Synopsis:

Music critic Claire Abby is a single mom dreading her daughter’s departure for college and worried that turning forty will leave her career running on fumes. She’s floored when she lands a Rolling Stone cover story on 80s British rock legend Christopher Penman. She spent her teenage years fantasizing he was her boyfriend.

In person, Christopher is everything Claire feared he’d be—charming, witty and unwilling to address the rumors he’s dodged for a decade. Still, she contains her adolescent fantasies and manages to earn his trust, unearthing the truth and the devastating secret behind it. His blockbuster story is her first priority when she returns home, a nearly impossible task when Christopher starts calling and flirting. She knows she should maintain a professional distance. She knows she should focus on the story. She knows it would be best to simply walk away. But how can she say “no” to the man she could never forget?

Review:

I think we all have had fantasies about one celebrity or another, but here Claire gets to meet her idol…now that is a fantasy come true!  She believes she isn’t good enough for someone like him because she isn’t famous or some knock out blonde bombshell.  But even celebrities want a low key normal life.  I liked the interplay between Claire and Chris, the restraint to not jump into something too fast but when they jump it is with both feet and aware of who they are and what they could possibly have together.  Then there is Sam, Claire’s daughter, and her “boy issues” which is mostly due to her age…who didn’t have those problems when they were a teenager?

I really enjoyed this book and recommend it to everyone!  I give it 4 paws and next time you want a fun romance, check this one out.  Worth the $4.99 pricetag!

Excerpt:

There was no time for my eyes to adjust from late morning on the street to the softly lit lobby before my surroundings faded and my vision focused on a point. The image ahead left me considering an abrupt turn on my heel and a swift escape.

There he sat, no more than ten feet away, reading the New York Times while wearing silvery sunglasses. I decided he must be napping because he didn’t strike me as the type to read the Times.  He wore an artfully distressed pair of jeans and a black t-shirt under a tan canvas jacket, much too light for such a cold day. His short, chestnut brown hair was arranged into a tousled mess.
I mulled over my best approach and then he confounded me a second time by making eye contact, through the sunglasses no less, folding his paper and striding toward me. I looked behind me assuming he must recognize someone else.

“You must be Ms. Abby.” He held out his hand. “Chris Penman.”

Countless thoughts and questions erupted in my head. Wow. I’m glad I wore heels. He’s tall. His accent is different in person. It’s like butter. British butter. Did I remember perfume this morning? Oh crap. My breath. I should have had a piece of gum in the car. Are my hands clammy? Why do they always get that way when I’m nervous?

“Yes. Oh, Claire.” I offered my sweaty hand. “Please. Thank you. Hi.” Cotton candy had graciously stepped in to take over for my saddled brain.

“Oh great, uh, it’s Claire then.” He cocked his head to the side. “Please, call me Chris. I Googled you this morning and found a photo. I like to know what I’m up against.” He chuckled, removed his sunglasses and shook my hand in one seamless movement.

I caught a glimpse of his eyes and everything turned syrupy. I began searching for words, an intelligent response, and it happened—I became tangled up in his eyes, drawn into them because my mind was convinced there was nowhere else to go. The color was so astounding that it deserved its own name, calling them “green” would have been so dismissive, it couldn’t begin to capture the hypnotic nature of the hue. Apple, forest, grass, jade, emerald, moss, clover—somewhere, there had to be a name for his green.

Christopher duly noted my disorientation and nudged the day ahead. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning for the lobby door.

“I’m sorry. I thought we were doing the interview in the hotel,” I pleaded as I shuffled along with him.

“If it’s all the same to you, I was hoping to skip that. A bit contrived, isn’t it?”

“Uh, sure.” I stopped. “I need to check my bag…” My voice feathered away.

“Here.” He plucked my overnight bag from my hand and marched it to the front desk. “Please hold this for Ms. Abby. She’ll be checking in later.” He returned in a flash. “Better?” He towered over me, seeming annoyed.

“Yes. Thank you. Where are we going?”

He didn’t bother with an answer, but instead sent a profusion of warmth over me by hovering his hand near the small of my back as the doorman held the door.

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