Thursday, December 28, 2023

Review: Confessions of a Christmasholic by Joss Wood

Today I'm sharing my review of Confessions of a Christmasholic by Joss Wood.

This story was a wild ride and I really enjoyed it!

Grab your copy today!

 



About the Book

Grumpy meets Sunshine in this hilarious festive romcom that will have you wishing for a HEA!

Sutton Alsop hates Christmas. So much so, when confronted with a house that looks like Santa himself vomited Christmas all over it, she accidentally (drunkenly) destroys every fairy light, fake reindeer and candy cane in sight. Unfortunately for Sutton, this house belongs to none other than Gus Langston, single dad and owner of the village’s year-round Christmas shop – aka Mr Christmas himself.

But Mr Christmas has a secret only Sutton knows…

With the two of them forced together for the holidays, the sparks between them are hot enough to melt even the coldest of hearts!


My Thoughts


Confessions of a Christmasholic is funny, unorthodox, and completely bizarre (in a good way). 

After I finished this book, I had to let it marinate in my head before I could put my thoughts into a semi-coherent state.

Gus is a smokin’ hot single dad who secretly hates Christmas but hides the guise under false smiles and holiday cheer while continuing to run the local Christmas shop started by his wife before her passing. He continues the work because that’s what the town expects of him, despite his unhappiness. 

Sutton is on holiday alone traveling across Europe. Her friend was supposed to be traveling with Sutton but she bailed on her. Her friend also left Sutton destitute when she asked to borrow money from Sutton and made excuses on why she can’t pay Sutton back. So now Sutton is penniless in a small town somewhere in England, and completely drunk. 

When Sutton stumbles upon a home with a fully decorated lawn of Christmas, she’s had just about enough of this holiday and starts going to town tearing up this person’s decorations. In her drunken rampage through the holiday lights, she hears a guy talking to, and punching a Santa inflatable. Wanting a shot at the title, Sutton makes her presence known by tripping before she can get to Santa, and the hot guy. Hilarity definitely ensues. 

The story is wild, the characters are loveable and endearing, and the plot is entertaining. If you need a pick-me-up to get you through the holidays, Confessions of a Christmasholic has got what you need!

FTC Disclaimer: I voluntarily read a copy of the book generously provided by the publisher via Net Galley in exchange for an honest review. This in no way influences my thoughts or feelings about the book or the content of my review.





About the Author



Joss Wood loves books and travelling– especially to the wild places of Southern Africa. She has domestic skills of a pot plant and drinks far too much coffee.

Joss has written for the Kiss/ Modern Tempted, Harlequin Presents and most recently, the Desire line for Harlequin/Mills and Boon. She also writes for Tule Publishing and writes single title romance for Penguin/Random House for their Intermix imprint.

In 2013 Joss won the RT Reviewers Choice Award for best Harlequin Kiss. After a career in pro-business lobbying and local economic development, she now writes full time. Joss lives with her husband and their two teenage children in northern KZN. Joss is a member of the RWA (Romance Writers of America) and ROSA (Romance Writers of South Africa.) Learn more at josswoodbooks.com

Wednesday, December 13, 2023

Review: The Military Wife by Laura Trentham

I first read The Military Wife in May 2019. I completely fell in love with the characters, the writing, and the storyline. 

I wrote a review for this book but I still don't think any words I have could do it justice. The story is just so good. It's meaningful, heartfelt, heartbreaking, so real, and just so wonderful.

I cannot recommend this book enough. 

When I'm asked for reading recommendations, this story always comes to mind.

I invite all readers to check out The Military Wife by Laura Trentham.



About the Book

A young widow embraces a second chance at life when she reconnects with those who understand the sacrifices made by American soldiers and their families in award-winning author Laura Trentham’s The Military Wife.

Harper Lee Wilcox has been marking time in her hometown of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina since her husband, Noah Wilcox’s death, nearly five years earlier. With her son Ben turning five and living at home with her mother, Harper fights a growing restlessness, worried that moving on means leaving the memory of her husband behind.

Her best friend, Allison Teague, is dealing with struggles of her own. Her husband, a former SEAL that served with Noah, was injured while deployed and has come home physically healed but fighting PTSD. With three children underfoot and unable to help her husband, Allison is at her wit’s end.

In an effort to reenergize her own life, Harper sees an opportunity to help not only Allison but a network of other military wives eager to support her idea of starting a string of coffee houses close to military bases around the country.

In her pursuit of her dream, Harper crosses paths with Bennett Caldwell, Noah’s best friend and SEAL brother. A man who has a promise to keep, entangling their lives in ways neither of them can foresee. As her business grows so does an unexpected relationship with Bennett. Can Harper let go of her grief and build a future with Bennett even as the man they both loved haunts their pasts?


My Thoughts


If you are Veteran in crisis or know someone who is, call 988 and Press 1, Text 838255 or visit www.veteranscrisisline.net to chat online with someone 24/7. There is hope.

Laura Trentham pens an amazing novel of service, sacrifice and of heart.

THE MILITARY WIFE showcases the struggles military wives, families and their soldiers face every single day. When the deployments are over and the men and women serving come home, many are often still fighting battles of PTSD, depression, guilt and many other issues. We call these brave men and women our heroes and they absolutely are, but the real heroism is the daily fight to maintain their mental health for their families, their country and, more importantly, for themselves.

Ms. Trentham’s characters are painstakingly and lovingly crafted. Her portrayal of life as a Navy SEAL is interesting and engaging. The amount of emotion and depth crammed into the plot is so gut-wrenching and so raw you can’t help but be drawn into it. I grieved, cried, laughed, prayed and celebrated right alongside Harper, Allison and the rest of the characters.

I love how the story flashes from present to past, so we can get a full account of what came to be and what has always been. Absolutely beautiful! I am emotionally wrecked, and I’m not surprised. Ms. Trentham’s writing style is unique and her ability to connect with readers on an emotional and spiritual level is without equal. And the best part, this is the FIRST book in a new series! Ms. Trentham knocked this one out of the park!

Thank you to all the men and women who serve in our military as well as all those who’ve come before. Thank you for your service and your sacrifice.

FTC Disclaimer: I voluntarily read a copy of the book generously provided by the publisher via Net Galley in exchange for an honest review. This in no way influences my thoughts or feelings about the book or the content of my review.




Purchase Links



About the Author


Photo Credit: Steven Huskins

An award-winning author, Laura Trentham was born and raised in a small town in Tennessee. Although she loved English and reading in high school, she was convinced an English degree equated to starvation. She chose the next most logical major—Chemical Engineering—and worked in a hard hat and steel toed boots for several years.

She writes sexy, small town contemporaries and smoking hot Regency historicals. The first two books of her Falcon Football series were named Top Picks by RT Book Reviews magazine. Then He Kissed Me, a Cottonbloom novel, was named as one of Amazon’s best romances of 2016. When not lost in a cozy Southern town or Regency England, she's shuttling kids to soccer, helping with homework, and avoiding the Mt. Everest-sized pile of laundry that is almost as big as the to-be-read pile of books on her nightstand. Visit Laura's website for book info, news and more! www.lauratrentham.com

Tuesday, December 12, 2023

Review: The Post Box at the North Pole by Jaimie Admans

Today, I'm sharing my review of The Post Box at the North Pole by Jaimie Admans.

I first read this book in January 2022 and I absolutely LOVE it!

I love it so much, I want to share my love for this story again this Christmastime. 

If you are looking for a Christmas read with all the feels and magic of the holiday season, you'll definitely want to read The Post Box at the North Pole
 


About the Book

Sasha Hansley hates Christmas. As a child, it was her favourite time of year, but ever since the tragic death of her mother, it has completely lost its magic.

But when she gets an unexpected phone call from her eccentric estranged father, she’s forced to dust off her snow boots.

He has been running a Lapland-style Christmas village in Norway and after suffering a heart attack, he is on strict doctor’s orders to slow down. Eager to reconnect with her dad, Sasha books the next flight out there. Only she has never actually been on a plane before, let alone to the Arctic Circle.

Met at the runway by drop-dead-gorgeous Taavi Salvesen, they sleigh ride through the snow with the Northern Lights guiding their way.

When Sasha uncovers sacks of unopened Santa mail – letters that children and adults from all over the world write to Santa every year – she realises that she can send a little bit of magic out into the world by replying to some of them.

With Taavi on hand to help, will Sasha rediscover her own excitement for Christmas and find love among the letters?

The Post Box at the North Pole is like one big romantic mug of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a splash of Christmas magic! Fans of Holly Martin, Sarah Morgan and Heidi Swain will love this novel!


My Thoughts


This is one of the best Christmas stories I’ve ever read. This story will tug hard on those heartstrings.

This is a story of a woman with a broken spirit and a cynical view of Christmas. She’s never ventured out of her comfort zone and is secretly longing for the father who abandoned her shortly after her mother’s death, when she needed him most.

This is also a story about hope, about courage, and about the magic of Christmas. This is also a story about love and how beautifully fragile it is. It’s a story of Christmas miracles, reindeer and letters to Santa Claus.

I absolutely loved this book. I loved watching Sasha in her new environment and I loved watching her with Taavi. They bumped heads as much as they locked eyes with each other and couldn’t break away. Sasha really “saw” Taavi and she refused to let his walls keep her out of the one place that was off limits… his heart.

The author did an amazing job of describing the landscape and the beauty of this Nordic destination. It’s enchanting and beautiful and it felt almost like I was there with Sasha and Taavi.

I was quickly swept away in the magic and merriment of the story and its people. I laughed, cried and loved every bit of the book and I didn’t want it to end.

I whole-heartedly recommend The Post Box at the North Pole.

FTC Disclaimer: I voluntarily read a copy of the book generously provided by the publisher via Net Galley in exchange for an honest review. This in no way influences my thoughts or feelings about the book or the content of my review.




Purchase Links


About the Author



Thursday, December 7, 2023

Blog Tour Spotlight: The Gentleman's Gambit by Evie Dunmore

 Happy Release Week Evie Dunmore!

The Gentleman's Gambit is Book 4 in Evie's A League of Extraordinary Women series. 

This is a historical romance series focused on four women, the Oxford Rebels, set in late 19th century Victorian England at the height of the suffrage movement - Goodreads

Get your copy today!



About the Book

Bookish suffragist Catriona Campbell is busy: An ailing estate, academic writer’s block, and a tense time for England’s women’s rights campaign—the last thing she needs is to be stuck playing host to her father’s distractingly attractive young colleague.

Deeply introverted Catriona lives for her work at Oxford and her fight for women’s suffrage. She dreams of romance, too, but since all her attempts at love have ended badly, she now keeps her desires firmly locked inside her head—until she climbs out of a Scottish loch after a good swim and finds herself rather exposed to her new colleague.

Elias Khoury has wheedled his way into Professor Campbell’s circle under false pretenses: He did not come to Oxford to classify ancient artefacts; he is determined to take them back to his homeland in the Middle East. Winning Catriona’s favor could be the key to his success. Unfortunately, seducing the coolly intense lady scholar quickly becomes a mission in itself and his well-laid plans are in danger of derailing....

Forced into close proximity in Oxford’s hallowed halls, two very different people have to face the fact that they might just be a perfect match. Soon, a risky new game begins that asks Catriona one more time to put her heart and wildest dreams at stake.




Excerpt

Chapter 1

Applecross, Scotland, July 1882

In a world run by loud people, quiet was a scarce commodity. Catriona was willing to pay for it and she knew all the ways to acquire some solitude. The one thing she couldn't do was store it in her veins for later use-a pity, because tonight at seven o'clock, a stranger would invade her home.

For now, she had sought refuge in the cool waters of Loch Shieldaig. The lake of her childhood home filled her ears with the heavy silence of a tomb. She floated on her back, her bare white body stark against the black depths, her arms outspread as if trying to embrace the blue expanse of sky above. Now and then a wave lapped over her face, leaving a brackish taste in her throat. Had she known her father would invite a guest to the family seat, she would have thought twice about coming up to Applecross for the summer. One assumed that a remote castle was free from the distractions that lurked back at Oxford: sociable friends. The suffrage cause. The lingering awkwardness of an unrequited crush. Where could she work on a book in peace if not here?

The visitor's presence would make her feel alien in her own dining hall. She'd do her duty and play hostess, of course. At five-and-twenty, she knew the protocol: hold his gaze, smile slightly, and put her comfort last. Ask light questions about his travels and research plans, all while discreetly observing his plate and wineglass in case the footmen failed to anticipate his needs on time. She did have an eye for detail. Luckily, most people did not. Few ever saw the true emotions behind her mask. The visitor, too, would be none the wiser that she was wishing him away.

The breeze stirred and sent shivers across the loch, and the cold entered her bones, urging her to return. She swam with practiced backstrokes, her mind inattentive as her body knew the route to the eastern bank by habit. No one ever visited the small crescent of shoreline where she had left her clothes. The spot was shielded by a rare patch of forest, and only sheep and old gamekeeper Collins knew the path, neither of whom posed a threat to the daughter of Alastair Campbell, Earl of Wester Ross.

Gooseflesh rose on her wet skin when she emerged from the water. She strode to the forest edge quickly. Her clothes were still laid out on the boulder, secured in place by a thick volume of Virgil's Aeneid. With clammy fingers, she picked up the book and her spectacles. Then she noticed it: the presence to her right. She froze.

A man.

A man was blocking the entrance of the forest path.

Ice shot through her stomach.

She clutched the Virgil in front of her modesty; her spectacles clattered to the ground. He was five yards away. Watching her. Her heart was racing. He had already seen her . . . he had seen everything. She turned to him fully with the treacle-slow motion of a bad dream. His contours were fuzzy, but conclusive enough: still young, strong features, broad but lean shoulders in a fitted coat-he was in fine fighting form. Not good. And he was still staring. With an age-old expression of awe. As though he had unexpectedly stumbled through the doors of a cathedral and felt ambushed by the dizzying heights and the dusty taste of the eternal. It would have given her pause, except there was a pair of binoculars resting against his chest. A white-hot sensation rushed to her head.

"What do you think you are doing," she snapped, the words shooting out cold and clipped.

The man came alive as if he had been released from a spell. He turned his face away.

"You . . . are a woman," he said, sounding vaguely stunned.

"Astutely observed, sir," she said, incredulous.

He made a noise in his throat, like a surprised chuckle.

The pulse pounding in her ears near drowned out her conscious thinking. "Of course you're amused," she said. "One would expect nothing but low humor from a cowardly Peeping Tom."

He twitched, as though it cost him effort to not whip his head back round to her. "I was not . . . peeping."

"So you did not, while walking along the ridge, spot me in the water, use your binoculars to ascertain that I was indeed an unclothed woman, and then creep all the way down through the forest to spy on me?"

Her tone had sharpened with every word and by the end, he should have lain on the ground in neat slices. He stood quite intact if a bit befuddled. His head tipped back on a soft laugh.

"That sounds like a lot of trouble just to see an unclothed woman," he said. "You are very charming, miss," he added, "but it's nothing I have not seen before."

Her cheeks stung as if she had been slapped.

"Then why," she cried, "are you still standing there-oh!"

Her startled gasp did make him look back at her, just as a translucent shape flew toward him on a fresh gust of wind. Hell. Her untethered underclothes, fine like cobwebs, had taken off in the breeze.

"Blast." She lunged forward and slammed her palm down on a remaining stocking. She cast a quick glance sideways. The man was straightening from a crouch with her chemise caught in his fist, as if he had swiped it from midair like a large cat. He eyed her pantaloons next-they had landed in a shrub, and it had to be the pantaloons because there were blurry pink ribbons, doing a saucy dance.

"Don't touch that," she wheezed.

He raised his arms over his head. "I won't touch."

Her chemise fluttered in his hand like a white flag.

"You really ought to take your leave now," she suggested through gritted teeth.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "See here."

He turned around, seemed to survey the nearest tree, and then he deftly tied her chemise to the trunk by its decorative cords.

"Voilà," he said and spread his fingers. "You shall never see me again."

Without a backward glance, he strode into the forest at a fluid pace.

"Nearly gone now," he called out before his elegant form disappeared around the bend.

She stayed hunched over the boulder, barely able to swallow around the shock still clogging her throat. The path remained empty and the forest quiet, as if the man had never been here at all. Oh, he had been quite real. His roaming gaze had left a smoldering trail across her body. She had refused to flail and twist to cover her breasts; he had already looked his fill anyway and it would have probably given him satisfaction to see her squirm.

Eventually, she picked up her spectacles. They had survived the fall intact. She put them on, and Castle Applecross slid into focus on the plateau on the opposite bank, its old stone towers sharply delineated against the clear sky. She was rather far from home here, on the other side of the loch. Sudden energy surged, and she rushed to take her chemise down from the tree. What a neat, pretty bow the creeper had tied, voilà! Would it be safe to walk home? He could be lurking in the brambles and pounce after all. She looked back at the castle, half a mile across a rippling surface. The decision was made quickly: she chose the risk of the water over the man. Back at the boulder, she put down the chemise and pulled her shawl from under her gown instead, wound it round her head, and secured it with her hatpin. She gave the Virgil an apologetic pat. "I shall fetch you later."

The loch engulfed her body like a large cold fist.

When she staggered onto the shoreline below the castle, her arms and thighs were burning with exhaustion. The plateau enclosed the beach like a protective wall, so she took some time to regain her breath. Wrapped in the plaid, she hurried up the crumbling steps her ancestor had once hewn into the side of the rock face. Overgrown vegetable beds and a tumbledown cottage blurred past on her dash to the castle walls. She slipped through the side entrance into the dimly lit wine cellar, then up the cobwebbed spiral staircase, one floor, two, three. On the final landing, she threw her shoulder against the servants' door, until she burst into her chamber.

A scream rang out.

MacKenzie was pressing a fist to her chest, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on Catriona as if she were one of the castle ghosts. "Milady. I near jumped out of my skin."

Catriona padded past her on numb feet to the rocking chair with the tartan throws. She sat and huddled into the blankets while her former-nanny-turned-lady's-maid surveyed her with a hand on her sturdy hip. After thirty years of service in the Campbell household, MacKenzie was accustomed to remarkably eccentric behavior, but parading around in nothing but a plaid was a novel, unacceptable development. Sorry, MacKenzie. Crossing the loch with the added weight of waterlogged undergarments would have been rather too reckless.

Before MacKenzie could inquire about her clothes, Catriona asked: "Do you know if the earl has employed a new gamekeeper?"

MacKenzie's consternated expression changed to concern. "A new gamekeeper," she repeated in her thick brogue. "I hadn't realized you let the old Collins go."

Catriona rocked with the chair. "I would never."

Neither would her father, come to think of it. Then why the binoculars on that man?

She couldn't feel her face. The hexagonal room on top of the south tower, despite thick wall tapestries and sprawling Persian carpets, was never warm, and the fright from being watched was still lodged in her chest like an icicle.

"You must make haste," MacKenzie said, and nodded at the copper basin in front of the hearth. Steam was swirling lazily into the cool air. "His lordship's guest has arrived."

"What-already?"

The clock next to the chamber door said it was not yet three in the afternoon.

MacKenzie pursed her lips. "He's arrived early. Poor manners if I may say so-everyone's in a tizzy. But the tub's ready for you."

"Good grief," Catriona muttered. A sudden change in schedule made her feel queasy on the best of days. "Oooh," she then said. "Oh no. Oh dear."

She felt so weak, it was as though her heart had stopped.

"Dinna fash," came MacKenzie's voice from a distance. "The earl has just returned, he was at the Middletons'-they are separating, the Middletons, have you heard . . . but his lordship is back, and he's entertaining the young gentleman until dinner. All's well."

All this was easy for MacKenzie to say, because she didn't know about the stranger at the loch.

"He rolled his r's," she moaned.

"Huh?"

She buried her face in her hands. "This is bad."

"If you bathe now, you should be ready soon enough," MacKenzie said in the soothing tone she used on the unwell.

Catriona looked up at her, feeling dizzy. "Did our guest take a walk after his arrival?"

The math was damning: two strangers on the same day in remote Applecross was highly improbable. Had she not been so shocked, and so set on him arriving at seven, this would have occurred to her it was happening.

"I don't know if the gentleman went for a walk," said MacKenzie. She opened the top drawer of the dresser next to the fireplace to take out a stack of towels. "Once Mary told me he was here, I saw to the bath and laid out your clothes."

While MacKenzie's back was turned, Catriona rose, dropped the damp plaid, and climbed into the heat of the tub.

"What's he like?" she forced herself to ask.

MacKenzie placed the towels on the footstool next to the tub and straightened with a soft grunt. "I haven't seen him," she said. "Mary said he's brought a trunk full of wine and he carried it from the carriage all by himself."

She should have asked questions about the man when the earl had announced a visitor, but, frustrated by the news, she hadn't. She knew he was an expert on Phoenician high culture from the Levant, Mount Lebanon more precisely, with several terms at Cambridge among his credentials. He was one of the numerous international scholars interested in an exchange with Oxbridge academics, and, apparently, just the person Wester Ross needed to assist with cataloging some of the Eastern artifacts back at Oxford. Voilà. What if he had said wallah-Arabic-and not voilà-French-and in the heat of the moment, she had misunderstood? The penny would have dropped sooner. Wallah, you shall never see me again. Well. Well, they would see about that.

"What a day," she said tonelessly.

"I'll be back to help do up your hair in half an hour," MacKenzie said. She walked to the door with a slight limp that had certainly not been there before.

Catriona contemplated this as MacKenzie's steps faded away, momentarily distracted from her scandalous situation.

While her father diverted time and attention toward hosting academic guests, the castle was crumbling around them, weeds conquered the grounds, and the people in charge of maintaining it all were increasingly plagued by their own ailments. An attempt at a land sale with neighboring Baron Middleton, which could have eased the strain on the Campbell purse, had fallen through in the spring. No wonder her thumbnails were bitten to the quick. In the end, it was the earl's and her responsibility to run Applecross, but they were as bad as each other when it came to managing the stewards and accountants. Usually they justified their neglect with their cerebral brilliance-who had time to look after ledgers if one could add to the production of knowledge or advance women's rights instead? However, lately, she was failing at it, the brilliance. On her desk below the window loomed a stack of books. She had already scoured it top to bottom for inspiration. After co-authoring countless papers with Wester Ross, she had been keen to finally write a book in her own name, on a topic of her choosing, but a curious blank yawned where passion should have been. Writing without that passion was like squeezing water from a stone; weeks had passed and her well was still running dry. She had no noble excuse left for letting Applecross fall into ruin.

She grabbed the floating flannel and ran it over her arms and neck. She gave her shamelessly ogled chest a good scrub. She was neither a waif nor voluptuous, but her breasts were sizable in relation to her frame. Plain gowns concealed this. Now a man knew. On her left nipple, the silver studs of her piercing caught the red gleam from the fire in the hearth. Had he noticed the intimate piece of jewelry? For a moment, her hand lingered on the wet, warm curve of her breast. She exhaled and put her head under water.

Excerpted from The Gentleman's Gambit by Evie Dunmore. Copyright © 2023 by Evie Dunmore. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.


Purchase Links

Penguin Random House


About the Author


Wednesday, December 6, 2023

Blog Tour Spotlight: The Fairytale Life of Dorothy Gale by Virginia Kantra

 Happy Release Week Virginia Kantra!

The Fairytale Life of Dorothy Gale is here!

Get your copy today!



About the Book

A woman learns to follow her own road in this heartwarming novel inspired by The Wizard of Oz by New York Times bestselling author Virginia Kantra.

Dorothy “Dee” Gale is searching for a place to belong. After their globe-trotting mother’s death, Dee and her sister Toni settled with Uncle Henry and Aunt Em in Kansas, where Dee attends graduate school. But when Dee’s relationship with a faculty member, a bestselling novelist, ends in heartbreak and humiliation, she’s caught in a tornado of negative publicity. Unable to face her colleagues—or her former lover—Dee applies to the writing program at Trinity College Dublin.

Dee’s journey to Ireland leads her to new companions: seemingly brainless Sam Clery—who dropped out of college and now runs a newsagent’s shop—is charming and hot, in a dissolute, Irish poet kind of way; allegedly heartless Tim Woodman—who stiffly refused to take back his ex-fiancée—seems stuck in his past; and fiercely loyal Reeti Kaur, who longs for the courage to tell her parents she wants to teach underprivileged girls rather than work in the family business.

In a year of opportunities and changes, love and loss, Dee is mentored by powerful women in the writing program, challenging her to see herself and her work with new eyes. With her friends, Dee finds the confidence to confront her biggest fears—including her intimidating graduate advisor, who may not be so wicked after all.

Faced with a choice with far-reaching consequences, Dee must apply the lessons she’s learned along the way about making a family, finding a home...and recognizing the power that’s been inside her all along.




Excerpt

One

Our mother was Judy Gale. The artist. Every time she left us behind with a friend or a nanny or (when friends and nannies couldn't be found) bundled us off to Kansas, I'd tell my sister we were off on an adventure. Like the Pevensies fleeing wartime London or Harry taking the train to Hogwarts. Sometimes we were princesses in exile or orphans escaping cruel relatives. I dropped the orphans bit after our mother died. But lots of stories I told my little sister still began that way, with children on a trip into the magical unknown.

There was nothing magic about the English department office at Trinity College Dublin. The metal frame chairs and cinderblock walls were straight from my high school media center. The familiar smells of toner and floor cleaner overlaid the whiff of graduate student desperation in the air. Except for the glimpse of Georgian architecture through the windows and the bust of Yeats on a filing cabinet, I could almost be back in Kansas.

But this was Ireland, land of poets and fairies, witches and warriors, Jonathan Swift and Derek Mahon. I was finally moving on. Getting somewhere. Leaving my old self behind.

And maybe I was still telling myself stories to make me feel better.

I smiled hopefully at the gatekeeper behind the desk. A round woman, a cardigan draping her plump shoulders, green-framed glasses on a silver chain around her neck. "Hi. I'm here to see Dr. Eastwick?"

Her glasses flashed at me. "Sorry?"

"I have an appointment. Ten o'clock." My flight from Newark had been delayed. I'd taken a cab straight from the Dublin airport so I wouldn't be late.

"You're American."

"Yes."

She tapped her keyboard. "Name?"

My heart raced. I cleared my throat. "Dorothy Gale."

After my maternal grandmother. Dodo and Toto, Toni dubbed us when she was small. I'd never minded my old-fashioned name. It was unique, right? Mine. Nothing to be ashamed of. Until this past year, when Destiny Gayle, the titular character of a novel by critically acclaimed author Grayson Kettering, spent thirty-two weeks at the top of the New York Times and Amazon bestseller lists. It wasn't just the similarity in our names. Destiny dressed like me, in vintage skirts and thrift shop sweaters. ("Her wardrobe reflected her mind," the novel's hero said on page 32, "only gently used, full of secondhand ideas and castoff morality.") Plus, anyone who read his bio knew Grayson Kettering was an adjunct faculty member at the University of Kansas. And anyone who did a little digging-the features writer at New York magazine, say, or a book reviewer at the Washington Post or the host of Entertainment Tonight-could discover he had a two-year relationship with a graduate student there who bore a strong resemblance to brown-haired, cow-eyed Destiny.

Casting had recently started on Destiny Gayle, the movie. Fortified by a box of tissues and a cup of tea, I'd watched the ET interview from the couch in my aunt's living room.

"Was she the real-life inspiration for your character?" the host had asked Gray.

On television, Gray looked exactly like his author photo, silver threading his thick hair, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. The camera and the interviewer had loved him. An ache stabbed my chest.

I leaned forward to catch his reply.

"A case of art imitating life?" His dark, deep-set eyes twinkled. "I suppose the comparison is inevitable, if somewhat reductive. You might as well say, life imitates art."

"What about the relationship Destiny has with her professor?" the host asked.

My hand twitched, sloshing hot tea on my Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas.

"A professor at the college," Gray corrected. "Technically, she's not enrolled in any of his classes. He has no real power over her. She exerts her power-her will, her desires-over him."

I listened, stunned. The host raised an expertly threaded eyebrow. "Are you saying their relationship is appropriate?"

"It's certainly unwise," Gray admitted ruefully. Of course he had to say that now. Before, he said I was his soul mate. He told me . . . Well. Not that he loved me. Not in so many words. But he said he couldn't imagine his life without me.

"But let's not strip young Destiny of her agency," he told the interviewer. "She pursues an older man, her mentor, as willfully and aggressively as he imagines he is pursuing her." He looked into the camera with disarming directness. "You could argue that he is the one being exploited in the relationship. It's not until he's free of her stifling domesticity that he can truly express himself."

"You jerk," I yelled at my aunt's TV. Not that anyone heard me. Not the interviewer. Not my thesis advisor at KU. Certainly not Gray. Aside from that one horrible scene in his office, I'd never been able to tell him . . . to tell him . . . Anyway, I blamed myself. Gray had never coerced me into anything. I loved him. Everything he'd done, I'd let him do. Everything he'd written . . . Well, it must be partly true, right? He was Grayson Kettering, one of the modern masters of autobiographical fiction.

Aunt Em paused on her way into the kitchen. "Turn that off. Nobody cares about that garbage."

My heart burned. I rubbed at the damp spot spreading on Pooh's face. "Only four million viewers and the entire English department."

"Nobody that matters," Em amended. Which pretty much summed up her opinion of my entire postgraduate education. Her eyes narrowed in what might have been concern. "You should call the bookstore about that job. You can't sit around drinking tea in your pajamas forever."

"At least I'm not guzzling wine under a bridge."

My aunt looked disapproving. Basically, her default expression. "You need to get out more. Go somewhere. Do something."

Out of her house, she meant. Not out of the country.

But here I was.

Here you are,” the department officer said, consulting her computer screen. “Dorothy Gale, ten o’clock. You’re to see Dr. Norton over in the writing center.”

"I don't understand. My appointment is with Dr. Eastwick. I have an email."

"Dr. Eastwick cannot meet with anyone anymore. She's dead."

The blood rushed in my ears. Obviously, my hearing was affected. Still adjusting to changes in the cabin pressure or jet lag or her Irish accent or something. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. It's not like you killed her. Very sudden, it was."

The room whirled. My stomach dropped. It had to be a joke. A hoax. I'd never met Dr. Eastwick. I had emailed her without any real hope that she would actually reply. But she had answered all my questions. She'd encouraged me to apply. She couldn't be . . .

"Dead?"

"Monday. Not that she'll be missed, God rest her soul."

Another joke?

I tightened my grip on my suitcase. The administrative officer was still talking, something about needing to meet with Dr. Norton to discuss my registration. "She'll be in her office until one. The Oscar Wilde house. 21 Westland Row," she said. "You know the way?"

I didn't, of course. I'd only seen pictures online. I nodded.

"The writing center. Right at the edge of campus. Go in through the Hamilton building. Front concourse, ground floor. There's a sign." She looked at me doubtfully, as if questioning my ability to read. "Or the security guard can help you."

I thanked her.

I paused on the steps outside, squinting. After Kansas and the airport, everything was bewilderingly bright and green. Fat white seagulls dotted the emerald lawn like sheep. Students with backpacks strolled the walks. A tour group stopped to take pictures of the library.

Some of my best memories were of libraries. Sitting on the carpet of the Brooklyn Public Library with Toni snuggled on my lap for toddler time. Hiding in the stacks in a gray-shingled cottage in Connecticut. Begging a ride in my uncle's truck to the squat brick drive-through that housed the library in Council Grove, Kansas. By the time I was fifteen, I had seven different library cards. While our mother traveled the world, creating art installations we saw only in photographs, my sister, Toni, and I shuttled from our New York apartment to the pullout couches of friends-of-friends to the tiny back bedroom of Uncle Henry's farmhouse. Books became my friends. The library was my magic kingdom, my refuge, my escape. As long as I could find the library, I was home.

I started walking.

One step at a time, I told myself. Just because my faculty contact was dead didn't mean I was doomed. Staff changes happened, right? Professors retired or went on sabbatical. Instructors failed to get tenure and moved on to other institutions or new careers. Graduate students dropped out and found jobs. Or were publicly humiliated in their former lover's bestselling novel and fled across the Atlantic rather than ever face him again.

Okay, maybe that was just me.

"If you'd come to me before . . ." My advisor at KU had looked down at his desk, not meeting my eyes. "But after two years . . ."

Two years when Gray and I had been a couple. Two years of begging for extensions, of blowing off meetings with my advisor to discuss my progress (or lack of progress) on my thesis.

"You don't need him. You can talk to me," Gray had said.

I took a deep breath. Blew it out. I could deal with this. It was a bump in the road, not the end of the world.

I'd applied to Trinity in a desperate bid to prove-to Gray, to the world, to myself-that I was not the literary vampire, the creative succubus, he'd portrayed in his novel. I hadn't expected I'd actually be accepted. I'd never dreamed I would actually come, leaving my sister behind.

But my tuition was paid. I'd had to show a receipt at the airport, along with my passport and a bank statement proving I could support myself for the next year. Which I could, even though Toni was starting college now, too. Whatever else our mother had or hadn't done for her daughters, she'd taken care of us financially. The licensing fees from photographs of her art-plus a hefty life insurance policy-were her legacy to us.

I couldn't turn back now.

The campus spread around me, windows and arches and towers of stone. It was like stumbling onto the grounds of Pemberley or into a fairy tale. Beyond the abstract sculpture thingy was a square with green on both sides. Trees. Buildings. No signs. No security guard, either.

I wandered through a gate onto a street looking for . . . What had the administrative officer said? Westland? Westmoreland? Dubliners brushed by, everyone around me moving at speed and with purpose while I trudged along, not quite sure where I was going.

Story of my life, really.

My rollaway bumped rhythmically behind me over the stones. Glancing automatically to my left, I stepped off the sidewalk and into the path of a bus. Tram. Shit.

Metal squealed. Hot wind gusted on my cheek. I jerked back, tripping over the curb, breaking the wheel on my suitcase.

I stood shaking on the sidewalk as the passengers debarked.

"You all right, dear?"

"Yeah. I . . ." A yellow caution sign across the road swam in my vision: féach gach treo. look both ways. I pulled myself together. "Yeah, thank you. I'm fine."

To prove it, I walked another block.

A bridge spanned the river ahead. I dragged my bag toward it, drawn by the sun sparkling on the water. The weary traveler left the path, following the dancing light over the water, and was lost forever in the mists as the will-o'-the-wisp disappeared in a burst of goblin laughter . . .

I shook my head to clear it. The woman at the desk said the writing center was at the edge of campus. I just had to keep walking.

But when I reached the other side, it was clear I'd gone too far. The street was lined with shops-a hair salon, a dry cleaners, a kebab house advertising pizzas and falafel. On the corner, between a metal shutter scrawled with graffiti and a sign for lottery tickets, was a blue-painted storefront with a neon open sign. clery's newsagents.

I went in to ask directions.

The bell jangled cheerfully as I opened the door. The broken wheel of my bag scraped the tile floor. Embarrassed, I picked it up.

The inside was a jumble of cheap plastic toys and bright candy wrappers, shelves crowded with packaged convenience foods, crates of fresh produce and buckets of flowers with prices scrawled on handwritten signs. Newspapers with foreign headlines were displayed by the register. A tall steel rolling shelf, stacked with loaves of bread, occupied one corner near the front of the shop.

"What can I get you?" asked the man behind the counter, closing his book.

I couldn't read the title. I jerked my gaze back to his face.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Coffee?"

I swallowed, suddenly parched with longing. "Do you have tea?"

"You're in Ireland," he said. "You can always have tea. Or Guinness or whiskey."

He was tall and skinny, dressed in black jeans and a rumpled gray T-shirt, his hair tied back from a narrow face. His long jaw was covered in stubble, like an incognito movie star or a dissolute poet after a three-day binge.

"Tea would be great. Chai? To go," I said.

"Masala chai?" He had a lovely voice, a lilt running over the deeper tones like water over rocks. He was a songwriter. Single, of course. He performed at night in indie clubs, taking inspiration from the strangers he encountered at his day job, and he wrote a song based on me that became a hit on both sides of the Atlantic and Gray heard it and . . .

Okay, so being someone else's muse hadn't worked out so well for me.

"Excuse me?"

"Spiced tea," he said patiently. "Do you want milk?"

"Yeah. Um. Maybe a little sugar?" I set down my bag to pay, counting out the unfamiliar currency before curling my hands gratefully around the fragrant cup. "Thank you."

"You're American."

"I guess the accent gives me away," I said ruefully.

Humor creased his face. "That, and the boots."

"What? Oh." I glanced down at my cowboy boots, a going-away present from Toni. "I suppose those would be a clue."

"And the suitcase."

The suitcase. I sighed. I wasn't eager to drag my busted bag through the unfamiliar streets of Dublin with a hot to-go cup in one hand. I had time-didn't I?-to sit down with a cup of tea before I went to see Dr. Norton.

Excerpted from The Fairytale Life of Dorothy Gale by Virginia Kantra. Copyright © 2023 by Virginia Kantra. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.


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Tuesday, December 5, 2023

Release Day Spotlight: Dragon Frost by Donna Grant

 Happy Release Day Donna Grant!

Dragon Frost is a novella (Book 6.5) in Donna's Dragon Kings series and is now available in eBook!

Get your copy today!



About the Book

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Donna Grant returns for a Dragon King holiday novella. 

The holiday season is Rhi’s favorite time of year, which means Con loves it, too. Except they’re on Zora, where there are no traditions—and beginning one could be hazardous. Finding the lost dragons should’ve given everyone peace. Instead, they’re facing powerful enemies at every turn. Despite the danger, the King of Dragon Kings knows his mate longs to have their space dripping with holiday decorations and gifts piled under the tree, and he’s going to do his best to give it to her and make sure they have time to celebrate the season and their love. 

And perhaps a surprise or two.




Purchase Links

✦Kindle→ https://amzn.to/44cyqDN

✦Nook→ https://dgrant.co/3P1eCPk

✦Apple→ https://dgrant.co/3QQGHKq

✦Kobo→ https://dgrant.co/3ZyfXRj 

***Only in ebook***


About the Author