RELEASE DAY: Coleen Lahr "Accepted"

Blurb:

Ashley Smith spent her life being shipped from one family member to the next.  When Ashley’s estranged father dies, she finally has the money to go to college and the chance to find a place where she belongs. 

Within days, Ashley has found the one thing she’s always longed for – a family.  She may have even found love.  There’s only one problem.  Ashley likes Colin…a lot, but so does Randi, and everyone likes Randi.  Randi’s approval is the single easiest way to belong.  Falling in love with Randi’s crush is the single easiest way to find one’s self on the outside for the next three years. 

When Ashley arrived at college, she never dreamed she’d find this kind of happiness.  Will she allow herself to hold on to this happiness, and Colin, or will her fear of losing her friends, the only friends she’s ever known, dictate her actions?

 

Author:

Coleen writes young adult novels, loves running, rock music, the shore, gerber daisies and bread.

When Coleen's not plotting or writing her next book, she can be found making sandwiches in her family's restaurant, running (and often walking) Disney marathons, reading any book she can get her hands on and playing with her adorable kid. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, daughter, two dogs and lizard.

 

 

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

I know I should have been nervous as I pulled into the parking space, but the only emotion I felt at that exact moment was relief that my car actually made the eight-hour trip from Omaha to Chicago.

I got out of the car and stretched before going around to the trunk to grab my lone suitcase. It really shouldn’t have surprised me that my entire life, nineteen years, fit into one suitcase but, for some reason, the fact never ceased to amaze me.

I pulled the bag out of the trunk and looked around. The campus was gigantic. I just knew I was going to get lost every time I left my dorm.

Luckily, my residence hall was the one building I wasn’t worried about finding. I’d spent hours in the summer at the library in Omaha’s community college, going online, and studying the directions to the campus to ensure that I could, if nothing else, find the parking lot and my dorm on my first day here.

So, I followed the little path that ran to the left of the parking lot, the one I had studied and knew would lead me right to the front door of the dormitory that would become my new home.

As I approached the dorm, I looked around at the other students moving in. All of them were flanked by family members, presumably parents and siblings. Most of them greeted each other like old friends, which of course they were.

It was sophomore move in-day, and I was a sophomore moving in just like everyone else. The only difference was that I was a transfer student. It wasn’t the first day of my second year; it was my first day. I’d spent my freshman year at a community college in Nebraska. Most of the students here knew each other, knew their roommates, and had friends. It was the first day, and I was already the outsider.

I was not unaccustomed about being the outsider, though. I’d been one all my life, a side effect of moving from one relative to another for the past seventeen years — which, of course, leads me to the other difference between myself and everyone else moving in today: I was alone.

I had no parents and no siblings with me today to bring me here and to drop me off, to help me move in and to unpack. My mother died when I was two, and my father wasn’t cut out for the job.

So, I’d done this before, started over, but this time was different. This time, I was starting over on my terms. I wasn’t being passed to an aunt or cousin who didn’t really want me and who I didn’t really want either. This time, I was going where I wanted to be, where I’d worked to be, and when I wanted to be there. This was my decision. This was my dream. For the first time ever, I felt in control of my life.

For the first time ever, I wasn’t starting over. This time, I was actually starting.

****

When I got to the dorm, I had to show identification to get in. The resident assistant looked up my name on a massive list then directed me down two hallways and up one flight of stairs to my room. I thanked her, grabbed the handle of my suitcase on wheels and headed down the first hall.

As I walked down the long hallway past all the open doors, I noticed that the girls' and boys' rooms were jumbled together. A co-ed dorm…that wasn’t something I’d considered.

I travelled down another hallway, and when I got to the stairs, I grabbed the side handle of my suitcase and prepared to lug it up the steps. I picked it up and turned towards the steps when, suddenly, it became significantly lighter.

"Need a hand?" said a friendly voice.

I spun around to where the voice had originated, and there stood a tall, attractive boy — or man, I guess — holding the other end of my suitcase in his hand. He had messy, wavy dark brown hair and olive skin. His eyes were captivating. With his skin tone, I would’ve expected them to be brown, or at least some darker color, but they were light blue, and they were beautiful. The effect was striking; he was quite possibly the most attractive man I had ever seen in real life. And it seemed, on top of all that, he was nice too.

"Oh…um…" I stammered, momentarily taken aback by him, by his beauty. Then, I took a deep breath and finally answered, "Yes, thank you." I smiled at him shyly.

RELEASE DAY: "Heart on a String" by Susan Soares

  

Blurb:
Marissa tells lies.
To herself, about the fact that her brother abandoned her.
To her grandmother, when she says “everything’s fine.”
To the world when she pretends her mother is at home or working late. When she doesn’t tell them her mother is dead.

She doesn’t even question the wisdom of living in a world built on lies anymore—until she meets Brandon. Unlike Marissa, Brandon faces his grief head-on. As their relationship sweetens, Marissa realizes the value of letting someone in and not letting her grief destroy her. But when her past filled with denial catches up with her, Marissa is forced to tell Brandon her darkest secrets, or risk losing him.

The only thing harder than lying about her life? Facing it.

 

About the Author:

Susan Soares lives in a small town in Massachusetts where she balances writing fiction with raising her three daughters. When she’s not writing she can be found reading, experimenting with photography and planning her next Disney World trip.

Susan recently received her master’s degree in Creative Writing and English from Southern New Hampshire University, and will be pursuing teaching soon. You can follow her on twitter: @susansoares1 and on YouTube: shewritesbooks, and on Facebook: Author Susan Soares.

 

 

Now available on

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

 

I held my breath as I ran past the cemetery. Stupid, I know. Regardless, it’s one of those idiotic things that stick with you from your childhood. Like fragments of your being that imprint themselves on your chemical makeup. It was my older brother, Marc, who had told me that once when we were in the backseat of Mom’s old hatchback and were driving past the Sacred Path Cemetery.

Marc poked me in my side. “Quick, hold your breath,” he said before taking in a puff of air and holding it in.

“What? Why?” I looked around from side to side.

He didn’t answer me. Instead he just kept motioning with his hands, pointing out the window, putting his hands around his neck like he was choking or something. Finally, when we turned left onto Harper Street he let out a big exhale.

“Oh man, now you’re toast.” He pointed at me and laughed. That maniacal laugh only older brothers know how to do. I was seven at the time, and Marc was ten. “You probably have a ghost inside you now.” He grinned like a devious villain.

“A ghost?” I said.

“You didn’t hold your breath while we drove past the cemetery. Again I state — you’re toast.” He began drumming on his lap with his hands.

I didn’t comprehend what he was telling me, but I knew I didn’t like it. Tears started forming in my eyes, and I knew I had to rely on my failsafe. “Mooommm,” I cried out, and immediately I felt Marc’s sweaty hand over my mouth.

“Yes, Marissa?” Mom’s sweet voice carried from the front of the car to the backseat.

“She’s fine, Mom. I got it.” Marc’s tone was of the dutiful son. He unclamped his hand from my face. “Listen,” he began, talking kind of slow. “You’ve got to remember this. I’m going to give you a life lesson here. Are you ready?”

His green eyes were sparkling, and I nodded my head in agreement.

“Okay.” He crouched down a bit so he was eye-level with me. “You must always, and I mean always, hold your breath when you drive past a cemetery. And if you’re walking past one, you must run — run and hold your breath until you’re clear. Otherwise, the spirits of the undead could invade your body. And you don’t want that to happen. Do you?” I almost couldn’t tell if the last part was a question or a statement.

“But I didn’t hold my breath back there, and all the times before. What if one’s in me right now?” I began pawing at my body.

Marc threw his head back and laughed. “Nah, you’re fine. Just be careful. Now that you know you have to do it, always do it. Understand?”

Again I shook my head. Marc gave me a thumbs-up, and I begged Mom to take Chester Street instead of Maple because I knew there was a big cemetery on Maple. Luckily she agreed.

So now, here I was ten years later, holding my breath as I ran past Sacred Path Cemetery. While I ran, my new sneakers — the ones I had to work double shifts on Saturdays for three weeks to get — started rubbing the back of my left heel, and I knew I’d have a blister the size of a quarter later on. It’s hard to keep your pace when you’re holding your breath. Luckily Sacred Path Cemetery isn’t that big. Just big enough. It’s just big enough. That’s what my grandmother said anyway. I was almost halfway through when I heard the clicking of the tips of my shoelace on the ground. My thoughts concentrated on what those tip things were called, anything to get my mind off the cemetery. Aglets, I remembered! My aglets were hitting the pavement, and I knew if I didn’t stop and retie that lace, then I would land flat on my face. Grace has never been a character trait of mine. My mother, yes, but not me. Marissa No-Grace McDonald should have been my legal name. How my mother came up with Scranton for my middle name I’ll never know.

The last thing I wanted to happen was to fall face first in front of the cemetery. Complete body invasion for sure then. I couldn’t hold my breath that long. So I did what I had to do. I stopped, turned my face the opposite direction of the cemetery, and took one big breath in and held it. Next, I bent down and furiously retied that lace. Why is it that whenever you try doing something in a rush it never comes out right? Somehow I tied my finger into the knot. Then, I couldn’t get the loops to line up right. Just as I was finally conquering the over-under shoelace tying technique that Marc had taught me when I was five, I heard muffled sounds coming from inside the cemetery. I searched for the source of the sounds. As I looked near the line of big oak trees that lined the right-hand side of the cemetery, I saw the profiles of a family. What I assumed was a family, anyway. There was a woman, about my mom’s age, a guy about my age, and a younger boy, maybe six or seven. The little boy was holding a metallic balloon, which was red and in the shape of a heart. Bright sun caught the corner of it, creating a glare that momentarily impaired my vision. When my eyes refocused, I was suddenly aware of my body and extremely aware of the fact that I was watching this family’s private moment, in the cemetery, in this cemetery. My heart beat frantically, and I became aware that my forehead was covered in perspiration. I stood up, held my breath again, and ran the next half a block without stopping, my aglets clicking against the pavement all the way.