Seventh Born by Rachel Rossano

In a world where seventh born sons are valued for their strength and power, she is born a daughter.
 

 

Zezilia Ilar is the disappointment. Born after six brothers, she was supposed to be the son to restore her family’s prestige. She intends to remedy her shortcomings by being a dutiful daughter, marrying well and producing children, preferably a set of seven sons. But when someone offers her an alternative, she begins to dream of more.
 
 
In a society that worships a goddess, he follows the Almighty.
 
Hadrian Aleron, as a seventh son of a seventh son, stands to take up the second highest position in government, Sept Son. His main qualification for office is his birth. Despite preparing for this role from childhood, he does not desire what is to come. As a follower of the Almighty, he knows he will be the target of many, and his faith might eventually lead to death.

 

 

Rachel Rossano lives with her husband and three children in the northeastern part of the United States. Homeschooled through high school, she began writing her early teens. She didn’t become serious about pursuing a career as an author until after she had graduated from college and happily married. Then the children came.
 

 

Now she spends her days being a wife, mother, teacher, and household manager. Her evenings and free moments are devoted to her other loves, writing and book cover design. Drawing on a lifelong fascination with reading and history, she spends hours creating historical feeling fantasy worlds and populating them with characters who live and breathe on the page. 

 

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Top Ten List

10 Interesting Things about Rachel Rossano

 

1 – I have three children that equally challenge, frustrate, and delight me every day.

2 – Almost twenty years ago, I married my best friend, and I have never regretted the decision for a moment.

3 – My parents are exactly a foot apart in height, and my husband and I are exactly a foot apart in height.

4 – I have no lenses in my eyes. I developed cataracts when I was very young and had the lenses in my eyes removed so I could see.

5 – Since childhood, I have not liked the texture of meat. Because of this, I have been a vegetarian since I was allowed to prepare my own food.

6 – I started publishing my books because I feared I would never have children. Now, I am homeschooling three children and fitting my writing and publishing around their educational needs. I’ve wondered more than once if the Lord did that so that I would continue to write. Otherwise, I might’ve waited until they were all raised and grown.

7 – I have naturally curly hair that refuses to stay straight or in place.

8 – My kids are some of my biggest fans despite the fact they have read none of my books.

9 – I post silly stories on FB about the things my kids say and do, not because I want everyone to be impressed with them, but so I will remember them later.

10 – My first crush was on Spock from Star Trek. So, when my husband comments that I am part Vulcan (meaning highly analytical and logical), I consider it quite the complement.

 

Snippet #1

By late cadeomea, the time when the leaves turn brown, orange, and red in preparation for winter, I was sending instinctively and Errol proclaimed me ready to attempt using the second talent.

“I have high hopes for you in this aspect, Zez,” he informed me as he led me up the trail to the meadow. Selwyn was to join us there to observe my first lesson.

“Why?”

“Of the trained females to date, all of them have excelled in moving mass above their abilities at sending.”

I frowned at him. “Why?”

“The theory is that women produce more energy than men.” He pushed aside an overgrown bush and held it back for me to pass. “You see moving objects without touching them takes a different skill completely separate from the brain.”

I nodded. Force or Thought had explained in sparse detail what happened when one tried to move matter. In order to move matter, a Talent must have two things: a functioning amoveo, an organ located beneath the breastbone; and a capio gland. The capio gland produced an energy completely undetectable to the normal human senses which the amoveo then manipulated to interact with the physical world around the Talent.

All of this had been accepted and known from before the great loss. When our people were forced to disburse from the great cities in the far north after the land soured, they left most of their knowledge behind. A few scholars had thought to bring texts of information, but it had all been so long ago that only a few texts had survived. Everything known was traced back to those few sources and observations.

“It is theorized that the female capio gland produces more energy for their amoveo to utilize, thus it takes less effort from their amoveo to move something.”

“Is this why we are having the first lesson in an open field?”

Errol paused to laugh. “No, that is because I learned my lesson teaching Ilias. He literally lifted every object in the entire room on his first successful try. It took me months to teach that boy to focus. I don’t want to call down my wife’s wrath over an overturned room again. So, you shall have your first try out in the open where the worst that can happen is dirt hanging in the air.”

 

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Digiprove sealCopyright secured by Digiprove © 2018 Margaret Margaret

The Good Luck Sister by Jill Shalvis

Book Review Graphic

FTC: I received a free copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest review. I received no other compensation and the opinions expressed in this review are one hundred percent true and my own.

The Good Luck Sister by Jill Shalvis was a sweet story.  I read this book in a few days because I had to know how it all worked out.  I have read several books by this author and I have liked them all, so it wasn’t a shock that I liked this book as well.  I loved that this had a dog into it because I am such a huge animal lover.  It also makes the gook easier for me to relate too.  I fell in love with Dylan right from the start.  I also loved watching as they both grew throughout the book.  At times I did find this book was predicable but that is what happens for me because I have so many books in this genre.  I felt bad for Dylan because of how hard his childhood had to have been.  I had a rough childhood, so I felt like I was able to relate to him and that made him come alive while I was reading this book.  I know that anyone who love chick lit will love this book just as much as I did.

About The Book

After a difficult few years, Tilly Adams is ready for life to start going right. Though she has a case of first-day nerves teaching art at the local community college, she knows it isn’t anything a few snuggles from her rescue puppy won’t cure. Until she sees Dylan Scott again, her one-time BFF and first love sitting in the front row. Dylan knows he should’ve left well enough alone, but when he sees Tilly living her dream, he can’t help but make contact. Ten years ago, he left Wildstone and everything in it behind, including Tilly. He had his reasons, but now he wants her back in his life, anyway he can get her. When Tilly agrees to design the logo for Dylan’s new helicopter touring company, it’s business only . . . until she finds herself falling into his arms once again. Can she possibly open her heart back up to the only man who’s ever broken it? But soon they’re both realizing the truth—love always deserves a second chance.

About The Author

New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis lives in a small town in the Sierras full of quirky characters. Any resemblance to the quirky characters in her books is, um, mostly coincidental. Look for Jill’s bestselling, award-winning books wherever romances are sold and visit her website, http://www.jillshalvis.com, for a complete book list and daily blog detailing her city-girl-living-in-the-mountains adventures.

Connect with Jill

Website: http://jillshalvis.com/

Facebook: @JillShalvis

Twitter: @JillShalvis

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jillshalvis/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/jillshalvis/

Tumblr: http://jillshalvis.tumblr.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22370.Jill_Shalvis?from_search=true

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Read An Excerpt

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

“I’ve finished my free trial of adulthood and am no longer interested, so please cancel my subscription.” From The Mixed Up Files of Tilly’s journal.

 

 

Tilly Adams sat in the vet’s office staring at the doctor in shock. “Say that again?”

Dr. Janet Lyons smiled. “I think Leo faked being sick. Probably so you’d stay home from work today.”

Tilly looked down at Leo. “You do know he’s a dog, right?”

All six pounds of him smiled up at her. About a month ago, she found him on a street corner hiding beneath a bus bench; wet, dirty, cold, hungry and matted. He’d been Dobby meets Gremlin meets neglected, abused Care Bear. Tilly had looked around for an adult, and then had to remind herself that at twenty-five years old, she was legal herself. So then she’d searched for an adultier adult, but she’d been the only one in sight.

So she’d scooped the little guy up and had brought him to the SPCA, who’d said he was about five weeks old, a possible Maltipoo, which meant he came by his care bear look naturally. He was malnutritioned and suffering from mange. They’d said they’d do what they could, and Tilly had turned to go. That had been when she’d seen all the eyes on her from an endless row of cages … and she’d realized her care bear would soon be sitting in one too. Then she’d heard herself offer to foster him until they found him a forever home.

They’d found him one too. Tilly had signed the adoption papers last weekend in spite of the fact that just that morning he’d escaped his crate, eaten her favorite sneakers, destroyed her favorite pillow, and then yakked up the stuffing from the pillow.

He was a destructo of the highest magnitude, and something else too. He had no idea how small he was. He went after her sister Quinn’s twenty-plus pound cat and her neighbor’s hundred pound black lab with the same fierce, fearless gusto. Turned out, the little guy had a bad case of small-man syndrome, which was how he’d earned his name.

Leo, short for Napoleon.

And now on top of Leo’s impressive chewing skills, his escape artist skills, and his ability to get up on her bed and yet still not understand why stepping in his own poop was annoying, he had a new skill.

He’d faked being sick.

Proud of himself, Leo smiled up at her. Smiled. An hour ago he’d been coughing and limping and acting all sorts of odd. Now he just kept smiling up at her while sending her meaningful glances at the open dog biscuit bin between her and the doctor.

Dr. Lyons laughed and gave him one.

“Dogs can’t fake sick,” Tilly said while Leo inhaled the biscuit whole before licking the floor to make sure he got all the crumbs. “Can they?”

Dr. Lyons scooped him up and gave him a kiss on his adorable snout. “Yours did.”
Tilly sighed. It was too early for this. She’d had a crazy late night. Not hanging at Whiskey River, the local bar and grill. Not at a club with friends. Not working on her designs for he upcoming graphic art showing.

Nope, she’d been on a serious stress bender — a marathon of Game Of Thrones. She hadn’t fallen asleep until after two and her alarm had interrupted her in the middle of a really great dream starring Jon Snow.

Dr. Lyons handed Leo over. He immediately snuggled into the crook of Tilly’s neck and dammit, her cold heart melted on the spot and she hugged him close. “You’re sure he’s okay? He was coughing. And then he limped funny. And then he wouldn’t eat.”

“But he hasn’t coughed once that I’ve seen. And he’s not limping either. And you said all his food vanished while you took a quick shower.”

“Yes,” Tilly said.

Dr. Lyons waited for her to catch up.

Tilly sighed. “He really did fake me out

Digiprove sealCopyright secured by Digiprove © 2018 Margaret Margaret

No Cowboy Required by JoAnn Sky

Welcome to Reno, Nevada, the Biggest Little City in the World! Sweet Home Alabama meets Raising Helen in this sweet small town contemporary romance debut from Golden Heart® Award finalist JoAnn Sky!

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About No Cowboy Required:

Title: No Cowboy Required

Author: JoAnn Sky

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Release Date: May 14, 2018

Publisher: Entangled Publishing

Series: A Biggest Little Love Story

Format: Digital eBook / Print

Digital ISBN: B07CLLWWLN

Print ISBN: 9781640635012

Enemies make the best partners…

As a photographer in NYC, Grace Harper is a pro at handling the unexpected–which comes in handy when she inherits the ranch home she ran away from seven years ago…along with a young, autistic stepbrother she’s never met. And because nothing ever goes easy for her, Grace finds her frustrating, sexy ex-flame, Noah, taking care of JJ. But she’s getting out of this nowhere town fast, so she’ll have to find a way to keep from throttling Noah—without kissing him first.

Noah Taylor may be enemy number one to Grace, but she needs his help. He knows the girl he used to love is still there, beneath the heels and fancy clothes, so he’ll help her—and keep his distance like she says she wants. Only the more time they spend together, the closer he wants to get. Grace has no intention of staying, but she belongs in his arms—he just has to prove it to her.

Add to your TBR list:  Goodreads

Available at:  Amazon  |  Barnes and Noble  |  Kobo  |  iTunes

Excerpt:

Copyright© 2018 No Cowboy Required

JoAnn Sky

She stopped shuffling the papers and stood but didn’t face him. “I want you to keep the farm, and I want to help you do it. But I need a new start, too.” She took a deep breath, turned her head just slightly over her shoulder toward him. “On my own.”

He watched those three little words barrel toward him. In another second, they’d knock him on his ass. He grabbed her arm and turned her around. “And that’s just the way you like it.” He leaned into her, watched her pupils dilate. “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

Her lips parted, as if to respond. But no words came out. She stared at him, waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure. She licked her lips.

To hell with whether it was love or lust or chemistry or kryptonite. He swooped in, covered her mouth with his, and drank her in. He thought she would push him away. Instead she pulled him closer, offered him more.

He took it at first, deepening the kiss, his tongue probing, tasting. It was good. She was good. But it could be better. He did care whether it was love or lust. He needed to take it slow, make it mean something.

Maybe then she’d stay.

About JoAnn Sky:

JoAnn Sky has written for years as part of her job (business and marketing plans and the like). One day she tried her hand at writing for fun—and like it. Now she authors adult contemporary romance and young adult romance with a magical twist as well as children’s books.

JoAnn is a two-time Golden Heart® finalist (YA category and Contemporary Short category). Originally from the Midwest, JoAnn currently lives in northern Nevada with her husband a.k.a. love of her life, three teenage children, and three crazy rescue dogs.

Visit her at https://joannsky.com/ where you can sign up for her newsletter (and check out http://www.dogsandbooks.com for additional information about her children’s books). You can also connect on Twitter at @jaskybooks (http://twitter.com/JASkyBooks) or on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/joannskyauthor/).

JoAnn is represented by the fabulous Nicole Resciniti of The Seymour Agency.

Connect with JoAnn:  Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads  Amazon  BookBub

Digiprove sealCopyright secured by Digiprove © 2018 Margaret Margaret

Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies by Evy Journey

Gina’s grandfather was a French chef whose life was cut short by a robber’s bullet. The only lasting legacy he could leave his family was his passion and talent for cooking.
Growing up poor but with a mother who is a gifted cook. Gina learns cooking a great meal is an act of love. An art that sustains and enhances life.
 
A world of new challenges, new friends, and new loves opens up for her when she’s chosen to cook for a Michelin-starred restaurant.
 
But danger lurks where one never expects it.
Can her passion for cooking help Gina survive and thrive in this world of privilege, pleasure and menace?

 

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Evy Journey, writer, wannabe artist, and flâneuse (feminine of flâneur), wishes she lives in Paris where people have perfected the art of aimless roaming. Armed with a Ph.D., she used to research and help develop mental health programs.

 

She’s a writer because beautiful prose seduces her and existential angst continues to plague her despite such preoccupations having gone out of fashion. She takes occasional refuge by invoking the spirit of Jane Austen to spin tales of love, loss, and finding one’s way—stories into which she weaves mystery or intrigue.

Character Casting

Gina/Regine Lambert—23, mixed blood from her mother (half Chinese’ half French) dark lush hair, creamy skin, large blue eyes, a generous mouth, and—her Mom says—a straight noble nose like Gwyneth Paltrow’s. A 5’7” body with curves in the right places. You wouldn’t call her voluptuous, though. She’s a cook at a haute cuisine restaurant and comes from a working class neighborhood, a little naïve but hopeful and quick to learn.

Brent Hansen— a tall man of about thirty, dark brown hair, gray and piercing but melancholic eyes, fills his jeans and jacket with palpable strength. He’s a homicide detective, has a law degree from a prestigious university, and a passion for truth and justice which he doesn’t want to complicate with a committed relationship.

Leon Barrett—29, a pair of very blue eyes on a well-tanned face crowned by bronze, wavy hair, tall, filthy rich, family of old money, polished, fussed over look. A playboy who enjoys the chase and has a need to win but never commits. Devoted to preserving his Barrett legacy, he works as his father’s right hand man.

Mrs. Lambert—Gina’s mother, oldest daughter of a Chinese mother and a French chef who was murdered in his artisanale delicatessen. Worked at fast food restaurants to help support her mother and sisters before she could finish high school. A great cook who taught Gina cooking is an act of love.

Marcia—Gina’s best friend, easy-going pastry chef in her early 30s, a little overweight. Frank, experienced, and smart.

Cristi—Gina’s childhood friend, red-brown hair and dark eyes, expertly accentuated, curvy. Shy and unsure of herself.

Laure—French woman in her thirties, chef de cuisine and owner of the restaurant Gina works for.

Sabine—Gina’s younger sister to whom she feels close

Mr. Lambert—Gina’s father, emotionally distant from his family

Maurice, Gerard and Bernie—Gina’s brothers

Top Ten List

Ten of my favorite things

Why do I love Paris? It has or does at least ten of my favorite things. I have “lived” as a transient in Paris a few times. That means I stay 2 to 6 months. It is:

  • A vibrant city where la joie de vivre is often evident in so many ways and nearly every day; so, it is
  • a shot in the arm, and an escape into a different kind of reality;
  • A communion with history we can still relate with, a history boasting some of the greatest thinkers and great architecture spared from bombs that leveled other European cities;
  • A veritable tableau where a gathering of people in a park reminds you of a Manet or Monet painting;
  • An ode to light and colors celebrated in artistic revolutions that gave birth to gothic churches and modern art, starting with Impressionism;
  • A lover of art and culture with world-class exhibits in its world-class museums as well as days or nights dedicated to celebrating the arts;
  • Rich with world-class parks with beds and large vases of flowers massed in harmonious colors. They invite you to linger on benches and plentiful green metal chairs under sprawling shady trees;
  • Where you needn’t go beyond your block (or two) to find a boulangerie where you can get a warm crusty baguette in late afternoon, great macarons or tasty tarts—fresh, everyday. And cheap, compared to pastries you buy in fancy bakeries in the US;
  • In a country where cultivating food and wine and preparing them for consumption is considered part of the patrimoine—the French national heritage, and
  • where mayonnaise and many other dishes and sauces that help make eating a pleasure were “invented”.

 

 

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Digiprove sealCopyright secured by Digiprove © 2018 Margaret Margaret

At Shutter Speed by Rebecca Burrell

 

FTC: I received a free copy of this book from Pump Up Your Book in exchange for my honest review. I received no other compensation and the opinions expressed in this review are one hundred percent true and my own.

At Shutter Speed by Rebecca Burrell was an interesting book.  I was left wondering how often stuff like this really happens because I have no doubt that our government does do stuff like this but that isn’t what this review is on.  This is the first book I have read by this author and I will for sure be picking up more books by her in the future.  This book did take me awhile to get through because I really had to pay attention to what was going on so that I didn’t get lost.  It wasn’t hard to follow per say but it did skip around the time periods and characters, so I just had to make sure that I knew would was talking and when the events were taking place.  I fell in love with Leah and Matty right from the start and I felt so bad for both throughout the book.  I loved watching Leah do everything that she could to find her husband and that she never let anything stop her.  If you love books that have strong female leads I know you will love this book just know that it may take a little while to read because you really have to pay attention to what is going on, so you don’t get lost.

About The Book

Title: AT SHUTTER SPEED
Author: Rebecca Burrell
Publisher: Cranesbill Press
Pages: 381
Genre: Women’s Fiction

In the click of a shutter, #Resistance becomes more than just a hashtag.

Pass the bar exam. Convince someone—anyone—in the Egyptian government to admit they’ve imprisoned your husband. Don’t lose your mind. For fledgling human rights attorney Leah Cahill, the past six months have been a trial by fire, ever since Matty, a respected but troubled war photojournalist, disappeared during a crackdown in Cairo.

Leah, the daughter of a civil rights icon, grew up wanting to change the world; Matty was the one who showed her she could. Though frustrated by the US government’s new fondness for dictators, she persists, until a leaked email reveals a crumbling democracy far closer to home.

Risking her own freedom, she gains proof Matty’s being detained at a U.S. ‘black site’, stemming from his work covering the refugee crisis in Syria. Armed with his photo archives, Leah plunges into their past together, a love story spanning three continents. She uncovers secrets involving Matty’s missionary childhood, her own refugee caseload, and the only story the deeply principled reporter ever agreed to bury. It’s what got him captured—and what might still get him killed. With Leah’s last chance to save him slipping away, Matty’s biggest secret may be one he’s willing to die to protect.

About The Author

In her own fictional world, Rebecca Burrell is a secret Vatican spy, a flight nurse swooping over the frozen battlefields of Korea, or a journalist en-route to cover the latest world crisis. In real life, she’s a scientist in the medical field. She lives in Massachusetts with her family, two seriously weird cats, and a dog who’s convinced they’re taunting him.

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Book Excerpt

Chapter One

Crackups and Crackdowns

Cairo, Egypt

In  a split second, Matty can tell you a story.

With a click of the shutter, he captures a life—beginning, middle, or end. His photos tell tales, expose truths, open worlds. If journalism is a dying profession, I’ve been watching it kill my husband for years. But at the same time, it’s keeping us alive.

A sea of humanity undulates through Tahrir Square, respiring with simmering fervor. Sirens have been blaring since evening prayers, punctuated by dull explosions from police-fired smoke bombs. Casualties, mostly students, litter the streets. Their luckier peers are staunching head wounds with T-shirts and flushing each other’s eyes with Maalox cocktails. Hissing canisters snake through the gardens near the Egyptian Museum. Masked protestors hurl them back. Death to the dictator, death to the regime!

The museum’s been closed for ages. No one in the immediate vicinity gives a damn about antiquities, so I’ve got a front row seat in the Grand Saloon between a statue of Amenhotep and an arched window facing the square. The air tastes flinty, like gunpowder. Pinpricks of fire are creeping down my throat from the gas. In theory, I’m studying, but you can’t exactly study in the middle of a crackdown.

“Dear me, Leah.” A bespectacled face pops up beside Amenhotep—the curator, Yusef Hafez. In his cream linen suit, with a perma-smell of aged vanilla and musk, he’s something of an antiquity himself. “He hasn’t returned?”

“Soon, I’m sure,” I say. Though I’m not. Matty is somewhere in the chaos outside. Which means he has his eye to the lens, so he’ll be the last to notice when the police don their masks for another round. It means he’ll come home coughing, clothes reeking of smoke, on a rush that’ll keep him from sleeping for weeks. Weeks he’ll spend restless, wandering from room to room because he keeps imagining the smell of tear gas. Where he’ll lose ten pounds because he’ll forget to eat. Where he’ll catch one whiff of a Lucky Strike or diesel fumes and it’ll be as if someone opened a window to some long ago and far away hell. It means being locked in a constant state of vigilance, watching for signs, so I can run to the icebox for the frozen orange I keep in there, because sometimes, something cold and fragrant can bring him back before it gets worse.

It means he’ll be unfocused and get lost doing simple things, then pick fights with me over stupid crap because it’s easier than letting me help. But then he’ll finish the story and—poof— he’ll be himself again, the guy who holds me close and promises me that someday, the world will be what we both desperately want it to be. It’s our thing. We’re broke and spend our lives dodging bullets or sleeping under the stars, and time was, I wouldn’t have traded it for the world. He’s the adrenaline junkie. These days, I just hang on at the fringe.

It wasn’t always this way—I spent my twenties as a humanitarian aid worker in Sudan and Uganda. The short version is that I got spooked, left the field, and went running for law school. Now I stay behind while he takes crazy risks. I should be out there too, but when one’s husband has been killing himself to put one through law school, one has no excuse for failing the bar exam. At least not twice.

“It was kind of you to let us stay here,” I say to Yusef, blinking as the dots swim on my practice test. Hours ago, as the clashes intensified, the government declared all foreign journalists ‘purveyors of fake news’, the new favorite epithet of authoritarian regimes everywhere. After they yanked our hotel permit, Yusef, an old friend of Matty’s, offered us a spare room in the basement.

Jowls turned down, he strokes the bristles of his beard. “You may need to make other arrangements. The museum is at risk. The Night Hotel has been set ablaze.”

Outside, a flickering orange glow lights the square. I tuck my study guide behind me, then stand on pins-and-needles legs for a better look. Even the palm trees are in flames. There goes the best fourteen-dollar-a-night hotel in Cairo. “When did that happen?”

“Some time ago.”

Students dance in front of the burning building, bare seconds before being swept away by police water cannons. “They could put it out if they wanted,” I say. “Guess it’s more fun to squirt protestors.”

“This is Egypt.” Frustration courses through Yusef’s voice. “We say ‘God will take care of it’. Then we do nothing.”

The last time we’d been in Cairo was during the 2011 revolution, and so much has changed. Shop windows once filled with honeyed cakes and risqué clothes are burned and boarded. Once, students danced on the rooftops, because where else would you go when the world tipped on its head? Now, if you dare go outside, you watch the rooftops for the glint of a sniper rifle sight. Revolution isn’t binary, it isn’t an endpoint, it’s a fluid state of mind, and Egypt’s has been dark for years.

“Maybe that’s what the people outside are trying to change.”

It’s not that I think arson is a good way to solve problems, but I grew up with a giant of the civil rights era telling my bedtime stories. What’s happening outside goes beyond buildings and things. Matty’s photos of sheet-wrapped corpses prove it.

Yusef clings to the crimson ropes around the colossus, contemplating his world, the hieroglyphs of Isis, the soaring majesty of Horus, the gold in Tut’s death mask. “Egypt’s greatest treasure is her history. In their anger, youth forget such things. They forget the past contains the answers.”

To me, it’s simple. These clashes are rooted in three things: power, money, and sex, which are pretty much all that people ever fight about anyhow. The men in power have all the money, and this being Egypt, they’re damned determined to control the sex, too. No one under thirty has a job, which means they can’t get married, which means they can’t get laid. So instead, shit gets lit on fire.

Someone—a teenage girl—slams the window, crazing the glass. A dozen cops in riot gear give chase, shields and batons raised. We will be free, she screams at them in Arabic, scampering into the crowd. The police start beating everyone near her.

I toss the world of contracts and torts aside. The way I should’ve done four years and a shit-ton of money ago. “That’s it.”

Yusef eyes his mummies. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” I wrap a scarf around my face, then make sure the long skirt I’m wearing covers my ankles. ‘Out’ is where people need help. ‘Out’ is where the old Leah would be. “I’m not doing any good sitting here.”

“Your husband will not like if you leave.”

Too damn bad. I snap a pair of swimming goggles on my forehead. Yusef’s been hovering all night. I figure Matty asked him to babysit, which is ironic for any number of reasons. “Probably not.”

Maybe I look like a bug-eyed Calamity Jane, but my dad, the Honorable Dale Atkins, Esq., would be ashamed if his daughter sat on her ass while thugs in riot gear form ranks across Tahrir Square.

While I’m doing the one-foot hop with my sneaker, my phone dings. Twice.

Stay put Leah

And get away from the goddamn window

I peer outside. A line of armored vehicles stretches to the cornice at the Nile end of the square. Matty is perched on the wall of the lotus pond, wearing faded jeans and a flak vest, a checkered scarf over his mouth and nose. With his wheat-colored hair and dishwater-grey eyes, he’s the kind of guy who stands out in any crowd, but it’s really damn obvious here.

It’s different for me—my Mom’s French and my Dad’s roots are Igbo, which makes guessing my race some weird game show for strangers, who seem to think I’m either Mediterranean, Hispanic, or ‘wow, for a white girl, you can really tan’. The good news is that at this time of year, I can pass for a local in Cairo. The bad news is that the secret police are out in force, so nobody’s safe out there tonight.

I dial Matty’s mobile, to remind him to cover his head, but then shots start popping and he hits the deck. The crowd scatters. He scrambles away, and I hang up, fast.

Banging my temple with the phone, I watch him scurry into an alley behind the museum. My mobile rings a few seconds later.

“Hey, babe.” His breathing is labored. “How’s the studying?”

“Are you okay?”

“Far as you know.”

A wiggle of relief hits my belly. “Butthead. I’m coming out.”

The crowd sounds go quiet. “Leah, it’s bad. There’s nothing you can do.” He sounds defeated, which is never a good sign.

“Is anyone with you?”

“Reuters has a couple stringers out here. Or maybe they’re AP. Not sure they know either.”

“Not what I meant.” Matty’s parents were missionaries who dragged him from one godforsaken hotspot to the next, and it messed him up pretty good. What I care about is whether he’s working with someone who knows him. Knows what his mind can do to him when things are ‘bad’. Which they have been. For months, ever since he got injured on his last job in Syria. On the outside, he’s still healing, but something worse is eating him from the inside, something he won’t talk about. Which isn’t exactly unusual, but it’s never been this bad for so long. We’re doing our best to smile through the pain and pretend everything is getting better. It’s killing me that it’s not.

In the background, I hear a wolf whistle. “Cahill, is that your wife? Man, I had no idea she had tits like that.”

Matty swears. “Christ, Sal.”

Saleh is Yusef’s son, a producer for CNN’s Africa desk, and I can guess what he’s looking at. A normal guy would carry a wedding photo. Maybe a vacation snap. Something that involves, say, clothes, but this is a photo of me that Matty took the first night we made love. Like…right after, and he’s been schlepping it around ever since.

He comes back on the line. “Sorry.”

“Since when are you showing that to people?”

“I wasn’t, Leah, I just…needed to see it, okay?” His voice sounds distant. Sad.

“Matty, come home. You can have the real thing.”

He exhales. “God, you have no idea. As soon as things calm down, I’m yours.”

“Hope that’s a promise.”

“It is.” He coughs, away from the receiver. “How’s your stomach? Did that tea I brought help?”

It’s a loaded question. The water in Egypt never agrees with me, and as far as he knows, that’s all it is. The two pregnancy tests I took before we came agreed, and then there’s the get-it-while-you-still-can-because-fuck-the-patriarchy IUD I had put in after the election. None of which does a damn thing to explain why I can’t even remember the last time I had a period. Or make me feel any less jumbled up inside.

“Yeah, better,” I finally say.

“Liar.” He pauses. “How about I scrounge up some of that honey candy you like?”

All I need is him. Screw that. I need him to be him—the guy who lets me help when he’s messed up, not the one who shuts me out and keeps secrets, who feels like he’s one bad day from giving up. Because from the minute we landed, my body has been doing its damnedest to convince me those stupid pregnancy tests were wrong. “I’m okay.”

Water jets sweep the crowd. The line of black uniforms holds. Fresh volleys of smoke burst forth. “Hey listen,” he says, “rumor has it the government is shutting down the internet. Can you get to my website?”

Matty, who’s a freelance journalist these days, likes to joke that he got kicked out of the Fourth Estate and into a trailer park. We met at an Iraq War protest, and even then, the news orgs were refusing to print some of the photos he took—too controversial, or they didn’t fit the narrative somebody wanted to spin. His blog is his voice, in all its raw, unfiltered glory.

“It’s been loading like a ninety-year-old turtle with a piano on its back,” I say, waking the tablet beside me. Truth told, I’ve been paying more attention to that than my review books.

Mizaru’s Window, reads the site’s header. The letters twine around a graphic of the Three Wise Monkeys—See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, a copy of one tattooed on his arm. All I know is it was some kind of farewell screw-you to his dad.

“Check your flights while you’re at it,” he says.

Originally, they were ‘our’ flights, but one of us is in the middle of documenting a war and the other has the bar exam in four days. “They’re looking for observers down in Suez. The military says eleven dead, but Amnesty thinks it’s higher. Maybe we should—”

“No.”

“I could fly out tomor—”

“I’m not going to be the reason you miss that damn test again.”

Okay, so I didn’t exactly fail the bar the first time. Long story. This time, I have a job waiting for me in DC, which I have to take if we have any hope of paying back my loans. It’s immigration law instead of human rights, which means diving into a system I know nothing about, which I’m only doing because the way things are going at home, it feels as if I have to. Except taking it means an office instead of the front lines, which comes with the guilty reminder of the moment I walked away. When we started out, Matty and I were a team, and deep down, I’m scared to admit those days are gone forever. But something has to change.

Yesterday, before we left to come here, I found him naked on the beach by my parents’ house—in February, no less—throwing sheaves of story notes and photos onto a campfire he’d started. High as a kite to boot. Once he’d sobered up, I told him that unless he got his act together, he wasn’t coming with me to DC. In hindsight, getting on a plane with him to Cairo wasn’t the best way to convince him I’m serious about leaving, but I was terrified of what might happen if I didn’t. If there’s a baby involved, I can’t bear to think what it means.

Maybe my stomach…thing…is just stress. People who accidentally get pregnant don’t have to take the bar, or soul-sucking law jobs. They get to dress up their baby girls in frilly outfits and drink Starbucks all day, don’t they?

Right Leah. Keep telling yourself that.

“I got a one-ninety-one on my practice Bar today,” I say. “Finished in under two hours. With a twenty-minute Angry Birds break.”

“Funny that your staunch opposition to the death penalty stops with cartoon pigs.”

“The evil green porkers deserve it.” And like he’s any different. “You realize two hundred is perfect?”

“I heard you,” he replies. “I’m sure the Egyptian military will be impressed if they decide to detain you for a few weeks.”

Or Borders and Customs. Sighing, I click refresh. “You realize I’m going to make a shitty lawyer if I can’t even negotiate with you.”

“You only suck at negotiating when you’re wrong.”

The cursor keeps spinning. “They must’ve pulled the plug.”

He curses. “The US producer must be having a fit. He wanted a live feed ready as soon as Jake Tapper finished feeding some White House Nazi his own nutsack.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t keep them straight. The dude who looks like his mother fucked a lightbulb.”

That’s my Matty. “I bet Jake Tapper would tell me to stay.”

“Don’t get me in the middle of your unholy crush on JT.” His voice grows muffled. “Hey listen, let me go take care of some things, then I’ll come find you.”

“Will you be long?”

“I’m staring at a nekkid picture of my gorgeous wife. Part of me is.”

“I happen to like that part. Try not to get it shot off.”

Even the happiest couples have secrets. When we met, I saw him as this exotic world traveler—born in Brazil, he spoke five languages. He grew up in places like Mozambique and Iraq; I’m an attorney’s daughter from P-town, Massachusetts, who’d dreamed of seeing the things he’d seen, and yet to realize they’d nearly killed him. He says he fell in love with me because I proved to him the world could change. I fell in love with him because he showed me what had to.

Billows of sweet, noxious smoke cloud the air as I slip out of the rear service door, needing to see for myself that he’s okay. The goggles and my scarf protect me, though I can’t stay out long. His silhouette is visible through the haze. Head tilted a little to the left, elbow raised, camera ready. I’d know it anywhere.

I’ve always loved watching him work, getting to look through his photos at the end of a day. Matty has this desperate search for humanity, but he sees it in things that are fleeting and hard to find. He lives in the infinitesimal space between the best and worst of human nature, and some days, the camera is all that keeps it from crashing down on him. Even in the worst situations, he manages to find some shred of hope. Dignity. But it’s rare to see him this at peace while he’s doing it, and I can’t help but wonder what’s changed.

Near the American University, students hold vigil beside a stone church which is set up as a makeshift field hospital. Mourners gather around a lifeless body, surrounded by others who form a solidarity wall, protecting them from the riot troops. Matty moves to an alcove by the front gate, transfixed by something on his camera LCD.

All he wants is one photo that changes the world. Nobody but journalists and history buffs remember who took the Kim Phuc photo, the naked girl running from her napalmed village, but it altered the course of the war. Nobody remembers who got the shot of the guy staring down the tanks in Tiananmen Square, but the world still wonders what happened to him. It took a while before I understood why Matty lets life take so much from him. He rejected the life his parents led, but parts stuck with him nonetheless. The need to see justice done, to give a voice to the voiceless. He keeps searching for that one seismic photo because it’s the only way he’ll ever figure out how to live with himself.

A woman with a dark, shiny braid comes over to Matty. Thirtyish, she’s dressed in a loose olive pants and a black tunic, with a rose print scarf over her hair, an Assyrian-style cross around her neck, and a downcast expression on her face. A few words pass between them. He opens the memory slot on his camera and gives her the card, which she reluctantly accepts. After that, he draws her into an embrace, planting a tender kiss on her forehead.

Just like that, I can’t breathe.

At the same moment, she glances across the square to where I’m standing, and a flicker of recognition lights her eyes. Matty notices me then too, and freezes. I catch a musky smell, a man’s smell, and I realize someone is standing behind me.

Before I can even turn, the man slides into the crowd. Western clothes. Dark, flowing hair, and a pair of silver sunglasses perched on his head, though I can’t see his face. He circles the mourners like a great cat guarding a kill. Or stalking the next.

His expression flits between bemusement and rage, the latter directed at the woman with Matty, who’s now kneeling in prayer inside the circle. “Come out, whore,” he taunts. “Do you think I can’t see you?”

Her gaze lifts. The fear is gone, replaced with anger and grief. She shifts off her knees and exits the circle, towards a young father and son standing at the gate. The boy, ragged and rail-thin, holds out a shaggy brown mongoose, which hops onto her shoulder.

The father steps protectively in front of his son. “Leave us in peace. We have beaten you. You lost.” His accent is Syrian, not Egyptian, which likely explains the haunted look on his kid’s face. “You have no power over us now. Or this woman.”

With a bemused smirk, the jerk flicks ash from his cigarette. “This is the thanks I get? Perhaps I should not be surprised.” He flashes a knife. “Offer her a place to sleep and she’ll fuck you too.”

The mourners break up in a chorus of peace-be-with-yous and as-Salamu Alaykums. The jerk shoves the father aside, then lunges for the woman. A pop-pop- pop comes from the rooftops. The crowd screams and scatters. And then my idiot husband goes and tackles the jerk.

Matty barely dodges the knife on the first swing. On the second, the mongoose leaps, sinking its teeth into the man’s neck. The knife clatters to the pavement, and the mongoose prances away, chittering triumphantly.

The woman grabs the boy by the hand and runs down an alley. The jerk gut-punches Matty, shoving him off. Inaudible words pass between them. Matty gapes at me, white-faced and startled. Grinning, the jerk flips his knife, then stalks off after the others.

Matty is slow to get up, clutching his ribs, which got broken six months ago during an airstrike in Syria. I run over and help him out of the line of fire. “You’re hurt.”

He’s got this lost, anguished expression on his face, sweat mixed with ash, greasy black smudges running from temple to chin. “She’s just someone I know, Leah—that guy…”

Mixed with the pain, there’s guilt, and I’m not sure I want to know where it came from, so I replace the lens cap. “It’s fine, you can tell me later.”

The crowd swells as we make for the safety of the museum. Smoke and flames leap through the roof of the building across the alley. “I told you to stay put,” he grouses, as a tank rumbles past.

“You know me better than that.” I stab Yusef’s spare key into the service entrance door. “What were you thinking, going after that guy?”

“I was having another goddamn flashback, okay?” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can we not talk about it?”

Something hits me hard, deep in the stomach. We’ve spent half our marriage dealing with his flashbacks. It’s not why he did it.

“Fine,” I say, struggling to figure out what he’s not telling me. Which seems to be how I spend most of my time these days. “Then let’s talk about her.”

He peels the goggles off my head, hands coming to rest on my face. His skin feels raw, about a million degrees. “Stop looking at me like that.” He walks me into the darkness of the unlit entryway. “You know I’m no cheat. She’s a source. A friend.”

What I want him to say is why the ‘friend’ with the jealous eyes and curvy figure was acting  if she knows me. Why he was comforting her. I’d settle for some hint of why she’s in trouble in the first place, but if she’s a source, with Matty, that’s the end of it. I know he’s no cheat, sure, but he’s never been as secretive and self-destructive and just plain messed up as he’s been the last few months either.

I want to blurt out I think I’m pregnant, but the words won’t come. I’ve seen too much of the world to want to bring a child into it, and any time it’s come up, he jokes that his brain should be donated to science, not inflicted on another generation. Kids were never in our plan. But here we are, and I need him to tell me he’ll find a way to crawl out from whatever he’s under, that he’ll do it for me and the baby because he loves us. Yet I love him enough to know it’s not that simple.

The basement smells of must. A strange, sweet salt tickles my nose. Down here, it’s a maze of painted metal boxes and shelves, filled with dusty artifacts collected god knows when. He’s wandering between them, lost and unfocused, so I take his camera and set it on a nearby crate. “Matty, where are we?”

He blinks, scanning around. “Cairo, right?”

Anxious, I step between his knees, resting my forehead on his, but when I move my hand to his arm, he flinches. My hand comes away warm and sticky. I grab his wrist and pull up his sleeve, revealing a two-inch dig right below the monkey tattoo on his biceps. I know it’s from a bullet, which is bad enough, but he’s written his name and my cell phone number in thick, permanent marker on his arm. Suddenly I’m fighting tears.

“Hey, ssh, ssh,” he says. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’m here, right?”

Over our years together, I’ve watched him bury a dozen friends, sometimes nothing more than memories in empty coffins. I’ve been stuck half a world away when the internet discovers the latest video of some fuckwit beheading a journalist. Worry isn’t a choice, it’s something that tattooed itself onto my heart long ago.

“C’mon, tough guy. You and I have a date with the first aid kit.”

He buries his face in my neck and slips his hands under my skirt, cupping my rear. “Leah, I don’t need a damn Band-Aid. I need you.”

His kiss swallows the night, deep, wet, and lingering. He wants me to let this go, but we both know I can’t. “What’s wrong?” I say, caressing his temple. “Are you in trouble?”

“Nothing a good lawyer couldn’t handle.” He nudges my knees apart with his hip, shucking his T-shirt. “Though I’ve got something else for her to handle instead.”

I count the scars on his torso, making sure there are no new ones. Darfur above his left hip, Kirkuk across his left pec, Aleppo all down his right side. “You’re burning up.”

“Can’t help it.” He lifts my top over my head. “Is this okay?”

He asks, because once, someone didn’t. It’s not something I think about much these days. “It is if you tell me what’s going on.”

A kiss, a nibble, a caress of my hip. “I’m making love to my wife.” He peels down the cup of my bra, flicking his tongue over my nipple. “Who should know I’m completely mad about her.”

“Completely mad about something.” I say, surrendering in a swirl of emotion, dust, and our own tangled history. Fine, I need him too.

But then comes a commotion upstairs. Smashing glass, running footsteps. Bitter, angry shouts. Looters. Yusef’s muffled shouts rise above the fray.

Matty’s weight drops onto me. With a groan of frustration, he rolls off, contemplating the ceiling. “He’s about to get himself killed over some clay pot, isn’t he?”

As he buttons his jeans, I sit up. “Where’s my skirt?”

Leaning over for a quick kiss, he snags his shirt. “Stay. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

I snag it back, draping it over my breasts. “Seriously—what’s got you so spooked?”

He stops, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Does that mean he knows? I bite my lip. “For starters, you could tell me how you feel about it.”

His brow furrows. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

I can’t make myself say it, so I put my hand over my midsection. His jaw goes slack, and a rush of breath escapes from his lungs. “God, Leah, I—”

There’s another crash, a scream. Eyes closed, he kisses my forehead. “I love you, but right now I am scared to death. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll talk. I swear.”

Scared to death is better than I expected. “Okay. Go.”

As the sound of his footsteps fades, I slip on his shirt, and while I’m buttoning it up, I notice he didn’t take his camera. Given that it’s his sixth appendage, it’s odd. Not to mention the frustrated way he tossed it onto his bag. As if he’s tired of it ruling his life.

When I turn it on, an error comes up on the display, and that’s when I remember him passing the card to that woman.

Who is she? What did she want with it?

The looting upstairs reaches a fever-pitch. Ear-splitting scrapes, floor-shaking thuds, triumphant shouts. It’s either looters or a herd of zebras dancing Swan Lake.

My phone buzzes. Matty’s number comes up on the display. I hit answer. “Hey, where are you?”

“Out,” he says, breathing heavily. “Needed a smoke.”

Everything inside me goes cold. We have a code phrase. In case something ever goes bad. That was it.

Adrenaline puts a tremor in my hands. My legs. My pulse poundsin my ears, loud enough I can hear it. Forcing down the panic, I try to remember the questions we worked out, the ones we agreed to use if someone could be listening. “Could you get some ibuprofen while you’re out?” Can you get away?

Muffled sirens, people shouting. “Stores are closed, babe.”

My legs go weak. “Matty—”

“Check my bag,” he says. “Side pocket. Should be some in there.”

I dive on his old green duffel, hands trembling. The pocket is empty, but the lining is ripped. Inside, I find a Brazilian passport in my name. He has dual citizenship—there are places he goes where being American is a bad idea—but if I have it too, it’s news to me.

“What’s going on? Where did this come from?”

“I got your back, baby.”

“Is this about—?”

“Stop.” A rush of breath comes out of the receiver. “You don’t know anything. I haven’t told you a thing, right?”

“Matty please…”

Echoing sounds, like footsteps off an alley. More than one pair. “Say it, Leah.”

“Would I be asking if you had?”

He drops his voice low. “Listen to me. Put on my sweats. Tie the biggest goddamn knot in the waist you can because there are gangs out here who will make you regret it if you don’t. Then get your ass to the embass—”

A low pi-too sound, like gas escaping in a rush. He gasps and drops the phone. My heart stops. “Matty, say something, please.”

When he picks it up again, his voice is slurred. “I love you—you know that, right?”

I lose it. “You’re supposed to come home, Matty. You promised you’d always come home.”

“No choice,” he murmurs again. “You’re the only home I ever knew.

Digiprove sealCopyright secured by Digiprove © 2018 Margaret Margaret

Sale Alert: A Distant Heart by Sonali Dev

For a limited time, download A DISTANT HEART for just $2.99!

Infused with the rhythms of life in modern-day India, acclaimed author Sonali Dev’s candid, rewarding novel beautifully evokes all the complexities of the human heart in A DISTANT HEART.
 
“Searingly asks its characters what they’re willing to do for the people they love… explores family dynamics, class issues, and many layers of guilt, hope, and determination in ways that are both distinctly Indian and universally luminous. Another beautiful, breathtaking novel from a not-to-be-missed author.” – Kirkus, STARRED Review

Add A DISTANT HEART to your TBR pile on Goodreads then keep reading for a sample excerpt from A DISTANT HEART! 

Check out the Book Trailer!

Title: A Distant Heart

Author: Sonali Dev

Genre: Romantic Women’s Fictoin

Release Date: December 26, 2017

Publisher: Kensington

Page Count: 100k

Print ISBN: 978-1496705761

Digital ISBN: B06XZR97YK

Her name means “miracle” in Sanskrit, and to her parents, that’s exactly what Kimaya is. The first baby to survive after several miscarriages, Kimi grows up in a mansion at the top of Mumbai’s Pali Hill, surrounded by love and privilege. But at eleven years old, she develops a rare illness that requires her to be confined to a germ-free ivory tower in her home, with only the Arabian Sea churning outside her window for company. . . . Until one person dares venture into her world.

Tasked at fourteen years old with supporting his family, Rahul Savant shows up to wash Kimi’s windows, and an unlikely friendship develops across the plastic curtain of her isolation room. As years pass, Rahul becomes Kimi’s eyes to the outside world–and she becomes his inspiration to better himself by enrolling in the police force. But when a life-saving heart transplant offers the chance of a real future, both must face all that ties them together and keeps them apart.

As Kimi anticipates a new life, Rahul struggles with loving someone he may yet lose. And when his investigation into an organ black market ring run by a sociopathic gang lord exposes dangerous secrets that cut too close to home, only Rahul’s deep, abiding connection with Kimi can keep her safe–and reveal the true meaning of courage, loss, and second chances.

Infused with the rhythms of life in modern-day India, acclaimed author Sonali Dev’s candid, rewarding novel beautifully evokes all the complexities of the human heart.

Available at:

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A Distant Heart Excerpt

Copyright © 2017 Sonali Dev

 

Freedom was a beautiful thing! Mumbai in all its grimy, gray, pre-monsoon glory flew past Kimi as her auto-rickshaw sped between cars and pedestrians with the zeal of a bastard child born of a Diwali rocket and an immortal god. She almost asked the driver to slow down, but with the wind whipping her ponytail and the driver’s mop of curls in a joint symphony she felt as recklessly brave as the whirring vehicle racing along on its three wheels.

Emblazoned across the dashboard of the rickshaw was the goddess Durga dancing on the corpse of a demon like the evil-hunting badass she was. Bowing to her was Bollywood’s favorite superhero, Krish, with his muscles bulging like fat rubber balls and his hair coiffed high. In a perfect background score to Kimi’s life’s drama, the techno-beat-laden remix of an old Bollywood number drowned out the cacophony of horns the driver left in his wake.

The combination was delicious and exactly worthy of what she had just done. What she was about to do.

Freedom!

You know who else was badass? Kimaya Kirit Patil, that’s who.

There had been one hundred and twelve instances over twelve years when each breath had been a fight and her limbs had turned to mist. She had fought. Not like a warrior, because that would involve the use of said limbs, but like someone drowning, where all you could do is keep the water out of your nose, so it wouldn’t keep the air from your lungs. Breathe out. Breathe out. She had followed those breaths. Grabbed on to those thin wisps of air like lifelines and made herself live one grip at a time.

Then the cure she had waited twelve years for in a sterile room had come. A heart had become available. Surely that meant something. Someone had died, after all, so she might live. Someone with the exact kind of blood and plasma that would let a foreign heart beat within her chest with the confidence of an indegene. Surely that meant she could now have what she never thought she would—all that she had gazed upon from the windows of her room, sealed tight with every technology known to man, so no germ, no pathogen would dare venture into her world, let alone an entire human being. Except Rahul—he had ventured. And then gone on venturing until he was all the way inside.

He’d helped her understand calculus and the nuanced stories of Premchand. He had known how atoms split, why Europe went to war twice within half a century, and the why and when of each invention that transformed the history of civilization. He had touched her, despite promises he’d made. Because it was exactly what she had needed. His gloved hand in hers. He had given her anything she had asked for when everyone else had been too afraid. And she had known that if she lived, if her parents got what they had sealed her in a room twelve years for—a daughter who lived—she would spend the rest of that life taking care of him. The way he had taken care of her.

Except she hadn’t considered the most important part of her plan: him. She had returned from Hong Kong with her new heart and he had looked at her with those dark-tar eyes turned even darker by all that emotion when she ran to him. “You’re running,” he had said, as usual choosing the least words to say the most.

“Yes,” she had said, knowing exactly why every single hard-won breath had been worth it. But then she had told him her grand plan: the two of them living happily ever after.

As always she had asked him for what she wanted. What she hadn’t for one moment considered that he didn’t also want.

He had thanked her for the offer to love him forever, and passed on it.

The person who had kept her from being alone when she was locked up in a room had finally shown her what loneliness was when he walked away from her, leaving her alone in the crowded world she had craved for so long.

No one had the right to that kind of power.

She leaned back into the overstuffed vinyl seat of the speeding auto-rickshaw feeling awfully light.

It only made sense that losing a part of yourself would bring lightness.

No. She wasn’t doing that. She was not going all morose and doing the Tragic Princess shit anymore. That wasn’t her. No matter how people saw her, that was not her. Not anymore.

Actually, it had never been her. Why the hell was she letting herself go down that path now?

She was past the Rahul-induced sadness. Done with it. He’d made his intentions clear. They were no longer—well, they just weren’t anymore. Nothing, anything, they just weren’t.

Plato would ask if the fact that they weren’t anymore meant they had never been. Or was it Aristotle? You know who would know? The one person who she could not, would not, call for a fact check. This wasn’t a Tragic Princess thought, but here it was anyway: She had to stop thinking of life in terms of thoughts she saved up for Rahul like seashells collected on a walk along the beach. It was time.

 

Praise for A DISTANT HEART

“Dev crafts another thrilling story filled with intense drama, deep emotion, and well-developed characters; a can’t-put-down book.”—Library Journal, STARRED Review

“Thrilling action sequences and a complex, weighty romance propel this smart, sensitive story. A natural wordsmith, Dev dives into the psyches of disparate characters with voice-driven prose that includes both chilling insights and quirky humor… This poignant, sensual, and exciting tale captures a range of emotions and conflicts.”Booklist, STARRED Review

“Award-winning Dev returns with another of her emotionally resonating stories that explore, in depth, the intersection of friendship, love, sacrifice and desperation… There is a tremendous richness to this story… A truly captivating tale of friendship and love. Dev always delivers!”RT Book Reviews, 4.5 Stars, TOP PICK!

 

About Sonali Dev

Sonali Dev’s first literary work was a play about mistaken identities performed at her neighborhood Diwali extravaganza in Mumbai. She was eight years old. Despite this early success, Sonali spent the next few decades getting degrees in architecture and writing, migrating across the globe, and starting a family while writing for magazines and websites. With the advent of her first gray hair her mad love for telling stories returned full force, and she now combines it with her insights into Indian culture to conjure up stories that make a mad tangle with her life as supermom, domestic goddess, and world traveler.

Sonali lives in the Chicago suburbs with her very patient and often amused husband and two teens who demand both patience and humor, and the world’s most perfect dog.

Sonali’s novels have been on Library Journal, NPR, Washington Post, and Kirkus’s lists of Best Books of the year. She won the American Library Association’s award for best romance 2014, and is a RITA® finalist, RT Reviewer Choice Award Nominee, and winner of the RT Seal of Excellence. She was hailed by NPR.org as a ‘stunning debut’.

Connect with Sonali at: Website | Facebook | Twitter| GoodReads | Amazon

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