Spotlight: A Christmas Love Song by Andee Reilly

Publication date: November 8th 2021

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

He gave her a song. She gave him Christmas.

Once a huge pop star, Jake Wilder hasn’t written a hit song in over ten years. Stuck playing small-time venues where only his most dedicated fans remember him, a comeback seems improbable. But even those gigs are quickly drying up, and if Jake doesn’t do something soon, he’ll slide into permanent has-been oblivion. In a twist of fate, a record executive with a soft spot for retro artists, holds a competition in search of pop musicians to write a new Christmas classic.

Longing to become a serious and respected journalist, Mackenzie Stone scoffs at her latest assignment to write a profile about a washed-up pop singer. She would prefer to cover hard news rather than light stories assigned by her editor who seems unwilling to give her a chance. Determined to write a noteworthy story and at the same time prove herself, it’s up to Mackenzie to help inspire Jake to compose a Christmas classic.

As Jake struggles to overcome his anxieties and write a great song, Mackenzie digs for a story of substance. Together they find love while also discovering the true meaning of Christmas.

Excerpt

Mackenzie Stone stormed into her editor’s office at The Sunrise Press. “Mr. Hughes, you do realize I have a degree in journalism and political science.” 

He let out a harsh breath. On several occasions, he’d asked her not to raise her voice, especially in front of the rest of the staff. Not that he’d ever fire her. She was hands down his best reporter. 

There were exactly two things she hated: being told what to do and getting assigned fluff pieces. 

“I’ve said it a million times.” He looked up from the plant he was watering. She admired his green thumb since she could barely keep her Chia pet alive. 

“The political news comes straight from The Associated Press. Our focus is on community events and human-interest stories,” he said. 

“And you think what’s going on in the rest of the world isn’t of human interest?” She slapped her hand on the desk for effect. He jumped. Too gentle to be in the cutthroat business of big league journalism in her opinion. Though The Sunrise Press was hardly big league. How he lasted over forty years at the paper was a miracle. 

She took in a deep breath. Her father always said her temper would lead to trouble. There was also the whole red-headed stereotype. More than once she’d been called hot-headed and told it had something to do with her flaming red hair. This narrow-minded assumption usually irritated her even more. 

“All I’m asking for is a serious story. I need something with grit.”
Mr. Hughes set down the watering can and scratched his head, pushing his gray hair so it stood up in all directions. She stopped herself from smoothing the wayward strands and, while she was at it, straightening the sagging shoulders of his cardigan sweater. He was like the unkempt, sweet old grandfather she wished for as a kid. 

He finally said, “Take it easy, Lois Lane. You’ll get your chance at the Pulitzer someday.” 

She brushed off the Lois Lane comment. Profiling Superman would be a lot more interesting than the story he had assigned her. “The whole world’s going to pot, and you want me to profile some washed-up pop star named Jake Wilder?” 

“Everybody loved him. You know that song,” he said. “‘We looked out at the city lights that night’,” he sang. “‘The connection we both felt, it seemed so right’.” 

Not bad. She was getting too distracted and needed to drive the point home that nobody would care about this story. “Yeah, well I had to Google him, and so will the mere handful of people who may want to read about him.” 

“Believe it or not, young lady, pop music didn’t begin with Lady Gaga, or whoever it is you’re listening to these days.” 

“But there are plenty of washed-up stars to profile. Why him?” “I think the term you’re looking for is retro.”
She imagined that’s how Mr. Hughes referred to himself as well. “If you Googled him, then you should know the answer,” he said. “He’s a local boy. Born and raised in Pasadena. Probably grew up right down the street from you.” 

Her family knew everybody in their private, very exclusive neighborhood. She would’ve heard if they had a celebrity, even a former one, in their midst. 

“He hasn’t even cinched the deal.” She’d been informed earlier about the details of the contest. Jake Wilder was only one of several artists competing for the shot. “His Christmas song could be a disaster and the story a huge waste of our time.” 

“Let me worry about that,” Mr. Hughes said. 

“This is so lame.” She slumped into the chair across from him. For five years she’d been compiling a portfolio of important stories that might land her a job at one of the major newspapers. This Jake Wilder nonsense wouldn’t make the cut. 

“I got a call from Jake’s manager today. He said we’d have exclusive access to the whole process—from Jake accepting the challenge, to writing the song, to waiting for the call,” he said, punctuating every stage with an animated hand gesture. He was excited about the story, and she knew she’d lost the battle. 

“I don’t even like Christmas.” She hoped he wouldn’t remember her desk was covered in Christmas decorations. 

He leaned his head back and laughed. “Everybody around here knows the truth. You’re crazy about Christmas.”

Mackenzie had to admit. There was a story. She only had to dig it up. 

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About the Author

Andee Reilly was born and raised in Los Angeles. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside, Palm Desert. After many years of teaching writing and literature at California State University, Channel Islands, Andee moved to Maui to pursue her dream of teaching at the University of Hawaii, writing full-time, and surfing the beautiful waves of Hawaii. To learn more, visit www.andeereilly.com

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Spotlight: East of Everywhere by Susan Pogorzelski

Publication date: November 11th 2021
Genres: Coming of Age, Young Adult

Synopsis:

It’s been almost a decade since the end of the war, when the telegram first arrived at their house on Lennox Lane.

Four years since the apartment on Harker Street, where food was scarce and nights were long and their mother slept away her grief.

Three months since Janie was forced to leave her little brother, Brayden, and best friend, Leo, behind at Anthers Hall.

Two weeks since she stole a bicycle and ran away from the new children’s home on the other side of the state.

One day since she arrived in Montours City.

No one knows her secrets in this small town. If Janie is going to make it back to her brother and the only place she’s ever called home, she needs to keep it that way. But when a hard-hearted widow, a boy in a boxcar, and a dog named Panda weave their way into her life, Janie begins to wonder if what she’s searching for isn’t better off laid to rest.

Excerpt

“Are you Alex?” 

“That’s me.” He nodded towards the boxcar. “And that’s me home you’re in.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Sabina told me to find you and—” Janie stepped onto the concrete blocks, her foot catching the edge. The odd angle and her weight made them shift and begin to wobble. Her pulse quickened as she fought to keep her balance, her hands grasping at the air. She tumbled to the ground, sprawled across the weeds and dirt.  

“Well,” Alex said above her. “Now you broke me stairs.”

Unwilling tears pooled in her eyes and her cheeks grew hot as a sharp, burning pain pierced her palms. She winced and stood slowly, trying to brush away the stray gravel that clung to the bits of blood streaking her hands and knees. She took a step back, stumbling over the railroad ties. Alex reached out to steady her, then took her hand and turned it over. His touch was surprisingly hesitant and gentle.

“Cut yourself on the landing there.” He dropped her hand and began walking towards the platform. “Come on, then.”

Janie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hands and followed after him. Step one, she reminded herself. Focus.

“I can do it myself—the window, I mean,” she called after him. “She wanted you to fix it, but I can do it myself…” Her voice trailed off as she watched him lean his hands on the platform and hoist himself up. She raised her eyebrows at him, annoyed. A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head towards his left. 

 “Stairs are over there.” 

Janie glared at him and stalked towards the other end of the platform.

“It’s just that Sabina said she has a list for you—a list of things she needs fixed.”

“Seems those hands need fixing first.” 

She followed him inside, past the remnants of the motorbike and broken benches and the ticket counter where flyers still advertised roundtrips to the city. They walked down a short corridor until they reached a bathroom that had lost its door. Faded writing was scrawled across broken green and white tile, and the mirror above the sink was spotted with dark water stains. Alex pulled his striped shirt over his head and pushed up the sleeves, then ran the tap and stuck his hand beneath the steady stream to check the temperature. Wordlessly, he reached for her—more gently than she was expecting—and before she could protest, he was guiding her hands beneath the lukewarm water. She jumped back and hissed at the sting, but he held on.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said quietly. 

A blush crept into her cheeks as he ran his thumbs along the scratches, easing the dirt free from the cuts. She glanced up at his reflection in the mirror, studying the way his hair hung across his forehead, the way the dimple just beneath his cheek deepened when he clenched his jaw, the way he tilted his head, his deep brown eyes roaming across her hands as he tended to her. He was so different from Leo…

She drew in a short intake of breath and jerked her hands away. Alex glanced at her, eyes narrowed in brief confusion, then pulled back and tossed the towel that was draped across his shoulder onto the sink next to her. He leaned against the doorway, folding his arms across his chest as he watched her run a small section of the towel beneath the water and dab at her hands.

“Is that your motorbike out there?” she asked. She leaned down to brush stray bits of pebble from her pants where dirt stains had already set in.

“Yep.”

“What are you doing to it?”

“Fixing it up. So I can be on me way.”

“So, you’re not from here?”

“What gave it away, the boxcar or me accent?” Janie felt herself relax and returned his smile. “I’m just traveling,” he said. “Same as you.”

She looked up sharply but didn’t say anything. She turned off the faucet and set the stained towel down on the edge of the sink. 

“Guess we better go and see about that window.” He reached over and grabbed the towel. “What’s your name then?”

“It’s Janie,” she said, following him out of the bathroom and into the main room. 

“Janie.” He said the word like he was testing it. He tossed the towel onto a broken bench and crouched down near his motorbike to gather his tools. “You sure that’s your name?”

She regretted coming here instantly—here to this derelict train station, to the boarding house with her very own room, to this town with its sense of safety and relief and friendship. She’d overstayed her welcome; she should have moved on days ago. She’d have to leave eventually, anyway—she knew that. She was only there until she could make enough money to get herself home to Anthers Hall. She didn’t belong to this town, not really. This wasn’t forever. 

But the thought ripped through her, clutched at her heart until it took her breath away. She didn’t want to leave—not this town, not these people, not when she finally found a place she could actually belong, at least, for a little while. Not because of him and how from the moment they’d met just a few moments ago he seemed to see right through her.

She grit her teeth. “I know my own name.”

“And I know when something’s not the whole truth.” 

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About the Author

Susan Pogorzelski is the award-winning author of Gold in the Days of Summer and The Last Letter. When she's not writing novels of nostalgia and the magic of everyday life, she works as a consultant and editor at Brown Beagle Books, is an intuitive energy practitioner at Susan Dawn Spiritual Connections, and is the founder of LymeBrave Foundation. She lives in South-Central Pennsylvania with her beloved family and pets.

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Spotlight: Return All by Eve Dangerfield

(Rebirth, #2)
Publication date: December 14th 2021
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

Hundreds of women have tried to win Derek over, but the only girl he’s loved is nowhere to be found…

Derek Hardiman has been crowned a football prodigy—but success came at the cost of his dorky high school sweetheart, Mara Temple. A decade after she left town, he still can’t imagine marrying someone who isn’t her…
Traveling for most of her twenties, Mara has returned home with a designer wardrobe, a sweet puppy, and a new last name. What better to keep her surly ex-boyfriend from recognizing her?

When Mara and Derek are thrown back into each other’s lives the obsession that began when they were teenagers returns in full force. Derek can hardly believe the goddess his once-awkward lover has become, and he’s determined to win her back. But Mara is determined not to give in to the hype surrounding her bachelor superstar ex. Unfortunately, Derek has always lived up to the hype. After all, a girl only has one daddy…

Should true love get a second chance?

Return All is a standalone second chance romance by critically acclaimed author Eve Dangerfield.

Excerpt

Derek moved toward her, getting bigger by the second. “Mara? Mara! It’s me!”

His eyes were wild, his face—his face looked different. His moustache was gone. Clean-shaven, he was more like the boy from school than ever, jogging toward her in a black hoodie as though this was Albury in 2011.

Mara lowered hands she hadn’t known she’d brought to her chest. “Hi.”

She said it so quietly he couldn’t have heard her, but his face lit up. Naked happiness so bright it was terrifying. She wanted to burrow into the ground like a scared rabbit.

Chase turned. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Derek didn’t even glance at him. His unworldly black eyes were locked on hers. Mara’s cunt contracted. He was going to pick her up. He was going to carry her away like a marauding conqueror. Then he didn’t. He pulled up, his body jolting. “Mara. I can’t believe it’s you.”

She stared up at him. Even in her fuchsia Attico pumps, she barely came to his shoulders. He’d grown since he was a teenager. Up close, his face was different too. There were lines around his eyes that weren’t visible in photos or on TV. Neither was the black stubble under his skin. The word rose unbidden, Daddy, and euphoria spread through Mara’s chest like honey.

“Hello? Asshole? Can you hear me?” Chase demanded.

Derek ignored him. His gaze dragged over her face, studying her as she studied him. She touched a hand to her lips. Had he noticed her injection? Her eyelashes? Her nose? The fact her ears no longer stuck out through her hair?

Then he shook his head. “You’re fucking stunning. You look so… I don’t know how to say it.”

Expensive. She looked expensive. Money had flowed into her life, glossing her rough parts, and buffing the bright places to a near-impossible shine. She looked like a rich girl. Mara stared at her toes. For years she’d dreamed of this moment, dreamed of him saying these things, but now he was here, and she wanted to hide.

“Mara… where have you been, baby?”

It was such a huge question, tied off with such a ridiculous pet name, Mara didn’t know how to answer. “Around. I guess.”

Derek’s face sagged. “But—”

Chase stepped between them. “Maybe I should have made this clearer at our meeting, stay the fuck away from us. Now leave or I’ll call the police.”

“One minute, mate.” Derek sidestepped Chase. “Your hair. When did you grow out your hair?”

Mara almost laughed. “When I was twenty. Derek, what are you doing here? Is this about the house?”

“The house? The fucking house?”

He took a step toward her, and Chase moved across, blocking him. “Talk with your words, Hardiman.”

Derek scowled but took a step backward. “I’ve been looking for you for years. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Mara felt a small streak of pride. She’d paid handsomely to keep her name out of Google search terms. It was nice to know it had worked. “I… got off social media.”

“Right.” Derek shoved his hands into his pockets. “Fuck. Well, I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry, for everything. I’m sorry we lost touch and…”

His words washed over Mara like dirty waves. So sorry. Lost touch. Baby. They meant nothing. They were just sounds crammed together. A woman in a gray coat ducked past them and she realised they were blocking the path. She turned her face away.

Chase glanced from her to Derek. “Okay, this has been sufficiently weird, but we need to get to work. Goodbye, Mr Hardiman. Don’t come here again.”

Chase slid his arm through hers and steered her around Derek and back toward HFA.

“Mara!”

Derek’s voice stirred waters deep inside her. Places she’d allowed to crumble in the darkness of her twenties. She turned and found him staring desperately after her.

“He’s gonna follow us,” Chase muttered. “Keep walking. We’ll go upstairs—”

“Mara!” Derek’s voice was clear, a king calling across his hall. “Mara, we’re not done.”

She stopped as though he’d commanded it and Derek’s legs ate up the ground between them. “You. You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

She flushed, aware of Chase sputtering at her back. “Derek, I don’t know what to do.”

“So let me decide.”

Anger sizzled through her like hot oil. “Things aren’t the way they used to be.”

“Okay. I get that. You want me on my knees?”

“What?” she and Chase said together.

To her astonishment, Derek dropped like a stone onto the dirty footpath, cutting his height in half.

“For the love of Christ,” Chase groaned but Mara could only stare. Derek had always been unapologetic in his affection, but this was insane. He was a famous footballer and anyone could see him. How could he possibly be this desperate to speak to her? “Derek…”

“Give me your number.” He raised his tattooed palms as though in prayer. “Let me give you mine. I need to see you again.”

But you’re seeing me right now…

Chase touched her shoulder. “I’ll give you some privacy. But I’m right here.”

“Okay,” Mara whispered.

Derek watched Chase go, his gaze flicking back to hers as soon as he gauged Chase was far enough away.

“Baby,” his voice was gravel. “Baby, I want to kiss you. I am barely holding back right now.”

Mara knew that. She felt his energy vibrating out at her like orange heat. He wanted to snatch her up, crush her, take her down. Her body responded like warm paper desperate to curl into flame.

He smirked, so handsome, it almost stopped her heart. “It’s been too long, Little Miss.”

She stepped back. Little Miss. She called Pan that. But he had called her that. Not all the time. In bed. Pan. Pan was chewing away at Chase’s jumper upstairs. She needed to go to her. She needed to be with Pan. She took another step back. “I don’t know why you came, but I have to go.”

Derek stayed on his knees. “Give me your number. Or take mine. We’re not done, baby.”

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About the Author

Eve Dangerfield has loved romance novels ever since she first swiped her grandmother’s paperbacks. Now she writes her own stories about complicated women and gorgeous-but-slightly-tortured men. Her work has been described as 'genre-defying,' 'insanely hot' and ‘the defibrillator contemporary romance needs right now'...and not just by herself or those who might need bone marrow...OTHER PEOPLE! She lives in Melbourne with her boy and a bunch of semi-dead plants. She can generally be found making a mess.

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Cover Reveal: Wilder Match by Ali Dean

(Wilder, #2)

Publication date: Januaty 6th 2022

Genres: Contemporary, Romance, Sports, Young Adult

Synopsis:

One second, the future of my tennis career is brighter than ever, and the next, nothing is certain. Nothing, that is, except that I won’t be swinging a racket anytime soon. Jude Wilder wants to come to my rescue. I don’t need rescuing, even if it’s offered by the one guy who ignites a fire inside of me like I’ve only ever felt on the tennis court.

I’ve done things on my own my entire life, and I won’t let this setback steal my independence. Only, it’s not so easy to turn Jude away when he’s determined to help me. I want him, but I don’t trust him enough to let him in. Then again, if I can keep his savior complex at bay, he might just be the perfect distraction while I’m sidelined. It’s not like he’s going to stick around for long, and I can always cut him out of my life when I need to. That is, if I don’t fall in love with him first.

This is the second book in a same-couple series that must be read in order.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Ali is a USA Today Bestselling author of sports romance books. She has always loved to read, especially when there's a happily ever after, but found that there weren't enough books out there featuring girl athletes. So, she decided to work on that. Like the heroines in her books, Ali is an athlete, with running and skiing her favorite sports these days. Ali hails from Vermont and now lives in her own happily-ever-after in Colorado with her husband, two sets of twins, and golden retriever Pancake. When she's not pursuing an outdoor adventure, Ali's less healthy passions include ice cream, coffee, and beer.

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Spotlight: Christmas in the Highlands by Suzy Henderson

Publication date: December 12th 2021
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

When Niamh Macdonald’s world crumbles, her roots call her home.

A feel-good holiday romance set in the Scottish Highlands at Christmas.

When artist Niamh Macdonald uncovers her boyfriend’s affair, she leaves her job and city life behind and flees home to the sleepy hamlet of Arden in the Scottish Highlands. Having inherited her late grandmother’s cottage, she vows to make a fresh start and pursue her dream of a career as an artist.

Love is the furthest thing on her mind until she bumps into her old friend, Alex Mackenzie, heir to Arden Castle. Sparks fly between the pair but swiftly wane when Alex inadvertently scuppers Niamh’s business plans. Niamh retreats to consider her options. 

Can she make her home in Arden and can she ever forgive Alex?

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Arden 

Niamh MacDonald was almost home. As she drove by fields and hedgerows, smoke rose in straggly lines from croft chimneys at the foot of the mountains. With her foot, she squeezed the brake pedal as she approached Loch Melfort, the ocean waters of which lay flat and still; lead-grey, reflecting the mountains and the blue cloudless sky. Cold, uninviting, yet the scene warmed her heart and a smile emerged on her lips for the first time since leaving Leeds.

The late autumn sunlight glared through the windscreen as she turned into the drive of her late grandmother’s cottage, Arden House. As she swung into the drive, she drove slowly over the rutted, stony tree-lined track now mostly covered with a fine carpet of grass. Above the towering pines, a buzzard glided through the infinite cloudless sky. She squinted into the light as she parked, casting a furtive glance at her gran’s old silver Range Rover that sat in the open fronted barn at the side of the house. Goodness, that wouldn’t start now. Was it even road worthy? Niamh huffed out a breath. 

She clambered out of her black Honda CRV, her thighs tight, lower back aching from the long drive. She tugged her blue pinstriped shirt down and wiggled her hips as she hitched up her skinny black jeans. Thirty minutes away from Oban and she was in a remote haven surrounded by mountains, lochs, wildlife, and a castle. The local village housed one public inn, a village store and post office. 

The wind puffed, shaking the boughs free of autumn’s leaves, sending them scuttling around her feet like confetti in hues of scarlet, gold, and amber. Suddenly, she felt the ache of loss and failure and sucked in a deep breath. All the dreams she’d had and clung to. She’d studied art at university, dreamt of holding extravagant exhibitions, travelling the world, painting her way, selling originals like hot cakes. 

Reality was a harsh taskmaster. Working in pubs, supermarkets while painting in every spare minute and holding scrappy two-bit exhibitions in downtown art galleries which yielded minimal sales. Still, she’d tried her best and often told herself she needed to keep going. She remembered a rather crude expression of her grandmother’s, who often said, “In Churchill’s own words, keep buggering on.” 

Niamh smiled, a pang nipping her heart. When she was fourteen, her parents died in a car accident, so she’d gone to live with Gran. The landscape of the Highlands inspired her over the years. The mountains and hills rose all around, their energy simmering in the air. Her heart bloomed. In Arden, she grieved, and later, fell in love for the first time. 

On a grey drizzly day, descending from Glencoe, she’d slipped on loose scree and sprained her ankle. Her friend, Anna, didn’t know what to do. Niamh had insisted on getting to her feet and leaned on Anna for support. As she hobbled along, a young man emerged from the mist. Dark hair, coffee-bean eyes, with long lashes. Such a handsome face. ‘Do you need help?’ he said. Of course, Anna jumped at the offer, squealed like a little girl in delight whereas Niamh longed for the ground to swallow her whole, her cheeks burning as he gazed into her eyes. ‘I’m Alex,’ he said. ‘Here, put your arm round my shoulders.’ Then he slipped his arm around her waist before helping her down the mountain. Their friendship bloomed and matured like the fine rambling roses in Gran’s Garden. Niamh hid her growing attraction as they hung out together during school holidays and at weekends. Later, university beckoned for them both. Alex left for St Andrews and she to Leeds. They both promised they’d write, but that soon petered out. 

The past eleven months had been bleak. Catching her partner, Tom, in a clinch with a younger woman at his office party a few months back was the icing on the cake. Afterwards, she discovered it wasn’t his first indiscretion. How could she have been so blind? Her bruised heart ached, but it would heal in Arden. 

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About the Author

Suzy Henderson is the author of The Beauty Shop, Madame Fiocca, and SPITFIRE, novels which are set during the turbulent times of World War Two.

Her debut novel, The Beauty Shop, was awarded the B.R.A.G. Medallion. It is based on the true story of pioneering plastic surgeon, Sir Archibald McIndoe, and the Guinea Pig Club – an exclusive club for RAF pilots and airmen who required plastic surgery as a result of their war injuries and were under the care of this enigmatic New Zealander.

Madame Fiocca is also based on a true story. This gripping adventure follows the tempestuous life of SOE heroine, Nancy Wake before and during the Second World War.

Suzy lives with her family on the edge of the Lake District, where she can be found rambling around lakes, country lanes or roaming the fells. Armed with a pen, a love of reading and a growing obsession with military and aviation history, she is often lost in the 1940s, writing historical fiction.

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Spotlight: The Secret of Snow Viola Shipman

Publication Date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Graydon House Books

When Sonny Dunes, a So-Cal meteorologist who knows only sunshine and 72-degree days, has an on-air meltdown after she learns she’s being replaced by an AI meteorologist (which the youthful station manager reasons "will never age, gain weight or renegotiate its contract."), the only station willing to give a 50-year-old another shot is one in a famously non-tropical place--her northern Michigan hometown.

Unearthing her carefully laid California roots, Sonny returns home and reaclimates to the painfully long, dark winters dominated by a Michigan phenomenon known as lake-effect snow. But beyond the complete physical shock to her system, she's also forced to confront her past: her new boss is a former journalism classmate and mortal frenemy and, more keenly, the death of a younger sister who loved the snow, and the mother who caused Sonny to leave.

To distract herself from the unwelcome memories, Sonny decides to throw herself headfirst (and often disastrously) into all things winter to woo viewers and reclaim her success: sledding, ice-fishing, skiing, and winter festivals, culminating with the town’s famed Winter Ice Sculpture Contest, all run by a widowed father and Chamber director whose honesty and genuine love of Michigan, winter and Sonny just might thaw her heart and restart her life in a way she never could have predicted.

Excerpt

“And look at this! A storm system is making its way across the country, and it will bring heavy snow to the Upper Midwest and Great Lakes before wreaking havoc on the East Coast. This is an especially early and nasty start to winter for much of the country. In fact, early models indicate that parts of western and northern Michigan—the lake effect snowbelts, as we call them—will receive over 150 inches of snow this year. One hundred fifty inches!”

I turn away from the green screen in my red wrap dress and heels.

“But here in the desert...” I wait for the graphic to pop onscreen, which declares, Sonny Says It’s Sonny... Again!

When the camera refocuses on me, I toss an adhesive sunshine with my face on it toward the green screen behind me. It sticks directly on Palm Springs, California.

“...it’s wall-to-wall sunshine!”

I expand my arms like a raven in the mountains taking flight. The weekly forecast pops up. Every day features a smiling sunshine that resembles yours truly: golden, shining, beaming.

“And it will stay that way all week long, with temperatures in the midseventies and lows in the midfifties. Not bad for this time of year, huh? It’s chamber of commerce weather here in the desert, perfect for all those design lovers in town for Mid-Century Modernism Week.” I walk over to the news desk. The camera follows. I lean against the desk and turn to the news anchors, Eva Fernandez and Cliff Moore. “Or for someone who loves to play golf, right, Cliff?”

He laughs his faux laugh, the one that makes his mouth resemble those old windup chattering teeth from when I was a girl.

“You betcha, Sonny!”

“That’s why we live here, isn’t it?” I ask.

“I sure feel sorry for the rest of the country,” says Eva, her blinding white smile as bright as the camera lights. I’m convinced every one of Eva’s caps has a cap.

“Those poor Michigan folk won’t be golfing in shorts like I will be tomorrow, will they?” Cliff says with a laugh and his pantomime golf swing. He twitches his bushy brows and gives me a giant wink. “Thank you, Sonny Dunes.”

I nod, my hands on my hips as if I’m a Price Is Right model and not a meteorologist.

“Martinis on the mountain? Yes, please,” Eva says with her signature head tilt. “Next on the news: a look at some of the big events at this year’s Mid-Century Modernism Week. Back in a moment.”

I end the newscast with the same forecast—a row of smiling sunshine emojis that look just like my face—and then banter with the anchors about the perfect pool temperature before another graphic—THE DESERT’S #1 NIGHTLY NEWS TEAM!—pops onto the screen, and we fade to commercial.

“Anyone want to go get a drink?” Cliff asks within seconds of the end of the newscast. “It’s Friday night.”

“It’s always Friday night to you, Cliff,” Eva says.

She stands and pulls off her mic. The top half of Eva Fernandez is J.Lo perfection: luminescent locks, long lashes, glam gloss, a skintight top in emerald that matches her eyes, gold jewelry that sets off her glowing skin. But Eva’s bottom half is draped in sweats, her feet in house slippers. It’s the secret viewers never see.

“I’m half dressed for bed already anyway,” she says with a dramatic sigh. Eva is very dramatic. “And I’m hosting the Girls Clubs Christmas breakfast tomorrow and then Eisenhower Hospital’s Hope for the Holidays fundraiser tomorrow night. And Sonny and I are doing every local Christmas parade the next few weekends. You should think about giving back to the community, Cliff.”

“Oh, I do,” he says. “I keep small business alive in Palm Springs. Wouldn’t be a bar afloat without my support.”

Cliff roars, setting off his chattering teeth.

I call Cliff “The Unicorn” because he was actually born and raised in Palm Springs. He didn’t migrate here like the older snowbirds to escape the cold, he didn’t snap up midcentury houses with cash like the Silicon Valley techies who realized this was a real estate gold mine, and he didn’t suddenly “discover” how hip Palm Springs was like the millennials who flocked here for the Coachella Music Festival and to catch a glimpse of Drake, Beyoncé or the Kardashians.

No, Cliff is old school. He was Palm Springs when tumbleweed still blew right through downtown, when Bob Hope pumped gas next to you and when Frank Sinatra might take a seat beside you at the bar, order a martini and nobody acted like it was a big deal.

I admire Cliff because—

The set suddenly spins, and I have to grab the arm of a passing sound guy to steady myself. He looks at me, and I let go.

he didn’t run away from where he grew up.

“How about you, sunshine?” Cliff asks me. “Wanna grab a drink?”

“I’m gonna pass tonight, Cliff. I’m wiped from this week. Rain check?”

“Never rains in the desert, sunshine,” Cliff jokes. “You oughta know that.”

He stops and looks at me. “What would Frank Sinatra do?”

I laugh. I adore Cliff’s corniness.

“You’re not Frank Sinatra,” Eva calls.

“My martini awaits with or without you.” Cliff salutes, as if he’s Bob Hope on a USO tour, and begins to walk out of the studio.

“Ratings come in this weekend!” a voice yells. “That’s when we party.”

We all turn. Our producer, Ronan, is standing in the middle of the studio. Ronan is all of thirty. He’s dressed in flip-flops, board shorts and a T-shirt that says, SUNS OUT, GUNS OUT! like he just returned from Coachella. Oh, and he’s wearing sunglasses. At night. In a studio that’s gone dim. Ronan is the grandson of the man who owns our network, DSRT. Jack Clark of ClarkStar pretty much owns every network across the US these days. He put his grandson in charge because Ro-Ro’s father bought an NFL franchise, and he’s too obsessed with his new fancy toy to pay attention to his old fancy toy. Before DSRT, Ronan was a surfer living in Hawaii who found it hard to believe there wasn’t an ocean in the middle of the California desert.

He showed up to our very first official news meeting wearing a tank top with an arrow pointing straight up that read, This Dude’s the CEO!

“You can call me Ro-Ro,” he’d announced upon introduction.

“No,” Cliff said. “I can’t.”

Ronan had turned his bleary gaze upon me and said, “Yo. Weather’s, like, not really my thing. You can just, like, look outside and see what’s going on. And it’s, like, on my phone. Just so we’re clear...get it? Like the weather.”

My heart nearly stopped. “People need to know how to plan their days, sir,” I protested. “Weather is a vital part of all our lives. It’s daily news. And, what I study and disseminate can save lives.”

“Ratings party if we’re still number one!” Ronan yells, knocking me from my thoughts.

I look at Eva, and she rolls her eyes. She sidles up next to me and whispers, “You know all the jokes about millennials? He’s the punchline for all of them.”

I stifle a laugh.

We walk each other to the parking lot.

“See you Monday,” I say.

“Are we still wearing our matching Santa hats for the parade next Saturday?”

I laugh and nod. “We’re his best elves,” I say.

“You mean his sexiest news elves,” she says. She winks and waves, and I watch her shiny SUV pull away. I look at my car and get inside with a smile. Palm Springs locals are fixated on their cars. Not the make or the color, but the cleanliness. Since there is so little rain in Palm Springs, locals keep their cars washed and polished constantly. It’s like a competition.

I pull onto Dinah Shore Drive and head toward home.

Palm Springs is dark. There is a light ordinance in the city that limits the number of streetlights. In a city this beautiful, it would be a crime to have tall posts obstructing the view of the mountains or bright light overpowering the brightness of the stars.

I decide to cut through downtown Palm Springs to check out the Friday night action. I drive along Palm Canyon Drive, the main strip in town. The restaurants are packed. People sit outside in shorts—in December!—enjoying a glass of wine. Music blasts from bars. Palm Springs is alive, the town teeming with life even near midnight.

I stop at a red light, and a bachelorette party in sashes and tiaras pulls up next to me peddling a party bike. It’s like a self-propelled trolley with seats and pedals, but you can drink—a lot—on it. I call these party trolleys “Woo-Hoo Bikes” because...

I honk and wave.

The bachelorette party shrieks, holds up their glasses and yells, “WOO-HOO!”

The light changes, and I take off, knowing these ladies will likely find themselves in a load of trouble in about an hour, probably at a tiki bar where the drinks are as deadly as the skulls on the glasses.

I continue north on Palm Canyon—heading past Copley’s Restaurant, which once was Cary Grant’s guesthouse in the 1940s, and a plethora of design and vintage home furnishings stores. I stop at another light and glance over as an absolutely filthy SUV, which looks like it just ended a mud run, pulls up next to me. The front window is caked in gray-white sludge and the doors are encrusted in crud. An older man is hunched over the steering wheel, wearing a winter coat, and I can see the woman seated next to him pointing at the navigation on the dashboard. I know immediately they are not only trying to find their Airbnb on one of the impossible-to-locate side streets in Palm Springs, but also that they are from somewhere wintry, somewhere cold, somewhere the sun doesn’t shine again until May.

Which state? I wonder, as the light changes, and the car pulls ahead of me.

“Bingo!” I yell in my car. “Michigan license plates!”

We all run from Michigan in the winter.

I look back at the road in front of me, and it’s suddenly blurry. A car honks, scaring the wits out of me, and I shake my head clear, wave an apology and head home.

Excerpted from The Secret of Snow by Viola Shipman. Copyright © 2021 by Viola Shipman. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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About the Author

Viola Shipman is the pen name for Wade Rouse, a popular, award-winning memoirist. Rouse chose his grandmother's name, Viola Shipman, to honor the woman whose heirlooms and family stories inspire his writing. Rouse is the author of The Summer Cottage, as well as The Charm Bracelet and The Hope Chest which have been translated into more than a dozen languages and become international bestsellers. He lives in Saugatuck, Michigan and Palm Springs, California, and has written for People, Coastal Living, Good Housekeeping, and Taste of Home, along with other publications, and is a contributor to All Things Considered.

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