K.F. Breene's Blog, page 8
May 18, 2014
Cover Reveal! Midnight Runes by Celeste Buie
COVER REVEAL
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO:
Midnight Runes by Celeste Buie
(The Bestowed Ones #1)
Publication date: May 21st 2014
Genres: Fantasy, Paranormal, Young Adult
WHEN YOUR FUTURE’S AT STAKE, DO YOU FOLLOW YOUR HEAD OR HEART?
Brynn Emerson has always been in control of her life—until a mysterious stranger invades her dreams and her boyfriend, Trevor, suddenly dumps her.
Life gets more complicated when secretive newcomer Landon shows up at school. The playful and handsome Landon is somehow connected to Brynn’s ex-boyfriend.
Determined to find out how they know each other, Brynn draws closer to Landon…only to realize too late that she’s risking more than she thought possible.
Meanwhile, a person of power has his sights on Brynn. Will Trevor and Landon work together to keep her safe? Or will she be pulled against her will into their mysterious world?
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO:Midnight Runes by Celeste Buie
(The Bestowed Ones #1)
Publication date: May 21st 2014
Genres: Fantasy, Paranormal, Young Adult
WHEN YOUR FUTURE’S AT STAKE, DO YOU FOLLOW YOUR HEAD OR HEART?
Brynn Emerson has always been in control of her life—until a mysterious stranger invades her dreams and her boyfriend, Trevor, suddenly dumps her.
Life gets more complicated when secretive newcomer Landon shows up at school. The playful and handsome Landon is somehow connected to Brynn’s ex-boyfriend.
Determined to find out how they know each other, Brynn draws closer to Landon…only to realize too late that she’s risking more than she thought possible.
Meanwhile, a person of power has his sights on Brynn. Will Trevor and Landon work together to keep her safe? Or will she be pulled against her will into their mysterious world?
May 16, 2014
Review: The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak
The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak Genre: Historical FictionReviewer: K.F. Breene Amazon | iTunes
It is 1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier, and will become busier still.Liesel Meminger is a foster girl living outside of Munich, who scratches out a meager existence for herself by stealing when she encounters something she can’t resist–books. With the help of her accordion-playing foster father, she learns to read and shares her stolen books with her neighbors during bombing raids as well as with the Jewish man hidden in her basement.
In superbly crafted writing that burns with intensity, award-winning author Markus Zusak, author of I Am the Messenger, has given us one of the most enduring stories of our time.
I just finished this book last night and I am still in such a profound haze I don’t really have the shape of it, yet. Firstly, I heard about this book from a friend. She is a well-read friend, smart and snarky, and doesn’t bother finishing books she doesn’t like. Just like me, basically. She mentioned that this book stuck with her. Really good. I should read it. The book is popular right now, which usually happens when a movie comes out, and while that never makes an impression on me, it does make an impression on booksellers. I was able to snatch this baby up on sale. Why not, right? Everyone seems to like it, my friend recommended it—sure, I’ll give it a read.Well…I read it.
The Book Thief is about a little girl in Nazi Germany. And unlike many of its peers, this book doesn’t focus on the plight of the Jews, the army, or other singular issues I’ve come to expect. Instead, the scope of this book is broad, many factors of this time and place influencing this little girl’s life. We see how “normal” Germans lived, day-to-day, and their many struggles. We see those who were pushed into the Nazi party out of fear or necessity, those who jumped in, and those just trying to stay alive. This book encompasses so many facets of that era, so beautifully, that you can’t help sliding in and letting it wrap you up in the story.
Another thing to note: this story was told by Death. And that made it all the more interesting.
A few things I loved about this book.
1. The writing.
Marcus Zusak weaved words through the pages in such a beautiful way. Unique descriptions lent a certain feel to the events. I often critize writing, since I am so used to revising my own, but I had no complaints. Literally not one. For me, that is huge.
2. The characters.
They were real. The loud-mouthed, abusive-worded mother who would welcome in a Jew and sacrifice her food, her family, and her safety to keep the man alive. The kind and caring father, who had faults and problems in plenty, but who you constantly rooted for as he made tiny small stands against the Nazi party, in his own way. The shop owner, who demanded a Hiel Hilter upon entry, but turned out was just as afraid as everyone else—I could go on. Each character is woven into the story beautifully, all with moments of pride, all with moments of weakness, and all very real.
3. The compassion.
It was everywhere. Even unlikely people showed moments of great kindness. Big or small, the goodness in humanity flowered, and really lent to that profound wonder I’m still glowing from.
4. The portrayal of realistic, horrible events.
Because it was Nazi Germany, and those obviously existed. Dead bodies, bomb raids, masticated Jews marching through the town—we know these events happened, but told through the eyes of a teenage child…lends a certain feel. Then, teamed with the little specs of compassion, and the small victories in the characters’ lives, and the little perversions of the Nazi way of thinking—it’s hard to explain. You get so sucked in… It’s hard to explain.
Some say its harder to write a glowing review than a ranting one—that there are just more things to say with a terrible book than a great one. I’d have to disagree. A terrible book does aggravate me, sure, but I let it go so quickly. I never get invested. I never really let it seep into me and take root. A bad review would be mostly superficial, which is why I don’t bother.
But a great book—you can see the length of this review, and I want to keep going. I want to talk about this soft warmth I have from the intricacies of the story. Or the peaceful buzz of reading. Or the ability to put it down and carry on my day, but the desire to continue thinking about it. I want to research that time period a little more. I even want to write a few essays, to really dig down, and explore this book more thoroughly.
I don’t give many five star ratings. Not many at all. I am extremely critical, and demand the story be top-notch, the writing top-notch, my enjoyment high, and just…a little something extra. Not many five-star books, for me, exist.
My rating: 5 star
May 15, 2014
Irish Men are Worse than a Sewing Circle!
I heard a bit of gossip the other day about a bar owner.
Now, let's just take a moment to uncover a lie, shall we? Men say they don't gossip. They say women are the ones that gossip. And yes, that's true. Women do gossip.
But here's a fact: men do, too! Big time!
Worse? Irish men at the local bar! Oh my god, I have never encountered anything like it. Because they don't just gossip, they also believe anything! They will believe the wildest stories, and then pass it on with an incredulous, though excited, smile.
This is all a set up for an example. I'm chuckling just thinking about it.
Here's the conversation.
The husband hunches over the table, whispering--
H (husband): Did ye hear about Ode?"
K (me): Who, the bar owner?
H: Yeah, did ye hear about him?
K: No, why?
H: Turns out he's in jail.
I look over at the bar, where the co-owner, his wife, is sitting. She's smiling and talking to patrons without a care in the world. I've gotten my first hint of a tall tale, which is always more interesting than a real story.
I turn back to my husband.
K: He's in jail? Why? How?
H: *incredulous smile* Well, seemingly, his wife and him had a fight, and he had to call the cops on her...
K: He...called the cops on his wife? But he's in jail?
H: *backs off the table to show it isn't his story, even though the glimmer of a story is still in his eyes* Yeah, seemingly, they were arguing and she got violent and started beatin' the head of him, so he had to call the cops on her.
I nod for him to go on, because, amazingly, this actually has happened before. An Irishman is fantastic at inciting rage, and while they'll punch another guy no problem, they maintain the strict rule about not hitting women. This is good, obviously, but sometimes the women have no such rule about their man. An Irishman will sit in a bar while a woman beats the crap out of him, and just take it with a put-upon expression. I have witnessed this. The crazy broad (who he probably pushed to that mental state) was taken away by the cops.
So this actually could happen. Very unlikely, but it isn't enough to discredit the story.
K: Okay...go on.
H: Well, seemingly, by the time the cops got to his house, he'd taken off. But since he'd called, the cops had to search the house to make sure he was okay--
K: Wait--who let them in if he took off?
H: The wife was there.
*I quirk my eyebrow*
H: I don't know if this is true, now, but seemingly he called the cops because she was beating him, but he'd left by the time they got there. She opened the door to them...
K: Uh huh. Okay, go on...
H: But since he'd called, they had to investigate. So they search the house and find 50 pot plants and $150,000 in cash! *incredulous smile beams* So they took him to prison!
I can't help my own incredulous smile, but it is for an entirely different reason.
K: Wait, let me get this straight-- he allows his wife to beat him up, then he calls the cops knowing he has a bunch of illegal drugs and loose cash in the house, and then he takes off? He invites the cops to his house where a bunch of illegal stuff is going on, and then...leaves his abusive wife to deal with it?
H: Well, I don't know now, that's just what I heard.
K: And you...believed it? You didn't ask any questions about the validity of the story?
H: *shrugs* I don't know--that's what everyone is saying.
You can't help but laugh. This happens all the time, too. All the time. Men probably start feuds based off of ridiculous stories they hear from their mates...
I'll try to remember to write down a few more for your enjoyment. These stories never fail to push out a chuckle :)
Now, let's just take a moment to uncover a lie, shall we? Men say they don't gossip. They say women are the ones that gossip. And yes, that's true. Women do gossip.
But here's a fact: men do, too! Big time!
Worse? Irish men at the local bar! Oh my god, I have never encountered anything like it. Because they don't just gossip, they also believe anything! They will believe the wildest stories, and then pass it on with an incredulous, though excited, smile.
This is all a set up for an example. I'm chuckling just thinking about it.
Here's the conversation.
The husband hunches over the table, whispering--
H (husband): Did ye hear about Ode?"
K (me): Who, the bar owner?
H: Yeah, did ye hear about him?
K: No, why?
H: Turns out he's in jail.
I look over at the bar, where the co-owner, his wife, is sitting. She's smiling and talking to patrons without a care in the world. I've gotten my first hint of a tall tale, which is always more interesting than a real story.
I turn back to my husband.
K: He's in jail? Why? How?
H: *incredulous smile* Well, seemingly, his wife and him had a fight, and he had to call the cops on her...
K: He...called the cops on his wife? But he's in jail?
H: *backs off the table to show it isn't his story, even though the glimmer of a story is still in his eyes* Yeah, seemingly, they were arguing and she got violent and started beatin' the head of him, so he had to call the cops on her.
I nod for him to go on, because, amazingly, this actually has happened before. An Irishman is fantastic at inciting rage, and while they'll punch another guy no problem, they maintain the strict rule about not hitting women. This is good, obviously, but sometimes the women have no such rule about their man. An Irishman will sit in a bar while a woman beats the crap out of him, and just take it with a put-upon expression. I have witnessed this. The crazy broad (who he probably pushed to that mental state) was taken away by the cops.
So this actually could happen. Very unlikely, but it isn't enough to discredit the story.
K: Okay...go on.
H: Well, seemingly, by the time the cops got to his house, he'd taken off. But since he'd called, the cops had to search the house to make sure he was okay--
K: Wait--who let them in if he took off?
H: The wife was there.
*I quirk my eyebrow*
H: I don't know if this is true, now, but seemingly he called the cops because she was beating him, but he'd left by the time they got there. She opened the door to them...
K: Uh huh. Okay, go on...
H: But since he'd called, they had to investigate. So they search the house and find 50 pot plants and $150,000 in cash! *incredulous smile beams* So they took him to prison!
I can't help my own incredulous smile, but it is for an entirely different reason.
K: Wait, let me get this straight-- he allows his wife to beat him up, then he calls the cops knowing he has a bunch of illegal drugs and loose cash in the house, and then he takes off? He invites the cops to his house where a bunch of illegal stuff is going on, and then...leaves his abusive wife to deal with it?
H: Well, I don't know now, that's just what I heard.
K: And you...believed it? You didn't ask any questions about the validity of the story?
H: *shrugs* I don't know--that's what everyone is saying.
You can't help but laugh. This happens all the time, too. All the time. Men probably start feuds based off of ridiculous stories they hear from their mates...
I'll try to remember to write down a few more for your enjoyment. These stories never fail to push out a chuckle :)
May 14, 2014
Review - The Soulkeeper by GP Ching (FREE)
The Soulkeeper by GP ChingFREE!!
Genre: YAReviewer: Sally Sparrow Amazon | Goodreads | iTunes
When fifteen-year-old Jacob Lau is pulled from the crumpled remains of his mother's car, no one can explain why he was driving or why the police can't find his mother's body. A beautiful and mysterious neighbor offers to use her unique abilities to help him find his mom.
But in exchange she requires Jacob to train as a Soulkeeper, a protector of human souls. He agrees to her demands, desperate for any clue to the mystery of his mother's disappearance. But soon Jacob finds himself trapped in a web of half-truths, and questions her motives for helping him.
“Death lived up to Jacob’s expectations.”
This is the very first line of this book, and it’s a good one. From this one sentence I was instantly intrigued. Killing off the main character in the very first sentence of a story is quite a bold move.
I like bold. Don’t worry, Jacob doesn’t stay dead. This isn’t written in the style of The Lovely Bones. No, modern medicine - or possibly divine intervention - revives him, and we then learn of the car accident that almost killed him, and the odd circumstances surrounding his accident that set the stage for this book.
Jacob is 15, his father died in Afghanistan, and he lives with his mom in Oahu until she goes missing in the same car accident that put him in the hospital. He is then forced to move to Illinois with an uncle that he has never even heard of, let alone met, to a small town full of small town people who don’t really welcome newcomers.
I can’t help but like Jacob. He’s practical and street smart and very observant. His memory of the car accident is so preposterous that he assumes it is a hallucination, even though it ends up being accurate.
The fantasy aspect of the story is based on the mythology of god, satan, and the angels. It is developed in a compelling manner, and I was enjoying it greatly - despite my lack of appreciation for religions in general - until the end. I am still unsure if the author lost me in the message of goodness and faith, as, being the heathen that I am, I prefer my escapism to be without religious messages. I am not sure if it was her intention to give the story a christian moral, but I am also not sure that it wasn’t her intention.
Despite my uncertainty about the moral, I highly recommend this book. The Soulkeepers is well written with a gripping story and rather fun foreshadowing. Jacob is such a great character. He doesn’t have faith in anything or anyone but himself. His life is pretty difficult, and he navigates it with an admirable level of courage and pragmatism. There’s no wallowing in self pity, no ‘woe is me’ attitude, no false bravado or egotism. He’s brave and loyal and exceedingly sensible. His like-ability alone has me interested in the subsequent books in this series, of which there are quite a few. With the cast of characters assembled by the book’s end, this is a nice stepping-off point for some interesting adventures.
4 stars
May 12, 2014
Aries; Always Picked On
I am an Aries.
I am the first sign of the zodiac. And I am continually picked on through Facebook posts written, I assume, by non-Aries...
Here are some of my traits (says the internet):
Aries Strength Keywords:- Independent
- Generous
- Optimistic
- Enthusiastic
- Courageous
Aries Weakness Keywords:- Moody
- Short tempered
- Self-involved
- Impulsive
- Impatient
Like anyone else, Aries has good and bad traits. Right? This is no surprise. Or is it...
Here's a little more-- I am cheerleading myself early before I go into how we are apparently viewed by those horoscope Facebook sign makers...
Aries and Independence:Aries personalities are independent. Being the first of the zodiac signs, they venture out and are go-getters, often leading the way. Their upbeat and magnetic personality often entices others to follow their lead because Aries personalities bring excitement into others lives.
Aries and Friendship:Aries are good friends, they always look out for their friends with caring and generosity and will protect them should the need arise and encourage them with their natural optimism. If confronted, Aries can turn to be quite childish, they will fight back with their agressive nature and are known to have temper tantrums should they not get their way.
Aries Deep Inside:Underneath the strong, independent surface may lie insecurity. This is due to the intense drive to succeed and Aries put too much pressure on themselves, thus resulting in self-doubt however, the natural optimism and enthusiasm overtakes this and the underlying insecurity may never be known to others.
That last one explains a bit, huh? All my whining on blog posts...
Anyway, those descriptions are pretty right on, I must say. I am an independent gal with a temper and an extreme sense of loyalty. I'm also a lover of group gatherings, my friends around all the time, and I have a huge drive to get things done. Bring an Aries to a party and things will start poppin'!
Want things to go crazy? Just add Tequila. Fun and wild, yes we are.
Right then, here comes the slander...
Now, this one is just rude. 3/4's of the list are nice things and good traits. People on those categories are all smiles and happy days. But the first one? Aries goes there. We must make it terrible! I mean, don't believe in us? Well thanks for pushing me towards depression. "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms." Plus, we are great leaders, so in an emergency, you want us around. We will strong arm our way through opposition, our mind on the goal, and pull everyone along. I'm not kidding--my gumption is rising just thinking about it. But did that make the list? Nooooo. We are huge encouragers. I have often gotten people started on a new venture. Very often. As in, every time someone is contemplating something, I get excited thinking about a way to do it. Sometimes I'll even join in--new things are fun things. But did that make the list? Nooooo.
Holy hades! We have a crazed, finger waving, glasses wearing, fuzzy-haired woman as our mascot, and Capricorn gets a super model?? Now, how is that fair? We have pretty people on our side--
Okay, yes, he is a terrible example. Asshole with a capital "A". But he was hot in Gladiator, am I right? That role totally worked for him. Still, we do have some awesome-sauce in our line up!
Reese? She's super sweet. Okay, the issue with the drunk driving was a little out there, but that's just because we like to party. And she totally apologized.
Jenn? Sweet little Jenn? Constantly dumped? She's one of America's sweethearts. No one having staying power with her is not because she's an Aries. Actually, it's obviously because they are not good enough. Point to us.
And the other Jen--I didn't even know she was an Aries. I mean, yes, she can kick some major ass, but so sweet!
And that chick from Harry Potter? Smart, talented and pretty, that one. Only one from HP that is going to make something huge of herself, just you wait.
See, we have a good roster of smart, pretty people. Why all the digs on us?
Keep it up Facebook sign makers, and I'll make this gum-drop dream a reality.
Let's just even the score, shall we? Here is a real horoscope:
Boom!
I am the first sign of the zodiac. And I am continually picked on through Facebook posts written, I assume, by non-Aries...
Here are some of my traits (says the internet):
Aries Strength Keywords:- Independent
- Generous
- Optimistic
- Enthusiastic
- Courageous
Aries Weakness Keywords:- Moody
- Short tempered
- Self-involved
- Impulsive
- Impatient
Like anyone else, Aries has good and bad traits. Right? This is no surprise. Or is it...
Here's a little more-- I am cheerleading myself early before I go into how we are apparently viewed by those horoscope Facebook sign makers...
Aries and Independence:Aries personalities are independent. Being the first of the zodiac signs, they venture out and are go-getters, often leading the way. Their upbeat and magnetic personality often entices others to follow their lead because Aries personalities bring excitement into others lives.
Aries and Friendship:Aries are good friends, they always look out for their friends with caring and generosity and will protect them should the need arise and encourage them with their natural optimism. If confronted, Aries can turn to be quite childish, they will fight back with their agressive nature and are known to have temper tantrums should they not get their way.
Aries Deep Inside:Underneath the strong, independent surface may lie insecurity. This is due to the intense drive to succeed and Aries put too much pressure on themselves, thus resulting in self-doubt however, the natural optimism and enthusiasm overtakes this and the underlying insecurity may never be known to others.
That last one explains a bit, huh? All my whining on blog posts...
Anyway, those descriptions are pretty right on, I must say. I am an independent gal with a temper and an extreme sense of loyalty. I'm also a lover of group gatherings, my friends around all the time, and I have a huge drive to get things done. Bring an Aries to a party and things will start poppin'!
Want things to go crazy? Just add Tequila. Fun and wild, yes we are.
Right then, here comes the slander...
Now, this one is just rude. 3/4's of the list are nice things and good traits. People on those categories are all smiles and happy days. But the first one? Aries goes there. We must make it terrible! I mean, don't believe in us? Well thanks for pushing me towards depression. "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms." Plus, we are great leaders, so in an emergency, you want us around. We will strong arm our way through opposition, our mind on the goal, and pull everyone along. I'm not kidding--my gumption is rising just thinking about it. But did that make the list? Nooooo. We are huge encouragers. I have often gotten people started on a new venture. Very often. As in, every time someone is contemplating something, I get excited thinking about a way to do it. Sometimes I'll even join in--new things are fun things. But did that make the list? Nooooo.
Holy hades! We have a crazed, finger waving, glasses wearing, fuzzy-haired woman as our mascot, and Capricorn gets a super model?? Now, how is that fair? We have pretty people on our side--
Okay, yes, he is a terrible example. Asshole with a capital "A". But he was hot in Gladiator, am I right? That role totally worked for him. Still, we do have some awesome-sauce in our line up!
Reese? She's super sweet. Okay, the issue with the drunk driving was a little out there, but that's just because we like to party. And she totally apologized.
Jenn? Sweet little Jenn? Constantly dumped? She's one of America's sweethearts. No one having staying power with her is not because she's an Aries. Actually, it's obviously because they are not good enough. Point to us.
And the other Jen--I didn't even know she was an Aries. I mean, yes, she can kick some major ass, but so sweet!
And that chick from Harry Potter? Smart, talented and pretty, that one. Only one from HP that is going to make something huge of herself, just you wait.
See, we have a good roster of smart, pretty people. Why all the digs on us?
Keep it up Facebook sign makers, and I'll make this gum-drop dream a reality.
Let's just even the score, shall we? Here is a real horoscope:
Boom!
Cover Reveal! Calling California by J.P. Grider
COVER REVEAL
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO: Calling California by J.P. Grider
Publication date: June 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance SYNOPSIS:
Cali Parker is poor. She has a lot on her plate – her father is dying, she’s working to help pay the rent, and she’s two-years behind in college.
Griffin Brooks is rich. He has not a care in the world – he’s acing his engineering courses, his hobby is restoring his fifty-thousand dollar classic car, and he has a different girl on his arm every week.
When Cali sees Griffin on her first day of class, she’s immediately smitten and thinks she’s found the perfect guy. When Griffin sees Cali at the bank, he immediately forgets the blonde he was with that morning. Then they meet, and their worlds collide.
Cali doesn’t belong in Griffin’s world, and he doesn’t understand hers. But just when Griffin convinces Cali that their two different worlds can blend, a secret is revealed that tears them apart.
Is their love strong enough to bring them back together, or will their worlds drift further apart?
AUTHOR BIO:
J.P. Grider is a Young Adult and New Adult author. She is the author of six novels. Her young adult series The Honor Trilogy consists of A Touch of Honor, A Man of Honor, and A Heart of Honor, while her first two novels - Unplugged (A Portrait of a Rock Star) and Maybe This Life - are standalone adult contemporary novels. Her most recent release is the new adult romance Calling California, which is the first in her Hunter Hill University series. The next book in the series – Mending Mick – will be released in October, 2014. All the books in the Hunter Hill University series will be standalone books and can be read in any order. Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO: Calling California by J.P. Grider
Publication date: June 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance SYNOPSIS:
Cali Parker is poor. She has a lot on her plate – her father is dying, she’s working to help pay the rent, and she’s two-years behind in college.
Griffin Brooks is rich. He has not a care in the world – he’s acing his engineering courses, his hobby is restoring his fifty-thousand dollar classic car, and he has a different girl on his arm every week.
When Cali sees Griffin on her first day of class, she’s immediately smitten and thinks she’s found the perfect guy. When Griffin sees Cali at the bank, he immediately forgets the blonde he was with that morning. Then they meet, and their worlds collide.
Cali doesn’t belong in Griffin’s world, and he doesn’t understand hers. But just when Griffin convinces Cali that their two different worlds can blend, a secret is revealed that tears them apart.
Is their love strong enough to bring them back together, or will their worlds drift further apart?
AUTHOR BIO:
J.P. Grider is a Young Adult and New Adult author. She is the author of six novels. Her young adult series The Honor Trilogy consists of A Touch of Honor, A Man of Honor, and A Heart of Honor, while her first two novels - Unplugged (A Portrait of a Rock Star) and Maybe This Life - are standalone adult contemporary novels. Her most recent release is the new adult romance Calling California, which is the first in her Hunter Hill University series. The next book in the series – Mending Mick – will be released in October, 2014. All the books in the Hunter Hill University series will be standalone books and can be read in any order. Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads
May 7, 2014
Kindle Paperwhite Giveaway!!
I'm giving away a Kindle Paperwhite loaded with all my books!
That's pretty much all there is to it. Enter, and win! Good luck! a Rafflecopter giveaway
Harlequin Presents Project Reveal & GIVEAWAY
I'm excited to give you a first peek at a new project Harlequin is working on! Check it out!
Below is a chance to win paperback copies of the whole series!
The Chatsfield
· Harlequin, has launched The Chatsfield, a “first of its kind” digital series from Mills & Boon on 6th May.
· Set in the luxury hotel “The Chatsfield”, this digital series provides an extra journey for the reader to continue engaging with the characters of a book and series beyond what is just on the page, thereby extending the life of the story.
· The Chatsfield is a digital journey that blends fiction and reality and comes across multiple mediums including print (The Chatsfield Presents books), video (YouTube), digital (blogs and the main Chatsfield website) and social (twitter, Facebook).
The Chatsfield opened its doors on 6th May at www.thechatsfield.com
Facebook | Twitter | Google+ | YouTube | Mills & Boon
#TheChatsfield The Books
Sheikh’s Scandal by Lucy Monroe Sheikh Sayed of Zeena Sarha and his harem of beautiful women are staying at the exclusive, opulent Chatsfield Hotel, London, for the last stop on his worldwide tour before his wedding. But when his engagement is unceremoniously broken, Sayed sets his sights on his sexy chambermaid! Liyah Amari only took the position as chambermaid to find the truth about her birth father. But her search ends in heartache, leaving Liyah vulnerable to this powerful Sheikh's desires. Now their one night of passion could result in a scandalous consequence for the proud Sheikh! Welcome to The Chatsfield, London!
Playboy’s Lesson by Melanie Milburne Lucca Chatsfield has one simple motto: no rings, no strings. Adored wherever he goes, he has yet to meet a woman who can resist him. Until he's sent to the small principality of Preitalle and meets his greatest challenge ever…. Poised and polished, princess Charlotte does not do drama. The very last person she needs interfering in her life is this reckless playboy! Lottie is determined to resist Lucca's seduction, but his charm is potent, and practically perfect Lottie finds herself risking everything for just one more touch….
Socialite’s Gamble by Michelle Conder As the darling of London's party scene, Cara Chatsfield isn't surprised when her father's CEO sends her to Las Vegas to host The Chatsfield's world-famous poker tournament. And if behind the glitz and glamour there's a girl hurt by her past? She'll never tell. Aidan Kelly detests women like Cara, but when his biggest rival includes Cara in the stakes, Aidan must win—and not just for her protection! But getting to know the stunning socialite, he discovers a beautiful, vulnerable young woman awoken by his own personal brand of passion! Welcome to The Chatsfield, Las Vegas! GIVEAWAY --10 winners will get copies of The Chatsfield series (Books 1-3) a Rafflecopter giveaway
May 5, 2014
I'm an American! For reals.
Does this sound familiar:
"What nationality are you?"
Like many, I always answered this question with, "I'm Irish."
That prompted the asker to answer, "Yeah, me too!" That, or Italian.
I think these are pretty standard answers anywhere you go in the United States. And no, it doesn't matter that we've never been to that country. Not at all. Details. My reddish hair and ability to sunburn means that I'm Irish, bitch. Stand aside, gen-u-ine paddy coming through!
Until my twenties, I was convinced this was absolutely true; I was as Irish as any American could be. My dad looks like a leprechaun for goodness sakes! Red hair and beard, on the short side, and usually holding a beer? Oh yeah, we're Irish.
One more thing--my last name was Caven. As in, from the county Cavan...in Ireland. So the spelling is different, so what? Where's that Irish badge...
It was pretty clear to all that we were, indeed, Irish. No two ways about it.
I was so sure, in fact, that when I got the chance to visit my friend going to college in Ireland, I was soooo excited to see the place I came from! I got green suitcase tags, got Irish themed "have a good-trip" cards from work friends, and was the envy of everyone. All the "Paddy's" thought I was so lucky to go to our home land!
I should note that at the time (I was 22, I believe), I had never traveled abroad, no member of my family had traveled abroad except right over the boarder to Mexico, and only that one friend had traveled abroad. Not only that, but I lived in a town north of San Francisco and primarily lived among middle-class white families. We weren't even properly steeped in American culture, we were nestled in a certain niche of American culture.
But here comes the traveler, watch out! Don't worry, everybody--I'm 22, I know everything. I got this!
I should also note that I had never talked to an Irish person. Actually, I don't even think I had talked to a European. At the time, we really only had people from Mexico in that area. Well, that and Americans, obviously. Northern Californians, to be precise, which is a certain breed of people--that I love, don't get me wrong, but we are not the defining group that make up America. You'll probably know us when you meet us. Californian's, even the northern ones, have a certain vibe. Or, maybe, a lack-there-of. We're the ones in flip flops lounging around in casual dress, usually pretty blasé about most things.
I had a New Yorker miss a meeting and reschedule. I said, "No worries. I was just wondering what happened." The New Yorker laughed and replied, "That's because you're Californian. If you were my normal client, you'd be screaming at me."
Anyway, I digress. Back my assurance that I am Irish!
A horribly long plane ride, and confusing plane change in the monstrous Heathrow Airport later, I met my friend in Dublin. This is my book-smart friend, by the way. She can blow your mind with everything from writing to calculus. Procrastinator du jour, she can start a huge paper the night before and receive a gleaming "A" the next day. I've always been in advanced classes--I'm no slouch. But she always got higher grades than me (in those same classes). It worked, though, because I do better when challenged, and she always challenged me. Then I beat her up. BFF's!
I did say book smart, though. On the street, she is dumb as rocks. I should have remembered this. I looked to her to guide me through this new culture, and got a blank stare in return. Basically, I had to start from scratch with this new culture.
No problem, I am quick on my feet.
We toured some museums, stayed in a hostel, and had a few pints. I had my first Guinness in the Guinness factory and didn't much like it. If only I could go back and punch myself in the mouth, I would. Repeatedly!
All was fine at this point. We stayed in mostly tourist areas because Dublin has a lot of history to divulge. In tourist areas, though, the Irish just pretty much ignore you. I don't blame them.
On to Galway, a city much like San Francisco, on the west coast of Ireland. People there are more relaxed, ready to have fun, and the college is there, which attracts a wider variety of people. We visited some truly awesome pubs where people would just break into beautiful, yet terribly depressing, Irish ballads. Everyone would quiet down for the singer, and we'd look on with a small smile at something we had never experienced in the states.
Let it be known that this practice now irritates the crap out of me. Not while in Ireland--there are unspoken rules about the situation there to maintain it's beauty. If you are out of line, someone will shut you up, and possibly help your ass out of the bar so you can promptly feck off!
But in the bars here...I'm not such a fan anymore. Yes, fine, beautiful, great--seriously, I'm in a bar talking to my friends. Can you drunkenly sing Danny Boy, off-tune, while weaving on your barstool, some other time? You just woke up from being passed on the bar for cripes-sakes. Tone it down, man!
While in Galway, I received my first dose of reality about my nationality. There, I learned that Americans are loud, obnoxious assholes who think the world revolves around them. Say what?
This was confirmed on the bus on the way to get a ferry to the Aran Islands. Some overly loud Bostonians in the front of the bus were demanding information from the bus driver.
Let's stop for a lesson. Because I have since married a paddy, and have a bunch of Irish friends--I know some rules. One of them is, don't yell at an Irish person. They will assume they are in a fight, and want to punch you. That might be punching you with words, their fist, a grimace, or a head butt. They might not even express it right out, but they are thinking it. Yelling is not one of those things that goes over all that well, and speaking in a belligerently loud voice is considered yelling.
The Irishman's thoughts: God damned yanks.
His response: Silence. He didn't answer one question, or engage in one ounce of conversation. I laugh now, but then I was like...Whaaaa?
It was probably his way of not punching them for hanging behind his seat and talk-yelling at him. Cultures collide!
We got further evidence of unnaturally loud talking on the ferry. East Coasters again. Man, oh man, we thought, they are giving us West Coasters a bad name!
Do you see where we are? I had established the bad reputation of the American as something the people from the East Coast generically created. I was setting myself up for a smack down. Cringe.
We left Galway to travel the southern tip of Ireland. On the way, we visited a lovely town of Cong, known among John Wayne fans for the filming of The Quiet Man. My friend and I aren't John Wayne fans. We did not know anything about this movie. Instead, she wanted to check out some great trails in this area.
Hoof and mouth decease was running rampant at the time. The trails were closed and the bus wasn't coming back until the morning.
No problem, we'll have a look around, visit the gift shop, and head out in the morning. About here things started to go very, very wrong.
My friend and I stood in the gift shop, debating what souvenirs to bring back to whom, when a Spaniard went up to buy something. The lady checking him out, who had greeted us upon entry, and ascertained our origins, started a huge rant about Americans.
Yes. This happened.
This is basically what the woman said: ALL these Americans think Irish people live in huts, dumb yanks. They come over here, shoving their weight around, perfectly ignorant, and expect the world on a silver platter. Then they get mad at ME for this town having real houses. And hear this, they all think they're Irish! Well--
On and on she went. My friend and I, both on the shyer side with strangers, stood at the back of the store gaping at the souvenirs in our hands. I blinked a million times, my bubble of "I'm Irish" shattering so hard the shards stabbed me in the face.
Upon leaving the store--we still purchased the souvenirs for lack of a better plan--we tried to laugh off the tirade by saying she was talking about old people. Those people who knew what The Quiet Man was. But by this point, we were nearly out of ways to deflect.
On to Cork, my favorite city in Ireland. We found ourselves in a pub that night, having found a beer both of us really liked. There we got hit on. How did we know this? Not like you might think. The man in question was middle-aged and hovering around our table talking to us. Well, obviously he was hitting on you, you might say. Not so obvious when you understand one word in ten.
He settled himself right in, having found two girls that didn't tell him to feck off. We couldn't-we had no idea what he was saying. We did try to squeak out of there and move on, but made the mistake of using the bathroom first. When we got back to say good-bye, we had beers waiting for us. And the chatty Irishman. With the real accent. Of which we could not understand.
Now, when I don't understand an Irish person talking to me, I just say, "I have no idea what you just said right then." Everyone laughs--Irish love taking and giving abuse. It's why my personality fits so well with them. But back in the day, I was trying to be nice. And to do that, I was being quiet.
Green light for the hit-on extravaganza! He had himself a merry chat with two younger girls that were hanging on his every word. His mates probably pointed out later that we didn't understand him, further proof when we snuck out to get away, but for the moment, he was as happy as a pig in...
Anyway.
On coming home to America, my bubble was burst, singed, and totally gone. I became positive that I am not Irish. I am American, born and bread. And more specifically, I am Californian (something to remember in the 3rd book of Skyline, because I make fun of Californian's in one of the lines). Thank god I knew this before working in an Irish bar in San Francisco. Yes, Paddy, I know I look Irish, but trust me. I'm American. Don't call you Paddy? Well don't call me yank. Now feck off!
I've since learned that you aren't Irish unless you are actually from Ireland. Even kids born in America, but with two Irish parents from Ireland, and even if they go back a few times a year, aren't Irish. They are American-Irish. Me? I'm the yank wife to an Irishman. A Cavan-man, specifically, which get made fun of for being penny-pinching (my husband isn't, but I crack jokes)*
An Irish person hears an Irish accent, and the first thing they usually say, "Oh, where're ye from?"
I do actually look Irish for the most part, and I hang out with Irish people, so when I'm asked this, I just cut to the chase. "I'm American."
"Oh," they often say. And then they immediately look to the person they know is Irish. *shrug*
After visiting a few countries, now when I get the question:
"What nationality are you?"
I answer: "American."
Boy, does that piss people off.
"No, but like, where did your family come from?"
"I've been American for about as long as someone can be American. My ancestor was the first child born in Sacramento, California. I have Quakers in my family tree. Thieves, crooks, potato famine survivors--you name it."
Not liking my answer, they push, "No, but where in Europe?"
"Everywhere in Europe. I had an ancestor fight with William the conquer. English, Irish, German-- I am a quintessential American mutt."
Unless I am traveling aboard. In which case, I am Canadian. Everyone likes them :)
*And yes, my maiden name was Caven. I married a man from Cavan. My parents were tickled to learn this. They still think they are Irish. They plan to go to Ireland in a year--I'm totally going to let them learn the hard way.
"What nationality are you?"
Like many, I always answered this question with, "I'm Irish."
That prompted the asker to answer, "Yeah, me too!" That, or Italian.
I think these are pretty standard answers anywhere you go in the United States. And no, it doesn't matter that we've never been to that country. Not at all. Details. My reddish hair and ability to sunburn means that I'm Irish, bitch. Stand aside, gen-u-ine paddy coming through!
Until my twenties, I was convinced this was absolutely true; I was as Irish as any American could be. My dad looks like a leprechaun for goodness sakes! Red hair and beard, on the short side, and usually holding a beer? Oh yeah, we're Irish.One more thing--my last name was Caven. As in, from the county Cavan...in Ireland. So the spelling is different, so what? Where's that Irish badge...
It was pretty clear to all that we were, indeed, Irish. No two ways about it.
I was so sure, in fact, that when I got the chance to visit my friend going to college in Ireland, I was soooo excited to see the place I came from! I got green suitcase tags, got Irish themed "have a good-trip" cards from work friends, and was the envy of everyone. All the "Paddy's" thought I was so lucky to go to our home land!
I should note that at the time (I was 22, I believe), I had never traveled abroad, no member of my family had traveled abroad except right over the boarder to Mexico, and only that one friend had traveled abroad. Not only that, but I lived in a town north of San Francisco and primarily lived among middle-class white families. We weren't even properly steeped in American culture, we were nestled in a certain niche of American culture.
But here comes the traveler, watch out! Don't worry, everybody--I'm 22, I know everything. I got this!
I should also note that I had never talked to an Irish person. Actually, I don't even think I had talked to a European. At the time, we really only had people from Mexico in that area. Well, that and Americans, obviously. Northern Californians, to be precise, which is a certain breed of people--that I love, don't get me wrong, but we are not the defining group that make up America. You'll probably know us when you meet us. Californian's, even the northern ones, have a certain vibe. Or, maybe, a lack-there-of. We're the ones in flip flops lounging around in casual dress, usually pretty blasé about most things.
I had a New Yorker miss a meeting and reschedule. I said, "No worries. I was just wondering what happened." The New Yorker laughed and replied, "That's because you're Californian. If you were my normal client, you'd be screaming at me."
Anyway, I digress. Back my assurance that I am Irish!
A horribly long plane ride, and confusing plane change in the monstrous Heathrow Airport later, I met my friend in Dublin. This is my book-smart friend, by the way. She can blow your mind with everything from writing to calculus. Procrastinator du jour, she can start a huge paper the night before and receive a gleaming "A" the next day. I've always been in advanced classes--I'm no slouch. But she always got higher grades than me (in those same classes). It worked, though, because I do better when challenged, and she always challenged me. Then I beat her up. BFF's!
I did say book smart, though. On the street, she is dumb as rocks. I should have remembered this. I looked to her to guide me through this new culture, and got a blank stare in return. Basically, I had to start from scratch with this new culture.
No problem, I am quick on my feet.
We toured some museums, stayed in a hostel, and had a few pints. I had my first Guinness in the Guinness factory and didn't much like it. If only I could go back and punch myself in the mouth, I would. Repeatedly!
All was fine at this point. We stayed in mostly tourist areas because Dublin has a lot of history to divulge. In tourist areas, though, the Irish just pretty much ignore you. I don't blame them.
On to Galway, a city much like San Francisco, on the west coast of Ireland. People there are more relaxed, ready to have fun, and the college is there, which attracts a wider variety of people. We visited some truly awesome pubs where people would just break into beautiful, yet terribly depressing, Irish ballads. Everyone would quiet down for the singer, and we'd look on with a small smile at something we had never experienced in the states.
Let it be known that this practice now irritates the crap out of me. Not while in Ireland--there are unspoken rules about the situation there to maintain it's beauty. If you are out of line, someone will shut you up, and possibly help your ass out of the bar so you can promptly feck off!
But in the bars here...I'm not such a fan anymore. Yes, fine, beautiful, great--seriously, I'm in a bar talking to my friends. Can you drunkenly sing Danny Boy, off-tune, while weaving on your barstool, some other time? You just woke up from being passed on the bar for cripes-sakes. Tone it down, man!
While in Galway, I received my first dose of reality about my nationality. There, I learned that Americans are loud, obnoxious assholes who think the world revolves around them. Say what?
This was confirmed on the bus on the way to get a ferry to the Aran Islands. Some overly loud Bostonians in the front of the bus were demanding information from the bus driver.
Let's stop for a lesson. Because I have since married a paddy, and have a bunch of Irish friends--I know some rules. One of them is, don't yell at an Irish person. They will assume they are in a fight, and want to punch you. That might be punching you with words, their fist, a grimace, or a head butt. They might not even express it right out, but they are thinking it. Yelling is not one of those things that goes over all that well, and speaking in a belligerently loud voice is considered yelling.
The Irishman's thoughts: God damned yanks.
His response: Silence. He didn't answer one question, or engage in one ounce of conversation. I laugh now, but then I was like...Whaaaa?
It was probably his way of not punching them for hanging behind his seat and talk-yelling at him. Cultures collide!
We got further evidence of unnaturally loud talking on the ferry. East Coasters again. Man, oh man, we thought, they are giving us West Coasters a bad name!
Do you see where we are? I had established the bad reputation of the American as something the people from the East Coast generically created. I was setting myself up for a smack down. Cringe.
We left Galway to travel the southern tip of Ireland. On the way, we visited a lovely town of Cong, known among John Wayne fans for the filming of The Quiet Man. My friend and I aren't John Wayne fans. We did not know anything about this movie. Instead, she wanted to check out some great trails in this area.
Hoof and mouth decease was running rampant at the time. The trails were closed and the bus wasn't coming back until the morning.
No problem, we'll have a look around, visit the gift shop, and head out in the morning. About here things started to go very, very wrong.
My friend and I stood in the gift shop, debating what souvenirs to bring back to whom, when a Spaniard went up to buy something. The lady checking him out, who had greeted us upon entry, and ascertained our origins, started a huge rant about Americans.
Yes. This happened.
This is basically what the woman said: ALL these Americans think Irish people live in huts, dumb yanks. They come over here, shoving their weight around, perfectly ignorant, and expect the world on a silver platter. Then they get mad at ME for this town having real houses. And hear this, they all think they're Irish! Well--
On and on she went. My friend and I, both on the shyer side with strangers, stood at the back of the store gaping at the souvenirs in our hands. I blinked a million times, my bubble of "I'm Irish" shattering so hard the shards stabbed me in the face.
Upon leaving the store--we still purchased the souvenirs for lack of a better plan--we tried to laugh off the tirade by saying she was talking about old people. Those people who knew what The Quiet Man was. But by this point, we were nearly out of ways to deflect.
On to Cork, my favorite city in Ireland. We found ourselves in a pub that night, having found a beer both of us really liked. There we got hit on. How did we know this? Not like you might think. The man in question was middle-aged and hovering around our table talking to us. Well, obviously he was hitting on you, you might say. Not so obvious when you understand one word in ten.
He settled himself right in, having found two girls that didn't tell him to feck off. We couldn't-we had no idea what he was saying. We did try to squeak out of there and move on, but made the mistake of using the bathroom first. When we got back to say good-bye, we had beers waiting for us. And the chatty Irishman. With the real accent. Of which we could not understand.
Now, when I don't understand an Irish person talking to me, I just say, "I have no idea what you just said right then." Everyone laughs--Irish love taking and giving abuse. It's why my personality fits so well with them. But back in the day, I was trying to be nice. And to do that, I was being quiet.
Green light for the hit-on extravaganza! He had himself a merry chat with two younger girls that were hanging on his every word. His mates probably pointed out later that we didn't understand him, further proof when we snuck out to get away, but for the moment, he was as happy as a pig in...
Anyway.
On coming home to America, my bubble was burst, singed, and totally gone. I became positive that I am not Irish. I am American, born and bread. And more specifically, I am Californian (something to remember in the 3rd book of Skyline, because I make fun of Californian's in one of the lines). Thank god I knew this before working in an Irish bar in San Francisco. Yes, Paddy, I know I look Irish, but trust me. I'm American. Don't call you Paddy? Well don't call me yank. Now feck off!
I've since learned that you aren't Irish unless you are actually from Ireland. Even kids born in America, but with two Irish parents from Ireland, and even if they go back a few times a year, aren't Irish. They are American-Irish. Me? I'm the yank wife to an Irishman. A Cavan-man, specifically, which get made fun of for being penny-pinching (my husband isn't, but I crack jokes)*
An Irish person hears an Irish accent, and the first thing they usually say, "Oh, where're ye from?"
I do actually look Irish for the most part, and I hang out with Irish people, so when I'm asked this, I just cut to the chase. "I'm American."
"Oh," they often say. And then they immediately look to the person they know is Irish. *shrug*
After visiting a few countries, now when I get the question:
"What nationality are you?"
I answer: "American."
Boy, does that piss people off.
"No, but like, where did your family come from?"
"I've been American for about as long as someone can be American. My ancestor was the first child born in Sacramento, California. I have Quakers in my family tree. Thieves, crooks, potato famine survivors--you name it."
Not liking my answer, they push, "No, but where in Europe?"
"Everywhere in Europe. I had an ancestor fight with William the conquer. English, Irish, German-- I am a quintessential American mutt."
Unless I am traveling aboard. In which case, I am Canadian. Everyone likes them :)
*And yes, my maiden name was Caven. I married a man from Cavan. My parents were tickled to learn this. They still think they are Irish. They plan to go to Ireland in a year--I'm totally going to let them learn the hard way.
May 1, 2014
Cover Reveal & Giveaway! Whatever It Takes by Ashley Simone
COVER REVEAL
GIVEAWAY!!
This is one of the cover people I use (Damonza), and for good reason. Another great one, easily conveying the genre, drawing you in, and pleasing the eye. Great cover!!
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO:
Whatever It Takes by Ashley Simone
Publication date: May 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance
What would you do if you got a second chance at life?
Nicky is not having a great year. After her mother’s sudden death, she’s forced to deal with the family finances, move away from the small town she grew up in, and drop out of college. Her bank balance dwindles, her landlord evicts her and she’s just about to become homeless…
Could a twist of fate give you everything you ever dreamed of – or make things so much worse?
When Nicky seems to have won a jackpot, her financial woes appear to be over… until her ex-boyfriend, Aiden Weilz walks into the room and claims that her future is dependent on him.
Is he telling the truth, or is this all a ploy to keep her from moving on with her life? How much worse do things have to get before they get better?
a Rafflecopter giveaway
GIVEAWAY!!
This is one of the cover people I use (Damonza), and for good reason. Another great one, easily conveying the genre, drawing you in, and pleasing the eye. Great cover!!
BOOK & AUTHOR INFO:
Whatever It Takes by Ashley Simone
Publication date: May 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance
What would you do if you got a second chance at life?
Nicky is not having a great year. After her mother’s sudden death, she’s forced to deal with the family finances, move away from the small town she grew up in, and drop out of college. Her bank balance dwindles, her landlord evicts her and she’s just about to become homeless…
Could a twist of fate give you everything you ever dreamed of – or make things so much worse?
When Nicky seems to have won a jackpot, her financial woes appear to be over… until her ex-boyfriend, Aiden Weilz walks into the room and claims that her future is dependent on him.
Is he telling the truth, or is this all a ploy to keep her from moving on with her life? How much worse do things have to get before they get better?
a Rafflecopter giveaway
