Countdown to Rash & Rationality — Day Four
Join me in celebrating the arrival of my second Happily Ever Austen book for its release on July 28th.
Marty Dashwood and Brandy work in an indie bookstore. Most days it’s a lot of annoying customers, an even worse boss, and carting enough stock to get them ripped.
But getting to spend the day with the other makes it all worth it.
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Enjoy Bookstore Memes
“It’s Excerpt-O’clock,” he declared, causing her to groan.
“We haven’t done that in… I can’t even remember.”
He held his own book tight to his chest, his eyes blazing with a familiar mischief. “Exactly the reason to bring it back. Audience favorite, really play on the nostalgia vote.”
Brandy finally took in the cover. It was one of those airport novels written by a late-middle aged man who wanted to pretend he was a twenty-year-old who drove every woman wild. And he probably stopped the president from being exploded by bombs attached to pirates, or something like that. They had more important work to do.
Still… Marty danced back and forth in place, his shoulders doing most of the moving. She sighed. “Okay.”
“Yes!” Marty pumped his book in the air, which looked like it bore a fancy dress with the woman’s head cut off at her chin. Oh, boy. “Twenty-three,” he said, setting off the game.
Brandy grimaced at having to go first, but she flipped to the twenty-third page in the book and read the first full sentence. “‘Armed only with the M1 Garand I pulled from the mannequin’s cold, plastic fingers, I knew it was up to me to stop the terrorists from taking over the Smithsonian.’”
A snort erupted from Brandy at that perfect summation, and she stared at Marty. “Sixty-nine.”
“Nice,” he said, cracking open the book. “‘For today is not a day to be a…’ Wait. Sorry.” He coughed, raised his voice an octave and slipped on a ‘Southern belle’ accent. “‘For today is not a day to be a wilting flower. I shall become a vengeful desert rose.’”
So we were working with an armed vigilante about to protect the Smithsonian from Scarlett O’Hara. This should be fun. “Forty-seven,” Marty said, guiding her to the next page.
“Ooh, this one’s dialogue. ‘Tell the devil Clint Hardback sends his regards!’ Clint Hardback? Holy…okay, um, one hundred and five.”
“’He lingered near my bridal trousseau, his hand caressing the sanded wood as if it’d touched every woman in this town.’ This is getting juicy,” Marty said, and he kept reading further down the page.
“Hey, stick to the rules you made up,” Brandy said, slapping a hand over the book.
“Fine, next number.”
Ellen Mint 