Dear foxy folks,
I can barely believe it, but my debut novel, Alice and the Impossible Game, has finally launched! I’ve been so flat out with school reports and book celebration with friends, that I almost forgot to post about it here. Anyhow, I wanted to let you know that I’m buzzing with excitement and until 8th March, you can grab a copy for a mere $0.99 US or $1.50 AU from any online retailer.
One early reader has just sent me a lovely message saying:
“My husband thought I was nuts…I was laughing so hard at parts. I will spread the word…so good!!!”
How great is that! I cannot tell you how reassuring it is to hear that readers are enjoying my writing! Thank you for all the amazing support and feedback I’ve had so far. Honestly, it means the world to me as a writer. It makes me want to keep writing!
Anyhow, if you’d like to grab a copy of Alice and the Impossible Game don’t click on the image below - it should take you through to your preferred store.
https://books2read.com/u/47RkB7
If you enjoy reading Alice and the Impossible Game, please feel free to leave a lovely review ( I think I currently have 2!) or send me a message or take a selfie with my book!
Other exciting news — I’m going to be one of the signing authors at both the Australian Romance Reader Association book signing in Melbourne on 16th March and also at the Romance Writers of Australia Conference book signing in August. I’m getting super excited at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the likes of Christina Lauren and Rachael Johns!
I’ve also been out and about with some awesome author friends celebrating my debut novel’s publication. Here are a handful of incriminating photos. Anyone you recognise?
I thought I’d leave you with a taste of Alice and the Impossible Game from the opening scene:
Attempting to walk like you’re sober as a nun while feeling giddy with lust is quite frankly impossible. I steal a sideways glance, forget to breathe altogether, and stumble over my own two feet.
Stifling a laugh, Guy steadies me with a hand on my arm and a smile on his face.
“Hold on.” I pause to take off my heels.
We’ve known each other for less than a week and yet every time our eyes meet, it’s pandemonium beneath my ribcage. I’m sober enough to realize I’m a hot mess, but not sober enough to care. I’ve just had the best night of my entire life singing with Guy’s band, RiffRaff, at a charity event on board a luxury yacht raising money for Australia’s unsung heroes, and I feel like a ruddy champion myself. Normally I’d run a mile before stepping on stage and putting myself under the spotlight, but singing with Guy, I forgot my nerves. Now I’m feeling on top of the world. Anything is possible! It’s the first hour of the first day of a brand-new year and—shoes in hand—I’m feeling properly footloose and fancy-free for the first time in my hitherto woefully uneventful existence.
On impulse, I turn to Guy. “Can I ask you a question?”
His lips quirk. “That was a question.”
“Okay, smart-ass.”
His dimples flash. “Ask away.”
I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “What do you think of me? I mean, my singing. How did I fare compared to Tilly? Be honest.”
He laughs. “I think that’s a loaded question.” The way his eyes settle on mine, as if he could bore a hole direct to my core threatens to melt me into a hot puddle on the sidewalk. “But . . . you were extraordinary,” he says.
“R-really?”
It’s impossible to ignore the effect he has on me or his obvious physical assets—he’s a heady cocktail of imposing height, broad shoulders, expressive eyebrows, fencepost jawline, soft eyes, and beguiling mouth. The whole damn package. I know he’s got the reputation for being a tormented musician with the morals of an alley cat, and his voice makes every woman within earshot want to rip her clothes off—myself included—but there’s more to Guy than that. He’s no fool. I enjoy the verbal tussling. I’m in awe of his musical talent. And, believe it or not, it could just be that he’s genuinely an awesome human being . . . and then some.
Quite possibly a different species.
I clamp down on my mounting excitement. To be honest, I’ve had more than a couple of glasses of champagne and that, coupled with his come-hither eyes, probably go some way to explaining my light-headedness. Or maybe it’s just blood not getting where it needs to—like my brain.
Tonight feels for all the world like I’ve stepped into an old Hollywood movie, all sepia tones and fuzzy focus, the backdrop, distant music, laughter and fireworks. Sydney at showtime. Magical and mysterious. Windowpanes silvered, the breeze a warm caress, the whiff of danger and smoke from the earlier fireworks lacing the air.
“Out of interest, what d’you think of us?” he asks.
Beneath my bare feet, the pavement shifts from dark to amber with every streetlight. Guy and I separate like streams diverging either side of a lamppost, before coming together again.
“Us?” I repeat stupidly. He obviously means us, the band, RiffRaff.
The back of his hand brushes mine and heat surges up my arm as if I’ve been hot-wired.
“Um . . . I’d say . . . uh . . . RiffRaff’s magic.”
“Magic?” Smiling, he mimics my Yorkshire accent and hooks his fingertips beneath mine, drawing me close. My breath hitches as he holds my hand against his hard chest. “No, what about us, us . . . ?”
Us, us? There’s some weird voodoo zapping through the streets tonight. No wonder I’m unraveling. “Us, we’re . . . when it comes to singing . . . I think we’re very compatible,” I say, desperately clinging onto the vestiges of my propriety.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest vibrating through my fingertips. Heat courses through my veins and spreads like a flash fire. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he murmurs.
“Ha, ha. That’s the idea. My ticket to travel.” I lick my lips. His lips are so close and yet so far.
“And what about you and me?” he asks, his voice dropping a register.
I cannot breathe. Twister, my identical twin sister, who’s so well-versed in all things to do with men and relationships, would tell me to play it cool. “I have no idea what you mean. I think you’re exceptionally talented and I’ve enjoyed singing with the band, but I’m not about to become a gropey . . . groupie!”
He laughs.
I squirm and step away to give myself some breathing space. Holy crap, my clodhopping tongue! Could I be any more awkward and inept and out of my depth?
We stroll on some more, me torturing myself for making a hash of every potential relationship, while the devil on my shoulder keeps telling me I shouldn’t be here in the first place. I’m an imposter. This should be Twister here, not me.
“You okay? You’ve gotten very quiet,” he says.
I’m quiet because I’m probably reading this situation all wrong. I’m burning up, caught in the bushfire between desire and desperation and the certainty that I’m going to mess this up before it’s even got started. “Oh, I’m fine,” I squeak, failing abysmally at sounding indifferent.
My mind strays again to Twister. Why did she leave? What was the situation between her and Guy? Should I ask him? Should I mention my sister is back in the UK?
“Is your place much farther?” I ask.
“Not far. Not getting cold feet, are you?”
“Dirty feet, more like.”
His appreciative laugh reassures me. I can do this! God, I’m bloody hilarious. Tonight, I could give Twister a run for her money. In my head, at least.
“Dirty, I approve of,” says Guy, reeling me back into his arms. He pauses to cup my face between his palms before kissing me.
And.
Dear.
God.
This isn’t some tonsil-tackling wrangle behind the bike sheds at school. Guy’s kiss is startling and languid in equal measure. He’s assured. Confident. Overwhelming. Everything I am not.
I latch on to him limpet-fashion while Twister’s advice —Play it cool — repeats like a persistent ringtone in my head. Play it cool. Play it cool. Play it cool.
Cool is not possible when my brain is overheating and my heart sloshing around crotch-level. Honest to God, my knees are buckling. Kissing Guy is hitting every sweet spot. While my insides slide south, my hands clutch at fistfuls of his shirt, breathing in his laughter as he walks me steadily backward against a brick wall.
Wedged between the wall and Guy, a voice whines in my head like a damn mosquito. Oh, come on, Alice, you cannot be serious. Not here. Not like this.
But I want this. I want exactly this. For once in my life, I want to be totally reckless. Guy is not only the best aphrodisiac, he’s the best analgesic. No more sensible, strait-laced Alice. No more, Alice, Tilly’s awkward sister. No more Alice McMalice.
Not tonight.
I swat romance-sabotaging Alice McMalice thoughts aside. If Twister can abandon me and jump on a plane back to England without apology or explanation, I’m damn sure I can abandon my inhibitions for one evening . . .
Classy! says the voice in my head. So, you’re going to shag him up against a brick wall next to some garbage reeking of rotten cabbage? How romantic. I suppose it’ll be memorable if nothing else.
I tear my lips from Guy’s. “Not here,” I gasp.
The back of Guy’s fingers brush my cheek making me shiver. “Sorry, you’re just so irresistible.”
Me? Irresistible? I bite my lip. If the world is my oyster, I desperately want to be its shiny pearl. In front of me is my very own rock star, guitar slung across his back, his smile a magnetic force, waiting . . . So why can’t I simply throw caution to the wind, dance down the street and twirl around lampposts like Twister undoubtedly would?
“Come on.” Taking hold of my hand, Guy pulls me along in his wake, racing us both along the street.
“Slow down!” I gasp, gurgling with laugher as I try to match his long strides.
“My place is just around the corner. Keep up!” He grins back at me, slowing a fraction.
This is like coasting on water or surfing a wave that’s carrying me onwards and upwards. I want to shout and yell out. Tonight is the first night of the rest of my life and I deserve to be reckless. Tonight I’m finally stepping out of Twister’s twilight and becoming my best myself. Tonight, I can be anyone I want to be: sexy diva, sex goddess, sex kitten, sex machine—
“Shit! Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop!” I yelp as I hop about on one foot. “My bloody foot!” I wobble around, still clinging on to Guy’s hand trying to inspect the sole of my foot—not easy when the street lighting is so dim.
“What’ve you done?” Guy bends over inspecting my foot, black with grime.
“Bleedin’ heck! My f-fornicating foot!”
Guy snorts. “Your fornicating foot?”
It’s the vicar’s daughter coming out in me. “Okay, fuck, my fucking foot!” How’s that for reckless?
Unexpectedly, out of nowhere, Guys scoops me up in his arms.
Is he for real? “Don’t be soft! Put me down!” I giggle.
Or maybe don’t. Being carried is a novelty I could get used to. Looping my arms around his neck, I bury my face in his hair and inhale. Deeply. Good God, he smells delicious. Like the ocean and fireworks and leather and spice. A scent capsule of this whole incredible evening that I don’t want to ever end.
“How far d’you think you can carry me like this?” I ask.
“S’not that far . . . just around . . . the corner.” He staggers bravely on a few more steps before putting me down to open a gate; I sympathize with its protesting hinges. But the terraced house in front of us is a good distraction. It’s enchanting. Brilliant pink bougainvillea trailing along the wall, a bijou front garden and wooden front porch, above which is a wrought-iron balustrade on the second floor. I’m already visualizing a scene from Romeo and Juliet.
“You live here? But it’s so . . . so gorgeous!”
“What, and I’m not?” He smiles. “What were you expecting? A dump?”
“Ha, no! I don’t know. Not this. I love it!” I can’t keep the smile from my voice. The image of the two of us in fifty years’ time sitting on those deck chairs on the front terrace, champagne flutes in hand, watching the world go by, flashes through my head before being quickly dispelled by his arm around my waist, helping me up the garden path to his front door.
“How am I meant to resist you? You’re the one who’s gorgeous,” he growls in my ear, as he props me up against the door and unlocks it.
My breath hitches as he trails kisses down my neck to my shoulder.
Me? Gorgeous? I’ll take that. Tonight, I’m the goddess of gorgeous. I clutch his broad shoulders as the door swings open behind me. Laughing, Guy gathers me up in his arms again and lifts me over the threshold.
Ding! Dong! Church bells chime in my head. “I didn’t have you pegged as a romantic.”
“Ah, but you don’t know me very well. Yet.”
Aye, but if I have my way, I will soon. Every sexy inch of him.
Still carrying me, Guy staggers along the hallway, flicking on a light switch with his elbow while I send a football flying from the hall table with my foot. It bounces noisily across the floorboards as we pinball together along the passageway, down a couple of steps into a kitchen where Guy sets me down on a cluttered counter. He removes his guitar from his back and leans it up against the wall.
So this room is more like what I was expecting.
There’s crap everywhere: a mountain of clothes, an avalanche of letters, a teetering book stack and a whole lot of junk—a half-eaten apple, a squashed hat, an unwashed mug, an empty bottle of red wine, another guitar with strings draped like spaghetti over the back of a stool . . .
I take a deep breath. Okay, so it’s not quite as charming in here as it was outside, but I can be cool with bohemian. Especially his brand of bohemian. I’m open to being more—
Big hands wrapped around my ankles, Guy swivels me around on the counter. I try not to be derailed by the fact he puts my filthy foot in his kitchen sink.
“What now?” I ask, leaning back, attempting to blot out thoughts of E.coli and focus on my best sex-kitten impression.
“Now I take care of you,” he says.
I have to bite my lip to stop myself from purring.
My eyes track his every move as he fills the sink with water, peers at my grubby foot and pulls a face to confirm just how unsexy it is. Wetting a dishcloth and wringing it out, he lifts my foot and gently begins to wipe.
I yelp, sitting up abruptly.
“Stop being a baby, it’s just a scratch,” he says.
Nervous laughter bubbles out of me. “I know that. I’m just very sensitive.”
“Are you now?”
Oh hell, Alice. Remember casual? Confident? Sassy? I attempt to recapture my former sexy-diva vibe.
Guy slowly and deliberately pushes the hem of my dress up my thigh. “Wouldn’t want it getting wet,” he murmurs.
Hot damn. My whole core is clenched tight. I don’t give a damn about getting wet. He can give me a flannel wash . . . with his tongue from toe to—
GIVEAWAY SCHMIVAWAY
If you really really want to know what happens to Alice and Guy clickon the button below …
or ping me an email. I’ll send out free copies of the book to the first 5 people to claim their copy. If you’ve already bought yours, ping me an email of you with your ebook copy and I’ll send you a free signed paperback copy.
That’s it from me for now. Always in a rush. Please forgive all the typos — it’s been a full weekend, I was just super keen to get an email to you about my book straight away. I’ll be back at the end of the month with news from other authors and some cracking book details. Until then…
Happy reading and reviewing!
Best wishes,
Anna
P.S. Please join me in any of these places and keep in touch.