Hey There!
On June 17, Kiss Me By Moonlight (Kiss Me #2) is due out from Omnific Publishing. To celebrate, I'm going on tour!
Here's the blurb:
Hey there. It’s Lacey again. Falling in love and landing
Dylan hasn’t been the panacea I thought it would be. For starters, he moved
into my apartment without asking, and he continues to have no respect for my
need to have things in sets of six. Pile that on top of my emotional upheaval after
losing my stepfather, and you have a recipe for disaster no amount of German
chocolate cake can cure.
Yes, Lacey Hallem’s life remains fraught with challenge, but
you know she’s a fighter. Forming a talent management agency with her best
friends has been the best career move she’s ever made—even if it’s the only
thing currently working according to plan. Lacey’s OCD is getting the better of
her, and this time her hands aren’t the only casualty. When her lies ruin her
relationships with both Kiss Me Goodnight and Dylan, she’s forced to confront
her demons in ways she’s never had to before. As she once again faces her past,
can she learn once and for all to let love and friendship through the barriers she’s
built?
Both harrowing and hilarious, this conclusion to the tale of
Lacey and Dylan will leave you laughing, crying, and fanning yourself—sometimes
all at once. Michele Zurlo triumphs again in this moving story about life’s
quirks and what we all have to do to get by.
Here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:
On the way home, Dylan fumed silently. I drove this time, as
he tended to speed and cut people off when he was in a sour mood. When we were
almost to my apartment, he said, “Aren’t you going to apologize?”
I glanced at him, surprised he’d ask for me to lie. “I’m
sorry?”
“That’s not going to cut it.”
“I’m not sorry I said it. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,
but you know how I feel about that song.” I turned into the parking lot and
found the space designated for my apartment.
“You called me a manwhore, Lacey.” His entire life, he’d
slept with two women, one of whom had been his late wife. “That’s not the image
we’re trying to project. We want fans to focus on our music, not our imagined
bedroom antics.”
I got out of the car. This was another “discussion” Dylan
wanted to have. You know what I’m spoiling for? An all-out fight. A lot of
pent-up frustration and anger mixed with residual hurt and grief inside me, and
that much emotion is going to demand an outlet if I don’t provide one.
On the plus side, the fact that I want to argue, scream, and
yell boded well for the conditions of my hands. Perhaps that’s why Dylan listed
those options earlier. He knew what I’d wanted before I did. I kind of resent
him for that. People you were mad at aren’t supposed to be right or
accommodating. Dylan managed to be both. Manwhore.
He followed me into the apartment, hopefully noting the
stiffness of my shoulders. I projected outrage as hard as I could. Lies to
cover lies. I know what I’d done was wrong, and it wasn’t a little problem. I’d
said it in front of the media. Not for the first time, I considered that I was
a bad choice to manage his band. With my mouth, it was bound to get negative
press.
I went into the bedroom and into the closet. It’s a large,
walk-in number half full of his clothes. I went to my dress section and began
evaluating them to figure out which one I would wear to see John’s grave.
Though it had been chilly when we’d left this morning at an ungodly hour, the
sun had come out for the return trip and warmed things up considerably. The ice
in the parking lot was melting, and the early spring day promised to get even
warmer. I selected a long-sleeved black velvet shirt and its matching
full-length skirt.
Dylan stood in the door of the closet, deliberately blocking
my path. He eyed the dress in my hand incredulously. “What the hell are you
doing?”
I responded to him with a passively neutral expression.
“Changing.”
This is my way of goading him. He has a temper, but it takes
a lot to get him to explode. I have a hard time expressing anger, and I hate
how Dylan gets eerily calm when he dealt with me, so this is my way of
compelling him to force me to let it out. Fucked up, right?
He took the clothes from me and threw them on the floor
littered with shoes. Then he gripped my chin in his cupped hand, making me face
him. “No. We’re going to discuss whatever is eating you up.”
I tried to shake my
head, but he didn’t let me move. “I’m fine.”
“Liar. You’re so not
fine, it’s not even funny. I haven’t seen you this way in months.”
If I take a step back, he’ll let go of me and back off. I
stared at him, wondering who is going to break first.
He studied me, searching my eyes for answers I didn’t have.
“You weren’t calling me a name; you were lying.”
“It’s a fine line, isn’t it?” I spoke softly and kept my
gaze locked to his. “And at the end of the day, it doesn’t actually matter.”
“No,” he agreed, releasing my chin. “It doesn’t. The damage
is done. You’re going to have to deal with the fallout to make this right.”
I am not prepared to handle public relations, but I nodded
anyway. Tonight I’m supposed to hang with Jane and Luma. I’ll spill my tale of
woe and ask for advice. Luma has a degree in public relations. She’ll have some
ideas.
He tried to take me in his arms, but I stiffened and pulled
away. The whirligig of crappy emotions hadn’t left the building. Dylan wasn’t
nearly as pissed as he should be.
He sighed. “You’re a difficult woman to live with.”
I put my hands on my hips and squared up to him. “I never
asked you to live here.”
That’s a bitchy thing to say, and I hadn’t wanted to say it,
but it burst out of my mouth like an alien baby. I envisioned all sorts of
gross gooeyness spewing in all directions. From the look on Dylan’s face, some
of it definitely hit him.
