I had three blogs due this week, so I’m fudging a bit with a sneak peek for my New Adult novel out November 16th from Carina Press. Jefferson Blythe, Esquire is a kooky mix of comedy, travelogue and romance. It’s a mystery of course, but it’s really not like anything I’ve done before. And I don’t want to say more than that.
Anyway, there will be a huge launch party over on myFacebook page on the 15th and tons of prizes and goodies will be given away, but I thought it would be fun to do a giveaway here as well.
So answer the questions below and one random commenter will win a hardcover copy of The Grand Tour: Around the World with the Queen of Mystery by Agatha Christie. I received this book as a gift a couple of Christmases ago and it’s a really fascinating glimpse both into Christie’s mind and a world of travel that no longer exists.
1 - Poirot or Marple?
2 - Professor Plum or Miss Scarlet?
3 - Marlowe or Spade?
In this fast, fun and dead-sexy male/male new-adult caper from multi-award-winning author Josh Lanyon, twentysomething Jefferson Blythe gets lost, gets found, falls in love and comes out...all in the span of one wild summer.
After his first relationship goes disastrously awry, Jeff Blythe uses his savings to tour Europe—the old-fashioned way. Armed with his grandfather's1960 copy of Esquire's Europe in Style, Jeff sets off looking for adventure but finds much, much more than he bargained for...
In London, dodging questions from shady criminals about a mysterious package he most certainly does not have is simple. Losing the gunmen who are convinced he's someone else is not. And when George, an old friend, offers him help—and a place to stay, and perhaps something more—things become complicated.
Is George really who he seems? And is Jeff finally ready to act on his attraction?
From Paris to Rome and back again, Jeff and George fall for each other, hard, while quite literally running for their lives. But trusting George at his word may leave Jeff vulnerable—in more ways than one.
A Romantic Times Top Pick!
The little café was situated right at the junction of rue Lepic and rue Cauchois, and when I came outside, I must have turned the wrong way because the next thing I knew I was on rue Cauchois. It was an old and quiet street, old buildings—mostly residential. It did not look even vaguely familiar.
Thinking it would be simple to cut through the web of narrow side streets and then intersect with rue Lepic, I didn’t turn back like I should have. Nope, I kept walking, turned down another small street, followed it for a ways, and then, deciding that I was traveling in the general right direction, turned down another narrow street. And then the next. And then the next.
And then I was lost.
But I knew I needed to keep heading downhill, away from the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur, so that seemed simple enough. Keep winding my way downhill and hopefully I’d bump into rue Lepic again, find metro Blanche and get back to my hotel before dawn.
There were not as many people as before, and very few tourists. I wasn’t nervous, but I also wasn’t giddy with delight.
I kept walking, kept heading…west? West was right, wasn’t it?
Why did I not have a better brain for directions?
Why hadn’t I taken the Metro?
Why did all these fucking streets seem to lead deeper and deeper into the maze?
At that point the caffeine from the coffee and the sugar from the crème brûlée must have kicked in, dispelling the last fumes of alcohol. I stopped walking and got my phone out.
There were very few street lamps and light was very poor. Motorbikes and a couple of cars nearly blocked the narrow street in one direction. In the other there was a row of metal trash bins that looked like tin pepper pots. Ivy grew up the walls of the buildings, which were typical of French architecture in the 1800s: pastel stone and brick, iron cresting, and steep mansard roofs.
Where the hell was I?
I spotted a red-and-blue sign a few feet away and started toward it, using my phone as a flashlight.
Something whizzed past my hand, the sign seemed to crinkle in the center, and I heard a weird pop. I didn’t recognize the sound. It was more like a thunk than a bang, but either way, it was as though an invisible hand had reached past me to punch the sign.
As I stared at that ominous divot, like the bull’s-eye in a target, there was another pop. The side mirror on the car beside me shattered.
A shot. I was being shot at.
I ducked down beside the car, then realized I was probably still on the same side as the shooter. I half ran, half crawled around the front of the car. The tire next to me suddenly deflated, the hissing accompanied by two loud pops.
No. No. No. This could not be happening again. It just…couldn’t.