The Ghost Cat by Alex Howard Blog Tour
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Title: The Ghost Cat
Author: Alex Howard
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Publication Date: August 27, 2024
Page Count: 193
About the book:
For fans of Before the Coffee Gets Cold and How to Stop Time, a charming novel by TikTok sensation Alex Howard that follows a cat through his nine lives in Edinburgh, moving through the ever-changing city and its inhabitants over centuries.
Early morning, 1902. In a gloomy Edinburgh tenement, Eilidh the charlady tips coal into a fire grate and sets it alight. Overhearing, a cat ambles over to curl up against the welcome heat.
This is to be the cat’s last day on earth. But he is going to return… as The Ghost Cat, a spirit-feline destined to live out his ghostly existence according to the medieval proverb of “The Cat with Nine Lives” – For Three He Plays, For Three He Strays, For Three He Stays.
Follow The Ghost Cat as he witnesses the changes of the next two centuries as he purrs, shuffles and sniffs his way through the fashion, politics and technological advances of the modern era alongside the ever-changing inhabitants of an Edinburgh tenement.
As we follow our new spirit-feline friend, this unique story unearths some startling revelations about the mystery of existence and the human condition and provides a feel-good read full of charm for any fan of history, humour and fur-ridden fun.
Find this book online:
Goodreads / Amazon / BookShop.org / HarperCollins / Barnes & Noble
Excerpt:
FIRST HAUNTING,
APRIL 1909
On the morning of his first haunting, Grimalkin felt supple and alive; more alive, in fact, than he’d ever felt as a sentient breathing Victorian cat.
He had landed in 1909 with a thump. Rather than having to acclimatize his senses to the eerie, misty environment of Cat-sìth’s waterfall, the transition through time felt immediate, as if he had been dropped from a huge height. Suddenly, he was just there…sitting back on a fine oak table in the bay window of 7/7 Marchmont Crescent. With one turn of the head, he could see the whole street: there were the communal gardens opposite, tucked behind filigreed iron railings and sweeping off to the right as the street disappeared into a tree smudged infinity. It was clearly springtime as the trees opposite were bursting with taut little pods of pink blossom. Glimpsed at intervals along the street, the odd horse and carriage loitered while awaiting the emergence of passengers from tenement doors, their oil-painting-like stillness disturbed only when the horses tugged against the reins or stamped on the cobbles with an irritated clop. Above, purple clouds huddled tightly, their edges yellow where the sun tried its best to pierce through. The cobbles were dark with the wetness of a recent shower. Grimalkin knew these showers well, having often bolted in from the garden when they struck, only to stare longingly out of this very window as the Edinburgh sun burst out again, making steam rise off the carriage tops below. It was a familiar and heart-warming scene; one Grimalkin could happily gaze at for hours in Victorian times, particularly if it was mating season and the pigeons were out on the sandstone sill, cooing and clucking tantalizingly close, almost within swiping distance.
Well, nothing has changed! thought Grimalkin suddenly, with a pang of disappointment. That Cat-sìth charlatan has merely returned me to Victoria’s reign! Why, I have been duped! Ah…ah, ah steady on, wait…
He turned his gaze back into the belly of the room. His eyes widened and his back fur prickled upward in shock. Here, everything was different. In place of the somber damask wallpaper of his Victorian youth, the walls had been painted a pure, apple-green. Rather than great mirrors and huge paintings, little artworks studded the walls in clusters. Most of them appeared to feature the same fairy-like woman in billowing white robes. French? Dutch? Grimalkin wasn’t sure. There was a soft hiss emanating from the room…somewhere on the wall? Somewhere above? Grimalkin’s ears twitched furiously. Yes, there! In the center of the ceiling, the chandelier had been removed. In its place there hung a little brass sconce that breathed out an orangey flame behind a smoked-glass lampshade. Above it, the formerly pristine ceiling rose had turned black with tarry soot and Grimalkin could feel the dryness of the gas-heated air rasp at his throat.
They think they’re being clever, he thought, eyeing the ceiling rose. They will struggle to beat a good coal fire for efficiency and comfort!
Fancy bow-fronted armchairs, settees and cabinets squatted about the floor, upon which books and papers were piled up into dubious little towers. On a side table, a looking glass and moustache comb rested beside an open snuff box. Apart from the flicker of the blue flame, everything was perfectly still as if frozen by some kind of spell.
Humph, apologies Cat-sìth… I see there HAS been a change…
How can so much change in just seven years? Was Eilidh still tending the fires? It made Grimalkin feel eerie looking at it all: this room where he drew his final breaths had become a lens into the future. He was suddenly struck with the sense that this whole business of time travel might turn out to be rather more taxing on his brain than he’d initially thought.
But something else was different—Grimalkin himself. As he stood on the table, his paws perfectly centered, he became suddenly aware of a complete absence of pain. The arthritic throb in his back and legs had vanished. His left rear leg and flank, always a focus of curiosity to Marchmont Crescent’s visitors owing to its bright marmalade hue, had lost its oily aged texture and become velveteen again, like a fox cub’s tail. Down at the point where his paw hinged from the base of his leg, the little bald patch that had so long been the recreation ground for a particularly stubborn army of fleas, was now smooth and itch-free.
Could it be that my ghosting role has rid me of the pestilence? If so, praise be!
Grimalkin rewarded the discovery with a wash. Gazing at the windowpane, he was shocked to discover he couldn’t see his reflection. However, as he rose and arched his back with ease, and felt the springiness of his ears as they pinged up each time he sent a damp paw across them, and glimpsed his perfectly pink toe pads, he could tell he had become young again. He couldn’t see his eyes, but were he able to, he would have guessed that they were no longer rheumy and grayish and that his whiskers were sharp and unjagged again. And he would have been right.
My word, I’m veritably juvenile! he thought, stretching up his tail like a broom handle. A potent, virile pride washed across him: he was a looker again, an Adonis of cats…a youthful, muscular mouser whose iron claw had once commanded the envy and respect of all the cats in the neighborhood. He rose to his paws and turned a large vainglorious circle on the table, his ears pricked up into sharp triangles. He leaped onto the back of an armchair, his supernatural paws making no noise whatsoever as they landed on the polished oak. He felt positively ageless, neither kitten nor adult…with all the vim and energy of the former but with the latter’s acuity of mind.
I feel in the most capital of moods! May I be a spirit-puss FOREVER MORE!
Suddenly a noise. From over his shoulder there came the familiar creak of the living room door lock turning. Grimalkin spun around. A short, narrow-shouldered man entered the room in a silver-swirled Jacquard waistcoat. The man strode over to the bay window as if about to pull open the sashes, before turning back and making a sudden stop in the middle of the room, as if he’d been halted by a police constable. He then proceeded to bounce on the balls of his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching, and his eyes darting around the room frantically. At one point, he appeared to look directly in Grimalkin’s direction, though could see nothing of him of course. What caught Grimalkin’s feline attention most of all, however, was the perfect little mustache that crossed the man’s top lip, its ends waxed up into points, like a mouse’s tail. It seemed to jiggle in perfect time with the man’s nervous energy as he bounced up and down on the spot. Stiffly, the man flopped down on the settee, placing one leg over the other with a dandy-like flourish, the fingers on his right hand patting a little ditty on the settee cushion, in an ongoing attempt to calm himself.
The man of the house? mused Grimalkin, for the man moved with the ease of a gentleman who knows he is unobserved in his own space; a rich man; an entitled man who has the wealth and means to live, by and large, as he pleases…
The man closed his eyes and let out a big sigh through lips circled into an O-shape.
There was a jumpiness to the way he moved around, which, along with his scruffy waistcoat, misaligned collar and limp bow tie, made up the sort of human that would put any cat ill at ease. His fingers were continually tap-tap-tapping, and Grimalkin was convinced he was the type who went about their business far too quickly as if there was a fire around every corner, or a bear careening up the stairwell, or a marauding army of Jacobites about to scale the tenement walls. This behavior was at odds with Grimalkin’s, who, like all Victorian cats, knew a thing or two about taking his time and tending to his appearance properly. It was like being around a jack-in-the-box… an awful spring-loaded human who could leap and surprise at any moment and positively ruin a good slumber.
I wish he’d bally-well SLOW DOWN. Such unrestful behavior!
It didn’t help matters that there appeared to be something on the man’s mind. Something important.
A thought occurred to Grimalkin. He cannot see me, but I wonder if he can hear me? With that, he opened his mouth and let out a gentle, but concerted purr-mew.
Prrrrrp? Prrrrrrrrrrrrrr—woaw?
But the man did not respond.
Silence briefly filled the space between cat and man as the gentleman took a pipe from his breast pocket. Drumming his fingers, he plucked a tin from a little adjacent table from which he extracted a healthy amount of stringy tobacco and a box of matches. Striking one of the matches, he guided the flame to the two gas lamps that curled out from the mantelpiece like the necks of swans. Blue-yellow flames leaped out from the sconces as the lit match approached, spurting like fiery dragon breath, and reflecting for a moment on the man’s forehead.
“Heavens Archie, man, pull yourself together!” blurted the gentleman to himself, tossing his tobacco box back on the side table. “You’re a publisher, for God’s sake. He should fear you if anything. Just be civil. J. M. Barrie. Humph! So, he’s started doing well for himself. Well, who hasn’t in this day and age? The whole world’s on the make what with motorcars and electric lights and God knows what else! J. M. Barrie? Why, he’s just like everybody else! And I need not fear him; you hear that Archie, ol’ bean? You need not fear him.” The man fell silent for a moment. Grimalkin scrutinized his brow to see if any secrets of his character lurked there.
“Prrrrrpppppppp…” said Grimalkin, this time a little louder. No, he cannot hear me. For three he stays, for three he strays, for three he plays. I am only meant to observe in this age…with no poltergeist capabilities, and perhaps no power to roam beyond this flat either. This gentleman and I shall have to get better acquainted.
Unseen observation felt exciting to Grimalkin: the thrill of the gaze, unthreatened, with the only prospect of pain being that which is emotional, rather than physical…the chance to witness the unvarnished truth of the ages! He wanted to find out what happened and who this J. M. Barrie character was. Evidently, he was a writer of some sort, though not one Grimalkin had ever heard of during Queen Victoria’s reign. There had been piles of books he’d slept on and, occasionally, perused, back in the 19th century; but they had all been written by a certain Robert Louis Stevenson who was preoccupied with lighthouses, or Elizabeth Gaskell, who was obsessed with wizened old clerks and long descriptions of dirty mills that, frankly, made Grimalkin’s whiskers droop.
With a moody burst of energy, the man procured a walking cane from underneath the settee which he used to jab a wooden button, mounted just to the right of the fireplace. On pushing this, a bell chimed down the hall. There followed a padding of feet. And from those feet alone, Grimalkin could tell who was approaching…the mere dance of that noise into his ears made him slowblink in fondness. Eilidh.
The doorknob turned, and in came Eilidh herself, the same boar-bristle brush in her hand, and the same flushed face, like a little rosy moon, under the same white headdress. Unchanged. She smiled and turned to the master.
“Yes, sir? Can I help ye?”
A delicious scent came with her into the room: one of her famous pies was in the oven, known throughout Edinburgh for its exquisite taste. She breathed heavily. It was then Grimalkin noticed the first signs of age: she was a little wider about the shoulders and her eyes, though still sparkling, had lost their youthful, girlish twinkle. The pompadour hairstyle had gone; instead, her hair was pulled back in a matronly style that Grimalkin suspected offered maximum practicality for her work and nothing else. Her skin had become thicker, too, and those once perfectly pink cheeks had lost some of their porcelain tautness. But Eilidh’s hands were perhaps the biggest change—the skin was cracking about the knuckles, which had clearly become arthritic, and the undersides were so red that Grimalkin suspected they must bleed often. Despite this, her fingernails remained scrupulously clean, the progress of years clearly doing nothing to her habit of scrubbing them free of coal dust after each shift. Oh, Eilidh! The same sweet maid who found Grimalkin in Thirlestane Lane stables, and tended to him throughout his young life, right up to his dying day in 1902!
Excerpted from The Ghost Cat by Alex Howard, Copyright © 2024 by Alex Howard. Published by Hanover Press.
About the Author:
Alex Howard is an author, editor and theatre professional from Edinburgh. His TikTok page, Housedoctoralex, has nearly 300,000 followers and his been featured on television and in the national press. A doctoral graduate of English literature, Alex wrote his first book Library Cat (B&W Publishing) while completing his PhD. It won the People’s Book Prize in 2017, and has been translated into French, Korean and Italian. He also writes poetry, which has been published in New Writing Scotland, Gutter and The London Magazine, among others, and his academic book Larkin’s Travelling Spirit was published in 2021 by Palgrave McMillan.
Author website / GoodReads / Instagram / LinkedIn / X (Twitter) / TikTok
Carved From Wood by Brendan O’Meara 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.**
Carved From Wood
Brendan O’Meara
(Crafting Humanity, #2)
Publication date: June 6th 2024
Genres: Dystopian, Young Adult
James and his team head South after witnessing the BlankZone decimate the city of Midway. Their self-ascribed mission is to explore the most dangerous place on the planet – the new BlankZone border in the Southern Federation.
While conspiracies drive the narrative in the North, James and his team set out to learn about the Federation’s mysterious aggressors. Jump back into the adventure as James and his friends discover new families, build allies, and come face to face with the enemy threatening their existence. Secrets, lies, and manipulation are exposed as James gets closer than he ever imagined to their greatest threat.
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EXCERPT:
Next up.
Stacie did not give anyone else the chance to go ahead of her and within seconds her back was against the wall next to Deck. Another sign from Deck signaled it was James’s turn to go.
Why the hell did I have to follow Stacie, he thought tensing his stomach muscles, crouching as low as his body would allow, and sprinting to the edge of the camp. His heartbeat remained taut while he walked the tightrope of slim shadows under the glare of the floodlights until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Stacie. Deck signed to them:
You two get the intel. I’ll handle the rest of the team.
Stacie and James nodded in unison and walked to the edge of the tent. Stacie held up her hand to stop and in one swift motion brought it down. Time to move.
James followed her, sticking close to the shadows. They reached the front of the tent.
No sentry, thank God, James thought, and Stacie guided them farther into camp. They discovered a natural hiding place behind racks of ion shield emitters where they could regroup to locate intel. James scanned the tents. Deck wasn’t kidding about erring on the more side. Four barracks stood side by side on one half of the camp while the outer ring housed functional buildings indicated by their standard Federation insignias etched into the front flaps. Vehicles were lined up in an orderly fashion, their headlights gleaming in the dimmed lighting. Beyond the barracks lay a long flat strip of asphalt accompanied by a tower with a beacon alternating white and green flashes.
Do they have a runway? James thought, wondering how temporary this camp actually was.
He felt a tap on his arm and Stacie pointed at one of the tents. It looked like nothing at first, but when James looked closer, he saw the telltale generators stacked outside its doors likely there to fuel HOLO emitters. The front flap bore a compass rose with swords as the directional points indicating intelligence in Federation icons.
That’s where we need to start, James thought, scanning the area around the tent and evaluating their options to move closer.
Stacie placed her hand on top of one of the shield emitters and James knelt next to her ready to sprint when he was blinded by light accompanied by a loud CRACK.
James reacted, dropping flat behind the emitters. He reached out, finding Stacie’s shoulder, rolling her behind the shield with him. He regained his vision while purple and blue dots popped up in his sight line. He shifted another one of the emitters in front of him while Stacie grabbed the other, penning them inside the bunch. Overhead sirens blared and the shouts of a military camp coming to life roared around them.
Someone must have tripped an alarm. They woke up the entire camp.
His hands curled into fists and his leg muscles tensed ready to spring.
Stacie leaned over and whispered in his ear above the cacophony and chaos surrounding them, ’re fucked.”
Author Bio:
Raised in White Plains, New York, Brendan O’Meara formed a love of stories and books from a young age. He has spent his free time over the last decade crafting his debut novel, Cut From Stone, book one in the Crafting Humanity series.
It began in Philadelphia where he attended college daydreaming about a dystopian reality. With a vivid imagination (as described by his middle school teachers) and a passion for adventure, Brendan’s novels will transport you to a different life and capture you from cover to cover.
Brendan lives in Washington, DC with his daughter, wife, and two dogs. You will find him on the weekends drinking a beer watching the Packers and Notre Dame football games. He is an avid reader with a specific interest in sci-fi, anything dystopian, fantasy, history, and all levels of fiction.
Brendan would love to hear from you, feel free to contact him any time at brendan.omeara@craftinghumanity.com.
Finally, visit craftinghumanity.com and sign up for our email lists for news, updates, and information on the rest of the Crafting Humanity series. We will not spam you!
GIVEAWAY!
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Feeding My Addiction…
**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.**
Watch me rhyme today with my sharing post… It’s now Sunday which is always a fun day but I only have one ‘day… Haha Ok, it’s close but I do just have one new title to share today. 🤣
As always clicking the covers will take you to the book on Amazon!**
New additions from Netgalley Aug 18th – Aug 25th
New from the author of the runaway New York Times bestseller Weyward comes a spellbinding novel about sisters separated by centuries, but bound together by the sea.
2019: Lucy awakens from a dream to find her hands around her ex-lover’s throat. Horrified, she flees to her older sister’s house on the Australian coast, hoping she can help explain the strangely vivid nightmare that preceded the attack—but Jess is nowhere to be found.
As Lucy awaits her return, the rumors surrounding Jess’s strange small town start to emerge. Numerous men have gone missing at sea, spread over decades. A tiny baby was found hidden in a cave. And sailors tell of hearing women’s voices on the waves. Desperate for answers, Lucy finds and begins to read her sister’s adolescent diary.
1999: Jess is a lonely sixteen-year-old in a rural town in the middle of the continent. Diagnosed with a rare allergy to water, she has always felt different, until her young, charming art teacher takes an interest in her drawings, seeing a power and maturity in them—and in her—that no one else has.
1800: Twin sisters Mary and Eliza have been torn from their loving father in Ireland and forced onto a convict ship bound for Australia. For their entire lives, they’ve feared the ocean, as their mother tragically drowned when they were just girls. Yet as the boat bears them further and further from all they know, they begin to notice changes in their bodies that they can’t explain, and they feel the sea beginning to call to them…
A breathtaking tale of female resilience and the bonds of sisterhood across time and space, The Sirens captures the power of dreams, and the mystery and magic of the sea.
Paws and Premonitions by Pamela McCord 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.**
Paws and Premonitions
Pamela McCord
(Erin Bailey in Franklin Paranormal Mystery, #2)
Publication date: August 10th 2024
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery, Paranormal
Another murder! Erin Bailey has already been there, done that. Just weeks ago, Erin was embroiled in solving the murder of her benefactor. That little adventure almost led to Erin’s premature death. Now, another ghost…long story…has approached Erin asking for her help to solve his murder. When would she ever get to relax and enjoy her new life in Franklin, Tennessee? Once again, Erin enlists her reluctant team: Susie, her best friend, Ryan, her detective boyfriend, and DC, her, um, private investigator, and the not-so-reluctant Peekaboo, the talking cat who was responsible for Erin’s entry into the ghost world, to help uncover the person who killed Timothy, a sweet little old gentleman who lived across the street from Erin. As of now, everyone thinks Tim died in his sleep of natural causes. Now it’s up to Erin and her friends to solve Timothy’s murder so his spirit can go into the light.
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EXCERPT:
Ow!”
I banged my cast on the kitchen island, and immediately four sets of eyes whipped my way. I’m okay,” I said to head off the exclamations of concern I was sure were on the way.
I couldn’t blame them, of course. With my broken arm and various cuts and bruises resulting from my encounter with a deranged middle-age charity committee treasurer who was trying to kill me, I was a pitiful sight.
Lucky for me, my friends loved me anyway. I carried my cup of coffee over to the kitchen table, around which sat my best friend Susie DeAngelo, my detective boyfriend Ryan Cahill and my private investigator DC Washington. I didn’t know if I could call DC my PI, since I’d only hired him for one case and didn’t think I’d be needing him for more. But he’d definitely become my friend.
Also on the table…that’s right…on the table, sat Peekaboo, a gorgeous orange cat with huge gold eyes. No gathering would be complete without her.
The four of us, make that five counting Peekaboo, had just experienced something that I doubted very many people could claim. We’d watched the ghost of Alice Chapman go into the light. Sobering.
I should back up. I met Alice in Los Angeles seven years ago. She was in the process of being mugged by a trio of gangbangers when I stepped in to save her and pretended to call 911 and give descriptions of the muggers, which caused the lowlifes to scram. Poor Alice was a little
bloody and in shock, so I went to the hospital with her and helped her feel safe again. I guess you could say we became friends, although communications between the two of us dropped off after the first few years.
Fast forward to a couple of months ago when I was summoned to Franklin, Tennessee, by Alice’s attorney, who shared the news that I was Alice’s beneficiary. Of a house, an Infiniti SUV and a very large bank account. And Peekaboo, although she was named Weeds at the time.
That’s how I came to be in Franklin. Lovely house, nice neighborhood, but that was just the frosting. The actual cake was that Peekaboo tripped me and caused a near-death experience, after which I could see Alice’s ghost. And talk to Peekaboo, who admitted that her actions were intentional because she needed me to acquire a severe head injury which would open my chakras, or whatever woo-woo result was supposed to happen. Peekaboo rushed to assure me that she knew I’d survive because…get this…she’s psychic.
Long story short, Peekaboo dropped this gift on me because she needed me to prove that Alice’s death wasn’t an accident. Guided by a talking cat and Alice’s insights, with the help of my very best friend, Susie, who, as predicted by Peekaboo, decided she wanted to move to Franklin and be my roommate, we sifted through a raft of suspects, in the meantime irking Detective Cahill, whom Peekaboo deemed to be The One, who wanted me to stay as far away from danger as possible.
But what would you do if a ghost and a talking cat pushed for you to follow the leads and bring Alice’s killer to justice?
Following those leads is what brought me into the sites of the aforesaid deranged middle-age charity committee treasurer. Hence, my cast and the myriad bandages covering various parts of my body, not to mention a few adorning my face.
The doorbell announced the arrival of pizza.
Author Bio:
Born in Arkansas and raised in Southern California, Pamela McCord started writing later in life when she was challenged by a friend to create a book out of his story idea. Since then, she’s become an internationally published author. Pam has spent over 40 years working as a legal secretary at a law firm in Orange County, California. Aside from writing, she follows the stock market, buying, selling and trading stocks and options. In contrast to that, she loves trips to Las Vegas where she can spend many happy hours at the Pai Gow tables. She shares a condo with her very own My Cat From Hell TV star, Allie, who manages to exude just enough affection to make her scary feral ways tolerable.
GIVEAWAY!
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Breaking the Ice by Whitney Dineen 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.**
Breaking the Ice
Whitney Dineen
(Love on Thin Ice, #1)
Publication date: August 22nd 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance, Sports
What do an entitled billionaire and small-town ice-skating coach have in common?
Ellie
My life is not turning out like I thought it would.
My mom’s arthritis has gotten so bad that I had to move in with her. I’m making ends meet by giving ice skating lessons at the arena in Maple Falls. I’d be in serious trouble had the Harts not given me that job.
Which makes it impossible to say no when they ask me to let Troy’s obnoxious billionaire brother stay in the cabin on my mom’s property during the charity hockey event they’re running.
Zach
First the tabloids call me out for being a cheapskate and then Yolanda Simms takes to national television to tell everyone what a vicious heartbreaker I am?
Yeah, my life has been better.
My brother thinks I can fix my bad press by coming to Maple Falls and donating big to his new charity endeavor. Too bad he didn’t mention the woman who owns the cottage I’ll be staying at hates me with a passion.
He also didn’t mention she’s everything I’ve ever looked for in a woman…
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble
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EXCERPT:
Zach
I’ve learned a lot of things from being a billionaire in my thirties, but so far, the most essential is that you can’t have thin skin. Everyone wants a piece of you and when you’re not giving them the time or attention they think they deserve, they set out to tear you down. Case in point, Yolanda Simms, the entertainment reporter for KBIZ and the most annoyingly fame-seeking woman it has ever been my displeasure to know.
Yolanda and I went out three times, which is a record for me as I barely have a minute for myself. Given my busy schedule, you might be wondering why I would spend my precious free time with such a person. When I first asked her out, I didn’t see her for who she truly was. I may have also had a hidden agenda.
I’d recently been called out by a national tabloid for not putting my money where my mouth was. As in, they didn’t think I donated enough to charity. And while supposedly no press is bad press, I really don’t like people thinking of me the way I was being portrayed.
I figured if I wined and dined Yolanda—who had previously flirted with me outrageously every time she saw me—she might spread the word that I was a decent guy. Self-serving? Yes. But I’m not the villain the press would have you think I am, and I wanted a chance to prove it.
Unfortunately, Yolanda got ahead of herself regarding our friendship and decided to announce on air that she and I were in an exclusive and committed relationship. As we had never so much as kissed, I took exception to her declaration.
Zachary!” my assistant Anabelle yells out. Before I can ask her what she wants, she says, Your brother is on line three.”
I have five brothers, so I ask, Which one?”
Instead of answering, I overhear her tell someone else, Mr. Hart has no comment on Ms. Simms ’allegations.” Great, another day fending off the aftermath of Yolanda’s interview on The View. She told Whoopi Goldberg I was an egomaniacal alpha-male.
I hesitantly reach over to the landline on my desk. This is Zach.”
Hey, big bro,” my younger twin says. In my mind’s eye, I see his lopsided grin, which, even though we’re fraternal twins, is remarkably like my own. MacElroy, aka Mac, is four minutes younger than me and has four times the personality. It’s starting to look like you’re wading through a herd of cows in a rainy field.”
What does that even mean, Mac?” My brother recently bought a sustainable farm in Oregon and his metaphors have taken on a rural sort of charm.
Where there are cows there are cow pies. Need I explain that a rainy field full of heifers is full of wet …”
” Gross.
Why don’t you set the world straight and tell them the majority of your charitable donations are given anonymously?” he wants to know. The man definitely cuts to the chase.
You do know the definition of anonymous, don’t you?” I condescendingly inquire.
Yes, Zach. What I don’t know is why you don’t just come clean about what a good guy you are.”
Because if I bragged about doing good deeds, they wouldn’t feel like good deeds,” I tell him for the hundredth time.
Shifting in my chair, I stare out of my home office window onto Wilshire Boulevard below. You’d think all the short skirts and tanned legs would be one of the benefits of living in Southern California. Yet no matter how good the view is, wealthy Beverly Hills women are not my type. They’re simply too high maintenance, not to mention too self-involved.
I’m just saying…”
Let it go, Mac.” Removing my feet from the edge of my giant mahogany desk, I ask, Did you call for any other reason than to bust my butt about Yolanda? Because if not, I have work to do.”
What are you buying today?” he wants to know. Another office building? A high-rise? ” While I like to have a diversified financial portfolio, as a real estate developer, I am obviously partial to buying property.
I’m giving a speech at Pepperdine,” I tell him. Tongue in cheek, I add, I call it ‘One House, New House, Big House, You House.’”
Ah yes, a nod to your childhood love of Dr. Seuss.” Releasing an exaggerated yawn, he asks, Has anyone ever told you that you’re becoming kind of boring?”
You tell me that at least twice a week,” I remind him. Now, why are you calling?”
Instead of putting me out of my misery, he wants to know, When was the last time you strapped on a pair of skates and played a game?”
Author Bio:
Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries — not always in that order.
Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.
She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.
Gold Medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2017.
Silver medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.
Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.
Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.
Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017
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