Publication date: May 4th 2015
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Synopsis:
What if the whole world knows who you are, but you wake up to find you have forgotten everything since high school?
When Caleb wakes up in a glamorous LA clinic, he is a changed man. His once-scrawny body is toned, his now-white teeth gleam, and everyone looks at him in adoration. Caleb shouldn’t even be in the US–he’s English, and has never traveled farther than London.
Somehow Caleb transformed from an eighteen-year old, sexually questioning, reclusive high school student who spent his free time composing and practicing music in his parents’ shabby council flat to become a world famous rock star with adoring fans and his own mansion overlooking the Pacific.
Caleb bravely tries to fit into his new life as he recovers from his amnesia. But who is the handsome assistant publicity manager who visits him in the hospital? Why does everyone think Caleb is straight? What has Caleb forgotten? And will he ever remember?
Excerpt
One
It's okay.
There is a perfectly good reason
why:
1.) I can't move my body.
2.) I smell a strange lemony
scent.
3.) I am lying on soft sheets, on
an even softer bed, and am wearing a long shirt I do not recognize.
Unfortunately, I can't think of
that perfectly good reason.
A monitor beeps next to me, a
noisy rhythmic sound that every part of me—the part that wants to play my
music, the part that practices in my parents' too-small basement—hates. The
sound blares in my ears, and I miss the nothingness, the silence that surely I
have just awoken from.
Perfume hits my nostrils. It's
too sweet, as if somebody has bathed in bubble gum and roses. It reminds me of
the girls at school, and I turn my head away.
"Oh my God!" a
high-pitched voice squeals in my ear in an American accent. "He's
awake!"
Shouldn't
I be awake?
"You're awake, Caleb! You
did it!" the voice says, this time louder and more screeching. I'm being
unfair. There's a joyousness there, and I want to capture it with music. I want
to smile. I am smiling. If only
everyone praised me with the same enthusiasm. I mean, I haven't even opened my
eyes yet.
Why can't I
open my eyes?
A shiver runs through me, and I
scrunch my eyes together. I struggle to part my lids as if I've forgotten how
to do it.
Excerpt Two
These men
speak with authority and are glamorous in a way no real people are, in a way no
people in Wolverhampton, England, population tiny, can be. But it's easy to be
glamorous when prancing about on the small screen.
I open my
eyes.
And he's
gorgeous. Espresso-brown hair sweeps over his olive-skinned face in short,
curly waves, and stubble shadows his face, covering broad cheekbones and a
square chin. He's wearing khakis and a deep green sweater that matches his
eyes. His eyes flicker back and forth, but relief soon flutters across his
face. I want to run my fingers through his hair and pull him closer to me.
"You're
okay," he breathes, and I nod.
He leans
closer to me, and I smell something tropical and woodsy all mixed together. He
has an accent as well, though it's not an American one I'm hearing, but
something more Spanish. His words are melodious, and he speaks slowly, gently
to me.
I don't want
to ponder that a man I've never met before is so concerned to see me. I'm going
to enjoy the moment.
"They
told me you had awakened, but you were so quiet, and . . ."
His eyes mist over, and I want to fall into them, count the flecks of gold that
dance among shards of emerald. His brow wrinkles, and he tilts his head.
"I'm
fine," I say.
He smiles,
and he appears boyish, though I imagine he is in his early twenties. He smooths
his sweater, and I want to tell him it isn't necessary. He's already perfect.
"I came to get you."
My breath
quickens, and trickles of sweat bead my palms. His confidence sweeps me away,
and I ponder a world where his meaning could be that of my dreams. I swallow
hard. “Where do you want to take me?”
I curse
that my voice croaks, all moisture vanishing in his presence, but in the next
moment, I am rejoicing that it has. I want to praise the heavens and don a
gospel robe, clapping my hands in a way that isn't the least bit elegant but is
every bit musical. He presses an ice chip against my lips, his gaze tender, his
fingers warm as they touch my cheeks, and the ice gloriously cold as it melts
into my mouth.
Excerpt
Three
Pop music fills the room. I wouldn't have
expected the doctor to like this sort of music, certainly not enough to play it
to a patient. The sound is typical boy band: harmonious, uplifting,
contemporary—and completely distant from my tastes.
The band starts to dance. They swing their
hips, and their legs move in perfect rhythm. The men have tousled hair and wear
black jeans and casual t-shirts, as if to emphasize their masculinity despite
the fact they are dancing.
The camera pans to a filled stadium, zooming
in on pre-teen girls, university-aged women, and their mothers. The faces in
the audience are expressive, passionate; whatever my opinion on the music is,
this band is adored.
"Recognize anything?" The doctor's
eyes gleam, and his fingers tap against the expansive desk in rhythm to the
music. For the first time, he seems animated and content.
I scrunch my fists, tired of questions.
Perhaps this band is famous, perhaps their music is played in every mall, but
that doesn't mean I know who they are.
And I don't care.
"You think some mediocre music will
trigger my memory of the last five years?" I bite my lip, and heat flames
over my cheeks. I know better than to criticize someone's taste in music.
"I'm sorry—I'm tired."
The doctor’s voice is serious. "This is
your band, Caleb."
"Nonsense." I fold my arms against
my chest. This music is nothing like the music I used to write and practice.
"You're famous. A household name."
He grins. "You're the thoughtful, British one. Ezra Williams is the
primary songwriter and vocalist, but you write some songs too. Maybe I should
have put on one of your songs.
"I . . . But how?" I sputter
and turn my head away.
I'm just from the Midlands. I've never been
farther away than London, and that was only once. I've never even been to
Wales, and regular trains go there. And now I'm living in California? Among
Hollywood royalty?
I've never even performed in front of my school. How am I supposed to believe I'm
performing in front of a whole stadium? That I do this regularly? To music I
don't even like? And people don't mind? Pay to see it? Even—enjoy it?
"I don't dance." I've never danced.
This can't be me.
"Look, here you are." The doctor
points at one of the figures.
His skin is tanned, his body muscular, and
his hair artfully tousled in a way I've never attempted. He's in the back, but
yes, he’s definitely dancing.
It can’t be me.
Yet it's my voice. It certainly sounds like
my voice, but that can't be me, sashaying up there with four other guys.
I can't be in a boy band.
I open my mouth to protest, but I've
protested all day. The doctor freezes the frame, and I peer at the computer,
leaning over the desk. The person looks somewhat
like me. If I had blond highlights and was more handsome. Much more handsome. This man is well-groomed and doesn't need
glasses. Though for that matter, no glasses are on my nose now. I lift my hand
to where they should be.
"Laser surgery," Dr. Selatcher says
as my hand brushes against the bridge of my nose.
Excerpt
Four
I slide my hand from his thigh to
his chest. My hand brushes against his shirt, and I pull him closer to me,
grateful for my newfound strength. I think about kissing him, but I'm nervous.
Maybe the old Caleb was used to kissing him, sucking on his luscious lips and
exploring his tongue with mine, but this version of me has never kissed a man
before.
My life will shift when I do, and
I stare at him.
My lips settle on his cheek, and I
kiss him, moaning as I press against stubble. My hands stretch to his hair,
hair long enough to brush my fingers against but short enough to not get
tangled in, and to remind me he is all man.
"Caleb," Mateo's voice
is hoarse, and his breath increases in volume. "Oh God.”
Lust soars through me. I move my
lips, brushing light kisses against his defined cheekbones. His eyelids flutter
shut, and I kiss the creases. I pull him closer to me, allowing myself simply
to wonder at his warmth and presence.
Something soars inside me when his
hands find mine. His eyes are hungry, yet his touch is gentle, as if he is
afraid I might vanish, though nothing could be farther from my intentions.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Alexandra Ainsworth loves cloche hats, Earl Grey tea, and romance books.
She wrote her first historical romance at age eight and gave it to her grandmother for her birthday. It had illustrations and involved a lot of fainting and a main character named Loretta. She's glad that her readers now are not subjected to her artwork.
She sometimes wonders if the naked men in her books might be an inadvertent consequence of attending a women's college for four years.
She wrote her first historical romance at age eight and gave it to her grandmother for her birthday. It had illustrations and involved a lot of fainting and a main character named Loretta. She's glad that her readers now are not subjected to her artwork.
She sometimes wonders if the naked men in her books might be an inadvertent consequence of attending a women's college for four years.
Author links:
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This book looks so good. great cover, synopsis etc. Can't wait to dive in
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing the excerpts, sounds real good!
ReplyDelete