Here's a sneak peak at my book "Summer Rain".
The thing about falling in love is it happens when you aren’t expecting it. Some people try to force it. They see a cute guy and chase him until he runs. But when it just happens naturally, unexpectantly, when you both feel it at the same moment, that’s when you know it ‘s the real thing.
My name is Kate. I’m a New York City girl. I live on the 27th floor of a high-rise condominium that has marble floors, gold fixtures and a doorman who calls me Miss MacDermond. I’m a junior at Berkham, a private school for girls who get Ferrari’s on their birthdays. So, naturally, I’ve always been interested in the sleek city boy. The kind that wear designer jeans and perfect hair. Leather jackets and pricey cologne. Diamond pinky rings and cool demeanors. They shuffle large bills through their fingers like stacks of playing cards and leave big tips. The young men from rich families whose chauffeurs pick us up in limousines, drop us off like royalty at nightclubs and Broadway shows, and whisk us through the streets of New York until the sun rises over the Hudson.
But today, I’m standing outside a crumbling auto shop on the corner of Nowhere, Minnesota, population 373. I’m 2,000 miles from civilization and the intense July sun is blistering my shoulders. But I don’t mind. I’m sipping a Coke and staring at the backside of a young man as he leans under the hood of a red ’55 Chevy. There’s a wrench sticking out of the back pocket of his Levi’s, grime on his sleeveless white t-shirt, and a black tattoo circling his tanned bicep.
He pulls, pushes and wrestles with something deep within the engine. He swears angrily under his breath and slams his hands on the rim of the truck. Then he suddenly looks over at me with dark chocolate eyes. His chin is scruffy without a shave and his shoulder-length hair blows across his face.
“Sorry,” he said.
He smiles.
I melt.
My name is Kate. I’m a New York City girl. I live on the 27th floor of a high-rise condominium that has marble floors, gold fixtures and a doorman who calls me Miss MacDermond. I’m a junior at Berkham, a private school for girls who get Ferrari’s on their birthdays. So, naturally, I’ve always been interested in the sleek city boy. The kind that wear designer jeans and perfect hair. Leather jackets and pricey cologne. Diamond pinky rings and cool demeanors. They shuffle large bills through their fingers like stacks of playing cards and leave big tips. The young men from rich families whose chauffeurs pick us up in limousines, drop us off like royalty at nightclubs and Broadway shows, and whisk us through the streets of New York until the sun rises over the Hudson.
But today, I’m standing outside a crumbling auto shop on the corner of Nowhere, Minnesota, population 373. I’m 2,000 miles from civilization and the intense July sun is blistering my shoulders. But I don’t mind. I’m sipping a Coke and staring at the backside of a young man as he leans under the hood of a red ’55 Chevy. There’s a wrench sticking out of the back pocket of his Levi’s, grime on his sleeveless white t-shirt, and a black tattoo circling his tanned bicep.
He pulls, pushes and wrestles with something deep within the engine. He swears angrily under his breath and slams his hands on the rim of the truck. Then he suddenly looks over at me with dark chocolate eyes. His chin is scruffy without a shave and his shoulder-length hair blows across his face.
“Sorry,” he said.
He smiles.
I melt.
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