8hWOlBpaz3eXm81vPpyK0gSXvRmUJfXYi3Ncckg76rpyp1GOsxqO7aGIOIkmM13R0romLfhxHDtDd0tdGiwilKewRy/s320/60568476.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>Title: Pride And Puppies</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Series: Pine Hollow #4</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Author: Lizzie Shane</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Format: ERC</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Length: 368 pages</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Publication Date: November 22, 2022</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Publisher: Forever</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Rating: 3 Stars</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Struggling to find her modern-day Mr. Darcy, a Jane Austen fan gets more than she bargained for when she swears off men and adopts an adorable puppy. </span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Dr. Charlotte Rodriguez is single—again—and she blames Jane Austen. She made brooding, aloof men sound </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">oh so</i><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">dreamy</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">. But after years of failing to find her own Mr. Darcy, Charlotte decides it’s time to swear off dating. She’s going to lavish all her love and affection on someone who actually deserves it: her new puppy, Bingley.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">And there’s no one better to give her pet advice than her neighbor and coworker George Leneghan. He’s quiet and patient and, best of all, way too sweet to ever be her type. But as their friendly banter turns flirty, the unimaginable happens—Charlotte starts catching </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">feelings.</i><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Just as Charlotte is trying to untangle what it is she truly wants, George announces he’s contemplating a cross-country move. Suddenly, Charlotte wonders if she’s kept her soulmate in the friend zone so long that she’s entirely missed her chance at a happily ever after. Dear Reader, could it be possible she’s had it wrong all this time?</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Please enjoy this excerpt from</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Pride And Puppies</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>by</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i>Lizzie Shane</i></span></div>
<center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a>
</a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! —Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen I blame Colin Firth.”Charlotte Jane Rodriguez, MD, PhD, and self-proclaimed total badass, stood in the center of her living room, weaving only slightly from the four shots of tequila she’d downed in the last hour—one for each month she’d dated Jerkface Jeff—and glowered at the stern, brooding face currently occupying her television screen. It was all Colin Firth’s fault. At the tender—and romantically precocious—age of nine, Charlotte had seen the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice for the first time. Colin Firth had smoldered onto the screen, and Charlotte had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love. Other little girls could keep their Prince Charmings. She was devoted to Mr. Darcy. Charlotte had always seen herself as the heroine of every story. Her father was very easily imagined as Mr. Bennet, calm and intelligent and kind—and while she only had two sisters rather than four, she still felt a definite kinship with Lizzy. She, too, was from a small town filled with gossip. She, too, was far too clever to be wasted on a Mr. Collins—even if her mother had made the unconscionable blunder of naming her after Charlotte Lucas. And she, too, had a mother who frequently took to her bed—though it was chemo and not the vapors sending her there. One might argue that Charlotte’s feelings for Mr. Darcy bordered on pathological. When examining her fixation, her therapist might point to the fact that the BBC miniseries was the last thing she ever watched with her mother—who was herself a Jane Austen aficionado—and say Charlotte was using her obsession in an attempt to avoid processing the trauma of her mother’s death when she was a girl. She might say that Charlotte’s lifelong quest to date a Darcy was unrealistic and problematic. She might be right. “Don’t blame an innocent actor,”argued Magda, one of Charlotte’s two very-best-friends -in-the-whole-wide-world. She slumped with her legs crossed on the floor, having sunk there after taking four sympathy shots. Magda, sadly, lacked Charlotte’s ability to turn alcohol into manic energy. “Blame Darcy,”Mags advised. “Or better yet, blame Jane Austen. She created him.”“I’m sorry.”Kendall, Charlotte’s other very-best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world, raised a single index finger in dissent. “Jane Austen didn’t make you date a series of assholes. You did that all on your own.”Charlotte swung her glare to Kendall, who had an unfortunate tendency to call her out on her bullshit right when she wanted to have a good wallow. “She gave me unrealistic expectations of men.”“You just keep picking the wrong men,”Kendall insisted. “Smug assholes aren’t all Mr. Darcy under the surface. Sometimes a brooding, self-important dick is just a brooding, self-important dick. You gotta listen when people tell you who they are.”Charlotte narrowed her eyes even more. “So I was supposed to know that Jeff was going to cheat on me on Valentine’s Day?”She hadn’t even found out about it until today, over three weeks later, when the idiot had posted about it on Instagram. It had been quite a day. Surprise! Your boyfriend of four months has a secret second girlfriend! Surprise! Your boyfriend has a separate Instagram account he’s been using to post photos with that other girlfriend for six months! Which technically made Charlotte the other woman. Which was squicky for all sorts of reasons. She didn’t want to think about how long she would have continued dating Jeff if he hadn’t forgotten to log out of the account she followed before posting gushy I-love-my-girl stuff with Valentine’s photos of the wrong girlfriend. Who posted Valentine’s pictures in March anyway? It was practically St. Patrick’s Day. Kendall had the grace to wince. “Well, no, not that specifically. But you already knew he wasn’t worth your time.”She met Charlotte’s eyes with her usual brand of tough love. “You didn’t really like him, did you? Or else you wouldn’t be pissed off and blaming Colin Firth. You’d be heartbroken and sobbing.”She waved a finger in a circle to encompass Charlotte’s righteous irritation. “This is no Warren.”She might have a point. There had definitely been sobbing with Warren. But Charlotte refused to be derailed by Kendall’s logic. She tilted her chin up indignantly. “I am perfectly capable of being heartbroken and pissed off at the same time. I contain multitudes.”“Has anyone else noticed the room spinning?”Magda asked from the floor. The four shots had undeniably been a bad idea, since Mags almost never drank, but she’d insisted on throwing them all back in solidarity. Charlotte might need to change her break-up ritual—or start having shorter relationships—just for Magda’s sake. During the Viking funeral for her relationship with Warren, they’d watered down Magda’s sympathy shots, but tonight Charlotte hadn’t had time to prepare, and they’d all been drinking the hard stuff. She headed to the open-concept kitchen to grab Mags a glass of water without interrupting her discussion with Kendall. “I’m processing my grief over the death of my relationship. This is how I process.”“Yes, I know. By doing shots, torching everything he ever gave you, and watching Pride and Prejudice. By the way, are you keeping those ruby earrings as your memento mori? Because if not, I want to claim them before they go into the charity pile.”Charlotte paused with Magda’s water in her hand, frowning as Kendall’s words penetrated, carrying with them a galling realization. Kendall was right. This wasn’t a ritual to deal with her pain anymore. It was a routine. A habit. She didn’t feel heartbroken. She didn’t feel…anything. Except irritation. And maybe, if she was being completely honest with herself, a tiny little bit of relief. She’d dated Jerkface Jeff—so dubbed by her sister, Elinor, who had the annoying tendency to be right about Charlotte’s boyfriends—for four months. She’d poured all her energy—and Charlotte had a lot of energy—into making the relationship work. She’d accommodated. She’d bent over backward. She’d made excuses and allowances. She’d done what she always did. But she wasn’t sure she’d actually cared. After Warren, it had been hard to get her hopes up again. Hard to believe the fairy tale she worked so hard to spin for everyone else. She’d thrown herself into the relationship as much as she could, but she had disappointment fatigue when it came to men. It wasn’t Mr. Darcy’s fault. It was Warren and Hunter and Landon and Bridger and freaking Jerkface Jeff. It was all the men who weren’t worth her time, but whom she kept giving it to, over and over again. Kendall had dubbed them the Darcys, but not one had turned out to be hero material. “Are you going to give Mags that water?”Kendall asked. “Or just stand there like one of those living statue people until we tip you?”Charlotte jolted back into action, shoving the water into Magda’s hand. Then she took a step back, facing her best friends—and Jennifer Ehle, who was now on screen—and squaring her shoulders to declare “I’m doing it. I’m swearing off men.”Magda’s brows pulled together in a puzzled frown. Kendall cocked her head. “Is that a yes on the ruby earrings?”The reminder of the earrings catapulted her into motion, and Charlotte charged down the short hall in her cozy little two-bedroom condo. She hadn’t had time to gather all the things Jerkface Jeff had given her. The Instagram incident had escalated quickly, and they’d been officially broken up less than an hour after his accidental post. She’d texted Magda and Kendall while still angrily messaging with Jeff and her friends had come over right away—which, since Kendall lived a short walk and Magda lived a short drive away, meant Charlotte hadn’t had time to do more than change her relationship status online. She snatched the ruby earrings off the dresser, along with an Hermès scarf and the ugliest heart pendant in the history of heart pendants, which he’d given her as an apology for being busy on Valentine’s Day—apparently busy with his real girlfriend. Charlotte started out of the bedroom—and paused, her gaze catching on the open door to her walk-in closet. On impulse, she darted into the massive walk-in, which had made her fall in love with the condo in the first place, and snatched a small decorative box off the top shelf. The box was light, just cardboard, but in the shape of an old-fashioned hardback edition of Pride and Prejudice. She carried it out to the front room, where Kendall and Mags waited. The memento mori, as Kendall called them, were the solitary items from each of Charlotte’s past relationships that she kept tucked away after she’d evicted every other trace of her exes from her life. Charlotte set the box, along with the remnants of her relationship with Jeff, on the coffee table and stared down at them, coming to a long overdue decision. “I’m getting rid of all of it.”“Really?”Kendall asked, her voice rife with skepticism. “Even the box,”she declared. “It isn’t the box’s fault,”Magda protested. “It’s tainted by the bad memories,”Charlotte insisted. And the good ones. The good ones were always harder to let go. Charlotte flipped open the lid, and there they were. Remembrances of boyfriends past. The silk scarf Bridger had gotten her. Landon’s locket. The pearl earrings Hunter had bought her because all the women in his family had them and his future bride needed her own pair—though he’d never proposed, and he’d broken up with her as soon as he realized she wasn’t going to quit med school to be his trophy wife. And then there was the diamond tennis bracelet. The one she’d woken up one morning to find fastened to her wrist, with Warren smiling down at her, his stupid Colin Firth–esque brown eyes glinting. And now Jeff’s contributions. All gifts that had more to do with her exes and who they wanted her to be than they ever did with her. Because none of those men had ever bothered to know her. She’d tried so hard to make things work, but she was the only one trying. For years she’d worried that she was too needy, too demanding, that she wanted things too much. That she wanted love too much. She’d only ever wanted to be someone’s whole world, to be the person that mattered most to them, but she needed to reset those wants. She tossed Jeff’s gifts into the box and snapped it shut, then shoved it across the coffee table toward Kendall. “Give it all away. I don’t want any of it.”Kendall eyed the box. “You don’t want me to pawn them? I’m pretty sure the tennis bracelet alone is a mortgage payment. Maybe several. You suffered through dating Warren. You should at least get something out of it.”“Pawn it, give it away, whatever. I need to stop holding on to things. I’m swearing off men.”Charlotte ran through her memories of her relationship and felt foolish for all the times she’d believed Jeff. She should have known. Even Elinor’s dog, Dory, who loved everyone, had hated Jerkface Jeff. Dogs always knew. “I need to get a dog.”As soon as she said the words out loud, the sheer genius of them seeped into her. The absolute rightness. “A dog?”Magda echoed. “In lieu of a man?”Kendall drawled sarcastically—but Charlotte wasn’t joking. “Exactly.”She bounced a little on the balls of her feet. She loved dogs. She’d always wanted one, but while completing med school hadn’t felt like the right time, and then she’d been dating Warren, who never wanted to share her attention with anyone. But now…</div></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My Thoughts</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><section class="ReviewText" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone.” <br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />-Joni Mitchell<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Or in the case of <i>Pride And Puppies</i>, until you do all you can to give it away.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />The infamous 'it' of course, being the love of your life.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />A.K.A. The person you want to watch corny reality T.V. with.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />A.K.A. The person who doesn't lead you to decide to forego relationships with people for more meaningful ones with dogs.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />A.K.A. The person who has been standing right in front of you the whole book!<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYsAUtgXwMfSoRDhp5Po1Lp-EVdnUeeS-J5bXSh0SX7eJLDdcq0m9YvjZI3hSHaiv3fmj8nzfqAGnw_g9PiDZKB6sDwLOoa-DFw5bFaGNOwLGZ4tqeB9zD1bPR2i3620E1LV6Um2xySuMf12zI0Ur6nRLNlHvhn-6KYUfIuzR6jaLVbJPcZbij48O/s320/3%20Stars.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYsAUtgXwMfSoRDhp5Po1Lp-EVdnUeeS-J5bXSh0SX7eJLDdcq0m9YvjZI3hSHaiv3fmj8nzfqAGnw_g9PiDZKB6sDwLOoa-DFw5bFaGNOwLGZ4tqeB9zD1bPR2i3620E1LV6Um2xySuMf12zI0Ur6nRLNlHvhn-6KYUfIuzR6jaLVbJPcZbij48O/s1600/3%20Stars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Pride And Puppies</i> is cute.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />In fact, it's awww wrapped in a pink cashmere blanket, on a train through the snow covered mountains, full of solid white, new born, Pomeranian puppies, cute.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />The problem...<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />There are no surprises to be found here.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Readers know beyond a shadow of a doubt. From the time that our beloved leading lady breaks up with her cheating boyfriend. And begins to eschew "everything Darcy"<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />(A nod to her late mother's love for <i>Pride And Prejudice</i>.)<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Except for her friend and co-worker, George Leneghan.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Whom she has promptly friend zoned.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />See where this is going?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Yeah. I know.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Insert dramatic sigh here...<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />I'll wait.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Meanwhile there are all these reasons and circumstances which are allowed to insert themselves into the lives of both parties. Which act as both barriers and deterrents.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />To the modern bonding ritual that is playing out before our eyes. Complete with shared time with mutual pets and streaming service watching commitments.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />This is the ultimate in "the last to know, but really though...reads."<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />It just so happens to be the fourth book of the Pine Hollow series.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Small town romance anyone?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />If cute, sure thing, small town, awe for grown ups, that one doesn't have to think too hard about is your thing. <i>Pride And Puppies</i> is just the literary chew toy for you.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Many thanks to Netgalley and Forever for providing the review copy on which this honest review is based.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xQlXvux-NCdglFR49qfJF45j9dSaJGnRRRhnwQsSarI_LmvXdsGi77La8WI48KJBsLl6FohnjoUS0IQbDE5BVLypShmF3X5KHAIPXKFs0NK8kfb6DIHFVe4uogHI3BOYAhptRiKRePbkxiGmApF3zV8ZRUepoLJU2YFfgkxYzx7RwQW3iwUIP9in/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xQlXvux-NCdglFR49qfJF45j9dSaJGnRRRhnwQsSarI_LmvXdsGi77La8WI48KJBsLl6FohnjoUS0IQbDE5BVLypShmF3X5KHAIPXKFs0NK8kfb6DIHFVe4uogHI3BOYAhptRiKRePbkxiGmApF3zV8ZRUepoLJU2YFfgkxYzx7RwQW3iwUIP9in/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BSYaIeIWVz82tXpAfAGlzlWBYNpobti04LNRxE32Mb2dknClLOO5_ZnxFIbILZh4kXfQCoD-URjq2TWzORyj2heH5ntvcOovBw58dKdVknN4houlkJxnr_MASbVkc4YwZZKlLralej8148MDEAJKt3lGSZiajH8HhfJPtV2NSSk5_WFGzEh-DFOu/s258/13455161.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="200" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BSYaIeIWVz82tXpAfAGlzlWBYNpobti04LNRxE32Mb2dknClLOO5_ZnxFIbILZh4kXfQCoD-URjq2TWzORyj2heH5ntvcOovBw58dKdVknN4houlkJxnr_MASbVkc4YwZZKlLralej8148MDEAJKt3lGSZiajH8HhfJPtV2NSSk5_WFGzEh-DFOu/s1600/13455161.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />About Lizzie</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="freeTextauthor13455161" style="color: #181818;">Contemporary romance author Lizzie Shane was born in Alaska and still calls the frozen north home, though she can frequently be found indulging her travel addiction. Thankfully, her laptop travels with her and she has written her way through all fifty states and over fifty countries.<br /><br />Lizzie has been honored to win the Golden Heart Award and HOLT Medallion, and has been named a finalist three times for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award®, but her main claim to fame is that she lost on Jeopardy!<br /><br />For more about Lizzie and her books, please visit <a href="http://www.lizzieshane.com/" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #00635d; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">http://www.lizzieshane.com</a>. Happy reading! </span></span></span></div></div></section></section></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here:</div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pride-Puppies-Hollow-Lizzie-Shane-ebook/dp/B09TZYQ9ZL?crid=2U5GZIWXBQ2HM&keywords=pride+and+puppies&qid=1670430609&sprefix=Pride+and+pupp%2Caps%2C375&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=f4ab0450846d517d926849d3005fb660&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09TZYQ9ZL&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09TZYQ9ZL" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-14851107778383566222022-12-05T09:01:00.000-05:002022-12-05T09:01:35.075-05:00"Guilty Pleasures" Prove To Be The Best In This First In Series Supernatural Supernova<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj981vwKXgCpi46urBe1rXiYeU42R-Wq6t6DUeFJQ-AsxdFcJMIH1LSq2CtMRymfH2aaTnNil4ENGj5OofqUlvot6S7xgXQgZqwA9BgJ2Bm8nRnwehZ68bdErpwI_OFupq59TJnmzz0KOajw8_ixzx9PC5lKO1jPndEknrkfumpxFxNWEYyYGO9W4VD/s475/30281.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj981vwKXgCpi46urBe1rXiYeU42R-Wq6t6DUeFJQ-AsxdFcJMIH1LSq2CtMRymfH2aaTnNil4ENGj5OofqUlvot6S7xgXQgZqwA9BgJ2Bm8nRnwehZ68bdErpwI_OFupq59TJnmzz0KOajw8_ixzx9PC5lKO1jPndEknrkfumpxFxNWEYyYGO9W4VD/s320/30281.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br />Title: Guilty Pleasures<div>Series: <i>Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #1</i></div><div>Author: Laurel K. Hamilton</div><div>Format:<span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;"> Library Kindle Edition (Orange County Library Collective)</span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915;">Audio Book<br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Pages: 290 pages</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Publication Date: August 3, 2004</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Publisher: Berkley Publishing Group</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Rating: 4.5 Stars</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; line-height: 1.37; margin: 0.8rem 0px;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: 16rem; overflow: hidden; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 3%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anita Blake is small, dark, and dangerous. Her turf is the city of St. Louis. Her job: re-animating the dead and killing the undead who take things too far. But when the city’s most powerful vampire asks her to solve a series of vicious slayings, Anita must confront her greatest fear—her undeniable attraction to master vampire Jean-Claude, one of the creatures she is sworn to destroy</span><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif">...</span></span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col);"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col); text-align: left;"><i>Please enjoy this excerpt from</i></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col); text-align: left;"><i>Guilty Pleasures</i></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col); text-align: left;"><i>by</i></div><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span var(--num-right-col); text-align: left;"><i>Laurel K. Hamilton</i></div></div></div></div></div></div><center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a></a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><main class="main" role="main" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #2b2b2b; font-size: 18px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: franklin-gothic-urw, Arial, sans-serif;"><a></a></span><div class="inner block_inner" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: franklin-gothic-urw, Arial, sans-serif;"><a></a></span><article class="post page" id="post-503" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: franklin-gothic-urw, Arial, sans-serif;"><a></a></span><div class="entry" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><a><div class="excerpt" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: franklin-gothic-urw, Arial, sans-serif; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><br /></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It took everything I had not to step back from him. but damnit, undead or not, he was still Willie McCoy. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He said “You ain’t human any more than I am.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I moved to open the door. I hadn’t stepped away from him. I had stepped away to open the door. I tried to convince the sweat along my spine there was a difference. The cold feeling in my stomach wasn’t fooled either.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I really have to be going now. Thank you for thinking of Animators, Inc.” I gave him my best professional smile, empty of meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He paused in the doorway “Why won’t you work for us? I gotta tell em something when I go back.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t sure, but there was something like fear in his voice. Would he get in trouble for failing? I felt sorry for him and knew it was stupid. He was undead, for heaven’s sake, but he stood looking at me, and he was still Willy, with his funny coats and small nervous hands.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Tell them, whoever they are, that I don’t work for vampires.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“A firm rule?” Again, he made it sound like a question.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Concrete.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a flash of something on his face, the old Willy peeking through. It was almost pity. “I wish you hadn’t said that, Anita. These people don’t like anybody telling them no.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I think you’ve over stayed your welcome. I don’t like to be threatened.”</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It ain’t a threat, Anita. It’s the truth.” He straightened his tie, fondling the new gold tie tack, squared his thin shoulders and walked out.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. My knees felt weak. But there wasn’t time for<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />me to sit here and shake. Mrs. Grundick was probably already at the cemetery. She would be standing there with her little black purse and grown sons, waiting for me to raise her husband from the dead. There was a mystery of two very different wills. It was either years of court costs and arguements or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and ask.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the silver crucifix from my blouse and let it hang in full view. I have several guns, and know how to use them. I keep a 9mm Browning High Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two pounds, silver bullets and all. Silver won’t kill a vampire, but it will discourage them. It forces them to have to heal the wounds, almost human slow. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and went out.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Craig, our night secretary, was typing furiously on the computer keyboard. His eyes widened as I walked over the thick carpeting. Maybe it was the cross swinging on its long chain. Maybe it was the shoulder rig tight across my back and the gun out in plain sight. He didn’t mention either. Smart man.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I put my nice little courderoy jacket over it all. The jacket didn’t lie flat over the gun, but that was okay. I doubted the Grundicks and their lawyers would notice.</span></p></div></a><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a>Visit Laurell K. Hamilton’s homepage at </a><a href="http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/" style="background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #bc0000; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.25s ease 0s;">www.laurellkhamilton.org</a></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Copyright (c) Laurell K. Hamilton, 1994. All Rights Reserved.</span></p></div></article></div></main><aside class="sidebar" role="complementary" style="background-color: #fafafa; box-sizing: border-box; color: #2b2b2b; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px; text-align: start;"><div class="widget newsletter_signup_widget" id="featured_newsletter-2" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 40px;"><div class="newsletter_wrapper ajax_request_container" data-request-type="newsletter_signup" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><h3 class="section_header" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; display: flex; font-size: 20px; line-height: 1.1; margin-bottom: 14px; margin-top: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JOIN THE ORBIT NEWSLETTER</span></span></h3></div></div></aside>
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<br /><div>My Thoughts</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Wow!!!</div><div>What a supernatural thrill ride. Laurel K. Hamilton has hooked another reader for sure with Guilty Pleasures. The first book of her now 29 book saga. Featuring Miss Anita Blake. Necromancer, Vampire Hunter, and so much more.</div><div>This book...</div><div>This story...</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6tzrq5wTxh0bFB9AfMSw0RbNMk1S8jPZLpyB-9Otj7hDnMKZOo2awdOL9brVraD4EmCPj-jcyjoBD5I3fUHxcyx6NVPx643qC04wD757vIP-KGjhyswNCnbTBWrCavTWPpje48b3yCbsJbGHBrHpTUJSCATqI3qoy_2qN9suj64XQjOkqL4zykEX/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6tzrq5wTxh0bFB9AfMSw0RbNMk1S8jPZLpyB-9Otj7hDnMKZOo2awdOL9brVraD4EmCPj-jcyjoBD5I3fUHxcyx6NVPx643qC04wD757vIP-KGjhyswNCnbTBWrCavTWPpje48b3yCbsJbGHBrHpTUJSCATqI3qoy_2qN9suj64XQjOkqL4zykEX/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The world building is phenomenal.</div><div>So very many stages have been set for so many stories to come.</div><div>All the while the "Alice down the vampiric rabbit hole." That is this first story.</div><div>Is nothing short of captivating.</div><div>Watching Anita struggle to hold on to her humanity. As she struggles to navigate a world that is literally everything but.</div><div>Being forced to solve the murder of vampires. While at the same time finding herself the unwilling prize in a tug-of-war between the enigmatic Jean-Claude and Master Vampire, Nikolaos.</div><div>A tug-of-war that gets so bloody and so fetishist that it has to be read to be believed.</div><div>The best part though...</div><div>How relatable and human Anita manages to stay. Even as the world around h becomes less and less so.</div><div>She's like...</div><div>"I just want to do my job and go home alive, to my stuffed penguins...ok?"</div><div>But of course, we all know that is going to prove to be a very tall order. In a place where vampire strip clubs and wererats the size of small dogs are the norm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Categorizing this book sexually...</div><div>Because there is sex here. As opposed to romance. Which is where the aforementioned fetishist vibe is brought to the fore in a big way. With the vamps being the stars of the show.</div><div>Anyone up for a little master/slave blood play?</div><div>Sans Anita...</div><div>But she is there for all the stabby, stabby, shooty, shooty, action that is constantly happening.</div><div>In short.</div><div>This book is dark, sexy, smutty, supernatural, and expertly written.</div><div>The stage has been thoroughly set for coming stories seamlessly.</div><div>And this reviewer can't wait to find out what stories and adventures await.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5UjRor3e9K5ssm2mgHWm7TbDMvnJSAkJ45IZPbfz0quZ_i6F_gWJQJRumdbDx4n1vEhNa6VXLJkPkm6j-RoNSghdF2R1-1_liTQvs4wRTPp7mypdHypHWgG0bdj_57g2IR0NoxP59-m5n5teRvWr21IE7EpRCvszjZJtsPIfXxrrYCVTKcu-ax9j/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5UjRor3e9K5ssm2mgHWm7TbDMvnJSAkJ45IZPbfz0quZ_i6F_gWJQJRumdbDx4n1vEhNa6VXLJkPkm6j-RoNSghdF2R1-1_liTQvs4wRTPp7mypdHypHWgG0bdj_57g2IR0NoxP59-m5n5teRvWr21IE7EpRCvszjZJtsPIfXxrrYCVTKcu-ax9j/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>About Laurell</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br class="clear" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #181818; display: block; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px;" /><span id="freeTextContainerauthor9550" style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s700/9550.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s320/9550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Laurell K. Hamilton is one of the leading writers of paranormal fiction. A #1 New York Times bestselling author, Hamilton writes the popular Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter novels and the Meredith Gentry series. She is also the creator of a bestselling comic book series based on her Anita Blake novels and published by Marvel Comics. Hamilton is a full-time writer and lives in the suburbs of St. Louis with her family.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;">See Her Socially: <a href="https://www.laurellkhamilton.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Web</a>/ <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9550.Laurell_K_Hamilton" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">GR</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/lkhamilton" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Twitter</a>/ <a href="https://m.facebook.com/LaurellKHamiltonOfficial" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buy The Book Here:</span></div>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Anita-Vampire-Hunter/dp/051513449X?crid=3EDV2EK5K7KG7&keywords=guilty+pleasures+laurell+k.+hamilton&qid=1670130036&sprefix=Guilty+pl%2Caps%2C184&sr=8-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=ed7e89242efc2295c306723abf54e691&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=051513449X&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=051513449X" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-58671803825786868412022-12-04T15:20:00.001-05:002022-12-04T15:20:27.012-05:00The First Bite Is Always The Sweetest In "Strange Candy"<div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSkhz111njqZEbfsWs4pjaANgzCJX07uKWrtQ91zUMOzblrG6YaiHnjfIBdAJ0YgxWkB7HDb_VV1jE6mlO2DEOYHwCicpnH0kyb_FNY4XAT0IujlvxrmYxfIS_8dPbE-RZGQqHeJqXY1H3OU8H4MU4PSwfejhk0r7SNfSO-IJHWQigGl0pcLWvJWo/s500/29484.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSkhz111njqZEbfsWs4pjaANgzCJX07uKWrtQ91zUMOzblrG6YaiHnjfIBdAJ0YgxWkB7HDb_VV1jE6mlO2DEOYHwCicpnH0kyb_FNY4XAT0IujlvxrmYxfIS_8dPbE-RZGQqHeJqXY1H3OU8H4MU4PSwfejhk0r7SNfSO-IJHWQigGl0pcLWvJWo/s320/29484.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>Title: Strange Candy</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Series: <i>Anita Blake Vampire Hunter #0.5</i></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Author: Laurel K. Hamilton</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Format: Library Kindle Edition (Orange County Library Collective)</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Pages: 290 pages</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Publication Date: October 3, 2006</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Publisher: Berkley Publishing Group</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Rating: 4.5 Stars</span></span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The #1 </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">New York Times</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> bestselling author's short story collection-including an all-new Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter story.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">From a woman who marries into a family of volatile wizards to a couple fleeing a gang of love-hungry cupids, from a girl who seeks sanctuary in the form of a graceful goose to the disgruntled superhero Captain Housework, readers will revel in the many twists and turns of fortune in these fantastical fairy tales and lush parables. Even hardened vampire hunter and zombie animator Anita Blake gets blindsided by the disturbing motives of her clients in the new <i>"Those Who Seek Forgiveness"</i> and in <i>"The Girl Who Was Infatuated with Death."</i></span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-style: italic;">Please enjoy this excerpt from</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-style: italic;">Strange Candy</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-style: italic;">by</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-style: italic;">Laurel K. Hamilton</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span>
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<td>IT was five days before Christmas, a quarter till midnight. I should have been asnooze in my bed, dreaming of sugarplums, whatever the hell they were, but I wasn’t. I was sitting across my desk sipping coffee and offering a box of Kleenexes to my client, Ms. Rhonda Mackenzie. She’d been crying for nearly the entire meeting, so that she’d wiped most of her careful eye makeup away, leaving her eyes pale and unfinished, younger, like what she must have looked like when she was in high school. The dark, perfect lipstick made the eyes look emptier, more vulnerable. “I’m not usually like this, Ms. Blake. I am a very strong woman.” Her voice took on a tone that said she believed this, and it might even be true. She raised those naked brown eyes to me, and there was fierceness in them that might have made a weaker person flinch. Even I, tough-as-nails vampire-hunter that I am, had trouble meeting the rage in those eyes. “It’s all right, Ms. Mackenzie, you’re not the first client that’s cried. It’s hard when you’ve lost someone.” She looked up, startled. “I haven’t lost anyone, not yet.” I sat my coffee cup back down without drinking from it and stared at her. “I’m an animator, Ms. Mackenzie. I raise the dead if the reason is good enough. I assumed this amount of grief was because you’d come to ask me to raise someone close to you.”</td>
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<br /></div><div>My Thoughts</div><div>This first collection of short stories is where readers are first introduced to Anita Blake.</div><div>First.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8ff855KxpgFilJ6HtpTWksHnYdS8fiZs3zAZLyhrsHqpm7XDhM46W5yB83SXggW_Qh49lRmkQdIK0LVqyLHx7ZA-nDgMRf_6PH2Jy2MM5kRWG3I41AeHwya5dVdEn4Yyp-YmLfVddBm81vz46QScNfvfFvoXSYzBmTqIt8FymPWHiD-pXZsvcwZC/s320/4pages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8ff855KxpgFilJ6HtpTWksHnYdS8fiZs3zAZLyhrsHqpm7XDhM46W5yB83SXggW_Qh49lRmkQdIK0LVqyLHx7ZA-nDgMRf_6PH2Jy2MM5kRWG3I41AeHwya5dVdEn4Yyp-YmLfVddBm81vz46QScNfvfFvoXSYzBmTqIt8FymPWHiD-pXZsvcwZC/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />As a natural and highly sought Necromancer. in<i> Those Who Seek Forgiveness</i>.</div><div>And again in her dealings with the vampiric underworld. In The<i> Girl Who Was Infatuated With Death.</i></div><div>While short, these stories offer readers looks into the most important aspects of her life. Aspects that often cross and weave between each other in later stories.</div><div>We also meet Jean Claude. A master vampire who rules St. Louis. And wants to rule her heart.</div><div>This collection serves as the perfect "first bite".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjncWtemaV0yF0aOK8ullhLWl1R2Lb8Zc6eVjS7N_0l0mctprwVkvHPZeNwPewuVOcCUtWzdxwA0vPXUogb6h5yJh-opxv7eZrNXctD9m34VWaRMAyFagV_0Rhnk6Iv-uBeno1uDOk7psZexOgH3nOIFZNGqtgvuldMUM4bt1_xI5yDipMg-mc9U9l/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjncWtemaV0yF0aOK8ullhLWl1R2Lb8Zc6eVjS7N_0l0mctprwVkvHPZeNwPewuVOcCUtWzdxwA0vPXUogb6h5yJh-opxv7eZrNXctD9m34VWaRMAyFagV_0Rhnk6Iv-uBeno1uDOk7psZexOgH3nOIFZNGqtgvuldMUM4bt1_xI5yDipMg-mc9U9l/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Laurell</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br class="clear" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #181818; display: block; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px;" /><span id="freeTextContainerauthor9550" style="color: #181818;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s700/9550.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3p61uCDr-Odvbvzk903-CA_T5IJkIXPYPLEO060nEKzkHSgyIKYM616aqKB4X7c8_mXxq5fxG79kSmTVvJhL1HGiPFSqZ28Dao_ljff5PmeDobLYZ5DfBfkZkw5YYKysGkRJZ6GTluj1P0hxFfIUx68JxHiuV_d8vu9FxvyBCndk0KGkoLwryxvkx/s320/9550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Laurell K. Hamilton is one of the leading writers of paranormal fiction. A #1 New York Times bestselling author, Hamilton writes the popular Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter novels and the Meredith Gentry series. She is also the creator of a bestselling comic book series based on her Anita Blake novels and published by Marvel Comics. Hamilton is a full-time writer and lives in the suburbs of St. Louis with her family.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;">See Her Socially: <a href="https://www.laurellkhamilton.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Web</a>/ <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9550.Laurell_K_Hamilton" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">GR</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/lkhamilton" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Twitter</a>/ <a href="https://m.facebook.com/LaurellKHamiltonOfficial" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></span></div></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-69101399150433934592022-10-19T15:50:00.000-04:002022-11-25T00:02:01.730-05:00Wild Hunger Will Leave Readers Panting For More<div class="separator"><p style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></p></div><div class="separator"><p style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img alt="36457735. sy475" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1533819833l/36457735._SY475_.jpg" /></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Title: Wild Hunger</div><div style="text-align: left;">Series: (Heirs Of Chicagoland Book #1)</div><div style="text-align: left;">Author: Chloe Neill</div><div style="text-align: left;">Length: 352 pages</div><div style="text-align: left;">Publisher: Berkley</div><div style="text-align: left;">Rating: 5 Stars</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> --- In the first thrilling installment of Chloe Neill's spinoff to the New York Times bestselling Chicagoland Vampires series, a new vampire will find out just how deep blood ties run.</div><p><br />As the only vampire child ever born, some believed Elisa Sullivan had all the luck. But the magic that helped bring her into the world left her with a dark secret. Shifter Connor Keene, the only son of North American Central Pack Apex Gabriel Keene, is the only one she trusts with it. But she's a vampire and the daughter of a Master and a Sentinel, and he's prince of the Pack and its future king.<br /><br />When the assassination of a diplomat brings old feuds to the fore again, Elisa and Connor must choose between love and family, between honor and obligation, before Chicago disappears forever <br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> Please enjoy this excerpt from<br /> </p><p style="text-align: center;">Wild Hunger</p><center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a></a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">PROLOGUE “Noooooo!” A little girl’s voice echoed through the hallway. The cry was followed by footsteps, more yelling, and a petulant squeal. “It’s mine! You give it back right now, Connor stupid Keene!” The dark-haired boy stuck his tongue out at her—the tiny blonde he relished torturing—then tore down the hallway, holding aloft the plastic sword he’d taken from his enemy. “Victory!” he said. She followed him, Mary Jane shoes padding down the carpeted hallway, but he was nearly a foot taller, and she knew she couldn’t catch him. Not by running. So she called in a reinforcement. “Daddy! Connor stupid Keene won’t give me my sword!” Connor stupid Keene stopped and spun around, then leveled his best glare at Elisa Sullivan. “I’m a prince,” he said, sticking his thumb against his chest. “And I can take your sword if I want!” He was seven, and she only and a half, so he was obviously the more mature of the two of them. She jumped up to grab the sword but couldn’t reach it. “Give it back, you . . . you . . .” “‘You’ what?” he asked with a wily grin, spinning around to keep the toy out of her hands. “What am I?” “You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re a stupid boy—that’s what you are!” “Children.” They froze, then turned back toward the doorway to Elisa’s father’s office and looked warily at the vampire who filled it. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “No, Mr. Sullivan,” said Connor, scowling at his companion. Green-eyed Elisa, just as wily as he was, stuck out her tongue at Connor, then batted her eyelashes at her father. “He took my sword,” she said in a small, soft voice she knew was guaranteed to get her way. “And he won’t give it back.” “Son, did you take her sword?” They turned again, saw a tall man at the other end of the hallway. “No, Dad,” Connor said as his father walked toward him. Connor held out the sword and let Elisa take it back, but scowled when she stuck her tongue out at him. Again. She is so spoiled, he thought.</div></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 250px;">
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</p><p>My Thoughts</p><div style="text-align: left;">The only natural born vampire, Elisa Sullivan, has found her way back home.</div><div style="text-align: left;">While doing her required service to the French vampiric, House Dumas.</div><div style="text-align: left;">If only one could say that said homecoming was a peaceful one.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But between the meeting of the international vampire delegation. The murder of one of the delegates in the backyard of Calduggian House. A.k.a. Her family's estate. And one of her childhood friend's pack mates under suspicion and jailed for said murder. Peaceful is not and will never be part of this visit's equation.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Chloe Neill's first offering in this spin-off to the Chicagoland Vampire series.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Wild Hunger offers readers the same intelligent, well written, action packed, edgy, urban fantasy, that still serves to make its predecessor A hallmark of the genre.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPNftHAiPfHw5jZA9zV0nojOmk2LtkRspnUuDUjtB7RCUHn4a2HompyVv3eJ6Hv83PdvuVwaUT4tER0eGSIl7E5A5orDF_Pis-N0VjKqdGZmbBHQKnjxBg4SJqoJcCsSHLTT8talOgJOoAaYU1hOsNOz4VsiGNuQ0ptdFjJVZTLPsdjOVqtCwV9xf/s320/5%20Star.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPNftHAiPfHw5jZA9zV0nojOmk2LtkRspnUuDUjtB7RCUHn4a2HompyVv3eJ6Hv83PdvuVwaUT4tER0eGSIl7E5A5orDF_Pis-N0VjKqdGZmbBHQKnjxBg4SJqoJcCsSHLTT8talOgJOoAaYU1hOsNOz4VsiGNuQ0ptdFjJVZTLPsdjOVqtCwV9xf/s1600/5%20Star.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And if the mystery of the dead delegate is not enough. There are many other questions, both political and personal that plaque Eliza, her family, her childhood friend, Connor Keene, and his pack.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is a wonderful and perfectly written first offering. Leading flawlessly into book two. And the ever deepening bond between Connor and Eliza.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Wild Hunger is the first offering in the interrelated Heirs Of Chicagoland series.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It may be read as a standalone or as part of its intended collection.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEERQAMnQe5dfea6m9Rs-tJLL4AZhU4G8yKIbTohnon-hFmsx0xqGHz03mE4xF1MkcTgUyf9DEsu33ih0LWBzpqQDIGYms56fgAQ4GTl8U_dsD7XdFxwrB_A23o7SCJfY-nBIbZMq1v3OBsrG0bKgp-aCDp1FOx4MuZ-3tdhhTDG5hI7iKcQKEN5xe/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEERQAMnQe5dfea6m9Rs-tJLL4AZhU4G8yKIbTohnon-hFmsx0xqGHz03mE4xF1MkcTgUyf9DEsu33ih0LWBzpqQDIGYms56fgAQ4GTl8U_dsD7XdFxwrB_A23o7SCJfY-nBIbZMq1v3OBsrG0bKgp-aCDp1FOx4MuZ-3tdhhTDG5hI7iKcQKEN5xe/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">About Chloe</div>Chloe Neill is the New York Times bestselling author of the Heirs of Chicagoland, Chicagoland Vampires Novels, Devil's Isle Novels, and Dark Elite novels. Chloe was born and raised in the South, but now makes her home in the Midwest. When she's not writing, she bakes, works, and scours the Internet for good recipes and great graphic design. Chloe also maintains her sanity by spending time with her boys--her husband and their dogs, Baxter and Scout.<br /><br />Connect with Chloe at <a href="http://www.chloeneill.com/">www.chloeneill.com</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Buy The Book Here.</div><br />
<center>https://amzn.to/3SgL4Ma</center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-3637626385495550842022-08-02T08:42:00.000-04:002022-08-02T08:42:45.447-04:00Meaningful Connections And Near Missed Second Chances Make For A Not So Comfortable Stay At "The Forever Farmhouse"<div id="descriptionContainer">
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<i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1X-6QOJMkB6W_2_vwGplGWOz3tO7k4VtzPHrqK8RP-Roiz5PJCdKcPFZE62zvWELA5A_uKufjetmHFE5JcbGFs22SCta2xTpBM_5GM2HQSTWjJt90QbKYZX-yKhB9rN729x6VpZ_u4gyUytbY9M1BYvIOZODLn7uB-xKBpdjGsnrBXz0OXxxZEyz/s475/59804173._SY475_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="302" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1X-6QOJMkB6W_2_vwGplGWOz3tO7k4VtzPHrqK8RP-Roiz5PJCdKcPFZE62zvWELA5A_uKufjetmHFE5JcbGFs22SCta2xTpBM_5GM2HQSTWjJt90QbKYZX-yKhB9rN729x6VpZ_u4gyUytbY9M1BYvIOZODLn7uB-xKBpdjGsnrBXz0OXxxZEyz/s320/59804173._SY475_.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>Title: The Forever Farmhouse</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Series: Hometown Brothers #1</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Author: Lee Tobin McClain</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Length: 384 pages</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Publisher: HQN</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Rating: 3 Stars</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i></i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i>Expected Date of Publication: Sept. 6, 2022</i></b></span></div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"><span id="freeText13020195935541411517"><b><i><br />A Chesapeake island homecoming—and a life-changing discovery</i>
</b><br /><br />When Ryan Hastings first came to Teaberry Island, he was a
troubled teen on his last chance. He’s returning as a renowned
scientist, checking in on his widowed foster mother. But one thing
hasn’t changed—Ryan’s feelings for the girl next door whom he loved…and
left. Mellie Anderson has a son now, and a good life that Ryan believes
he’s still too damaged to share. But he knows he can help young Alfie,
who’s getting picked on at his new school.<br /><br />Mellie is grateful her
gifted son is getting extra support, and torn about where it’s coming
from. Ryan has no idea he’s Alfie’s father. No matter how valid her
reasons were, could Ryan ever understand why she didn’t tell him? But in
this close-knit community, friendship and forgiveness are always near
at hand, and forever love might be waiting just next door.</span> </div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"> </div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"> </div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"> </div><div class="readable stacked" id="description" style="right: 0px;"> </div>
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My Thoughts<span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"> </span></span></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301">Second chance romance with a very big and very inappropriate secret.</span></span><br /></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301">Check.<br />Leading man starring as the youth with a troubled past.<br />Returned
home a hero of sorts. Determined to help the foster mother who saved
him. As she is now left to cope with the sudden death of her husband.<br />Check.<br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jop7gbh51uVAbWdeZGViRVh6-ncqz07LvTv3UKqr2CYOV_-UnQNdCJWUoqs9j7HixHhtrlKbYKB-Sr0zfz0Vnzyru1hUwnTwSXDW5UgfQcZq_49sO_3twGDl_KkSr4wFK9KqdvY07Oal6mxnnReLS7npuGUF-IDX1owHX0-xpZT8UdfVKkGmzGSR/s320/3pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jop7gbh51uVAbWdeZGViRVh6-ncqz07LvTv3UKqr2CYOV_-UnQNdCJWUoqs9j7HixHhtrlKbYKB-Sr0zfz0Vnzyru1hUwnTwSXDW5UgfQcZq_49sO_3twGDl_KkSr4wFK9KqdvY07Oal6mxnnReLS7npuGUF-IDX1owHX0-xpZT8UdfVKkGmzGSR/s1600/3pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><br />Hometown girl reappearing always just a little too close for comfort.<br />Check.<br />Annoying allusions to secrets too many times to count.<br />When said secret is as obvious as the plot to a Hallmark movie.<br /><br />That is what we have here in a nutshell with Ryan and the gang.<br />This is a likeable read for the most part. <br />The main plot device of the secret is what proves the biggest downside to the story.<br />It
deviates so much of the story away from romance, bonding, family, and
second chances. That by the time that the fallout from said unnecessary
secret has been dealt with. The HEA has been religated to a mere
afterthought.<br /><br />Thanks to Netgalley and Mira for providing the review copy upon which this critique was based.<br />All opinions herein are those of WTF Are You Reading?</span></span><p></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6swmIZbIqY5r1RvhfDkr3-0znFoktqCPaa2v_Qf3jR8b4_CwIH_eL1dLBFHxX-qo0h-RjNK7OhI1sMln1KSOxJje6lC77xJIj4tJOeUzPOz1iRoe5S9zTPB4vNnFX58MlVxp-zFq-866Ivqqk-gvc4iYBG47L0mYbhQMt6czhCDUd5T4i0ERUg81g/s320/WTF%20Banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6swmIZbIqY5r1RvhfDkr3-0znFoktqCPaa2v_Qf3jR8b4_CwIH_eL1dLBFHxX-qo0h-RjNK7OhI1sMln1KSOxJje6lC77xJIj4tJOeUzPOz1iRoe5S9zTPB4vNnFX58MlVxp-zFq-866Ivqqk-gvc4iYBG47L0mYbhQMt6czhCDUd5T4i0ERUg81g/s1600/WTF%20Banner.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301">About Lee</span></span></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4Rvr9gKJIPgSK6QnKrIYHkpSNGp_j1O0oNbC0DECC62csq7BV27cVt3nbaAMhdItGG4xu0NBBXEbDJ6k1Sh5BnELKqiehglERiWjn3XEBriyLMynDeleZR5WjHtOMBxW_j15I0aeApVvpGfAOKrw06wM97UwlVyLhB142xz-yOUzFy4v0FyZBEUa/s933/8585094.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="622" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4Rvr9gKJIPgSK6QnKrIYHkpSNGp_j1O0oNbC0DECC62csq7BV27cVt3nbaAMhdItGG4xu0NBBXEbDJ6k1Sh5BnELKqiehglERiWjn3XEBriyLMynDeleZR5WjHtOMBxW_j15I0aeApVvpGfAOKrw06wM97UwlVyLhB142xz-yOUzFy4v0FyZBEUa/s320/8585094.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></span></div><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><span id="freeTextauthor8585094">New York Times bestselling author of emotional, heartwarming romances. Visit <a href="http://www.leetobinmcclain.com" rel="noopener nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.leetobinmcclain.com</a> to join newsletter, get book release details, and find out more.</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span class="readable reviewText"><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><span id="freeTextauthor8585094"> </span></span><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"><span id="freeTextauthor8585094">Buy The Book Here:</span></span><span id="freeTextreview4792433301"> <br /></span></span></p>
<center><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forever-Farmhouse-Hometown-Brothers-Book-ebook/dp/B09NGWKTVQ?adid=082VK13VJJCZTQYGWWCZ&campaign=211041&keywords=The+Forever+Farmhouse&qid=1655951160&s=books&sr=1-1&linkCode=li2&tag=wtaryore-20&linkId=99cf92513cdd8eca125327a727ba44b4&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B09NGWKTVQ&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=wtaryore-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=wtaryore-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B09NGWKTVQ" style="border: medium none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /></center>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8918328620535213415.post-20577628390898881862022-07-13T07:59:00.001-04:002022-07-13T08:02:22.917-04:00Find Out Just How Free The Truth Can Make You "Nothing But The Truth"
<span id="freeText3108818497569762866" style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbO-bVNx3Jc_A-ilAwGE9-k-vXQQQWmaI9nV4QIZXn5Wfp0rf6Bffqr3dICeRDbn1JbVZRkogmqeiM_OQV9MNB6fKGjb66jbsFlptPuL45p5ZTc5Buy10NEQ64zsbTXhWOp5Ubp4HD1MbA-6131aT-73wgw_V55vL8_erQ-gOWxM8VcJjh55P2nzG/s1500/59447597.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbO-bVNx3Jc_A-ilAwGE9-k-vXQQQWmaI9nV4QIZXn5Wfp0rf6Bffqr3dICeRDbn1JbVZRkogmqeiM_OQV9MNB6fKGjb66jbsFlptPuL45p5ZTc5Buy10NEQ64zsbTXhWOp5Ubp4HD1MbA-6131aT-73wgw_V55vL8_erQ-gOWxM8VcJjh55P2nzG/s320/59447597.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Title: Nothing But The Truth</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;">Author: </span><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;">Holly</span><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"> James</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">Format: Kindle ARC</span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">Length: 304 pages</span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">Publisher: Dutton</span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">Expected Publication Date: July 12, 2022</span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">Rating: 4 Stars</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />In this sparkling, page-turning debut, Lucy Green learns that when you make a wish, you can’t always get what you want…but you might just get what you need.<br /><br />It’s the eve of Hollywood publicist Lucy Green’s thirtieth birthday, a day she hopes will bring the promotion she deserves and a proposal from her boyfriend. But he stands her up for a date, not for the first time, leaving Lucy alone at the bar—or at least, alone with the handsome bartender on the other side of the counter—so she makes a rueful wish over her cocktail for a perfect birthday. But when Lucy’s wish is granted in the most unexpected way, things go terribly awry, as things often do when wishes come true….<br /><br />When Lucy wakes up on her big day, she can’t seem to force herself to go through her rigorous fitness and beauty routines—things she usually tells herself she likes. She has no desire to eat only a spoonful of yogurt for breakfast and she simply can’t bear to put on the uncomfortable shapewear needed for the power outfit she had planned for work.<br /><br />When Lucy arrives at the office, she realizes that not only can she no longer lie to herself, she can’t lie to anyone else, either. Not her clients, not her boyfriend, not her creep of a boss. Now that she can’t hide how she feels, Lucy must confront all the injustices—small and large—she’s faced on a daily basis at work, in her relationship, and in every other aspect of her life...and the truth is going to come out in a big way.<br /><br />This sharp, bighearted, and magical novel tackles all the lies women are encouraged to tell just to get by in today’s world—in life, in love, and in the workplace—and the liberation that can come from telling nothing but the truth.</span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"> </span><div><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Please enjoy this excerpt from Holly James</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing But The Truth</span></b></i></span></div>
<center><blockquote style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></a><div style="height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;"><a><br /></a><div style="text-align: start;"><a></a><a style="text-align: left;"><div style="display: inline; height: 300px; overflow: auto; width: 400px;">Lucy Green stood on a precipice. Really, she sat on a barstool contemplating her drink while she waited for her boyfriend, Caleb, who was working late again. If he didn’t cancel altogether, they’d order another round, talk about their routine days, go back to his place and have mediocre sex, and she’d fall asleep listening to him grind his teeth because he refused to wear a mouth guard. And that would be how she spent the final night of her twenties. But it was fine. She was fine. Everything was fine. “Would you like something different?” the bartender asked her. “Hmm?” She looked up and found a handsome face hovering before her. She’d paid no attention to him when she came in, ordered her drink, and immediately proceeded to check her email, because it had been twenty minutes since she left her office and literally anything could have happened in the world of celebrity publicity. He looked like most bartenders in L.A.: tall, chiseled, probably an actor. Except in place of vain indifference was an interested warmth that made Lucy sit up and pay attention. He wadded a rag in his big hands then pointed to her glass. “Your drink. You don’t seem to be enjoying it. Would you like something else?” She looked down at her martini and saw two olives staring back at her like skewered eyeballs. Her boss, Joanna, favored the drink, and Lucy found herself aspiring to such sophistication. “I like it just fine, thanks.” He snorted a laugh. “That’s a lie. You’ve taken two sips.” He leaned in and whispered like he was telling her a secret. “And I make really good martinis.”</div></a></div></div></blockquote></center>
</div><div><br /></div>My Thoughts<div><br /></div><div>This book is literally a literary version of Jim Carey's <i>Liar, Liar, </i>With a serious nod to the <i>Me Too Movement. </i></div><div><i></i>The thing that keeps the pages turning during the course of this read?</div><div>Seeing the honesty with which Lucy is forced by her inability to lie; to live her life.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2o8O75YOr-Q6iSjGSdN9sVCV1EZsuJPrVQ2j6FtuOHqc2PZfe17n1pdYKxpdZymzT7Uyqz6l4vSt7l7uRVhU734b5aO21QUa0yaY1pkz5ik0G9HfRkv3Fl3ONfdJYb7ADU2I3JBMcdy9-p-1J8PvJBefNUU58WhLXM0O3y628P49G04qFdcEG4dg/s320/4pages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="320" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2o8O75YOr-Q6iSjGSdN9sVCV1EZsuJPrVQ2j6FtuOHqc2PZfe17n1pdYKxpdZymzT7Uyqz6l4vSt7l7uRVhU734b5aO21QUa0yaY1pkz5ik0G9HfRkv3Fl3ONfdJYb7ADU2I3JBMcdy9-p-1J8PvJBefNUU58WhLXM0O3y628P49G04qFdcEG4dg/s1600/4pages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Whether its the expectations of her overbearing mother. Or living up to the perfectly polished image that she is expected to maintain as part of her career as a publicist.</div><div>Lucy's honesty causes her to break with convention at every turn. Resulting in some cases in her not only rocking the proverbial boat. But in most cases, turning the damn thing completely over.</div><div>Which is all well and good.</div><div>But when all this occurs on the day when she is expected to collar the biggest client of her career. After being inappropriately propositioned by the male CEO of her firm.</div><div>And ohhh...</div><div>I think I may have forgotten to mention the totally <i>Meet Cute </i>romance between Lucy and a certain hunky bartender.</div><div>A wrinkle in a seemingly universally orchestrated plan. Which goes on to make for absolutely heart melting HEA action in later pages.</div><div><br /></div><div>The standout wow factor that makes reading this book a must...</div><div>The bird's eye view that readers are given into the societal expectations that are so flippantly placed upon women.</div><div>But to which we are expected to unerringly adhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>Marriage, baby, career, and home all achieved between the ages of 30 and 40. ( As Lucy kept being reminded by her mother.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The dress code of almost fashion week perfection that the employees of her company seem doggedly bound to. Even though it is quite clear in most cases. That they are uncomfortable. (As is remarked upon ad nauseam when Lucy dare to wear a simple maxi dress to work.)</div><div><br /></div><div>And most notably. The ease and assured secrecy with which Lucy's predatory boss approaches her for sexual favors in exchange for a promotion.</div><div>(Which speaks to institutionalized abuse.)</div><div>While it is true that great strides have and are being made to free woman from the double standards of such abuse and convention. It is quite clear that the fairer sex still has quite a road ahead before being well and truly out of these most treacherous of woods.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a wonderful standalone, David and Goliathesque fight to be happy in her own skin, her life, and ultimately her own world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reviewer's Note</div><div>WTF Are You Reading would like to thank Netgalley and Dutton for the review copy on which this honest critique is based.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAhxml-VxP8AxSUgUV-oiSQ6KZMjl_fWQ0rf0_wdaCplMiuJ6FLYiOFKTO-S8AUEcQsaujkExLILdqLyfsz7SCjxHMhYtK2wCC1Raa-V7vkFoSg4Fm8FDHMH-PjUaoDI-cedlRQkHNn7mKpcaTYKc7zUXHsWUBGg0TdXHfQAE7a46jEvIwreOPgxJ/s320/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="106" data-original-width="320" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAhxml-VxP8AxSUgUV-oiSQ6KZMjl_fWQ0rf0_wdaCplMiuJ6FLYiOFKTO-S8AUEcQsaujkExLILdqLyfsz7SCjxHMhYtK2wCC1Raa-V7vkFoSg4Fm8FDHMH-PjUaoDI-cedlRQkHNn7mKpcaTYKc7zUXHsWUBGg0TdXHfQAE7a46jEvIwreOPgxJ/s1600/E4AB14A2F65ECF1B651D8578060427A0.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About Holly</div><div><span style="background-color: wite; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Holly James holds a PhD in psychology and spent many years studying stress and physiology in a lab. She has worked in academic and medical settings and currently works in the tech industry. She lives in Southern California.</span></div><div><br /></div></div>WTF Are You Readinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741405930169183669noreply@blogger.com1