It’s no secret that it was a minor struggle for me to finish Summer’s End, but that only makes me more proud of it. It required many a dramatic blog post and several rewrites to get to the finish line, but here it is: all (sun)shiny and dramatic and, above all else, romantic. With every new book I’ve written this year, the stories have grown more and more romantic and this one really goes all out. Not to worry, there are still plenty of cathartic love-making scenes in it, but Emily and Marianne, the two main characters, go on a bit of a soul-searching journey first. This also makes it my most lesbian book ever. 😉
So, if you need something to warm you up on a cold December day and/or you enjoy reading about women falling in love on a tropical Thai island, here’s a preview.
Here’s the blurb:
Can love be so instant it changes everything?
After losing the woman she loves, Marianne has chosen to live in exile on a tropical Thai island. At first glance, Emily Kane is just another guest passing through the small B&B she runs, but Emily has demons of her own and, together, they just might find a way to live again.
And here’s a little teaser excerpt:
Emily found Marianne in the kitchen downstairs. She inadvertently blinked when she walked in. Should women over forty not always wear a bra? Even merely to counter the laws of gravity? Marianne obviously didn’t think so. Maybe she was one of those wild chicks her mother sometimes talked about with a wrinkle of disgust curling under her nose. The ones who burned their bra and regarded them as a symbol of female oppression.
“Hey,” Marianne greeted her.
She’d been so absorbed with stealing glances at Marianne’s chest that she hadn’t even taken in the kitchen yet. It looked as if it had been designed by Nigella Lawson herself.
Emily whistled between her teeth. A cat call the old her would never have dared to utter. Then again, this wolf whistle was only aimed at the stainless steel of the kitchen and the pots and pans suspended from hooks along the walls. “Jesus. I’m not a psychologist, but could there be some overcompensation going on here? You know, like middle-aged men with flashy sports cars?”
Marianne looked her over. It was hard for Emily to keep her gaze fixed on her face because the chef’s nipples clearly had a life of their own and poked pointedly through the flimsy fabric of the faded The Cure t-shirt she now had on.
“But no chef’s whites, huh?” Emily couldn’t help herself.