I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A mother must learn not only how to cope with the grief of losing her son, but how to utilize the heartbreak that comes with that loss to see beyond the world we know and understand the hidden world that resides just beyond our perception in author Linda Ann Jones’s “Love Soars the Skies: A Mother’s Quest to Reach Her Son”.
A mother’s love lasts for all eternity.
Grief struck — paralyzing, debilitating — the day she prayed would never come.
The personal story of how one mother coped, to find answers and to somehow make sense of it. She knew that to reach her son in the place he now resides was her only hope.
This book will not tell you how to deal with the unfathomable grief of losing a child. It invites you to explore a bigger picture.
No one understands the complexities of drug addiction. But what if it was a plan all along? To learn, experience, and grow. Earth and heart have the same letters. What if it’s through heartbreak that we grow the most?
There is more to this world than meets the eye, and new vision is required to see past the paradigms that bind us.
Through her son, the author discovers extraordinary signs and synchronicities, some of which are supernatural.
This much is sure. There is an invisible world that we cannot see with our mere five senses. But we can sharpen our vision, to glimpse the wonders of eternity in all its powerful glory, and realize the mighty bond of love that forever weaves and sustains it. For love is the abiding force that connects the entire universe.
And absolutely nothing will ever diminish the unrivaled magnificence of a mother’s love.
This is truly an emotional and captivating read. The author’s writing really allows the reader to feel the depth of emotions that she felt and continues to feel after the loss of her son. The imagery and artistry of the author’s writing style really captured the impact of both this loss and the journey that she went on in the wake of that loss, and the subtle tones of hope and meaning lay amongst the waves of sadness that the author had to overcome really captured me as I read further and further into this journey.
Yet for me, the author’s striking balance between memoir, biography, and spiritualism as a whole really made this nonfiction read feel more profound. The way the author delved into the powerful themes of drug addiction, grief, and the meaning of death and life as a whole were perfectly elevated by the study of more supernatural elements in the author’s journey, such as the synchronicities that occurred in the wake of this tragedy and the search for communication on the other side that defined her grieving process.
A memorable, engaging, and heartbreaking story of love, parenthood, loss, and our place in the world, author Linda Ann Jones’s “Love Soars the Skies” is a must-read nonfiction memoir and spiritual book. Bringing the heart and deep impact that the loss of a child gives to parents at any age, the author instantly connects with the reader and allows us all to walk in her shoes on this journey of hers to make some sort of sense of this tragedy, and in that same vein understand the unexplainable nature of our world altogether. If you haven’t yet, please be sure to read this book immediately.
About the Author
Linda Ann Jones grew up in beautiful upstate New York which probably had something to do with her love for poetry. Quite unexpectedly, that eventually led her to write an award-winning children’s book series titled Alphabet Anatomy. In 2014, she became a grieving mother, which led her on a path to reach her oldest son in the place he now resides. She and her family live in sunny Arizona with three lively dogs and one remarkable cat. Her motto for writing has always been, “Say what’s in your heart, and touch someone else’s.”
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
Three women discover they are sisters after their photojournalist father passes away, and they inherit the family vineyard in author JoAnn Ross’s “The Inheritance”.
When conflict photographer Jackson Swann dies, he leaves behind a conflict of his own making when his three daughters, each born from a different mother and unknown to each other, discover that they’re now part owners of Maison de Madelaine, the family’s Oregon vineyard—a once famous business struggling to recover from a worldwide economic collapse.
After a successful career as a child TV star, a disastrous time as a teen pop star, and now a successful author, Tess is, for the first time in her life, suffering from a serious case of writer’s block and identity crisis.
Charlotte, brought up to be a proper Southern wife, has given up her own career goals to support her husband while having spent the past year struggling to conceive a child to create a more perfect marriage. On the worst day of her life, she discovers her beloved father has died, she has two sisters she’d never been told about, and her husband has fallen in love with another woman.
Natalie, daughter of Jack’s long-time mistress, has always known about both half-sisters. Still mourning the loss of her mother, the death of her father a year later is a devastating blow. And she can’t help feeling that both her sisters may resent her for being the daughter their father decided to keep.
As the sisters reluctantly gather at the family vineyard, they’re enchanted by the legacy they’ve inherited, and by their grandmother’s rich stories of life in WWII France and the love she found with a wounded American soldier who brought her to Oregon where they started Maison de Madelaine
A truly inviting and emotional read. The author has captured a captivating blend and balance of history and contemporary women’s fiction. The narrative delves into the history of WWII from the perspective of a WWII French Resistance Fighter, setting the backstory of not only the main character but the complex history of the person who was the catalyst for the protagonists to come together.
Yet it was the emotional struggle of the three sisters that really sold this narrative. Having watched people close to me lose their parents in recent years and dealing with the fallout afterward amongst their siblings, this narrative did an amazing job of hitting the emotional core of that process while adding an extra element of personal turmoil as each sister not only dealt with their own strained relationship with their father but the discovery of their sisters as well. I always enjoy reading works that push the boundaries on what family truly means, and how the bonds we build with one another mean more than anything else. The added elements of romance and character buildup that each sister experienced made this a brilliant story to engage with.
A remarkable, thought-provoking, and emotional read, author JoAnn Ross’s “The Inheritance” is a must-read novel of 2021. The perfect amount of intrigue and history to balance out the romance and personal relationships each sister had to force themselves to build amongst each other made this such an engaging story to get lost in. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
About the Author
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JoAnn Ross has been published in twenty-seven countries. The author of over 100 novels, JoAnn lives with her husband and many rescue pets — who pretty much rule the house — in the Pacific Northwest.
Conflict photographer Jackson Swann had traveled to dark and deadly places in the world most people would never see. Nor want to. Along with dodging bullets and mortars, he’d survived a helicopter crash in Afghanistan, gotten shot mere inches from his heart in Niger and been stung by a death-stalker scorpion while embedded with the French Foreign Legion in Mali.
Some of those who’d worked with him over the decades had called him reckless. Rash. Dangerous. Over late-night beers or whatever else passed as liquor in whatever country they’d all swarmed to, other photographers and foreign journalists would argue about whether that bastard Jackson Swann had a death wish or merely considered himself invincible.
He did, after all, rush into high-octane situations no sane person would ever consider, and even when the shit hit the fan, somehow, he’d come out alive and be on the move again. Chasing the next war or crisis like a drug addict chased a high. The truth was that Jack had never believed himself to be im-mortal. Still, as he looked out over the peaceful view of rolling hills, the cherry trees wearing their spring profusion of pink blossoms, and acres of vineyards, he found it ironic that after having evaded the Grim Reaper so many times over so many decades, it was an aggressive and rapidly spreading lung cancer that was going to kill him.
Which was why he was here, sitting on the terraced patio of Chateau de Madeleine, the towering gray stone house that his father, Robert Swann, had built for his beloved war bride, Madeleine, to ease her homesickness. Oregon’s Willamette Valley was a beautiful place. But it was not Madeleine’s child-hood home in France’s Burgundy region where much of her family still lived.
Family. Jack understood that to many, the American dream featured a cookie-cutter suburban house, a green lawn you had to mow every weekend, a white picket fence, happy, well-fed kids and a mutt who’d greet him with unrestrained canine glee whenever he returned home from work. It wasn’t a bad dream. But it wasn’t, and never would be, his dream.
How could it be with the survivor’s guilt that shadowed him like a tribe of moaning ghosts? Although he’d never been all that introspective, Jack realized that the moral dilemma he’d experienced every time he’d had to force himself to re-main emotionally removed from the bloody scenes of chaos and death he was viewing through the lens of his camera had left him too broken to feel, or even behave like a normal human being.
Ten years ago, after his strong, robust father died of a sudden heart attack while fly-fishing, Jack had inherited the winery with his mother, who’d professed no interest in the day-to-day running of the family business. After signing over control of the winery to him, and declaring the rambling house too large for one woman, Madeleine Swann had moved into the guesthouse next to the garden she’d begun her first year in Oregon. A garden that supplied the vegetables and herbs she used for cooking many of the French meals she’d grown up with.
His father’s death had left Jack in charge of two hundred and sixty acres of vineyards and twenty acres of orchards. Not wanting, nor able, to give up his wanderlust ways to settle down and become a farmer of grapes and cherries, Jack had hired Gideon Byrne, a recent widower with a five-year-old daughter, away from a Napa winery to serve as both manager and vintner.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call them?” Gideon, walking toward him, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, asked not for the first time over the past weeks.
“The only reason that Tess would want to see me would be to wave me off to hell.” In the same way he’d never softened the impact of his photos, Jack never minced words nor romanticized his life. There would be no dramatic scenes with his three daughters—all now grown women with lives of their own—hovering over his deathbed.
“Have you considered that she might want to have an opportunity to talk with you? If for no other reason to ask—”
“Why I deserted her before her second birthday and never looked back? I’m sure her mother’s told her own version of the story, and the truth is that the answers are too damn complicated and the time too long past for that discussion.” It was also too late for redemption.
Jack doubted his eldest daughter would give a damn even if he could’ve tried to explain. She’d have no way of knowing that he’d kept track of her all these years, blaming himself when she’d spiraled out of control so publicly during her late teens and early twenties. Perhaps, if she’d had a father who came home every night for dinner, she would have had a more normal, stable life than the Hollywood hurricane her mother had thrown her into before her third birthday.
Bygones, he reminded himself. Anything he might say to his firstborn would be too little, too late. Tess had no reason to travel to Oregon for his sake, but hopefully, once he was gone, curiosity would get the better of her. His girls should know each other. It was long past time.
“Charlotte, then,” Gideon pressed. “You and Blanche are still technically married.”
“Technically being the operative word.” The decades-long separation from his Southern socialite wife had always suited them both just fine. According to their prenuptial agreement, Blanche would continue to live her privileged life in Charleston, without being saddled with a full-time live-in husband, who’d seldom be around at any rate. Divorce, she’d informed him, was not an option. And if she had discreet affairs from time to time, who would blame her? Certainly not him.
“That’s no reason not to give Charlotte an opportunity to say goodbye. How many times have you seen her since she went to college? Maybe twice a year?”
“You’re pushing again,” Jack shot back. Hell, you’d think a guy would be allowed to die in peace without Jiminy Cricket sitting on his shoulder. “Though of the three of them, Char-lotte will probably be the most hurt,” he allowed.
His middle daughter had always been a sweet girl, running into his arms, hair flying behind her like a bright gold flag to give her daddy some “sugar”—big wet kisses on those rare occasions he’d wind his way back to Charleston. Or drop by Savannah to take her out to dinner while she’d been attending The Savannah School of Art and Design.
“The girl doesn’t possess Blanche’s steel magnolia strength.”
Having grown up with a mother who could find fault in the smallest of things, Charlotte was a people pleaser, and that part of her personality would kick into high gear whenever he rolled into the city. “And, call me a coward, but I’d just as soon not be around when her pretty, delusional world comes crashing down around her.” He suspected there were those in his daughter’s rarified social circle who knew the secret that the Charleston PI he’d kept on retainer hadn’t had any trouble uncovering.
“How about Natalie?” Gideon continued to press. “She doesn’t have any reason to be pissed at you. But I’ll bet she will be if you die without a word of warning. Especially after losing her mother last year.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want to put her through this.”
He’d met Josette Seurat, the ebony-haired, dark-eyed French Jamaican mother of his youngest daughter, when she’d been singing in a club in the spirited Oberkampf district of Paris’s eleventh arrondissement. He’d fallen instantly, and by the next morning Jack knew that not only was the woman he’d spent the night having hot sex with his first true love, she was also the only woman he’d ever love. Although they’d never married, they’d become a couple, while still allowing space for each other to maintain their own individual lives, for twenty-six years. And for all those years, despite temptation from beautiful women all over the globe, Jack had remained faithful. He’d never had a single doubt that Josette had, as well.
With Josette having been so full of life, her sudden death from a brain embolism had hit hard. Although Jack had im-mediately flown to Paris from Syria to attend the funeral at a church built during the reign of Napoleon III, he’d been too deep in his own grief, and suffering fatigue—which, rather than jet lag, as he’d assumed, had turned out to be cancer—to provide the emotional support and comfort his third daughter had deserved.
“Josette’s death is the main reason I’m not going to drag Natalie here to watch me die. And you might as well quit playing all the guilt cards because I’m as sure of my decision as I was yesterday. And the day before that. And every other time over the past weeks you’ve brought it up. Bad enough you coerced me into making those damn videos. Like I’m some documentary maker.”
To Jack’s mind, documentary filmmakers were storytellers who hadn’t bothered to learn to edit. How hard was it to spend anywhere from two to ten hours telling a story he could capture in one single, perfectly timed photograph?
“The total length of all three of them is only twenty minutes,” Gideon said equably.
There were times when Jack considered that the man had the patience of a saint. Which was probably necessary when you’d chosen to spend your life watching grapes grow, then waiting years before the wine you’d made from those grapes was ready to drink. Without Gideon Byrne to run this place, Jack probably would have sold it off to one of the neighboring vineyards years ago, with the caveat that his mother would be free to keep the guesthouse, along with the larger, showier one that carried her name. Had he done that he would have ended up regretting not having a thriving legacy to pass on to his daughters.
“The total time works out to less than ten minutes a daughter. Which doesn’t exactly come close to a Ken Burns series,” Gideon pointed out.
“I liked Burns’s baseball one,” Jack admitted reluctantly. “And the one on country music. But hell, it should’ve been good, given that he took eight years to make it.”
Jack’s first Pulitzer had admittedly been a stroke of luck, being in the right place at the right time. More care had gone into achieving the perfect photos for other awards, but while he admired Burns’s work, he’d never have the patience to spend that much time on a project. His French mother had claimed he’d been born a pierre roulante—rolling stone—al-ways needing to be on the move. Which wasn’t conducive to family life, which is why both his first and second marriages had failed. Because he could never be the husband either of his very different wives had expected.
“Do you believe in life after death?” he asked.
Gideon took his time to answer, looking out over the vine-yards. “I like to think so. Having lost Becky too soon, it’d be nice to believe we’ll connect again, somewhere, somehow.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, there are days that I think this might be our only shot.”
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A young teacher reeling from the loss of her parents a decade before finds herself in an unusual friendship with one of her students, and travels to Sweden during the summer to experience the Midsummer’s Eve, and in the process discovers a dark side to her student in author Diane Zinna’s “The All-Night Sun”.
A lonely young woman gets too close to her charismatic female student in this propulsive debut, culminating in a dangerously debauched Midsommar’s Eve.
“Memorable and meaningful.”—Claire Messud, New York Times bestselling author of The Burning Girl
Lauren Cress teaches writing at a small college outside of Washington, DC. In the classroom, she is poised, smart, and kind, well-liked by her students and colleagues. But in her personal life, Lauren is troubled and isolated, still grappling with the sudden death of her parents ten years earlier. She seems to exist at a remove from everyone around her until a new student joins her class: charming, magnetic Siri, who appears to be everything Lauren wishes she could be. They fall headlong into an all-consuming friendship that feels to Lauren like she is reclaiming her lost adolescence.
When Siri invites her along on a trip home to Sweden for the summer, Lauren impulsively accepts, intrigued by how Siri describes it: “Everything will be green, fresh, new, just thawing out.” But once there, Lauren finds herself drawn to Siri’s enigmatic, brooding brother Magnus. Siri is resentful, and Lauren starts to see a new side of her friend: selfish, reckless, self-destructive, even cruel. On the last night of her trip, Lauren accompanies Siri and her friends on a seaside camping trip to celebrate Midsommar’s Eve, a night when no one sleeps, boundaries blur, and under the light of the unsetting sun, things take a dark turn.
Ultimately Lauren must acknowledge the truth of what happened with Siri and come to terms with her own tragic past in this gorgeously written, deeply felt debut about the relationships that come to us when things feel darkest–and the transformative power of female friendship.
A truly powerful and gripping tale of friendship, loss, and grief, author Diane Zinna has crafted a masterful and emotional novel. The protagonist perfectly captures the raw and heartbreaking reality of losing one’s parents and the feeling of loneliness and heartbreak that comes from it. The whirlwind friendship she develops with Siri and the sudden connection she develops with Siri’s brother Magnus helps to lay the foundation for the shocking and crumbling world Lauren has built herself, and how grief can block us from the world as it moves on without us.
Yet it was the balance of atmosphere and culture that really grabbed my attention as a reader. The setting not only of Sweden but of the events of Midsommar added so much history and culture to not only the narrative but the character’s backgrounds, while the atmosphere and the blend of quick friendship with sudden isolation really captured the fragility that grief can create in us all, especially when trauma begins to block out memories along the way.
A remarkable, emotional, and heartfelt story of painful losses and the path to finding hope and friendship again, author Diane Zinna’s “The All-Night Sun” is a must-read novel! That author does an incredible job of capturing the heart and soul of the protagonist’s internal struggle while layering a mystery behind the fate of the young woman who brought Lauren back out of her grief into the narrative. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
About the Author
Diane Zinna is originally from Long Island, New York. She received her MFA from the University of Florida and has taught creative writing for over ten years. She was formerly the executive co-director at AWP, the Association of Writers & Writing Programs, which hosts the largest literary conference in North America each year. In 2014, Diane created the Writer to Writer Mentorship Program, helping to match more than six hundred writers over twelve seasons. Diane also has a degree in Psychology and leads a popular grief writing class every Sunday for writers of all levels of experience.
The All-Night Sun, her first novel, was longlisted for The Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize and the Cabell First Novelist Award. In 2020, Diane received the ArtsFairfax Artist Grant, and her work appeared at Electric Literature, LiteraryHub, Brevity, and Monkeybicycle. Diane lives in Fairfax, Virginia, with her husband and daughter.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A man spends a year interviewing his friend in an attempt to confront his friend’s grief head on in author’s John Robinette and Robert Jacoby’s “Never Stop Dancing: A Memoir”.
A story of grief, male friendship, and healing conversations.
“Be present,” “cherish each day,” “always say I love you.” John Robinette lived those words. Or so he thought. Then his wife, Amy, was killed instantly in a pedestrian accident.
John’s world shattered, and he began the grueling task of parenting two young boys in a house filled with vibrant, bittersweet memories. As the grief closed in around him, John’s close friend, author Robert Jacoby, saw John struggling and proposed an unusual idea: to interview him over the course of the first year after Amy’s death. Robert’s hope was to meet John directly in his experience of sorrow, explore his grief with him, and discover what lessons might be learned.
Born of a year’s worth of candid interviews, Never Stop Dancing avoids clichéd takeaways about grief and healing to chart a deeper, thornier examination of loss and regret. Robert and John are transformed through their shared experience, too, emerging strengthened and with an abiding male friendship that cuts against the grain of pop-culture trends of quick fixes and easy answers. This memoir-in-conversation provides hard-won reassurances that one can and does go on after loss.
This novel was emotionally and beautifully written. While steeped in tragedy and pain, the bond created by these events and the painful process of grief have given readers and the authors alike an experience like no other. In this novel, the eloquently written interviews between two friends take readers through John’s painful journey through the sudden loss of his wife. From the heartbreaking moment he’s confronted with the news, having to tell all his family about it, the first time his sons are confronted with Mother’s Day and more all bring the heartbreak and pain of loss to the forefront.
However as the interviews grew on, both Robert and John began to examine some of life’s toughest questions in the face of such a painful tragedy. From whether or not “God” is in fact all powerful or more of a being still prone to mistakes, how we converse and treat those who have lost someone, the falsehood that somehow men are supposed to have their lives together more readily than women in the face of tragedy, and finally the ultimate lesson of living in the moment with those you love rather than worrying about a future that hasn’t happened yet, all these lessons are found and experienced firsthand by the authors as they go on this emotional journey together.
A truly well written, evenly paced read that challenges readers to examine life, the bonds they share with those they love and the painful truth behind grief that most self-help books and quick fixes won’t tell you. As someone who lost a close family member this year, I could relate to the author’s struggles in a lot of ways, but as the book shows as well, grief is different for everyone. Both physically and mentally the grieving process changes and grows for each individual person, and respecting that and helping those in grief to find their way through is sometimes the best way to come together in the face of tragedy. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy of “Never Stop Dancing: A Memoir” by John Robinette and Robert Jacoby today!
After the death of his wife Amy Polk, John began journaling on his blog Hole in the Sun about his journey and has contributed to Elephant Journal.
John has a B.S., and M.S., in Management Science and spent the first 25 years of his career as a software engineer, IT professional, and project manager. After Amy’s death, he shifted his focus towards helping people be more successful and find more joy in their careers.
When he is not writing, John is an organizational development and leadership coach with the Center for Leadership and Organizational Change at the University of Maryland. He is also a principle at V-Teamwork, a company using immersive virtual game simulations to build trust and accelerate collaboration in teams.
John has a passion for the natural world and environment and met his current wife Lori on GreenSingles.com. They live in Takoma Park, Maryland with John’s sons Adam and Bryan along with three rescue pets.
Her Christmas list isn’t long. It is the shortest it has ever been. She doesn’t want a pretty new pair of shoes or a new dress to wear to her work’s New Years Eve bash.
All Ella wants is a Christmas Miracle.
With a sick mum in hospital and a little brother at home, she struggles to maintain order in the chaos that is quickly engulfing her. If she doesn’t get her miracle will her entire world fall apart? And if it does, who will help her put it back together again?
He’s my boss. That doesn’t stop me though. It doesn’t stop my mind from picturing him naked standing in my shower, water cascading down over his toned, muscular flesh. No. It doesn’t stop my inappropriate thoughts, and it definitely doesn’t stop me having them at the most inopportune of moments. It’s not like I just think about him when I’m lying in bed late at night. No, I fantasise about him during staff meetings, when he’s being a pain in the arse bossing us all around and when he’s reprimanding me yet again for being late.
Do you want to know the worst bit? It’s not the thoughts. I can deal with my dirty mind; it’s always been that way. Dirty thought after dirty thought, wrapped in a world of dirty thoughts. No. The thoughts are fine; it’s the things that come out of my mouth. The actual words that I apparently have an equal lack of control over. Like right now, the whole room has gone silent in shock because of my stupid, big mouth. As if I just said that. I can feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment and my best work friend is laughing under her breath beside me. The bitch.
Tristen had asked me why I was late. It was a reasonable enough question but why, oh, why couldn’t I give him an equally sensible response??? No. Instead, I only went and gave him the most ridiculous cock and bull story known to man.
“Why are you late?” Tristan Riggens, my boss had asked in that deep, authoritative, yet almost disrespectfully uninterested voice of his. It’s a voice that threatens to destroy you while drawing you in, keeping you walking some imaginary tightrope.
“My dog ate a condom.” Why that sentence made it passed whatever filter I have, I will never know. Sometimes my mouth does unexplainable things, embarrassingly unexplainable. It’s a problem I’ve had since childhood and it shows no sign of improving.
The room goes silent, but he doesn’t react at all. His face remains expressionless except I think I can see humour in his eyes, or at least I hope I do. He’s not exactly easy to read and right now I really have no idea what he thinks. “Well, I hope your dog is okay now.”
“He’s absolutely fine.” I’m probably the colour of the Christmas tree in the corner. I think I might throw up my breakfast from the sheer embarrassment that I now feel.
“Someone should call the RSPCA.” A voice says from somewhere behind me.
“You might want to reconsider where you stash your condoms.” Another of my colleagues laughs.
My best friend, the one who’s supposed to be on my side is in fits of hysteria. In fact, she’s laughing so hard she’s close to choking. I hope she chokes.
“Okay.” Tristen tries to divert their focus from me and my condom eating dog, back to the meeting. “New Year – we’ll be having an office party.”
If he thinks talk of a party might divert their attention from my poor imaginary dog, he is wrong and he clearly doesn’t know his team that well. “How on earth did your dog get a hold of a condom?”
“Did it still have the foil wrapper on?”
“Eww, it wasn’t used, was it?”
I’m shrinking into myself. Massively embarrassed. Eyes on the floor. Cheeks burning hot. Head pounding. Heart palpitating. How the hell will I get out of this one? I have an uncanny knack for getting myself into a bit of a pickle and absolutely no skill at getting myself back out again. “That’s enough – I’ve heard more than enough about condoms and dogs for one day. Back to work.” He’s shaking his head as he dismisses us all before leaving the open offices of our floor of the TRW Advertising building. Walking into his office, he closes the door behind himself. Lucky sod. At least he has a door he can hide behind.
“Fuck.” I say under my breath.
“Only you Ella.” Sadie laughs beside me. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“I just open my mouth…” I sigh.
“You don’t even have a dog!”
“I know.” I’m groaning in mortification. “We should get back to work before Tristen gets all shitty.”
“Or worse,” Sadie whispers, “Delos might come out of her office and have at us.”
“As if – Clara’s too nice for that.”
“To you. She hates me.”
“That’s not true.” I laugh gently. The door to Tristen’s office opens once more, and he pops his head out. “Winthrope. Reed. Do I need to find you something to do?”
“No sir.” Sadie nods her head before turning back towards her cubicle.
I move to follow her, but Tristen is still talking. “Winthrope, in here please.”
“Shit.” I grumble before following him into his office. This is the moment when he finally tells me that enough is enough and I need to start being on time, or worse look for a new job. The new job scenario is probably more likely. My tardiness is my biggest failing. I’m lucky I haven’t already lost this job.
He’s sat behind his desk; calm and composed in a way I have never been. He motions a hand towards the leather chair in front of him, and I take it gratefully because my legs are like jelly. My mouth is practically glued shut because I can’t trust myself not to say something completely absurd. His eyebrow is raised. “Your dog ate a condom?”
“Yes.” My sister Tia says when you lie you have to own it.
“Have you taken him to the vets?”
“No. He… he just coughed it up.” I tell him, desperately hoping that he doesn’t see through my lies.
“You do need to make a better effort to be on time for work in the morning.”
“Sorry Sir.” I tell him honestly. It’s not exactly news to me that I need to get my shit together.
About The Author:
Hanleigh loves books more than nearly anything in the world; whether its reading them or writing them, Hanleigh just can’t get enough. She relishes in the way authors can create worlds with the words they put in their books. She loves the way your imagination introduces you to a new world when you read a book. It may well be a world completely foreign to the one you live in. That world is brought to life; inspires you to dream, captivates your imagination, entices your senses.
Hanleigh first took to reading as a small child reading Dr Zeus. She then fell in love with romance literature when she first read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen; when she first swooned over Mr Darcy. She’s read more books than she can count and owns more books than some libraries.
Although born in Scotland, she sometimes wishes she could live inside the world that she can create inside her mind, but since that isn’t possible she puts pen to paper and shares that world with this world instead. There is something addictive about being able to mould your words into something that causes the reader to fall into your mind. When you put pen to paper and create a world, it’s exhilarating. Every word has meaning. You know every character intimately. You know every secret, every whisper, every smell, every look; as the author you know the world you created and more so than even the most avid of readers you can get lost in your own creation.