Eyes blink under his heavy bark eyebrows. His lips crack open. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s just begun.”
Acknowledgments
I had the greatest time writing this part of Dylan’s and Kera’s story. There are quite a few people who I need to thank for getting me through the process of putting this book into a readable story. So hang on. The list isn’t short.
My family. They put up with my craziness and understand when I have to sequester myself from them for long periods of time in order to write. They are amazing and I love them dearly.
My editors. Stacy Cantor Abrams and Kaleen Harding. Yes, that is not a misprint. I require two. Apparently I’m so amazing it takes more than one to deal with me (sigh). But they are amazing and supportive and everything I’ve ever wanted in editors. Thank you, ladies, for helping me make The Fallen Prince into a better story.
My critique group, Tammy Bauman, Louise Bergin, and Robin Perini. They are the toughest, pickiest readers I’ve ever met, and I’m so thankful they are. They make me look good for my editors. Not an easy job, because I bite back.
My boys, in alphabetical order so as to hide which ones are my favorite (grin), Leroy Bazan, Mike Connally, Chris Garcia, Ryan Gomez, Reece Killebrew, Ji Kim, Julio Martinez, Bubba McDaniel, and Mark Morgenstern. These are the talented kickboxers, boxers, and MMA fighters who keep me from shriveling up into a ball of mush. I allow them to kick my butt…most of the time. Again, I’ve been known to bite back.
Martin Manrique. Thanks for being so patient, lending me books (which I still need to give back to you), and demonstrating certain wrestling moves. One of these days I’ll figure out exactly what you’re saying without going, “Could you show me what you mean one more time?”
Logan Sims. Ditto with what I said about Martin except you never lent me any books (grin). Thank you for putting up with me and my endless questions about the Army as well as kickboxing and self-defense. I know I became a huge pain and many times you wished I’d just go away. Wishing is too subtle, dude. You’re going to have to use your words.
As a sub-note: Any errors in regard to the military and MMA aspects of this story are solely my fault. It has been pointed out to me more than once by a certain person (Logan) that I’m not the best listener, I talk too much, and I have no patience (frown). I’m not sure what he’s trying to say, but I felt the need to include that information here.
And finally, I’d like to thank my publisher, the awesome Liz Pelletier, for being so supportive and giving Dylan and Kera a place to tell their story (yes, I know they aren’t real, but it’s fun to pretend, okay?), and my agent, Laurie McLean, who gives me awesome advice and takes care of my fragile ego by telling me to suck it up and get creative. Love ya, too.
Don’t miss My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century
by Rachel Harris
Available online and in stores now!
On the precipice of her sixteenth birthday, the last thing lone wolf Cat Crawford wants is an extravagant gala thrown by her bubbly stepmother and well-meaning father. So even though Cat knows the family’s trip to Florence, Italy, is a peace offering, she embraces the magical city and all it offers. But when her curiosity leads her to an unusual gypsy tent, she exits . . . right into Renaissance Firenze.
Thrust into the sixteenth century armed with only a backpack full of contraband future items, Cat joins up with her ancestors, the sweet Alessandra and protective Cipriano, and soon falls for the gorgeous aspiring artist Lorenzo. But when the much-older Niccolo starts sniffing around, Cat realizes that an unwanted birthday party is nothing compared to an unwanted suitor full of creeptastic amore. Can she find her way back to modern times before her Italian adventure turns into an Italian forever?
Keep reading for a teaser chapter…
ChapterOne
I’m trapped.
I concentrate on the monitor in front of me and scan through the in-flight entertainment, attempting to tune out Jenna. Like that’s even possible. When my dad’s bubbly fiancée gets this excited, I swear sometimes only dogs can hear her.
We’ve been on this plane for over six hours. I woke up less than an hour ago, cramped, cranky, and carb-deprived, and yet the woman insists on being perky. It’s as if she were born with caffeine in her veins.
“Cat, do you know what this means?!?”
I quirk an eyebrow at Dad, but judging by his all-consuming interest in the newspaper, his stance of neutrality is in full effect. To tell you the truth, it’s not his impartiality that hurts. It’s knowing that by staying out of it, what he’s really doing is taking her side.
And moving further away from mine.
I settle for a crappy rerun and decide to throw the evil step-witch-in-training a bone. I lean forward and look across the aisle, catching a glimpse of her flying fingers on her BlackBerry—thank goodness they have in-flight Wi-Fi, or she might’ve actually wanted to bond. “No, tell me, Jenna. What does it mean?”
“It means your party is practically a shoo-in for the show!”
My party. Right. As if anything about this is for me. If Jenna really cared about me, you’d think she’d have clued in to the fact that anything involving crowds, paparazzi, and scrutiny isn’t exactly my thing. She refuses to grasp that while I might be a daughter of Hollywood, it doesn’t mean I’m a product of it. If anything, this party is for her.
Jenna’s too excited by her coup to notice my lack of reaction. She leans over Dad and gushes, “The buzz on this is absolutely unreal. Your party is going to be the biggest, flashiest event I’ve ever put together!”
Yay, me.
I turn back to the television and pick up my headphones.
Unfortunately, that does nothing to deter her. “You can even sketch caricatures of the guests as they come in the door if you want.” She flashes a brilliant smile, like she’s doing me a huge favor. “Adds a fun, kitschy element to the whole thing, don’t ya think?”
No, I don’t think. I’m an artist, not a street performer.
She kisses Dad on the cheek, then rubs her thumb over the coral lipstick stain, and I watch him turn to mush. He’s so whipped. “Order me a Diet Coke if the cart thingy comes by, ’kay?” Jenna says. “I’m off to brave the bathroom line!”
I shake my head as she haltingly maneuvers down the aisle and stumbles into a woman’s lap. Jenna turns on her hundred-watt grin, tosses her poufy blond hair, and apologizes profusely. Then she plops herself on the woman’s armrest, abandoning all thought of bathroom trips in lieu of getting better acquainted with her new bestie.
Whatever. At least her ADD works for me, I think as I slide into her vacated seat, lay my head against Dad’s shoulder, and inhale the familiar scent of his spicy aftershave and Armani cologne. He wraps an arm around me, and I snuggle closer. It’s quiet moments like this when I can imagine things are back to normal. Before he fell in love with someone completely wrong for him.
Dad kisses the top of my head. “Thank you.”
I lift my head slightly, not willing to move out of his embrace just yet, and shoot him a puzzled look. “For?”
“For letting Jenna throw you a Sweet Sixteen. You may not believe it, but she has the best of intentions.”
Sure she does. I glance forward to see her slap the armrest and let out a high-pitched squeal. The only intention Jenna has is having her event-planning business showcased on MTV. Date someone famous, get his daughter on television, and generate mad buzz for your business—not bad for nine months of work.