What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama Blog Tour
**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: What You Are Looking For Is in the Library
Author: Michiko Aoyama
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Publication Date: September 5, 2023
Page Count: 223
About the book:
For fans of The Midnight Library and Before the Coffee Gets Cold, a charming Japanese novel about how the perfect book recommendation can change a readers’ life.
What are you looking for? is the question that Tokyo’s most enigmatic librarian, Sayuri Komachi, poses to those who come to her for their next book. The list of recommendations she gives, however, always contains one unexpected addition that promises to give its the borrower the motivation they didn’t realize they needed to change their life.
Each visitor comes to the library from a different juncture in their career, family, or stage of life, from the restless sales attendant who feels stuck at her job, to the struggling working mother who dreams of being a magazine editor. The conversation that they have with Sayuri Komachi – and the surprise book she lends each of them – will have life-altering consequences.
With heartwarming charm and wisdom, What You Are Looking for is in the Library is a paean to the magic of libraries, friendship, and community, perfect for anyone who has ever found themselves at an impasse in their life and in need of a little inspiration.
Find this book online:
Goodreads / Amazon / BookShop.org / Harlequin / Barnes & Noble / Books A Million
Excerpt:
Two days later, I’m standing outside the elementary school with my laptop in hand. I follow the directions from the Community House home page and walk along the school fence until I reach a narrow road. There it is: a two-story white building with a sign over the canopy at the entrance that says “Hatori Community House.”
I go through a glass door and see an old guy with bushy gray hair at the front desk. In the office behind him, a woman with a bandana sits at a desk writing something.
“Um, I’m here for the computer class,” I say to the old guy.
“Put your name down here. It’s in Meeting Room A.” He points at a folder on the countertop. A sheet of paper inside has a table with columns headed Name, Purpose of visit, Time of arrival and Time of departure.
Meeting Room A is on the ground floor. Going past the front desk to the lobby, I turn right and find it immediately. Through an open sliding door I can see two students sitting at long tables facing each other with their laptops open: a girl a bit older than me with soft wavy hair and an old guy with a square face.
The teacher turns out to be a woman, not a man. Ms. Gonno is probably in her fifties.
I go over and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Tomoka Fujiki.”
She gives me a friendly smile. “Please, sit wherever you like.”
I choose to sit at the same table as the girl, but at the other end. She and the old guy are concentrating so hard on their own stuff they take no notice of me. I open up my laptop, which I’d already started up at home since I haven’t used it in ages and which took forever to boot. My fingers feel like bananas on the keyboard, probably because I only ever use a smartphone. I should probably do some practice in Word as well.
“Ms. Fujiki, you want to learn Excel, don’t you?” says Ms. Gonno, glancing down at my computer.
“Yes. But this computer doesn’t have Excel.”
She looks at my screen again and moves the mouse around a bit. “Yes it does. I’ll make a shortcut for you.”
A green icon with an X for Excel appears at the edge of the screen. No way! Excel has been hiding in my computer all along?
“I can see you’ve used Word, so I assume you have Office installed.”
I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about… But I did ask a friend at college to set up Word for me when I couldn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe that’s how it got in there. This is what happens when you leave stuff up to other people.
For the next two hours, I learn all about Excel. Ms. Gonno wanders between me and the other two but I get special attention, because I’m the newcomer, I suppose.
The most amazing thing I learn is how to perform addition by highlighting cells. Just press a key and bam! with one touch they all add up! It impresses me so much I can’t help cheering, which Ms. Gonno seems to find funny.
While practising as instructed, I overhear the conversation between Ms. Gonno and the other students. I get the impression they are regulars: the old guy is building a website about wildflowers, while the girl is setting up an online shop. I feel like such a waster. All the time I’ve been lazing around in my apartment doing nothing, not far away these two have been getting on with stuff—learning things! The more I think about it, the more pathetic it makes me feel.
When it’s nearly time to finish, Ms. Gonno says, “There’s no set textbook, but I’ll give you a list of recommended titles. Don’t restrict yourself to these, though. Have a browse in a library or bookshop and see what you can find for yourself that’s easy to follow.” She holds up a computer guide and smiles. “You might like to look in the library here in Community House.”
Library. What a nice-sounding word. So comforting. I feel like I’m a student again. Library… “Am I allowed to borrow books?”
“Yes, anybody who lives in the ward can borrow up to six books for two weeks. I think that’s the rule.”
Then the old guy calls for help and Ms. Gonno goes over to him. I make a note of the recommended titles and leave.
~
The library is also on the ground floor. I pass two meeting rooms and a Japanese-style room at the back of the building beside a small kitchen. The door is wide open with a sign on the wall that says “Library.” Rows and rows of bookshelves fill an area about the size of a classroom. A counter to the left of the entrance is marked “Checkouts and Returns.” Near the front counter a petite girl in a dark-blue apron is arranging paperbacks on a shelf.
Feeling shy, I approach her. “Excuse me, where are the books on computers?”
Her head jerks up and she blushes. She has huge eyes and hair tied back in a ponytail that swings behind her. She looks young enough to still be at high school. Her name tag says “Nozomi Morinaga.”
“Over here.” Still holding several paperbacks, Nozomi
Morinaga walks past a reading table and guides me to a large shelf against the wall. “If you need any recommendations, the librarian is in the reference corner.”
“Recommendations?”
“You tell her what you’re looking for, then she will do a search and give you recommendations.”
I can’t find any of the books Ms. Gonno recommended on the shelf. Maybe I should consult the librarian. Nozomi said she was at the back, so I make my way to the front desk, then look toward the rear. That’s when I notice a screen partition with a sign hanging from the ceiling that says “Reference.”
Heading over, I poke my head around the corner, and yikes! My eyes nearly jump out of their sockets. The librarian is huge… I mean, like, really huge. But huge as in big, not fat. She takes up the entire space between the L-shaped counter and the partition. Her skin is super pale—you can’t even see where her chin ends and her neck begins—and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter. Her hair is twisted into a small bun right on top of her head, and she has a cool kanzashi hairpin spiked through her bun with three white flower tassels hanging from it. She is looking down at something, but I can’t see what exactly.
The name tag around her neck says “Sayuri Komachi.” Cute name.
I edge a bit closer and clear my throat. Ms. Komachi’s eyes roll up to look at me, without moving any other part of her body. The whites of her eyes are enormous. She’s stabbing a needle at something the size of a Ping-Pong ball balanced on a mat the size of a handkerchief. What is she doing? Putting a jinx on someone? I almost scream out loud.
“Ah…it’s, ah…it’s okay,” I manage to squeak, but all I want to do is turn tail and get away as fast as possible.
“What are you looking for?”
Her voice…it’s so weird… It nails my feet to the floor. As if it has physically grabbed hold of me somehow. But there’s a warmth in it that wraps itself around me, making me feel safe and secure, even when it comes from that unsmiling face.
What am I looking for? I’m looking for… A reason to work, something I’m good at—stuff like that. But I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she expects. “Um, I’m looking for books on how to use a computer.”
Ms. Komachi pulls a dark-orange box closer. I recognize the design of white flowers in a hexagon shape. It’s a box of Honeydome cookies. I love these. They’re dome-shaped, with a soft center, and made by Kuremiyado, a company that specializes in Western-style confectionery. They’re not exactly gourmet, but just a little bit special and not something you can just pick up in a convenience store.
When she lifts the lid, I see a small pair of scissors and some needles. She must be using an empty box for her sewing things. Ms. Komachi puts away her needle and ball, then stares at me.
“What do you want to do on the computer?”
“Excel, to begin with. Enough to tick the boxes on a skills checklist.”
“Skills checklist,” Ms. Komachi repeats.
“I’m thinking I might register on a career-change site. I’m not that happy with my current job.”
“What do you do?”
“Nothing great. Just selling ladies clothes in a general department store.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to one side. The flower tassels on her hairpin shake and sparkle.
“Is being a sales assistant in a department store really not such a great job?”
I don’t know what to say. Ms. Komachi waits patiently for my reply.
“Well, I mean… Anybody can do it. It’s not like it was my dream job or anything I desperately wanted to do. I just kind of fell into it. But I live on my own, so I have to work to support myself.”
“You managed to find employment, you go to work every day and you can feed yourself. That’s a fine achievement.”
Nobody’s ever summed up my life in this way before. Her answer makes me want to cry. It’s as if she sees me, just as I am.
“But all I do to feed myself is buy stuff from the convenience store,” I blurt out clumsily, though I know that’s not what she really means by “feed yourself.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to the other side. “Well, the motive doesn’t matter so much as wanting to learn something new. That’s a good attitude to have.”
She turns to the computer, places both hands on the keyboard and pauses. Then she begins typing, at amazing speed! Shoo‑tatatatata! Her fingers move in a blur and I nearly fall over myself in surprise.
Ta! She gives one final tap, then delicately lifts her wrists from the keyboard. Next moment, the printer springs into action.
“These should be suitable for a beginner on Excel.” Ms. Komachi hands me the sheet. A Step-by-Step Guide to Word and Excel, Excel for Beginners, Excel: Fast Efficient Notebooks, A Simple Introduction to Office. Then I notice, right at the bottom, a title that stands out.
Guri and Gura? I stare at the words. The kids’ picture book about two field mice, Guri and Gura?
“Oh, and this too.” Ms. Komachi swivels on her chair slightly as she reaches below the counter. I lean forward a bit more to sneak a look and see a wooden cabinet with five drawers. She opens the top one, which seems to be stuffed with soft, colorful objects, picks one out and hands it to me. “Here you are—this is for you.”
Automatically I hold out my palm and Ms. Komachi drops a lightweight object on to it. It is round and black, about the size of a large watch face and with a straight bit poking out. A frying pan?
The object in my hand is a felted frying pan with a tiny round clasp on the handle.
“Um, what’s this?”
“A bonus gift.”
“Bonus gift?”
“Yes, something fun, to go with the books.”
I stare at the frying pan…er, bonus gift. It is sort of cute.
Ms. Komachi opens the Honeydome box and takes out her needle and ball again. “Have you ever tried felting?”
“No. I’ve seen it on Twitter and stuff, though.”
She holds up her needle for me to see. The top is bent at a right angle for holding it, while the tip at the end has several tiny hooks sticking out.
“Felting is mysterious,” she says. “All you do is keep poking the needle at a ball of wool and it turns into a three-dimensional shape. You might think that you are simply poking randomly, and the strands are all tangled together, but there is a shape within that the needle will reveal.” She jabs roughly at the ball again.
There has to be a ton of felted things inside that drawer. Are they all bonus gifts to give away? But her attention is now completely focused on her hands, as if to say My job here as librarian is done.
When I return to the shelf of computer books, I find the recommended titles and choose two that seem easy enough to understand. But what about Guri and Gura? Maybe I should get that too. I read it many times when I was in kindergarten. I think I remember my mother reading it to me too. Why would Ms. Komachi recommend this book? Did she make a mistake?
The children’s picture books are in a space next to the window sectioned off by low bookshelves. It’s a shoes-off area covered with interlocking rubber floor mat tiles. When I enter and find myself surrounded by lots of cute picture books, I feel peaceful all of a sudden. Calmer, and more relaxed. There are three copies of Guri and Gura. I guess the library keeps multiple copies because it’s such a classic. Maybe I will borrow it… I mean, it’s free, isn’t it?
So I take my two computer books and Guri and Gura over to Nozomi at the checkout counter, show my health-insurance card as ID to apply for a borrower’s card, and check out the books.
Excerpted from What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama. Copyright © 2023 by Michiko Aoyama. Translation from the Japanese copyright © Alison Watts 2022 Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
About the author:
Born in 1970 in Aichi prefecture, and currently living in Yokohama, Michiko Aoyama worked for two years as a reporter for a Japanese newspaper in Sydney after graduating from university. After her return to Tokyo, she started to work as a magazine editor at a publishing house before turning to full time writing. Her work has won the 1st Miyazakimoto Prize, the 13th Tenryu Literary Prize, and has been a runner up of the 2021 Japan Booksellers Awards. This is her English-language debut.
The Soothsayer by Glen Gabel blitz with 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.**
The Soothsayer
Glen Gabel
Publication date: July 1st 2023
Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult
★★Colin Devereaux is a teen in crisis. He’s an outcast at school, a target for bullies, and a helpless bystander as he watches his single mother wither from cancer. But those problems pale to the things he can’t explain – the dark creatures he’s spied lurking over his sleeping mother’s form, the strange old shopkeeper at the marina who seems to know Colin’s mind, and the mysterious puzzle box that the old man trades for Colin’s name. The line of reality blurs as the puzzle box opens, revealing a path to another world and a clue that may save his mother’s life. Stranded in a kingdom devastated by darkness and war, Colin joins a ragtag resistance against evil forces to find salvation for his mother and himself.★★
—
EXCERPT:
Colin and Balaam burst past the dark creatures, knocking them over, and raced back down the lane. The serpents coiled and chased after them.
“They’re following us!” Colin yelled as Balaam veered down a narrow alley of gravestones. The demons flung themselves around the tombs and closed in to pinch off their escape.
“They’re cutting us off! We’re dead!” Colin shrieked as he kicked at Balaam’s sides frantically.
“Yes, wonderful! Keep saying such helpful things!” Balaam yelled back and veered again, running up the sagging side of a crumbling tomb to its roof and hopping to the next one and the next like they were stones on the water. The serpents hissed and raced forward at the bases of the tombs, slithering parallel to the donkey’s course.
Colin clutched Balaam’s mane as he stared, wide-eyed, ahead. They were charging towards the cemetery’s wall, several inches higher than the tombs themselves.
“Wall! Wall! Wall!” Colin screamed and pulled back on Balaam’s mane.
“Let’s see them try this!” Balaam yelled back as he ran across the last roof and, with a mighty jump, hurled them into the air, barely missing the wall’s ledge and crashing into a thatch cart on the other side. Colin held tight as they smashed through the cart and onto the street. Guards nearby ran forward, brandishing spears. “Halt!”
“New problem!” Colin yelled as he clung to Balaam, who darted past the guards, knocking them over in his wake.
“Always!” Balaam snorted as he careened down an alley and onto another street, then veered again onto the King’s Way leading to the royal courtyard.
“Okay, slow down!” Colin called. “We lost them.”
Balaam slowed his pace as they entered the great market. Stands, overhangs, and shops were littered with random goods. Crowds of people moved about, and merchants carried baskets of wares. “Let me have control here. Subtlety is key,” Colin whispered to the donkey.
A group of guards on horseback turned onto the street before them. The captain’s face went sour. “You! Boy! Halt!”
“Oh shit,” Colin moaned.
“Wonderful leadership, very subtle,” Balaam said and rushed to the right, knocking over a cart and sending pottery flying.
“After him!” yelled the captain, and his men gave chase.
Colin spun his head around as Balaam charged down another street. The guards rushed closer and closer. One soldier grimly eyed Colin, pushing his mount ahead to match Balaam’s speed. He thrust his spear at Colin, and Colin grabbed it. The two struggled with it as they hurtled down the lane, their mounts neck and neck. The onlookers screamed and ran as the two riders knocked over merchant carts and crates between them.
Without warning, a merchant pushed a cart out from a side alley in front of Colin’s opponent. Both man and horse collided with it and fell away. Two other guards replaced him within seconds.
“Go faster!” Colin yelled as he kicked Balaam’s side.
“I’m a donkey! Not a race horse!” Balaam called back.
The lane split to the left and the right ahead. “Pick one, great leader!” Balaam demanded.
“Uh, right! No, left!” Colin screamed.
Balaam dashed ahead, down the left lane, and into a caravan of garments.
Reams of fabric went flying, covering both Colin and the donkey.
“I can’t see!” Balaam screamed.
An unending ream of silk covered Colin’s face. He could hear the guards ’horses behind as he fumbled with it. “Just keep going!”
Balaam flew past scattering crowds, past screaming merchants, and right through a thatched wall.
Author Bio:
Glen Gabel learned to love storytelling at an early age, enlisting his friends in short films, plays, and anything he could jot down on paper. Later his passion turned to screenwriting and eventually into novels and short stories.
After graduating from The University of Southern California with a B.A. in Creative Writing and Film, Glen worked under Joss Whedon at Mutant Enemy/Fox as a production assistant before transitioning to education and earning an M.ed at Portland State University. He later
accepted a lead instructor position in Pasadena, California, before moving on to professional copywriting.
Glen’s work includes selling his supernatural thriller screenplay, “The Harrow,” script doctoring on several independent films, and his latest YA fantasy novel, The Soothsayer. Glen’s most recent short story, “Where Light Has No Purchase” was shortlisted as a finalist in Reedsy’s Writing Contest in April 2022 and published in the 2022 Bardsy Character Anthology. He lives in Idaho with his wife and wonder-pup, Duke.
Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Newsletter
GIVEAWAY!
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Main Character Energy by Jamie Varon Blog Tour
**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: Main Character Energy
Author: Jamie Varon
Publisher: Park Row
Publication Date: September 5, 2023
Page Count: 310
About the book:
Poppy Banks would rather be writing mysteries than writing listicles for her dead-end job at Thought Buzz. But after a series of rejections, she’s ready to accept life on the sidelines as a plus-size woman. Her aunt Margot is the one person unwilling to give up on her niece’s dreams and tells her so at their secret yearly lunches.
But all of Poppy’s beliefs about herself are challenged when her beloved aunt dies and leaves her niece a grand surprise—a trip to her villa in the French Riviera. There, she learns her aunt intends to leave her stunning villa and secretive writer’s residency to Poppy—if she can finish her novel in six months.
When the writing countdown begins, Poppy realizes she has more to confront than her writer’s block. Family drama, complicated romances and self-doubt all threaten to throw her off course. In this fun and heartwarming debut, Poppy must decide if she can live up to her aunt’s—and her own—desire to be the main character in her own life.
“This book absolutely dazzled me from the opening scene until the very last page. Highly recommend!”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of Summer Reading
“a sparkling debut” -PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Find this book online:
Goodreads / Amazon / BookShop.org / HarperCollins / Barnes & Noble / Books-A-Million
Excerpt:
When I met my aunt for the first time, I expected to hate her. After all, she had been the villain in my mom’s story since I was a kid. They hadn’t talked in nearly twenty years and every time I brought her up, my mom would shut me down. I didn’t know what caused their fracture, but my mom’s anger was enough to make me believe that Aunt Margot was the problem.
I never wanted to go behind my mom’s back and betray her trust, but when Margot contacted me in secret, I knew I had to finally meet my elusive aunt.
It was a shock to me that our first visit felt like a reunion.
I thought she’d be hard-edged and critical like my mom was, but instead, she was warm and effusive. I was pulled into her comforting orbit immediately.
We convened in Malibu on a rainy, moody February afternoon. I was twenty-three years old and hopeful, brash, naive. We ate at a cliff-side restaurant, waves crashing against the rocks below us. I didn’t know this would be the start of an annual tradition where I’d meet her for lunch once a year in February, always at the same place, the same order—a sacred ritual just for us.
“Poppy,” she said, her eyes crinkling, her hands outstretched for me to grab them. She seemed ready to cry and I sat there feeling slightly guarded and guilty. I wasn’t supposed to be here. If my mom knew I was meeting with Margot, she wouldn’t be happy. But curiosity had won out.
“Hi,” I said, and the one question that had plagued me slipped from my lips before I could stop it. “What happened between you and my mom?”
Her face clouded over for just a fraction of a second before she waved me off and said, “That’s neither here nor there. Tell me about you. What do you love, Poppy? What lights you up? Who do you want to be when you grow up?”
There was a magic to Aunt Margot. It was clear immediately. I felt myself open up like a blooming sunflower in her presence. A smile spread across my face, the initial guardedness falling away like petals to the ground.
Looking at Margot was like looking at myself in the future. Long, loosely waved, chestnut-brown hair, hers streaked with natural gray, mine highlighted by caramel coloring. Almond-shaped eyes. Hers, moody gray-blue. Mine, vibrant green. Curvy bodies. Heart-shaped faces, reddened at the cheeks. Full lips tinted a cherry red, and straight teeth.
Where we differed was that she was so at ease in her body. She made me feel stronger, simply because she was so herself. Her body wasn’t an apology. She existed as if everything about her were a celebration. She wasn’t braced for the world, like I felt I was. When she spoke to the servers at our lunches, they were all mesmerized by her. She had the kind of wide-open soul that invited everyone in. She had confidence that radiated outward. I basked in it, like it was sunlight after an endless winter.
I wanted to be as carefree as her.
I still do. She made me feel bold.
“What lights me up? Writing,” I told her, jutting my chin up. “I want to write books.”
Her face beamed into a wide smile.
“That’s wonderful, Poppy,” she said. “Are you writing now?”
“Yes,” I told her. “I’m working on a novel. A thriller, actually.”
Margot looked delighted.
“I love thrillers, too,” she said. “Who’s your favorite author?”
“PJ Latisse,” I said quickly.
Margot sported a grin and said, “Oh, I love their books.”
“You don’t think it’s silly?” I asked, my voice low. “To want to be an author? My mom thinks I’m wasting my time.”
My relationship with my mom was beginning to deteriorate and maybe that’s why I met Margot—to rebel against my mom and all her rough edges. I was realizing I could have agency over my beliefs about the world and myself. She’d spent my childhood urging me to lose weight, forcing me on various fad diets, hoping I would become thin like her. But my body was unruly then. Still is. It didn’t respond to her shame, but my mind did. And I felt cloaked in it.
My mom believed a thin body, handed over like a sacrifice, made dreams come true. Or at least, a thin body was the initial conduit for a good life. Without it, possibilities limit and dwindle. If I did nothing with my life except lose weight and find some man to marry me, it seemed like that would make my mom the happiest. She had virtually no patience or interest in my dreams or aspirations.
“Silly?” Margot asked, cocking her head to the side. “To follow your dreams? Never.”
“Mom says dreams don’t pay the bills.” I shrugged. “But I have to try, don’t I?”
“You always have to try,” Margot said with a sharp nod of her head. “It’s your life, not hers, after all.”
“Hmm,” I said, nodding. For years, I’d been writing at night, during stolen time. I’d been reading my whole life and books were my first love. All I’d ever wanted was to be a writer.
“Remember this, Poppy. For some people, it works out,” Margot said with authority. “You don’t know if it will for you until you try. If you love it, don’t give up on it. Ever. No matter what anyone says.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling, feeling supported and buoyed for the first time ever.
“Something I always say: at the very least, do it for the plot. Do it for the story. Be bold in life, mostly because not being bold is boring as hell.” Margot tipped her head back in glittery laughter and I felt my chest expand in hope.
“The last thing I’d ever want to be is boring,” I replied.
“Good.” Margot nodded firmly, then clapped. “Now, tell me all about what I’ve missed for the last twenty-three years of your life. Don’t skimp on a single detail!” Margot’s hands framed her jaw and she rested on her elbows, waiting with undisguised glee.
This Margot was the villain in my mom’s story? But, she was lovely. I spent the rest of the lunch catching her up, and she listened with rapt interest. It was the most seen and heard I’d felt in a long time.
And so, when she asked if we could meet again the next year, I said yes. And it became our annual tradition. I secreted the visits away from my mom and never told her about any of them. I kept that first lunch—and future lunches—with Margot in my pocket like a precious stone I could rub my fingers on for luck, support, and the unconditional love I longed for.
From MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY by Jamie Varon. Copyright Jamie Varon. Copyright © 2023 by Jamie Varon. Published by Park Row, an imprint of HarperCollins.
About the author:
Jamie Varon is an author, branding expert, course creator, and graphic designer living in Calabasas, California. Her nonfiction book Radically Content was published in 2022 with Quarto and is currently being adapted into a feature film with Camilu Productions LTD. Main Character Energy is her debut novel.
Author Website / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Goodreads
Buried Roots by Terra Weiss blitz with 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.**
Buried Roots
Terra Weiss
Publication date: September 5th 2023
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Mystery, Romance
I might’ve found my own grave.
Or not, but I don’t have time to figure it out. A perfect stranger willed me his neglected fifty-acre farm, and now, this New Yorker has two weeks to get it sell-ready. With a business to run, I can’t stay in this boondock town a second longer.
But I’ve got it handled—even after a series of suspicious property mishaps. Even after the threatening notes.
My veterinarian neighbor Owen Brooks shows up with a sledgehammer, a wicked sexy smile, and Demon, his appropriately named foster bulldog. But after losing my family, I only rely on myself.
That doesn’t stop Owen and the town of Violet Moon from showing up for me. Maybe family isn’t just blood.
Owen and I can’t deny our magnetic connection as we restore the historic estate. But the more we dig, the more my disturbing buried roots surface. I have to confront that grave… and my bombshell family secret.
*Buried Roots is a grittier, heartfelt romcom mystery with adult language and steamy, open-door chemistry that will have you rooting for a happily-ever-after.
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EXCERPT:
I approach my car, and everything around me is echoey and out of focus. I just have to take one step at a time, the first being to get this car out of the ditch.
A windowless white van slows to a crawl as it swerves around me. Nerves clench in my gut as the driver pulls onto the shoulder just up ahead. A stranger driving a kidnap van in this desolate place? Hell no! I already have a raging fear of the woods.
When the driver steps out, I grip the pepper spray on my key ring. So what if he’s got a killer bod and shock of black hair? Who cares if he’s wearing a faded t-shirt and rugged jeans, like some Hallmark movie hottie? I know better than to be fooled by looks.
I check the highway, scanning for other cars. Of course, this country road is empty. When he gets closer, I see the oily black streaks on his face, the filth on his hands, and the dirt on his clothes. And he’s wearing mismatched neon socks. That has to be ironic, no? But his smile is wicked sexy when he says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Ma’am? Is he for real? I force a smile and a wave when I say, “No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Translation: don’t come an inch closer.
“You’ve got it?” His voice is incredulous.
“Yup. All good.”
His eyes bulge as he stops and glances at my stuck tire. “All good? Looks like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”
On closer inspection, he has muscles everywhere, and the light scruff on his carved jawbone is annoyingly sexy. Which again, will not stop me from pepper spraying his fine ass. Hello, stranger danger—in the middle of nowhere. “Pickle? Nah.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, this isn’t a sexist thing. I have a mother and three sisters who could kick everyone’s ass. But this road doesn’t see much action, and I can’t leave someone out here.”
“I appreciate that, I really do. But I won’t be stuck long—I’m handy.” That’s a stretch. I restore homes, so I am handy, but with cars, I only know the basics.
He raises a brow as he studies my face. “Handy or not, getting a car out of a ditch is a two-person job. At least.” He cocks his head and hitches up his voice a notch when he adds, “Out here, there’s no Triple A.”
“I don’t need Triple A. But thank you.”
His lips quirk up as they appear to search for a response. “Once I leave, you might not see another car for hours.”
“I’ll figure it out. I’m a New Yorker.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
My hand lands on my hip. “Explains what, exactly?”
“Nothing.” His mouth curves in a patronizing grin.
His amusement pisses me off. It’s really hard not to sound condescending when I say, “I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”
He hesitates before he hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Okay, then. I’m leaving.”
Our gazes lock, like we’re in a game of eye-chicken. That’s fine, bring it—I don’t mind studying his. They’re part ocean, part storm cloud—sparkle tinged with despair. Like mine. I don’t look away, don’t blink when I say, “I see that, and good for you. Enjoy your day.”
He steps away in defeat. “I’m really leaving this time. You’ll be out here in the backwoods. All by yourself.” Another step back. “When you could have a mechanically inclined, super handy guy give you a hand.”
I put my palms up. “Again—mechanically inclined, super handy hands right here.” I wiggle my fingers and paint on a smile. “Sir.”
“All righty, then. Good luck.” That grin is back. “Ma’am.”
I hate to admit it, but damn it, smug is sexy on him. Our gazes lock again, and I enjoy looking at his smile, looking at him. Forget eye candy—this country boy… or man, with distinguished light creases on his temples—is more of an exquisite eye confection.
And now, I’m staring. I attempt to run my fingers through my auburn hair, which I’ve forgotten is bobby-pinned. My hand gets stuck, and I try to play it off as a head scratch.
He waves. “I’m Owen Brooks, by the way. It was nice meeting you.”
“You too.” I’m not giving him my name. I point at his feet and say, “Nice neon socks, by the way.”
That smug grin is back when he runs a hand over his dirt-stained tee. “Pulling this look together wasn’t easy.”
I smile, and for the first time, it’s genuine.
Author Bio:
Terra Weiss is a romcom author with a knack for witty banter and gift for capturing authentic family dynamics. Readers love how her stories steer away from typical romcom cookie-cutter formulas and show how real-life people find real-life love.
When Terra’s not spilling the tea on what happens in the big and small towns that live in her heart, you’ll find her with her spunky daughter, mad scientist husband, wacky and wonderful mother, and the two six-pound dogs that run her house. She enjoys jogging at a snail’s pace, reading from her iPhone, and piling bright orange mountains of squeezy cheese on her crackers.
Want a FREE ebook? Sign up for Terra’s newsletter and get one as a thank you! http://www.terraweiss.com
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The Fall That Saved Us by Tamara Jerée blitz with giveaway
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The Fall That Saved Us
Tamara Jerée
Publication date: September 5th 2023
Genres: Adult, LGBTQ+, Paranormal, Romance
Nephilim—humans with direct lines to the angels—are natural demon hunters. All nephilim, it seems, except Cassiel. The weakest among a family touched by archangels, she’s abandoned her angelic inheritance for a mundane life as a bookseller. But even in the noise of the city, she remains burdened by the strict tenets of her old life. And recently, something far more sinister haunts her.
Avitue is a succubus out for revenge—though she has little say in the matter. As part of the greater demons ’plan to ruin Cassiel’s family for slaying a duke of Hell, Avitue’s been sent to claim a particular nephilim soul, one she’s told will pose little challenge. It should be an easy seduction. Quick, fatal. But Avitue is surprised to find her own pain reflected in Cassiel, a nephilim deemed fallen by her own family’s standards.
By choosing trust, they reveal the lies that bind them, but as unwilling participants in an eternal war, trusting each other is the most dangerous thing they can do.
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EXCERPT:
I try not to speak to the angels, but sometimes, I still hear their songs—when my mind is empty in the white noise of the shower, when I clumsily bloody my hands with the kitchen knife, when I stir sugar into my tea. These incidental joys and pains and nothings are the only times in my new life when I’ve been able to cry, compelled to do so as if by divine command. Their words course through me like molten gold, precious and searing. The world flashes white, then settles anew, unchanged but briefly brighter. Here’s the proof that they still turn their eyes to me. I wonder whether they see a wayward child.
The first time I heard their voices, I’d regained consciousness on the cold cellar floor of my childhood home, my face tear damp. It’s not so incapacitating as that anymore, but neither familiarity nor my angelic inheritance can fully diminish an encounter with the divine. I’m still human despite what my mother would like to believe about us.
Their songs are louder today, more frequent, as if the angels, too, have been keeping count.
Today marks the third anniversary of my leaving. I don’t know what the angel song means on this day, whether the chorus is passing judgment or merely observing with me. They sang the night I left, bright and clear. I took it as a sign.
Three years ago, at midnight, when my sister Zuriel caught me descending the stairs of our family estate, I begged her one more time to come with me out into the world. It’d been our secret for months that I planned to leave, to live in the city among regular people. I’d needed to tell someone, and she was the only one I could tell. My truth turned our relationship tense. We tried to be each other’s shelter as we always had, but it couldn’t last when I was trying at every turn to convince her to leave while she tried to convince me to stay.
“We can survive this if we have each other,” she’d say to me—when she braided my hair, when we traced protective sigils into each other’s skin. We sparred harder at the end as if winning meant the loser would have no choice but to adopt our perspective. I knew that as long as she would fight with me, she would fight for me.
But on those stairs, she’d stared too long at our clasped hands, and I doubted her. I couldn’t breathe. Two stairs separated us, she above, framed by the darkened stained-glass window on the landing. I, below, looking up. A terrible look crossed her face, as if this final meeting was a test of her devotion.
I’d wanted her to say something about us. Instead, she invoked duty and legacy.
“Don’t be like Gabriel,” I said.
We rarely called her mother. To us, she has always been Gabriel. For some, she’s a beacon.
Our records of all the angels and their nephilim are inconsistent, but the one most thoroughly documented through history is Gabriel. For the generation before my mother’s, there was no Gabriel born, no nephilim namesake of the great archangel. The reappearance seemed a sign for some. Other archangels, too, had claimed nephilim in our family. We’d clearly been blessed. When I was young, pilgrimages to our home were common—and also how our mother spread her philosophy of denial and restraint as the way. She was a beacon, and I should’ve been grateful to be her daughter. Our Aunt Raphael might’ve become a black sheep, but in Gabriel’s eyes, my siblings could make up for her lack. Because of their namesakes, Michael and Zuriel were burdened with more expectations, but Zuriel internalized the pressure the most. And suffered from it the most.
My sister gave me a tight smile. “You’ll come back,” she said, withdrawing her hand from mine to weave a familiar blessing in the air. For good fortune and protection, the one we drew before a hunt we knew would be especially dangerous. She pushed its energy toward me, and it settled into my skin with a light shimmer.
I wanted to tell her she had it wrong. I wasn’t the one entering a dangerous world. It was a wasted blessing, and we didn’t waste blessings.
I wanted her to say she’d miss me. I wanted an affirmation that we’d made this life less terrible for each other.
She retreated silently up the stairs, and I fought to breathe in her absence. Alone on the dark stairs, my bag cutting an ache into my shoulder, I considered scrambling after her, making one last bid for us. Together. As we’d always been.
But that had never been the way our family handled emotion. Big displays were anathema to us. For the last time, I followed her stoic lead, this time away from her.
Author Bio:
Tamara Jerée (they/them) is a graduate of the Purdue University MFA Program and the Odyssey Writing Workshop. Their short stories have appeared in the Shirley Jackson Award-
winning anthologies Unfettered Hexes: Queer Tales of Insatiable Darkness and Professor Charlatan Bardot’s Travel Anthology. Their poem “goddess in forced repose” in Uncanny Magazine was nominated for the inaugural Ignyte Award. They’ve worked as an indie bookseller and a writer in the video games industry. The Fall That Saved Us (out 9/5/2023) is their debut novel.
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