Wednesday, August 26, 2020

#Showcase The Wrong Mr. Darcy by Evelyn Lozada and Holly Lorincz

Today I'm showcasing an interesting Austen's P&P inspired novel, The Wrong Mr. Darcy by Evelyn Lozada with Holly Lorincz.

Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Release Date: 8-25-2020



In Evelyn Lozada and Holly Lorincz's lightly inspired Pride and Prejudice romantic comedy, two unlikely people discover the error of judging by first impressions and the beauty of family, friendship and love. This book will entice you through the last page.

Hara Isari has big ambitions and they won’t be sidetracked by her mother’s insisting that she settle down soon. She dreams of leaving her small-town newspaper behind, as well as her felon father, and building a career as a sports writer, so when she is chosen to exclusively interview a basketball superstar, she jumps at the chance. It’s time to show the bigwigs what she’s truly made of.

At the same time, she meets a rookie on the rise, Derek Darcy. Darcy is incredibly handsome, obnoxiously proud, and has a major chip on his shoulder. Hara can’t think of a man more arrogant and infuriating. However, fate keeps bringing them together—from locker rooms to elegant parties, to the storm of the century—and what begins as a clash might just be more complicated than Hara anticipated. When she begins to see Darcy in a new light, Hara is not quite sure if she should drop the ball or play the love game.

Read an excerpt:


There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well.

—Pride and Prejudice

Hara Isari turned off the engine and sat, not moving, her heart beating with the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine. She’d been immersed in a Jane Austen audiobook for the past hour, hanging out with her favorite characters, but now it was time to ease back into her own reality.

The familiar line of old firs at the edge of the parking lot were monstrously huge and fiercely beautiful, their limbs pronounced against a light gray sky, swaying in the winds of fall. Try as they might, however, the trees could not entirely camouflage the buildings just beyond the greenery. Or the crumbling, twenty-five-foot-tall stone walls that held in her father.

Touching her forehead to the steering wheel, Hara’s long, wavy hair lay heavily across her back and her glasses pressed into the bridge of her nose. The resulting hint of pain flickered a warning: more pain to come. Or was it a metaphor for the moment?

She sat up and shook off the drama queen moment. Hara liked to find reasons to be happy, not emo. Visiting Thomas Isari challenged the twenty-two-year-old’s equanimity sometimes, but not today, not when she had such exciting news to share.

She climbed out of the driver’s seat and straightened slowly, pushing her eyeglasses into place. Then, the young woman turned to face the Oregon State Penitentiary.

She’d been coming to the prison for ten years, first by bus when she was in middle school, then by car as soon as she could get her license. Her mother refused to come with her, to see the man who’d ruined the reputation of their family. “I’m a black woman married to a Japanese guy who’s now a felon. Does he know what they say about me? About us? You can tell your father to kiss my ass.”

Even Hara’s Grandma Isari, now addled by Alzheimer’s and living in a home, had not made the short trip to see her son. Grandpa Isari never had the chance; seated on a hard bench behind his son in the courtroom during the sentencing, he’d grasped at his chest and keeled forward, dead of a massive heartattack.

Harsh way to escape reality, but maybe it was for the best, Hara thought sadly, as she tromped across the vast field of parking lot cement. Her grandparents had met as children, behind razor-topped fences in a World War II Japanese internment camp, ten miles from the small Oregon hospital they’d been born in. The image of their adult child behind bars, sleeping on a thin mattress in a five-by-ten cell with no window, permanently traumatized them.

No one but Hara visited Thomas Isari. The man who’d wiped the gravel and blood off her dimpled knees when she fell off her bike, the man who’d taught her to swim with the current in the river behind their farmhouse. The man who’d lifted her to dunk the basketball into their garage hoop, again and again. The man who’d run the family apple orchard and taken care of his aging parents. And the man who was the reason the FBI flooded into their small town. The man who’d operated an extensive, illegal sports betting operation that, when he was caught, ended several professional athletes’ careers. Ended their family.

Now he sat in a cell, leaving her mom to run the farm. Thanks, Daddy.

Solo traveling to and from the prison did provide time to listen to books, Hara reasoned … but, damn, did she hate going in alone. Between the hillbilly guard who tried to cop a feel during pat downs, and the visiting room full of sex-deprived prisoners and their wives and girlfriends who dripped sour helplessness, Hara grew up learning to keep her shoulders back, exude confidence without arrogance, and use witty banter to distract anyone trying to give her shit. She’d also learned to size people up very quickly, and keep her distance if she didn’t like them. First impressions could save a lot of trouble.

If her father could take it day in and day out, she could take it for an hour every few weeks. She wasn’t about to abandon him just because of a few jerk bags.

Her sneakers squeaked on the industrial tile as her long legs carried her through the metal detectors and down the never-ending hall, halogen lights buzzing overhead and the tang of urine and bleach stinging her nostrils. She stopped for the armed corrections officers at multiple checkpoints and then for the pat down just outside the visiting room.

“Thank God it’s you today, Roland,” she said with a friendly smile. The older guard just nodded and sent her through. He wasn’t much of a talker but at least he wasn’t grabby. Most of the guards rarely bothered with her anymore, having known her for years. She knew not to draw attention, to wear not-tight-not-baggy clothes, wireless bras, no makeup or gang colors, and keep her pockets empty. She did not give the guards a reason to complain, or worse, turn her away.

The first few months, her visits with one of the most hated men in sports history had been from behind Plexiglas. Then her father was moved to general population, C Block, and allowed to have visitations face-to-face, in a room filled with discarded school furniture. The early years had been particularly rough for him, but as time passed, the prisoners seemed to have settled down. It didn’t hurt that the Asian-American man helped tutor inmates. And was tall and built like a UFC fighter.

As she dropped onto a hard, plastic chair, she recognized some of the faces around her.

“Hiya Rita,” she called quietly to the woman at the table next to her. Rita, with her fried blonde hair and hard wrinkles, could have been twenty-five or forty, it was hard to tell. “How’s your little boy?”

The hard-faced woman shook her head. “These fuckers won’t let me bring him back in here. Jonas is going to be pissed.”

Jonas, a large black man with a bad back, was Thomas Isari’s cellmate. A few months ago, Rita had been caught bringing in pain pills tucked into their son’s diaper. Hara’s father had an empty cell for a while, with Jonas in solitary, but it looked like Thomas had his bunkie back.

“Hey, baby girl,” her father said, grinning as he slid his muscular frame into the chair across from her. Grasping her hands on the metal table between them, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, quickly, not giving the guards time to squawk. They saved a brief hug for the goodbyes. It was their routine.

“Nice bangs. My little hipster.”

“Hey!” She smiled. Thomas loved her and it poured off him, made her feel safe. Even in this place.

“I’m just kidding. I’m glad you kept your hair long, but I like you with the short bangs, I can see your face.” Before he let go, he squeezed her fingers, his dark eyes fixed on her. “Still hiding those baby blues behind specs, though.”

Hara, about to respond, noticed her father’s face for the first time. Squinting at his forehead, she asked, “What’s that?”

A bruise yellowed at his temple, fading back into his short salt-and-pepper hair. She’d seen worse, much worse, like the time his pinkie fingernail had been ripped off when he’d taken too long at the microwave. There was also the long scar running down the back of his neck, from when he’d been shivved while lifting weights. She shivered.

He tapped his head, his forehead wrinkling. “You mean this? Nothing.” At her frown, he said, “Seriously, there was a little misunderstanding but it’s resolved. I promise you, I’m fine.”

Hara forced herself to relax, letting her shoulders down. She’d learned long ago not to ask too many questions.

“I haven’t seen a paper in two weeks,” he said, “and the Norte are in control of the TV room right now. It’s nothing but soccer all day. Talk to me about basketball. How are the preseason games going? Who looks good?”

“Oh!” She’d almost forgotten, her news overshadowed by the thick fog of … well, of prison. “You are never going to believe this! One of the owners of the Fishers called. I won the contest!”

Her father beamed. “No way.”

“I know, right? I’ve got the exclusive interview with Charles Butler!” She clapped her hands in delight, like a child, but then interrupted her father before he could speak. “I know, I know what you’re going to say, it’s crazy that they chose me, a newb reporter—”

“No, I was going to say no one deserves it more than you.”

Hara let the praise warm her.

“Damn. So proud of you. This is fantastic news. Now, you’re sure no one is pulling your leg?”

“I swear. My editor says the man who reached out, O’Donnell, is legit, one of the five partners who own the team. They’re flying me to Boston! I’m going to have a face-to-face with one of the biggest names in basketball!”

“Butler … I don’t know how I feel about you being around that guy. I wish the interview was with anyone else. He’s such a dick to the press. Worse, you might be from Podunk, Oregon, but you are drop-dead gorgeous, like a freaking runway model. He’s going to—”

“Daddy, please. I’ve had to deal with d-bags before. You think I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into when I decided to be a sports reporter? I spend all my time with athletes. I know what they can be like. And, frankly, I’ve been around these guys.” She flipped her hand around the room, at the prisoners in their matching blue chambray shirts. “I’m pretty sure Butler can’t say anything that’s going to shock me.”

“Hey, kid!” a voice boomed from beside her, making her jump. “I hear you’re going to Boston!” It was Jonas, her father’s cellmate. The big man nodded coldly at his wife as he sat down at their table, then turned to Hara and her father. “Good for you.”

Thomas’s face twisted into an ugly snarl, surprising Hara. He barked at his cellmate, “Jonas, you—”

“Hey, hey, you’re right, man.” Jonas held up a hand in peace. “I shouldna been eavesdroppin’. Heard ya when I came in, just wanted to say congrats to your girl.”

The anger in her father’s eyes dissipated as quickly as it had risen. “All right, sure. Rita, nice to see you.” He turned back to Hara, putting an end to the conversation.

Hara raised an eyebrow at him. Her father offered a half smile and a shrug. “Sorry. He knows I look forward to my time with you.”

She forgot sometimes. He was one way with her, but he had to be a different person when he left this room. Less of a person. It broke her heart.

“My little girl, the big reporter. Your mother must be dying.”

“Oh no. You can’t tell her.”

“Well, lucky for you, there’s no danger of that.”

“I know, sorry. You know how she is, though. She hears I’m meeting a famous athlete and she’ll go crazy. She’ll try to come with me, make me wear high heels and contacts and giggle behind a fan.”

Her father smirked. “You could go full-out, get your grandma to turn you into a geisha.”

“Ha. Grandma would stab you with a pitchfork if she heard you say that.” She and her father shared a sad look, missing the spunky woman whose mind was gone.

“You take after your mother, you know, much more belle than geisha. Good thing you’ve got her long eyelashes to flutter,” he said, plucking at his own nonexistent lashes.

Hara laughed. “My daddy, the hairless wonder.” She actually looked like both of them, and yet neither of them. Her height was obviously from Thomas, since her mother was tiny. A petite African-American woman and a tall Japanese dude. Between them, Hara had ended up with thick, wavy black hair that fell between her shoulder blades and a caramel skin-tone that confused a lot of people, especially in contrast to her translucent blue, almond-shaped eyes. People were constantly asking her where she was from, or, more rudely, “What are you?”

“I’m from a small town on the edge of Portland,” she would say. She didn’t bother trying to answer the other question.

“Daddy, I’m not kidding. Mom’s worse than ever. She hounds me to ‘dress like a girl,’ constantly leaving fashion magazines on my bed. I’m pretty sure she set up a Tinder account in my name.” Hara pinched her old sweater. “I dress fine. I’m comfortable. I know how to look nice if I need to. What she really wants is for me to attract a rich dude with my ‘feminine wiles.’ Someone dying to get married. Then my life will be complete. She’s a strong woman, running the farm on her own, yet I’m too muddled to take care of myself?”

“Willa just wants what’s best for you. To have a bigger life than she’s had, out of that town.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t need a man to do that for me. I don’t need anyone to do anything for me. Secondly”—she pushed up her glasses defiantly—“I know she loves me, I just wish she could see that I’m happy with what I’m doing. She’ll see, I’m going to get a job on a big paper, covering sports. Look at Michelle Beadle. Great sportswriter. And Hannah Storm. And Jemele Hill. I can be—I will be—a damn fine reporter.”

“You sound like you’re trying to make yourself believe that. You are talented, Hara. But your mother is right about one thing. If you don’t get your nose out of a book or a computer, you’ll never meet anybody. Someday you are going to realize you do need somebody. I don’t give a good goddamn who he is, as long as he’s good to you. Or she’s good to you.”

“Uh, I’m happy to see prison has made you so progressive. But just because I like sports doesn’t make me gay.” She grinned at him. “I like sports because of you. It’s all we talk about.”

“Well, now, complain if you want, but it seems like your time with me has helped you get a writing gig. Let’s see a little more gratitude, missy.” He touched her cheek but withdrew his hand when the closest guard cleared his throat.

There was a moment of silence. It hurt. She was close to her mother in many ways, but her hugs always ended with a torrent of worries about Hara’s future. Her father’s affection was unconditional, yet was fleeting and controlled. But who was she to complain? It was far worse for him, stuck in a place where any human touch was rare and usually inspired by violence.

“You haven’t given me the report yet,” he said after a moment of silence. “Who’s the starting roster for the Fishers? How they looking? What’s going on with the other teams?”

This was Hara’s job, covering the sporting world for her father, especially basketball. She used to love to play herself, then riding the bus to the prison to tell Thomas about her games, play by play, while he listened intently. As time passed, she found she was less interested in playing than in discussing strategy, plays, and analyzing coaching techniques with her father. She could say she did it for him, but it wasn’t really true. She’d truly come to enjoy dissecting games and players.

“Boston did switch out a few guys this year, but the basic roster is the same. Of course, everyone wants to be on the team with Charles Butler. He has never been hotter. What’s crazy is the Fishers brought back that rookie from last year, the one who sat on the bench.”

“Are you talking about Derek Darcy? Is he healed?”

“His footage from training is good, but it sure seems like a crapshoot to hold on to someone who’s been a dud. He is very fine to look at, I’ll give him that, and he must be smart if he played for Pepperdine. I’m just not sure he’s got what it takes to stick it out at the NBA level.”

“You’re pretty hard on him.”

“He blew his first impression, whether the injury was his fault or not. Now he’s going to have to earn back my respect.”

“Butler is the one who should have to earn your respect. He gets away with too much just because he can throw a leather ball through an iron hoop. I don’t like how he treats ladies. Or reporters.”

“I don’t know, Dad—they’re all players. But, like I said, I’ll be careful around him.”

“Be careful around all of them. You go out there and you kick their asses if they need it. You show ’em, you ain’t no sideline Barbie.”


For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?

—Pride and Prejudice

Hara strode to the back of the newsroom a few hours later, weaving through a cramped jumble of old desks. No one had bothered to turn on the overhead lights; the darkening gray clouds outside created more shadows than light. She wrapped a cardigan tightly around herself to fight off the early October chill.

Carter Hudson, owner of the Tribune and the only other full-time staff member, sat at a long table sifting through photographs for the next edition of the small-town paper.

“Hey!” she called out. When he looked up, she pointed to a framed photograph on the wall, an artful close-up of a wind-twisted pine tree. “This is new. I like it.” Juxtaposed against the beat-up furniture and scratched flooring, the walls were freshly painted in satiny cream and hung neatly with dozens of blown-up photos in heavy gilt frames. Carter didn’t like writing; he’d bought the newspaper so he’d have a platform from which to publish his photography, and he used the newsroom as a gallery. If it weren’t for Hara, there’d be very little actual news printed.

“Good, you’re back!” he called out. The forty-something man stuck a pair of pink leopard-print reading glasses on top of his mostly bald head and folded his arms, crinkling a silk shirt. “Mr. O’Donnell’s assistant called. She’d like you to call her back. Don’t mess this up, Hara.”

Before she could answer, a familiar voice pierced the air behind them.


She winced, not turning around. “You told her, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry.” Carter dipped his head. “I thought she knew—”

“That’s right! He told me. Not you!” Willa Isari marched up to her daughter. “Hara! This is so exciting! How could you keep it from me!”

“Mother, calm down. I just found out today.”

Willa looked like she just might vibrate apart, bouncing on her heels and grinning. The small woman flipped her long, dark curls out of her attractive face—vibrant, despite her years of picking apples and riding tractors in the wind and sun—and put a hand dramatically to her chest. “Hara. Please,” she said quietly, “just tell me it’s true. You’ve been invited to a cocktail party with the richest people in Boston?”

“What? No—”

“Actually,” Carter interrupted them, “yes. The assistant said they’ll fly you in this Friday. They’re going to set you up in a guest suite at the O’Donnells’ house. There will be a cocktail party to celebrate the start of the season. At some point in the evening, you will have twenty minutes with Butler, to ask him questions. Which, by the way, need to be preapproved.” The editor in chief’s lips twitched down. “They are footing the bill, but I’m not sure how I feel about limiting what we ask. I just hope Charles actually answers the questions.”

I guess I will have to wear high heels and makeup, Hara thought. Mom’s dream come true. Her thoughts turned into a swirling blob; an already highly stressful interview had just morphed into an invitation to the palace ball. Wtf? Now she not only had to worry about making a man who was famous for shunning the press actually speak to her, she had to dress up to do it.

“Well, I know how I feel about this!” said her mother. “We have so little time! We need to make an appointment immediately to get your eyebrows under control. You definitely need a bra fitting. And clothes! I have no idea how we’ll afford it, but you are going to that party dressed to the goddamn nines. Those rich, eligible bachelors are going to swoon when you walk down those stairs. I will make sure of it.”

“What stairs? Are you crazy? This is an interview—”

Her boss cleared his throat. “I can lend you a dress, Hara, from my mother’s closets. And there are probably shoes that fit.” Carter’s very wealthy, socialite mother had passed away the year before but the son kept her closets intact, to be close to her, or so he claimed. “You will want to blend in. But it’s more important to spend your time preparing for this story.”

“More important—!” Hara’s mother clenched her fists.

Hara put a hand on her mother’s forearm. While irritated, she had to fight back a laugh at the anguish in the older woman’s eyes. All over clothes and meeting men. “Simmer down, Mom. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Carter tossed over his shoulder as he rose and trotted back to his office.

Patting her mother’s arm, gently, Hara said, “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s not do this where I work.”

Willa peered around the room with an arched eyebrow. “Mm hm.”

“This is my job.” Hara pushed her black-framed glasses up her nose, the better to stare at her mother. “You know, how I make money. To help pay the bills.”

Willa thrust an envelope into Hara’s hand. “Here. Speaking of bills, here’s your mail.” She turned to go but then swung back around. “I do agree with one thing Carter said: This is a chance not to be wasted. I’ll see you at home.”

Hara dropped the student loan bill on her desk. The young reporter’s head began to throb. Hearing the door slam behind her mother, she slumped into a chair.

I need to take up day drinking.

She wished her mother could get behind her on this. Hara’s childhood had ended when her father went away, leaving her with a tightly wound Willa and only a few friends willing to stick by her. For years, walking through the aisles of the local grocery store had been a minefield of gossip and stares. She’d learned how to tune out people who were negative—though that sometimes felt like everyone around her.

She’d thought if she could prove she was smart and likable, the town gossipmongers would realize she was worthy and that her parents were still the same people they’d always been, farmers who’d grown up in this town and met at the local high school. At first, the young couple had struggled with bigoted bullshit aimed at their relationship, but both were so popular, they’d been named homecoming king and queen their senior year.

Hara struggled with plenty of her own bullshit at that school, and still graduated at the top of her class. She did have friends, but had spent zero time partying. Her free time consisted of picking apples, studying for AP literature, and rereading her favorite Jane Austen books. No homecoming title for her.

As a senior, she took on an internship at the local paper and started churning out her version of the Bleacher Report. Hara Isari liked sports and writing about sports. Carter encouraged her, printing her work and helping her get scholarships, but, according to a few of the town’s loudmouthed hillbillies, it was just one more thing wrong with her, a girl who thought she was an authority on football.

It was too bad. There was a lot to love about her little town, including the tree-lined streets circling the quaint city park, and the artists and loggers who coexisted with tech workers and telecommuters. Most of the citizens were decent, hardworking people who kept to themselves.

She’d left for college and hadn’t looked back. At least, until she’d graduated and realized she needed a full-time gig if she wanted to eat.

So here I am. Back in the thick of it.

The biggest difference between then and now was that now she had to cover the town beat in order to get paid. Stories on bunco games, drunken tractor driving, and the new flagpole in front of the Elks Lodge. Mind-numbingly boring, but it allowed her to spend her evenings writing and submitting freelance sports articles. So far, only a few had been picked up and nothing had gone viral.

To be honest, the biggest and most important difference between now and then was that now she realized she was partly to blame for her teen angst, that she’d pushed away the people who might have been there for her. Like her mother, and even Carter. Given a little time and space, she’d come to see that she’d hardened her heart. As an adult, she knew she needed friends, and was willing to look for the good in most people—though she immediately backed away if she sensed something off. Hara had perfected the art of living by first impressions.

Outside, clouds scudded across the sky like rocks skipping in slow motion across a darkened pond. Hara shivered. The wind was really picking up. She hoped it wasn’t going to storm. They hadn’t finished bringing in the apples yet.

Hara was staying out at the orchard for free, helping if her mom was short-handed, even if that meant giving her more opportunities to describe, in detail, how Hara could capture a man. She wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to take it.

It had been a very long and depressing year, in which she’d faced multiple rejections from bigger papers, the usual response being “we aren’t hiring.” The underlying, real message was “we aren’t hiring young girls.” Sportswriting was a tight field, anyway, but throw in her age and her sex and Hara feared she was going to have to settle for beat reporting until she could prove herself. It was one thing to cover the local stories and events for Carter in the interim, but she did not want this as a career. She wanted the excitement of action on the court or in the field.

She wanted what she couldn’t get at a small-town newspaper and definitely not out at the orchard, drowning in apples and unwanted advice.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t want a boyfriend. But she didn’t want someone because they were rich, nor did she want a man drawn to her only because she was thin and had shiny hair. She craved a man who would be drawn to her because she was talented and smart.

Hara wanted to be taken seriously—as a woman and as a reporter. Part of why she stuck with her big eyeglasses and wore bulky cardigans was to de-emphasize her sexuality. Admittedly, that got old, but better than people thinking she was stupid or shallow simply because her face was nice and her boobs were perky. She hated that. More than anything.

Well, okay, more than anything, she hated that she cared what other people thought. But she did.

Somehow the Charles Butler story had dropped into her lap. She had to jump at the opportunity. If she held back, she lost a chance to prove herself to the world. And to her mother. Hara closed her eyes and smiled, resolute not to let anyone spoil the mood.

Truth be told, she was also excited about the chance to go through Carter’s closets. Maybe this was one of those times she could be a smart career-oriented woman and a girl who liked to dress up, and it would be okay.

Hara had a free trip to Boston. Why waste it?

She clicked on the computer and went into her Google Docs. There it was. The most current version of her résumé. She hit print, and then looked up the street address for Boston’s biggest newspaper, City Gazette.

Her boss was back. Carter glanced at the résumé but pretended not to see it, instead handing her a slip of paper. “Here’s the assistant’s number,” he said, drawing up a chair. “You know, I’m not sure why they’re throwing this VIP treatment at an unknown reporter, including a press pass and a stay at the owner’s residence. I want you to be careful, Hara. O’Donnell and the other owners are forcing Butler into this PR stunt and tossing a young reporter to the lion. You won the writing contest, but I’m not sure the prize is worth it. I feel like they are buying a story.” Frown lines marched from his eyebrows back to the middle of his smooth, bald head. “I’m probably doing the wrong thing, letting you go.”

“No way! I can do this! I promise, I’ll be fair and unbiased, even if I have to use their questions.”

“They’re not really giving you a chance to develop much more than a puff piece. Is it worth it?” The older man tapped his chin, thinking. “I guess we can view this as a stepping-stone. Building connections. I just worry you’ll get the reputation as a lightweight writer. Yet, I’d hate to take an opportunity from you.”

“Then don’t. I’m a big girl. I can do this.”

“Should I get you a hotel room? I’ll pay for it myself, if that’ll make you more comfortable. This is just too weird, them offering to host you.”

“Let me talk to the assistant, okay? See how long I’ll be there and what it’s like at the house?” Hara grinned. “I mean, would you turn down staying the night in a mansion? Come on, that alone makes the trip worth it.”

Copyright © 2020 by Evelyn Lozada.

About the author(s): 
EVELYN LOZADA, is a high-profile American-Latina reality television personality, entrepreneur, author and philanthropist. She is best known for her role on VH1’s hit series Basketball Wives (2010-present), OWN’s hit series Livin’ Lozada (2015), author of the first installment of the book series: The Wives Association: Inner Circle (2012) and creator of Healthy Boricua (A Puerto Rican Lifestyle Guide to Healthy Living). Evelyn has become a national trendsetter, a “go to” fitness export, jewelry designer, fashion and beauty maven, social media royalty and a stimulating voice and proactive supporter of causes that effect women and girls through the Evelyn Lozada Foundation. Evelyn is a Bronx native, mother of two (Shaniece Hairston and Carl Leo Crawford) that currently resides in Los Angeles.

Holly Lörincz is a successful collaborative writer and owner of Lorincz Literary Services. She is an award-winning novelist (Smart Mouth, The Everything Girl) and co-author (best-selling Crown Heights, and How to Survive a Day in Prison) living in Oregon.