The Accidental Beauty Queen Blog Tour: Excerpt

The Accidental Beauty Queen
Author: Teri Wilson
Release Date: December 4, 2018
Publisher: Gallery Books

Description:

In this charming romantic comedy perfect for fans of Meg Cabot and Sophie Kinsella, critically acclaimed author Teri Wilson shows us that sometimes being pushed out of your comfort zone leads you to the ultimate prize. 

Charlotte Gorman loves her job as an elementary school librarian, and is content to experience life through the pages of her books. Which couldn’t be more opposite from her identical twin sister. Ginny, an Instagram-famous beauty pageant contestant, has been chasing a crown since she was old enough to enunciate the words world peace, and she’s not giving up until she gets the title of Miss American Treasure. And Ginny’s refusing to do it alone this time.       
She drags Charlotte to the pageant as a good luck charm, but the winning plan quickly goes awry when Ginny has a terrible, face-altering allergic reaction the night before the pageant, and Charlotte suddenly finds herself in a switcheroo the twins haven’t successfully pulled off in decades.       
Woefully unprepared for the glittery world of hair extensions, false eyelashes, and push-up bras, Charlotte is mortified at every unstable step in her sky-high stilettos. But as she discovers there’s more to her fellow contestants than just wanting a sparkly crown, Charlotte realizes she has a whole new motivation for winning.

My sister has always been the pretty one. The Jane Bennet to my Elizabeth, the Meg March to my Jo.

It’s been this way for so long that I’ve never questioned it. It’s never even bothered me much. It just is.

Ginny is my sister, and I love her, no matter how different our lives are. And trust me, they’re about as opposite as you can imagine. But the chasm between our worlds has never been quite so glaringly obvious as it is now, because instead of restocking books on their respective shelves, I’m standing in an elevator at the posh Huntington Spa Resort in Orlando, Florida, on the first Monday afternoon of summer.

For starters, at five feet seven, I’m by far the shortest person of the half dozen or so on board. This is a rarity for me. As an elementary school librarian, I’m accustomed to towering over people for the majority of my waking hours. I’m also used to sitting in tiny chairs and using tiny, blunt-edged scissors, but that’s beside the point. Five feet seven isn’t short. . . .

                Unless you’re riding an elevator packed with beauty queens.

                I don’t know what I expected when I signed on to spend a week cheering for my sister at the Miss American Treasure pageant, but it wasn’t this. The preliminary competition doesn’t start for another two days, so why are they all wearing crowns and sashes already? And what is going on with their shoes?

                Beauty pageant contestants wear heels. I know this, obviously. I mean, I’ve seen Miss Congeniality at least twenty times over the years, thanks to Ginny. But these are beyond high heels. Gracie Lou Freebush wouldn’t have lasted a minute in them.

                No offense to Sandra Bullock. I’m just saying.

I tighten my grip on the handle of my suitcase, suddenly extremely conscious of the state of my hair. Orlando is one of the most humid places on earth, and the half hour ride on the airport shuttle was not kind. For once, I actually feel sorry for Ginny. It’s one thing to be expected to look perfect onstage, but hotel elevators should be a safe space. I, for one, plan to be roaming the halls in a spa bathrobe and complimentary slippers en route to the vending machine for the majority of my stay.

But to each her own.

                Besides, Ginny chose this life, just as surely as I chose mine. She also gets paid more for one sponsored Instagram post than I make in a week, and when I remember this, I keep my sympathy in check.

The elevator comes to a stop on the fifth floor, which has clearly been reserved for the pageant, because we all disembark in a glamorous, glittering herd.

Myself being the exception.

No one seems to notice my presence, though. The Hogwarts T-shirt I’m wearing might as well be an invisibility cloak. Fine. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here for the chance to stay in Ginny’s luxury hotel room for a week, for free, and completely nerd out at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

I’m also here for moral support, of course. I plan on being at every single pageant event, cheering like a maniac while inwardly cringing in horror at the very thought of prancing around in only a tiny swimsuit and a crown. But since the competition doesn’t start until 5:00 p.m., that leaves my mornings and afternoons free to hit up the theme park. I’ve emptied my paltry savings account and invested in a five-day unlimited pass. Bring on the butter beer.

But first, I must locate our room amid a sea of glitz and sparkle. According to the text Ginny sent when I landed, we’re in 511. All of my elevator pals are in rooms along the same stretch of corridor. Half the doors on the floor have hangtags on the knobs that read, Do not disturb! This Miss American Treasure contestant needs her beauty sleep!

I roll my eyes mightily.

Dangling from the knob of room 511 is one such tag, but I highly doubt Ginny is actually sleeping because I can hear the television booming through the door. I knock extra hard so she can hear me above the din of whatever reality show she’s probably watching.

Just please God don’t let it be the Kardashians.

An explosion of barks answers my knock. I take a deep breath. I’ve somehow forgotten all about my sister’s French bulldog mix, Buttercup. Ginny adopted her a month ago as part of her “platform.” I’m not sure exactly what that means. She’s a pageant queen, not a politician. But according to approximately five million posts on Ginny’s Instagram, she volunteers regularly at her local shelter in support of her animal rescue policy.

If memory serves, last year her platform was anti-bullying. But so many other contestants on the pageant circuit had already thrown themselves into the anti-bullying movement that she felt pressured to switch to something else. In other words, she got bullied into giving up her anti-bullying platform. Oh, the irony.

The door to the hotel room swings open, and Ginny is standing there in a white spa bathrobe with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy-yet-artful twist. She’s got one of those serum-soaked sheet masks stuck to her face—the kind that make regular people look like something straight out of a bad horror movie.

                Except Ginny isn’t a regular person. So instead she looks like Gwyneth Paltrow enjoying a quiet day of self-care.

“Charlotte, you’re here!”

“Yep. My flight was right on time.” Thank God. I’m ready to make the most out of day one on my unlimited pass.

“Come on in.” She holds the door open wider.

The room is a double, with side-by-side queen beds and a balcony overlooking a pool flanked by umbrella-covered lounge chairs, a tiki bar, and two perfectly symmetrical rows of palm trees swaying in the balmy Florida breeze. Any spare moments I have this week that don’t include Harry Potter will be spent right there, with my feet up and a piña colada in hand. It’s been so long since I’ve taken an actual vacation that the mental picture I’ve just conjured nearly makes me weep.

“This is gorgeous. Ginny, thanks again for inviting me.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so glad you’re here. Dad and Susan aren’t coming until the finals.” Her smile falters. Behind the face mask, I can see her full lips tip into a frown.

I know exactly what she’s thinking. “You’ll make the finals. I know you will. You’re a shoo-in for the top twenty.”

Ginny always makes the finals. She’s up onstage every year alongside the winner and the runners-up. She’s just never managed to crack the top five.

“This year will be different,” I assure her.

She nods. “It has to be.”

As much as I hate to see my sister devoting her life to chasing a silly crown, and even though I positively loathe the pageant scene, my heart gives a little tug. Sometimes I forget why she got started in all of this. But every once in a while, when Ginny’s composure slips, I remember that this is her way of feeling connected to the mother we barely knew. The crushing sense of loss that inevitably follows always seems to catch me off guard. It’s in those moments— moments like this one—that I understand her dream.

I paste a smile on my face. “It will. I promise.”

I have no right to make that kind of promise. After all, I’m not judging this thing.

Truly, why would anyone want that job?

But it’s so rare to see my sister like this that I can’t stop myself. She’s always been the poster child for confidence.

Which just goes to show how much this particular pageant means to her. More than all the others combined.

“You’re right.” She nods with renewed vigor. “Of course I’ll make the finals. This is my year.”

“Definitely.” Pep talk over for now, I head toward the bed on the far side of the room—the one that’s still neatly made and not covered in anything bedazzled.

                Every item on Ginny’s bed shines like a disco ball, including her official Miss American Treasure tote bag. I’m beginning to understand why she uses one of those sleepmask things like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I might need to invest in one myself.

As I cross the room, Buttercup launches herself at my wheeled suitcase, growling and nipping at it as it drags behind me. By the time I’m within a foot of my bed, she’s fully attached herself to it and I’m hauling both luggage and bulldog.

“Is this normal behavior?” I ask. It can’t be, can it?

Ginny waves a dismissive hand.

I give Buttercup a little nudge with the toe of my Adidas sneaker. She backs away, peering up at me with her bulgy little eyes. They almost seem to point in two different directions. Like plastic googly eyes.

We stare each other down for a second, and then she resumes her attack on my luggage.

“Is she always so”—I pause, struggling for an appropriate adjective—“headstrong?”

Buttercup and I have never been properly introduced. I only know her via Ginny’s Instagram, where she’s usually doing something less destructive and far more adorable.

“Buttercup is shy,” Ginny says by way of explanation.

I look down at the snarling dog. “Sorry, I’m not getting shy here.”

                “You’re stressing her out. She’s not used to strangers and new experiences. She’s a rescue dog, remember? The poor thing sat in the shelter for four months before I adopted her.”

Ginny checks the position of her sheet mask in the large mirror over the bathroom counter. It’s a double vanity, theoretically big enough for both of us. But Ginny’s massive amount of toiletries take up the entire space. “Did you know that seven million dogs and cats enter shelters every year, and half of them end up being euthanized?”

I did not know that, and it’s a horrible, horrible statistic. But her canned delivery prevents me from absorbing the news with the proper level of emotion.

She’s slipped into pageant mode. She’s rattling off more devastating facts and figures about homeless pets, all the while posing with her hand pressed to her heart and her head tilted just so.

I glance at Buttercup. Something tells me she’s heard the speech before.

“Maybe less euthanasia talk in front of the rescue dog?” I suggest. No wonder the poor thing is stressed.

“Oh my God.” Ginny blinks. “Do you think she understands?”

“I have no idea, but why take the chance?” Besides, I can’t handle Ginny’s platform-level intensity right now. I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m.

                “I suppose you’re right.” Ginny scoops Buttercup into her arms.

I take advantage of the cease-fire, lift my suitcase onto the bed, and remove my things, paltry in comparison to the vast wardrobe Ginny has stuffed into the closet and all but one of the dresser drawers. Fortunately, I travel light.

Clotheswise, anyway. Beneath the layers of jeans and T-shirts, four hardback novels line the bottom of my bag. I remove all four and arrange them in a nice, neat stack atop the nightstand closest to my bed.

When I look up, Ginny’s shaking her head. “Are you sure you brought enough reading material?”

“Don’t judge. I’m on vacation, remember?”

“Exactly. You’re a librarian. Your vacation should be book-free.” Ginny makes a zero sign with one of her perfectly manicured hands.

“How are we even related?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked that question, and I know with every fiber of my being that Ginny wonders the same thing sometimes.

How could she not?

“Before you dive into one of those, can you take Buttercup for a quick walk?” She grabs a Barbie-pink leash from her nightstand. And—surprise!—it’s heavily bedazzled. “Pretty please.”

“What? Why me?” My gaze flits toward Buttercup, who’s now positioned on Ginny’s pillow with her plump rear facing me. “She doesn’t even like me. Stranger danger and all that.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Stranger danger? You spend too much time with little kids.”

True. She dragged me to yoga once, and I kept referring to easy pose as crisscross applesauce.

Still, Buttercup doesn’t seem any more thrilled by the idea than I am. Also, I’ve already begun typing the address of the theme park into the Uber app on my phone. I’m supposed to be dodging a fire-breathing dragon in Diagon Alley right now, not walking a petulant French bulldog.

“I was kind of hoping to head over to Harry Potter World so I could be back in time for us to have an early dinner. Don’t you have pageant stuff today?” I’m pretty sure she has a date with some spray tanner this afternoon. Her skin tone matches mine right now, and I know from experience that Ginny is usually at least four shades closer to orange when there’s a pageant on the horizon.

“Yes, and of course you can head right over there just as soon as you walk Buttercup. She hasn’t been out since early this morning. I can’t do it—I’m not allowed to leave the room without my sash on.”

I blink. “What?”

“Contestants can’t leave their hotel rooms unless they’re pageant-ready. Outside of this room, I have to wear my sash at all times.”

                I don’t even know what to say, but suddenly the army of beauty queens from the elevator makes more sense. “That’s crazypants. It’s like you’re some kind of pageant hostage. Put your sash on, and take her out yourself.”

Ginny sighs. “Dramatic much? This isn’t some tiny regional pageant. Miss American Treasure is the big time. She’s a role model. You know that.”

I do. I probably know more about that than any of those chattering elevator girls.

“I can’t go out there like this,” she says.

“Fine.” I take the leash from her hands. She’s clearly in no condition to leave the room, although I would pay money to see an Instagram post of Ginny wearing the sash and her sheet mask at the same time.

“Thank you.” Her slender shoulders sag with relief. “I owe you one. We’ll have a great dinner tonight, I promise. It’ll be just like old times.”

Old times?

I don’t believe her for a minute. When we were kids, our favorite dinners included sloppy joes and macaroni and cheese. I can’t remember the last time I saw a carb cross Ginny’s lips.

“Come on, Buttercup,” I mutter.

The portly little dog growls the entire time I’m attaching her leash to her sparkly pink collar. This should be lovely.

“We’ll be right back.” I cast a glance over my shoulder as I lead Buttercup out the door, and Ginny catches my gaze in the mirror.

She gives me a little wave. I wave back, and for a moment, I go still. Rooted to the spot. Ginny’s sheet mask is gone, and her face is bare. Clean. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her makeup-free. Without the airbrushed foundation, the contouring and highlighting, the carefully lined lips and the double layers of false eyelashes, she looks a lot like me.

She looks exactly like me, actually. Same nose. Same eyes. Same heart-shaped face.

Same DNA.

Because even though my sister has always been the pretty one, the beauty queen—the Jane Bennet to my Elizabeth, the Meg March to my Jo—she’s also my twin.

Teri Wilson is the author/creator of the Hallmark Channel Original Movies Unleashing Mr. Darcy, Marrying Mr. Darcy, and The Art of Us, as well as a fourth Hallmark movie currently in development. Teri is a double finalist in the prestigious 2018 RWA RITA awards for her novels The Princess Problem and Royally Wed. Teri also writes an offbeat fashion column for the royal blog What Would Kate Do and is a frequent guest contributor for its sister site, Meghan’s Mirror. She’s been a contributor for both HelloGiggles and Teen Vogue, covering books, pop culture, beauty, and everything royal. In 2017, she served as a national judge for the Miss United States pageant in Orlando, Florida, and has since judged in the Miss America system. She has a major weakness for cute animals, pretty dresses, Audrey Hepburn films, and good books. Visit her at TeriWilson.net or on Twitter @TeriWilsonAuthr.

Purchase Link: http://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Accidental-Beauty-Queen/Teri-Wilson/9781508283553

  

Review: The Widow Waltz by Sally Koslow

The Widow Waltz

Author: Sally Koslow
Genre: Contemporary/Women's Fiction
Release Date: June 13, 2013
Publisher: Viking

Description:

"This heartfelt, witty addition to women’s fiction will appeal to fans of Elizabeth Berg and Anna Quindlen.” (Booklist)

Georgia Waltz has things many people only dream of: a plush Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park, a Hamptons beach house, valuable jewels and art, two bright daughters, and a husband she adores, even after decades of marriage. It’s only when Ben suddenly drops dead from a massive coronary while training for the New York City Marathon that Georgia discovers her husband—a successful lawyer—has left them nearly penniless. Their wonderland was built on lies.
    
As the family attorney scours emptied bank accounts, Georgia must not only look for a way to support her family, she needs to face the revelation that Ben was not the perfect husband he appeared to be, just as her daughters—now ensconced back at home with secrets of their own—have to accept that they may not be returning to their lives in Paris and at Stanford subsidized by the Bank of Mom and Dad. As she uncovers hidden resilience, Georgia’s sudden midlife shift forces her to consider who she is and what she truly values. That Georgia may also find new love in the land of Spanx and stretch marks surprises everyone—most of all, her.

Sally Koslow’s fourth novel is deftly told through the alternating viewpoints of her remarkable female protagonists as they plumb for the grit required to reinvent their lives. Inspiring, funny, and deeply satisfying, The Widow Waltz explores in a profound way the bonds between mothers and daughters, belligerent siblings, skittish lovers, and bitter rivals as they discover the power of forgiveness, and healing, all while asking, "What is family, really?”  

The Widow Waltz is a heartfelt novel that follows main character Georgia Waltz as her life spirals downward when her husband, Ben, dies from a sudden heart attack while training for a marathon. Even more surprising is the fact that Ben left Georgia practically penniless - her life of luxury had been built on lies. As Georgia tries everything in her power to keep her family together while learning about Ben's secrets, as well as her daughters' lies, she comes to the realization that nobody is perfect and we must love them - all of them - including their flaws. Amidst the pain of losing her husband, her efforts at rebuilding her life and retaining her family, Georgia will find the most surprising thing of all - self realization and - maybe - even love.

This was a wonderfully written novel that was full of well rounded and realistic characters and memories along with heartbreaking realizations, self discovery, and the strength of love. The writing was fantastic and I was immediately drawn into Georgia's world. She was an interesting main character - strong and intelligent yet flawed and uncertain at times. She was easy to identify with and I was rooting for her early on in the story. The plot was fresh and dealt with deeper topics underneath the surface, especially those of family, love, the past, secrets, self discovery, and inner strength. Although there are aspects of the book that are heavy, the book itself was uplifting and a fast read. The characters - especially Georgia - and the dialogue really keep the book moving and flowing seamlessly. The writing was very well done and shows the immense talent the author possesses. Definitely recommended for fans of women's fiction and contemporary fiction!

Caramel and Magnolias Promo Event & Giveaway

Caramel and Magnolias
Author: Tess Thompson
Genre: Adult Contemporary Women's Fiction/Contemporary Romance
Release Date: February 1, 2013

Buy Links:  Amazon  Barnes and Noble  iTunes 

Description:

Bestselling author Tess Thompson, whose debut novel Riversong touched the hearts of readers worldwide, delivers a captivating and suspenseful tale of the possibilities that await us in life and in love – if we can find the courage to get off the sidelines.
Crushed by a broken heart, ten years ago Cleo Tanner walked away from her acting dreams and now leads a quiet, secluded life in Seattle. Sylvia, her best friend from college, is trapped in a loveless marriage, distraught by her desire to have a child – until an adoption agency owner in relentless pursuit of Cleo offers to help.
Just as Sylvia begins to experience a love so profound that only a mother can feel, a detective approaches Cleo with disturbing questions about the adoption agency. Determined to protect her friend, Cleo jumps into a dangerous investigation that forces her to confront the ghosts of her past.
A toast to friendship, motherhood, mended hearts and new beginnings, Caramel and Magnolias reminds us it’s never too late to reawaken the heart.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them. ~Henry David Thoreau 

The end. I love to type those words. The first draft of novel writing is a high. Everyone has a unique process. Mine begins with the characters. Once they’re firmly cemented in my mind, they tell me the story. I am merely the delivery vessel. Tell their story is taped to my computer screen.

I do not think about theme or genre during the first draft. But after I type the words, the end, the themes become apparent to me. Ah, so this is what I was writing about.
The last several years have yielded a tremendous amount of work, primarily two projects. One is Caramel and Magnolias (a romantic suspense, released February 1 by Booktrope Editions). The other is historical fiction set in the 1930’s in the American south (released later this year as a trilogy).

Caramel and Magnolias is about four people living on the outskirts of their own lives, or as I describe in the book, “the sidelines”. They’ve accepted their lives of quiet desperation. They cope with their loneliness and isolation by immersing themselves in their work.

It wasn’t until I read through the first draft that I realized I’d been writing about myself.

For years I’d been unhappy in my marriage. But I felt trapped. I couldn’t imagine a way out. I was worried about my children, primarily. And I felt responsible for his happiness. I couldn’t hurt him by telling the truth. I want out.

So I accepted my fate. I had my two beautiful daughters. I had my work. Surely this was more than most people had?

And I never uttered the truth to a living soul. Not my best friends. Not my mother. I was good at pretending everything was fine. I convinced myself it didn’t matter that I was slowly dying or that I was utterly alone despite being married.

I had a mantra. I am a good wife. I am a good mother. I can be happy. I will be happy. Just try a little harder.

Every night I asked God, please make me a better wife and mother tomorrow than I was today. And please let me love him as I should.

But then something happened that changed everything. I started being seen and heard. Riversong climbed the bestseller charts. My blog, Inspiration for Ordinary Life, developed a loyal following. I was something more than what the outside saw - good mother, loyal wife, caring daughter. I was an artist who had something to say that mattered.

Many readers wrote to me that I’d inspired them or moved them with one of my blog pieces. And it was always the pieces I hesitated to write, the ones I thought might expose too much of my soul that received the most response.

The more truthful I was, the more readers responded.

And the more readers responded, the more truthful I became.

I understood, as I never had before, that to create art one must tell the truth. How could I be a real artist, I asked myself, if I can’t admit the truth to myself? I dread the rest of my life.

But still I stifled it. Be grateful for what you have, I told myself over and over. I immersed myself further in my work. And then something amazing happened. A friend actually asked me the question no one had ever asked before.

Are you happy?

And I did something amazing. I answered with the truth.

No. But I’m trapped.

I knew it.

What was this? Someone saw the truth despite my skills at deception. Only one. But it was enough. Because telling the truth unleashed something I couldn’t take back. I was jarred awake. I knew I had to get out or I would slowly die.

In the months that followed I made big and necessary changes in my life. It was painful in every way – telling him, telling my daughters, telling my parents. There were many dark days I wondered how I would get through.

But I did. I am on the other side now. I am free. I am happy. Yes, I’m terrified some days, no question. However, in the midst of the fear, I am also hopeful and excited for the rest of my life. Like my characters in Caramel and Magnolias, I am choosing to live instead of walking around half-dead. I am no longer quietly desperate. I am living with purpose. I am living with passion and dreams and faith.

And my work? All the better for it.

The truth does indeed set you free.

Tess Thompson is a novelist and playwright with a BFA in Drama from the University of Southern California. In 2011, she released her first novel, Riversong, which subsequently became a bestseller.

Like her main character in Caramel and Magnolias, Tess is from a small town in Southern Oregon. She currently lives in Seattle, Washington with her two young daughters, Emerson and Ella, and their puppy Patches. She is inspired daily by the view of the Cascade Mountains from her home office window. 


 
Author social media links: 
www.tesswrites.com
@tesswrites
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tess-Hardwick/141591029237536?fref=ts

 Giveaway: (1) ebook copy of Caramel and Magnolias - Open Internationally!

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Immaculate Confusion Book Blast & $100 Amazon Gift Card Giveaway

 

About Author Marisol Murano

When she was 18-years-old Marisol Murano moved to the United States to attend school so that afterwards she could return to her native Venezuela to get married and have kids. None of this happened. Instead, she ended up getting a Master’s degree which eventually landed her a boring job in an exciting city: New York.

After a few years running the corporate rat race, Marisol woke up to this one day, "Even if you win the race, you're still a rat." That was the end of her banking career and the birth of her first novel: The Lady, The Chef, and The Courtesan.

Marisol was the first to be surprised when her first novel was named Latino Book of the Year, Original Voices from Border’s and was picked as a BookSense selection. She was further surprised when it was translated into several languages.

A second career detour led her to become a chef and the author of a cookbook, Deliciously Doable Small Plates from Around the World. Between novels, Chef Marisol now travels the world conducting culinary demonstrations on exotic cuisine. In fact, Valentina Goldman's Immaculate Confusion was born at sea in a split-second of confusion when during a culinary demonstration a woman raised her hand to ask: “Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?”

Life is stranger than fiction, indeed.

Hipso Media Blog * Facebook * Goodreads

Title: Valentina Goldman's Immaculate Confusion
Author: Marisol Murano
Publisher: Hipso Media
Released: August 1, 2012

Since her arrival in the United States from Venezuela, Valentina Goldman isn’t exactly living the American Dream. She’s living the American Nightmare.

Her late husband, Max, has left her a young widow, a step-daughter whom Valentina didn’t want, and a bi-polar ex-wife. And oh, having given up her dream job in New York, Valentina is also unemployed in Arizona.

Part "Bridget Jones Diary," part "Modern Family," "Valentina Goldman’s Immaculate Confusion" is the story of a woman trying to get a handle on her whacky life in America. In breathless, blog-like snippets, Valentina compares her own story with that of her eccentric sister, Azucena, who has bizarre troubles of her own down in the tropics.

"Valentina Goldman’s Immaculate Confusion" is a funny and moving story about what happens when a passionate South American woman moves to the USA and, like so many of us, ends up with a life she never imagined.


Praise:
"A funny and quirky mix of anecdotes and life lessons. This is imbued with such a distinct personality -- one that begs you to laugh at nearly every page."
~ Emily from Goodreads


Purchase Link: http://bit.ly/ValentinaG

Amazon:


Book Blast Giveaway:
$100 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash from Hipso Media
Ends 10/25/12


Open to anyone who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent's permission. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.

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Of Blood and Bone: Promo Event & Giveaway!

Of Blood and Bone (The Minaldi Legacy #1)
Author: Courtney Cole 
Genre: Women’s Contemporary/Dark Romance
Release date: September 16

Book Description:

Love is dangerous… “I’m a monster, Eva. There is no saving a monster. But I love that you want to try.” My heart constricts at the expression on his face. He has no hope for himself, so I have to hope for him. “You’re not a monster,” I argue softly. “You’re a man, Luca. A man like any other, you’re made of blood and bone.” As a little boy, Luca Minaldi was told he was a monster. As an adult, he knows it is true. He lives in Malta, a fairytale-like place filled with sunshine and sea, beauty and secrets. And Luca’s darkest of secrets is the best kept of them all. Eva Talbot is spending the summer in Malta to finish up her doctoral dissertation. When she meets Luca, a mysterious and handsome shipping tycoon, there is an instant attraction, a disturbing and beautiful energy that she has never felt before. But she senses the darkness that lives within him. Eva is hired to care for his mother, who suffers from dementia, but it is Luca who Eva will eventually risk everything to save. Her life becomes a swirling chaos of darkness and romance, of secrets and mystery. And the question that emerges will become the most important answer of all. Can she save Luca from the darkness that plagues him without losing herself? The answer is a matter of life or death.

(From Eva's point of view)
 
“Evangeline,” he says softly, his dark eyes glued to mine. “I’m so sorry about the other night. I wish I could remember. I wish I could take it back.”
“I don’t,” I tell him honestly. “I really don’t.”
He gazes out the window for a scant moment more, seemingly deep in thought, before he crosses the room to me. He kneels in front of me and looks into my eyes. In this moment, he is as vulnerable as I’ve ever seen him, as I’ve ever seen anyone. He’s completely open to me, hiding nothing.
I want so desperately to kiss him.
“I can’t,” I tell his dark eyes, praying that I don’t fall into them. “I want to kiss you right now. But I can’t. You’re my patient. There are ethics…”
Luca shakes his head, his hands on my knees and his gaze upon mine. “You aren’t my doctor, Evangeline. You’re my friend. I’m simply talking to a friend who wants to help me tonight. You’re not licensed to practice medicine in Malta, remember? So where does that leave your ethics?”
He smiles wolfishly and waits without moving. He’s offering himself to me. I know that. And it is against his better judgment. He has told me that, as well. Yet here he is, on his knees in front of me.
I suck in a breath and inhale the air that is so charged with everything that Luca is.
Whatever that is.
It is dangerous on many levels. I know that.
I reach out unsure fingers and trace the top of his shoulders, moving over the contours. They are so broad, yet so slender at once. He’s perfectly built. Strong, lithe and powerful. I drop my head. I know that I don’t want to resist him anymore. For the first time in my life, I’m going to do something that my heart wants to do, not what my head tells me to do.
I grip him tighter with my fingers and pull him to me. He folds in between my knees, pressing me to his chest. I can hear his heart thumping rhythmically against mine as my fingers linger on his warm back.
He dips his head and presses his forehead to mine, staring into my eyes. His are a smoldering and stormy black.
“I’m afraid to get close to you,” he tells me. “I’m afraid for you.”
“I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m not afraid of you. Kiss me, Luca.”
Even I can hear the thick desire in my voice and Luca hears it too.
He groans and covers my mouth with his own, muffling the sound with my lips. He is pressed so close that he seems to absorb me. Every plane of his body is against every plane of mine. I don’t know where he stops and where I start, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is him and me and this.

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I Kill Me Promo Event & Giveaway!

I Kill Me: Tales of a Jilted Hypochondriac
Author: Tracy H. Tucker
Genre and Age Group: Women's contemporary fiction/humor, ages 30+
Release date: July 16, 2012

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Book Description:

Christine Bacon has a fatal attraction. To all things fatal. A veteran hypochondriac, her near-death experiences are exacerbated when her husband proposes they have a menage a trois with Eleanor, his busty British massage therapist, to "shake things up." Christine reluctantly agrees (although she is more wholesome than threesome), never expecting just how much she'd be rattled. As her marriage to Richard, a/k/a "Dick," falls apart, so, too, does Christine, whose fear of her own demise causes her to research every freckle, blemish, cough, bump, lump, tingle and hiccup. She isn't a doctor, but she plays one on the internet. There is solace for Christine: in raising daughters Lily and Carli, leaning on her friends, and wearing out the shower massager. In order to heal, she struggles to become her own person and to view her symptoms (and ex-husband) as less malignant, while searching for that special someone who will love her--despite her grave condition. 

 

*Excerpt May Contain Adult Language*

This year would be Dick's and my first Christmas as separated husband and wife. Did Hallmark make a tree ornament for that? I could think of a few designs. Maybe a wedding ring split in two with a busty British massage therapist holding the pieces. There could be a big bruise under the massage therapist's eye from where the wife slugged her. The word separated always conjured up the image of a dismembered torso, with limbs scattered nearby. It felt pretty much like that.
But separated or not, Christmas was coming, and I was determined to make it a good one for the kids. I was proud of myself for taking the girls to see The Nutcracker as we’d always done as a family, and even prouder that I did not allow my gaze to linger too long on the well-endowed crotches of the male dancers. In addition to The Nutcracker, one of the most important traditions was the trip to the tree farm. This was what I kept in mind as the girls and I tromped through mucky brown fields to find a tannenbaum worth fighting over.
“Where’s all the snow?” Carli wanted to know. “Christmas is supposed to be white.”
Christmas is supposed to be a lot of things. “We still have two weeks. I’m sure we’ll get some,” I said, lacing my voice with optimism.
“We might not, though,” Lily responded. I threw her a don’t start look, but her head was turned toward a family cutting down a tree. A father, mother, son and daughter. The father was tall and handsome and smiled a lot. He’d probably gotten laid last night. The mother was petite and adorable in her fuzzy red hat and matching mittens. Even the tree was perfect: gargantuan, majestic. They undoubtedly had cathedral ceilings and a huge window in which to display the tree. They’d load the tree with expensive ornaments but would also proudly display the popsicle-stick-and-glitter stars the kids made in preschool. You could just tell.
Carli ran ahead to a tall evergreen. She undoubtedly had tree envy after seeing that family’s selection. “How about this one, Mumma?”
I shook my head. “Too big.” I glanced over at Lily, who was standing with her hands jammed in her pockets. “Come on, Lil...help us find one.”
She dipped her chin into the collar of her coat. “I’m cold.”
“Well, then, let’s find a tree and we can go.”
“Why didn’t we just get a fake tree?”
I could feel my jaw begin to tighten. Why was she making this so difficult? We always came to this tree farm. Couldn’t she understand I was just trying to keep things the same? I forced myself to sound pleasant. “Because live ones are better.”
“But once you cut them down, they aren’t alive anymore. They’re dead. So we’re really bringing home something we killed.” She looked immensely pleased with herself.
I stared at her. I could hear the son of the Perfect Family asking politely if they could go get some hot chocolate. “Of course!” his perfect mother replied. “That’s the best part!”
“Come on, Carli,” I said. “I feel like killing something.”
I trudged to the next row of trees. “Do you girls see anything you like?”
Lily rolled her eyes and shrugged. Carli ran to a rather sparse-looking tree. “How about this one?”
“That one’s not full enough, honey.” I turned to see a couple in the next row standing by their selection. They looked like newlyweds. The wife stood back as her husband cut into the tree with the bow saw. Her eyes were glowing. There was something sexy about a man cutting down a tree: even a stocky guy with glasses like this one. He was probably going to get laid tonight. We stood watching him work the bow saw with quick, even strokes. The
tree began to tip. “Timberrrr...” I called. Lily and Carli looked at me like I had three heads. “That’s what they say,” I explained, “when they’ve cut down a tree and it’s falling and they want to warn people.”
Carli was puzzled. “Why don’t they just say, ‘look out, there’s a tree falling?”
I gritted my teeth. “Because that would take longer to say. They want people to get out of the way quickly.”
Carli was undaunted. “You could say it fast. Like ‘lookoutthere’satreefalling.’ Kids might not know what ‘timber’ means.”
“WhatEVER!” Lily exploded. “Just shut up!”
“LOOK,” I hissed. “We are getting a goddamned Christmas tree.”
The girls gaped at me.
“We’re getting this one.” I pointed to the tree closest to me.
“But some of the needles are orange,” Carli said hesitantly. “And it’s not very big.”
“It’s perfect,” I snapped.
Within minutes I was sawing away at the trunk with vicious cuts. Goddamned--sonofa--BITCH! The tree was mine. It began to lean. Breathing hard, I gave it a shove, looked at Carli and yelled, “Look out, there’s a tree falling!” Lily rolled her eyes. Carli stared at me, unblinking.
We headed back for the cabin with the murdered tree. We did not speak. Suddenly, a black and white cat darted in front of us. Carli twisted around to look and dropped her end of the tree. “Mumma, look! He’s so cute!”
We put down the tree and I walked to the next row where the cat had disappeared. “Kitty-kitty-kitty!” What was he doing on a tree farm? The owners leased the property but didn’t live there, and the closest neighborhood was some distance away. It must have been a stray. I continued searching.
“MOM!” Lily called. “Can we go?”
“I'm trying to find him,” I yelled back. “He shouldn’t be out here.”
I moved between the trees, taking slow, careful steps. Black tail with a white tip, snaking back and forth. He was huddled under a tree. I crouched down and reached for him very carefully. Lily yelled my name again just as my hand came in contact with the stray. He whipped around to face me...shit! I felt his needle-sharp claws sink into my wrist, in the space between my glove and coat. He bounded away through the brittle yellow grass.
I met up with the girls near the cabin. “Where’s the cat?” asked Carli.
“He took off.” Gingerly, I pulled back the edge of my coat sleeve to reveal the scratch. There were two half-inch gouges, deeper than I’d thought, and very red.
“Did he bite you, Mumma?” Carli leaned forward to peer at my wrist. “It looks like teeth marks.”
Now I was unsure. What if he had bitten me? If he was a stray, there was no telling what diseases he could be carrying. Toxoplasmosis, or cat scratch fever, or....rabies. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Wise Men, he could have rabies!
I gave Lily a little push in the direction of our car. “I need to pay for the tree. Take your sister to the car and I’ll be right out.”
“But can’t we have some hot chocolate?” Carli asked.
“No.”
“But that’s the best part!”
We are not the Perfect Family! “No,” I repeated, “we don’t have time. I have to get home and put something on my wrist.” I would wash the wound with antibacterial soap and hot water, and use hydrogen peroxide. Then I’d put some of that bacitracin ointment on it. I
could call my doctor (or even the vet) and get some more advice. I would be fine.
Upon arriving home, I tugged at the ropes holding the tree on top of the van and wrestled the conifer to the ground. After I’d plunked it in a pail of water and leaned it against our garage wall, I raced to the bathroom to tend to my wound.
“Mom,” Lily called from downstairs. “Dad’s here.”
I opened the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves for the peroxide bottle. What if we’d run out? Ah, there it was. I pressed it to my chest. Thank you, thank you, my brown disinfectant friend!
“Mom.” Lily’s voice sounded sharp. “Do we have to go with him?”
I turned the hot water on and squirted some soap on my wrist, working it into a lather. “Isn’t he taking you shopping?”
“I don’t want to go.”
Carli piped in. “Me neither. I’m tired.”
“Well, go tell him.”
“We already did. He says we have to. Will you go talk to him?”
I hesitated. Was I ready for this? Maybe it would be a good thing to force myself to see him, before the mediation. Perhaps I could spread some holiday cheer, wish him a Merry fucking Christmas.
“Yes,” I called back. I could do this. I shook the water from my wrist and patted it dry with a washcloth. I’d have to continue my disinfecting regimen after I’d spoken with Dick.
Approaching his car, I steeled myself. He rolled down his window, his cheek muscle twitching.
“They don’t want to go with you today,” I said. “They’re tired. We just came back from getting a tree.”
He stared at me. “They can rest at my apartment.”
The sound of his voice made me want to leap out of my skin. It scraped my ears like the tines of two forks colliding. The wind lifted my hair and I jabbed it behind my ear. I took a deep breath. The sleeping tigress in me, wanting to protect her young, growled. “They’d rather rest here,” I said. “In their own house.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched again. “The girls have two houses now.”
“But this is their home,” I said. “There’s a big difference. You’re living in a two-bedroom apartment. It’s not the same. You’re not the same,” I added, folding my arms across my chest. The December air was biting, but I was determined not to let him see me shiver.
His lips drew into a thin line. Like a worm. “People change, Chris. You should give it a try. Just remember that the 'poor Mommy' role isn't very becoming.”
I struggled to call forth the image of Hank, who would be flashing me a keep your cool, pumpkin look right about now. “It's no secret I've been in pain, Richard.”
Dick leaned forward. I could smell coffee on his breath. “Well,” he said softly, nastily, “a good mother would be stronger.”
No one was going to criticize my motherhood. I was the only one who could do that. The tigress attacked. I slammed my hand against the side of his car, hard. “You and your goddamned angry face!” I spat out the words. “You look like shit.”
“Have you checked a mirror lately?” His eyes were blazing.
“I just got a CHRISTMAS TREE,” I screeched. “It was muddy!”
I looked over at the house. Lily and Carli were standing in the window. I wondered how much they had seen, or heard. I took a step closer to his car and arranged my thumb and forefinger in the most offensive hand gesture known to a man: the demonstration of length. “You are THIS BIG,” I said, and walked away. Merry fucking Christmas.

 

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