Carries Book Reviews

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Cursed Wolf
Sophie Ash
(Howling Death MC)
Publication date: March 29th 2024
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance

If the sweet veterinarian finds out I’m a werewolf, she’ll bolt.

But she’s my fated mate, and the beast in me is howling for a taste.

I’m the wolf she hit with her car and nursed back to health. I’m also the gruff biker who saved her from her creepy boss.

She has no idea man and beast are one and the same.

We’re from different worlds, but fate’s thread ties us together. She thinks we’re just dating, but she’s meant for me. And as I get to know her, I can’t get enough.

The more time we spend together, the more my wolf howls to claim her. Soon, I won’t be able to hold back the animal within me.

Fate has cursed me with an impossible choice. Reveal my wolf to a human and risk the safety of my pack.

Or force her into my world with a mating bite, and bind our fates forever.

Whether she likes it or not.

This book features fated mates between a human woman and a protective wolf shifter hiding a big secret. Each book in Howling Death MC is a standalone with a guaranteed HEA!

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“I love that brain of yours, but don’t think so much right now Emmaline.” His next kiss was softer, sweeter. The warm rumble of his voice pulled me right out of my head. “Be here with me, beautiful. Just feel.”

Don’t think. Feel. The voice in my head echoed what he said.

In an effort to do just that, I barely lifted my head to kiss him again. My eyelids fell closed and I poured all of my focus into feeling Tryn. The softness of his lips contrasted with the roughness of his beard. The heat of him and the breadth of his body. My hands landed on his back and went searching. When I found the hem of his T-shirt, I dipped under it.

Oh, I did not expect his skin to be so soft. The muscles underneath were hard, but also moved with a fluid grace that I never wanted to stop feeling. I already knew he gave great hugs, but to feel him wrap around me skin-to-skin would be on another level.

As if reading my mind, Tryn made off with his shirt when our kisses broke apart for air. When he lowered to me again, his fingers drifted under my shirt slowly, giving me every opportunity to stop him.

I didn’t. I kissed him harder, molding my body to his. A strong hand lifted me a few inches from the bed, just enough to get my shirt and bra off.

“Fucking perfect,” Tryn murmured along my collarbone before kissing lower.

My gaze found the ceiling. Any other time, I’d be in my head again, wondering if I looked weird topless, if my chest was smaller than what he preferred. But what I was quickly figuring out? Tryn knew how to make a girl feel.

 

Author Bio:

Sophie Ash is a USA Today bestselling author from Northern California, writing paranormal motorcycle clubs with plenty of bite, as well as passionate retellings of myths and folklore.

When she’s not writing, she’s probably reading, gardening, vacuuming up cat hair, or enjoying a craft beer in the sun.

Get a free standalone novella when you sign up to Sophie’s newsletter! https://BookHip.com/KBRCFWN

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / TikTok

 

GIVEAWAY!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

—

 

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Title: The Book of Thorns

Author: Hester Fox

Publisher: Graydon House

Publication Date: April 2, 2024

Page Count: 328

About the book:

An enchanting tale of secrets, betrayal, and magic…

Penniless and stranded in France after a bid to escape her cruel uncle goes awry, Cornelia Shaw is far from the Parisian life of leisure she imagined. Desperate and lacking options, she allows herself to be recruited to Napoleon’s Grande Armée. As a naturalist, her near-magical ability to heal any wound with herbal mixtures invites awe amongst the soldiers…and suspicion. For behind Cornelia’s vast knowledge of the natural world is a secret she keeps hidden—the flowers speak to her through a mysterious connection she has felt since childhood. One that her mother taught her to heed, before she disappeared.

Then, as Napoleon’s army descends on Waterloo, the flowers sing to her of a startling revelation: a girl who bears a striking resemblance to Cornelia. A girl she almost remembers—her sister, lost long ago, who seems to share the same gifts. Determined to reunite with Lijsbeth despite being on opposite sides of the war, Cornelia is drawn into a whirlwind of betrayal, secrets, and lies. Brought together by fate and magic at the peak of the war, the sisters try to uncover the key to the source of the power that connects them as accusations of witchcraft swirl and threaten to destroy the very lives they’ve fought for.
“The Book of Thorns is a gentle, magical tale of hope and healing in the midst of war. Fox does not hide from the fact that for all the romance surrounding Bonaparte’s exploits, nobody who fought at Waterloo came out unscathed, whether they were breathing by battle’s end or not. But Fox also reminds us that, even in fields tilled by cavalry charges and fertilized with gunpowder, flowers can grow.” –BOOKPAGE

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon  /  HarperCollins / Bookshop.org  / Barnes & Noble 

Excerpt:

CORNELIA

BEGONIA: a favor repaid, a warning foretold, a promise delivered in darkness.

Sussex, England, February 1815

I can feel Betsy watching me from the doorway.

She hovers like a bee, rehearsing some small speech in whispers. I pretend not to notice her fidgeting and instead focus on the vase of narcissi before me, the weight of my pencil in my hand. Betsy clears her throat, twice, but I am already arcing out the path of the dainty stems and unfurling petals. There is something calming about reducing the flowers to splashes of grays and blacks, finding beauty in the absence of light.

Betsy lets out a throaty cough. “You might as well come in and be done with it,” I tell her without looking up.

“Yes, miss.” She drops a curtsy, her gray ringlets bouncing under her cap. “It’s just that there’s a man in the drawing room with your uncle, miss, and your uncle asks that you join them.”

I continue sketching, watching the frilly petals take shape on my paper. “Please make my excuses,” I tell her. Uncle likes to bring me out when he has business meetings, the same way he sets out the good claret and crystal goblets with the old family crest. With no wife and no children of his own, I make a pretty addition and bring a touch of softness to his otherwise hard demeanor. “There’s a cake in the kitchen and cold ham as well that you might bring them,” I add as an afterthought.

But Betsy doesn’t leave. She wrings her hands and tuts about like a fussing hen. “No, miss. He’s for you.”

I carefully set aside my pencil. This is what I was afraid of. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples, wishing that it was anything else besides this. My time is not even my own, and I hate being pulled out of my work just to oblige Uncle.

“Very well.” I dismiss Betsy and take a moment in front of the mirror in the hall. Uncle’s friends and associates are mostly stodgy old men, but there is always the possibility that it could be someone young, someone exciting. I pinch roses into my cheeks and tease out a few of my yellow curls. If have control of nothing else in this house, I at least can take pride in my appearance.

I take a deep breath and let myself into the drawing room. “Betsy said you wanted me, sir?”

Uncle stands and tugs at his waistcoat. “Cornelia, come in.”

Though not more than fifty years in age, his poor temper and taste for rich food and drink has left my uncle with a ruddy complexion and portly figure. He is not a healthy man, and his jowls are loose, his complexion jaundiced. What he lacks in polished comportment, though, he makes up in his wardrobe, opting for elaborate cravats and showy brocaded waistcoats that never quite fit him but speak of money and an account in good standing at the tailor. Uncle waves me over, impatient. “Come meet Mr. Reeves.”

Obedient, I come and position myself near the window where I know the soft gray light is especially flattering to my fair complexion. The man unfolds himself from his chair. He is tall and spare, his black frockcoat well-cut and his boots shined. He looks familiar, perhaps from church or one of Uncle’s interminable business dinners. I suppose some might consider him handsome, but there is an intensity in his dark eyes that is more predatory than charming. “Miss Cornelia,” he says, taking my hand and bowing over it, “a pleasure.”

“Mr. Reeves.” I withdraw my hand. “I hope my uncle is not boring you with land yields and livestock accounts.”

He shares a confidential look with my uncle. “On the contrary. Our conversation has been on the most enjoyable of topics.”

“He’s here to see you,” Uncle says, plowing straight into the heart of the matter as he always does. “Mr. Reeves comes as a suitor.”

Uncle makes the outcome of this meeting perfectly clear in the sharp downturn of his lips. His patience with the matter of my marital status is wearing thin.

Well, that makes two of us.

I don’t fancy marriage, but I certainly don’t fancy spending one more day than I have to under my uncle’s roof, either. My dreams of publishing a book remain foggy and out of reach, and the money from my illustrations published in a French newspaper under a nom de plume pays only a pittance. It is not enough to live on, and certainly not enough for a young woman who enjoys fine things and an easy life. A husband would solve at least two of my problems, but it would create a host more.

“I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Uncle says, cutting me with a look that says there will be hell to pay if I emerge from this room without securing an engagement.

The air usually lightens, the room sighing a breath of relief, when Uncle leaves, but Mr. Reeves’s presence prickles me under my stays, makes me fidgety.

Betsy is posted outside the door, her needles softly clacking as she knits some horrid bonnet or muffler. Outside, a fine mist has rolled over the gentle Sussex hills. A smile spreads over Mr. Reeves’s sharp features. “Your uncle says you’re a spirited filly. That you need a strong hand to break you.”

Ah, so it is to go like that, then. I pour a cup of tea, ignoring my guest’s outstretched hand, instead lifting the cup to my lips. “That does sound like the sort of nonsense my uncle would say.”

Mr. Reeves regards me, his dark eyes calculating. “Your uncle was right, but I think he also underestimated you. I can see you possess some wits, so I’ll not mince words.” He crosses his long legs. “I am looking for a wife, and your uncle is looking to expand his landholdings to the south of the county.”

If the man who has sat down across from me was meek, pliable, then perhaps I would have more patience in hearing his suit; I don’t need someone who will get underfoot or try to handle me. Even some doddering old lord who might die quickly and leave me a widow would be acceptable. But Mr. Reeves is irritatingly young and looks to be in good health.

“My uncle was mistaken. I am not in need of a husband.” I offer him a cold smile, my mind already back on my flowers, my fingers itching to hold my pencil. The light has shifted with the gathering clouds, and I will have to rework my shading.

He pours himself a cup of tea. “Come, wouldn’t you like to have a fine house? Be mistress of a whole host of servants? I can see that you enjoy some degree of freedom, and I can give you that. You will have a mare and a generous allowance.”

“I should think it would be terribly lowering to have to lure a wife into one’s home with promises of horses and gowns. Shouldn’t you rather wish her to come of her own volition because she holds you in some esteem?”

“You are naive if you think that marriage is anything other than a business transaction. You are a young woman of beauty and some small means but a drain on your guardian. I am an enterprising man, with successful business dealings and a good bloodline looking for a wife who will elevate his status and ornament his home. I hold a commission in the army and anticipate traveling to the Continent shortly. It is a good deal for you, and you would be hard-pressed to find a better one, especially with your lack of polish and manners.”

“It’s a little late to be going over to the Continent, isn’t it? I believe we quite vanquished Napoleon.”

Irritation animates his dark eyes before he glances away, taking what I suspect is an intentionally long sip of his tea.

I study him over the rim of my cup, imagining the way I would draw the sharp angle of his chin, the aquiline nose, before finally placing where I’ve seen him. “You were married before, were you not?”

There is an almost imperceptible stiffening of his body. “Yes, I make no secret of the fact that I am a widower,” he says shortly.

“And how, exactly, did your first wife die?” The roses in the vase on the table beside me are vibrating, warning me. I pretend not to notice, pretend that I am a normal young woman who does not receive messages from flowers.

His lips thin. “An unfortunate fall.”

“Mm. She did not bear you any children, did she?”

“Barren.” He tugs at his cravat, irritated. “You would do well not to let your ear wander to every housemaid that has a piece of gossip to peddle,” he says coldly.

“In any case, I am not interested.” I move to put my cup down, but a hand closes around my wrist, hard. I look up to find that he has leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck.

“Perhaps you’ve also heard that I have certain…proclivities.”

The roses in the vase strain toward me, singing, setting my teeth on edge. My fingers begin to tremble, but I do not let him see it. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I think, dear girl, that you are under the impression that I would use you poorly.” He leans back, but only slightly, the air around him still charged and menacing. “I can be a very hard man when I’m tested, but I can take my pleasures elsewhere, so long as my wife is obedient.” 

His gaze is sharp, his grip painful, and I realize that here is a dangerous man, one who is not just a brute but also clever. He cannot be fobbed off with witty barbs or batting eyelashes.

“This conversation bores me,” I tell him, standing. “I will not be your wife. I’m sorry that you wasted your time in coming here.”

But he makes no move to stand, his cool gaze sliding over me in a way that leaves me feeling horribly exposed. “I’ve seen you often, Cornelia. In church, sitting so demurely with your hands folded in your lap. You may think to have everyone else fooled, but I see the spirit in your eyes. A woman like you can never be satisfied with the life of a spinster, put on a shelf here in Sussex. I can offer you fine things, take you to exciting places abroad with me.”

And I’ve seen you, I think. I’ve seen how cruelly you used your first wife, the bruises on her pretty face. The way she faded little by little every week in church, until she was just a ghost in a dress, her final service that of her funeral. That will not be me.

“Surely there are other young ladies that would be flattered by your attentions,” I tell him.

“None so beautiful, none that I would take so much pleasure in breaking. The more you deny me, the more determined I am. Ask your uncle. I am a man who gets what he wants, one way or another.”

All the promise of gold or Continental trips would not be enough to tempt any marriage-minded mama to let her daughter enter into an arrangement with a man like Mr. Reeves. But of course, I have no mama to arrange such matters for me, to keep me safe.

“Then, perhaps it was time you lose for a change. Do you not find it dull to always get what you expect?”

He stands, drawing close and jabbing a finger into my bodice. It takes some great force of will to stand my ground and not let him see my fear. “You may think yourself clever, but this visit was just a courtesy. Your uncle and I have all but drawn up the contract already.”

He storms out, and the room grows quiet in the wake of the front door slamming. Betsy startles from her seat where she had fallen to dozing. I close my eyes, take a breath, wait until my heartbeat grows even again. Then I return to my waiting drawing in the parlor.

If I work quickly, I can still finish it and have it ready for tomorrow’s post. But for now, there is no waiting publisher, no silly French pseudonym; it is just the light and the shadows and me, a silent dance as I commit them to paper. Mr. Reeves and his odious proposal quickly fade away from my mind.

But then a raised voice shatters the silence, breaking my concentration, and there is the thundering velocity of Uncle coming down the hall.

Excerpted from THE BOOK OF THORNS by Hester Fox. Copyright © 2024 by Hester Fox. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

About the Author:

Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical archaeology. She is the author of such novels as The Witch of Willow Hall, A Lullaby for Witches, and The Last Heir to Blackwood Library. When not writing, Hester can be found exploring old cemeteries, enjoying a pastry and seasonal latte at a café, or  scouring antique shops for old photographs to add to her collection. She lives in a small mill town in Massachusetts with her husband and their two children.

Author website  /  Twitter  /  Instagram / Goodreads

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Title: Daughter of Mine

Author: Megan Miranda

Publisher: S&S/ Marysue Rucci Books

Publication Date: April 9, 2024

Page Count:  365

My rating: 4 stars

About the book:

The new thrilling novel from Megan Miranda, the instant New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls, The Last to Vanish, and The Only Survivors.

When Hazel Sharp, daughter of Mirror Lake’s longtime local detective, unexpectedly inherits her childhood home, she’s warily drawn back to the town—and people—she left behind almost a decade earlier. But Hazel’s not the only relic of the past to return: a drought has descended on the region, and as the water level in the lake drops, long-hidden secrets begin to emerge…including evidence that may help finally explain the mystery of her mother’s disappearance.

Daughter of Mine by Megan Miranda is a suspenseful mystery novel. The style of this mystery is a little different than your normal straightforward story with there being a countdown to how long the small town had been experiencing a drought. This addition almost felt dystopian in nature but it all weaves into the mystery going on.

Hazel Sharp grew up in Mirror Lake in the home of her stepfather who was a detective on the small police force. Hazel’s mother had brought her to the small town and seemed to settle into life in Mirror Lake until one day she fled the town leaving young Hazel behind. Despite Hazel’s mother seemingly fleeing like a criminal Hazel’s home with her stepfather was never in doubt and he raised her as one of his own along with her step brothers.

Now, years later Hazel is returning to Mirror Lake after getting the call that her father had passed but what she didn’t expect was to be the sole heir of his will leaving her brothers out completely. On top of trying to figure out what she would do with her childhood home Hazel finds it even more confusing that what she believed of her mother’s departure was all a lie.

Daughter of Mine is not the first book I’ve read from author Megan Miranda and it certainly will not be the last. I went into this one with high expectations having enjoyed many of her previous books and thankfully I was not disappointed when finishing. The book is a rather slow burn mystery novel which did get me a little antsy in the beginning but it picked up along the way and definitely kept my attention with the pages turning quicker and quicker until the last twist along the way came to a close.

I received an advance copy from the publisher via NetGalley.

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon

About the author:

Megan Miranda is the New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls; The Perfect Stranger; The Last House Guest, a Reese Witherspoon Book Club pick; The Girl from Widow Hills; Such a Quiet Place; and The Last to Vanish. She has also written several books for young adults. She grew up in New Jersey, graduated from MIT, and lives in North Carolina with her husband and two children.

Her next book, The Only Survivors, will be published on April 11th, 2023.

Follow @MeganLMiranda on Instagram, @AuthorMeganMiranda on Facebook, or visit http://www.meganmiranda.com

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Title: Bless Your Heart

Author: Lindy Ryan

Publisher: Minotaur Books 

Publication Date: April 9, 2024

Page Count:  301

My rating: 3 1/2 stars

About the book:

A crackling mystery-horror novel with big-hearted characters and Southern charm with a bite, Bless Your Heart is a gasp-worthy delight from start to finish from debut author Lindy Ryan.

Rise and shine. The Evans women have some undead to kill.

It’s 1999 in Southeast Texas and the Evans women, owners of the only funeral parlor in town, are keeping steady with…normal business. The dead die, you bury them. End of story. That’s how Ducey Evans has done it for the last eighty years, and her progeny—Lenore the experimenter and Grace, Lenore’s soft-hearted daughter, have run Evans Funeral Parlor for the last fifteen years without drama. Ever since That Godawful Mess that left two bodies in the ground and Grace raising her infant daughter Luna, alone.

But when town gossip Mina Jean Murphy’s body is brought in for a regular burial and she rises from the dead instead, it’s clear that the Strigoi—the original vampire—are back. And the Evans women are the ones who need to fight back to protect their town.

As more folks in town turn up dead and Deputy Roger Taylor begins asking way too many questions, Ducey, Lenore, Grace, and now Luna, must take up their blades and figure out who is behind the Strigoi’s return. As the saying goes, what rises up, must go back down. But as unspoken secrets and revelations spill from the past into the present, the Evans family must face that sometimes, the dead aren’t the only things you want to keep buried.

Bless Your Heart by Lindy Ryan is the first book in a new series by the same title, Bless You Heart. This series is a mix of humorous horror with a murder mystery underneath and does tell the story by changing the point of view between multiple characters in the book.

The Evans Funeral Parlor is a family business and for years the Evans woman have been running it without incident. Things have been running so smoothly for the Evan’s family that teenager, Luna, doesn’t even know the real business that the family take care of behind the door of the funeral parlor.

The day has come however for all of the four generations of Evans women to jump right back into business when the body of Mina Jean Murphy is brought to the parlor and she seems to be waking right back up. This is where Luna learns her heritage and just how to really kill an ancient Strigoi, an original vampire.

Bless Your Heart by Lindy Ryan is sort of like taking the quirkiness and eccentricities of a humorous cozy mystery and combining it with some light horror. Yes, there are murderous vampires on the loose but there’s also some laughs and certainly an interesting family at the center of the story. I did rate this first book at three and a half stars thinking there was a lot thrown into the mix for the first book and I felt I could’ve gotten to know the characters a bit better but I have a feeling that the series will only continue to grow on me as it continues on.

I received an advance copy from the publisher via NetGalley.

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon

About the author:

Lindy Ryan is a Bram Stoker Awards®-nominated and Silver Falchion Award-winning editor, author, short-film director, and professor. Ryan the current author-in-residence at Rue Morgue, the world’s leading horror culture and entertainment brand, and a regular contributor at Booktrib and LitReactor. Her guest articles and features include NPR, BBC Culture, Irish Times, Daily Mail, and more. She is an active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Brothers Grimm Society of North America. In 2022, she was named one of horror’s most masterful anthology curators, alongside Ellen Datlow and Christopher Golden, and has been declared a “champion for women’s voices in horror” by Shelf Awareness (2023). Her animated short film, TRICK OR TREAT, ALISTAIR GRAY, based on her children’s book of the same name, won the Grand Prix Award at the 2022 ANMTN Awards.

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Title: The Happiness Blueprint

Author: Ally Zetterberg

Publisher: MIRA

Publication Date: April 2, 2024

Page Count: 368

About the book:

Klara and Alex are having trouble connecting, but at least their calendars are in sync.

Klara—who’s always thought of herself as a little different, a sneaker in a world full of kitten heels and polished boots—is feeling a disconnect these days. She has type 1 diabetes, currently works in a dead-end job, and is in desperate need of a change. When her dad falls ill, Klara begrudgingly agrees to help run his small construction company while he recovers, even though it means moving back home and pushing the boundaries of her comfort zone to the extreme.

Alex has been a shell of himself since his brother died in an accident. He’s unemployed, has bills piling up, and is distant from friends and family. His therapist is encouraging him to keep things manageable by setting up a calendar, checking off tasks each day, and looking for work to help get him back on his feet. When an ad pops up for a carpenter position at a small construction company, he jumps at the chance to take a step forward.

Klara’s and Alex’s stories unfold through a series of miscommunications in this clever and witty novel from debut author Ally Zetterberg that’s about finding acceptance and even love in unexpected places.

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon  /  Books A Million / Bookshop.org  / B&N 

Excerpt:

KLARA

Google: How do I run a construction company?

Sibling pairs are a bit like shoes from a lost and found. You put your hand in and can only hope to get two that match, knowing that two shoes are still better than one—at least you don’t have to walk around with one foot bare. In my parents’ case they won themselves a dust-covered Converse, perfectly functional and sturdy, and matched it with a glossy kitten heel that likes to look down at the flat sneaker.

I, the sneaker, speak.

“I have commitments, too!” I say, trying my best to sound as important as my sister, pretty sure I’m failing. I’ve said this exact sentence several times in the past twenty minutes, trying hard to be the winner of the Zoom tug-of-war, the holder of prime position and the central big square overshadowing the small ones. The current leader board has my sister, Saga, at the top followed by our mum as a close second.

“I have plans,” I say again, for a brief moment flitting onto the screen. Well, it is true. At least if Tuesday drinks and defrosting the freezer count. I can feel my blood pressure—actually, it’s more likely my blood sugar—rising. Stay focused, Klara.

“It’s a family emergency,” Mum chips in yet again. Thanks for stating the obvious. As if we didn’t know that already.

I decide to revert to the technique when you go back to the beginning of the conversation, repeating it all, hoping you have magically missed the solution and that it will make itself known—loud and clear—the second time round.

“How long would his treatment be, again?” I ask, even though I know full well the details, having joined the oncology team at Dad’s appointment via FaceTime earlier that day. Three months. Dad is lucky. Just one surgery and then a course of innovative localized radiation to beat what is considered stage 1 of prostate cancer. He caught it early and will most likely be okay. I’m not too worried about Dad. Cancer is a poignant, scary word, but 1 is a harmless number, thin and unassuming. At the end of the call, we were asked if we had any questions, and I would have had plenty, but now I had a 1 and didn’t need any other explanation. I haven’t even googled it.

Saga doesn’t bother to repeat why she can’t do the job, which surprises me. She usually misses no chance to talk about her important academic career at a highly esteemed international university and just generally, you know, her full and perfect life. Got to have that work–life balance, Klara!

Right now, I’d settle for just having a life. Never mind a balanced one.

“I’m really sorry I can’t be there to support Dad myself. There’s just so much going on.” My sister’s face is filling the Zoom square to the point where it has no background. Now if that’s not a telling picture of Saga, Queen of Filling Up Every Room She Enters. Me, me, me.

“It’s only a few months. Think of it as a long holiday—you will even get paid! Really, it’s an opportunity.” I ponder this. Sweden is in no way my preferred holiday location. But a salary from my dad’s company would be an increase compared to what I currently earn. Nothing.

“Say I agree, I’m not saying I do, but if, how would I even do it? You need qualifications and skills to do that type of job,” I say.

At first, we had been so relieved to learn Dad’s good prognosis that we had forgotten everything else. Then Saga had pointed out the company. This tiny little inconvenience in rural Sweden with three employees that somehow needed to stay afloat while Dad was focusing on his health.

“Darling, you already work in property!” Mum says, before turning to loudly sip a lurid green smoothie. I can’t help but think that if this had happened five years ago, before The Divorce, we wouldn’t be having this discussion as she would still be there. Not in a Marbella condo with a widower named Inge who she met at her church choir. I push the thought away. It’s not Mum’s fault. If Dad doesn’t resent her, then neither should I.

“I work for a website that sells them. I don’t demolish, construct, or tile their bathrooms!” I mean, what does Dad even do? Definitely not something I have expertise in. Which is technical-support chatting (“No, you can’t place the properties in your online basket, Susan. You must call the listed agent for a viewing.”). Mostly I do nothing that remotely touches on property. Think of me as a helpful bot.

“Please, Klara. Someone has to do it. We need your answer soon,” Saga says. Oh no, not that line. Translation: you’ve got to do it, you are the little one, and I may have some shared responsibility, but in the end it’s on you, little sister. Like when we were kids and messed up the living room building a fort or a shop and the time came for tidying up. Someone has to do it, Klara. If my sister ever happened to commit murder, I bet you it would be my job to dispose of the body, due solely to my genetic link to her and our birth order.

“Let me see if I can make some arrangements,” I mutter.

“I didn’t want to say this, but… I thought you were on a break from work right now?” I can hear my sister’s smug smile even though her blurry screen prevents me from actually seeing it. She is well aware that people have breaks from relationships—not jobs. If it’s the latter, then it’s simply called unemployment. Or disciplinary suspension. Let’s not get into that, shall we.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to connect with old friends?” Mum attempts.

What friends? I think. The ones I had a decade ago have inevitably moved on and away. If I were an old lady, we would now have the sort of relationship that is marked only by the exchange of Christmas cards. Except I’m not, so there aren’t even the holiday greetings. If I were braver and funnier, even a faint shadow of my sister, I would have seen this coming and averted it by recruiting new friends. But this would have required actually socializing, going places with a frequency I’m not adapted to (I need rest days from socializing the way others do from the gym) and the ability to keep a conversation going without the help of alcohol.

I currently have a grand total of one friend: Alice, who is my housemate and who says hilarious things like “Yay, I got booked for a hand job!” (She has a side gig as a hand-and-foot model.) Mum and Saga both know this.

“Listen, I know it’s not what you want, although I’m not entirely sure what you actually do want. But quite frankly, it’s time that you pulled your weight.”

I look down at my waist before I realize that she is not talking about my BMI.

Then my nephew Harry—Saga’s primary excuse for dodging the Sweden bullet—starts howling like a wolf in the background, hitting a key only a toddler can master. The noise! Quickly, I make up my mind. “Okay, then.” The Harry siren goes off again.

“Right, that’s my cue to leave the call!” my sister shouts in a key only a mum can master. I swear parents teach their children to become a distraction at exactly the right time. It’s not fair that they all have an excuse to leave a boring Zoom call while the rest of us have to stay put and listen to the end.

“Fine. But you help out with what you can from over there. That’s the deal.” I insist on calling my sister’s new homeland by anything but its proper name. I’m well aware that it is childish behavior coming from an adult, however much she misses her sibling.

“Of course. Bye, then. Lifesaver!” Saga leaves the call.

The doctors will be saving Dad’s life, not me, I want to argue. But then I think of the convention to liken unpleasantness with death and consider the fact that it is perhaps Saga I have saved from Sweden.

“Mum?” No reply. She must have hit a button or lost connection. Her screen is empty. I’m left staring at just myself in the Zoom square, a sad sight of disheveled dark locks and eyebrows in a discontented frown. Finally occupying the prime position.

I toy with the idea of calling them both back up and demanding their attention. You and I need a word, I would say with authority. Well, literally just one word. No. But I do just that: think it, and nothing more.

“Scheibe,” I say to screen me. One of the few words I’ve picked up from my sister and kept handy in my vocabulary. Unfortunately, I feel like I’ve had to use it almost daily during my twenty-six years in this world.

I guess I’m heading home to run my dad’s company. Great.

ALEX

Move between neighborhoods like I’m haunting them. Left too early for my appointment, and when I realized, I just kept walking. Possibly in circles, as I seem to be seeing a lot of very similar hip coffee shops. Notice after a while that I’m avoiding the bustling Möllevångstorget and its bronze monument named The Glory of Work. Lately, I’ve taken its presence as a personal insult.

It’s fucking freezing, and I curl my fingers into my hand, shielding them within my fist. The coat sleeves just about reach down and stop any icy wind from getting to them. Don’t mind being cold: reminds me I’m still capable of feeling things.

It’s 4:00 p.m. when I finally walk into the Malmö Psychotherapy Center. Dr. Hadid is wearing a bright blue headscarf with a flower pattern when I enter her room. It does brighten my mood ever so slightly; I much prefer medical professionals who are relaxed and colorful as opposed to the GP uniform of shirt, smart trousers, and loafers in shades of beige. Find myself counting the small delicate flowers on her head. Math is a good distraction and one of the things I still enjoy. Aware it may not be the coolest hobby for a twenty-nine-year-old. I get to sixteen before she interrupts me.

“How have you been doing, Alex?” she asks.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did you do anything this weekend? Do you want to tell me a bit about your past week?”

Not really, but it’s a rhetorical question. They all are, and the whole purpose of me being here is to answer them, so obviously I speak. There seem to be a lot of rhetorical questions to answer when your brother dies.

“I went to my uncle’s funeral. What else? Had pizza five times. Capricciosa with added jalapeños. Aren’t jalapeños just the best spice ever? A little bit naughty, like telling-a-dirty-joke naughty, but not so full-on that you have to cover your ears. They challenge you, but don’t tip you over the edge. I like that in them.”

The corners of Dr. Hadid’s mouth move upward.

“The bin collection on our street seems to have moved to 5:00 a.m. I’m thinking about giving the company a call to complain.”

“Have you tried the earplugs we talked about?”

“I find that then my thoughts get louder, if that makes sense? I prefer to listen to the garbage truck than to my mind.” There is a flower on the windowsill; I wonder who waters it on weekends and am just about to ask when Dr. Hadid addresses me.

“I think it’s time to start making some plans. It’s been six months since Calle died and four since I started seeing you. You’re ready. It would give you structure and take the focus off the unhelpful thoughts.”

Notice that she’s using my brother’s nickname. Maybe she thinks she can get through to me, appear more familiar, if she doesn’t call him Carl.

“Plans? Like coffee with a friend?” That may be hard since my friends have taken a back seat recently. Somehow, me in sweatpants better suited for the laundry basket and holding a pizza box and a bag of chips isn’t their ideal Friday night. Or any other night of the week, for that matter. We talk around that for a while, and a possible route out of the idle existence of Netflix and Nil (the latter referring to my current account balance).

“Let’s start by entering to-dos into your calendar. I’ve seen success with this approach before. Do you have an iPhone?”

I shrug and nod simultaneously.

“Great. So you set yourself a challenge of entering three tasks per day. They can be simple, such as doing the dishes, going for a walk, or updating your CV. The important thing is that you set the intention—add it to the calendar—and then complete the task. How does that sound?”

“That’s fine, I guess.” Brush your teeth, do some reading, make the bed. Sounds like a to-do list for children. Next, she’ll be handing me a star-sticker reward chart. Got to take recovery seriously, though, so tell myself off for trivializing the very qualified professional’s advice.

Dr. Hadid is unaware of my thoughts and proceeds to write up notes on her screen.

“Good. We will move appointments from weekly to monthly, but please call me if you feel you need one sooner. My door is always open.” This makes me smile. If there is one thing a therapist’s door always is, it’s firmly closed. To guard the consultation room from the waiting room. I have one last question. An important one.

“What about the car and the ring?” I fiddle with the ill-fitting metal around my finger, sliding it up and down, my thoughts turning to something else through the motion, embarrassing, completely involuntary.

“I suggest keep them for now. One step at a time. I don’t see any harm in those two tokens if they give you comfort.”

We finish up with small talk about her daughter who is backpacking in Asia and how it gets dark already at 5:00 p.m. in Malmö this month, and then I enter the same way I came.

There are twenty-seven flowers on her headscarf.

Excerpted from The Happiness Blueprint by Ally Zetterberg. Copyright © 2024 by Ally Zetterberg Literary Ltd. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author:

Ally Zetterberg is a British-Swedish writer. She spent ten years working internationally as a fashion model before becoming a full-time mum. Being neurodivergent herself and the mother of a child with Type 1 Diabetes, she is passionate about writing relatable characters and representing those living with medical conditions in commercial fiction. She speaks four languages and spends her days doing her best not to muddle them up.

Author website / Twitter / Instagram