Today I’m doing something different – I’m helping a fellow client of Corvisiero Literary with their release day. I have read the book and while it’s not generally my style (no explosions, not historical, and no other-worldly characters), I enjoyed the read. So, let’s learn more about Summer Walden and Lovelines!
S. Walden used to teach English before making the best decision of her life by becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Georgia with her very supportive husband who prefers physics textbooks over fiction and has a difficult time understanding why her characters must have personality flaws. She is wary of small children, so she has a Westie instead. She is the USA Today bestselling author of Going Under. When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about it.
Arrive at work at 7:58 A.M. sharp. Check. Count forty-seven steps to cubicle. Check. Arrange pens in their red-blue-black-green-purple order of importance. Check. Apply hand sanitizer before opening email. Double check.
And that’s just the first few minutes of her work day.
Thirty-one-year-old proofreader Bailey Mitchell is a slave to her tics. She inherited Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder from her father, and it’s done nothing but inhibit her love life. She’s run the gamut of boyfriends—none of them willing or able to cope with her condition.
Enter 32-year-old Reece Powell, her new coworker at Beach Elite Marketing Firm. He’s more than willing to cope. He finds her habits cute and quirky . . . for now. Reece gets the girl, and life coasts along for them until Bailey experiences a devastating blow. Tragedy exacerbates her OCD, and Reece realizes her tics aren’t so cute and quirky anymore. Just like all the others, he has the choice to leave.
But Reece isn’t like all the others.
“I think I may have a mild crush on someone in my office,” I confessed to Erica as we climbed into the back of the cab. “And I’ve only had one conversation with him. How ridiculous am I?”
“Oh, really?” she asked, fixing her garish gold earring.
“Well, he’s cute. And personable,” I said. “His name’s Reece.”
“Like the candy?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I said that, too.”
“To him?” she asked, laughing, then muttered, “Sounds like something you’d do.”
Erica patted my knee. “You know you can’t date your coworker.”
“You can, however, date one of the many cute college boys we’re about to meet,” she said.
I grunted. “I’ve no desire to date a man ten years younger than I am.”
“Okay. Let me rephrase that: You can sleep with one of the many cute college boys we’re about to meet.”
“Because they’re ten years younger than I am,” I explained. I twisted a strand of hair around my finger and looked out the window.
“We’re just talking sex here, Bailey. We’re not talking about commitment. I know 21-year-old men are stupid. But they can make fun boy toys.”
“Gross. Will you just stop?” I glanced at the cab driver who ignored us.
“How long has it been?” Erica asked softly.
“You know . . .” She gave me that look. The raised brows. The pity. The fearful anticipation of a really embarrassing answer.
“I’m not telling you. I don’t need your judgment,” I said.
“Judgment? When have I ever judged you? I fed my kids fish sticks four times this week, okay? No judgment.”
I cracked a smile.
“Go on,” Erica encouraged.
“Aside from that random dude we met three months ago at The Blue Post, there hasn’t been anyone.” I watched Erica’s face carefully. She sat back in her seat and exhaled a long, judgment-filled sigh.
“You’ve had sex once in the last six months?” she asked.
“Once,” I repeated.
“One time. One time in half a year?”
“Okay, honey? That’s what married people do who don’t like each other.”