Blurb:
Children’s author Emily Sinclair was
supposed to be the next J.K. Rowling… Until her second book flopped and her
imagination went on the fritz. So Emily sets out on an epic adventure to find
inspiration again. Till a dead car lands her in Covington Falls, Georgia. Soon
Emily is taking up her quest, looking for inspiration driving a mobile library
van, as a companion to a crotchety old woman and her insomniac dog, and as a very ungraceful baker’s assistant. Of course, what really sparks her romantic
fantasies isa valiant hero, though he yields a paint roller instead of a sword.
Rugged, blue-collar Nate Cooper has spent
most of his life avoiding the printed page. These days he doesn’t have much use
for fancy words and certainly not for a slightly off-center writer on the lam.
Not when his mother is battling cancer, his little brother has morphed into a
teenaged ogre, and God seems to have taken a vacation.
On paper, these two would seem the least
likely pairing, and a happily ever after nothing but fantasy. But with faith
and imagination Emily and Nate are about to write a new chapter that will lead
to unexpected love.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
A
stomach-churning thunk. A
disaster-laden chug. A scary,
threatening gurgle.
Emily
Sinclair’s hands clutched the steering wheel as she guided her how-could-you-give-out-on-me-now convertible to the side of the road.
With a last ominous blunk and splutter, the car gave up the ghost.
She
switched off the engine, waited a few seconds, and then turned the key again.
Nothing.
Not
surprising. As if anything glug-glugging
like an octogenarian trying to cough up a lung was going to restart with so
little effort.
A
cranky yowl went up from the passenger seat. Emily glanced over at the pet
carrier and sent the fat Persian inside a confident smile. “Don’t worry,
Wordsworth. This is why modern man invented cell phones.”
She
fished her phone out of her purse. A blank screen stared back at her. Pressing
more buttons did nothing.
Dead.
Dead
as her car.
With
a sound of disgust, Emily tossed the useless phone aside and stared out the
windshield at the deserted country road in front of her. The very deserted country road that
stretched around a sparkling blue lake and disappeared into the back of beyond.
The kind of road featured in all the best horror stories. Emily’s mind conjured
up every one, along with the opening line in the newspaper article.
Once-famous
children’s author found mangled to death. Quest to locate her lost imagination
and revive faded career ends in disaster… as her mother predicted.
Muttering
an oath, Emily climbed out of the car and slammed the door as hard as she
could. What a fix. And ironic. There were rules about writing. Not grammar
rules, like where to put commas or when to use a semicolon. No, the unofficial
rules for fiction writing. Chief among them is that an author should never start
a novel with the character driving or thinking. No, readers wanted action right
off the top, and the car could never break down.
In
college, Emily had written a short story where the heroine’s car stalled in a
typical these-people-will-murder-you-in-your-sleep town. Emily’s professor had
written cliché in bold, red pen
across the page. Not satisfied, she’d added boring
cliché, underlining the boring
with three thick red lines. The critique had stung. The fact that it had come
courtesy of Professor Vanessa Sinclair, Emily’s mother, had been like ripping
off an old bandage.
Emily
was breaking all three cardinal rules of writing at once. Though technically
the driving rule didn’t apply. Same for the sitting rule. She was thinking,
though. Thinking her entire life had become a cliché, so what did it matter if
she broke her mother’s precious writing rules? She was a one-hit writing
wonder. A flash in the pan. A big-haired eighties’ rock band that had scored
one giant hit and then disappeared into the oblivion of those nostalgic ‘Where are they now?’ music specials.
Emily
sighed. If one had to break down somewhere, one could do worse than… what had
the sign said back there? Covington something. Covington something, Georgia.
Muted afternoon sun shimmered off the surface of the lake. She lifted a hand to
ward off the eye-watering glare and focused on the water. In her previous life,
the golden flecks of sunlight reflecting off its surface would have transformed
into a million different kinds of fantastical creatures. Or maybe something
nightmarish would charge out of that bank of oak trees across the lake.
Unfortunately,
Emily was stuck in her real life, and her imagination was on the fritz.
Well,
at least she wouldn’t die of water deprivation while she waited to be rescued.
Speaking
of rescue.
A
car had appeared, winding around the curve of the lake. A big ole’ country
truck calling to mind hoedowns and hay rides. A big ole’ rusty truck, Emily realized as it drew closer. Burnt red growth
spread out across the hood like a marauding band of Vikings overtaking a
defenseless village. She imagined rust was the only thing holding the vehicle
together.
The
truck slowed and Emily tensed, torn between elation at being found and wariness
regarding exactly who might be behind the wheel of the ancient rattletrap. The
glare off the windshield made it impossible to see inside the cab, however.
The
tires veered off to the side of the road and stopped, sending up a cloud of
dust. Emily waved her hand, choking on the airborne dirt. Her mouth felt dry as
if she had licked the ground. The door opened. Work boots emerged. Brown and
roughed-up and covered in… paint. A man stepped out, and Emily steadied her
hands against the car to keep from falling over.
Mr.
Darcy. No, Heathcliff. Only instead of a cravat and breeches, he was dressed in
faded jeans and a black T-shirt, which seemed molded to an impressive chest.
Heath stretched up a good six-plus feet, towering over her puny five-foot-two
frame. A lock of dark chocolate-brown hair brushed over his forehead. Their
eyes met. Since she was already thinking in clichés, Emily’s mind offered up a
million of them to describe his eyes. She could start with gray, but no way did
such a mundane word do them justice. Slate, storm clouds, a roiling sea, glazed
pewter. Devastating, and framed by thick sooty lashes no man had a right to
possess.
He
stopped a few feet away, and Emily had the fanciful notion he was trying not to
frighten her. Like she was a skittish filly about to bolt.
“Hi,”
he said. “Car trouble?”
His
voice was like his eyes. Smooth and deep, like honey in a cup of hot tea.
Emily
nodded. How could she speak when every male literary fantasy she’d ever dreamed
about had unfolded from a rusted-out pickup?
Buy
Links:
Barnes & Noble: barnesandnoble
About
Kristin Wallace
Growing up Kristin devoured books like bags
of Dove Dark Chocolate. Her first Golden
Book led to Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nancy Drew,C.S. Lewis and the Sweet Valley
High series. Later, she discovered romance novels and fell in love all over
again. It’s no surprise then that Kristin would one day try her hand at
writing them. She writes inspirational romance and women’s fiction filled
with love, laughter and a leap of faith. When she’s not writing her next
novel, Kristin works as an advertising copywriter. Kristin is the author
of the Covington Falls Chronicles, romances set in a quirky Southern town with
a character all its own. Be sure to check out the first two books in the
series, Marry Me and Acting Up.
Connect
with Kristin:
Website: http://KristinWallaceAuthor.com
Facebook
- http://facebook.com/KristinWallaceAuthor
Twitter – http://twitter.com/KWallaceAuthor
Hi and thank you for hosting me today!
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