Publisher: Canary Street Press Trade Paperback Original
Categories: Contemporary, Romance
CEO seeks dating coach
Julia Song, CEO of Starlight Cosmetics, is at the height of her career. Then why does she feel like such a failure? Maybe because she’s thirty and single, with a terrible track record at dating. And in the eyes of her Korean family, that is just unacceptable. It never really bothered her—that is until her beloved grandmother drops the bomb that she is sick and her dying wish is for Julia to get married. Impossible. So in a moment of weakness, Julia asks her family for help. Set her up on three dates to help her find The One. But it will never work—Julia is undateable. If only there was a coach for that…
Tae Kim knows about the weight of familial expectation. He’s currently unemployed, living in his parents’ basement to care for his ill father. Sure, he’s become somewhat of a fix-it man for the Korean community around town, but that’s not a real job. And the pressure to get his life together is getting to be too much. So when the Julia Song—his childhood crush—asks for his help, it may be just the distraction he needs. He’ll do whatever it takes, even coach her for these three dates. Problem is, the more time they spend together and the closer they get, the more Tae wonders if anyone is good enough for Julia…including him.
“Introspective, funny, relatable, sexy—it’s an absolutely perfect romance.” —Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
Book Excerpt:
BRIBE BAGS
JULIA SONG HATED being the center of attention.
So standing here at the head of the conference table, expect-ant eyes of Very Important People all on her, was pretty much torture.
But Julia was the CEO of Starlight Cosmetics, this company was her baby, these VIPs the executives she hired to help grow the business. And the news she had to share with them was monumental.
She scanned her memory for the advice from her executive coach for this kind of situation. The only thing she could remember was, contrary to everything she’d ever been told before in her life, never try to picture your audience naked. It would make the nerves even worse.
And, of course, now that’s all Julia could think of.
She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her mind of all the unfortunate images fighting to run through her head.
What was that one thing her coach told her?
Squeeze your butt cheeks to hold the plank. Wait, no, that was her abs coach.
If the recipe calls for garlic, double it. Wrong again. That was her cooking coach.
Oh, screw it. What was the use of having all these people to help Julia better herself when she couldn’t call upon the advice when needed?
She cleared her throat and decided to wing it.
“I know you’re all busy, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not how I wanted to do this . . .”
Her dream, rather, was to one day point at each of them and tell them an exorbitant dollar amount for a bonus. Enough money for them to buy new homes in the hills or on the beach, whichever they preferred.
“Wait—are you firing us?” someone cried out from the other end of the table.
Julia’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “What? No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Always start with something personal and positive to get people excited about what you’re going to say. Oh yeah, that’s the brilliant advice her coach had mentioned.
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so ominous.” Julia quickly backtracked. “It’s just that, well, at the risk of get-ting too squishy in a work meeting, I really wanted to thank you all for taking a chance on me way back when all of this was just an idea in my head.”
Julia swallowed the emotion building in her throat as she looked around at the team she’d put together to lead this company. They were the ones who took her idea to merge the best in the Korean skincare market with the high demands of the US consumer and built what was now one of the fastest- growing organic, clean K- beauty brands in America.
“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work and loyalty. I don’t know that any of us anticipated this kind of success. But honestly, none of it would have happened without each and every one of you and your contribution. And now, I have some really great news. As you know, Starlight’s Lotus Bamboo Essence was selected for Allure’s Best of Beauty awards. Which was a dream come true for us. But it doesn’t end there.”
Julia inserted the dramatic pause her public speaking coach had encouraged her to use. The looks of anticipation around the room fueled her excitement.
“I’m thrilled to share that the same Lotus Bamboo Essence has also been selected as one of this year’s Oprah’s Favorite Things!”
There was a silent pause of shock, followed by an eruption of applause and cheers, high fives, and hugs shared around the table.
“We’ll need to reforecast sales projections. We’re gonna blow up with the exposure . . .”
“We’re gonna have to update a comms plan . . .”
“We have to think of how we add this to the packaging design . . .”
“We need to make sure the supply chain can handle the increased distribution . . .”
“Oprah still has major influence on Gen X consumer spending. It’s a big win for a product . . .”
Yup, that was her team . . . no- nonsense, capable, loyal, honest . . . and the hardest- working, most talented people in the industry. And they were all business, just like her.
Her chest swelled as she watched them leave to get back to work, patting each other on the back as they walked out, taking the noise with them.
Julia started this company at only twenty- six years old. She’d disappointed her parents by changing her major from pre- med to business administration. She lived off ramen and PB&J sandwiches for a good year just to scrape by as she worked tirelessly to research the hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. And she stomached the start- up community’s boys’ club as she tried to secure funding for the company.
And four short years later, they were on the verge of something huge. Hard work and dedication had brought them to this level of success. So yeah, she was proud of them, proud of herself. And at only thirty, she was finally in a position financially to take care of her family without worry.
When the last person left her office, Julia turned to look out the windows, the hustle and bustle of Santa Monica ten floors below. She took a deep breath.
“That’s right, motherfuckers,” she screamed, while pumping her fist. She shook her hips back and forth, adding in some aggressive hair throws and, why the heck not, followed it with a body roll. “Oh yeah, uh- huh . . .”
“Oh dear, that’s something I’m not likely going to forget seeing.”
Record scratch.
Julia halted her celebratory dance and quickly patted down her hair, trying to tuck her I- knew- I’d- regret-these bangs behind her ear as her assistant, Annette, entered the office.
“Unlike what your schedule says on paper, you’ve only actually attended that hot yoga class once. Should you really be try-ing to move your body like that?” Annette asked. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“You’re fired.”
Annette passed her the cup of black coffee in the Morning Person mug that she knew was a lie, along with a multivitamin and a probiotic. Breakfast of champions.
“Just remember that I know where the bodies are hidden. Oh, and I have those pictures of you from that one holiday party . . .”
“Okay, fine, you can stay,” Julia conceded.
“Is it a good time to ask for a raise?”
Julia tried to shoot Annette a glare but couldn’t keep back the smile. It was a secret to no one that Annette was invaluable to the Starlight team, and most days she was the one bossing Julia around. Julia shook her head and took a seat at her desk. “Can you forward the O magazine email to the team so they know all the details?”
“You betcha,” Annette said. “Have you told your folks yet?”
“No, not yet. I don’t think they’d even understand what a big deal this is.”
“Make sure to tell them.” Annette wasn’t only her assistant, she was also her work- mother as well. “Oh, and here is the updated short list of investors we might want to approach for global expansion. One bad meeting doesn’t have to halt progress.”
One bad meeting was an understatement. The last time Julia had met with an investment firm for an informational meeting, they kept asking about her significant other, driving home that they were a family- run business built on traditional values. They looked at her as young and inexperienced not because of her age— she knew plenty of male CEOs who were thirty— but because she wasn’t married with children. In their eyes, Julia wasn’t reliable because she wasn’t settled . . . settled down, that is.
Her accomplishments, alone, weren’t enough.
I’ll show them, she thought to herself as she gritted her teeth. Julia grabbed the list from Annette with a little bit more force than necessary and nodded. “Thanks.”
“Hey.” Annette softened her voice like she so rarely ever did. The one word in that tone made Julia surprisingly emotional. “It’s a good day, boss lady. You should be proud.” She patted Julia on the shoulder before walking back to her desk just outside Julia’s office.
Susan Lee is the author of the critically acclaimed and reader favorite young adult romantic comedies SEOULMATES and THE NAME DROP. Her work has been featured in national outlets such as Buzzfeed, NPR, and Pop Sugar. Kirkus Reviews calls Susan’s voice “honest, fresh and thoughtful”. A graduate of UC San Diego, Susan built a career as an HR executive at some of today’s hottest companies, until she realized that writing stories was a more impactful and powerful form of resistance and change.
Now she channels her energy into writing Happily Ever Afters for those historically underrepresented in Romance. When she is not writing (or painfully procrastinating from writing), Susan can be found down the rabbit holes of her many obsessions including listening to Kpop, binge watching K-dramas, collecting sneakers, building mechanical keyboards, and obsessing over her two adorable, but ill-behaved chihuahuas.
“Taj McCoy’s writing positively crackles with energy, wit and humor.” —Jayci Lee, author of Booked on a Feeling
In this spicy new rom-com, an ambitious entrepreneur working to get her speakeasy supper club off the ground is pushed off balance when her childhood crush turns up, hotter than ever––then tells her she’s off-limits.
Now that Kendra’s returned home, she can’t help feeling like a kid again—back in her big brother’s shadow, trying to get her restaurant off the ground while his new venture is flying high right out the gate. It doesn’t help that everyone refuses to stop calling her Keke, the childhood nickname she loathes.
The only bright spot is her longtime crush BJ. He’s been her big brother’s best friend for most of her life, and he’s always been that cool, chill guy who was easy to talk to and made her laugh. Now he’s looking at her like she’s all grown up, and there’s nothing childish about the chemistry brewing between them. Even better, he takes her dreams seriously, and he’s ready to help her make her supper club a reality.
But then BJ extinguishes the sparks flying between them, insisting nothing romantic can ever happen because she’s “off limits.” As her investors fall through and her best chance at fulfilling her professional dreams points toward leaving home again for a fresh start, will BJ be ready for love before Kendra moves on? Or will he sweep her off her feet when she least expects it?
Snort! Kendra jolted awake, her face pressed against the cool window shade. She forced a cough to clear her throat, her cheeks coloring as she realized she’d been snoring. Her eyes darted around to see if anyone in the neighboring seats had heard, and she rushed to wipe the side of her mouth, checking for drool. No one in the row in front of her seemed to have noticed anything, and she was thankful that most of the first- class passengers were wearing noise-canceling headphones and watching in-flight movies.
Pull yourself together, girl. Taking a deep breath, she covered her face with the palms of her hands, willing herself awake.
The sweet woman next to her patted her arm with a chuckle. “You must have been tired, dear. You missed the meal and everything!”
Thank god I didn’t have to pay for this upgrade. Kendra yawned and nodded in agreement. “I’ve traveled quite a bit in the past two weeks. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.” I could honestly go back to sleep right now.
“Are you heading home?”
Home.
She smiled tightly. “Yeah, something like that.” Truth was, she’d been a tumbleweed for the past two years. Home was wherever she decided to rest her head, though she’d been craving a place to plant her roots—something she hadn’t been sure she’d ever do when she left. And she never fathomed that she’d have a desire to return to the US to do so.
A chime sounded before a flight attendant spoke over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our de- scent into Reagan Washington National Airport. As we pre- pare for landing, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright and locked position. Your lap- tops should be put away and . . .”
Kendra offered a small smile to her neighbor. “Are you returning home?”
The woman shook her head, the scent of her gourmand perfume wafting over Kendra in waves of vanilla and toffee. “My daughter’s. She’s going to be induced next week. My fourth grandbaby!” She grinned with pride and rummaged through her purse, which she cradled in her lap protectively.
“Aw, congratulations! That’s so exciting.” A cell phone was shoved in her face, showing three smiling kids, two missing their front teeth. “They’re very cute.”
Once they landed and arrived at the gate, Kendra helped her row mate with her bag and headed toward baggage claim as her phone pinged with a text message.
Lani: Is you here yet?? Inquiring minds (aka your nosy brother and your parents) want to know . . .
Kendra: The eagle has landed.
Lani: Tuh! I know you haven’t returned from Gulliver’s travels with a big ass head SMH. Make sure you look like somethin before you waltz your ass up in here . . .
She rolled her eyes and sent her cousin a middle finger emoji before tucking her phone into her pocket. Returning home hit different now that Kendra was deemed a failure—it felt like tucking tail and admitting defeat after desperately trying to carve an uncharted path with nothing but hope and a blunt instrument. Whether anyone would admit it, the hushed tones of the family whisper network turned up the volume on every inadequacy and failed attempt, and once again the grumblings shone a spotlight directly onto Kendra. Always the fucking black sheep.
Kendra sighed, muttering to herself as she approached her fifth red light in a row. “Now they’ll get to harp on the fact that I’m late.” She glanced at the clock on her dashboard and shook her head with annoyance.
Having run home just long enough to drop off her suit- case and pick up her car, she’d rushed back out before her family started blowing up her phone. DC traffic was only predictable in that it was inevitable, and finding parking was next to impossible. Sometimes, the search for parking took as long as the commute. That never stopped Kendra from wanting to drive—yes, one could take the Metro or ride- share to a destination, but that meant having to depend on too many outside variables when she was ready to leave— she was too much of a control freak to depend on the time- liness of others, and when she wanted to go, she wanted to go. Waiting on others to do what she was more than capable of doing herself drove her up the wall. Being the baby in the family didn’t mean that she was any less capable than Big Bro.
Being away from home for two years left her second- guessing directions and she cursed under her breath as she missed her exit from the same traffic circle twice. At some point, people enjoying the park would begin to think she was casing the neighborhood. Kendra bit her lip, her eyes widen- ing as a car sped into the lane to her right as she attempted to maneuver over to catch the exit on her third try. She slid into the lane behind the Prius that had come out of nowhere and finally made the right turn out of the roundabout from hell.
Kendra zipped through the congestion on Rhode Island Avenue, having dropped all of her belongings off at the English basement apartment below her brother’s row house. The family golden boy. Logan had stopped offering the basement as a vacation rental when Kendra announced her return to town, and she’d eagerly agreed to help launch his new business for a month or two of free rent. Her best friend and cousin’s name appeared on the center console screen of Kendra’s Audi Q3, and she pressed a button on her steering wheel to answer her phone via the car’s Bluetooth system as she stopped at a traffic light. “Hey, girl, hey!”
“You’re late, you know,” Lani quipped in a hushed tone, evoking an immediate eye roll out of Kendra. “Everyone’s waiting for you to make an appearance! Logan said he hasn’t even seen you yet.”
“Yeah, that’s the beauty of smart locks—there’s no longer a need for me to knock on Logan’s front door and ask for a key to his basement. It’s bad enough that the prodigal child has to return and immediately ask her big brother for help for the umpteenth time.” Kendra chewed on her bottom lip, willing her face to express less of her reluctance to come back to the DMV area. It wasn’t that she didn’t love DC—she did—it was just that she was always hidden by Logan’s shadow. It wasn’t his fault, and Kendra looked up to Big Bro for everything he was able to accomplish, but sometimes his success sucked up all of the oxygen in the room.
“Now, don’t be dramatic, Keke,” Lani chided in her sing- songy voice.
Kendra bristled at her childhood nickname. “And remind me again why you couldn’t just let me come and stay at your place? You know that I’m not above bumming it on a couch.”
Lani tsked nonchalantly. “Come on, girl, no one should be subjected to that much sex. Can’t have you telling my aunt and uncle about my sexcapades. Your mom already thinks I’m too fast anyway.”
Kendra smirked. You are. “She already knows you’re fast, heffa.”
“You told her?!” Lani’s hushed growl made Kendra cackle. “You really don’t remember trying to sneak a boy into our house when you were staying with us for spring break?” She’d been grounded for the rest of high school and subjected to regular lectures about the birds and the bees. Auntie Mack refused to be a grandmother early, so she made herself an impactful prophylactic. Logan and all the boy cousins were tasked with looking out for Lani and Kendra, as if the lot weren’t all
pussy-whipped themselves.
“Uh, that was a teenage mistake. Does Auntie Al think I’m fast too? You haven’t told her anything recent, right?” Lani’s whispering was more of an exasperated shout with the volume turned down. “If she thinks I’m up to anything, she’ll tell my mom, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Girl, your mom has known since you started wearing all that eyeliner in middle school,” Kendra chuckled. “And that mulberry lipstick? You thought you were serving. You’d hit ’em with the duck lips and hands on your hips anytime some- one tried to take a picture.”
Lani groaned. “Shut up, there’s a difference between duck lips and a smize. And thought? Bitch, I was stuntin’ on them hos.”
Kendra could practically hear the hair flip on the other side
of the line. “Mmmkay, well, back to what I was saying. I could be at your place hearing sex-foolery, but instead I’m up under Logan . . . again.” Thankfully there was a main floor between Kendra’s unit and her brother’s bedroom, so she was absolved from having to hear his sexcapades, but still.
“Well, but it’s only temporary, and besides, the savings is
good for you while you’re still in the planning stages of opening up your own spot.”
“Why must you be reasonable?” Kendra whined. Every- thing Lani said was true, but the closer she got to the bistro location that Logan and his wife, Shonda, were opening together, the more Kendra’s stomach performed a Simone Biles– level floor exercise—one of those extra good ones that would eventually be named after her because no one else could perfect it the way she could.
“One of us has to be reasonable, so suck it up, buttercup. Now, what’s your ETA?” Lani was resistant to Kendra’s shit— she had a no-nonsense approach to pretty much everything and didn’t believe in coddling unless she needed it herself. It didn’t help that, as cousins born two weeks apart, they’d been best friends since they shared a playpen. Lani knew all of Kendra’s tactics.
“I’m about to park. Give me a minute or two to gather myself, and then I’ll be in.” Well, maybe five minutes.
“Bet. Oh, and be careful when you walk in here, Keke—
Stanley just waxed the floors.”
“Noted.” Kendra steered her car into the first open parking spot. “I’ll be in there in a few.”
“’Kay, bye.”
The phone disconnected, and Kendra took a deep breath. What is awaiting me inside? She cursed herself for not asking who all would be present to help put the finishing touches on the restaurant before its opening in a few days. As she closed her eyes to meditate, her phone rang again. She jabbed at the button on her steering wheel. “We literally just hung up, Lani.”
“Well, don’t sit out in your car forever either. Someone already mentioned that they saw you pull up.”
Kendra rolled her eyes, kissing her teeth. “Get off my phone, ma’am. I need a sec.” Leave me be!
Lani dropped her voice to a gruff whisper. “Bring yo’ ass
in here, ho. A certain someone been askin’ about you.” She drew out the last word teasingly. “Take a fuckin’ hint,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
Kendra’s face scrunched up as her head tilted, her mind racing to run through the list of everyone she expected to be present in these final days of prep before the big launch. “Who?”
“Mr. Big and Sexy, the chocolate drop himself.”
Huh? Kendra blew out a breath loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Cousin, that description applies to half of the brothas in the DMV. Can you be more specific?”
“If you don’t carry your behind on You know what?
We don’t have time for this.” Lani’s hushed tone changed to a loud call. “Hey, look, y’all. I think that’s Keke’s car right there!” Voices in the background converged into a jumble drowned out by a peal of villainous laughter.
I’m gonna kill her. “Lani!” Kendra snapped as the call disconnected. So much for a moment of peace. She inhaled deeply, exhaling through her mouth before wiping the scowl from her face and climbing out of the car into a light breeze that made her pull her coat lapels closer to her neck. She flung her tote bag over her shoulder as she crossed the narrow side street to enter the front door of the brightly lit restaurant with a giant banner and the word PALATE set between a set of cutlery. “Here we go,” she muttered.
As Kendra stepped onto a narrow welcome mat just inside the glass door, which had been propped open to allow in the sharp almost-spring air, the scents of fresh paint and oranges wafted toward her. She peered around the dining room in search of the chocolate drop Lani was hinting about, making eye contact with her brother, Logan, and her sister-in-law, Shonda, whose face brightened as she headed toward the end of the bar to show some love. “Hey, you made it!”
“Yeah, I . . . whoa shit!” Kendra took one step forward and slipped, fully expecting to be met with the well-polished lacquered hardwood when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her and righted her, the warmth of a large hand imprinting the small of her back as her legs wobbled. “Right, careful with the floors . . . Thanks,” she laughed with embarrassment.
“Been a long time, Kenny,” a gravelly baritone voice caused her head to jerk upward. His sturdy six-foot frame drew closer, holding her against his hip so that she could steady herself. The scents of smoky oud and tobacco emanated from his skin. Kendra gulped as her eyes widened. Damn, he got even finer.
BJ Stephens glowered at her curiously, the same way he had when they were teenagers, and Kendra’s cheeks warmed as she took in his smooth umber skin. She’d never seen him in jeans and work boots before, but the look suited him.
“Hey, B, long time. How you been?” She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck as his wound around her waist. As she turned her head to peck his cheek, he moved slightly and her lips landed at the angle of his jaw, just below his ear, his closely-groomed beard soft against her skin. Her eyes bulged as she stepped back, unsure whether he’d think she tried to kiss his neck on purpose. Clumsy and awkward . . . we’re off to a great start. She made space between them, willing her cheeks not to broadcast her embarrassment. She cleared her throat before looking up at him.
BJ’s dark, spectacled eyes trained on her, his expression unreadable. “Good. But you’re the one who’s been gone. How were your travels? Last I heard, you were cooking your way through Asia and Europe.”
Kendra beamed, nodding. “I loved every minute of it. Ap- prenticed under a few chefs, caught up with a few cousins when I hit Thailand and the Philippines. Collected a ton of cooking techniques and recipes. Made some new friends and gave a few lessons on Creole cooking.”
“You didn’t make new friends at the expense of old ones, I hope.” The corners of his mouth twitched, drawing Kendra’s attention to his full lips. It always took a lot to make BJ smile. A laugh was even more rare but craveable. As long as Kendra had known her brother’s best friend, she never was good at reading him. Once in a while, he’d allow his face to show his playfulness, but most of the time, his underwhelmed, almost gruff expression remained constant. Joy, pain—even annoyance—were less common expressions than the general grumpy-observer vibe he gave off. But behind the prickly mask was an intelligent, loyal, good human who often put others before himself.
“Never that,” she laughed. They’d known each other for over two decades—ever since her family had relocated from New Orleans to the nation’s capital. Kendra had been in middle school, and Logan was just about to start high school. He met BJ his first day of classes, and they became fast friends after almost coming to blows over the attentions of the same girl. Logan had brought BJ home for some of Momma’s cooking to make amends, and the rest was history—Momma won over many hearts with her Creole family recipes, and BJ’s was no exception. Logan had been lucky. Truth be told, BJ would have whooped his ass.
BJ was a gym rat to the core, but as focused as he was on macros to build muscle mass, he made two exceptions without question: Momma’s cookin’ and good whiskey. As he solidified his place within the family’s inner circle, he’d always been the one to mediate Kendra’s arguments with her brother—a dependable voice of reason who wasn’t quick to pick sides.
Kendra and Logan never fought physically—Momma would never allow that—but Kendra would cut to the white meat with her words, and when she went low, Logan went straight to the depths of hell. “You still enjoying the professor life? I heard you were awarded tenure while I was out of the country. Congratulations are in order! I was really excited to hear the news. You’ve worked so hard to get to this place.”
His head bobbed as he smoothed a hand over his facial hair. The top half of his dark, shoulder-length locs were twisted and tied back away from his face as he regarded her intently. “Thanks! Yeah, it’s been good so far, but I’m on sabbatical this semester. I need to do some research for my next book proposal.”
BJ taught courses on historic preservation, focusing on heritage conservation, architectural history and preservation, urban planning, and adaptive reuse. Most of it went over Ken- dra’s head, but she loved that he focused a good amount of his work on Black heritage tourism. The way that he highlighted the importance of transforming abandoned sites to frame and highlight pivotal points in history had always been a source of inspiration for her.
Kendra tilted her head. “About that, actually, maybe I can pick your brain about something later. I’ve got something brewing businesswise, and it’s right up your alley.” She tapped his arm with her fingers and admired the results that his hard work in the gym had developed.
BJ’s eyebrows rose, but Lani slid across the floor Risky Business–style right into Kendra’s arms before he could respond. He nodded brusquely and sauntered back toward the bar, where Logan was installing some shelving.
“Bitch, you made it!” Her cousin squeezed Kendra tightly before stepping back to assess her appearance, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. Lani was all about vibrant colors, and Kendra’s palette was much more neutral, so she was al- ways being bullied to step outside of her comfort zone and into prints that she found too busy, too bright, too attention- grabbing. Lani was in a pair of ripped, acid-washed blue jeans and a loud color-blocked sweater with bright red sneakers. She narrowed her eyes at what she would consider to be low frequencies emanating from Kendra’s look.
Kendra dropped a hand onto her hip and posed. “Don’t play me, I know I look good.” Her coffee-colored duster over a white cropped tee and white high-waisted jogger pants hugged her curves and made her feel clean, like fresh air after a hard rain. She’d pulled her thick, silk-pressed tresses into a sleek ponytail, and per usual, her shades sat on top of her head like a headband. Kendra ran her fingers through her pony- tail, curling the ends around her index finger, and popped her tongue playfully.
Lani leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Mmm-hmm. And a certain someone noticed too.”
“Who? Stanley? I wouldn’t exactly describe him as a chocolate drop. Maybe more like a hazelnut latte.” Kendra tilted her head, assessing the occupants of the room. There was Logan and Shonda, BJ, Auntie Al, Shonda’s sister Bree, Kendra’s par- ents, and Stanley, who was staring at Lani like she stole some- thin’. Logan had a team of people that he’d walked back toward the kitchen, who Kendra assumed were the new restaurant staff. BJ was carrying cartons of wine and spirits down to the basement cellar. Kendra’s mom and Aunt Alisa were pretending to wipe down the counters, but they’d been hovering over the same spot at the bar pointing at Kendra and whispering. The family motto should be: “Subtlety? We don’t know her.”
Stanley’s tall and lean build was squeezed behind some shelving that he was putting together for a wall display. Ken- dra’s dad, Braxton, was reading the assembly instructions aloud to Stanley, whose attention remained trained on Lani, who seemed completely unaware. Kendra made eye contact with Shonda across the room, gesturing slightly with her chin toward Stanley, and Shonda’s smile grew wide. She nodded slowly, steepling her fingers like a mastermind with an evil plan. Kendra winked in response.
“Not Stanley, silly. BJ was asking about you,” Lani whispered, her arm entwined with Kendra’s to keep her from slip- ping again.
BJ? Kendra’s face screwed up into a giant question mark. “Huh? Why?”
Her cousin shrugged. “I’ve been clocking it for the last week. Anytime your name was brought up, he was all ears.”
“I mean, we’ve known the guy a long time, so that doesn’t feel out of the ordinary to me. We haven’t seen each other in years.” Kendra’s last post before her travels was in Silicon Valley. She often returned home for the holidays, but BJ al- ways went to be with his parents in Charlotte. When Kendra had been laid off from her role as a chief data officer for a thriving startup that was absorbed by a tech giant, she’d taken her generous severance package and savings to do some soul- searching around the globe. BJ had checked in once in a while to ask where she was and how she was doing. He’d always been thoughtful in that way.
After visiting family in Thailand and the Philippines, Kendra went to parts of Europe and finished off her trip in New Orleans spending quality time with her Granny. Each destination brought her new adventures and lessons in the culinary world and in determining what tools she would use to pave her path. Everyone in the family had built a legacy in their own way, and it finally felt like Kendra’s turn.
“There’s my ray of sunshine!” Kendra’s dad opened his arms and wrapped her into a warm hug, the scent of tobacco smoke lingering on his jacket.
She squeezed him tight, tucking her chin for her father to kiss her forehead. “Daddy! Mmm, what cigar were you smoking? It smells spicy.”
“Your brother bought me a box of maduros, so we decided to have some coffee and sample them before we got started today.” Her dad’s bronzed skin and thick, straight hair was tousled with some sort of product. Born in Los Angeles to a Filipino mother and a Thai father, he was the embodiment of California, wearing a jean jacket over a light sweater and slacks. When he met his wife, Regina, at George Washington University, he embraced DC with her, setting down roots, eventually convincing Auntie Al and Uncle Ronnie to move up from New Orleans to experience all four seasons. Their time in DC was cut short as they moved back to New Orleans when they started their family––free childcare was worth the return, thanks to Granny and PawPaw.
Once Kendra and Logan were old enough to fend for themselves, Braxton and Regina moved back into their DC home, which they’d rented out while down south. Auntie Mack fell in love with Charleston, and Kendra’s maternal grandmother remained in New Orleans alone now that Paw- Paw had passed. Her paternal grandparents remained in Los Angeles, giving her a reason to get some California sunshine whenever possible, but she’d caught them on their annual trip to visit family during her time in Asia.
“That’s a bold move to start with a maduro, but you know I like those. Especially if the coffee happened to be Irish.” Kendra shared a knowing glance with her father as she pulled back, his arm still around her waist.
Braxton Porter kissed his daughter’s cheek, lowering his voice to barely a whisper before winking at her mischievously. “Your brother and I may have already had an Irish coffee or two out on the patio. Don’t tell your mother.”
Kendra giggled, raising her hands in surrender. “Your secret is safe with me.” They walked toward the bar area, which was painted a deep emerald green with creamy quartz countertops and golden fixtures. The herringbone pattern in the cherrywood flooring gleamed with gradients of reddish browns. “Wow, this place is gorgeous,” she gushed.
Natural light flooded in through massive picture windows dressed with velvet curtains the color of the faintest blush. On the windowsills were decorative vases and small plants, like succulents and snake plants—ones that didn’t require a lot of attention. On the walls were several blown-up photographs from Logan and Shonda’s travels as they’d hit different countries on their bucket list and sampled different cuisines to find the right balance of flavors to feature on their menu of global fare. BJ had busied himself hanging another portrait, and Kendra studied his profile, taking in the broadness of his shoulders and the way his Henley sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, the fabric over his chest and arms hugging his physique. This man just gets better with age . . .
“Yo, can you chill, cuz? You are lookin’ at him like he’s a
four-course meal and you wanna come back for seconds . . .”
Kendra froze, her neck and cheeks immediately coloring at Lani’s observation. “Say it louder, I think the kitchen staff didn’t hear you!” Kendra hissed, her attention snapping away from the strong arms lifting a black-and-white photograph of a wine cellar full of barrels on a long wall leading toward the unisex bathrooms.
BJ glanced in her direction before returning to his task and leveling the frame. Heat crawled up the column of Kendra’s throat, her skin boiling as she stared her cousin down.
“If he heard you, I swear on all things holy that I will tell your mom all about how her favorite cashmere sweater got ruined.” Kendra wiggled her fingers like she was casting a spell on her cousin.
“You wouldn’t.” Lani’s eyes darted around in a panic. As teenagers, she and Kendra snuck out to meet some boys, and Lani swiped her mom’s ultrasoft cardigan to wear over a barely there tank top and coochie cutters. The fast heffa swore the sweater added a level of sophistication to her look. Suffice it to say that it was St. Patty’s Day, and she spilled a green pint of beer on the luxe creamy knit, leaving a giant mint-colored swatch that she couldn’t explain. Instead, Lani framed the family dog and asserted that he’d dragged the sweater outside into the grass. Auntie Mack was devastated.
Kendra’s sinister smile spread like the Grinch stealing Christmas. “Try me.”
About the Author:
Oakland-born law grad Taj McCoy is committed to championing stories that include Black and multiracial women of color, plus-size protagonists, Black love, Black joy, and strong senses of sisterhood and familial bonds. Taj started writing as a small child, enjoying her first publications in elementary school. When she’s not writing, Taj may be on Twitter boosting other marginalized writers, practicing yoga, sharing recipes, or cooking private supper club meals for close friends.
When a shocking death rocks the exclusive writing program at a prestigious campus, a student journalist, Tess Azar, sets out to discover the truth. Rumors abound of the writing program’s cultish atmosphere and its zealous members, who will stop at nothing to ensure the sanctity of their own secrets. As an extreme right-wing student group swells in numbers, Tess finds herself in the crosshairs, dangerously at the center of the growing chaos. Simmering with tension, this provocative novel portrays the nation’s current-charged political climate, highlighting the immovable structures of our society and the dangers of navigating a post-truth world.
Book Excerpt:
1
Tess Azar’s notes on Rose Dearborn:
Tall. Sharp green eyes. A small, pointed nose. Pale. Red hair, worn down, falls just below her shoulders, framing her compact face. Her posture is pristine, and she appears to be flexing, though that may be her natural state. Her hands are folded, left over right. She sports an unblemished French manicure and light pink lipstick that you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. She has two earrings on her left ear, both in the lobe, and one on her right. They’re all diamonds, and I’m sure they’re real. She wears a light blue Oxford shirt. It looks like it was designed for her frame—towering and athletic, without succumbing to bulk. Over the shirt, she wears a light jacket, tan and slim fitted, with bronze buttons. It looks like it was born to be a man’s jacket but changed its mind when it met her.
She had me from the start. It was her wave. It showed the world she came from, the sophistication, the poise, the casual superiority. It was a wave that had been passed down, refined, choreographed. A stiff hand, a pirouette, a fold. It was elegant in its learned simplicity.
She paired it with a vacant, performative smile. It wasn’t for me. It was for the watchers. It told the world that she wasn’t, despite appearances, one of those people. She was, in fact, a normal person, perhaps even a kind one.
I nodded my acknowledgment and matched her smile. Mine was professional, a journalist’s smile, continuing the performance we were engaged in.
We were meeting at an outdoor café on campus. One of those places where students bring their laptops and pretend to work. It’s not a place to work, not true work. It’s a place to be seen to be working.
She stood as I sat, a prosaic gesture that nonetheless endeared her to me.
I felt the cool spring breeze and heard birds singing in a tree nearby. A woman shouted in the distance, and I didn’t even turn to look. I assumed it was playful. I used to be able to assume that.
“Tess,” she said, not a question but a statement of fact. “And you’re Rose?”
“Yes.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. She placed it down, and I noticed it was uncovered, no lid in sight.
I looked at my own cup, a lipstick-stained plastic lid of shame sitting atop it. I felt her eyes on it, felt the judgment. I shouldn’t have had a lid. I should’ve told them I didn’t want one. Lids were plastic, single-use plastic. They were death. They were climate change. They were a stain upon you as a person.
I tore it off, and the steam burned my hand. I didn’t flinch, too afraid it would be another strike against me. Rose looked like the type of person who never flinched, who never got sick or hurt. She looked like she went to the cape on the weekends and played tackle football with her brothers and more than held her own.
I pulled out my notebook, almost knocking over my coffee as I did so. The cup rattled, but I grabbed it before it tipped and smiled an apology. I opened to a fresh page, and, as I always did when beginning an interview, I took down a description.
“Are you writing a novel?” Her voice was cold and clipped, formal and challenging.
I blushed, and my skin turned a few shades darker. I’m sure she noticed. Rose looked like she never blushed. Or at least never out of embarrassment. I imagined she did on occasion, but with a purpose.
I hid in my notebook. “No, I, uh, well…”
I hated myself. It was odd for me. I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t a stammering, stumbling fool. I wasn’t often awed. I was the one in a relationship who was distant. I was the one who was unaffected by the end of the affair, the one who needed to be wooed.
But there was something about her, an aura, a magic. Some- thing that changed me, disrupted me. I both hated and loved it. Longed to be free of this pull and to never leave it. One could chalk it up to the difference in age—Rose was twenty-one to my nineteen, but it was more than that. She had something. Something I wanted.
I twirled my pen around a finger and clicked it. It was a nervous habit, one that would take years to tame. Rose watched, a cryptic smile in her eyes. I placed my phone on the table and set it to record. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head, but I could feel her quiet disapproval. “I just like to get the setting down,” I said and motioned to
my notebook. I calmed myself by sipping the spring air, a slight scent of grass being cut somewhere in the distance. ““I was taught that if you have the time, you should overwrite, even in journalism. Easier to cut later. ‘Never trust your memory’ is what my professor says.”
This wasn’t true. My professors would be appalled by my long, florid notes. They advocated direct, blunt ones. But I wasn’t writing for them. Not anymore. I’d already developed my own strategies, my own style, and my notes were part of that.
She met my eyes, an intrigued look cresting across her face. I’ll never forget that look and the feeling that accompanied it, tracing up my spine and nesting in my skull. I felt my embarrassment disappear. I remembered who I was. I remembered that I was someone, and she knew it.
“Well.” She drank her coffee. I followed her lead. Mine was still too hot, and it scalded my throat. “I guess whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
And there it was. The reason she’d come. It was a hint, a slight lead, but we both knew where she was taking the conversation. I may have my objective, my questions, my story, but she didn’t care. She wanted to discuss it. She met me so she could discuss it.
“I still have a lot to learn —”
“But to have an article receive national attention as a sophomore.” She cut me off with the ease of someone used to doing it. “My guess is it won’t be long before the job offers start coming.”
They already had, but she didn’t need to know that. Not yet. You need to save things. You need to build a relationship with patient precision if you want it to last.
I nodded and went back to my notebook. I should’ve steered the conversation, transitioned from my success to the work- shop. But I couldn’t, I wanted to press on, I wanted to talk more about my article. I wanted to astonish her and luxuriate in that astonishment.
That’s all it took. A little acclaim, a little attention, and, as I’m sure she’d planned, I’d forgotten my questions, my story.
“Now.” She unstacked her hands and moved one toward mine. “I’m not a journalist, just a fiction writer, but I felt your piece transcended the subject and demonstrated an uncanny ability to be informative, engaging, and unique. I couldn’t put it down, and more to the point, I found myself rereading it even after knowing the story, which I feel is a true test of great writing. Your work doesn’t read like journalism. It reads like fiction, good fiction.”
I felt the familiar warmth of praise pulse through me.
Her assessment was pretentious and vapid, it said nothing. It raised my own work by comparing it to the vaunted heights of fiction and, in doing so, denigrated journalism, but I didn’t care. “Thank you.” I tried to temper my grin. “I appreciate that.
It was a good article, and I was pleased with the exposure it received. That’s an important issue that I think will continue to pervade our society.”
I was trying to match her. Her intellectual snobbery, her placid distance, her broad generalities.
“So.” She leaned forward, and I found my eye tracing down to the opening of her shirt. I caught a glimpse of lace and looked away, landing on her forearm. It was exposed, and
I could just make out a pale purple bruise. She noticed and dropped her arm beneath the table. “I have to ask. How did you get the interview? How did you get him to agree to that? To say all that?”
I nodded and leaned back. This was what they always asked. This was what made the article. This was why it garnered national attention, why everyone was talking about it, why I was someone.
Hearing her ask the same, tired question settled me.
I ran a finger along the seam of my pants and looked around, debating whether to do it, whether to take the leap. I felt the brief flutter of nervous excitement that we all come to know at some point.
I paused and felt my heart rattle. It felt wrong. She should be the one to ask me out, not the other way. I didn’t even know if she was gay. But somehow, I did. I could tell. I could feel an opening. This was my chance. She was curious, everyone was. I had a story, I had cache, I was someone, if only for a moment. So, I leapt. “How about this? You have dinner with me tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you how I got the interview. Deal?”
The question hung in the air as it always does, time elongating—heavy and thick with anxiety but exhilarating. All the world is packed into that pause between the question and the answer.
“What, like a date?” She tilted her head, a smile leaking out of the side of her mouth, a slight hue dampening her cheeks.
I nodded.
Someone shouted at a table not far from us, and chairs scraped against the ground.
“All right,” she said, her smile spreading. “Deal.”
And just like that, the anxiety exploded into a million shards of light. I was ebullient. I was phosphorescent. I was invincible. After that, I tried to stay present, tried to listen to what she said, to not think about the future that was already being crafted
in my mind.
But it was no use, I was gone. My mind was adrift. There were winters skiing and summers sailing. There were literary arguments and good coffee. There was an initial frigid period with her family. A tense scene with her grandfather where he reverted to his old prejudices, dismissing the whole of me based on the half that was Lebanese, but I won him over by talking history and baseball. I became one of them. And later, there were galas and houses full of antiques and rich wood.
“I guess you’re not here to talk about your article, are you?” She shifted back. “You’re here to talk about Jack.” Her face fell, her hands fidgeted in her lap. The color left her cheeks. The radiance of our previous conversation still lingered, but it was just a residual taste. We’d moved on.
I nodded but said nothing. Being a journalist is a lot like being a therapist. You need to draw them out. You need to make them comfortable and then let them talk.
“Terrible, just horrible.” She looked like a different person, like an actor trying to play Rose in a marginal play. “Such a waste.”
I let the silence linger, hoping she’d continue. When she didn’t, I eased into it. “Did you know him well?”
She nodded, and took her forefinger and thumb and pinched the bridge of her nose as if that could stop the tears and the pain. “Yes, of course. We all… I mean, you know about it, right? About the workshop? Dr. Lobo?”
I did. Everyone knew about the workshop. It was a creative writing group on campus, not an official workshop, whatever that means, just a group of students whom an acclaimed professor had taken an interest in.
Dr. Lobo’s workshop. Sylvia’s kids. The Creative Writing Cult.
Sylvia Lobo’s second novel, A Wake of Vultures, was an instant classic. She was teaching here as an associate professor when she wrote it, and after its publication, she became an instant celebrity. Now she teaches creative writing and gives few lectures. I took one during my first semester. Someone had dropped right when I was registering, otherwise, I’d have never
gotten in. It was on the erosion of the past in literature. Novels set during times of change with characters who are stuck in the past and grappling with the future. It was an eighty-person class, and I don’t think I said more than three words all year.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know about Dr. Lobo.”
“Have you read any of her work?” The energy that had left us returned.
“I’ve read A Wake of Vultures and Jezebel.”
Rose tried to hide her excitement and nodded to herself. I could tell I’d passed a test. “I’ll give you Chariot Races and Bubblegum. If you like those, we can go from there. If not…”
More tests. But that was all right. For her, I would take them.
“You’re all very close, right?”
“Yes, Sylvia’s big on that. We’re all working toward the same goals and have the same interests, and it’s essential that we spend time together. She says it makes for better writing. Look at Paris in the twenties. Do you think it was an accident so many great writers were there at the same time?”
I took my time and wrote this down verbatim. It sounded rehearsed.
“Some people even…” She laughed. “…say we’re a bit of a cult.”
Her laughter stopped, and I made sure not to smile. This wasn’t a joke. This was a repudiation of a nasty piece of gossip. I’d have to be careful with that. I’d have to watch that I never hinted at the cultish atmosphere of the workshop.
People had good reason to call them a cult. They took all the same classes, not just Sylvia’s, but everything—history, science, even phys ed. They got coffee together at the same time every day. The same table, the same café, the same black coffee, the same far-off look while they drank. They ate lunch together. They ate the same things for lunch. They ate with purpose. Refined but rapid. They walked the same, hurried steps announcing their presence, clearing a path. They talked the same. The same talking points, the same articles referenced, the same political issues discussed, same positions held with fervor. They used the same words. They spoke at the same frantic pace. Their hands moved with their every word, painting a mute portrait of their argument. They used the same pens, same notebooks, read the same books, watched the same movies, chewed the same gum, smoked the same colorful French cigarettes, not because they were addicted, but because it stoked conversation and helped with the writing process.
They were the same. They were like her.
That was how she drank her coffee, how she ate, how she walked, how she spoke, how she thought.
They idolized her. They forced her works into their conversations. They cited her. Not just her published comments and writing but personal ones from conversations they’d had with her. They attributed immense weight to these citations as if mentioning her name ended all debate. If Sylvia said it, it wasn’t to be questioned. It was fact.
The cultish atmosphere of the program was why I decided to write the story. Why I was sitting there, interviewing Rose. Jack’s suicide was a part, but not the whole. I hoped to expand it, turn it into a piece on Sylvia and the workshop. Get a glimpse behind the curtain. See what was fact and what was fiction.
Rose stared at me after the cult comment. Judging me, reading my reaction. I met her stare and held it. “Well, these days, I think gossip is the sincerest form of flattery. As for Jack, I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded and raised a hand to her chest. “Yes, he was, well, very talented. We came in together, same class. We were both in her freshman seminar on literature’s obsession with the past.”
“I took that class.”
“Really? Not the same one though? I’m sure I’d have noticed you.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. But it must’ve been a different year,
you’re what, a senior?”
“She teaches it every other year. You’re fortunate you got in.”
“I could say the same to you,” I said, unable to avoid the
opening to flirt.
“Hah.” She rolled her head back. She didn’t laugh. She said, hah. Spat it. “No, I sent her my writing from high school, two awful short stories about— Oh god, I don’t even want to say… one was about my high school friends and a teacher of ours, and the other was about a ski instructor. They were dreadful, but she saw something in them, something in me.”
She looked over at the sprouting trees that lined the walk, feigning to hide her satisfied smile. “She reads the work applicants send in, as do her current students, and selections are made. If she picks you, you’re assured a spot in her freshman seminar and the creative writing major and some other class- es. See, where most creative writing programs don’t really get serious until graduate school, she starts right away. Freshmen year. She believes that you need to get to a writer early, before they learn those bad habits and become just a poor imitation of some famous writer. She wants you raw, unadulterated, malleable.”
“I thought you said she teaches that seminar every other year?”
She shook her head as if I was a mistaken child. “Oh no, just that one class on literature and the past. She teaches that in even years. She teaches a different one on female writers and the diaspora in odd years.”
I nodded and smiled and waited.
She rubbed the bruise on her arm, caught herself, and dropped her hands, resuming her practiced pose of mourning. “Yes, I was close to Jack. We were in all the same classes. I was his shadow, as we called it. Like a peer editor, you read everything they write. He was my shadow too. Sylvia thought our work complemented one another’s. He was a genius, and I don’t use that word lightly. It’s a true tragedy. Not just for him and those of us who knew him but for the world. The world lost a great writer.” Another tear, she lifted a napkin to stop it. “I edited his book. The one that we—Sylvia and I—are helping to finish. You know about that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sylvia worked to get it published, not that it was all that difficult, it’s a brilliant novel. But she took it on. She wanted to… She knew it was what he would’ve wanted. And now, at least, that part of him will live on. A tribute of sorts.”
“I hear the money’s going to charity?”
“A suicide prevention charity. And some will go to the creative writing program here as well, help to make it official, and I think some is going other places, but I don’t have the details on that.”
“Any to his family?”
“He didn’t have family. An uncle upstate somewhere, whom he grew up with, but they weren’t close, and I think he passed away. His parents weren’t in the picture.”
“Anyone else you think I should talk to?” I was afraid to push too hard too soon. You can always come back with more questions. You can always have a second interview, provided, of course, you remain on good terms.
“People in the workshop. I can give you some names. Intro- duce you.”
“That’d be great.” I looked down at my notebook, pretending to scan it, knowing what I needed to ask. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry to ask this, but I have to. Do you have any idea why he would’ve done this? I heard he didn’t leave a note.”
A writer not leaving a note. Seemed off.
She shook her head and forced another tear. “He was”— she ran a fingernail around the rim of her now-empty coffee cup—“troubled, like many writers are. It’s true what they say, ‘genius and madness flow from the same source.’ Good work often comes from pain, and I think, not to be unkind, but I think some can court it. Wallow in it. Again, I don’t mean to… I loved Jack, and it’s a tragedy what happened, but he lived in that pain. It’s what his work was about. He’d go into it and be down there and write, and after he finished, he’d come back up. He’d live in joy for a bit. But this time, with the novel, he was down there too long. He couldn’t surface.”
This, too, felt rehearsed. Maybe not quite scripted but planned. She knew I’d ask about it, and she was ready. There’s nothing wrong with that. Meeting with a journalist is stressful, and people like to be prepared.
But still, it felt off.
“Well,” I said, “I think that’s all I’ve got for today. I might have some follow-ups, but I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Yes, I have to decide what I’m wearing for our date.” I blushed and withdrew to my notes.
“I hope we won’t have to muddy that up with this?” she said. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
We both stood, and I stared at her, straining my eyes, as she retreated into the falling sun.
Patrick O’Dowd’s work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Quagmire Literary Magazine, The Write Launch, and Sequoia Speaks, where he served as fiction editor. Born and raised in New Jersey, he studied at Montclair State University. A Campus on Fire is his debut novel.
ADVANCE PRAISE:
“Patrick O’Dowd’s vigorous debut is a prescient and perceptive tale, a compelling examination of a world in which fact and fiction have become blurred and weaponized. The novel portrays a deeply divided college campus rife with clashing ideologies, power imbalances and misguided passions. Would you lie to see your version of the truth win the day? And how far would you go in the pursuit of a dream? A Campus on Fire asks the best kind of uncomfortable questions.”
—Christopher J. Yates, author of Black Chalk and Grist Mill Road
“This vivid debut wrestles with essential questions about the role of personal ambition in the fight for social change. Blending richly drawn characters with timely themes, O’Dowd has written a novel about and for our tumultuous era.”
—Wil Medearis, author of Restoration Heights
“Patrick O’Dowd’s A Campus on Fire is timely, urgent, and thrilling. Set at a campus uncomfortably close to all of us, the novel adroitly mixes a quasi-fascist student faction, a cult-like writers’ group, a love story, and a student reporter trying to maintain objectivity in the face of crisis. O’Dowd works with complex characters and presents no easy resolutions—like life itself.
—David Galef, author of How to Cope with Suburban Stress
“Patrick O’Dowd has gifted readers a phenomenal debut using a university campus setting as a microcosm of our national politics and the epicenter of clashing ideas around consent, class, gender, race, and privilege. The story’s journalistic lens through its protagonist Tess cleverly allows for varying angles of storytelling, while the interpersonal connective tissue of the plot is utterly irresistible. At the heart of this novel is the concept of power: who has it, who wants it, and the extremes that people will go to to get it. With A Campus on Fire, O’Dowd has cemented himself as a forceful new literary voice.”
This unsettling adult debut from Kylie Lee Baker follows a biracial crime scene cleaner who’s haunted by both her inner trauma and hungry ghosts as she’s entangled in a series of murders in New York City’s Chinatown. Parasite meets The Only Good Indians in this sharp novel that explores harsh social edges through the lens of the horror genre.
Cora Zeng is a crime scene cleaner in New York City’s Chinatown, washing away the remains of brutal murders and suicides. But none of that seems so terrible when she’s already witnessed the most horrific thing possible: in the early months of 2020, her sister Delilah was pushed in front of a train as Cora stood next to her. Before fleeing the scene, the murderer whispered two words: bat eater.
So the bloody messes don’t really bother Cora—she’s more bothered by the possible germs on the subway railing, the bare hands of a stranger, the hidden viruses in every corner. And by the strange spots in her eyes and that food keeps going missing in her apartment. Of course, ever since Delilah was killed in front of her, Cora can’t be sure what anxiety is real and what’s in her head. She can barely keep herself together as it is.
She pushes away all feelings, ignoring the bite marks that appear on her coffee table, ignoring the advice of her aunt to burn joss paper and other paper replicas of items to send to the dead and to prepare for the Hungry Ghost Festival, when the gates of hell open. Ignores the dread in her stomach as she and her weird coworkers keep finding bat carcasses at their crime scene cleanups. Ignores the scary fact that all their recent cleanups have been the bodies of Asian women.
But as Cora will soon learn, you can’t just ignore hungry ghosts.
Book Excerpt:
ONE
April 2020
East Broadway station bleeds when it rains, water rushing down from cracks in the secret darkness of the ceiling. Someone should probably fix that, but it’s the end of the world, and New York has bigger problems than a soggy train station that no one should be inside of anyway. No one takes the subway at the end of the world. No one except Cora and Delilah Zeng.
Delilah wanders too close to the edge of the platform and Cora grabs her arm, tugging her away from the abyss of the tracks that unlatches its jaws, waiting. But Delilah settles safely behind the yellow line and the darkness clenches its teeth.
Outside the wet mouth of the station, New York is empty. The China Virus, as they call it, has cleared the streets. News stations flash through footage of China—bodies in garbage bags, guards and tanks protecting the city lines, sobbing doctors waving their last goodbyes from packed trains, families who just want to fucking live but are trapped in the plague city for the Greater Good.
On the other side of the world, New York is so empty it echoes. You can scream and the ghost of your voice will carry for blocks and blocks. The sound of footsteps lasts forever, the low hum of streetlights a warm undercurrent that was always there, waiting, but no one could hear it until now. Delilah says it’s unnerving, but Cora likes the quiet, likes how much bigger the city feels, likes that the little lights from people’s apartment windows are the only hint of their existence, no one anything more than a bright little square in the sky.
What she doesn’t like is that she can’t find any toilet paper at the end of the world.
Apparently, people do strange things when they’re scared of dying, and one of them is hoarding toilet paper. Cora and Delilah have been out for an hour trying to find some and finally managed to grab a four-pack of one-ply in Chinatown, which is better than nothing but not by much.
They had to walk in the rain because they couldn’t get an Uber. No one wants Chinese girls in their car, and they’re not the kind of Chinese that can afford their own car in a city where it isn’t necessary. But now that they have the precious paper, they’d rather not walk home in the rain and end up with a sodden mess in their arms.
“The train isn’t coming,” Cora says. She feels certain of this. She feels certain about a lot of things she can’t explain, the way some people are certain that God exists. Some thoughts just cross her mind and sink their teeth in. Besides, the screen overhead that’s supposed to tell them when the next train arrives has said DELAYS for the last ten minutes.
“It’s coming,” Delilah says, checking her phone, then tucking it away when droplets from the leaky roof splatter onto the screen. Delilah is also certain about many things, but for different reasons. Delilah chooses the things she wants to believe, while Cora’s thoughts are bear traps snapping closed around her ankles.
Sometimes Cora thinks Delilah is more of a dream than a sister, a camera flash of pretty lights in every color that you can never look at directly. She wraps herself up in pale pink and wispy silk and flower hair clips; she wears different rings on each finger that all have a special meaning; she is Alice in Wonderland who has stumbled out of a rabbit hole and somehow arrived in New York from a world much more kind and lovely than this one.
Cora hugs the toilet paper to her chest and peers into the silent train tunnel. She can’t see even a whisper of light from the other side. The darkness closes in like a wall. The train cannot be coming because trains can’t break through walls.
Or maybe Cora just doesn’t want to go home, because going home with Delilah means remembering that there is a world outside of this leaky station.
There is their dad in China, just a province away from the epicenter of body bags. And there is the man who emptied his garbage over their heads from his window and called them Chinks on the walk here. And there is the big question of What Comes Next? Because another side effect of the end of the world is getting laid off.
Cora used to work the front desk at the Met, which wasn’t exactly what an art history degree was designed for and certainly didn’t justify the debt. But it was relevant enough to her studies that for a few months it stopped shame from creeping in like black mold and coating her lungs in her sleep. But no one needs museums at the end of the world, so no one needs Cora.
Delilah answered emails and scheduled photo shoots for a local fashion magazine that went belly-up as soon as someone whispered the word pandemic, and suddenly there were two art history majors, twenty-four and twenty-six, with work experience in dead industries and New York City rent to pay. Now the money is gone and there are no careers to show for it and the worst part is that they had a chance, they had a Nai Nai who paid for half their tuition because she thought America was for dreams. They didn’t have to wait tables or strip or sell Adderall to pay for college but they somehow messed it up anyway, and Cora thinks that’s worse than having no chance at all. She thinks a lot of other things about herself too, but she lets those thoughts go quickly, snaps her hands away from them like they’re a hot pan that will burn her skin.
Cora thinks this is all Delilah’s fault but won’t say it out loud because that’s another one of her thoughts that no one wants to hear. It’s a little bit her own fault as well, for not having her own dreams. If there was anything Cora actually wanted besides existing comfortably, she would have known what to study in college, wouldn’t have had to chase after Delilah.
But not everyone has dreams. Some people just are, the way that trees and rocks and rivers are just there without a reason, the rest of the world moving around them.
Cora thinks that the water dripping down the wall looks oddly dark, more so than the usual sludge of the city, and maybe it has a reddish tinge, like the city has slit its own wrists and is dying in this empty station. But she knows better than to say this out loud, because everything looks dirty to her, and Cora Zeng thinking something is dirty doesn’t mean the average human agrees—at least, that’s what everyone tells her.
“Maybe I’ll work at a housekeeping company,” Cora says, half to herself and half to the echoing tunnel, but Delilah answers anyway.
“You know that’s a bad idea,” she says.
Cora shrugs. Objectively, she understands that if you scrub yourself raw with steel wool one singular time, no one likes it when you clean anything for the rest of your life. But things still need to be cleaned even if Delilah doesn’t like it, and Cora thinks there are worse things than leaning a little bit into the crazy parts of you. Isn’t that what artists do, after all? Isn’t that the kind of person Delilah likes? The tortured artist types who smoke indoors and paint with their own blood and feces.
“Mama cleaned toilets for rich white people because she had no choice,” Delilah says. “You have a college degree and that’s what you want to do?”
Cora doesn’t answer at first because Mama means Delilah’s mom, so Cora doesn’t see why her thoughts on Cora’s life should matter. Cora doesn’t have a Mama. She has a Mom, a white lady from Wisconsin who probably hired someone else’s mama to clean her toilet.
Cora quite likes cleaning toilets, but this is another thing she knows she shouldn’t say out loud. Instead, she says, “What I want is to make rent this month.”
Legally, Cora’s fairly certain they can’t be evicted during the pandemic, but she doesn’t want to piss off their landlord, the man who sniffs their mail and saves security camera footage of Delilah entering the building. He price-gouges them for a crappy fourth-floor walkup in the East Village with a radiator that vomits a gallon of brown water onto their floor in the winter and a marching band of pipes banging in the walls, but somehow Cora doubts they’ll find anything better without jobs.
Delilah smiles with half her mouth, her gaze distant like Cora is telling her a fairy tale. “I’ve been burning lemongrass for money energy,” Delilah says. “We’ll be fine.” This is another thing Delilah just knows.
Cora hates the smell of lemongrass. The scent coats her throat, wakes her up at night feeling like she’s drowning in oil. But she doesn’t know if the oils are a Chinese thing or just a Delilah thing, and she hates accidentally acting like a white girl around Delilah. Whenever she does, Delilah gives her this look, like she’s remembered who Cora really is, and changes the subject.
“The train is late,” Cora says instead of acknowledging the lemongrass. “I don’t think it’s coming.”
“It’s coming, Cee,” Delilah says.
“I read that they reduced service since no one’s taking the train these days,” Cora says. “What if it doesn’t stop here anymore?”
“It’s coming,” Delilah says. “It’s not like we have a choice except waiting here anyway.”
Cora’s mind flashes with the image of both their skeletons standing at the station, waiting for a train that never comes, while the world crumbles around them. They could walk— they only live in the East Village—but Delilah is made of sugar and her makeup melts off in the rain and her umbrella is too small and she said no, so that’s the end of it. Delilah is not Cora’s boss, she’s not physically intimidating, and she has no blackmail to hold over her, but Cora knows the only choice is to do what Delilah says. When you’re drowning and someone grabs your hand, you don’t ask them where they’re taking you.
A quiet breeze sighs through the tunnel, a dying exhale. It blows back Delilah’s bangs and Cora notices that Delilah has penciled in her eyebrows perfectly, even though it’s raining and they only went out to the store to buy toilet paper. Something about the sharp arch of her left eyebrow in particular triggers a thought that Cora doesn’t want to think, but it bites down all the same.
Sometimes, Cora thinks she hates her sister.
It’s strange how hate and love can so quietly exist at the same time. They are moon phases, one silently growing until one day all that’s left is darkness. It’s not something that Delilah says or does, really. Cora is used to her small annoyances.
It’s that Delilah is a daydream and standing next to her makes Cora feel real.
Cora has pores full of sweat and oil, socks with stains on the bottom, a stomach that sloshes audibly after she eats. Delilah is a pretty arrangement of refracted light who doesn’t have to worry about those things. Cora wanted to be like her for a very long time, because who doesn’t want to transcend their disgusting body and become Delilah Zeng, incorporeal, eternal? But Cora’s not so sure anymore.
Cora peers into the tunnel. We are going to be stuck here forever, Cora thinks, knows.
But then the sound begins, a rising symphony to Cora’s ears. The ground begins to rumble, puddles shivering.
“Finally,” Delilah says, pocketing her phone. “See? I told you.”
Cora nods because Delilah did tell her and sometimes Delilah is right. The things Cora thinks she knows are too often just bad dreams bleeding into her waking hours.
Far away, the headlights become visible in the darkness. A tiny mouth of white light.
“Cee,” Delilah says. Her tone is too delicate, and it makes coldness curl around Cora’s heart. Delilah tosses words out easily, dandelion parachutes carried about by the wind. But these words have weight.
Delilah toys with her bracelet—a jade bangle from their Auntie Zeng, the character for hope on the gold band. Cora has a matching one, shoved in a drawer somewhere, except the plate says love, at least that’s what Cora thinks. She’s not very good at reading Chinese.
“I’m thinking of going to see Dad,” Delilah says.
The mouth of light at the end of the tunnel has expanded into a door of brilliant white, and Cora waits because this cannot be all. Dad lives in Changsha, has lived there ever since America became too much for him, except it’s always been too much for Cora too and she has nowhere to run away to, her father hasn’t given her the words she needs. Delilah has visited him twice in the last five years, so this news isn’t enough to make Delilah’s voice sound so tight, so nervous.
“I think I might stay there awhile,” Delilah says, looking away. “Now that I’m out of work, it seems like a good time to get things settled before the pandemic blows over.”
Cora stares at the side of Delilah’s head because her sister won’t meet her gaze. Cora isn’t stupid, she knows what this is a “good time” for. Delilah started talking about being a model in China last year. Cora doesn’t know if the odds are better in China and she doubts Delilah knows either. All she knows is that Delilah tried for all of three months to make a career of modeling in New York until that dream fizzled out, smoke spiraling from it, and Delilah stopped trying because everything is disposable to her, right down to her dreams.
Cora always thought this particular dream would be too expensive, too logistically complicated for Delilah to actually follow through on. Worst-case scenario, they’d plan a three-week vacation to China that would turn into a week and a half when Delilah lost interest and started fighting with Dad again. The idea of flying during a pandemic feels like a death sentence, but Cora has already resigned herself to hunting down some N95 respirators just so Delilah could give her modeling dream an honest try.
Because even if Delilah tends to extinguish her own dreams too fast, Cora believes in them for all of their brief, brilliant lives. If Cora ever found a dream of her own, she would nurture it in soft soil, measure out each drop of water, each sunbeam, give it a chance to become. So Cora will not squash her sister’s dreams, not for anything.
“I’ll just put my half of the rent on my credit card until I find work,” Delilah says, “so you won’t need a new roommate.”
Then Cora understands, all at once, like a knife slipped between her ribs, that Delilah isn’t inviting Cora to come with her.
Of course she isn’t. Delilah has a mama who speaks Mandarin to her, so Delilah’s Chinese is good enough to live in China. But Cora’s isn’t. Delilah would have to do everything for her, go everywhere with her because she knows Cora would cry just trying to check out at the supermarket. Delilah could do it for her, but she doesn’t want to.
Cora suddenly feels like a child who has wandered too far into a cave. The echoes become ghosts and the darkness wraps in tight ribbons around your throat and you call for a mom who will never come.
Cora’s hands shake, fingers pressing holes into the plastic wrap of the toilet paper, her whole body vibrating with the sheer unfairness of it all. You can’t string someone along their whole life and then just leave them alone one day holding your toilet paper in a soggy train station.
“Or you could stay with your aunt?” Delilah says. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about rent. It would be better for both of us, I think.”
Auntie Lois, she means. Mom’s sister, whose house smells like a magazine, who makes Cora kneel in a confessional booth until she can name all her sins. Delilah has decided that this is Cora’s life, and Delilah is the one who makes decisions.
Delilah keeps talking, but Cora can’t hear her. The world rumbles as the train draws closer. The white light is too bright now, too sharp behind Delilah, and it illuminates her silhouette, carves her into the wet darkness. Delilah has a beautiful silhouette, the kind that men would have painted hundreds of years ago. Cora thinks about the Girl with a Pearl Earring, and the Mona Lisa, and all the beautiful women immortalized in oil paint, and wonders if they said cruel things too, if their words had mattered at all or just the roundness of their eyes and softness of their cheeks, if beautiful people are allowed to break your heart and get away with it.
The man appears in a flash of a black hoodie and blue surgical mask.
He says two words, and even though the train is rushing closer, a roaring wave about to knock them off their feet, those two words are perfectly clear, sharp as if carved into Cora’s skin.
Bat eater.
Cora has heard those words a lot the past two months. The end of the world began at a wet market in Wuhan, they say, with a sick bat. Cora has never once eaten a bat, but it has somehow become common knowledge that Chinese people eat bats just to start plagues.
Cora only glances at the man’s face for a moment before her gaze snaps to his pale hand clamped around Delilah’s skinny arm like a white spider, crunching the polyester of her pink raincoat. Lots of men grab Delilah because she is the kind of girl that men want to devour. Cora thinks the man will try to kiss Delilah, or force her up the stairs and into a cab, or a thousand things better than what actually happens next.
Because he doesn’t pull her close. He pushes her away.
Delilah stumbles over the yellow line, ankle twisting, and when she crashes down there’s no ground to meet her, just the yawning chasm of the train tracks.
The first car hits her face.
All at once, Cora’s skin is scorched with something viscous and salty. Brakes scream and blue sparks fly and the wind blasts her hair back, the liquid rushing across her throat, under her shirt. Her first thought is that the train has splashed her in some sort of track sludge, and for half a second that is the worst thought in the entire world. The toilet paper falls from Cora’s arms and splashes into a puddle when it hits the ground and There goes the whole point of the trip, she thinks.
Delilah does not stand up. The train is a rushing blur of silver, a solid wall of hot air and screeching metal and Delilah is on the ground, her skirt pooling out around her. Get up, Delilah, Cora thinks, because train station floors are rainforests of bacteria tracked in from so many millions of shoes, because the puddle beneath her can’t be just rainwater—it looks oddly dark, almost black, spreading fast like a hole opening up in the floor. Cora steps closer and it almost, almost looks like Delilah is leaning over the ledge, peering over the lip of the platform.
But Delilah ends just above her shoulders.
Her throat is a jagged line, torn flaps of skin and sharp bone and the pulsing O of her open trachea. Blood runs unstopped from her throat, swirling together with the rainwater of the rotting train station, and soon the whole platform is bleeding, weeping red water into the crack between the platform and the train, feeding the darkness. Cora is screaming, a raw sound that begins somewhere deep inside her rib cage and tears its way up her throat and becomes a hurricane, a knife-sharp cry, the last sound that many women ever make.
But there’s no one to hear it because New York is a dead body, because no one rides the subway at the end of the world. No one but Cora Zeng.
About the Author:
Author Bio:
Kylie Lee Baker is the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Keeper of Night duology, The Scarlet Alchemist duology, and the forthcoming adult horror Bat Eater. She grew up in Boston and has since lived in Atlanta, Salamanca, and Seoul. Her writing is informed by her heritage (Japanese, Chinese, and Irish), as well as her experiences living abroad as both a student and teacher. She has a BA in creative writing and Spanish from Emory University and a master of library and information science degree from Simmons University.
A nautical archaeologist searching for sunken treasure in Positano unearths a centuries-old curse, powerful witchcraft, and perilous love on the high seas in this spellbinding new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Apothecary—perfect for fans of The Familiar and The Cloisters.
Haven Ambrose, a trailblazing nautical archaeologist, has come to the sun-soaked village of Positano to investigate the mysterious shipwrecks along the Amalfi Coast. But Haven is hoping to find more than old artifacts beneath the azure waters; she is secretly on a quest to locate a trove of priceless gemstones her late father spotted on his final dive. Upon Haven’s arrival, strange maelstroms and misfortunes start plaguing the town. Is it nature, or something more sinister at work?
In 1821, Mari DeLuca and the women of her village practice the legendary art of stregheria, a magical ability to harness the power of the ocean. As their leader, Mari protects Positano with her witchcraft, but she has been plotting to run away with her lover, Holmes – a sailor aboard a merchant ship owned by the nefarious Mazza brothers, known for their greed and brutality. When the Mazzas learn about the women of Positano, they devise a plan to kidnap several of Mari’s friends. With her fellow witches and her village in danger – and Holmes’s life threatened by his connection to the most feared woman in Positano – Mari is forced to choose between the safety of her people and the man she loves.
As Haven searches for her father’s sunken treasure, she begins to unearth a tale of perilous love and powerful sorcery. Can she unravel the Amalfi Curse before the region is destroyed forever? Against the dazzling backdrop of the Amalfi Coast, this bewitching novel shimmers with mystery, romance, and the untamed magic of the sea.
Book Excerpt:
1
MARI
Wednesday, April 11, 1821
Along a dark seashore beneath the cliffside village of Positano, twelve women, aged six to forty-four, were seated in a circle. It was two o’clock in the morning, the waxing moon directly overhead.
One of the women stood, breaking the circle. Her hair was the color of vermilion, as it had been since birth. Fully clothed, she walked waist-high into the water. A belemnite fossil clutched between her fingers, she plunged her hands beneath the waves and began to move her lips, reciting the first part of the incantesimo di riflusso she’d learned as a child. Within moments, the undercurrent she’d conjured began to swirl at her ankles, tugging southward, away from her.
She shuffled her way out of the water and back onto the shore.
A second woman with lighter hair, the color of persimmon, stood from the circle. She, too, approached the ocean and plunged her hands beneath the surface. She recited her silent spell on the sea, satisfied as the undercurrent grew even stronger. She gazed out at the horizon, a steady black line where the sky met the sea, and smiled.
Like the other villagers along the coast tonight, these women knew what was coming: a fleet of pirate ships making their way northeast from Tunis. Winds were favorable, their sources said, and the flotilla was expected within the next day.
Their destination? Perhaps Capri, Sorrento, Majori. Some thought maybe even Positano—maybe, finally, Positano.
Given this, fishermen all along the Amalfi coastline had decided to remain at home with their families tomorrow and into the night. It wouldn’t be safe on the water. The destination of these pirates was unknown, and what they sought was a mystery, as well. Greedy pirates went for all kinds of loot. Hungry pirates went for nets full of fish. Lustful pirates went for the women.
On the seashore, a third and final woman stood from the circle. Her hair was the rich, deep hue of blood. Quickly, she undressed. She didn’t like the feeling of wet fabric against her skin, and these women had seen her naked a thousand times before.
Belemnite fossil in one hand, she held the end of a rope in her other, which was tied to a heavy anchor in the sand a short distance away. She would be the one to recite the final piece of this current-curse. Her recitation was the most important, the most potent, and after it was done, the ebbing undercurrent would be even more severe—hence the rope, which she would wrap tightly around herself before finishing the spell.
It was perilous, sinister work. Still, of the twelve women by the water tonight, twenty-year-old Mari DeLuca was the most befitting for this final task.
They were streghe del mare—sea witches—with unparalleled power over the ocean. They boasted a magic found nowhere else in the world, a result of their lineage, having descended from the sirens who once inhabited the tiny Li Galli islets nearby.
The women knew that tomorrow, wherever the pirates landed, it would not be Positano. The men would not seize their goods, their food, their daughters. No matter how the pirate ships rigged their sails, they would not find easy passageway against the undercurrent the women now drew upward from the bottom of the sea. They would turn east, or west. They would go elsewhere.
They always did.
While the lineage of the other eleven women was twisted and tangled, filled with sons or muddled by marriage, Mari DeLuca’s line of descent was perfectly intact: her mother had been a strega, and her mother’s mother, and so on and so on, tracing back thousands of years to the sirens themselves. Of the women on the seashore tonight, Mari was the only strega finisima.
This placed upon her shoulders many great responsibilities. She could instinctively read the water better than any of them. Her spells were the most effective, too; she alone could do what required two or three other streghe working in unison. As such, she was the sanctioned leader of the eleven other women. The forewoman, the teacher, the decision-maker.
Oh, but what a shame she hated the sea as much as she did.
Stepping toward the water, Mari unraveled her long plait of hair. It was her most striking feature—such blood-colored hair was almost unheard of in Italy, much less in the tiny fishing village of Positano—but then, much of what Mari had inherited was unusual. She tensed as the cold waves rushed over her feet. My mother should be the one doing this, she thought bitterly. It was a resentment she’d never released, not in twelve years, since the night when eight-year-old Mari had watched the sea claim her mother, Imelda, as its own.
On that terrible night, newly motherless and reeling, Mari knew the sea was no longer her friend. But worse than this, she worried for her younger sister, Sofia. How would Mari break this news to her? How could she possibly look after spirited Sofia with as much patience and warmth as their mamma had once done?
She’d hardly had time to grieve. The next day, the other streghe had swiftly appointed young Mari as the new strega finisima. Her mother had taught her well, after all, and she was, by birthright, capable of more than any of them. No one seemed to care that young Mari was so tender and heartbroken or that she now despised the very thing she had such control over.
But most children lose their mothers at some point, don’t they? And sprightly Sofia had been reason enough to forge on—a salve to Mari’s aching heart. Sofia had kept her steady, disciplined. Even cheerful, much of the time. So long as Sofia was beside her, Mari would shoulder the responsibilities that had been placed upon her, willingly or not.
Now, toes in the water, a pang of anguish struck Mari, as it often did at times like this.
Neither Mamma nor Sofia was beside her tonight. Mari let out a slow exhale. This moment was an important one, worth remembering. It was the end of two years’ worth of agonizing indecision. No one else on the seashore knew it, but this spell, this incantation she was about to recite, would be her very last. She was leaving in only a few weeks’ time, breaking free. And the place she was going was mercifully far from the sea.
Eyes down, Mari slipped her naked body beneath the water, cursing the sting of it as it seeped into a small rash on her ankle. At once, the water around her turned from dark blue to a thick inky black, like vinegar. Mari had dealt with this all her life: the sea mirrored her mood, her temperament.
As a child, she’d found it marvelous, the way the ocean read her hidden thoughts so well. Countless times, her friends had expressed envy of the phenomenon. But now, the black water shuddering around her legs only betrayed the secrets Mari meant to keep, and she was glad for the darkness, so better to hide her feelings from those on the shore.
Halfway into the water, already she could feel the changes in the sea: the two women before her had done very well with their spells. This was encouraging, at least. A few sharp rocks, churned by the undercurrent, scraped across the top of her feet like thorns, and it took great focus to remain in place against the undertow pulling her out. She used her arms to keep herself balanced, as a tired bird might flap its wings on an unsteady branch.
She wrapped the rope twice around her forearm. Once it was secure, she began to recite the spell. With each word, tira and obbedisci—pull and obey—the rope tightened against her skin. The undercurrent was intensifying quickly, and with even more potency than she expected. She winced when the rope broke her skin, the fresh wound exposed instantly to the bite of the salt water. She began to stumble, losing her balance, and she finished the incantation as quickly as possible, lest the rope leave her arm mangled.
She wouldn’t miss nights like this, not at all.
When she was done, Mari waved, signaling to the other women that it was time to pull her in. Instantly she felt a tug on the other end of the rope. A few seconds later, she was in shallow, gentle water. On her hands and knees, she crawled the rest of the way. Safely on shore, she lay down to rest, sand and grit sticking uncomfortably to her wet skin. She would need to wash well later.
Terribly time-consuming, all of this.
A sudden shout caught her attention, and Mari sat up, peering around in the darkness. Her closest friend, Ami, was now knee-deep in the water, struggling to keep her balance.
“Lia!” Ami shouted hysterically. “Lia, where are you?”
Lia was Ami’s six-year-old daughter, a strega-in-training, her hair a delicate, rosy red. Not moments ago, she’d been situated among the circle of women, her spindly legs tucked up against her chest, watching the spells unfold.
Mari threw herself upward, tripping as she lunged toward the ocean.
“No, please, no,” she cried out. If Lia was indeed in the water, it would be impossible for the young girl to make her way back to shore. She was smaller than other girls her age, her bones fragile as seashells, and though she could swim, she’d have nothing against the power of these tides. The very purpose of the incantation had been to drive the currents toward the deep, dark sea, with enough strength to stave off a pirate ship.
Lia wasn’t wearing a cimaruta, either, which gave the women great strength and vigor in moments of distress. She was too young: streghe didn’t get their talisman necklaces until they were fifteen, when their witchcraft had matured and they were deemed proficient in the art.
At once, every woman on the shore was at the ocean’s edge, peering at the water’s choppy surface. The women might have been powerful, yes, but they were not immortal: as Mari knew all too well, they could succumb to drowning just like anyone else.
Mari spun in a circle, scanning the shore. Suddenly her belly tightened, and she bent forward, her vision going dark and bile rising in the back of her throat.
This was too familiar—her spinning in circles, scanning the horizon in search of someone.
Seeing nothing.
Then seeing the worst.
Like her younger sister’s copper-colored hair, splayed out around the shoulders of her limp body as she lay facedown in the rolling swells of the sea.
Mari had been helpless, unable to protect fourteen-year-old Sofia from whatever she’d encountered beneath the waves that day, only two years ago. Mari had spent years trying to protect her sister as their mother could not, yet in the end, she had failed. She’d failed Sofia.
That day, the sea had once again proved itself not only greedy but villainous—something to be loathed.
Something, Mari eventually decided, from which to escape.
Now, Mari fell to her knees, too dizzy to stand. It was as though her body had been hauled back in time to that ill-fated morning. She bent forward, body heaving, about to be sick—
Suddenly, she heard a giggle, high-pitched and playful. It sounded just like Sofia, and for a moment, Mari thought she’d slipped into a dream.
“I am here, Mamma,” came Lia’s voice from a short distance away. “I am digging in the sand for baby gran—” She cut off. “I forget the word.”
Ami let out a cry, relief and irritation both. She ran toward her child, clutched her to her breast. “Granchio,” she said. “And don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
Mari sat up, overwhelmed by relief. She didn’t have children, was not even married, but Lia sometimes felt like her own.
She steadied her breath. Lia is fine, she said silently to herself. She is perfectly well, on land, right here in front of all of us. Yet even as her breath slowed, she could not resist glancing once more behind her, scanning the wave tops.
The women who’d performed the spell changed into dry clothes.
Lia pulled away from Ami’s embrace, sneaking toward Mari, who welcomed her with a warm, strong hug. Mari bent over to kiss the girl’s head, breathing in her fragrance of oranges, sugar, and sweat.
Lia turned her narrow face to Mari, her lips in a frown. “The spell will protect us from the pirates forever?”
Mari smiled. If only it worked that way. She thought of the pirate ship approaching the peninsula tonight. If it did indeed make for Positano, she imagined the captain cursing under his breath. Damn these currents, he might say. I’ve had my eye on Positano. What is it with that village? He would turn to his first mate and order him to alter the rigging, set an eastward course. Anywhere but this slice of troublesome water, he’d hiss at his crew.
“No,” Mari said now. “Our magia does not work that way.”
She paused, considering what more to tell the girl. Nearly every spell the women recited dissipated in a matter of days, but there was a single spell, the vortice centuriaria, which endured for one hundred years. It could only be recited if a strega removed her protective cimaruta necklace. And the cost of performing such magic was substantial: she had to sacrifice her own life in order for the spell to be effective. As far as Mari knew, no one had performed the spell in hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years.
Such a grim topic wasn’t appropriate now, not with young Lia, so she kept her explanation simple. “Our spells last several days, at the most. No different than what a storm does to the ocean: churns it up, tosses it about. Eventually, though, the sea returns to normal. The sea always prevails.”
How much she hated to admit this. Even the vortice centuriaria, long-lasting as it was, faded eventually. The women could do powerful things with the sea, yes, but they were not masters of it.
“This is why we keep very close to our informants,” Mari went on. “There are people who tell us when pirates, or strange ships, have been spotted offshore. Knowing our spells will only last a few days, we must be diligent. We cannot curse the water too soon nor too late. Our fishermen need good, smooth water for their hauls, so we must only curse the water when we are sure there is a threat.” She smiled, feeling a tad smug. “We are very good at it, Lia.”
Lia traced her finger in the sand, making a big oval. “Mamma tells me I can do anything with the sea when I am older. Anything at all.”
It was an enticing sentiment, this idea that they had complete control over the ocean, but it was false. Their spells were really quite simple and few—there were only seven of them—and they abided by the laws of nature.
“I would like to see one of those big white bears,” Lia went on, “so I will bring an iceberg here, all the way from the Arctic.”
“Sadly,” Mari said, “I fear that is too far. We can push the pirates away because they are not all that far from us. But the Arctic? Well, there are many land masses separating us from your beloved polar bears…”
“I will go to live with other sea witches when I’m older, then,” Lia said. “Witches who live closer to the Arctic.”
“It is only us, dear. There are no other sea witches.” At Lia’s perturbed look, she explained, “We descended from the sirens, who lived on those islands—” she pointed to the horizon, where the Li Galli islets rose out of the water “—and we are the only women in the world who inherited power over the ocean.”
Lia slumped forward, let out a sigh.
“You will still be able to do many things,” Mari encouraged. “Just not everything.”
Like saving the people you love, she mused. Even to this day, the loss of little Sofia felt so senseless, so unneeded. The sisters had been in only a few feet of water, doing somersaults and handstands, diving for sea glass. They had passed the afternoon this way a thousand times before. Later, Mari would wonder if Sofia had knocked her head against the ground, or maybe she’d accidentally inhaled a mouthful of water. Whatever happened, Sofia had noiselessly slipped beneath the rippling tide.
She’s playing a trick, Mari thought as the minutes passed. She’s holding her breath and will come up any moment. The girls did this often, making games of guessing where the other might emerge. But Sofia didn’t emerge, not this time. And just a few months shy of fifteen, she hadn’t been wearing a cimaruta.
Lia began to add small lines to the edge of her circle. She was drawing an eye with lashes. “Mamma says you can do more than she can,” she chirped. “That it takes two or three of the streghe to do what you can do by yourself.”
“Yes,” Mari said. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Because of your mamma who died?”
Mari flinched at this, then quickly moved on. “Yes. And my nonna, and her mamma, and so on. All the way back many thousands of years. There is something different in our blood.”
“But not mine.”
“You are special in plenty of ways. Think of the baby needlefish, for instance. You’re always spotting them, even though they’re nearly invisible and they move terribly fast.” \
“They’re easy to spot,” Lia disputed, brows furrowed.
“Not for me. You understand? We are each skilled in our own way.”
Suddenly, Lia turned her face up to Mari. “Still, I hope you do not die, since you have the different, special blood and no one else does.”
Mari recoiled, taken aback by Lia’s comment. It was almost as though the young girl sensed Mari’s covert plans. “Go find your mamma,” she told Lia, who stood at once, ruining her sand art.
After she’d gone, Mari gazed at the hillside rising up behind them. This beach was not their normal place for practicing magic: Mari typically led the women to one of countless nearby caves or grottoes, protected from view, via a pair of small gozzi, seating six to a boat. But tonight had been different—one of the gozzi had come loose from its mooring, and it had drifted out into the open ocean. This had left the women with only one boat, and it wasn’t big enough to hold them all.
“Let’s gather on the beach instead,” she’d urged. “We’ll be out but a few minutes.” Besides, it was the middle of the night, and the moon had been mostly hidden behind clouds, so it was very dark.
While a few of the women looked at her warily, everyone had agreed in the end.
Mari stood and squeezed the water from her hair. It was nearly three o’clock, and all of the women were yawning.
She shoved the wet rope into her bag and dressed quickly, pulling her shift over her protective cimaruta necklace. Hers bore tiny amulets from the sea and coastline: a moon shell, an ammonite fossil, a kernel of gray volcanic pumice. Recently, Mari had found a tiny coral fragment in the perfect shape of a mountain, which she especially liked. Mountains made her think of inland places, which made her think of freedom.
As the women began to make their way up the hillside, Mari felt fingertips brush her arm. “Psst,” Ami whispered. In her hand was a small envelope, folded tightly in half.
Mari’s heart surged. “A letter.”
Ami winked. “It arrived yesterday.”
It had been two weeks since the last one, and as tempted as Mari was to tear open the envelope and read it in the moonlight, she tucked it against her bosom. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Suddenly, Mari caught movement in the corner of her eye, something on the dock a short distance away. At first, she thought she’d imagined it—clouds skirted across the sky, and the night was full of shadows—but then she gasped as a dark form quickly made its way off the dock, around a small building, and out of sight.
Something—someone—had most definitely been over there. A man. A late-night rendezvous, perhaps? Or had he been alone and spying on the women?
Mari turned to tell Ami, but her friend had already gone ahead, a hand protectively on Lia’s back.
As they stepped onto the dirt pathway scattered with carts and closed-up vendor stands, Mari turned around once more to glance at the dock. But there was nothing, no one. The dock lay in darkness.
Just a trick of the moonlight, she told herself.
Besides, she had a very important letter nestled against her chest—one she intended to tear open the moment she got home.
About the Author:
Author Bio:
Sarah Penner is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The London Seance Society and The Lost Apothecary, which will be translated into forty languages worldwide and is set to be turned into a drama series by Fox. Sarah spent thirteen years in corporate finance and now writes full-time. She and her husband live in Florida. To learn more, visit SarahPenner.com.
A haunting novel about the boundaries people will cross to keep their dreams alive.
A mysterious stranger shows up at Riccardo’s apartment with some news: his grandmother Perihan has died, and Riccardo has inherited her villa in Milan along with her famed butterfly collection.
The struggling writer is out of options. He’s hoping the change of scenery in Milan will inspire him, and maybe there will be some money to keep him afloat. But Perihan’s house isn’t as opulent as he remembers. The butterflies pinned in their glass cases seem more ominous than artful. Perihan’s group of mysterious old friends is constantly lurking. And there’s something wrong in the greenhouse.
As Riccardo explores the decrepit estate, he stumbles upon Perihan’s diary, which might hold the key to her mysterious death. Or at least give him the inspiration he needs to finish his manuscript.
But he might not survive long enough to write it.
Book Excerpt:
Prologue
Perihan gazed at the opulent villas lined up like precious pearls on a necklace, feeling overwhelmed by their excessive beauty. The sight was almost terrifying, reminiscent of the antique pearls adorning her own necklace. As the dark clouds were illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, she shook off her thoughts and quickened her pace along the deserted road. The gentle raindrops on her tired face felt like an ominous sign. The unexpected gust of wind, unusual for a mild November afternoon, added to her unease.
On her seventieth birthday, Perihan had indulged in a day of shopping at Milan’s most luxurious stores. Despite her age, she possessed a strong physique, with firm knees, agile movements, and enough strength to carry her shopping bags from the stores to her home. The kind store managers at Cartier and Valentino had offered to send the packages to her address with a courier, but she declined, insisting she could manage on her own. Though she lacked a family to celebrate with, her small group of friends had arranged to gather at the villa, refusing to let her spend the evening alone. They had asked her to leave the house and return around seven o’clock. Glancing at her watch, Perihan realized she was already half an hour late.
Oh my… Licia must have already set the table, she thought as she turned the corner onto Via Marco de Marchi, where she resided. Just then, another lightning bolt flashed across the sky, and a large monarch butterfly appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Despite the heavy rain, Perihan could hear the faint flapping of its wings. The butterfly had bright orange and black stripes, with one wing decorated with symmetric white dots. It seemed to hover in midair.
“What a miracle,” Perihan exclaimed, a smile stretching across her wrinkled face. “It’s been years since I last saw this one…and on my birthday!” Hastily shifting the heavy bags onto her shoulder, she wiped the raindrops from her eyes with her long red nails and followed the butterfly. It fluttered around in circles for a few moments, before darting straight ahead. Despite the downpour, the orange-and-black wings moved swiftly. Overwhelmed with excitement, Perihan disregarded the red light—and almost got hit by an old Ford passing by. The driver, an unattractive man with numerous moles and few teeth, leaned out of the window and cursed at her in an Italian dialect she couldn’t understand. Unfazed by his behavior, Perihan remained focused on following the butterfly, which flew rapidly and ascended into the sky.
“I wonder where it disappeared to,” she mused with a melancholic expression on her face. The rain intensified, the drainage problems in the area turning the road into a pool of water. Perihan’s bare feet were drenched as the rain seeped through the open toes of her green python slingbacks.
“You’re blocking my view.” The unexpected comment startled her. She looked at the stranger, hoping to recognize a friendly face, but it was no one she knew. She turned to notice the growing crowd of people with their faces hidden behind their phone screens. She wondered if they were filming her. Lacking an umbrella, her meticulously coiffed hair now wet, her makeup smudged, and her silk skirt ruined by the muddy street, Perihan was struck by the crowd’s indifference. They shifted slightly to the right, attempting to remove her from their line of sight, all the while continuing to record whatever had caught their attention. Curious, Perihan turned around and was terrified by what she saw. In shock, she dropped her red shopping bags, causing more muddy water to splatter onto her skirt and completely destroying her shoes.
“This can’t be happening,” she screamed to the sky at the top of her lungs. Her knees trembled uncontrollably, left her unsure about taking another five steps to cross the road. Perihan noticed the cameras turning toward her in her peripheral vision, but she paid no mind to the desperation and terror that would eventually go viral on numerous social media networks in multiple countries. Her villa loomed in front of her, concealed by high walls covered with lush green bushes—now invaded by hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies. They hovered over the garden, flapping their wings vigorously despite the pouring rain. The entire structure, partially visible through the bushes, seemed imprisoned within a butterfly sanctuary. When Perihan realized the creatures were all monarchs, each one so exquisite and valuable, she paused. Beauty had a threshold, and beyond it, it became a captivating terror, holding people’s attention hostage to fulfill its own needs. She propelled herself into the flooded road, heading for the garden gate. With what little strength remained after the ordeal, she pushed her way through the floral Art Nouveau door.
“Licia! Where are you?” she shouted upon entering the garden. Before closing the door behind her, she turned to scream at the onlookers, “Leave! The show’s over! This is my property!” Yet, the crowd remained unaffected, mesmerized by the extraordinary natural phenomenon unfolding before them.
Licia, Perihan’s housekeeper and closest friend of nearly forty years, looked like a ghost. Her complexion was drained of color, her wet hair clung to her face in disheveled patches, and her shoes were ruined by dark mud. She trembled as she spoke. “Perihan… We did our best, but…” Licia glanced quickly at their small group of friends, who observed the scene from the kitchen window on the first floor of the house. Perihan brushed Licia aside with the back of her hand and made her way toward the large greenhouse on the left side of the garden. Orange butterflies continued to emerge rapidly through a broken pane in its ceiling, swarming through the air. Looking up at the vortex of butterflies resembling a brewing tornado, Perihan felt a wave of dizziness. Her bony hand reached for the intricately detailed metal handle of the greenhouse door, but fear gripped her body. She hesitated, afraid to enter, yet knowing she had no other choice. Slowly, she pushed the door open, entered, and closed it behind her.
Licia tried to conceal her sobbing behind her hands. Should she follow Perihan into the greenhouse or return to the house? The rain cascaded like a waterfall, obstructing not only her movements but her thoughts as well. She compelled herself to decide, but the sudden outburst from within the greenhouse froze her in place.
“No… No… No!” Perihan’s voice echoed, growing louder with each repetition—until the world fell silent, save for the raindrops tapping against any surface they encountered. The darkness beneath the swarm of butterflies gradually gave way to a dull light as they departed from the house. Licia collapsed onto her knees and allowed herself to sink into the saturated garden soil, her tears mingling with the raindrops. Once the first monarch butterfly Perihan had witnessed a few moments earlier found its way to her villa, it hovered briefly over the garden before heading in the same direction as the others. When the last of the butterflies vanished, no trace of the miraculous event remained.
Yigit Turhan was born in Ankara, Turkey. A lifelong reader, he owes his love of horror to his grandmother and the films she shared with him. He has previously published a horror novel in Turkish. He lives in Milan, Italy, where he holds a C-suite role at a renowned fashion house. This is his English-language debut.
She’s got everything planned–including when she’ll have kids. Until something completely unplanned turns her world upside down.
World-famous Whitney “Sahara” Richardson is at the top of her game. With four Grammys, an Oscar nod, and a billion-dollar clothing line, her career is skyrocketing. Even her headline-grabbing dating life is looking up. And if everything goes as planned, marriage and children are just a few years away–and they will come in that order.
That is…until a mix-up at the fertility clinic where her eggs are stored puts the cart before the horse. Oops. Whitney suddenly has a daughter…whose biological father is reluctant to share her.
One in a Million is a fun celebrity rom-com with the poignancy of Abby Jimenez and a modern twist on “surprise baby” for fans of Jasmine Guillory.
Book Excerpt:
Myles Redmond was annoyed.
Scratch that. He was more than annoyed. He was pissed and currently doing his best not to glare at the woman sitting in the chair next to him.
Dear God, he’d never resented anyone more in his life, and the fact that he was married to her made the nightmare they were living through one hundred times worse.
It would be fair to say their three-year marriage hovered on the brink of failure, and the outcome of this meeting might be what sent it plunging to its demise.
Myles clenched his jaw as he regarded Holly, taking in her unsmiling face and rigid posture. His wife’s beauty turned heads everywhere they went but had failed to turn his since she’d demanded the DNA test.
“Would you stop looking at me like that?” Holly huffed, cutting a pair of ice-blue eyes at him. She sniffed and abruptly looked away, her chin notched a fraction higher as she presented him with her profile. “Whether you want to admit it or not, we’re doing the right thing.”
She’d worn a light blue dress for the occasion. As if she hadn’t made her hopes for the outcome of the meeting clear enough. Blue was her lucky color. Her long manicured nails kept up a rhythmic tapping on the wooden arm of her chair.
“And what exactly is that?” he asked, his tone like shards of glass.
Exasperated, she rolled her eyes and flicked a wavy lock of platinum-blond hair over her shoulder. “God, I hate when you’re like this. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I can’t believe you don’t want to know who she belongs to.” She addressed the empty desk in front of them more than she did him.
“She,” he stressed through gritted teeth, “has a name. Her name is Haylee, and she is our daughter.” His voice was low and controlled while he seethed inside. It didn’t matter what the DNA results revealed. Haylee was their child. After all they’d—she’d gone through to have her, how could she say otherwise? That was the thing he couldn’t understand. His part had been easy. Hers had not—as she’d frequently reminded him.
Holly huffed out a sound of deep frustration, her narrowed gaze taking a glancing stab at his face. “She’s not ours, Myles, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why you refuse to accept it. It’s as obvious as the nose on my face that she belongs to another couple.”
“She’s ours.” He was the only father Haylee had ever known, and no test was going to change that.
“I’m sure her biological parents will have something to say about that.” His wife had made up her mind and refused to be swayed.
Recognizing the pointlessness of arguing with her, Myles kept his mouth shut and averted his gaze. These days, it was impossible to look at her without feeling a profound sense of betrayal…and anger—so much anger. Feelings far removed from how he’d felt the day they’d exchanged their wedding vows.
“Myles, they have as much a right to know as we do. Wouldn’t you want to know if you were in their place?” Holly said, her voice cajoling, indicating a switch of tactics. Good cop, bad cop, meet Holly the Bully and Holly the Sweet-Talker, the same woman employing two tried-and-true methods to get her way.
Well, it’s not going to work this time.
The office door behind them opened, and Dr. Kelly Franklin walked in, saving him from more of his wife’s attempts to convince him her motivation was altruism, not selfishness.
Small in stature at barely over five feet and clad in a white lab coat, Dr. Kelly had brown shoulder-length hair and carried herself with the confidence of the framed Harvard MD degree hanging on the wall.
“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Redmond. Thank you so much for coming in on such short notice.”
The doctor’s greeting was warm and respectful. More importantly, she didn’t sound as if she was about to plunge a knife into his heart. That said, it was clear she hadn’t come bearing tidings of joy either.
Myles made a move to stand, but she stayed the act of male courtesy—ingrained in him by his father—by motioning for him to remain seated.
Quelling his instincts, he subsided back into his chair and watched as she quickly took hers behind the desk.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
She was nervous but doing her best not to show it. As a former defense attorney, Myles had learned to pick up on the subtleties of body language. She hadn’t blinked once since she’d greeted them, and the distinct tapping sound that began shortly after she sat down was her nervously tapping her shoe on the floor. Holly’s hands were on her lap.
“We were early,” Myles said. Fifteen minutes, to be precise. Because this was important. The rest of his life hinged on what she was about to tell them. Despite vowing to himself that he’d remain calm, he felt tenser than ever.
For a beat, her brown eyes bounced between them. Then she blinked and said, “The DNA test confirmed that—”
“She isn’t ours, is she?” Holly asked, cutting the doctor off midsentence.
Myles turned and narrowed his eyes at his wife. Why not put up a billboard? I don’t want her. Give her to someone else.
As far as he was concerned, Holly had checked out of motherhood and their marriage before she packed her bags and took off to San Diego to stay with her mother after telling him she needed space.
What kind of parent needed “space” three weeks after the birth of her daughter?
His wife, that was who.
Look, he got it. They had hired a surrogate, so Holly didn’t get to bond with Haylee the way mothers usually did, but she’d known that from the outset. They’d both gone into this with their eyes wide open…and then some. Furthermore, parents didn’t walk away just because their child didn’t turn out the way they wanted or expected. That wasn’t the way parenting worked.
At the end of the day, though, he had to face some hard truths. He was just as much to blame for what was happening. While he might be successful in other parts of his life—he was a loving father, son, brother, and uncle and a loyal friend, and had been elected president of the California Bar Association two terms in a row—he sucked when it came to romantic relationships.
How did he know?
Because he already had one failed marriage under his belt, and it looked like he was coasting for divorce number two. In sports terms, he’d soon be 0-2.
Dr. Franklin tentatively cleared her throat before continuing. “Unfortunately, your case is a little more complicated.”
“Complicated? What does that mean? Either she’s ours or she’s not.” She turned and looked at him as if expecting him to echo her demand for clarity. “Although I think it’s obvious she can’t be.” The latter she muttered as an aside meant to be heard—just in case the good doctor didn’t know where she stood on the matter.
Myles’s jaw locked. According to his wife—who’d gone from being the top-producing female real estate agent in Southern California to self-ascribed geneticist—Haylee couldn’t be the product of two white, blue-eyed parents. If she has a drop of Nordic ancestry in her, I’m the Queen of England, Holly had said in reference to her parents’ Swedish heritage and Haylee’s slightly darker complexion, dark brown curly hair, and brown eyes.
Never mind that he was a quarter Sicilian on his mother’s side, and his hair was dark and wavy. In her summation of their daughter’s parentage, it was clear Holly hadn’t factored his genes into the equation.
“Would you mind elaborating?” he said, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Dr. Franklin inhaled and treated them to another unblinking stare. “It means that you’re right. There was a problem, but not what I assumed. The error occurred during the egg selection portion of the fertilization stage, not the implantation stage.”
For the first time since they walked into the office, Holly appeared genuinely confused. “Are you saying that—” She broke off, as if unable or unwilling to give voice to whatever conclusion she’d drawn in her mind. Unusual for her.
The doctor met Holly’s puzzled stare. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you aren’t your daughter’s biological mother.” Her gaze then shifted to him. “However, you are her biological father.”
Holly’s gasp cracked the air like a thunderclap. The deafening silence that followed was just as loud.
Myles was too stunned to speak, his heart pounding so loud in his ears that, for a few moments, it drowned out all possible thought or comprehension.
“No, no. That can’t be right.” Holly turned to him, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
If he could speak, he didn’t know what he would say, given the state of his mind. Completely blown.
The doctor’s composure—which had remained relatively calm thus far—began to show cracks. Based partly on the dates on her diploma, he guessed Dr. Franklin was in her early forties, but the depth of the lines now bracketing her mouth and fanning out from her eyes spoke of the toll this must be taking on her and made her look years older.
Swallowing visibly, she continued. “We had the test run by two different labs. The results are the same.”
Accompanying his wife’s cry of dismay came the realization that his claim to his daughter was as solid as any father’s could be. Haylee was his. Relief began to seep into every part of his being. Seconds later, it washed over him in a flood. He could breathe again.
Dr. Franklin regarded them, self-reproach stamped all over her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I don’t know how this happened. It’s never happened to us before. But I promise to get to the bottom of it and do whatever it takes to make this right.”
Coming into the meeting, Myles had prepared himself for only two possibilities. Either Haylee was biologically theirs, or she wasn’t. And in the latter’s case, he’d been fully prepared to fight to keep her even if his marriage would be one of the casualties of any battle he’d have to wage.
The one thing he never imagined was discovering he had a baby…with a woman he’d never laid eyes on.
BEVERLEY KENDALL has published over ten contemporary and historical romance novels. She also manages the romance review blog, Smitten by Books (smittenbybooks.com). Bev writes full-time while raising her son as a single mother. Both dual citizens of the US and Canada, they currently call Atlanta home.
Categories: Adult, Romance, Historical Romance, Series
The third and final book in USA TODAY bestselling author Adriana Herrera’s smart, sensual Las Leonas series featuring an ambitious doctor breaking societal norms and the reluctant Duke willing to risk it all for her…
Aurora Montalban Wright has had a whirlwind summer in Paris but is finally settling down to the business she came to do: run an underground women’s clinic. This venture is risky, not only because she’s technically breaking the law, but because she is providing services to the daughters, wives and mistresses of powerful men who could get her into a lot of trouble.
When she finds herself in danger, Apollo Sinclair Robles, the new Duke of Annan, offers his assistance, even though she despises him (or wants to despise him – that doesn’t stop the several dalliances they have with one another). But he has many secrets of his own. He’s still grappling with his newfound place in the British aristocracy, especially as a Black man. Now he is part of a world he despises with more than a few enemies waiting for any opportunity to disgrace him.
He should be focusing on finding a bride that can help him further his causes and leverage himself withing the highest echelons of power, but instead he’s distracted with keeping Aurora Montalban safe. Aurora has been cut off from her family and has been living modestly for months. Once Apollo realizes the risks she’s been taking with her clinics, he makes it his business to protect her. The woman is relentless in her endeavor to help women in need, even when it means putting herself at risk. Their closeness leads to discovering new sides to Aurora, and the more he learns about her the more he’s convinced she’s the perfect woman for him. But her past is complicated and having her as his duchess would make his bid for power more difficult.
Book Excerpt:
Prologue
July 1889
Paris, France
Aurora Montalban Wright was no rebel.
At least that was what most who knew her would say. It was not an unfair assessment of her character. After all, true rebels never bothered with consequences, not when a glorious mission lay in the balance. No one would label Aurora a carefree sort, and that was fine by her. Because what she’d learned early in life was that rebellions cost blood, sweat and tears, and she had none of those to spare. This, of course, did not mean she was above bending a rule—or five—if the situation called for it.
In fact, twice in her past, she’d broken every rule set before her in order to escape her circumstances. Once, humiliatingly, for a man—which came to a disastrous end. The other—equally catastrophic—for her freedom. Despite this, Aurora was not rebellious by nature. It was simply that she was galvanized by the word no. The more she was told she could not do something, the more creative she became at conquering it.
No, Aurora was no rebel, but tonight she felt like one. The worst possible news had come at the worst possible time and she desperately wanted a distraction. In fact, she wanted far more than that, she needed the kind of oblivion that only came from terrible decisions. Thankfully she was in a city where immoral diversions were easy enough to procure, if one knew which objectionable doors to darken.
Her destination, the clandestine apartment of Apollo César Sinclair Robles—a man who’d just claimed his place as the heir to a dukedom by destroying his own father—could be considered a particularly ill-advised one.
As her fiacre came to a stop on the Rue de Volney, she fleetingly considered if there weren’t less potentially disastrous ways to deal with her current mood. Then she felt the weight of the key she’d kept in her pocket for weeks and decided there definitely were, but she still wanted to do this.
The building looked exactly as she remembered from the night she’d spent here a month earlier. It was one of those modern, luxury apartment buildings near the Parc Monceau, kept by wealthy aristocrats and business titans to commit their more slanderous peccadillos in decadent discretion.
When she reached the door, she took a moment to examine herself in the sparkling glass window. The walking suit she’d donned that morning showed the strain of the day. Her face was framed with wisps of loose curls that had escaped the braid pinned to the nape of her neck. Her hat was a bit more askew than what was fashionable and there was a stain on her left cuff she could not quite identify and was reluctant to smell.
She ought to go home, clean herself up and come another day.
She wasn’t presentable and she was certainly not in a state of mind to interact with someone who had a natural gift for trying her patience. Coming to Apollo for what she needed tonight was the furthest from sensible she’d been in a long time.
The thought sent a flash of alarm through her body. She decidedly ignored the cardiovascular admonition.
Undeterred, she pushed the door open and strode right up to the porter with the key dangling from her hand and her heart making another valiant effort at warning her off.
“Oui, madame.” The porter greeted her with the detached politeness of someone too well trained to openly scowl at her clothes, but too French not to appear at least marginally aggrieved at their deplorable state.
“Lord Darnick.” The two words did the trick, and with a nod, he stepped aside and directed her toward the lift operator, who was already pushing buttons.
Clearly, women coming to see his lordship at all hours of the night was a regular occurrence. Not exactly a surprise. From the moment she’d met the man at a soiree months earlier, he’d been an unapologetic reprobate. She’d never encountered anyone who cared less about other people’s opinions than Apollo César Sinclair Robles.
The evidence of that lay in the way he’d arrived in Edinburgh like a dark avenging angel and exposed his father as a liar and a thief. Upending in a single night, one of the oldest dukedoms in Britain while establishing himself as its rightful heir, leaving the peerage reeling, and his own father a social pariah.
He was arrogant, rude, and blatantly ridiculed the societal norms she’d so carefully ascribed to. From that first meeting, she’d found herself equally appalled and intrigued by him.
A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of what the new Earl of Darnick would do when she turned up at his apartment and told him she was there for sex, and the more depraved, the better.
He would probably think she was out of her mind.
Out of her mind or not, she had it made up, and whatever lapse this was, she would deal with it in the morning. Four steps forward and two firm knocks were all it took for her, a respected physician, to announce herself at a man’s tryst apartment somewhere between one and two in the morning.
Her heartbeat marked hurried footsteps on the other side, while she took in slow, calming breaths. The moment the door finally opened, it was suddenly very clear that she had not properly prepared herself. The rapid escalation of her pulse told the story.
He looked like the very last stop on the train to ruination. All languid grace, and the ease of a man who was well aware of the damage he could do on a woman’s good sense with a mere wink and a smile.
Aurora, to her eternal shame was not immune to either.
“Bella Doctora, I didn’t know you made house calls.” He spoke in that lazy drawl he always used with her, but there was an alertness to his gaze that betrayed his indifference.
“Don’t call me that,” she rebuked, then remembered she was here to ask for something and tempered her manner with what she hoped was a comely smile. “I came to return your key.” She held it up as she endeavored, and failed, not to gape at the triangle of bronzed, muscled chest. She didn’t dare look below his sternum lest she encountered bare forearms and swooned before she could tell the man what she was about.
“My key,” he drawled, without reaching for it. “After more than a month, you’ve decided to deliver it at one in the morning, on a Tuesday.” He’d given it to her on the night he’d brought her here, after her friend Manuela’s wedding day devolved into a scandal that had all of Paris talking for weeks. She hadn’t seen him since.
“I was looking in on a patient close by,” she retorted, truthfully, dropping the key into the pocket of his dressing gown. The other truth she failed to disclose was that she’d kept the damned key in her pocket like some kind of talisman since he’d given it to her.
“Ah yes, Doctora Montalban and her causes.” His voice dripped with cynicism, as if it amused him that she considered her profession anything serious.
“Why is it that every time you call me that it feels like an insult?”
“That might have more to do with you than with me.”
It irked her that his barbs always hit their targets. She’d made an art of letting men’s opinions roll off her back, not a difficult task, since a significant number of men she encountered were imbeciles. But not this earl, not the man who’d ambushed the British aristocracy like Simón Bolívar did with the Spanish at Boyacá.
She wished that diabolical grin of his didn’t start a sizzle under her skin. “Are you going to invite me in?”
He cocked a thick, dark eyebrow at whatever he heard in her tone, but instead of inviting her inside, he braced a large hand on the top corner of the doorjamb, until his very distracting mouth was close enough to kiss. She swallowed audibly when she caught a glimpse of the corded muscle of his forearm, thick veins and dusting of dark hair. Her salivary glands seemed to run out of fluid just then.
“First you have to tell me what you’re really here for, Doctora.” He was showing off his size for her and it was fruitless to pretend it had no effect on her. Everything about the man eroded every preservation instinct she had.
For over ten years, she’d avoided any scenario that could place her in a vulnerable position. She’d practically forgotten that under her walking suits lived a woman with very real urges and burning desires. Until this man had crossed her path. Since then, he’d been like a toothache. Making himself known, throbbing, gnawing at her, until she’d had to do something about it.
His closeness sent her blood from a canter to a gallop, and her breaths became shorter, more erratic. The undeniable biological evidence of arousal and desire. She might as well get on with it. She locked her own gaze with the new Earl of Darnick’s, took a breath and leaned in.
“I came here for sexual intercourse, Lord Darnick.” It was gratifying to see his predatory gaze replaced by genuine shock. But as expected with a hunter, he recovered quickly.
“Well, in that case, do come in, Doctora Montalban,” he told her with a wave of his hand before stepping aside.
She decided to ignore the sarcasm in his voice and walked into the apartment.
The moment she stepped inside, she was once again surprised by how different this place was to what she envisioned for Apollo’s lair. Instead of a showroom full of ostentatious furniture and excessive gilt, what she found was a comfortable, unpretentious room. He had an impressive collection of books. One of which was sitting open on the armrest of a chair by the fire, next to a tumbler of amber liquid. He also collected art, which to her astonishment were tasteful and interesting.
He was rich, handsome, well-read and had an uncanny eye for art. Not that any of it mattered, to her. She was not here for a marriage proposal, she off from the door and taking a few steps toward her place by the bookshelf. “Let’s reserve the endearments for later and see what we can do about all these clothes you’re wearing.”
“What?” She sounded like a dolt. This was what she’d told him she wanted. What did she expect after propositioning a scoundrel? Sweet nothings in her ear, passionate declarations?
“Your clothes, sweetheart.” He wiggled two fingers somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. “The infernally unending layers of fabric you insist on wearing. They give a man a devil of a time surmising what you’ve got under all that wool and linen.” He made a face, and her mouth twitched. Of all the things to fluster the wicked Earl of Darnick.
She took another look at him, those winged cheekbones, skin like the most perfect caramel, and the umber curls, which made her think of days in bed and rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets. It was a face a woman could ruin her life over. It was a good thing she’d already done that once and had no intention of ever doing it again.
“This is just for tonight.” It needed to be said, but he remained unbothered.
“That you don’t need to worry about, sweetheart.” He lifted a shoulder, his gaze still suspended somewhere below her neck. “I’ve never had much craving for seconds.”
She shrugged and looked away, what more was there to say to that?
“I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.”
“Keeping secrets from your pride, are you?” he asked in a mocking tone. He was referring to her two dearest friends. The friends with which she arrived here in Paris four months earlier: Luz Alana and Manuela. The only two people in the world who knew every one of her secrets, except for this one now, she thought grimly.
“My dear sister-in-law will be scandalized to know you’ve come to me in your hour of need.” Of all the unlikely twists of fate the last few months in Paris had yielded, Luz Alana finding a love match with a Scottish whisky distiller, who turned out to be an earl and Apollo’s half-brother, had been one of the most surprising.
“It is not like you’re the Marquis de Sade, you’re just convenient.” He laughed again and this time it reached his eyes. “Besides, Luz Alana and Manuela have their own lives.”
“True love is miraculous.” For her friends, it seemed to be. She’d seen enough people entrapped into those cageless prisons of duty and guilt to have any use for the sentiment.
But even she had to admit, Luz Alana and Manuela seemed to have found partners worthy of their devotion. She was glad for them, but that was not what she searched for.
Her friends believed in love worth any sacrifice. That soulmates and fairy tales were possible. Aurora did not. Not for herself, at least. She was too…marked. Too jaded to ever believe in the lies of the heart.
Love, for her, had only ever served to remind her of the ways she never quite measured up, how hard it was for her to inspire that sentiment in another, and she would never again risk her freedom for that chimera. She had a feeling Apollo César Sinclair Robles, in this at least, was a kindred spirit.
“Why are you really here, Doctora?” Apollo asked, taking another step in her direction. He was merely a couple of feet away now. From this distance she could see that his lips had a pink tint to them. She allowed herself the distraction of that perfect mouth for a moment as she considered his question.
She could confess that this very evening she’d received a letter from her brothers informing her they’d suspended her ability to withdraw funds from her trust. She could tell him she’d been using those funds to operate a clandestine clinic that helped women in a certain kind of trouble. She could even say that the friend who delivered the correspondence had seen the man who’d ruined Aurora at the of age fifteen aboard a steamer headed to France. She might even admit that the possibility of running into the villain of her past made her so sick with dread and shame she’d run here, to Apollo. To ruin herself again, by choice, this time. But none of those pitiful confessions would be conducive to what she’d come here for, not comfort or solace, but escape.
“Let’s just say I’m in a fairly destructive mood,” she declared, looking at him square in the eyes. “I would very much like to do something utterly ruinous and you were the first thing that came to mind.”
USA TODAY bestselling author Adriana Herrera was born and raised in the Caribbean, but for the last fifteen years has let her job (and her spouse) take her all over the world. She loves writing stories about people who look and sound like her people getting unapologetic happy endings. Her books have received starred reviews from PW and Booklist and have been featured on The TODAY Show and NPR, in Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times and The Washington Post. Adriana is an outspoken advocate for diversity in romance and was one of the co-creators of the Queer Romance PoC Collective.
A recent widow’s plan to spend the summer in Cape Cod hiding from her interfering family is upended when she discovers her beach house has an unexpected guest, and the secret she’s been keeping about her marriage threatens to be exposed. Perfect beach reading for fans of Taylor Jenkins Reid and Emily Henry.
70 year old widow Cecilia Lapthorne can’t bear the prospect of a family party to celebrate her birthday and the memory of her husband, famous artist Cameron Lapthorne. They had a toxic marriage but stayed together for the children, and bound by a big secret. She runs away to the Cape Cod seashore cottage she owned with Cameron–it’s where they first fell in love–but she hasn’t returned since she discovered him cheating on her there (for the first time). No one in her family knows about it, so she will be perfectly, delightfully alone for the summer.
Except struggling artist Lily has been secretly crashing on the sofa of the seashore cottage for the last couple of weeks. Unable to make rent after dropping out of medical school to pursue her dreams of becoming an artist and working as a housekeeper in Cecilia’s Cape Cod enclave, she’s been illicitly camping at the cottage. Which isn’t a problem as it’s been unoccupied for years…until Cecilia unexpectedly shows up.
After the drama of discovering she has an unexpected house-guest has faded, Cecilia decides she’ll get along just fine with Lily for the summer. They form a tentative and powerful bond, based on shared love of art, but also the vulnerabilities they both share with each other. And when Todd, Cecilia’s beloved grandson (and the man who broke Lily’s heart in college) tracks her to the cottage, the three of them settle in for a summer of self-discovery, self-belief and second chances.
Book Excerpt:
Running away from her life wasn’t something she was proud of, but with a view this good it was hard to regret the decision.
Lily tightened her grip on the handlebars and pedaled harder. Here on the northern tip of Cape Cod while the rest of humankind were still sleepy and had barely reached for the coffeepot, the place was hers alone.
All around her were sand dunes and the ocean stretching as far as she could see. She cycled the same route every day, and every day was different. Today the sky was a deep kingfisher blue, but she’d seen burnt orange, flame red and smoky silver.
It was a place favored by migratory birds and tourists, and generally she preferred the first to the second. The day before, she’d seen a blue heron and two snowy egrets. As far as she was concerned the fewer humans the better, but she owed her current job to the influx of summer people, so she wasn’t complaining.
She breathed deeply, letting the salt air fill her lungs and her mind. She felt free here on this windblown, sunbaked strip of seashore. For the first time in months, she felt better. Stronger. As if she might survive after all. The pressure had eased. She no longer woke at two in the morning drenched in sweat and panic, trapped in her life and hating every moment.
She felt something close to happiness, and then her phone buzzed and the feeling left her in a rush.
She pedaled faster, trying to outrun its insistent demand. She didn’t have to look to identify the caller. It was ten in the morning exactly. Only one person called her routinely at that time.
Dammit.
Guilt and an unshakable sense of duty made her squeeze the brakes and she pulled over, breathless, and dug out her phone. If she didn’t take the call now, she’d be taking it later and the thought of it looming in her future would darken the skies of an otherwise cloudless day. This was the price she had to pay for running away. You could run, but with today’s technology you couldn’t really hide.
“Lily, honey? It’s Mom.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
She’d been expecting this call, ever since she’d declined their invitation to come home and “talk things over.” As if talking it over yet again would change the outcome.
Every time she saw her mother’s name pop up on her phone screen her stomach churned. Guilt sank its fangs into all the soft, vulnerable parts of her. Her parents had made huge sacrifices for her, and she’d as good as slapped them in the face. And she hadn’t even given them a reason. At least, not one they could understand.
They deserved better.
“I’m on my way to work, Mom. I can’t be late.” Never had dirty pots and pans and other people’s laundry seemed more appealing. She’d rather deal with that any day than talk to her mother. Every conversation dragged her backward and left her so twisted with guilt she lost all confidence in her chosen path. “Is everything all right?”
“No. We’re worried about you, Lily.” Her mother’s tone was shaky. “We don’t understand what’s going on. Why won’t you tell us?”
Lily tightened her grip on the phone. “Nothing is going on. And you don’t need to worry.” She repeated the same words she’d said hundreds of times, even though they never seemed to settle.
“Can you blame us for worrying? We have a bright, brilliant daughter who has chosen to throw away the life she worked hard for. And with no reason.”
No reason? As if it had been a whim. As if she’d woken up one morning and decided to waste all those years of hard work just for a laugh.
“I’m fine. This is what I want.”
It wasn’t that her parents weren’t wonderful people, but communicating with them was impossible.
“Are you eating? Have you put on some weight? You were skin and bone when you left here.”
“I’m eating. I’m sleeping. I’m good. How are you and Dad?”
“We miss you, obviously. Come home, Lily. We can cook for you, and spoil you and look after you.”
Anxiety settled on her like a cloak, blocking out sunshine and her hopes for the day.
She knew what going home would mean. She loved her parents, but they’d hover over her with frowning concerned faces until she’d end up worrying more about them than herself. And then she’d do things she didn’t want to do, just to please them.
And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried staying at home. She’d done that in the beginning (mostly because her options were limited) and the pressure of pretending to be okay had been exhausting.
“I’m happy, Mom. I just need some space. It’s beautiful here. You know I always loved the ocean.”
“I know. I remember when you were six years old, and we couldn’t drag you away from the sandcastle you’d built.” There was a pause. “Honey, Dad made some calls. He thinks it’s not too late for you to go back to medical school if you want to.”
Lily’s heart started to pound. The sweat of anxiety threatened to become a full-blown panic attack. Her chest tightened. Her hands shook so badly the phone almost slipped from her fingers.
Interference, even well-meaning interference, should be designated a crime.
“I don’t want to. I know you and Dad are disappointed—”
“It’s not about us, it’s about you. We tried so hard to give you all the opportunities we didn’t have.”
Lily stared at the ocean and tried to find her inner calm, but it had fled the moment the phone had rung.
They’d made huge sacrifices for her, and she’d thrown it in their faces. She felt terrible. But staying would have made her feel worse.
“This is difficult for me, too, Mom.” The lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. “I know I’m hurting you and I hate it, but this is where I want to be. I can’t be a doctor. I want to be an artist.”
“You say that, but you’re cleaning houses.”
“To earn money while I try to find a way to do something I love.” While she tried to loosen the knots of stress in her body and untangle the mess in her head. “There’s nothing wrong with cleaning houses. I like it. And it’s a respectable way to make a living. You did it.”
“Because I didn’t have the opportunities you had.”
Lily felt guilt overwhelm her.
Her mother sighed. “Do you need money? We still have some savings.”
And she knew just how hard it would have been for her parents to pull that together after everything they’d already spent on her. She’d vowed never to take another cent from them.
“I don’t need money but thank you.” She didn’t want to think about the dire state of her bank account. She was determined to manage on her own now, no matter what.
“Lily—” her mother’s voice was gentle “—your father would kill me for asking because I know I’m not supposed to ask, but did something happen, honey? Did someone hurt you? Your dad and I always thought you’d make a wonderful doctor. You’re such a kind, caring person.”
“Nothing like that.” Lily’s throat burned. She badly wanted this conversation to end. “Could we talk about something else?”
“Of course. Let me think…not much has happened here. Your father has been busy in the garden.” Her mother spoke in a cheery I’m changing the subject to a safe topic voice. “The hydrangeas are beginning to bloom. They’re going to be stunning. I made the most delicious orange cake last week. No wheat. You know your father. Ground almonds instead of flour.”
“Sounds yummy.” She imagined them at home together and felt a pang. Despite everything, she missed them. Part of her just wanted to run home and be looked after but she knew that feeling would dissipate the moment she walked through the door. Within minutes the bands of pressure would tighten, and she’d be gasping for breath.
“I’m sure there was something I wanted to tell you.” Her mother paused. “What was it? Oh, I remember—I bumped into Kristen Buckingham last week. She’s always so charming and friendly. So normal.”
The last person Lily wanted to think about now was anyone with the name Buckingham.
“Why wouldn’t she be friendly and normal, Mom?” Lily knew how self-conscious her mother was around her friends and she hated it. It reminded her of being back at school and feeling like an imposter.
Her parents had scrimped and saved and worked multiple jobs in order to send her to the best school. They’d believed she’d have a great education and make influential friends. She would absorb their greater advantages by osmosis. It would be her ticket to a better life. They imagined her living her life in a bubble of success, mixing with people whose parents owned mansions and yachts and jets. People whose fridges were loaded with food and never had to worry about making it stretch to the end of the week. People who had drivers, and housekeepers, and staff who cleared the snow from their yard.
And she had met people like that, but most of the time Lily had felt like a stray dog that had somehow wriggled its way into a litter of pedigrees. She’d been afraid to reveal anything about her background, because she knew it was different from theirs. She’d masked her true self because she’d known that she didn’t fit. Despite her attempts to blend, she’d been badly bullied. To make things worse she’d also felt crushed by the pressure of work and parental expectation. To fail would have been to let them down, these people she loved so much and who loved her back. They’d half killed themselves to give her the opportunity. She couldn’t let herself fail.
Panic had hovered close to the surface the whole time, threatening to suffocate her. The only thing that had driven her from her bed in the mornings was the knowledge of her parents’ sacrifice and their pride in her. She hadn’t felt able to tell them how unhappy she was, or that locking herself in a cubicle while having a panic attack didn’t feel like success to her.
She’d been thoroughly miserable until the day Hannah Buckingham had rescued her from a bully who was trying to remove her ponytail with a pair of scissors. After that, everything changed.
Hannah was the granddaughter of the famous artist Cameron Lapthorne. She was a champion of the underdog. She had a fierce urge to protect anything threatened. She wanted to save the whales, and Sumatran tigers, and Antarctica. Lily was added to the list, and they’d become best friends from that moment. Hannah had said Lily was the sister she’d never had. Hannah hadn’t cared about the differences between their household incomes. Hannah hadn’t cared that Lily didn’t have her own bathroom, or a housekeeper to keep her room tidy, or tutors to make sure her grades were the best they could possibly be. Hannah had found Lily interesting. Hannah had wanted to know everything about Lily. She’d wanted to access her every thought. For the first time in her life, Lily had been able to be herself.
They’d been inseparable. Protected by Hannah, the bullying had stopped and Lily had flourished. With Hannah as her friend, her confidence had grown. She’d no longer felt like a misfit.
They’d gone to the same college where they’d both studied biological sciences and then they’d applied to the same medical school. When her acceptance letter arrived, Lily’s parents had cried. They’d been so proud and thrilled. It was the happiest day of their lives.
Lily had been happy and relieved that she’d achieved their goals. That she was everything her parents wanted her to be. That she hadn’t let them down. For a brief moment she’d believed that maybe she could do this.
But medical school had turned out to be a thousand times worse than school. She was surrounded by people who were brilliant, ambitious and competitive.
When the pressure started to crush her brain again, she tried to ignore it. She was going to be fine. She’d survived this far. There were many different branches of medicine. She’d find one that suited her.
It didn’t help that Hannah had no doubts at all. She’d known from the start that she wanted to be a surgeon like her father, Theo. Hannah wanted to save lives. She wanted to make a difference.
On the few occasions she’d met him, Lily had found Theo to be terrifying or maybe it was more accurate to say that she found his reputation terrifying.
Hannah’s mother, Kristen, was equally intimidating. She was an art expert, a whirlwind of brisk efficiency with a life so busy it was a wonder she fitted in time to breathe.
And then there was Hannah’s older brother, Todd, who was smart, handsome and kind, and the object of lust among all Hannah’s friends. Lily was no exception. Teenage Lily had fantasized about Todd. Twenty-three-year-old Lily had kissed Todd in a dark corner during a school reunion.
Lily was in love with Todd, but now Todd was dating Amelie.
Lily had trained herself not to think about Todd.
“I just mean that Kristen is very important, Lily, that’s all,” her mother said. “But she always takes the time to talk to me when I see her.”
“She’s just a person, Mom. A person like the rest of us.”
“Well, not really like the rest of us,” her mother said. “Her father was Cameron Lapthorne. I don’t pretend to know anything about art, but even I know his name.”
Hannah had taken her to the Lapthorne Estate once. It had been the best day of Lily’s life. She’d gazed at the paintings hungrily, studying every brushstroke, in awe of the skill and envious of anyone who could build a life as an artist. Hannah had given her a book of her grandfather’s work, and it had become Lily’s most treasured possession. She’d thumbed the pages, studied the pictures and slept with it under her pillow.
Ever since she was old enough to hold a paintbrush, Lily had loved art. She’d painted everything in sight. When she’d run out of paper, she’d painted on the walls. She’d painted her school bag and her running shoes. She’d said to her parents I want to be an artist, and for a while they’d looked worried. They’d told her no one made money that way and that she was smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer. Lily knew how much they wanted that for her, and she knew how much they’d sacrificed. She couldn’t bring herself to disappoint them. And so she had dutifully gone to medical school, underestimating the toll it would take on her.
“Lily? Are you still there?”
Lily tugged herself back into the present. “Yes. So how was Kristen?”
“Busy as ever. She was in the middle of organizing a big event at the Lapthorne Estate. Celebrating her mother’s birthday and her grandfather, the artist. It’s happening today, I think. Todd will be there with his fiancée—I forget her name. Amelie, that’s right. And Hannah will be there of course. Kristen invited us, and you, which was generous of her.”
Fiancée?
Lily started to shake. “Todd is engaged?”
“Yes. A bit of a whirlwind according to Kristen. They’d only been dating for a few months, and she thought it was casual. Had no idea it was serious and then suddenly they announce that they’re getting married. I’m sure that wedding will be quite an event. Kristen said it was yet another thing for her to organize, although I don’t understand why the responsibility would fall on her. She’s such an impressive woman.”
Lily wasn’t thinking about Kristen. Lily was thinking about Todd.
She imagined Todd in the gardens of Lapthorne Manor with a glass of champagne in his hand, and Amelie gazing up at him with that flirtatious look that fused men’s brains and made them do stupid things, a large diamond glinting on her finger.
Amelie had been the most popular girl in the school. She’d had the highest marks, the fastest time on the running track and the biggest smile. Amelie was the girl most likely to succeed. She was also the girl who had tried to cut off Lily’s ponytail with a pair of scissors. And now she was marrying Todd. Kind, funny, clever Todd.
Todd had broken Lily’s heart, and he didn’t even know it.
Her palms felt sweaty as she tried to focus on the call. “Are you going to the party?”
“No, of course not. Your father wouldn’t know what to say and I wouldn’t know what to wear. They’re your friends really, not ours. Kristen mentioned that Hannah is enjoying her clinical rotation, but you probably know that as she’s your best friend.”
Lily didn’t know that. Lily and Hannah hadn’t spoken since that terrible fight on the night Lily had packed her bags and left medical school for good.
Every time Lily thought of Hannah she wanted to cry. They’d sworn that nothing and no one would ever come between them, and they’d truly believed that.
They’d been wrong.
“I must go, Mom. I’ll be late for work, and I don’t want to let people down.” She winced as she said it, because she was all too aware that she’d let her parents down. “Don’t worry. I’m happy. I like my life.”
“We don’t want you to waste your talents, honey, that’s all. You’re capable of so much. You could be curing cancer—”
Curing cancer? No pressure, then.
“I hated medical school.” The words spilled out of her. “It wasn’t for me.” And the pressure of trying to keep up had almost broken her. She didn’t expect them to understand. They believed that if you were smart enough to be a doctor, why wouldn’t you be one? And she couldn’t figure out how to make her parents proud, but still live the life she wanted to live. “I want to be an artist, Mom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.”
“I know, but where’s the future in that? Your dad and I just don’t want you to struggle financially as we did. Life can be hard, Lily.”
Lily closed her eyes. She knew that. She knew how hard life could be.
“I’m managing fine. And I’m going to pay you and Dad back.”
“That’s not necessary, honey. We love you and remember there’s a home and a welcome here whenever you need it.”
Lily’s throat felt full. It would be easier to disappoint them if they weren’t so decent. If she didn’t love them so much. “Thanks. Give my love to Dad.”
She ended the call, wondering why big life decisions had to feel so difficult and wondering why, when there were so many people her mother could have bumped into, she’d had to bump into Kristen Buckingham.
Her little bubble of happiness had been punctured.
Todd was engaged. He was going to marry Amelie, and no doubt they’d have two perfect children and a dog and live a long and happy life with not a single bump in the road.
But she wasn’t going to think about that now. And she wasn’t going to think about Hannah. Twice in the last few months she’d almost texted her. Once she’d even typed out a message, but then she’d deleted it. Hannah had been furiously angry with her, and Lily had been angry with Hannah. They’d both been hurt, and Lily had no idea how to move past that hurt. Given that she hadn’t heard from Hannah, presumably she didn’t know, either.
The friendship that they’d believed could never be damaged, had been damaged. Broken. Amelie might as well have taken her scissors to it.
But that was in the past now.
Hannah was living in the city, and Lily was here on the Cape, and even though she’d brought all her emotions with her it was still preferable to being in the smothering atmosphere of her parents’ home. And at least it had been her decision to come here. For the first time ever, she was living the life that was her choice.
Sarah Morgan is a USA Today and Sunday Times bestselling author of contemporary romance and women’s fiction. She has sold more than 21 million copies of her books and her trademark humour and warmth have gained her fans across the globe. Sarah lives with her family near London, England, where the rain frequently keeps her trapped in her office. Visit her at http://www.sarahmorgan.com
Readers who love books about books will fall for Erin La Rosa’s latest rom com—a friends (with benefits)-to-lovers story about a romance author who’s never been in love, and needs to find out why before her next manuscript is due! For fans of BY THE BOOK and BOOK LOVERS.
Romance author Sophie Lyon’s ironic secret just went viral: she’s never been in love. Though her debut novel made readers swoon, Sophie’s having trouble getting her new characters to happily-ever-after, and she blames it on her own uninspired love life. With a manuscript deadline looming, Sophie makes an ambitious plan to overcome her writer’s block: reunite with her exes to learn why she’s never fallen in love—and document it all for her millions of new online followers. Which also means facing her ex-girlfriend Carla, the one person Sophie could have loved.
Luckily, Sophie’s reclusive landlord, Dash Montrose—a former teen heartthrob—has social media all figured out and offers to help. But he doesn’t mention that he’s an anonymous online crafter, a hobby that helps him maintain his sobriety. No one knows about his complicated relationship with alcohol and he intends to keep it that way. His family is Hollywood royalty, so Dash has to steer clear of scandal.
As Sophie and Dash grow closer, they discover a heat between them that rivals Dash’s pottery kiln. But Sophie needs to figure out who she is outside her relationships, and Dash isn’t sure he’s stable enough for the commitment she deserves. So Sophie suggests what any good romance author would: a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Surely a casual relationship won’t cause any trouble…
Book Excerpt
Sophie Lyon was not in a good place.
More specifically, she’d had one (or three) too many the night before. So instead of falling asleep on her bed, she was lying on the couch with a paperback book as a makeshift pillow. Her legs were tucked up in the fetal position inside her billowy dress. And as she licked her lips, she tasted vodka and fried chicken, which she didn’t remember drinking or eating.
She attempted to open her eyes, but her lashes stuck together from the makeup she’d forgotten to remove the night before. With the help of her index finger and thumb, she managed to peel one lid open. White-hot summer light poured in through the arched living-room window and her mint green walls, a color she’d specifically chosen for its soothing properties, were mockingly chipper.
But even more unsettling was the book on the coffee table directly in front of her, Whisked Away. Sophie’s first published book. She closed her one good eye and wished she’d never opened it.
Her mom had always dreamed about Sophie filling an entire bookshelf with all her titles, the years of working multiple day jobs while tinkering on romance books finally worth the struggle. But, as it turned out, Whisked Away would be Sophie’s one and only book. Had she known she’d be a one-hit wonder, she wouldn’t have ordered the little placard for her writing desk: Ask Me about My Tropes.
The worst part was that she had sold a follow-up book—or, at least, a pitch plus the first three chapters—but she hadn’t been able to finish The Love Drought (a title so tragically similar to her own personal problems that it made her cringe). She’d been given multiple extensions but missed all of them. And, per her contract, her publisher had the right to terminate their deal if those deadlines weren’t met. But no matter how many drafts she started, Sophie couldn’t find her way to the happily ever after that all romance books promised and that she loved.
The phone call with her agent started with We need to talk… and ended with You have six weeks to finish this book or your contract, plus the advance, will be taken back.
She’d spent most of that advance, though, along with the royalty checks that grew smaller and smaller as interest in her last book waned. She needed money from turning in the next book if she wanted to continue paying for things like food or a place to stay.
She should’ve seen the implosion coming. Her horoscope had warned that the entire month of June would be bad for important communication. But the damage was done: Sophie was a romance author with writer’s block, and in six weeks’ time, she’d lose her publishing deal.
So she’d done the only thing she knew would make her feel better: called Poppy. And her best friend had suggested a night out at their favorite downtown karaoke bar to drown away the loud whir of failure.
She cautiously sat up, then settled her feet into the woven jute rug. Her legs were as firm as Jell-O when she stood. Still, she managed to make it to the hallway mirror, where she saw that her normally side-swept curtain bangs had morphed into Medusa, snakelike tendrils across her forehead, and she had more flakes on her face than her pet goldfish had in his bowl.
She cringed. Rain Boots. Her goldfish was twelve years old and the longest relationship she’d ever had. She planted her hand on the wall for support and shuffled over to her bedroom where a large glass fishbowl sat on her bedside table. Rain Boots swam in the exact middle and blinked at Sophie with large accusatory eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Sophie croaked out. “I know we have our bedtime routine, but Mommy got horribly drunk.”
She tapped the glass with her index finger and waited for a response, but none came. Eventually the silence broke when her doorbell loudly ding-donged and caused her to jump in surprise. The next, and bigger, surprise came when she made her way to the front door and saw her landlord waiting on the porch.
Dash Montrose wasn’t a tall man, but he had presence. Part of that was because he always seemed to be fidgeting—tapping his fingers, shifting his feet, or pacing slightly—but also, he had thick arms with swirling, inky-black tattoos.
It’s not that Sophie had stared at those arms in prior instances but…well, yeah, she probably had.
Still, her first instinct was to hide behind the couch because what the hell was Dash doing there? She and Dash lived next door to each other, but they were not close. In fact, Dash hardly ever acknowledged her existence. He lived in the large house tucked behind her bungalow, but he was always walking away in some kind of a hurry. If she waved, he only ever nodded back. She didn’t think he was intentionally being a jerk, but he clearly had no interest in interacting with her. They hadn’t spoken actual words to each other in at least a few months. She Venmoed him the rent, and sometimes he left a thumbs-up in response. That was the extent of it.
But there he was, in jeans and a T-shirt. What could he want? Did he somehow know her funds were about to run out and he was preemptively evicting her? Sophie avoided confrontation at all costs, but she couldn’t run away from him, not when his face was pressed against the window of her door and he was peering directly at her. She clutched her arms across her chest, extremely aware that she was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, as she made her way to him.
When she opened the door, she was hit not only with the heat from the high sun above but by the sight of Dash’s wet hair slicked around his face. Water trickled down his neck and splotched his faded shirt, like he’d come straight over from a shower. Which meant a few minutes prior he’d been totally naked, covered in soap and water and…
“Hey, uh, whoa.” His voice cut through Sophie’s thoughts. When she glanced up, Dash gave her an uneasy expression, then gestured down the length of her. “What happened…”
She never left the house without a minimum of tinted moisturizer, but of course Dash came on the one day where she closely resembled a Madame Tussauds wax statue melting in the sun. Sophie gently swiped her index finger under her eye, and it came back coated in black liner. Excellent.
“Vodka happened,” she muttered.
She rubbed the liner between her fingers. Something was wrong. Mercury must’ve been in retrograde. If thirteen-year old Sophie had known that she would be renting a place from Dash Montrose—former teen heartthrob movie star turned still hunky landlord—and he was seeing her hungover…she’d be even more embarrassed than she already was. And she’d probably also be delighted. Because Sophie had maaaybe had a photo of him from a magazine cover on her wall when she was growing up. His film Happy Now? was her all-time favorite movie.
She absolutely did not have a crush on adult Dash, though. Well, he was undeniably hot. No point in glossing over that thick, dirty-blond hair, the dimple in his chin, or any of the other tatted-up details. But he was Poppy’s brother and so off-limits that Sophie had built a wall around Dash in her mind. Though bits of the wall appeared to crumble at the sight of his strong jaw and the dark circles under his eyes that made him all the more mysterious to her.
“Poppy asked me to come check on you. She said you weren’t answering your phone.” He glanced behind her, as if searching for a potential thief holding her cell hostage.
“My Poppy?” Sophie had worked at Poppy’s spa, Glow, for years—one of the many day jobs she’d had before quitting to write full-time. Though, now that she had endless writer’s block, she might have to beg for her old job back.
“She’s my sister, so she’s technically our Poppy.” His hands landed in the pockets of his jeans.
Sophie looked behind her to where the phone usually was, and blessedly, while she’d been drunk enough to use a book as a pillow, she’d been just sober enough to plug in her phone. She rubbed at one of her throbbing temples and walked over to her desk, grabbed her phone, then held down the power button and watched the white icon flash back.
As she waited for the phone to boot up, she walked back toward Dash.
“Okay, she wants me to tell you that there’s a video of you going viral?” Dash gestured to his phone, which made his forearm flex and Sophie’s eyes widen in response.
She tried to process what he’d said. She needed an intense boost of caffeine—maybe a matcha—to be able to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. “A video?”
“I don’t know, she said you needed to see it. And that I needed to make sure you saw it.” He shrugged, but the small motion lifted the edge of his shirt up just enough for Sophie to catch a glimpse of his boxers.
Sophie didn’t want to be impolite—Dash was Poppy’s older brother, after all—but what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t so much as look at a candle shop without rushing in to buy one. Dash was the male equivalent of fresh beeswax. She was definitely staring.
Just then, her phone erupted in a series of pings, vibrations, and what sounded like one deafening goose honk. If she owned pearls, she’d be clutching the hell out of them. The screen filled with notifications—emails, texts, missed calls, and push notifications from Instagram—but she pulled up Poppy’s text conversation first.
Soph, are you up?
It’s 10. You never sleep this late.
I’m at work, ARE YOU OK
I’m sending Dash over.
YOU’RE NOT DEAD! YIPPEE!
OK, here’s the vid. Don’t freak out!
Dash’s phone pinged too, he looked down, then sighed. “Did you get it?” He sounded a little irritated.
Sophie frowned at the blurry thumbnail of a woman, but clicked the link, which sent her to the TikTok app. Then, almost immediately, she saw herself reflected on the screen. The video was taken at the karaoke bar, and Sophie was the main event. She stood onstage as the undeniable background music to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” played. She had requested that song, hadn’t she? The small pieces of her lost-memory puzzle began to click into place.
Only, in the video, she was sobbing, with tears running down her cheeks, as she gazed wild-eyed into the crowd. Poppy ran onto the stage and attempted to coax Sophie off, but Sophie grabbed the mic and shouted, “I’ve never been in love, okay?!” Her voice so angry and vehement that she appeared to be deranged. The person holding the phone zoomed in at that exact moment to capture Sophie’s grimace as she shrieked out, “Love isn’t real!” Then Poppy yanked the mic out of Sophie’s hand and dropped it for her. End of video.
“Stop, stop, stop!” The words screeched out of her as she furiously poked the screen to try and delete the video. Then she remembered this was not her video—someone else had uploaded it. Eventually, her eyes drifted down to the caption, which read Relatable! The video had over two hundred thousand views and thirty thousand likes.
“Oh my holy hot hell.” She was a writer but could not think of any other words in that moment. Her mind raced at the thought of hundreds of thousands of people watching her have a public meltdown and liking it.
Normally, Sophie was an optimist, but after the last twenty-four hours, she was beginning to understand the appeal of pessimism. Her hand instinctively went to her chest and her fingers tap-tap-tapped at her pacemaker—something she always did to steady herself—as she scrolled through the comments and saw that not one but multiple people had recognized her.
Sophie Lyon is FUN
Sophie Lyon is secretly unhinged and it’s sending me
I hated her book, but I like this?
“Just breathe.” Then Dash’s hand was on her back, steady and warm, which momentarily distracted her, but not for long.
The heat outside had intensified to Palm Springs–level boiling and caused Sophie to break out in either hives or a rash. She furiously clawed at her throat with her free hand. She walked away from Dash and down the porch steps. Her bare feet hit the cool blades of grass in her yard, and when she looked up, the iconic Hollywood sign perched in the Santa Monica Mountains shined pearly white in the distance. Seeing those letters from her yard every morning used to make her feel closer to the success she so deeply craved, but now she felt buried under the weight of its implied expectations.
She stumbled, and Dash was next to her within seconds, holding her steady. He grabbed her elbow with one hand, and the other wrapped around her waist to cup her hip. His skin was warm against her, even through her dress. Her stomach flipped, probably from the lingering alcohol. “Sophie, you really need to sit. You look like you’re about to faint—”
The sound of her phone pinging cut him off. And when she looked down, a familiar name flashed across the screen. Carla. Sophie stopped scratching her throat. Her ex. The woman who had single-handedly led her on for close to a year. A year in which Sophie could feel herself beginning to fall head over heels, and then… Carla had ended it and dragged their relationship to the trash. Sophie stared at Carla’s name, and the text underneath, which read Saw the video… As in her ex had seen the video of Sophie having a full-on meltdown.
It was at this moment that she tilted her head back, let the punishing sun burn her eyes, and shouted as loudly as she physically could. When she eventually stopped screaming, her head felt light. The edges of her vision blurred with the realization that she had nothing left, her life was over, and she was completely mortified.
“Seriously, Sophie? My ears are ringing.”
Sophie was so focused on her own humiliation that she must’ve forgotten that Dash was right there.
“Are you on something?” Dash asked.
Sophie frowned. No, she was not on something. She may have been braless, hungover, and hanging by a thread emotionally, but what kind of an accusation was that?
And even if she were on ayahuasca and beginning to see rainbow caticorns encircling her feet—which sounded great, actually—what she did with her body was absolutely none of his business. She paid her rent on time. This was her place. He was the one who’d come bounding over, all wet and wearing a too-tight shirt, and now he had the nerve to suggest she was the one out of line?
She would tell Dash that he needed to leave. But when she opened her mouth to say as much, she felt the bile rise in her throat. Her eyes bulged wide as she closed her mouth and held back something akin to a burp. Dash clocked her panic, and his eyes narrowed. She shook her head, but there was no use. She was definitely going to hurl all over her high-school celebrity crush. And without even being able to call out a warning, she projectile-vomited all over Dash.
About the Author:
Author Bio: ERIN LA ROSA is a writer living in Los Angeles. As a writer for BuzzFeed, she frequently writes about the perils and triumphs of being a redhead. Before BuzzFeed, Erin worked for the comedy websites Funny or Die and MadAtoms, as well as E!s Fashion Police, Wetpaint, and Ecorazzi. Erin has appeared on CNN, Headline News, Jimmy Kimmel, and The Today Show on behalf of BuzzFeed. She is the author of Womanskills and The Big Redhead Book.
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