Welcome to my stop on the Kristan Higgins The Perfect Match blog tour. You know there are many authors that I love and Kristan is always at the top of the heap as far as entertaining, emotions and that spark we call Love. So sit back and enjoy my from the heart review of her latest novel set in New York wine country then enter for a chance to win a copy for yourself US Only.
- ISBN-13: 9780373778195
- Publisher: Harlequin
- Publication date: 10/29/2013
- Series: Blue Heron Series , #2
- Format: Mass Market Paperback
- Pages: 448
Overview:
What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?
Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now—a mere three weeks later—Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn't easier said than done.
Praise:
"Higgins [offers] strong storytelling and a refreshing, sarcastic wit...thoroughly entertaining."-People Magazine
"Well-placed flashbacks; snarky, snappy dialogue; and conflict both tender and traumatic will shove you into love with a perfectly irresistible array of imperfect characters. You'll adore every bit of this story...Higgins' latest is sexy, screwy, funny and fulfilling - a simply radiant read."-USA TODAY on The Best Man
"The result is a deliriously funny story...The Best Man is Kristan Higgin's best book — and that's saying a lot."-Eloisa James
"A funny, poignant romance."
-Publishers Weekly starred review, on My One and Only
"Romance fans and lovers of women's fiction will devour this witty and tender novel. Highly recommended." -Library Journal starred review on Somebody to Love
"Both gut-wrenchingly emotional and hysterically funny at the same time...Kristan Higgins writes the books you don't want to end."-#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr
"Higgins specializes in the kind of prose that makes you laugh out loud...hilarious on the surface, but with a bittersweet subtext."-National Public Radio
"Higgins has a special talent for creating characters readers love."-Romantic Times, 4½ stars on All I Ever Wanted
"A heartwarming, multi-generational tale of lost love, broken hearts and second chances."
-BookPage on The Next Best Thing
-Publishers Weekly starred review, on My One and Only
-BookPage on The Next Best Thing
Read an excerpt:
For a guy who taught mechanical engineering at a fourth-rate college in the middle of nowhere, Tom Barlow was packing them in.
At the university where he'd last taught, there'd been an actual engineering school, and his students were genuinely interested in the subject matter. Here, though, at tiny Wickham College, four of the original six attendees had stumbled into class, having left registration until too late, only taking mechanical engineering because it still had open slots. Two had seemed genuinely interested, until one, the girl, transferred to Carnegie Mellon.
But then, by the end of the second week, he suddenly had thirty-six students jammed into the little classroom. Each one of these new students was female, ranging in age from eighteen to possibly fifty-five. Suddenly, an astonishing array of girls and women had decided that mechanical engineering (whatever that was) had become their new passion in life.
The clothes were a bit of a problem. Tight, trashy, low-cut, low-riding, inappropriate. Tom tended to teach to the wall in the back of the room, not wanting to make eye contact with the hungry gazes of seventy-eight percent of his class.
He tried not to leave time for questions, as the Barbarian Horde, as he thought of them, tended to be inappropriate. Are you single? How old are you? Where 'd you come from? Do you like foreign films/sushi/girls?
Then again, he needed this job. "Any questions?" he asked. Dozens of hands shot up. "Yes, Mr. Kearns," he said gratefully to the one student in the class who was there out of interest in the subject.
According to his file, Jacob Kearns had been kicked out of MIT for doing drugs. He seemed on the straight and narrow now, at least, but Wickham College was a hundred steps down academically. Then again, Tom knew all about shooting himself in the foot, career-wise.
"Dr. Barlow, with the hovercraft project, I was wondering how you'd calculate the escape velocity?"
"Good question. The escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy of your object, along with its gravitational potential energy, is zero. Make sense?" The Barbarian Horde (those who were listening) looked confused.
"Definitely," Jacob said. "Thanks."
Thirty seconds to the bell. "Listen up," he said. "Your homework is to read chapters six and seven in your texts and answer all the study questions at the end of both as well as pass in your term project proposals. Those of you who flunked the hovercraft estimates have to do them again." Hopefully, he could break the Horde with a ridiculous workload. "Anything else?"
A hand went up. One of the Barbarians, of course. "Yes?" he said briskly.
"Are you British?" she asked, getting a ripple of giggles from a third of the class, whose mental age appeared to be twelve.
"I've answered that in a previous class. Any other questions that pertain to mechanical engineering, then? No? Great. Cheerio."
"Oh, my God, he said 'Cheerio,'" said a blonde dressed like a Cockney prostitute.
The bell rang, and the Barbarian Horde surged toward his desk. "Mr. Kearns, please stay a minute," Tom said.
Seven female students clustered around him. "So do you think I could, like, work for an architect or something?" one asked.
"I've no idea," he answered.
"I mean, after this class." She lowered her gaze to his mouth. Crikey. Made him want to shower.
"Pass the class first, then apply and see," he said.
"Do you want to hang out at the pub, Tom?" asked another of the BH. "I'd love to buy you a drink."
"That'd be inappropriate," he answered.
"I'm totally legal," she said with a leer.
"If you don't have any questions related to the lesson today, get out, please." He smiled to soften the words, and with a lot of pouty lips and hair tossing, the Barbarian Horde departed.
Tom waited till the other kids were out of earshot. "Jacob, would you be interested in interning for me?"
"Yeah! Sure! Um, doing what?"
"I customize airplanes here and there. Got a project coming up. It might be good on your CV."
"What's a CV?"
"A resume."
"Sure!" Jacob said again. "That'd be great."
"You can't be using, of course. Will that be a problem?"
The kid flushed. "No. I'm in NA and all that. Clean for thirteen months." He pushed his hands into his pockets. "I have to pee in a cup every month to come here. The health office has my records."
"Good. I'll give you a shout when I need you."
"Thanks, Dr. Barlow. Thanks a lot."
Tom nodded. The head of his department was standing in the doorway, frowning down the hallway, where a cacophony of giggles was coming from the twits. When Jacob left, the man came in and closed the door behind him.
This wouldn't be good news, Tom thought. Droog Dragul (not a shock that he was called Dracula, was it?) had the face of a medieval monk—tortured, pale and severe. He looked even more depressed than usual.
"Dee cheeldren of dis school," Droog said in his thick accent. He sighed. "Dey are so…" Tom winced, fearing the next phrase would be well fed or iron-rich. "Dey are so unfocused." Phew.
"Most of them, anyway," Tom said. "I've got one or two good students."
"Yes." His boss sighed. "And you heff such a vay vith the ladies, Tom. Perhaps we can heff beer and you can give pointers."
"It's the accent, mate," Tom said.
"Mine does not seem to heff same effect, for some reason. Eh heh heh heh heh!"
Tom winced, then smiled. Droog was a good guy. Strange, but nice enough. In the month since Tom had been teaching here, they'd had dinner once, gone out for beer and pool twice, and if the experience had been odd, it seemed that Droog had a good heart.
His boss sighed and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the desk. "Tom, I am afraid I heff bad news. Vee von't be able to renew your vork visa."
Tom inhaled sharply. The only reason he'd taken this job was for the work visa. "That was a condition of my employment."
"I em aware. But dee budget…it is too overtaxed for dee court fees."
"I thought you said it'd be no problem."
"I vas wrong. They heff reconsidered."
Tom felt his jaw locking. "I see."
"Vee value your teaching abilities and experience, Tom. Perhaps you vill find another way. Vee can give you till end of semester." He paused. "I em sorry. Very much so."
Tom nodded. "Thanks, mate." It wasn't Droog's fault. But shit.
Dr. Dragul left, and Tom sat at his desk another few minutes. Finding another job in February was unlikely. Wickham College had been the only place in western New York looking for an engineering professor, and Tom had been lucky to get the job as fast as he did. It wasn't a prestigious place, not by a long shot, but that wasn't really the point. This time around, it was all about location.
He couldn't keep his job without a work visa, though it wasn't like Immigration would be breathing down his neck; an employed professor was less of a concern than most of their cases. Still, the college wasn't going to keep him on illegally.
If he was going to stay, he needed a green card.
Fast.
But first to the rather shabby house he'd just rented, and then to the much better bar down the street. A drink was definitely required.
A few nights later, Tom sat in the kitchen of his great-aunt Candace's kitchen, drinking tea. Only Brits could make decent tea, and though Candace had lived in the States for at least six decades, she hadn't lost the touch.
"That Melissa," Aunt Candace said darkly. "She messed everything up, didn't she?"
"Well. Let's not speak ill of the dead."
"But I'll miss you! And what about Charlie? How old is he now? Twelve?"
"Fourteen." His unofficial stepson had been ten when Tom met him. Hard to reconcile that talkative, happy little boy with the sullen teenager who barely spoke these days.
A fleeting pain lanced through his chest. Charlie wouldn't miss him, that seemed certain. One of those situations where Tom wasn't sure if he was doing any good whatsoever, or if, in fact, his presence made things worse. Melissa, Charlie's mother, was dead, and her brief engagement to Tom qualified him as nothing in the boy's life today, even though Charlie had been just a few months away from becoming Tom's stepson.
Whatever the case, Tom didn't have much choice about whether or not he was staying in the States. He'd emailed his old department head in England, who wrote right back saying they'd take Tom back in a heartbeat. There weren't any other colleges in western New York looking for someone with his credentials. And teaching was what he loved (when the students were actually interested in the subject matter, that was).
And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He'd been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.
"Here. Have more pie, darling." She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.
"Thanks," he said.
"Lovely town, Manningsport," she said. "I lived near there as a child, did you know that?"
"So you told me," Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.
"Finish that pie, you might as well. I'm prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I'm also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I'll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?"
"You used to live near Manningsport."
"Yes, that's right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!" She smiled and took a sip of tea.
"So that's how you became a Yank?" Tom asked.
She nodded. "We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me."
"I never knew that," Tom said.
"He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I'd go with him to deliver milk." Candace smiled. "Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?" Tom smiled. "I do."
"A pity you have to leave. It's beautiful there." Candy's gaze suddenly sharpened. "Tom, dear…if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American."
"That's illegal, Auntie."
"Oh, pooh."
He laughed. "I can't see myself going that far," he said. "It might be different if—well. It's not an option."
It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie's side, he might give it a whirl.
He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn't have. If those didn't work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn't), he'd be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn't be awful. He'd be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.
The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. "I'd better be off," he said. "Thanks for the visit."
She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. "Thank you for coming to see an old lady," she said. "I'm going to brag about this for days. My grand-nephew adores me."
"You're right. Ta, Auntie. I'll call you and let you know what's happening."
"If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?"
"Interested in what, Auntie?"
"In marrying you."
Tom laughed. The old lady's face was so hopeful, though. "Sure," he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn't feel so bad when he went back to England.
There was that pain in his chest again.
It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn't get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.
For a guy who taught mechanical engineering at a fourth-rate college in the middle of nowhere, Tom Barlow was packing them in.
At the university where he'd last taught, there'd been an actual engineering school, and his students were genuinely interested in the subject matter. Here, though, at tiny Wickham College, four of the original six attendees had stumbled into class, having left registration until too late, only taking mechanical engineering because it still had open slots. Two had seemed genuinely interested, until one, the girl, transferred to Carnegie Mellon.
But then, by the end of the second week, he suddenly had thirty-six students jammed into the little classroom. Each one of these new students was female, ranging in age from eighteen to possibly fifty-five. Suddenly, an astonishing array of girls and women had decided that mechanical engineering (whatever that was) had become their new passion in life.
The clothes were a bit of a problem. Tight, trashy, low-cut, low-riding, inappropriate. Tom tended to teach to the wall in the back of the room, not wanting to make eye contact with the hungry gazes of seventy-eight percent of his class.
He tried not to leave time for questions, as the Barbarian Horde, as he thought of them, tended to be inappropriate. Are you single? How old are you? Where 'd you come from? Do you like foreign films/sushi/girls?
Then again, he needed this job. "Any questions?" he asked. Dozens of hands shot up. "Yes, Mr. Kearns," he said gratefully to the one student in the class who was there out of interest in the subject.
According to his file, Jacob Kearns had been kicked out of MIT for doing drugs. He seemed on the straight and narrow now, at least, but Wickham College was a hundred steps down academically. Then again, Tom knew all about shooting himself in the foot, career-wise.
"Dr. Barlow, with the hovercraft project, I was wondering how you'd calculate the escape velocity?"
"Good question. The escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy of your object, along with its gravitational potential energy, is zero. Make sense?" The Barbarian Horde (those who were listening) looked confused.
"Definitely," Jacob said. "Thanks."
Thirty seconds to the bell. "Listen up," he said. "Your homework is to read chapters six and seven in your texts and answer all the study questions at the end of both as well as pass in your term project proposals. Those of you who flunked the hovercraft estimates have to do them again." Hopefully, he could break the Horde with a ridiculous workload. "Anything else?"
A hand went up. One of the Barbarians, of course. "Yes?" he said briskly.
"Are you British?" she asked, getting a ripple of giggles from a third of the class, whose mental age appeared to be twelve.
"I've answered that in a previous class. Any other questions that pertain to mechanical engineering, then? No? Great. Cheerio."
"Oh, my God, he said 'Cheerio,'" said a blonde dressed like a Cockney prostitute.
The bell rang, and the Barbarian Horde surged toward his desk. "Mr. Kearns, please stay a minute," Tom said.
Seven female students clustered around him. "So do you think I could, like, work for an architect or something?" one asked.
"I've no idea," he answered.
"I mean, after this class." She lowered her gaze to his mouth. Crikey. Made him want to shower.
"Pass the class first, then apply and see," he said.
"Do you want to hang out at the pub, Tom?" asked another of the BH. "I'd love to buy you a drink."
"That'd be inappropriate," he answered.
"I'm totally legal," she said with a leer.
"If you don't have any questions related to the lesson today, get out, please." He smiled to soften the words, and with a lot of pouty lips and hair tossing, the Barbarian Horde departed.
Tom waited till the other kids were out of earshot. "Jacob, would you be interested in interning for me?"
"Yeah! Sure! Um, doing what?"
"I customize airplanes here and there. Got a project coming up. It might be good on your CV."
"What's a CV?"
"A resume."
"Sure!" Jacob said again. "That'd be great."
"You can't be using, of course. Will that be a problem?"
The kid flushed. "No. I'm in NA and all that. Clean for thirteen months." He pushed his hands into his pockets. "I have to pee in a cup every month to come here. The health office has my records."
"Good. I'll give you a shout when I need you."
"Thanks, Dr. Barlow. Thanks a lot."
Tom nodded. The head of his department was standing in the doorway, frowning down the hallway, where a cacophony of giggles was coming from the twits. When Jacob left, the man came in and closed the door behind him.
This wouldn't be good news, Tom thought. Droog Dragul (not a shock that he was called Dracula, was it?) had the face of a medieval monk—tortured, pale and severe. He looked even more depressed than usual.
"Dee cheeldren of dis school," Droog said in his thick accent. He sighed. "Dey are so…" Tom winced, fearing the next phrase would be well fed or iron-rich. "Dey are so unfocused." Phew.
"Most of them, anyway," Tom said. "I've got one or two good students."
"Yes." His boss sighed. "And you heff such a vay vith the ladies, Tom. Perhaps we can heff beer and you can give pointers."
"It's the accent, mate," Tom said.
"Mine does not seem to heff same effect, for some reason. Eh heh heh heh heh!"
Tom winced, then smiled. Droog was a good guy. Strange, but nice enough. In the month since Tom had been teaching here, they'd had dinner once, gone out for beer and pool twice, and if the experience had been odd, it seemed that Droog had a good heart.
His boss sighed and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the desk. "Tom, I am afraid I heff bad news. Vee von't be able to renew your vork visa."
Tom inhaled sharply. The only reason he'd taken this job was for the work visa. "That was a condition of my employment."
"I em aware. But dee budget…it is too overtaxed for dee court fees."
"I thought you said it'd be no problem."
"I vas wrong. They heff reconsidered."
Tom felt his jaw locking. "I see."
"Vee value your teaching abilities and experience, Tom. Perhaps you vill find another way. Vee can give you till end of semester." He paused. "I em sorry. Very much so."
Tom nodded. "Thanks, mate." It wasn't Droog's fault. But shit.
Dr. Dragul left, and Tom sat at his desk another few minutes. Finding another job in February was unlikely. Wickham College had been the only place in western New York looking for an engineering professor, and Tom had been lucky to get the job as fast as he did. It wasn't a prestigious place, not by a long shot, but that wasn't really the point. This time around, it was all about location.
He couldn't keep his job without a work visa, though it wasn't like Immigration would be breathing down his neck; an employed professor was less of a concern than most of their cases. Still, the college wasn't going to keep him on illegally.
If he was going to stay, he needed a green card.
Fast.
But first to the rather shabby house he'd just rented, and then to the much better bar down the street. A drink was definitely required.
A few nights later, Tom sat in the kitchen of his great-aunt Candace's kitchen, drinking tea. Only Brits could make decent tea, and though Candace had lived in the States for at least six decades, she hadn't lost the touch.
"That Melissa," Aunt Candace said darkly. "She messed everything up, didn't she?"
"Well. Let's not speak ill of the dead."
"But I'll miss you! And what about Charlie? How old is he now? Twelve?"
"Fourteen." His unofficial stepson had been ten when Tom met him. Hard to reconcile that talkative, happy little boy with the sullen teenager who barely spoke these days.
A fleeting pain lanced through his chest. Charlie wouldn't miss him, that seemed certain. One of those situations where Tom wasn't sure if he was doing any good whatsoever, or if, in fact, his presence made things worse. Melissa, Charlie's mother, was dead, and her brief engagement to Tom qualified him as nothing in the boy's life today, even though Charlie had been just a few months away from becoming Tom's stepson.
Whatever the case, Tom didn't have much choice about whether or not he was staying in the States. He'd emailed his old department head in England, who wrote right back saying they'd take Tom back in a heartbeat. There weren't any other colleges in western New York looking for someone with his credentials. And teaching was what he loved (when the students were actually interested in the subject matter, that was).
And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He'd been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.
"Here. Have more pie, darling." She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.
"Thanks," he said.
"Lovely town, Manningsport," she said. "I lived near there as a child, did you know that?"
"So you told me," Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.
"Finish that pie, you might as well. I'm prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I'm also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I'll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?"
"You used to live near Manningsport."
"Yes, that's right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!" She smiled and took a sip of tea.
"So that's how you became a Yank?" Tom asked.
She nodded. "We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me."
"I never knew that," Tom said.
"He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I'd go with him to deliver milk." Candace smiled. "Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?" Tom smiled. "I do."
"A pity you have to leave. It's beautiful there." Candy's gaze suddenly sharpened. "Tom, dear…if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American."
"That's illegal, Auntie."
"Oh, pooh."
He laughed. "I can't see myself going that far," he said. "It might be different if—well. It's not an option."
It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie's side, he might give it a whirl.
He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn't have. If those didn't work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn't), he'd be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn't be awful. He'd be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.
The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. "I'd better be off," he said. "Thanks for the visit."
She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. "Thank you for coming to see an old lady," she said. "I'm going to brag about this for days. My grand-nephew adores me."
"You're right. Ta, Auntie. I'll call you and let you know what's happening."
"If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?"
"Interested in what, Auntie?"
"In marrying you."
Tom laughed. The old lady's face was so hopeful, though. "Sure," he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn't feel so bad when he went back to England.
There was that pain in his chest again.
It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn't get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.
Contest is for one print copy of The Perfect Match
sponsored by Kristan and her publicity firm
Little Bird Publicity
Open to US residents only please
Thanks Kristan & Little Bird
Good Luck!
My Review of The Perfect Match
Honor Grace Holland turned 35 and got some disturbing news
from her gynecologist, her reproductive eggs are about to expire. Which sets
the stage for her proposal to her 17yr on again off again “perfect match” who
shoots her and her eggs down with a rejection, and turns her in the direction
of a sexy professor who needs a green card. And since love doesn’t work maybe an arranged marriage will,
after all it worked for her grandparents. Well technically it worked for her
grandparents.
Tom Barlow’s stay in the US is about to end, he’ll do anything to stay and remain close to his “stepson” even if Charlie’s turned from an adoring small boy to a sullen teen since the death of his mother, even if staying means doing so illegally by entering into a marriage of convenience. But since love doesn’t work why not give this arranged marriage a try.
But what if love does work, can these two damaged by love people be brave enough to give it another try or will they let their pasts rule their future too?
Tom Barlow’s stay in the US is about to end, he’ll do anything to stay and remain close to his “stepson” even if Charlie’s turned from an adoring small boy to a sullen teen since the death of his mother, even if staying means doing so illegally by entering into a marriage of convenience. But since love doesn’t work why not give this arranged marriage a try.
But what if love does work, can these two damaged by love people be brave enough to give it another try or will they let their pasts rule their future too?
Hallo!!
Kristan Higgins has written some doozy romances, and this is at the top of the heap. With a narrative that brings the beauty of the finger lakes region of NY to life, to opt ins by Honor’s expiring eggs that will make you laugh out loud to the more serious, heartrending rejection, dejection meat of the story where the deep unseen scars are opened for readers. Her characters include folks you’ll remember from Faith and Levi’s story, with Charlie and Honor’s little rescue terror-terrier Spike leading the pack in their co-star roles to two of the most charismatic, funny, noble stars ever in Honor and Tom, oh and can you say "there's nothing more sexy than a Queen's English accent".
You will laugh, you will cry, you will cringe and most of all you will fall in love with this beautifully written novel.
Kristan you have taken me on some unforgettable road trips before, but this one will definitely go down as one of the most memorable. Now where will you lead me to next?
You will laugh, you will cry, you will cringe and most of all you will fall in love with this beautifully written novel.
Kristan you have taken me on some unforgettable road trips before, but this one will definitely go down as one of the most memorable. Now where will you lead me to next?
Author bio-Kristan Higgins is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author and two-time winner of the Romance Writers of America RITA Award. Her books have been praised for their "genius level EQ, whippet-fast, funny dialogue and sweet plots with a deliciously tart edge" (USA TODAY). She lives in Connecticut with her heroic firefighter husband and two extremely advanced children, one shy little mutt and an occasionally affectionate cat.
Connect with Kristan Website - Facebook - Twitter - Blog
Connect with Kristan Website - Facebook - Twitter - Blog
You cannot be serious, Debbie...Which of Kristan's is my favorite? I'm gonna say The Perfect Match today. Wait... The Best Man, yes! That one. Hold on, The Next Best Thing! Umm, no, no...Just One Of The Guys! Yeah!. Well, maybe Catch of The Day! No, wait!! All I Ever Wanted! Okay I just remembered Somebody To Love and Oh! Oh! Fools Rush In! Oh, but I loved Until There Was You, and My One and Only! OH and Too Good To Be True! What was the question again??? ♥
ReplyDeleteLorelei, I'm still chuckling about the response and yes this was the response I expected :)
Deletethanks
I have a copy of this, it sounds so wonderful and I hope to dive in later this month!
ReplyDeleteHi Kim, you will not be sorry
DeleteI haven't tried her yet but so many friends love her books and I follow her on FB. I just love the man wars she has. lol It does sound really great and what a pretty cover!
ReplyDeleteHi Anna, those man wars are something else
DeleteThanks