Harper Bliss's Blog, page 21

PREVIEW: In the Arms of a Woman

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Next week, my short story collection In the Arms of a Woman will be released. You can expect 100.000 words of extremely hot lesbian erotica!

Here’s the blurb:

Best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss has collected all the short stories she has penned over the years. You can find all twenty-eight of them in this sizzling hot collection.

You will encounter women of all ages, from all over the world, and practicing a myriad of professions—ranging from police officers to rock band singers and from therapists to personal trainers.

Just one piece of advice: do not read in public!

And here’s the Table of Contents:

The titles with a clickable link can be read for free on my website!

Reunion Tour
Alphas
Overtime
Neighbours
Champagne
Off the Record
All of Me
Stair Walking
Fit for Forty
Rather
Lovely Rita
Wetter
Dress Code
Stormy Weather
New Girl
Bar Service
Personal Training
The Power of Words
Fair & Square
The Client
Match Point
Freedom
One-on-One
A Matter of Inclination
The Opposite of Darkness
Stepping Stone
Commanding Officer
Not Yet

That should give you a taste of what’s to come.

NEW RELEASE: Pink Bean Series: Books 4-6

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Pink Bean Books 4 to 6 nicely boxed up!

With book 9 imminent (at least, I like to call it imminent when I talk to myself — I’m making good progress, though!), I thought it was time to bundle books 4 to 6.

This box set includes:

– This Foreign Affair: mature women try long-distance

– Water Under Bridges: enemies to lovers, down under

– No Other Love: a long-term relationship lez romance (Did I just create my own lesfic trope?)

Release the Stars is on sale + Some musing about EllCon

Get Release the Stars for $0.99 instead of $6.99!

[image error] Can love be measured in percentages?

After her girlfriend leaves her for a man, broken-hearted novelist Charlie Cross moves from New York to Los Angeles to work on a TV show based on her books. Charlie vows to never date any woman who isn’t a hundred percent certain of being a lesbian. But when she is seduced by gorgeous bisexual cooking show host Ava Castaneda, whom she’s had a celebrity crush on for ages, Charlie is forced to review her belief in percentages because true love could very well be on the line.

Release the Stars is a lighthearted, fast-paced contemporary lesbian fairytale set in the glitzy world of Hollywood.

Get this great deal here:

– Direct from me

– Amazon US

– Amazon UK

– Amazon CA

– Amazon DE

– Amazon AUS

– Other Amazon Stores

– Apple

– Kobo

Enjoy!

EllCon was great (*)!

(*) Apart from me mumbling my way through the one panel I was on, that is. (I’ll just stick to writing from now on.)

NEW RELEASE: A Swing at Love (A Sweet Lesbian Romance)

[image error] A Swing at Love (A Sweet Lesbian Romance) is OUT NOW!

Here’s the blurb:

On the fairway of life, love comes when you least expect it

Diane Thompson is happy enough. Her successful accounting firm allows her plenty of time to play all the golf she wants and enjoy her life in small Sussex village Tynebury. She’s finally over the divorce from her husband, but potential suitors are few and far between for a fifty-something woman in the English countryside.

Tamsin Foxley is determined to keep matters of the heart separated from her new teaching job at the Royal Tynebury Golf Club after a disastrous romantic experience put an end to her previous employment. She has also vowed to no longer fall for women almost half her age.

When the new season starts at the golf club, Diane and Tamsin become fast friends. Their feelings for each other quickly go in an unexpected direction and they both have to reevaluate what it is they want from life.

Can Diane overcome her fear of falling for a woman? And can Tamsin accept her taste in women may have changed?

Find out in this sweet romance by best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss and her wife Caroline in her debut effort.

—

I do have a few things to say about this book as it’s unusual in 2 very distinct ways!

1. Hands up if you’d never thought you’d see the words ‘sweet romance’ on a Harper Bliss book?

I’m rather, um, known for my spicy scenes and… this book has ZERO.

I know, not selling things very well quite yet.

PREVIEW: A Swing at Love

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A Swing at Love will be out next week (on Friday 3 August 2018). Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

A Swing at Love

© Harper & Caroline Bliss



CHAPTER ONE

Diane’s ankle twisted as the heel of her shoe caught in between two cobbles. She steadied herself on a parked car and gave her foot a tentative turn to determine if there was any serious damage. A light pain jabbed her but it was nothing unbearable.

She continued her walk to the clubhouse at a more careful pace. She was already late, but being one minute less late wasn’t worth ending up in a wheelchair for. The bloody high heels were a couple of inches taller than Diane was used to wearing . But they matched her maroon evening gown so well, or so the lady in the shop had told her, rightly seeing her as easy prey.

She climbed the steps to the main entrance and hurried towards the cloakroom.

“Good evening, Mrs Thompson,” the attendant greeted her.

“Has the presentation started yet?” Diane asked as she took off her coat and handed it over.

“I’m afraid it has.” The girl smiled apologetically.

Diane made her way to the clubhouse’s main function area. She could already hear the booming voice of the club’s president. She reached the room and slipped in at the back.

The sofas and armchairs that usually clustered around the elegant coffee tables had been pushed to the side. Behind them the large bay windows overlooked the putting green and eighteenth hole, now shrouded in dusk. Several elaborate flower arrangements adorned the ledge in front of the windows. The decorating committee had obviously spared no expense for the event.

Diane craned her neck to try and see the front of the room, where Stephen, the Royal Tynebury Golf Club’s president, was giving his speech to open the new season and introduce the new members, but even her higher heels didn’t make Diane tall enough to see above the heads in front of her.

“In conclusion, I wish you all the best season you’ve ever had,” Stephen’s voice came over the speakers, “and without further ado, please enjoy the wonderful food and drinks we have lined up for you tonight.”

The crowd erupted in applause and, on cue, waiters brought out trays of champagne from the large oak bar.

Diane made her way through the crowd, greeting people and making small talk as she progressed. She kept her eyes peeled for her ex-husband and spotted him towards the front of the room, his arm around the shoulders of Debbie. In Diane’s mind that name always came out in a childish tone, probably because Debbie was about the same age as Diane’s own son.

“I think her boobs look bigger, she must have had them done over the winter,” a familiar voice whispered in Diane’s ear from behind.

Diane smiled as she turned around to face her friend, Isabelle. “Not what I was looking at, but now that you mention it.” Diane opened her arms and embraced Isabelle. “It’s so good to see you. When did you get back from Florida?”

“Two days ago,” Isabelle replied. “I would have called you, but the transition from Floridian sunshine to British drizzle was rough.” She shivered. “Anyway, catch me up on the gossip. Did anything juicy happen while I was away?”

Diane laughed. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I haven’t been here much, what with the course being closed a lot because of the weather.”

Isabelle squinted at Diane. “Your absence wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that young Debbie there has been taking lessons and visiting the driving range more often—probably to prove she’s worthy of her new member status?”

“Let’s say that didn’t help my motivation to spend time at the driving range.”

A waiter stopped in front of them. “Mrs Thompson, Mrs Ardery, can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

Both women eagerly grabbed a glass.

“Speaking of new members,” Diane said, “where are Rob and Matthew? I only got here at the end of the speech so didn’t get to see Matthew being introduced.”

Isabelle shook her head. “He wasn’t accepted. They’re not here tonight.”

“What?” Diane exclaimed. “Why? What happened?”

Isabelle sighed. “They weren’t given a reason. I haven’t been able to corner our dear president yet to grill him about it, but trust me, I’ll get to him before the night is over.”

“Would you like me to make some enquiries?” Diane asked. “I know at least one other person on the admissions committee.”

“No, not yet,” Isabelle answered. “I want to see what pretext he gives me first. Of course, he won’t tell me openly that this place is still so stuck in the fifties that the same-sex spouse of one of their lifelong members is less acceptable than the classless bimbo your ex now calls his wife. No offence.”

“Oh, none taken.” Diane smiled at her friend. She knew Isabelle was probably much more affected by her son-in-law’s rejection than she was willing to let on tonight. “It’s so good to have you back. Let’s set up a date this week to play a round. I need to get back in shape before the Ladies’ trip next month. You can show me again how wintering in the Florida sun does wonders for your game.”

“Diane.” A male voice came from behind her.

Diane cringed and turned around to face her ex-husband. “Lawrence.” She offered a cheek for him to peck, grateful at least that he’d had the courtesy to come and greet her alone. “How are you?” She had to admit he still looked quite dashing, especially in his tuxedo.

“Jolly good, my dear. And yourself?”

Diane tried to keep her tone neutral as she replied, “I’m very well, thanks.”

An awkward silence followed. Diane and Lawrence’s divorce had been finalised five years ago, but they had not yet reached the stage where small talk came easily.

Diane hoped Isabelle would say something to break the tension, but when she turned her head to give her a pointed look, she found her friend had scarpered off somewhere, abandoning her to face Lawrence alone.

Diane turned back towards him. “Have you seen Timothy recently?” At least their son should be a safe topic.

“He and Lucy came over for dinner the other night. Debbie made shepherd’s pie. You know that’s still his favourite.”

Diane fought to suppress an eye-roll. “How lovely.” No way did Debbie cook a shepherd’s pie as good as hers. “I hear Debbie is now a full member of the club. You must be delighted.”

“Ah, yes,” Lawrence beamed. “Very happy, quite right. She’s been working hard, trying to get certified so she can start playing on the course.”

Diane could see Debbie moving through the crowd, making her way towards Lawrence. “Excuse me, would you? I need to powder my nose before we get ushered into the dining room.” She turned around and walked towards the exit into the hall. Attempting a civil conversation with her ex was one thing, but having to be polite to his new wife was not on the cards yet.

On her way out, Diane deposited her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and grabbed a new one. More bubbles were required to fight back against the bad taste she got in her mouth every time she saw Lawrence and Debbie together.

She took her glass into the ladies’ changing room, hoping to find a quiet spot to gather herself before having to sit down for the dinner, which was bound to last too long. It was the same thing every year.

She sat on a stool in front of a vanity and checked her make-up in the mirror. She ruffled through her small evening purse to find her lipstick.

The door to the dressing room opened. A short-haired woman Diane didn’t know walked in and looked around uncertainly. She must be one of the new members.

“Are you looking for the bathroom?” Diane asked. “It’s past those lockers on the right, then through the first door.”

“Thank you,” the woman replied with a smile. “I haven’t quite got the lay of the land yet.” She walked in the direction Diane had indicated and disappeared into the bathroom.

Diane turned back to face her image in the mirror. She applied a new coat of lipstick, checked her eyeliner was still as it should be, and stood. The pain in her ankle had all but disappeared—probably thanks to the two glasses of champagne she’d had. She took one last look in the full-length mirror—her shoes did indeed match her gown perfectly, she couldn’t take issue with the salesgirl’s taste. Debbie might have almost thirty years on her, but youth could never make up for elegance. At least that was the mantra Diane was going to stick to tonight.

She pulled back her shoulders and headed out towards the function room as the bell was rung to call people to dinner.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Tamsin hurried out of the ladies’ room and into the grand dining room. Long tables were set with folded name cards next to the plates. Good. She didn’t have to scour for a seat—all she had to manage was find her assigned spot. A wooden lectern displayed the seating plan. A crowd huddled around it, so Tamsin waited and cast her glance over her new place of employ. This evening might be just a dinner, but to Tamsin it was as nerve-racking as the first day on a new job. So many unknown people, so many names and faces to put together and remember.

The crowd at the lectern had dispersed and Tamsin scanned the large piece of paper for her name. Now all she had to do was locate the table. A few people were already sitting there. They probably all knew each other—but mingling with the members was part of her job.

She walked over to her table and spotted the friendly lady who had shown her where the bathroom was earlier. She smiled and found her seat, right next to her.

“Hi,” the woman said, extending her hand, “Diane Thompson.”

“Tamsin Foxley.” Tamsin shook the woman’s hand. Her grip was firm. Her blue-eyed gaze on Tamsin unwavering.

“Lovely to meet you, Tamsin,” Diane said. “You must be one of the new members.” She smiled apologetically. “I arrived late so I missed the introductions.”

“I’m the new pro, actually,” Tamsin said. “I’ll be replacing Darren when he leaves in a few weeks.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Diane said, turning towards her more. “My game’s always a bit rusty after the winter break. I must book some lessons.” Diane pushed her glasses up her nose.

Tamsin felt a little under-dressed next to her, but she’d never really been one to dress up.

“Of course. That would be lovely,” Tamsin said.

“Diane, how are you?” An elderly man had approached and put his hands briefly on Diane’s shoulders. “I believe you’re stuck with me for the evening.” He pulled back the chair on the other side of Diane.

“Have you met our new pro, Reg?” Diane said.

Tamsin repeated the motions she’d gone through many a time since she’d arrived at the club: shaking hands, smiling broadly, and replying to chit-chat.

Reg kept Diane engaged in conversation for a while. Tamsin was relieved she’d been seated next to someone as welcoming as Diane. If the opening dinners of her previous club were anything to go by, they’d be stuck with each other for a few hours.

Tamsin picked up the menu card that stood in front of her plate. Smoked salmon as a starter and steak for mains. The number of times she’d had a similar meal at a golf club. She smiled inwardly. Golfs clubs were not known for grand innovations and any change—even to the menu—was always slow.

“Which club were you with before?” Diane had turned to her again. She gave Tamsin a warm smile.

“Chalstone,” Tamsin said, a pang of regret shooting through her.

“Any particular reason you left?” Diane inquired.

“I was in dire need of a change of scenery.” She sent Diane a wide smile. Tamsin was eager to keep the real reason she left—or rather, had been forced to leave—under wraps.

Diane nodded thoughtfully. “Do you live nearby?” She took a sip of the white wine that had just been poured.

“I found a place on the outskirts of the village,” Tamsin said. She looked at the glass in front of her but left it alone for now. She’d had two glasses of champagne already and, unlike most of the other guests, she wasn’t here to relax tonight. “Very quiet and green.” Tamsin had fallen in love with the small cottage, which was modest, but stretched her rental budget considerably nonetheless. Even though Tynebury was a good number of miles from London, it was still a commutable distance to the capital.

“Welcome to the club and the village, then.” Diane lifted her glass.

Tamsin mirrored her action. They clinked rims. “Are you joining the Ladies’ trip to Portugal next month?” Tamsin asked.

“Oh, yes.” The skin around Diane’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I’m looking forward to it greatly. Winter has been long. I need a good dose of vitamin D.”

“And an equally good dose of golf, I hope.” Tamsin attempted a joke.

“That goes without saying.” Diane drank again, then set her glass down. “I do miss playing during the off season.” Her gaze on Tamsin was kind. “I should book those lessons before the trip, by the way. I hope your calendar’s not too full yet.”

“I’m sure I can squeeze you in.” Tamsin’s calendar was still very empty. She wanted—needed—to teach as many classes as she possibly could.

Diane’s eyes locked on a woman strutting past their table. When she glanced back at Tamsin, the kindness in her eyes had disappeared.

“That woman,” Diane said with utter contempt in her voice. She straightened her spine. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Debbie?” Tamsin inquired. She’d been introduced to Debbie earlier, who had promptly also inquired about lessons.

“It’s just so unfair.” Diane leaned in Tamsin’s direction. Tamsin caught a whiff of her flowery perfume. “Since you’ll be working here, you might as well learn about the medieval politics of this club.” She shook her head. “My good friend Isabelle’s gay son-in-law has been refused membership, while my ex-husband’s trollop of a wife has been accepted,” she whispered. “This club has not yet entered the twenty-first century, I can assure you that.”

Tamsin momentarily stiffened at the mention of the word gay. She reached for her glass of wine so she had some time to regroup. “That’s simply appalling.”

“It is, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure Matthew gets accepted next year. What is this? The middle ages?”

“I sure hope not.” Tamsin was distracted by a bunch of waiting staff milling about. The starters were being served. With that, Reg engaged Diane in conversation again, and Tamsin was left in welcome silence to ponder the information she’d just received.

* * *

Tamsin scanned the improvised dance floor. She wasn’t much of a dancer and she preferred leaning against the bar, letting her gaze wander. Dinner had gone well, largely thanks to her welcoming neighbour. More people had come up to her after dinner to introduce themselves and enquire about lessons. She knew from experience, however, that members of these old, traditional golf clubs were always very welcoming at first, brimming with courtesy and warm smiles, but it was only the thinnest veneer that hid the true nature of some.

A man sidled up to her. “How are you holding up?” She recognised him as Lionel, who had sat at the far end of her table, which, Diane had revealed near the end of the meal, was dubbed the ‘singles’ table’.

“Just fine, thanks.”

Lionel had loosened his tie and his eyes were glazed over.

Tamsin took a small step away, not that she considered him in any condition to take a subtle hint.

“You’ll find us a lovely, civilised bunch.” He all but slurred his words.

Yeah right. Like the lot at my previous club.

“I’m sure you all are.” Tamsin had little choice but to oblige him.

“I hear you’re renting the Andersons’ cottage,” Lionel said. “Is it just you there or do you have a husband and some kids running around?”

How quickly word spread in villages—and clubs—like this. Of course, the Andersons were members here as well. Any newcomer would have tongues wagging. She knew how this worked.

“Just me and Bramble, my dog,” she said. Bramble had acclimatised to the cottage and its surroundings instantly. Tamsin adored the cottage but would need a bit more time with everything surrounding it.

Lionel took a step closer again. “We’ll have to make sure you don’t get too lonely over there then.” Lionel tried a smile but the corners of his mouth seemed too lazy to quirk up all the way

Tamsin thought it best to not dignify that with an answer. She looked at the dance floor again. Diane was chatting to a woman at the edge of the bopping crowd. She didn’t seem like much of a dancer either. Of all the people who had inquired about lessons tonight, Tamsin looked forward to teaching Diane the most. They’d spent the most time together, so it was only logical. She didn’t much look forward to teaching Debbie—what had Diane called her again. A trollop? Tamsin snickered inwardly, careful not to show any outward signs of her glee, lest Lionel believed she was actually enjoying their conversation.

Diane must have felt Tamsin’s gaze on her because she looked in her direction and gave her a wave. Her gaze lingered, then meandered to the person next to Tamsin. She rolled her eyes.

Emboldened by Diane’s small display of sympathy at being stuck with a drunken Lionel, Tamsin said, “Please excuse me.” She turned away from him, only to be accosted as soon as she rounded the corner of the bar by another member in dire need of golf lessons.

<>

A Swing at Love will be available on Friday 3 August 2018

 

NEW RELEASE: No Greater Love Than Mine (A Silver Linings Novella)

[image error]No Greater Love Than Mine: A Silver Linings Novella is OUT NOW!

Here’s the blurb:

Twenty years ago, Angela Hill and Jackie Smith shared a forbidden night of passion, that left Angela heartbroken after Jackie returned to her husband.

When a workplace injury forces Angela into counselling, her path unexpectedly crosses Jackie’s again. Their circumstances may have changed, but has time healed the wounds of the past? And can Angela and Jackie open themselves up to a second chance at love?

Find out in this hot novella full of emotion from best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss.

This new series I dreamed up called Silver Linings came about for several reasons:

1. More mature characters

I have previously summed it up as ‘cougars, cougars, cougars’, but, really, it’s just my love for older characters that has driven me to start this new series.

I have a million notes for subsequent novellas already, and some will be age gap (so not all characters will be 45+, but the majority will be), some will revisit characters from previous books (Sophie and Dolores, anyone?)

PREVIEW: No Greater Love Than Mine

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No Greater Love Than Mine: A Silver Linings Novella will be out next week (on Friday 6 July 2018). Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

No Greater Love Than Mine

© Harper Bliss



CHAPTER ONE

ANGELA

“You have no choice,” Harriet says. “I wish I could get you out of it, but you have to go see Roger.”

I tap the tip of my shoe against my boss’s desk. I don’t care if it annoys her—in fact, I’m pretty sure it does, and am glad of it.

“Maybe you can work something out with him,” she says. “But administratively, my hands are tied.”

‘Administratively’ is one of Harriet’s favorite words. Especially in combination with explaining how tied her hands are exactly.

“That’ll be the day,” I scoff, “when Roger lets a woman off the hook.” I hang my head in desperation. “How is this guy still working for the department?”

Harriet leans over her desk. “You didn’t get this from me, but I hear he’s on his way out.”

“About ten years too late, but still, some good news today.”

“There can be much more good news soon. Five mandatory sessions is all it takes.” Harriet fixes her gaze on me. “I need you back on the squad, Angela. As soon as possible.”

I shuffle in my seat and, inadvertently, wince.

“If you’re physically ready, of course.”

“Just a bullet to the shoulder,” I say sarcastically. “Comes with the territory.”

“I hope you know I don’t question your mental readiness to return to work.” Harriet sends me one of her attempts at a smile. She used to be my partner. I know smiling isn’t her forte.

“But someone in HR does,” I say.

“We have to cover our bases. That’s all it is.” Harriet tilts her head. “Five hours of your life spread out over two weeks. You’ll have the rest of your time to recover from whatever Roger Bradley’s therapeutic skills unearth from the depths of your soul.”

I snicker. “It’s not funny. I just want to work. I’ll even have you chain me to a desk for the coming two weeks.”

Harriet arches up her eyebrows. “If you only had an ounce of desk jockey blood in you, you’d be sitting on my side of this very desk right now.”

“But action is what gets you killed.” Even though it was a through and through, sometimes, it’s as though I can still feel the bullet lodged in the flesh of my right shoulder.

“Don’t even say that.” Harriet and I worked side by side for seven years, until she got promoted.

“Fine then. I’ll go waste my time in Roger’s office.” I make to get up. It’s not because I have all the time in the world that the captain of our squad doesn’t have a million things to do.

“Call me after,” Harriet says. “Screw confidentiality.”

“Yes, boss.” I give her a faux-salute and leave her to tend to her many administrative tasks.

* * *

I’ve been lucky enough to never have to avail of Roger Bradley’s services during all my years as a police officer with the LAPD, but I’ve heard all the stories.

I hope Harriet’s right about him being on his way out, although it doesn’t help me much now, as I sit in a nondescript waiting room, wishing it was evening already, and my hour with Roger over.

It’s not just his reputation that gets my hackles up. I’m not a believer in talk therapy and the prospect of having my soul shrunk sets my teeth on edge. It’s just a formality, I repeat in my head, as I see how the seconds tick by on my wristwatch. Maybe I can try something with Roger, get him to sign the necessary paperwork without me having to sit through five actual sessions with him.

The door to Roger’s office opens and a colleague I know vaguely—I think he works in Vice—walks out. We nod our recognition, or perhaps our commiseration, and he walks off. The door remains open, but I’m not being called in. Maybe Roger needs to make some notes on the mental wellbeing of his previous client first.

A few more minutes pass and I just sit there waiting in front of an open door. I check my watch and it’s not 4 PM yet, that’s true, but only about fifty seconds off.

When the seconds counter on my watch turns to ’00’ a woman appears in the doorway. A woman who is decidedly not Roger Bradley.

“Detective Hill,” she says. “I will see you now.”

For a second, I’m chained to my chair. At the sight of her, I simply can’t move. My legs have lost all their power.

I mumble something, but nothing sane comes out of my mouth. What happened to Roger Bradley? It would be a delight to have a therapy session with him now that I’m faced with the alternative. Because this will be a trip down memory lane I swore I would never take.

 

CHAPTER TWO

JACKIE

I’ve had time to prepare for this. Still, seeing her knocks me for six. It’s been twenty years, yet I could pick Detective Angela Hill out of a crowd of millions. She has aged, of course. Twenty years in this job will do that to you, yet her essence has remained the same. Those pale blue eyes—the undeniable sparkle in them. She’s not in uniform anymore, but she still tucks her blouse tightly into the waistband of her trousers, revealing a fine figure.

“You’re not Roger Bradley,” Angela says, after I’ve closed the door behind her.

“Very perceptive.” I point at two club chairs facing each other near the window. “Please, sit down.”

“I’m not sure I should stay,” Angela says. “It must be against some protocol.” She fidgets with the wristband of her watch.

With any other client, I’d put a reassuring hand on their shoulder, but I can’t do that with Angela.

I sit down, hoping she’ll follow my lead. “I assure you, it’s perfectly fine.”

“Where’s Roger?” She sits down and slings one leg over the other, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Mr. Bradley has been suspended. I’m covering for him until a suitable, more permanent replacement is found.” I find myself distracted by a freckle next to Angela’s nose. Has that always been there?

“Okay.” Angela eyes me through narrowed lids. “So, am I to assume that you’d rather be somewhere else instead?”

I give her a hint of smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You’ve read my file. You know what happened. It’s LAPD procedure for every officer who’s the victim of a shooting to see a shrink. But I’m fine. We can just skip this whole thing.”

I relax my hands on the armrests of the chair, hoping to inspire some calm in my reluctant client. “Is that what you were going to say to Roger?”

Angela presses her lips together and nods. “I probably would have gone about it differently, but I figure you owe me, so I might as well be direct.”

Ouch. The knives are out already.

“Interesting.”

“Please don’t do that typical shrink thing and bring your hand to your chin, nodding thoughtfully, and only say ‘interesting’. None of that shit’s going to work on me. I just want to get out of this. If you cared for me at all.” She stalls. Something twists deep in my gut. “Then you’ll at least do this for me.”

“Angela, please,” I implore. “We have an hour. Maybe we can talk.”

How can it be that I still remember her lips on mine so vividly? How those blue eyes stared into mine as she pushed a finger high inside me. A drop of sweat trickles down my spine. Maybe I should have protested more when I saw Angela’s name in Roger’s appointment book. But what could I have said? Detective Hill and I have a secret history together?

Angela shakes her head. “It would have been nice if someone had alerted me to this.”

“I agree. I apologize. Believe me, these are not the circumstances under which I wanted us to meet again.”

Angela scoffs. “As if you ever wanted that.”

I deserve that. I deserve every last ounce of scorn she sends my way. “I got called in to take over from Roger a few days ago. I’ve been in over my head. I didn’t ask for this either, but this is the situation as it is.” I try a smile, although I know it won’t work on her. Or no, I can only guess. It’s been twenty years, and even back then we didn’t know each other that well. “How about we just begin?”

Angela purses her lips. The way her eyes blaze with anger, I half expect her to make a locking up gesture with her fingers, followed by throwing away the imaginary key. She gives a stern nod.

“Would you like to begin by telling me what happened?” I’m glad there’s a safe distance between us. About three feet separate us. More sweat pools in the small of my back. I’ll need to change my blouse if I keep perspiring like this.

“You already know what happened.” There’s nothing but accusation in her tone. “Or did you not read my file?”

I read it last night and again this morning. I skimmed through it again during my lunch break, my glance always halting at her picture. Those eyes. They could cut through steel.

“I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

Angela rolls her eyes. “I can’t do this.” She throws up her hands. “How can you possibly expect me to? I haven’t seen you in two decades and then, boom, here you are. And you expect me to talk about something I have no desire to talk about, with you, of all people.” She massages her temples.

“I know it’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” Angela repeats under her breath. “You should know a thing or two about that.”

I swallow hard. I try to hold her glance, but it’s my own that skitters away. I can’t look her in the eye—it’s a privilege I squandered years ago.

“It’s probably meaningless now, but I’m so sorry about what happened back then.” My hands go all clammy. “My choices were very limited. I had Carl to consider.” No matter the agony of the moment, my voice fills with joy when I say my son’s name.

Angela holds up her hand. “Save it. Whatever you’re going to say is twenty years too late.”

“Everything’s different now,” I say, not sure what I mean.

“At least your ex-husband became commissioner.” Angela’s voice is all venom. “I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”

“I didn’t do it for him.”

“Truly, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m just flummoxed because I was expecting that poor excuse of a human being Roger Bradley to receive me in this office for a therapy session, not the woman who broke my heart so ruthlessly, so…” She pauses, then waves a hand. “Well, you’re the therapist. I hardly need to explain it to you.”

“You don’t. I understand. If it’s any consolation, it’s a shock for me as well. To see you again after all these years.” I refrain from telling her that, despite all the hard feelings between us, I’m happy to be sitting across from her. To look into the cool blue of her gaze whenever my eyes dare to wander there.

She huffs out some air. “I’ve been so angry with you.” She shakes her head. “Once the anger subsided, I was sad. For a very long time.”

“I’m sorry.” I have to ask. It’s none of my business, but there’s an acute need inside me to obtain this information. “Did you, um, find someone… after me.”

Angela’s eyes grow wide for an instant, then she just shrugs. She just sits there and it’s as if I can still see some of the sadness inside her. As though, faced with me, she’s trying to hide it so well, pulling up all her guards that, in her zeal, she’s forgetting to conceal the most vulnerable parts of her.

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

“This is turning out to be one big apologizing session for you. I hope it’s cathartic.” Her tone is all bite, but something has softened in the blue of her eyes.

“It’s not.” I wish I could at least say to her that if I could go back in time, I’d do everything differently, but I can’t do that. My child came first. Although, perhaps his happiness was the perfect cover for my cowardice. “Here’s what I propose.” I have to meet her halfway, even though, by doing so I’ll be neglecting my professional duties. But I’m not the right therapist to help Angela with her possible PTSD. There’s too big a conflict of interest. “I’ll write you down as having taken today’s session. I’ll find someone else to take over from me for the next sessions. But—”

“Of course there’s a but.” She taps her fingertips on her knee.

“You’re my last client for today. How about we go for a drink instead? I know I could use one.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up briefly, only to plunge down again and pull her lips back into their dismissive slant. She doesn’t say no immediately. “If I don’t go for a drink with you, will you make me sit out the session?”

“I’m not blackmailing you into having a drink with me, Angela. You’re free to leave if you want to.”

She rises and walks to the back of the chair. She plants her hands on the back of it. I don’t spot any rings on her fingers. “I know a place not far from here. Classy enough to not be crawling with cops.” A small shift in her lips again. “I’m not fit to drive yet, which is bullshit, but there you have it.” She straightens her spine and, for a split second, grimaces. “I’ll be taking a cab.”

“Give me the address. I’ll follow you.” I suppose it’s a step too far to propose we ride together.

<>

No Greater Love Than Mine will be available on Friday 6 July 2018

 

NEW RELEASE: Once Upon a Princess (A Lesbian Royal Romance)

[image error] Once Upon a Princess is OUT NOW!

This is my very first co-written book and Clare and I had a blast writing it. At first, it was a bit nerve-racking, but it turned out to be a wonderful experience.

Our personalities and writing styles seemed to mix well and I’m so very pleased with the end result.

As you might have guessed, Once Upon a Princess is a lesbian royal romance and it’s a light-hearted, summery and, OF COURSE, very topical read!

Preview: Once Upon A Princess

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Once Upon a Princess, the book I co-wrote with Clare Lydon, will be out next week. Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Once Upon a Princess

© Clare Lydon & Harper Bliss



CHAPTER ONE

Olivia Charlton clenched her left fist, a headache beginning to wrap itself around her brain. She could still hear the whir of camera lenses, the shouts of the photographers asking them to turn around, but she didn’t look back. They’d posed for 20 minutes and taken questions, and that was as much as the press were getting today. Her smile was broad and her head held high, her hand wrapped around that of Jemima Bradbury, now her fiancée.

It was early May, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

Unlike her mood, where storm clouds were brewing.

It was only when she was through the thick, black wooden gate and into the courtyard of the estate that she dropped Jemima’s hand and relaxed her shoulders, blowing out a frustrated sigh.

She still couldn’t believe her parents had made her hold an engagement press conference at such short notice — less than 24 hours. It wasn’t their style, which led her to believe they were worried she was going to bolt. They weren’t wrong.

When she glanced up, Jemima was flexing her hand, a soft smile on her face. “Jeez, you nearly broke a bone you were holding my hand so tight. Anyone would think you didn’t want to marry me.” She punctuated her statement with a single raised eyebrow. “And what was that answer about the proposal? You could have at least made up a good story, given the press what they wanted. This is a happy occasion, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Jemima cocked her head, her long, blonde hair cascading around her tanned shoulders. She was wearing a specially tailored white skirt and matching top with black trim, and her feet were encased in a pair of pristine white Manolo Blahniks.

“What’s the point of a made-up story, Jem?” Olivia raked her fingers through her long conker-brown hair, her shoulders tightening all over again. “You really want to marry me? When you know damn well we don’t love each other?”

Call Olivia old-fashioned, but she’d always thought that when she got engaged, she’d be in love with her future bride. It was something her mother couldn’t understand, something she kept telling her youngest daughter wasn’t important in their circle. “Love comes quite far down life’s must-haves, Olivia. I thought, by the age of 33, you would know that.”

A soft breeze wafted over her as she stared up at the back of the red-brick Surrey estate, her home for the past three years since she’d come back.

Or her prison, as she often thought.

Jemima laughed, a pained expression settling on her face. “I’ve tried the love thing, and it didn’t work out. It often doesn’t.” She paused. “It didn’t work out for you and Ellie, did it?”

Hearing her name was still like a punch to the gut.

Jemima went on. “And you’re not such a bad catch from where I’m standing. You’re a princess. Getting the opportunity to marry a royal is one I don’t intend to turn down.” She sighed and reached out to take her fiancée’s hand.

Olivia jumped as they connected. Jemima’s palm was sweaty.

“We could be good together, you know that. We’ve got history.” Jemima fluttered her long lashes Olivia’s way, a practised move.

“I’m not sure that’s enough.” Yet here they were, engaged. She and Jemima had gone out in their early 20s until Olivia had decided on a career in the army rather than one as a socialite. Sure, they still mixed in the same circles and they’d had an ill-advised one-night stand a year ago that Olivia still winced about, but now, her old flame was being thrust into her life once more by royal decree. The trouble was, everyone — including Jemima — was far happier about it than Olivia was.

“The press might be fooled because we make a great-looking couple and that’s what they want.” Olivia locked her gaze with Jemima’s. “But don’t you want something more? Do you really want to settle for me?” She wanted Jemima to think hard about what she was getting into, because she had more choice than her. Whereas, in the back of her mind, Olivia had always known this was likely to happen, having seen her sister go through it.

Jemima let out a strangled laugh. “Marrying Princess Olivia, fourth in line to the throne is hardly settling. And we could rub along together just fine. It’s not like we hate each other, is it?”

It wasn’t, Olivia had to agree. Despite being exes, they’d always got on. She went to kick a stone in the courtyard, but then realised she was wearing 4-inch heels and not her trainers: today, she was a professional princess, not a soldier. She wanted to stuff her hands in her pockets and stalk around the courtyard, but it wasn’t so effective in a poppy-red dress and full make-up.

“Think about it, this isn’t such a terrible plan,” Jemima said, splaying her manicured hands. “Don’t you want to settle down, and wouldn’t you rather do it with someone who knows your world, understands it and looks good on your arm? Wouldn’t that make life just a tiny bit easier?”

Olivia licked her lips, knowing Jemima had a point. But the nagging doubt was still in the back of her mind, and she couldn’t let it go. Now she’d tasted love once with Ellie, she wanted it again.

When she got married, she wanted it to be for real, for life, forever.

And none of those things belonged in the same sentence as Jemima Bradbury.

***

Her mother’s private secretary, Malcolm, came out of the ornately carved door and bowed his bald head before speaking. “The Queen will see you now.”

He didn’t say another word, but his narrowed gaze told Olivia all she needed: do not cause the Queen any unnecessary trouble because it will be me who clears it up.

Olivia gave him a sweet smile as she walked past.

She’d never liked Malcolm.

Her mother — Queen Cordelia to give her full title — was fiddling with her phone when she walked in; her father — Prince Hugo —  was reading today’s Times in his favourite armchair. It was golden, tattered and creaked at every opportunity, but he refused to let Mother re-upholster it and so far, she’d agreed. It was a small victory in the life of her father, one he clung to.

When Olivia cleared her throat, he put the paper down.

The Queen glanced up, then folded her arms across her chest: this was going to be just as hard as Olivia had feared.

She motioned to the soft blue couches in front of the fireplace, and her mother followed. They sat opposite each other. Olivia flexed her toes in her high heels. She’d kept the same clothes on, because she knew her mother would be fully made up and ready for battle. She hadn’t been wrong: the Queen was dressed in a figure-hugging grey trouser suit and matching heels, her appearance as sharp as her attitude.

“So, did you watch it?”

Her mother nodded. “We did.” She paused, crossing one leg over the other. “You could have smiled more, looked a bit happier.” She squinted as the afternoon sunshine hit her face through the leaded palace windows and put a hand up to shield herself. “You looked like you were announcing a funeral, not a wedding.”

“Your mother’s right.” Her father came over to sit next to his wife in his usual black suit and striped tie, his pallor grey. “You didn’t look like you wanted to be there.”

“Because I didn’t want to be there, you know that!” Olivia threw both hands in the air: her parents could send her from zero to 100 in seconds. How could they be so calm when they knew this wasn’t what she wanted? They’d had the conversation only three nights ago, and they knew where she stood.

“And you know that questions are being asked and you’re of a certain age.” Her mother’s face was icy. “Your sister knew it and got married without a murmur. We’re not even making you marry a man—”

“—Big of you.” Olivia scowled.

“—It is, actually. You’re going to be the first lesbian princess to marry, and Jemima is a good fit for that. If you must marry a woman, it has to be the right kind of woman. This is not just about you, Olivia, this is about being a royal — you need to settle down. And ever since Ellie, you don’t seem to want to try.”

Why was everyone bringing up Ellie today? Ellie was in the past, married to another, and Olivia wanted to focus on her future. That may or may not feature love, but she wanted to at least give it a try. To do that, she had to calm down, play it cool. Appealing to her father was her best bet.

“I just wasn’t fully prepared for that press conference today — you only told me last night. And it felt like we were lying, like they could see through the charade.”

Olivia knew it was time she faced up to her royal responsibilities — the clock was ticking — but she hadn’t thought it would leave her feeling so… empty. Bereft.

“Nonsense — the press see what they want to see,” the Queen replied, clasping her hands on her knees and fixing her daughter with her stare. “Everyone knows you and Jemima have a history, and you look perfect together. Tomorrow’s papers will be awash with your pretty, smiling faces. Well, Jemima’s at any rate.”

“She’s really not that bad a compromise, Olivia,” her father said, before looking away.

Olivia ground her teeth together: he’d compromised and look where that had got him.

If there was one marriage Olivia didn’t want to emulate, it was her parents’.

She wanted a love match, a love that burned bright every day.

She stood and walked to the fireplace, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floors. She stared at the photo of Alexandra holding her as a baby, a proud older sister at the age of six. Alex had done her duty and married Miles, and now they had two children of their own.

Olivia had no desire to emulate their marriage, either.

She turned to her parents, gathering all her courage into a ball and taking a deep breath. “I just need a few weeks to sort my head out. This has thrown me. I know what you want, and I know we agreed, but saying it out loud felt… wrong. Dishonest.”

“Welcome to royalty,” her father replied, straight-faced.

Olivia shook her head. “I’d like to go away and stay at the Cornish house. Just to clear my head and sort out what I’m really thinking.”

“The engagement’s been announced now; it’s a bit late to run off.” Her mother’s face was stoic. The Queen didn’t do touchy-feely, and she certainly didn’t understand her daughter.

“I just need some space, Mother.” Olivia pursed her lips. Surely her mother could see that, even if she didn’t agree.

“Besides, there aren’t any staff at the Cornish house at the moment; we’ve had to cut costs, show willing,” the Queen added. “And what about bodyguards?”

“I don’t need staff and I don’t need bodyguards — I’m not a teenager anymore,” Olivia said. “Plus, it means I can really have some alone time, sort myself out.” She paused. “Just two weeks, that’s all I’m asking. Then I promise to come home and go through with whatever we agree on.”

Now it was the Queen’s turn to purse her lips, casting her gaze to the floor, then to her husband.

“I suppose you think we should let her go, seeing as Olivia’s always had you wrapped around her little finger.”

Her father shrugged. “She’s only asking for two weeks, and if that’s all she needs to work things out, I say she can go.” He looked over at his youngest daughter. “Just don’t create a scene, don’t let on to people you’re there, otherwise the press might suspect something’s up. Be discreet, no wild nights or getting drunk in the village pub.”

Olivia shook her head, relief flowing through her.

They were letting her go.

“I’m a bit old for that.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anywhere vaguely near a wild night. “I’ll get some glasses and even cut my hair and dye it so I won’t be recognised. Nobody will expect a short-haired princess.”

“Just don’t cut it off too short. Not like when you were in the army. You looked like a man.” The Queen wrinkled her nose.

“I looked like a woman with short hair, Mother; stop being so homophobic.”

The Queen stood, pulling herself up to her full five feet ten. She’d always been a towering presence in Olivia’s life. “We’re letting you go, don’t push it. Just make sure you’re back here so you can start to approve wedding arrangements in a few weeks.” Her voice was clipped, not to be messed with. “I’ve asked Malcolm to start getting possible venues and guest lists organised.” She gave Olivia a stony look. “And remember I want long hair in the wedding photos, so not too short.”

“The wedding’s three months away.”

“Not. Too. Short.”

“And no wild parties or I’m sending bodyguards,” her father added.

Olivia took a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders. “I promise I’ll be good.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

Rosie craned her neck and stared into the distance, over the empty tracks. She glanced at her watch. It shouldn’t surprise her that the train was late again. She took a deep breath. It wasn’t as though the cafe was full of customers waiting for her. She tried to relax her shoulders and have a little moment of mindfulness. You could take mindfulness classes in Otter Bay these days — and yoga, of course. Neither were Rosie’s cup of tea.

A hoot sounded in the distance. Her sister wouldn’t be arriving too late then. She was glad she no longer had to pretend, if only to herself, that she was practicing mindfulness. Although she could do with a minute or two of clearing her head.

The train approached with a loud rumble, clearing Rosie’s brain of any thoughts momentarily. Ah. So, loud noise disturbing the weekday quiet of the Cornish countryside was all Rosie needed to free her mind from thoughts — not some silly mindfulness practice.

Rosie tried to catch a glimpse of Paige through the windows rolling past, but she couldn’t see her. The train screeched to a halt and it took another few seconds before the doors opened.

The first passengers disembarked. Rosie kept a keen eye on them. Knowing Paige, she’d be the last to get off the train. Unless visiting Bristol university had got her so excited, she couldn’t wait to repeat all the things she’d already told Rosie on the phone.

Rosie cast her glance down and took her eye off the trickle of people leaving the train only for a split second, when something hit her side.

“I’m so very sorry,” a woman said.

“Watch where you’re going,” Rosie said automatically.

The woman was wearing the exact Paul Smith jacket Rosie had seen in a magazine left by a customer in the cafe just that morning — otherwise she would never have recognised such a fashionable item. Her eyes had watered when she’d seen the price.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the woman said again and briefly caught Rosie’s gaze before hurrying off.

Just another rich Londoner pushing up the price of everything in Cornwall. Rosie watched the woman scurry off, as though she was late for a very pressing appointment. Maybe she was on her way to a mindfulness class.

Rosie hadn’t seen that much of her face, yet the woman looked vaguely familiar.

“Hey.” Paige appeared by Rosie’s side.

Rosie had been so distracted by the stranger barrelling into her, she hadn’t seen Paige get off the train.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Paige said. “Saves me a ride on the bus and about an hour of my time.”

“No problem.” Rosie briefly touched her much younger sister’s shoulder. “Taxi Rosie is always available for you.”

“Can I have that in writing, please?” Paige said.

They walked to Rosie’s battered, old Toyota. She’d got it second-hand for a few hundred quid from Raymond, the local garage owner, who’d put in extra time to fix it up for her free of charge.

“I’d like to add a clause,” Rosie said as they reached the car. “Taxi Rosie is always available to you as long as this luxury vehicle holds up.” She shot Paige a smile.

“It better be good for a few more months then.” Paige grinned back. “At least until I leave for uni.”

They got in. It was good to at least have a laugh at the state of their finances. A split second of relief was better than none.

“Tell me all about Bristol again,” Rosie said as she started driving. They had to rely on conversation to break the silence  — the car radio had given up the ghost almost a year ago.

As Paige raved about Bristol University and summed up all the reasons she would love to go there, pound signs added up in Rosie’s brain. But she’d had the opportunity to go to university — at least for the two years she’d been able to attend — and she’d do anything for Paige to have the same experience, without having to take on a crushing student loan. Even though things were very different now.

If she really wanted Paige to go to uni, maybe Mark & Maude’s, the cafe her parents had started a couple of decades ago, had no other prospect than a For Sale sign in the window.

***

Rosie got the funny feeling in her stomach she always did when she opened her online banking. The dread in the pit of her stomach that made her want to throw up a little. She longed for a day when she could check the state of her bank account carefree — although she was always aware of the exact amount in it, and the number of bills that needed to be paid from said amount.

The profit she’d made on the sale of her parents’ house after their untimely death had long run out. She’d used it to cover the arrears in the monthly mortgage payments on the cafe.

On any given month, nothing much was left over in the account after paying rent for the tiny flat she and Paige shared — a considerable downsize from the place they’d lived in next door to the cafe before their landlord had jacked up the rent once again. Rosie couldn’t blame him for wanting to turn a higher profit with short-term holiday rentals. If only her cafe could benefit as much from the influx of tourists as well.

But Mark & Maude’s was old school, closed before dinner time, and not generically trendy in the way well-off Londoners preferred their eating establishments. And they didn’t serve any alcohol. Maybe they should change that. How hard could it be to get a license to sell alcohol? Selling adult beverages had certainly done wonders for other cafes in the village.

Rosie glared at her laptop screen, as if it was the screen’s fault that her bank balance was so low. She leaned back in her chair, chastising herself for even opening her online banking. It wasn’t as if looking at the numbers would change anything. But she’d hoped the desperation of the situation would spark a magic idea in her brain.

She logged off. No magic spark came. She undid her pony tail and shook her hair loose. She was long overdue a visit to the hairdresser.

Footsteps approached and Paige walked into the living room. “Bonsoir ma soeur,” she said in French with the heaviest accent possible. Paige had the same dreams that Rosie had at her age. She wanted to travel the world and learn some other languages in the process. Studying French at uni was the start. “What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever you’re making,” Rosie said. “It’s your turn, remember?”

Paige sank into a chair. “Emergency pizza from the freezer it is then.”

“At least save your unhealthy eating habits until you’re at uni, will you?” Rosie slapped down the lid of her laptop. The bank’s website was still open and she didn’t want Paige to ask her any money-related questions.

“What will you be eating when I’m away?” Paige cocked her head. “Don’t tell me pizza from the freezer won’t tempt you then?”

Rosie had a hard time thinking so far ahead — and an equally hard time imagining Paige not living with her anymore. Come September, would she be lonely as well as jobless?

“Quinoa and avocado toast with almonds and chia seeds every day,” Rosie joked. She remembered the first time a customer at the cafe had asked if they served quinoa.

“It’s not really a Cornish delicacy,” Rosie had replied, and pointed at the items they did serve on the menu.

The bell rang and Paige jumped up. “I’ll get it,” she said.

Rosie stretched her arms above her head while she tried to guess who it was.

“Brace yourself,” Page whispered when she walked back into the living room. “Your ex is here.”

“Amy.” Rosie groaned. “What does she want?”

Hands on her hips, Paige looked at her as though Rosie had just asked the most stupid question in the world.

“Knock, knock.” Amy’s voice came from the hallway.

Rosie wanted to shoot her sister a look demanding why on earth she had let Amy in, but Amy was already standing in front of her, so there wasn’t much point.

“Hi,” Paige said to Amy. “I’ll leave you to it.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Maybe she would take the time to figure out an alternative menu for dinner.

Amy walked over to Rosie and kissed her on the cheek. She kept her hand on Rosie’s upper arm a little longer than was necessary — at least according to Rosie.

“What’s up, Rosebud?” Amy asked while she gave Rosie a once-over. “Although I really like your hair when it’s down like that, you look a little glum.”

Of course Amy wouldn’t for a second consider that it was her turning up unannounced — again — that made Rosie look unhappy.

“You know,” Rosie said. “A bit stressed.”

Amy shook her head. “You can’t go on like this much longer,” she said. “And you do have options. You know that.”

It was easy for Amy to say. Her parents actually knew how to profit from the new quinoa-eating, novelty-gin-drinking, mindfulness-practicing holiday crowd. They basically owned the local economy and their brand-new cafe was direct competition for Mark & Maude’s.

“I don’t need your help,” Rosie said, shifting her position in the chair. She didn’t much feel like inviting Amy to sit, lest she give her the impression she was welcome to stay for a chat — or that she wanted her help.

“Don’t be so stubborn. You’re only twenty-eight. You have your whole life ahead of you. There are so many things you could do if only you didn’t cling to your precious cafe so much.” Amy had always been a straight talker. “You could get a job managing one of our cafes just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Think about it, Rosie. A steady salary. No staff to pay. There’s something to be said for that kind of security.” She lowered her voice. “Especially with a younger sister going to uni.”

“Stop meddling with my life. It’s none of your business.” Rosie tried to hide the agitation in her voice. Amy might be right on some level, but Rosie surely wasn’t going to admit that to her face.

“I care about you.” Amy took a step closer again. “You know that.”

Rosie was just able to keep from rolling her eyes. She’d heard that line so many times before. It didn’t work on her anymore.

“What are you even doing here, Amy?” Rosie couldn’t mask the irritation in her tone this time.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Rosie sighed. Not as far as she was concerned. She didn’t need friends like Amy. “Paige and I were about to have dinner. It’s not really a good time for a friendly chat.”

Amy glanced at her in silence for a moment. “Message received loud and clear.” She turned around and headed for the door.

Fat chance of that. Rosie followed Amy into the hallway, looking forward to the moment she would slam the door shut behind her.

<>

Once Upon a Princess will be available on Thursday 24 May 2018

Bye Bye, Social Media

[image error]You may have noticed, or, if you’re like me now, you won’t have (good for you!), but I’m no longer on social media.

To be clear, for me ‘social media’ includes Facebook, Instagram & Twitter. I’m still on YouTube, so I haven’t gone completely off the grid.

I wanted to write this blog post to explain why I’ve made this decision and, perhaps even more importantly, why you’ll never find me lingering on the likes of Facebook (so long, Zuck!) again.

The red terror of notifications

Ah, that heady rush when you open your Facebook app and someone has liked one of your posts. Sometimes, even more than one person has liked it. Oh, the joy! Put like this, it sounds silly, but it’s just how our brain works. And Facebook is designed to make us come back for more. I was sick of this near-constant agitation and the quest for ever more dopamine hits.

An hour extra every day

I can’t tell you how many times per day I’ve said to myself: I’ll just quickly check Facebook, only to be pulled into a black hole of link clicking and notification hunting for the next hour or so. I wasn’t counting. I’m not counting now either, but I do suddenly seem to have more time on my hands.

Social media is so effective at leeching on our time, because we don’t notice that it is. But even 5 minutes in the morning, 5 after lunch and 5 before logging off in the evening adds up to fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes that, almost certainly, could have been better spent.

I’m no obsessive lifehacker wanting to make the most out of every minute of my day, but I’d rather not give any more of my time to what is, essentially, an advertising platform. (You’ve no idea how many times I’ve hesitated to buy that pet vacuum!)

I reckon I get an hour extra every day, what with eschewing Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter completely. I use the extra time to go for a walk in the forest, where no one’s trying to sell me a vacuum for my cat.

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A weight being lifted

As an indie author, I always believed I had to be on social media. How else was I going to sell books? It was one of these indisputable truths, which turned out to be nothing more than just another myth.

Social media doesn’t sell books, not a great number of them anyway. And isn’t it better to spend the time I gain by not having to come up with yet another witty Facebook status writing new material instead?

Peace of mind, where art thou?

I had a personal profile on Facebook, a page for my author name, and a profile for my author name. I belonged to several groups about lesbian fiction. I even set up my very own Readers Group a few months ago. All of these required constant feeding of one-liners, pictures of my cat, and status updates (preferably with gifs) about my work in progress. All of that followed by the hankering for the instant gratification of a thumbs-up symbol.

It’s no secret that I’m a delicate little flower of a writer and I have no qualms admitting that it was all a bit much for me. My peace of mind has increased significantly because I don’t have to worry about any of that anymore. Meanwhile, my ego is just fine.

Because I may have told myself that I needed to be on social media to sell books and make readers aware of ‘my brand’, but, when I’m really honest about it, it was all about myself. The attention. The dopamine hits. How accomplished it made me feel when someone like Jae left a comment on one of my posts.

I don’t need to have an opinion anymore

I stopped spouting opinions on Facebook a while ago, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still trying to come up with witty/accomplished/look-what-I-can-do status updates all the time.

An example: a few months ago I bought an old desk I wanted to up-cycle. All through the process of picking it up, sanding it, painting it, and making it look pretty, in the back of my mind there was this little voice: the before and after pictures will look so good on Instagram. What the hell is that about? Was I up-cycling this desk for my personal enjoyment or for Instagram likes?

I don’t wanna miss a thing

The days of me scrolling through my Facebook news feed had been long gone already. But it used to be such a thrill to see what my nephews were up to or which new decadent cocktail my friends in Hong Kong had discovered, but after about a decade of seeing family members’ lunches and old classmates’ babies, I’d had enough.

When we lived in Hong Kong it was the perfect way/excuse to stay up to date with our family and friends in Belgium and vice versa when we moved back home. How many conversations didn’t start with: Oh, I saw on Facebook that you did this… And sure, it may have been convenient, but you know what it also did? Cause FOMO (and so many eye rolls)!

The fragmented mind

[image error]I made the decision to quit social media after reading Cal Newport’s Deep Work for the second time. He challenges his readers to try it for 30 days and then see how they feel.

I knew after one day that I wouldn’t be going back, because of all the things I mentioned above: Delicious peace of mind. Like a weight being lifted off my fragile shoulders. Not needing to spend any precious energy on other people’s issues. No longer having to roll my eyes at my mother’s oversharing.

I read Deep Work for the first time a year ago and I really wanted to try a digital fast then, but we were traveling and I wasn’t in the right state of mind and I simply still believed I had to be on Facebook for my brand (how silly does that actually sound when you really think about it?)

This time around, though, I was ready. The book advocates deep work, gives you strategies on how to accomplish it, and lists the many benefits of it. When you read it, you want to work deeply.

Not only does frequenting all your favourite social media haunts eat away at your time, leaving less of it for deep work, but it also fragments your focus. It’s always easier to quickly check Facebook than to write a chapter in your new book. Always. But if there’s no more Facebook/Instagram/Twitter to check, you’ll be less inclined to procrastinate on writing that chapter.

And all the useless information you’re no longer bombarded with leaves your mind far less cluttered and able to focus on what matters: (in my case) how am I going to get these two female characters in bed together?

I’m still here!

You won’t be able to private message me on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram anymore, but you can always email me.

You can listen to my wonky accented voice on our weekly podcast, or even look at my face in our weekly YouTube video.

I’ll also be spending more time keeping my mailing list subscribers up to date about the goings-on in my life (I may even send them a picture of that up-cycled desk!) by sending a newsletter every two weeks, regardless of new releases.

You can always subscribe here (and get some free books in the process!) >>

And who knows, maybe I’ll start writing more blog posts like this one?