Spotlight: Everything He Wants by Lisa Hughey

Everything He Wants: Billionaire Breakfast Club: The Jock A #MeetCute Romance
Lisa Hughey
(Billionaire Breakfast Club, #1)
Publication date: February 13th 2018
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Boy Meets Girl. It’s the way romances usually begin…and while we all love a happy ending, it’s the #meetcute that wins our hearts.

Everything He Wants (Billionaire Breakfast Club #1 The Jock) A #meetcute romance

Their friends set up an interview, it was supposed to be simple….

D’Andre Smith has it all.

Fame. Money. Women. On the outside, his life looks perfect. But he’s got a secret that could destroy it all, so the last woman he should get involved with is a reporter.

Elise Putnam is searching for a scoop to scoop all scoops to prove her investigative chops, so the last thing she should do is get involved with an interview subject.

Their instant attraction has the potential to develop into something more if D opens his heart and Elise opens her mind. But their ingrained desire to protect their secrets may be stronger than their love….

Everything He Wants is the first book in the Billionaire Breakfast Club series. Seven strangers-with nothing in common except the desire to succeed-discover true love….

Everything He Wants: D’Andre and Elise

She Feels Like Home: Peter and Brittanica

His Dirty Little Secret: Jay and Courtney

This is the first installment in a new contemporary romance series, Billionaire Breakfast Club, by Lisa Hughey. Seven strangers (with nothing in common except a desire to succeed) discover true love…

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EXCERPT:

Everything He Wants is the first book in my new series, The Billionaire Breakfast Club. The BBC is a group of seven very different friends who meet when they are young and (mostly) poor, but with dreams of one day becoming billionaires. Now they are all on the cusp of realizing their success goals, but suddenly wealth and fame don’t seem so shiny anymore. Can they learn that love is the greatest fortune of all?
Spring 2008, Cambridge, Massachusetts

D’Andre glanced around guiltily.

It was pretty much impossible to be inconspicuous as a six-four black kid while he snuck out of the Young Entrepreneur seminar, but he managed to slide out a side door as the speaker’s attention was snagged by some girl in the front row who raised her hand every five minutes.

His head hurt.

Yeah, he’d promised his mother but even this dumb football jock knew that the guy at the podium was no longer on the cutting edge. He was taking about venture tactics that might have worked when D was in elementary school but the world moved at a crazy pace.

He nodded sharply to a Hispanic kid who sat on a bench outside the closely guarded lecture hall. Something about the guy struck D as dejected but you’d never know it from looking at him.

The kid stared at D’s badge then sighed and stood.

A perfectly-groomed blond guy with shiny hair and the requisite country club attire of a navy blazer and tan khakis eased out a different side door. Huh, Richie Moneybags was cutting out too. He stopped when he saw D, then gave him a chin lift and a conspiratorial grin.

“I’m heading over to the diner across the street. Wanna come?” He was purposely slurring his words together, but even with the attempt to be ghetto, the prep school diction came through.

“Dude, that was lame.” Some surfer guy sauntered up to them as the entire lecture hall came streaming out of auditorium for a scheduled potty break. He held out his fist and waited for a fist bump. “Duke.”

D obliged. “D’Andre.”

“You are a beast.” Surfer Duke wore a suit and tie but his hair was silvery gold from salt water and he had mixed heritage olive skin with a killer tan.

“Jay.” Preppy boy nodded at them both.

Jay’s princess counterpart, the perfect preppy girl, bounced up to their little group. “Fabulous!” She clapped. “Let’s go.” She smiled at them all.

“This is Tracy,” the prince said. They made a flawless couple like a prep school Ken and Barbie.

They all walked out together. D noted that the Hispanic kid trailed behind them.

When they entered the diner, a skinny little Asian kid sat at the largest table in the place, one of those with a booth and a weird circle banquette type thing and a chair on the end. His tag hung around his scrawny neck, and D had the random thought that he could crush the guy with one hand behind his back. But Tracy walked straight up to him and smiled. “Hi.”

The kid blinked. “Uh, hi?”

“Can we sit with you? We’re from the same seminar. We also decided we’d be better off trading ideas than sitting through more of that lecture.”

“Sure?”

“Great!” She slid into the booth and basically herded him into the corner.

No way was D squeezing into that sitting area.

He grabbed the lone chair, turned it around and straddled it.

The Hispanic kid had followed, except now that he was closer D could see the guy was older than him and the golden kids.

“Peter Nguyen.” The Asian kid chattered nervously, “I’m at Harvard. Graduated number one in my class but I’m already a junior because I took a billion AP classes.” He paused, looked at everyone as if waiting for them to list their academic prowess. “Not really a billion, of course. I was attempting to be relevant. But clearly I’ve failed at social interaction.”

And after that, everyone else said their names again with no mention of where they went to school or what their GPA was, thank fuck.

Preppy Ken said, “Jay Hollingsworth.”

“The fourth,” the bouncy girl added.

The Hispanic kid thrust out his hand. “Diego Ramos. School of life.”

No apologies. D’s impression improved.

“Why did you come here?” D wondered.

“Read about this seminar and wanted to see if I could get in.” His posture was slightly defensive as if waiting for them to tell him to get lost.

Instead of being disgusted at his sheer balls, Hollingsworth the fourth’s mouth spread into a wide, welcoming smile. “Nice. A rule breaker. Have a seat, Diego.”

The chatty princess folded her hands in front of her and bounced on the seat. “Smart. You must be really motivated.” She wasn’t rude exactly but more like examining them all like bugs under a microscope as if they were some exotic unknown species that she wanted to study.

And maybe they were.

He’d bet that he, Nguyen, and Ramos were all foreign entities in her rarified world.

“Tracy Thayer.” She gave a little wave.

“Thayer?” Nguyen asked. “As in— ”

“Ugh, yes. That’s my family.”

Jay raised one eyebrow at Harvard boy.

“Understanding the political climate of my adoptive state is only smart.”

He probably had plenty of time to study politics since he clearly didn’t get out much.

“Let’s focus on why we’re here,” Tracy said. “Entrepreneurs in training.”

“I want to be a billionaire,” Nguyen stated quickly. “But that seminar wasn’t informative enough.”

“Me too!” Tracy said.

“Money doesn’t suck,” Jay contributed.

Diego said, “I’m going to own my own business.”

They all had large goals. No way was D going to admit that he was only here because of his mother. But as he looked around the table, he thought this band of misfits might be good friends to cultivate. And he was nothing if not friendly.

Before anyone could say anything, Nguyen blurted, “Hey, we’re like the movie The Breakfast Club.”

Five blank faces.

“The Jock, the Nerd, the Rebel,” he slid a sideways look at Diego. So the Nerd paid attention. “The Free Spirit, and the Prince—” he stopped himself before he said Princess.

“Jesus, Nguyen. Do you ever get laid?” D snarked out. Peter Nguyen was the guy he couldn’t stand. So crazy smart he looked down on everyone else.
He’d clearly hurt Peter’s feelings. But shit.

Diego shot D a look. “Chicks dig smart guys. At least, according to my friends who are also crazy smart.”

“The Breakfast Club…but the billionaire version,” Nguyen said.

“We aren’t billionaires,” D was compelled to point out.

“Yet.” Jay cocked his blond head and bared his white teeth in a cocky grin.

Of course, he was pretty much guaranteed to be a billionaire by the time he was thirty.

“Uh, the building we just bugged out of was named after your grandfather. Pretty sure you’re a shoo-in.” There went Nguyen, shooting his knowledge and showing off.

Jay flushed. “Family money doesn’t mean it’s going to come to me,” he muttered.

Still, D couldn’t even imagine that kind of money. He was seriously thinking about going into the draft in a few weeks. Then he’d be making more money than he’d ever dreamed of. He might not go in the first or second round, but it would still be insane amounts of cash. That’s why his momma wanted him to come to this seminar. He wasn’t about to be stupid with his money. But billionaire?

He’d just be happy to be able to support his momma so she could quit her jobs.

The surfer dude piped up. “Got to think big, man.”

Yeah, but even D knew that what the seminar speakers were talking about wasn’t the future. So the Emerging Young Entrepreneur Seminar was a bust.

Even though Nguyen annoyed the shit out of him, D liked his optimism. Sitting in this greasy diner, he thought maybe he’d found his tribe. They all wanted similar things. Money, fame, acknowledgement. And he personally thrived on competition.

“Money isn’t everything.” Duke, the crunchy surfer dude, practically had Berkeley pacifist student tattooed on his forehead.

They all snorted.

Duke ducked his head. “Okay, yeah, it’s important.”

Diego pushed. “How about a wager, gentlemen…and lady?”

A feminine hand with black nail polish slapped on the Formica tabletop. “I’m in.” The skinny girl from the back row with the multi-colored hair and multiple piercings tossed a smirk at Hollingsworth.

“You don’t even know what it is,” Jay argued.

“Doesn’t matter.” She shoved in next to Duke. “Name’s Courtney. And this looks like the meeting to be at instead of the lame bull they’re slinging back there.” She jerked her head toward the building they’d left.

Jay tilted his chin in the air like a complete jerk. Weird since he’d been pretty mellow and open up until this point. “We didn’t invite you.”
“Oh, really. Who made you the head of this band of brothers?”

“And sister!” Tracy piped up, watching the back and forth avidly.

D tuned out Jay and Courtney as they bickered.

What could they wager?

“Guys, what’s the wager?” Courtney kicked him under the table.

Diego said, “Okay, okay, first person to make their first million buys breakfast for everyone.”

They looked around the table at each other, blinking, nodding.

“We need a name,” Tracy bounced again, such perky, slightly annoying cheerfulness. “First rule of marketing is to create and stick to your brand.”

“Billionaire Breakfast Club,” Nguyen said stubbornly.

Billionaire. D had to admit, the idea was growing on him. He loved the sound of that. As he glanced around the table, the name was already sticking with everyone.

“All those in favor say, aye.”

The chorus of Ayes was robust.

Everyone put their hand in the middle and bumped fists.

And the Billionaire Breakfast Club was formed.


Author Bio:

USA Today Bestselling Author Lisa Hughey has been writing romance since the fourth grade, which was also about the time she began her love affair with spies. Harriet and Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys later gave way to James Bond and Lara Croft and Jason Bourne.

Exploring the complex nature of a profession that requires subterfuge and lies fascinates her. She loves combining her two passions into fiction. As evidenced by her Black Cipher Files series.

Archangel Rafe was her first foray into the paranormal but after spending time in the Angelic Realm, it won't be her last. At their heart, the Seven novels are about the dynamics of family relationships. But the really hot Archangels don't hurt.

And recently she's been immersed in the Stone Family novellas, four stories about a blended family of brothers and sister who have a lot more in common than they realize. But of course she couldn't just write about family and romance. There are complex plots, bad guys, and suspense too.

Lisa loves to hear from readers and has various places you can connect with her, although, shh, Twitter is her favorite.

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Spotlight: The Truthseeker by Heidi Catherine

The Truthseeker
Heidi Catherine
(The Soulweaver Series, #2)
Publication date: March 19th 2018
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Can she learn to forgive before her time runs out again? Or will the truth destroy her?

Maari doesn’t care that Nax is an outcast. She’s drawn to him in a way she can’t explain, determined to teach him to embrace the strange world they live in. But just as his heart opens wide, a force greater than them threatens to tear them apart.

Nax and Maari travel to the depths of the ocean to visit an old woman known as the Truthseeker. She unravels the mystery behind their connection, and warns them to run as far away from each other as they can. But staying away isn’t possible when you’ve found the person who brings your soul to life.

Far away, two sisters are born into extreme poverty, quickly discovering the key to their survival is their strength together. It isn’t until one sister threatens to steal away the love of the other that their bond shatters, and a true struggle for survival begins.

As these two stories merge into one, we learn that when soulmates meet, there’s nothing that can keep them apart. Except love.

The Truthseeker is the stunning continuation of The Soulweaver, winner of Romance Writers of Australia’s Emerald Pro award.

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Sequel to:

EXCERPT:

A bony hand grabbed him on the arm and he jumped, tightening his grip on Maari.

‘Do you seek the truth?’ croaked the voice of an old woman.

The room filled with soft light and the Truthseeker began to take shape. She was small, maybe only five feet in height. Her back was crooked and her grey hair was wild. She wore a black cloak that wrapped around her shoulders and fell to the floor.

‘No,’ he said, trying to pull away. He wanted to get as far away from here as possible. But the Truthseeker’s grip was firm.

‘I seek the truth,’ said Maari, fire burning in her eyes. The Truthseeker let go of Nax’s arm and turned away, sliding herself through the interior door.

‘Are you sure?’ Nax whispered. Maybe the others who’d come before them were right. Sometimes the truth is better left undisturbed. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Maari looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. She turned and slid through the door behind the Truthseeker. He went to follow her, but the door was sealed. He pulled at the rubber flaps, but they were sealed tight. He couldn’t get through.

‘Maari,’ he cried.

What was going on in there? The room plunged into darkness and he sank to the floor, shaking with rage, fear and cold. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited. He wouldn’t leave without her. He’d die here if he had to. Was this why the woman in his dreams had warned him to stay away from her? Had she known Maari would lead him into danger? Still, he didn’t care. He couldn’t leave her. His spirit was bound to hers.

The seconds ticked by as minutes. The minutes passed as hours. He waited. Would he ever see Maari again?

He kept his eyes focused in the direction of the door, waiting for her to emerge. It didn’t matter. His eyes may as well have been closed for all they could see.

A noise startled him and he stood, feeling the seal of the door with his fingertips. The cold rubber became soft skin. It was Maari.

‘Are you okay?’ he said, pulling her into his arms. She didn’t wrap herself into his embrace as he expected. She felt stiff. Uncomfortable.

‘What happened?’ he asked, wishing for a sliver of light so he could see her face.

Author Bio:

Heidi’s debut novel, The Soulweaver, won Romance Writers of Australia’s Emerald Pro award and will be released by Crooked Cat Books on 19 Jan 2018.

Not being able to decide if she prefers living in Melbourne or the Mornington Peninsula, Heidi shares her time between both places. She is similarly pulled in opposing directions by her two sons and two dogs, remaining thankful she only has one husband.

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Cover Reveal: Ride With Me by Ashley Hastings

Ride With me

by Ashley Hastings Publication Date: April 5, 2018 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A bad boy cop and a straight-laced student are about to go on the ride of their lives… He’s the law, but she’s the one making the rules. Graduate student Lucy wants order and predictability in her life. She always has a list to consult and a plan to execute. Police officer Grayson wants to chase skirts and live free. He isn’t interested in being tied to one woman. Until he meets her. Lucy agrees to do ride alongs with Grayson as part of her thesis project, and all Grayson wants to do is handcuff her to his bed for a life sentence. Lucy isn’t so sure that Grayson fits her life plan. Can Lucy resist Grayson’s arresting personality, or will Grayson be able to plead his case and make her his?

About Ashley Hastings

Ashley Hastings lives with a menagerie of animals, and one day aspires to be a crazy, old cat lady. She has a starter set of three cats right now. Ashley likes to take long walks each day while she dreams about what her characters will do in the future, and is already hard at work on her next novel.

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Read an excerpt from Nantucket Wedding by Nancy Thayer

Wedding bells are ringing, a family is reunited, and new love is blooming—for better or worse—in this captivating novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Island House and Secrets in Summer.

A few years after losing her beloved husband, Alison is doing something she never thought she would do again: getting married. While placing the finishing touches on her summer nuptials, Alison is anxious to introduce her fiancé, David, to her grown daughters: Felicity, a worried married mother of two, and Jane, also married but focused on her career. The sisters have a somewhat distant relationship and Alison hopes that the wedding and the weeks leading up to the ceremony will give the siblings a chance to reconnect, as well as meet and get to know David’s grown children.

As the summer progresses, it is anything but smooth sailing. Felicity stumbles upon a terrible secret that could shatter her carefully cultivated world. Jane finds herself under the spell of her soon-to-be stepbrother, Ethan, who is as charming as he is mysterious. And even Alison is surprised (and slightly alarmed) by her new blended family. Revelations, intrigue, resentments—as the Big Day approaches, will the promise of bliss be a bust?
      
Against the gorgeous backdrop of the sunswept island of Nantucket, Nancy Thayer sets the stage for a walk down the aisle no one will ever forget.

Excerpt

one

Alison had no trouble spotting her younger daughter in the crowd milling around the ferry’s blue luggage racks. Felicity was the one who looked like an 1890s Irish peasant. She wore a flowing skirt undoubtedly made from an Indian bedspread, a lace blouse, a brightly colored shawl, and Birkenstock sandals. And dangling beaded earrings and maybe a dozen multicolored bracelets. And a backpack made out of what looked like corn husks.

Even so, she was lovely. Her dark blond hair tumbled down her back and her sweet face was heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Mom!” Felicity embraced Alison tightly, swiftly, then drew back and did a little dance. “Can you believe it? Look, Ma, no kids!” Felicity laughed. “I’m awful, aren’t I, but you know I’ve never been away from them for three days. I’m not sure I can walk without holding someone’s hand.”

“Hold my hand,” Alison suggested and led her daughter to her SUV. “Do you have luggage on the rack?”

“No, I’ve got everything in my backpack. Clean underpants, a toothbrush, and a bathing suit.”

Alison opened the hatch so Felicity could stow her backpack, and then they buckled themselves in and headed for David’s house. “How was the trip?”

“Oh, Mom, it was divine.”

Alison had worried when Felicity said she was taking the slow ferry, which took two and a quarter hours to cross Nantucket Sound. The fast ferries took only an hour but cost more. Alison assumed it was a matter of expense. Noah kept Felicity on a limited budget, which was why Felicity’s clothes were all from thrift stores, which Alison knew was her daughter’s preferred way to shop. Felicity was a great believer in resisting the powerful draw of consumerism. If Felicity’s half-­sister, Jane, ever had children, she’d probably dress them in Chanel, but Jane swore she was never having children.

In the passenger seat beside her, Felicity was in full flood. “. . . so I bought a beer—­a beer! In the middle of the day! And took it to the upper deck, outside, and settled in one of the seats looking out to sea. I leaned my head back and soaked in the sun. It was so heavenly, so peaceful.” Felicity burst into laughter. “And, Mom, a guy tried to pick me up! Seriously—­and I think he was just out of college. I couldn’t tell him I’m an old married woman with two kids, I was afraid it would embarrass him.”

Alison glanced over at her daughter. “Well, Felicity, you are only twenty-­eight. And with your gorgeous hair, and, um, the way you dress, you look like a college student yourself.”

“Mom, you’re crazy. I have bags under my eyes and I’ve gotten all pudgy. Still, it was so sweet, talking to this guy. Okay, flirting with this guy. He wants to get together for a drink tonight, but I said I was here to visit my sick mother. I’m sorry, I don’t want you to be sick, but I needed to pretend this visit was a real crisis so I couldn’t possibly get away.” Felicity laughed again. “How’s Jane? Is she here yet? Did she come by private jet?”

“Stop it. Jane is flying but not by private jet. She said she’ll rent a car and drive to David’s house.”

“Oh, good. I didn’t bring my laptop or even a pad of paper, because I’m sure Jane brought hers, so when we plan your wedding, she’ll keep a list of what we have to do.”

“It won’t be all wedding talk. It’s going to be such a treat, having both of you together again.”

“Yes, because it was always a pleasure before,” Felicity muttered and automatically apologized. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be snarky. But it’s strange, don’t you think, how different I am from Jane? Maybe it’s nurture, but I blame it on nature. I mean, Alice is seven now, and actually? She’s so much like Jane. She needs a lot of private space. I think it’s hard on her, having to share a room with Luke—­”

“But, Felicity,” Alison protested, “your house is enormous. You have four bedrooms.”

“I know, but Noah thinks the kids will bond better if they sleep in the same room. Also, he doesn’t want them to be spoiled when so many children in the world hardly even have houses.”

Alison wanted to ask why it was, then, that Noah had purchased such a huge house. The cathedral ceiling in the living room held a fourteen-­foot evergreen at Christmas; Noah had to climb a ladder to decorate it. But she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to be disapproving before they even arrived home.

“Alice is bossy,” Felicity was saying, “and Luke, well, Luke is a maniac. So much energy!” She sagged, fake-­pouting. “I miss those little guys already.” Immediately she rallied, smiling at Alison. “But this is going to be so much fun! The three of us together again. Oh, my gosh!”

Alison laughed at her daughter’s enthusiasm. She steered the Jeep between tall rose of Sharon bushes and up David’s white shell driveway, and there, in front of the house, stood Jane, leaning against her rented dark green Mini Cooper convertible. She wore a lightweight gray silk pantsuit and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. On the ground next to her were a small Hermès suitcase, her purse, and her briefcase. Her briefcase? For two nights and a day and a half on Nantucket?

“Jane! You’re here!” Felicity jumped out of the Jeep, raced over to Jane, and clutched her in a rib-­breaking bear hug. Jane wrapped her arms around her sister and rolled her eyes at Alison over Felicity’s shoulder.

“It’s real. The three of us are really here together!” Felicity crowed. “And look at this house! Wow, Mom.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? Wait till you see the view.” Alison held the door open. “Come in. Look around. Go upstairs and choose any bedroom you want—­except the master bedroom, of course. I’ll pour some iced tea.”

“Do we need snacks?” Felicity asked, talking more to herself than to the others. “Probably not, we don’t want to spoil dinner and I did have that bag of Fritos on the boat. Oh, man, it is outrageously satisfying to eat Fritos without the children fighting for them or Noah acting like I’m eating toxic chemicals.”

“I’ll bring out a bowl of grapes,” Alison said.

She leaned against the refrigerator, eyes closed, just listening to her two daughters chatting away as they went up the stairs. It had been a long time since the three of them had been together like this, and she wondered if they could make it through this weekend without some spat or disagreement and hurt feelings. When Alison looked at her grown, capable daughters, it was as if she were seeing living Russian matryoshka dolls, the façade holding a memory of each stage of their development, down to the smallest, youngest infant, still residing within.

Her girls had never been close, and Alison felt responsible for that. True, they did have different fathers. Alison was married to Flint when she had Jane—­she’d married Flint because she was pregnant with Jane.

Jane had always been a loner, a reader, a prickly little perfectionist with her straight brown hair held back with a headband. Her arguing abilities were astonishing; no wonder she became a lawyer. She was always a levelheaded, straight-­A student, never once crashing the car when she learned to drive (Felicity had dented it a few times), and—­as far as Alison had ever known—­never once falling into the depths of a tumultuous adolescent love affair. It wasn’t that guys didn’t pursue Jane. She was attractive, but aloof. Elegant. She was tall, lean, with naturally arched black velvet eyebrows over her hazel eyes. She was smart, no genius, but ambitious and hardworking enough to make all As and get accepted to Harvard and then Harvard Law.

Four years younger than Jane, Felicity was the adored daughter of Alison’s second husband, Mark. Mark had tried not to show any preference in his treatment of the girls, and he’d succeeded. If anything, he let Jane have her way far too often. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes softened when he looked at Felicity, who had the blue eyes and blond hair of the LaCosta family.

Felicity, Alison had to admit, was adorable. From the moment she’d toddled across the floor, babbling with glee, Felicity was happy and friendly and girly and sweet. As she entered her teens, she chose lace and ruffles, pale pink and baby blue, short flippy skirts, and multicolored friendship bracelets (which she and her friends made themselves, of course). In high school, she’d had lots of friends. And boyfriends. Felicity had been the drum majorette for her high school’s marching band. She’d been prom queen her senior year. She’d attended the University of Vermont, married Noah right after graduation, had two babies, and become what Jane sometimes called “the little wifey.”

Now Jane was a lawyer in New York, and so was her husband, Scott, although they worked for separate firms. They rented an upscale apartment on West Sixty-­Fifth and went backpacking in Costa Rica and river rafting in Utah. Their lives were crazy busy and stressful and completely adult. Alison wasn’t sure how she felt about Scott. He was so quiet, restrained, locked up. He was probably perfect for Jane.

Alison wasn’t sure how she felt about Felicity’s husband, Noah, either. Noah was an idealistic man, brilliant and ambitious. Straight out of college, he’d started a company selling organic drinks with catchy, healthy names. Now, Noah was trying to make “green food,” alternative protein foods made, as far as Alison could tell, basically from kale and beet juice. Alison wished him well, although she worried about the stress he carried with him and how exhausted he always seemed.

Noah and Felicity’s two gorgeous, funny, good children were the lights of Alison’s life. The children adored their father—­when they saw him, which wasn’t often, since he worked at the office late into the night and on weekends. Alison did her best to feel fond of him and to smooth Felicity’s life in little ways—­buying her a nice new SUV for driving around with her children, or taking them on a Disney vacation.

But she couldn’t wave a wand and make things perfect for Felicity; and, as David reminded her, Alison had her own life to live.

And she was living a wonderful life.

She’d never dreamed, after Mark’s death six years ago, that she would love again. Of course her love for David was quite different from her love for Mark. Mark had been the love of her life. They’d been married for nearly twenty-­five years, and after his sudden death, after the shock and the bitterness of grief, and the support of her friends and the days of mourning with her daughters, after the tedious legal work of life insurance and the will, after the months spent with other widows joining together to relearn the movements of normal existence, Alison had finally settled down like a swan without her mate, understanding that even with his loss, the nest that was her life was a lovely creation. She took a job as a receptionist for a dental group and became friends with the staff. She was busy, helpful, and grateful for each daily pleasure. She had her two daughters, her beloved grandchildren, her comfortable house, happy memories. Many friends. Many pleasures. She could go on.

And on she went, if not happily, at least gratefully, for almost six years. She hadn’t been prepared last June, when she visited a friend on Nantucket, to meet David Gladstone. The love of his life, Emma, had died after a long illness four years ago, and David had never planned to marry again. Like Alison, he had a busy, if lonely, life.

When Alison and David met, at a simple summer cocktail party, it was as if the moment they stepped out onto the patio, they boarded a train that would speed them into lives they’d never anticipated. For one thing, the first miraculous, surprising, joy-­making thing, there was the chemistry. Right from the moment their eyes met, a physical attraction reawakened them to the joys of the body. Who knew that a woman could experience adolescent sexual hunger in her fifties? Right there, in the midst of perhaps two dozen other people, men and women in light summer colors, wineglasses in hand, canapés floating by on the caterer’s trays, right there, right then, Boom! David introduced himself. Alison shook his hand. They couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Alison heard herself laughing softly in a feminine way she’d thought she’d forgotten. She practically cooed like a dove at the man.

“Would you like to leave this party and join me for dinner?” David had asked.

“Oh,” Alison had said. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

They’d departed without saying goodbye, like a pair of teenagers sneaking away from their parents. David took her to Topper’s, the poshest restaurant on an island blessed with posh restaurants, and while they feasted on lobster washed down with an icy champagne, they talked. Their conversation told them much about one another, but the hours they spent together told them more.

Excerpted from A Nantucket Wedding by Nancy Thayer. Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Thayer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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About the Author

Nancy Thayer is the New York Times bestselling author of Secrets in Summer, The Island House, The Guest Cottage, An Island Christmas, Nantucket Sisters, A Nantucket Christmas, Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, and The Hot Flash Club. She lives on Nantucket.

Read an excerpt from You Think It, I’ll Say It by Curtis Sittenfeld

A dazzling collection of short stories from the New York Times bestselling author of Prep, American Wife, and Eligible

Curtis Sittenfeld has established a reputation as a sharp chronicler of the modern age who humanizes her subjects even as she skewers them. Now, with this first collection of short fiction, her “astonishing gift for creating characters that take up residence in readers’ heads” (The Washington Post) is showcased like never before.

Throughout the ten stories in You Think It, I’ll Say It, Sittenfeld upends assumptions about class, relationships, and gender roles in a nation that feels both adrift and viscerally divided. In “The World Has Many Butterflies,” married acquaintances play a strangely intimate game with devastating consequences. In “Vox Clamantis in Deserto,” a shy Ivy League student learns the truth about a classmate’s seemingly enviable life. In “A Regular Couple,” a high-powered lawyer honeymooning with her husband is caught off guard by the appearance of the girl who tormented her in high school. And in “The Prairie Wife,” a suburban mother of two fantasizes about the downfall of an old friend whose wholesome lifestyle empire may or may not be built on a lie.

With moving insight and uncanny precision, Curtis Sittenfeld pinpoints the questionable decisions, missed connections, and sometimes extraordinary coincidences that make up a life. Indeed, she writes what we’re all thinking—if only we could express it with the wit of a master satirist, the storytelling gifts of an old-fashioned raconteur, and the vision of an American original.

Excerpt

The understanding is that, after Casey’s iPhone alarm goes off at 6:15 a.m., Kirsten wakes the boys, nudges them to get dressed, and herds them downstairs, all while Casey is showering. The four of them eat breakfast as a family, deal with teeth-brushing and backpacks, and Casey, who is the principal of the middle school in the same district as the elementary school Jack and Ian attend, drives the boys to drop-off. Kirsten then takes her shower in the newly quiet house before leaving for work.

The reality is that, at 6:17, as soon as Casey shuts the bathroom door, Kirsten grabs her own iPhone from her nightstand and looks at Lucy Headrick’s Twitter feed. Clearly, Kirsten is not alone: Lucy has 3.1 million followers. (She follows a mere five hundred and thirty-three accounts, many of which belong to fellow-celebrities.) Almost all of Lucy’s vast social-media empire, which of course is an extension of her life-style-brand empire (whatever the fuck a life-style brand is), drives Kirsten crazy. Its content is fake and pandering and boring and repetitive—how many times will Lucy post variations on the same recipe for buttermilk biscuits?—and Kirsten devours all of it, every day: Facebook and Instagram, Tumblr and Pinterest, the blog, the vlog, the TV show. Every night, Kirsten swears that she won’t devote another minute to Lucy, and every day she squanders hours. The reason that things go wrong so early in the morning, she has realized, is this: she’s pretty sure Twitter is the only place where real, actual Lucy is posting, Lucy whom Kirsten once knew. Lucy has insomnia, and, while all the other posts on all the other sites might be written by Lucy’s minions, Kirsten is certain that it was Lucy herself who, at 1:22 a.m., wrote, “Watching Splash on cable, oops I forgot to name one of my daughters Madison!” Or, at 3:14 a.m., accompanied by a photo of an organic candy bar: “Hmm could habit of eating chocolate in middle of night be part of reason I can’t sleep LOL!”

Morning, therefore, is when there’s new, genuine Lucy sustenance. So how can Kirsten resist? And then the day is Lucy-contaminated already, and there’s little incentive for Kirsten not to keep polluting it for the sixteen hours until she goes to bed with the bullshitty folksiness in Lucy’s life: the acquisition of an Alpine goat, the canning of green beans, the baby shower that Lucy is planning for her young friend Jocelyn, who lives on a neighboring farm.

As it happens, Lucy has written (or “written”? Right? There’s no way) a memoir, with recipes—“Dishin’ with the Prairie Wife”—that is being published today, so Kirsten’s latest vow is that she’ll buy the book (she tried to reserve it from the library and learned that she was three hundred and fifth in line), read it, and then be done with Lucy. Completely. Forever.

The memoir has been “embargoed”—as if Lucy is, like, Henry Kissinger—and, to promote it, Lucy travelled yesterday from her farm in Missouri to Los Angeles. (As she told Twitter, “BUMMM-PEE flyin over the mountains!!”) Today, she will appear on a hugely popular TV talk show on which she has been a guest more than once. Among last night’s tweets, posted while Kirsten was sleeping, was the following: “Omigosh you guys I’m so nervous + excited for Mariana!!! Wonder what she will ask . . .” The pseudo-nervousness, along with the “Omigosh”—never “Omigod,” or even “OMG”—galls Kirsten. Twenty years ago, Lucy swore like a normal person; but the Lucy of now, Kirsten thinks, resembles Casey, who, when their sons were younger, respectfully asked Kirsten to stop cursing in front of them. Indeed, the Lucy of now—beloved by evangelicals, homeschooler of her three daughters, wife of a man she refers to as the Stud in Overalls, who is a deacon in their church—uses such substitutes as “Jiminy Crickets!” and “Fudge Nuggets!” Once, while making a custard on-air, Lucy dropped a bit of eggshell into the mix and exclaimed, “Shnookerdookies!” Kirsten assumed that it was staged, or maybe not originally staged but definitely not edited out when it could have been. This made Kirsten feel such rage at Lucy that it was almost like lust.

Kirsten sees that, last night, Lucy, as she usually does, replied to a few dozen tweets sent to her by nobodies: Nicole in Seattle, who has thirty-one followers; Tara in Jacksonville, who’s a mom of two awesome boys. (Aren’t we all? Kirsten thinks.) Most of the fans’ tweets say some variation of “You’re so great!” or “It’s my birthday pretty please wish me a happy birthday?!” Most of Lucy’s responses say some variation of “Thank you for the kind words!” or “Happy Birthday!” Kirsten has never tweeted at Lucy; in fact, Kirsten has never tweeted. Her Twitter handle is not her name but “Minneap” plus the last three digits of her Zip Code, and, instead of uploading a photo of herself, she’s kept the generic egg avatar. She has three followers, all of whom appear to be bots.

Through the bathroom door, Kirsten can hear the shower running, and the minute that Casey turns it off—by this point, Kirsten is, as she also does daily, reading an article about how smartphones are destroying people’s ability to concentrate—she springs from bed, flicking on light switches in the master bedroom, the hall, and the boys’ rooms. When Casey appears, wet hair combed, completely dressed, and finds Ian still under the covers and Kirsten standing by his bureau, Kirsten frowns and says that both boys seem really tired this morning. Casey nods sombrely, even though it’s what Kirsten says every morning. Is Casey clueless, inordinately patient, or both?

At breakfast, Jack, who is six, asks, “Do doctors ever get sick?”

“Of course,” Casey says. “Everyone gets sick.”

While packing the boys’ lunches, Kirsten says to Ian, who is nine, “I’m giving you Oreos again today, but you need to eat your cucumber slices, and if they’re still in your lunchbox when you come home you don’t get Oreos tomorrow.”

She kisses the three of them goodbye, and as soon as the door closes, even before she climbs the stairs, Kirsten knows that she’s going to get herself off using the handheld showerhead. She doesn’t consider getting herself off using the handheld showerhead morally problematic, but it presents two logistical complications, the first of which is that, the more often she does it, the more difficult it is for Casey to bring her to orgasm on the occasions when they’re feeling ambitious enough to have sex. The second complication is that it makes her late for work. If Kirsten leaves the house at 7:45, she has a fifteen-minute drive; if she leaves at or after 7:55, the drive is twice as long. But, seriously, what else is she supposed to do with her Lucy rage?

Previously excerpted from The New Yorker. February 2017

Excerpted from You Think It, I'll Say It by Curtis Sittenfeld. Copyright © 2018 by Curtis Sittenfeld. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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About the Author

Curtis Sittenfeld is the bestselling author of the novels Prep, The Man of My Dreams, American Wife, Sisterland, and Eligible, which have been translated into twenty-five languages, as well as the forthcoming short story collection You Think It, I’ll Say It. Her nonfiction has been published widely, including in The New York Times, The Atlantic, Time, and Glamour, and broadcast on public radio’s This American Life. A native of Cincinnati, she currently lives with her family in St. Louis.

Spotlight: A Skin of a Dragon by Frances Jones



A Skin of a Dragon
by Frances Jones
Genre: YA Fantasy
Release date: March 17th 2018

Summary: 

After a chance find in a smugglers’ cave, Tom Wild is kidnapped by a stranger and whisked away to London to face a secretive and ancient group of magicians. He is presented with an agonising choice: join them and forsake his old life and family forever or face a grisly death. Tom quickly realises that all is not as it seems and that the group’s leader is engaged in a dangerous game of magic, power and war. At stake is the future of England, her King, and the very existence of magic.

Buy on Amazon! 


Chapter 1 

My mother believed I possessed the gift of foresight. I was born at the stroke of midnight under a full moon, a curious time bestowing special abilities upon newborns, or so the midwife assured my parents. Yet, despite my mother’s belief, I had no sense of the shift my life was poised to take one rainy day in mid-September 1648 as I peered into a rock pool in search of crabs. 
I wrinkled my nose and dangled my line into the water. The grey sea sloshed around the rock on which I stood, met by the rainwater that trickled down in rivulets from the cliffs above. Summer wasn’t yet a distant memory, but the storm of the previous day had been a sharp reminder that autumn had arrived. Peggy, my wiry-haired mongrel, watched the gulls scavenging amongst the rocks but had yet to summon the energy to chase them. Beside me my sister, Lizzie, shivered and looked forlornly back to the beach. 
'To think the fields were ploughed but a fortnight ago,' she muttered. 
I felt a tug on my line and lifted an enormous crab out of the rock pool, but Lizzie was distracted. She glanced up at the sky as a finger of sunlight broke through the clouds overhead.  
Zooks! Look at the sun, Tom! Mother will be starting supper.’ She grabbed her bucket of crabs and scrambled back across the rocks. ‘Don't forget the tobacco for Father,’ she called over her shoulder as she crossed the beach towards the lights that were beginning to twinkle in the windows of the cottages that made up the tiny hamlet of Osmington Mills.   
I replied with a wave as I set my bucket on a ledge out of the wind and began the slippery climb to the smugglers’ cave. It was a precarious route in wet weather, with fissures into which one could quite easily slip and become stuck, but in an hour's time the tide would be in, cutting the cave off from the beach entirely.  
The rocks were slick beneath my feet, and the drizzling rain soaked right through to my skin as I clambered from one to the next. This exposure to every extreme of weather that the Dorset coast endured had weathered my complexion into a freckled ruddiness. My usual mop of sandy curls now lay plastered against my forehead, and my eyes squinted against the rainwater that dripped from my brow. 
As I set my feet on sand once more, I stooped to pick up a small wooden box nestled between two rocks at the mouth of the cave. It was perfectly plain, cylindrical in shape, with an elaborate lock formed of tiny brass cogs, dials and pulleys, some of which were clearly missing or broken. I looked back to the beach. Only the smugglers ever came here. Perhaps it belonged to one of them- except that all the smugglers in Osmington Mills were far too careful to leave anything out in the open. There were crevices and tunnels that wound right into the heart of the cliffs where contraband was cleverly concealed from the prying eyes of the customs men. There was no need to leave anything in plain sight. Besides, the little drift of sand piled up against the box seemed to indicate it had been deposited there by the sea. 
'I bet it's from that shipwreck yesterday,' I muttered to Peggy as I tucked it under my arm and ducked into the cave. The entrance was just a few feet in height and submerged at high tide, but inside it widened and rose steadily above the tide’s reach, opening out into several passageways and crevices scooped out by the sea in ancient times. It was a perfect smugglers’ cave. 
I selected one pack of tobacco from a pile of goods stuffed into a cleft in the wall and tucked it into my belt. With the crabbing line, I lashed the box to my back. I would need both hands to scale the rocks back to the beach. 
Outside, the wind had picked up, and the drizzle was replaced with great spots of rain. Across the beach, a flicker of firelight glowed in the mouth of another smaller cave beyond a rocky outcrop.  
''Tis a fool who ventures out with a storm about to break,' I thought to myself. 
Thunder rumbled overhead, and the foamy white tips of the waves collapsed against the rocks with an intensity that had become a familiar sight over the past week. The few fishing boats that had braved the rain were now gone, safely moored in the harbour. Everyone was braced for another mighty storm. 

About the Author
Frances lives in Shropshire, England with her husband and two pet rabbits. She started writing to fill her evenings while her husband, a former Grenadier Guard in the British Army, was away. A Skin of a Dragon was inspired by the Tower of London ravens which her husband told her about after one of his guard duties at the Tower. Folklore and the history of magic are also a continual source of inspiration.

Aside from writing, Frances’ other passion is rabbits, and she spends far too much time watching videos of the furry critters online!


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