Blog Tour & Review: Love From Scratch

Book Info:
Love From Scratch by Kaitlyn Hill
Genre: Young Adult Romance
Publishing Date: April 5, 2022

Synopsis:
This summer, Reese Camden is trading sweet tea and Southern hospitality for cold brew and crisp coastal air. She’s landed her dream marketing internship at Friends of Flavor, a wildly popular cooking channel in Seattle. The only problem? Benny Beneventi, the relentlessly charming, backwards-baseball-cap-wearing culinary intern–and her main competition for the fall job.

Reese’s plan to keep work a No Feelings Zone crumbles like a day-old muffin when she and Benny are thrown together for a video shoot that goes viral, making them the internet’s newest ship. Audiences are hungry for more, and their bosses at Friends of Flavor are happy to deliver. Soon Reese and Benny are in an all-out food war, churning homemade ice cream, twisting soft pretzels, breaking eggs in an omelet showdown–while hundreds of thousands of viewers watch.

Reese can’t deny the chemistry between her and Benny. But the more their rivalry heats up, the harder it is to keep love on the back burner…

Before I begin my review I quickly have to thank TBR and Beyond Book Tours for allowing me to be a part of the blog tour for Love From Scratch and for graciously providing me with an ebook to read for my stop today.

Love From Scratch is a debut young adult romance book that is currently out. I think if you have to classify the book I would say it’s the higher end of YA into New Adult.

A fun little fact about me but I love watching any kind of cooking show on the Food Network, especially ones that involve competition. Who doesn’t like to watch chefs battle it out?

This falls right into one of my favorite tropes of enemies/rivals to lovers. This is very PG-rated in the romance department. This was a light fun cute ya romance that I pretty much devoured in a weekend. Even though it was a fun light read I should also mention that there are heavy topics being discussed. It’s really sad that in this day and age that women are struggling in the workplace. Why is there still a double standard there? Why do male bosses act the way they do with women employees? Why are we treated so differently?

The book’s two main characters are Reese (marketing) and Benny (culinary) both are interns for Friends of Flavour. One day at work they are asked to fill in and host a cooking video because the original hosts have to be somewhere else last minute. Unprepared they improvise thinking that it’s a disaster they soon realize it’s a huge hit. Which leads them to have their one show called Amateur Hours.

Amateur Hours starts out all fun but then quickly turns into a competition if either of them wants to land that job position in the fall. It’s not really a fair competition because this is Benny’s domain but that won’t stop Reese from trying her hardest to land this job.

You definitely can feel the chemistry between the two of them as they continue to work together. I have to say I definitely could see this be adapted to a movie that I would definitely watch.

Sadly with the rise of their fame online, the haters come out but they are mostly going after Reese. I felt bad for Reese because she was the target of it and the haters were really mean and nasty towards her. This is where real life comes into play because even though this is fiction it’s happening in real life. Anybody who doesn’t like who you are (the way you look, dress, speak, etc) is quick to become a keyboard warrior hiding behind their screens with made-up names to type nasty things about you. Those nasty comments do hurt the person. If you have nothing nice to say to someone then don’t say anything at all. It’s easier to hide behind the screen and say those nasty things when you know full well that in real life you would never say those things to a person’s face.

I have to say that I really like Benny between his puns and cute nicknames for Reese (I couldn’t help but crave Reese’s peanut butter cups while reading this) you can’t help but not love him. To me, this is my idol kind of guy because he is straightforward and says how he feels. Not many guys are like that. He actually listens to Reese and cares what she has to say.

I am definitely planning on buying a finished copy of the book because I really want to reread this again.

 

Book Links:
GoodReads 

Amazon USA

Barnes and Noble

Book Depository

Chapters Indigo

Indie Bound

About the Author:
Kaitlyn Hill is a writer, reader, and sweet tea enthusiast who believes that all the world is not, in fact, a stage, but a romance novel waiting to happen. Her debut novel Love from Scratch comes out 4/5/22 from Delacorte Press/Penguin Random House.

Kaitlyn has a BA in Sociology/Anthropology and German Studies, which means that she can tell you way too much about the Communist Manifesto in Karl Marx’s mother tongue. Before landing on writing, she worked in roles from city government intern in a small German town to Haunted Mansion Maid at Walt Disney World, and most recently, at her hometown public library.

Aside from books, Kaitlyn’s favorite things are giraffes, ABBA, and excessively long naps. She lives with her real life romance hero in Lexington, Kentucky.


Author Links:

Website: https://thekaitlynhill.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/thekaitlynhill
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thekaitlynhill/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20525224.Kaitlyn_Hill

Tour Schedule:
https://tbrandbeyondtours.com/2022/02/14/tour-sign-up-love-from-scratch-by-kaitlyn-hill/

 

 

Book Blitz: No Cooldown for Love by Aliyah Burke

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No Cooldown for Love
Aliyah Burke
(Entangled: Amara)
Publication date: June 26th 2023
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

From USA Today bestselling author Aliyah Burke comes a playfully sexy romantic-comedy about one room, one bed, and a man who knows how to play…

When ex-pro basketball player Mitchell Anderson sees an overturned car on the edge of a cliff during a nasty snowstorm, he knows he has only minutes to rescue the woman trapped inside. What he’s not expecting is their instant attraction, or that she can deliver one hell of a pick-up line even under the most terrifying of circumstances.

Hope Roman’s entire life is on the edge. She’s already overwhelmed with grief and upset, and nearly dying is pretty much the icing on a terrible, soggy cake. So it’s just her luck that she’s suddenly snowbound at a charming little inn with the hottest, yet down right grumpiest, man she’s ever met. And naturally, there’s only one room left.

Now the pillow barrier between them keeps disappearing. And the walls are coming down. But Hope knows she doesn’t belong in Mitchell’s world any more than he belongs in hers. The question is whether either of them can trust the other long enough to play for keeps…

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EXCERPT:

She migrated in her sleep. Not that he had an issue with it—he’d enjoyed having her in his arms. Stretching, he yawned and burrowed back into the bed, pulling the blankets up to his neck. No rush in getting up, as they weren’t going anywhere. He snuggled up against the wall she’d made and inhaled, drawing in her scent with each slow breath he took.

The door cracked open and he held his breath as Hope poked her head in. Watching her through slitted eyes as she snuck into the room, he had this insane urge to smile like a fool. Even now, she was trying not to disturb him.

“Morning.”

She squealed and jumped, hand slamming against her full chest.

He slowly sat against the headboard and stared at her, eyebrows up. “You sure are jumpy this morning.”

Hand flexing against her chest, she shook her head. “You scared me.”

“I scared you?” Mitchell didn’t take his eyes off her for a second, just stared, wishing the fire burned a bit higher so he could see more of her facial expression.

She propped her hands on her full hips, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “That’s what I said. I don’t scare myself. I was minding my own business when you…” She waved a hand around.

He smirked. “Said ‘morning’?”

Hope gave him a sage nod. “Exactly.”

“I can see how that would’ve been scary,” he said drolly. “Opening my mouth to say one word to you.”

Hope narrowed her eyes at him. “I was trying not to interrupt you.” She cleared her throat. “Wake you.” A deep breath. “Whatever.”

He scratched his stomach through his shirt, not ignoring the way her gaze darted toward the movement. “Interrupt me? That’s intriguing. What exactly were you envisioning me doing in this bed, Hope?” He leaned forward, lips curling up in a full-fledged smile. “And if you were concerned, why not knock on the door? Did you want or hope to catch me doing something in this bed?”

“Sleeping.” Her voice was higher and he wasn’t positive but he felt like she was blushing.

“Oh,” he replied as he tossed the blankets back, sucking in a breath at the difference in temperature outside the bedding. “Sleeping, huh? You wanted to catch me doing what I was doing when you snuck out?” Disbelief smacked hard. And damn it, he enjoyed making her engage with him.

Her gaze drifted to his arms and he flexed one, loving how she nibbled on her lower lip without looking away from him. He’d heard Emma mention to Linc about how his arms were porn-worthy. Did Hope feel that way about his? Something definitely worth finding out, but he thought she did, considering how her eyes continued to drift to his forearms.

“Or whatever.” Heat filled her eyes and he loved that she didn’t drop her gaze.

“Hope,” he said, rising from the bed.

He watched and waited for her to stop staring at his arm.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t have to put the wall back up. I already know you travel when you sleep.” In basketball, traveling was a foul, but in bed, he was all for her doing it again. Tonight.

 

Author Bio:

Aliyah Burke is an avid reader and is never far from pen and paper (or the computer). She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at http://aliyah-burke.com/blog/contact/

She is married to a career military man, they have three Borzoi. Her days are spent sharing her time between work, writing, and dog training/showing.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Newsletter / Twitter

 

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Book Blitz/ One True Love

One True Love
Linda Kage
Publication date: June 6th 2018
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Custom demanded that Prince Urban get a love mark tattooed to the side of his left eye as an infant, just like the rest of his people, but to him, the stupid things have only brought on the scorn of his father, the misery of his siblings, and caused his entire kingdom to go broke from fighting so many wars over the irritating ink stains.

When Urban’s sister must travel to Donnelly, the kingdom within the sand, for her arranged marriage to align two realms, he goes with her. But he no sooner steps foot inside their castle than his mark starts itching like a son of a bitch, telling him his one true love is near.

It just figures, though, that the woman meant for him is completely forbidden. Now he must decide if he should ignore the persistent mark, telling him she’s the one, in order to avoid a possible war between kingdoms, or if he should discover whether she’s worth risking everything for so they can be together. Either way, his life gets sucked into chaos with threats of beheadings, dark magic lurking, castle traitors scheming, and sword fights eminent.

Who knew one little tattoo could cause so much trouble?

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EXCERPT:

What a peculiar place. I couldn’t decide if the entire kingdom was just that naïve or if all this pleasantry was part of the grand trap they were about to spring on us.
Allera sent me a warning glance. “Open minded, remember?”

Making a face, I clutched the sword at my side and nodded before cracking my neck from one side to the other. Open minded. Sure. Until they tried to kill us, anyway.
We came to the gateway that led into the middle bailey, and there, we were instructed by the guards to leave the carriage as we were to separate ourselves from the servants we’d brought with us and walk the rest of the way on foot.

I opened the door and glanced around for danger. Unable to spot any, I reluctantly folded down the steps and hopped to the ground before managing to somehow angle my body so I could assist Allera on her descent and not turn my back to a single guard.

A dignitary whose bangs on his blond hair were clipped far too short stepped forward, bearing a scroll under one arm. My return scowl seemed to disconcert him, making him shy a step back. After fumbling to unroll the scroll with shaking hands, he read us the greeting, then let us know he would lead us to the Throne Room where King Caulder and his brother Prince Brentley were waiting to receive us.

Allera was all smiles and patient nods, thanking the man. I stood stonily at her elbow until we set off after Short Bangs. Wrapping both hands around the front buckle of my sword belt, I strode beside her, back rigid and gaze alert, as I took in the beauty of the palace.

Everything here seemed new and clean. Spotlessly perfect, in fact. I couldn’t find a flaw anywhere in all its excellence.

Which made me itch.

Literally.

I shook my head at the insistent sensation that quite abruptly wouldn’t leave me, and I scratched my temple heartily.

Didn’t help.

When I kept scratching it, Allera shifted closer to me and hissed from the side of her mouth, “What the devil are you doing? Stop that. You’re going to make our entire clan look like deranged lunatics by the way you keep fondling your eye.”

“I can’t help it.” My fingernails raked relentlessly over the spot on the side of my left eye, unable to make the skin stop prickling. “My mark’s itching like a bastard.”

“Well, you know what that means, don’t you?” She sounded irritated. “And I said STOP scratching it already. People are staring.”

In front of us, Short Bangs glanced back curiously. Offering him a tight smile, I dropped my hand back to my belt, and he faced forward again. My smile instantly morphed into a glare, which I shot Allera’s way.

How was it that she still talked down to me as if I were a child? I’d led battles, controlled my own fleet of ships, bedded some of the most beautiful, exotic women in three realms, and gotten the king of Lowden to kneel before me because of my intimidating presence after my army had defeated his. Yet Allera wiped all that prestige away with a single, degrading glance.

Older sisters could suck the man right out of a fellow, I swear.

“What does it mean, oh wise one?” I mocked moodily, winking one eye so it would wrinkle that cheek in an effort to alleviate the sensation without actually touching it. That didn’t help either, dammit. “That I’m allergic to the kingdom of Donnelly? I could’ve told you that.”

I glanced around at the servants who’d stopped working to watch us pass. Even they looked clean and well-clothed. It was just plain weird. And suspicious. Could one kingdom really have this much wealth and good standing with their peasants and be so goddamn welcoming?

“No, you nimrod.” Allera sighed and shook her head. “It means your one true love is near.”

Forgetting about the peculiarity of my surroundings, I stopped walking and swung around to gape at my sister incredulously. “THE HELL YOU SAY!”

 

Author Bio:

Linda is a contemporary romance author from the midwestern USA, where she lives with her wonderful husband, daughter, and nine cuckoo clocks. The eighth and final child of dairy farmers, she was forced into having a vivid imagination if she ever wanted to do something one of her siblings hadn’t already tried. Feel free to visit her at her website: www.LindaKage.com

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Readers Group

 

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Book Blitz/ Scratch

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ScratchCover

 

Scratch by Rhonda Helms 
Published by: Kensington
Publication date: September 30th 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance

Synopsis:

The most painful scars are the ones you never see.

In her DJ booth at a Cleveland dance club, Casey feels a sense of connection that’s
the closest she ever gets to normal. On her college campus, she’s reserved,
practical–all too aware of the disaster that can result when you trust the wrong
person. But inexplicably, Daniel refuses to pay attention to the walls she’s put up.
Like Casey, he’s a senior. In every other way, he’s her opposite.

Sexy, open, effortlessly charming, Daniel is willing to take chances and show his
feelings. For some reason Casey can’t fathom, he’s intent on drawing her out of her
bubble and back into a world that’s messy and unpredictable. He doesn’t know about
the deep scars that pucker her stomach–or the deeper secret behind them. Since the
violent night when everything changed, Casey has never let anyone get close enough
to hurt her again. Now, she might be tempted to try.

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ScratchRhonda

 

Rhonda Helms started writing several years ago and loves writing teen and New Adult
romance. She has a Master's degree in English and a Bachelor's degree in Creative
Writing. She also freelance edits manuscripts.

When she isn't writing, she likes to do amateur photography, dig her toes into the
sand, read for hours at a time, and eat scads of cheese. WAY too much cheese.

Rhonda lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, two kids, a dog and a really loud
cat. Visit her website at http://www.rhondahelmsbooks.com for more information about
her and her releases.

Author links:
http://www.rhondahelmsbooks.com/
https://twitter.com/rhelmsbooks
https://www.facebook.com/rhondahelmsbooks
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5555317.Rhonda_Helms

 

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Miracle Girls #4 Love Will Keep Us Together First Wild Card Tour

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today’s Wild Card authors are:

and the book:

Miracle Girls #4: Love Will Keep Us Together: A Miracle Girls Novel

FaithWords (April 30, 2010)

***Special thanks to Miriam Parker of Hachette Book Group for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Anne Dayton graduated from Princeton and has her MA in Literature from New York University. She lives in New York City. May Vanderbilt graduated from Baylor University and has an MA in Fiction from Johns Hopkins. She lives in San Francisco. Together, they are the authors of the Miracle Girls books, Emily Ever After, Consider Lily, and The Book of Jane.

Visit the authors’ website.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: FaithWords (April 30, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446407585
ISBN-13: 978-0446407588

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The whole world has gone maroon. The bricks are maroon, the dress code is maroon, and even our peppy tour guide’s hair is dyed a deep maroon. –

“Hi, I’m Kiki, and I’m a real student here.” She grins from ear to ear as she walks backward across the giant lawn. “Welcome to the home of the Harvard Crimson.”

Pardon me. The whole world has gone crimson . The parents and prospective students around me press forward, following after our tour guide, but I slowly edge toward the back, hoping the rest of my family doesn’t notice.

The Great McGee Family College Tour is finally winding down, and not a moment too soon. We started off last week at Duke, then drove up to see Johns Hopkins, Penn, Princeton, Columbia, and Yale. This morning we got up early to do MIT, and if I can survive a little longer, we’ll check Harvard off the list and only have Cornell to go. Dad and I talked Mom out of Dartmouth. Way too much snow.

I thought it would be fun to tour colleges, but I didn’t realize everybody was going to ask me the same question again and again: “What do you want to do with your life, Riley?” Or sometimes they stick to, “What’s your passion, Riley?” And I haven’t figured out how to answer them. Somehow, “I have no earthly idea” doesn’t seem to be what they’re looking for.

“We are now entering the famous Harvard Yard.” The group falls silent, almost reverent, and Kiki stops on the other side of the crimson-bricked archway and waits while we file through. As she recaps the history of the university, which involves a bunch of dead white guys—just like every other school, Mom spies me slouching low at the back of the crowd.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I could really see you being happy here, Riley.” I nod because it’s easier than trying to explain. “Did you know the Latin word veritas on the seal”—she holds out a brochure for me—“means truth?” She flips the brochure open and starts paging through photos of students sitting under autumn trees.

I put my pointer finger over my lips, then point at Kiki. Mom nods and jogs back to my brother, Michael, who has Asperger’s syndrome, or high-functioning autism. Mom and Dad have done a ton of work to help him with his social skills, but he’s still prone to legendary meltdowns. After the scene he caused at MIT this morning, she’s been watching him like a hawk.

“This really seems like a good one.” Dad comes up behind me in a sneak attack. I glance across the group and see Michael pulling on Mom’s hand, trying to get over to a statue of a seated man. “These kids seem like your kind of people.”

Dad and I look around the yard at the students hauling mattresses and carrying plastic crates stuffed with junk. A group lounges on the steps of one of the historic buildings, drinking from eco-friendly metal thermoses.

I shrug and pull my short hair into a pathetic ponytail. Not my best look, but it’s sweltering today.

“Do you like it better than Princeton?”

I try to avoid his stare, but he follows my eyes until I give in and focus on him. In the weak afternoon sunlight, I notice that the gray patches at his temples are spreading through his warm brown hair, like two silver streaks down his head.

“I don’t know. Princeton was fine.” Princeton is Ana’s thing, her dream. All I could think about the entire time I was there was, How did she choose this school? How did she know it was for her? Is there a feeling you get? Is it like how I knew about Tom?

Kiki climbs a few steps up to an old brick building and claps excitedly. “Massachusetts Hall is special for two reasons.” She beams at our group and holds up one finger. “First, it’s the oldest building on campus, dating back to 1720.” Everyone in our group oohs, and Mom whispers something to another mother. “And”—Kiki makes eye contact with the prospective students in her pack—“it’s a freshman dorm! Let’s go take a look, shall we?”

We walk in a tight-knit pack up the stairs and down the third-floor hallway. Loud music pours from the rooms, the beats clashing. Finally we stop at a dorm room with two neatly made beds and two tidy desks with crimson folders emblazoned with the Harvard seal. I realize there’s nothing real about this room or this choreographed moment, like almost every moment of every college tour we’ve taken. How am I supposed to get a feel for the campus with these phony experiences?

As Kiki begins explaining dorm security, I slip out of the room and try to collect my thoughts. This is merely a minor case of butterflies, nothing more. I’m sure everybody gets them when touring colleges. I’ll call Ana, and she’ll talk me through this.

I rummage through my purse, searching under all the brochures and school spirit junk until my fingers find my phone’s smooth edges.

Wait, I can’t call Ana. She loved every second of her college tour. When she came back from the East Coast a few weeks ago, she couldn’t stop talking about Princeton’s amazing science labs. Plus, she already knows beyond a shadow of a doubt she wants to be a neonatal surgeon. She had open-heart surgery as a baby and has always felt called to follow the path of the doctors who saved her life.

Zoe would totally get it. I scroll through my contacts, all the way down to Z .

But maybe it isn’t fair to call Zo. Her parents are doing a little better, but money is still tight. She didn’t get to go on a college tour this summer, and I’m not really sure there’s any money put aside for her education. I’d be a jerk to call and complain.

I scroll back up to Christine. She’s headed to New York next year to become a painter. All she’s ever wanted is to get out of Half Moon Bay. We’ve always understood each other in that way.

But as I’m pressing the button for her name, I remember that today is Tyler’s birthday and she was going to surprise him with a scavenger hunt through town.

That leaves one person. I find his name and quickly punch the button. “Pick up, pick up,” I chant quietly. A voice in my head reminds me I shouldn’t be calling my ex-boyfriend, the only guy I ever loved, the one who went off to college and left me behind, but I try to quiet it. All these months I’ve been strong and not e-mailed him, not called him, but I don’t have anyone else right now.

“Hey there.” Tom’s deep voice is a little scratchy, like he just woke up, and it sends a shiver down my spine. The guys at Marina Vista still sound like chipmunks. “How… What’s up?” he asks.

Technically the breakup a few months ago was mutual—technically. I want to talk to him, but it’s just as friends. He’s already gone through the whole college application process, so he’ll help me get my head on straight.

“I hate Harvard.” A woman glares at me as she passes down the hall. I lower my voice. “Well, I don’t hate Harvard—that’s not it. My parents love it, and the teachers all love it. Actually, everybody loves it except me.”

“What are you talking about?” He yawns loudly.

“I’m on my college tour, standing in the hallowed halls of Harvard right now. Well, a dorm hallway anyway.” Two girls pass me, talking loudly. “They want me to go here, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“So don’t apply. You’re not like everybody else.”

I bite my lip. It’s such a Tom thing to say and exactly what I need to hear. After months of not talking, he still knows how to make me feel better. Tom always put the Miracle Girls on edge, but they never got to see this side of him, the big heart hidden inside his chiseled chest.

The noisy tour group pours out of the dorm room, and Kiki ushers them toward the exit at the end of the hall, pointing at some posters on the wall. Mom spots me on the phone and motions for me to rejoin the group.

“It’s funny that you called,” Tom says. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

The tour group files into the stairwell. Dad lingers for a moment, frowning, and then goes with them.

“I’m transferring to UCSF and moving back to San Francisco.”

“What?” I press my finger to my ear, trying to block out the noise in the hall. That can’t be right. I’ve just gotten used to him being in Santa Barbara, which isn’t that far, but far enough for him to feel really and truly gone from my life.

“Santa Barbara wasn’t working out, and now I can live at home and save some cash.”

My heart begins to pound.

“I miss my old friends, you know—crazy blond girls who call me out of the blue and stuff. I miss… talking.”

My pulse drums loudly in my ears.

Mom peeks her head back in the door and widens her eyes at me. “You’re missing everything!”

“I—” I wave at Mom. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you later.” I snap the phone shut before he can respond and chuck it back into my purse. He’s coming back? I lean my head against the wall to keep it from spinning.

“Riley!” Mom plants her hands on her hips.

“Coming.” I jog over to her lingering in the stairwell. I file in at the back of the group and wind down the few flights of stairs with Mom hot on my heels. I can’t think about Tom now. I’ll deal with that later, once I’m back home and I’ve had time to wrap my mind around the fact that he isn’t gone, that his voice almost sounded like it used to before we drifted apart.

We re-enter the Harvard Yard, the sun stinging my eyes, and Kiki yammers on and on about the different types of architecture, pointing out stuff like Doric columns and neoclassical facades.

It’s not that Harvard isn’t beautiful. The campus is historic and hallowed and dripping in ivy, and there’s no question that it’s one of the best colleges in the country. If I went here, I’d get a great education, have opportunities I’d never get anywhere else, and meet all kinds of new, fascinating friends….

My mind flashes to Half Moon Bay, the faces of the Miracle Girls.

I can’t believe that in a year this is going to be my life. This could be my freshman dorm, but looking out over this crowded lawn, I can’t picture it. I try to imagine myself lounging in the courtyard, heading to fascinating lectures, eating in the dining hall, but my brain refuses. The only life I can imagine is at Marina Vista, hanging out with the girls, being close when Michael needs me.

Mom grins at me as Kiki explains how the meal plans work.

They think I want to go to Harvard, but I don’t. They think I’m excited about this, but I’m scared out of my mind. They think they know the real Riley McGee, but even I haven’t met her. They think I have it all figured out, but I’m totally lost.

So much for veritas .

Copyright © 2010 by Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt

copyright 2010, Cindy (Cindy’s Love Of Books)
If you are reading this on a blog or website other than Cindy’s Love Of Books or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Blog Tour & Review: Not Here to Stay Friends

Not Here to Stay Friends by Kaitlyn Hill
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Publishing Date: April 4, 2023

Synopsis:
This friends-to-lovers spin on The Bachelor follows two childhood besties reuniting to spend the summer in L.A. after five years apart—but when they both get involved with a teen reality dating show, their lives take an unexpected turn for the unreal.

Sloane McKinney feels like a background character in her own life. But this summer will be different, because she’s spending it with her childhood best friend, Liam Daniels, in her dream city, Los Angeles. Sure, she’s surprised to find that Liam just happens to have had a Hot Guy glow-up since she last saw him, but so what? A little attraction won’t ruin her plans for their fun—and completely platonic—reunion.

What might, however, is that Liam has been roped into working for his producer dad’s new teen reality dating show, Aspen Woods’s Future Leading Lady. Liam figures Sloane can still hang out with him on set while he fetches coffee for the film crew, or whatever it is that production assistants do. Except it turns out the show is one contestant short . . . and Sloane is the perfect last-minute addition.

Once cameras are rolling, the whirlwind of dating teen heartthrob Aspen Woods feels way more real than Sloane expected, and Liam doesn’t exactly enjoy watching it all unfold. But it’s behind the scenes where the drama really picks up. . . .

Because wanting to kiss your best friend? That’s a plot twist neither Sloane nor Liam ever saw coming.

Book Links:
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57634979-not-here-to-stay-friends
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Here-Stay-Friends-Kaitlyn-Hill/dp/0593483707
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/love-from-scratch-kaitlyn-hill/1139798127
Book Depository: https://www.bookdepository.com/Not-Here-Stay-Friends-Kaitlyn-Hill/9780593483701?
Indigo: https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/not-here-to-stay-friends/9780593483701-item.html
IndieBound: https://bookshop.org/p/books/love-from-scratch-kaitlyn-hill/17287924

Before I begin my review I have to send out a huge thank you to TBR and Beyond Book Tours for being so accommodating this past week with my review/tour dates because Wednesday, Quebec was hit with an ice storm. I was without power since then and just finally getting it back. Granted it wasn’t like the ice storm of 1998 but pretty darn close in my opinion.

Anyways on to my review. I was graciously provided with an Earc of Not Here to Stay Friends by Kaitlyn Hill. I should mention that this is the author’s second book, her debut was Love From Scratch which I read and reviewed roughly this time last year and really enjoyed.

When I heard that this was a fun spin on The Bachelor I had to read it.  I use to be a huge fan of the show. Plus it has my favorite trope of friends to lovers. Don’t we all use to have that friend that we wished was more?

Also, I love reality tv, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine.

The book is about Sloan and Liam, two best friends from childhood. Then Liam’s dad’s production company started to become a success and they move to LA. The two besties made it a point to keep in touch and keep their friendship going. Sloan is excited because she will be spending the summer in LA with Liam. The only thing is that when they finally meet after so many years they are both a little shocked, but in a good way, at how they both have changed since they last saw each other. In a good way, I should add.

Sadly the summer of sightseeing and taking things off her bucket list don’t go quite as planned because Liam tells Sloan he was to work as a PA on the set of his dad’s new reality show and she is a little surprised at who the bachelor is. It’s Aspen their favorite actor.

Just when things couldn’t really get any worse Sloan is roped in to be a contestant on the show because they don’t have enough females to take part. It doesn’t really take much to convince Sloan to do it because Liam’s dad knows Sloan wants to be a screenwriter and he tells her he can help her out.

Speaking of someone else, Liam is really struggling with Sloan being on the show.  He is jealous. He questions himself as to why he is jealous. Could it be because he actually loves Sloan? What will the other do or say when they find out that they are both feeling the same way about each other? Can they take the next step?

I was a little surprised at how quickly I read this. Once I started I couldn’t put the book down. There were many times I was laughing and that is always a good sign.  I really enjoyed it and will definitely continue to read more of Kaitlyn’s books in the future.

 

About the Author:

Kaitlyn Hill is a writer, reader, and sweet tea enthusiast who believes that all the world is not, in fact, a stage, but a romance novel waiting to happen. She is the author of Love from Scratch and Not Here to Stay Friends.

Kaitlyn has a BA in Sociology/Anthropology and German Studies, which means that she can tell you way too much about the Communist Manifesto in Karl Marx’s mother tongue. Before landing on writing, she worked in roles from city government intern in a small German town to Haunted Mansion Maid at Walt Disney World, and most recently, at her hometown public library.

Aside from books, Kaitlyn’s favorite things are giraffes, ABBA, and excessively long naps. She lives with her real life romance hero in Lexington, Kentucky.

 

Author Links:
Website: https://thekaitlynhill.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/thekaitlynhill
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thekaitlynhill/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20525224.Kaitlyn_Hill

Tour Schedule:
https://tbrandbeyondtours.com/2023/02/25/tour-schedule-not-here-to-stay-friends-by-kaitlyn-hill/

Book Blitz: Everything’s Fine by Cecilia Rabess

Everything’s Fine
Cecilia Rabess
Publication date: June 6th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

“Extraordinarily brave…plain funny as hell, too.” —Zakiya Dalila Harris, New York Times bestselling author of The Other Black Girl

“A subtle, ironic, wise, state-of-the-nation novel, sharp enough to draw blood, hidden inside a moving, intimate, sincere and very real love story–or vice versa.” —Nick Hornby

On Jess’s first day at Goldman Sachs, she’s less than thrilled to learn she’ll be on the same team as Josh, her white, conservative sparring partner from college. Josh loves playing the devil’s advocate and is just…the worst.

But when Jess finds herself the sole Black woman on the floor, overlooked and underestimated, it’s Josh who shows up for her in surprising—if imperfect—ways. Before long, an unlikely friendship—one tinged with undeniable chemistry—forms between the two. A friendship that gradually, and then suddenly, turns into an electrifying romance that shocks them both.

Despite their differences, the force of their attraction propels the relationship forward, and Jess begins to question whether it’s more important to be happy than right. But then it’s 2016, and the cultural and political landscape shifts underneath them. And Jess, who is just beginning to discover who she is and who she has the right to be, is forced to ask herself what she’s willing to compromise for love and whether, in fact, everything’s fine.

A stunning debut that introduces Cecilia Rabess as a blazing new talent, Everything’s Fine is a poignant and sharp novel that doesn’t just ask will they, but…should they?

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Chapter 11

Jess’s first day of work, the first day of the rest of her life. Into the elevator and up to the twentieth floor, where the doors open with a little whoosh.

The entire building smells like money.

She receives a small plaque with her name printed in all caps: JESSICA JONES, INVESTMENT BANKING ANALYST. Then mintroductions—the other analysts on the team: Brad and John and Rich and Tom, or maybe it’s Rich and Tom and Brad and John—and also Josh, who Jess remembers from college.

“Hey,” she says, “it’s you!”

He looks up from his desk—he is already installed at a workstation, looking busy and important—but his face is blank.

They had a class together last year and Jess remembers him, because he was the worst.

“Jess?” she offers. “From school?”
He blinks.
“We had a class together?” she tries again. “Supreme Court Topics?”
He just looks at her, saying nothing. Is it possible she has something on her face? “With Smithson? Fall semes—”
“I remember you,” he says. And then promptly swivels in his chair.
Cool, Jess thinks. Nice catching up.
She starts to go.
“You know,” he says, not turning, “I knew you’d been assigned to this desk.”
Jess stops. “Oh, really?”

He nods—the back of his head—“I worked with these guys when I was here last summer. And I graduated off-cycle, so I’ve been back since January.” He pauses. “They asked me about you.”

“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What! Why didn’t you tell them I was amazing?”
“Because,” he says, finally turning to look at her, “I’m not convinced you are amazing.”

The first time Jess met Josh, it was fall of their freshman year. November. The night of the 2008 election. All day the campus had pulsated. History in the making. Around eleven the election was called and Jess emerged stunned and delirious onto the quad, which had erupted into something like a music festival. Students spilled out into the night cheering and hugging. Car horns honked. Someone screamed woot woot and, somewhere, a trombone, brimming with pathos, played a slow scale.

Jess had the feeling she had been shot out of a cannon; she was blinking into the moonlight when a couple of reporters from the school paper stopped her. They were compiling quotes from students on the eve of this historic moment. Did she have a minute to share her feelings, and would she mind if they took her photo? Jess said sure, even though the air was crackling and she wanted to weep.

The reporter’s pencil was poised. “Whenever you’re ready.” What could she possibly say? There were no words.

“I’m just… I’m just… fucking ecstatic! Is this even real? And now I’m probably going to go have, like, thirty shots—no, fifty!—because that’s more patriotic!”

The student reporter looked up from his mini legal pad. “End quote?” “Wait, no! Don’t write that!”
“What do you want to say?”

Jess thought about it, collected herself. Imagined her dad reading her words. Her dad, who she’d spoken to just hours ago, and whose reaction to the early returns—Ohio and Florida were set to break for Obama—was to pour himself another Coke and say: “Well, Jessie, I’ll be darned.”

She started over. “I feel the weight of history tonight. To cast my very first vote for our nation’s very first Black president is such an awesome privilege. A privilege that my ancestors, slaves, did not share. Standing on the shoulders of so much strength and sacrifice, I’ve never felt more humbled or hopeful.”

“That’s great,” the reporter said. “Now just stand over there and we’ll take your shot.”

Jess took a step to the left and watched as the reporter approached another student. A sandy-haired freshman wearing chinos and a collared shirt.

The photographer said to Jess, “Look this way. On the count of three.”

And the reporter said to the boy in business casual, “How are you feeling about the election?”

Jess turned to the camera and smiled.

The guy in chinos turned to the reporter and said, “Everyone seems to forget that we’re in the middle of a financial crisis. The stock market is in free fall. Gas is four dollars a gallon. So I’m not convinced that now is the right time to entrust another tax-and-spend liberal with the economy,” he shrugged, “but I guess I can see the appeal.”

Jess, aghast, turned to give him a dirty look, her smile dropping just as the flash popped.

The next day she was on the front page of the school newspaper under a headline that read STUDENTS REACT TO OBAMA’S HISTORIC WIN.

The picture was good—the angle, the moonlight, her face radiating quiet wonder—and that, plus the gravitas of the moment, made Jess feel like this was something she would show to her children and their children one day.

There was only one problem.

The paper had spoken to ten students, a grid of two-by-two photos and quotes, names and graduation years printed below. But there were only two faces above the fold. There was Jess, but also the guy in the collared shirt, with his terrible quote. Jess’s friends agreed that it was a stupid thing to say. Miky, who lived across the hall, said, “Who pissed in his Cheerios?” And Jess’s roommate, Lydia, peered at the photo and declared: “He looks boring.”

Still, Lydia tacked the paper to the outside of their door. With a marker, she drew a frame of hearts and stars around Jess’s face. But there was no way to accordion the paper so that only her picture appeared. It cut off the text strangely and warped her smile. It was impossible to see Jess without seeing Josh. Eventually Miky took a Sharpie and drew devil ears and a weird mustache across his face, and that was better.

Eventually the tack hardened and the paper fluttered to the floor. At that point it was the spring semester and the hallway had devolved into a persistent, low-grade chaos: crushed pizza boxes, twisted extension cords, a mysterious pair of men’s underwear. And when the cleaning crew cleared out the dormitory between the spring and summer sessions, they swept everything, including that momentous reminder, into the trash.

But until that happened, Jess could return to her room each day and see the newspaper, like a talisman, stuck to her door, emanating strength and inspiration, and when she looked at it, she would think: We are standing at the precipice of a bright new world, hopeful and resolute, knocking on the door of progress, with the conviction of what’s on the other side.

And then she would slide her eyes to the right, to the photo of JOSH HILLYER ’12 and his terrible quote, and she would think: Asshole!

Brad and John and Rich and Tom’s and Josh’s desks are all arranged in a tight semicircle around a dirty carpet in the center of the room. In the bullpen, they are packed like sardines, swimming in pitchbooks and gym bags and coffee cups, so there is no space for Jess.

“We’ve got you over here,” Charles says. He is the most senior associate on the team, and Jess can tell he’s in charge because he wears his tie the loosest and calls everyone by their last name. Even more senior is Blaine, the team’s managing director, but he can’t be bothered to meet her.

Charles leads her to a row of desks along the wall. By now, after the all-day orientation, it’s after five, but the office is still buzzing. Still, the seat that Charles points to and all the ones that surround it are empty. The desks, though, are covered in equipment, telephones and Bloomberg Terminals and digital handsets.

Traders, Jess guesses.

Traders are the first ones in and the first ones out. When the market closes their day is done. Jess feels a tingle of excitement. The traders are loud and potty-mouthed and wear hideous pinstripe suits. The investment bankers, on the other hand, are nasty but

humorless. Jess might have liked to be a trader but had missed the deadline to apply. Maybe this is a sign, an opportunity.

She imagines herself shouting orders into a phone, telling someone to go fuck themselves when she doesn’t like a price.

“So this is where the traders sit?”

Charles blinks. “No, not exactly.”

“Then what’s with all the telephones?”

“Switchboard,” Charles says. “Secretaries and stuff. You know, ‘Goldman Sachs, how may I direct your call?’ Switchboard,” he repeats. “Secretaries.”

“Oh.”
He pauses. “Yeah.”

By the end of her first month, Jess can say How may I direct your call? in four languages and she still hasn’t been assigned any real work. Her back is to the bullpen, but whenever she looks over, the other analysts appear to be chained to their chairs, heads bent over their desks, doing God’s work.

Jess is doing nothing.

It doesn’t help that when the bankers shout for coffee orders or someone to run to the copy shop, they do it in her general direction: a secretary is a secretary, even when she’s actually an analyst.

Just yesterday a harried-looking senior associate asked her to pick up a suit from the dry cleaner’s downstairs.

“Oh, I’m actually an analyst.”
He stared.
“So, I think maybe you should ask one of the admins?”

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, handing her his bright pink ticket. “Look, can you just help me out?”

She said she couldn’t, but then hid in the bathroom for fifteen minutes so that he wouldn’t see she had nothing else to do.

Jess begs Charles for something to do.

She reads an article about women and work. It says: “It is incumbent upon females in male-dominated workplaces to create their own opportunities for development.”

She says to Charles, “It is incumbent upon females in male-dominated workplaces to create their own opportunities for development.”

He squints.

“And so I was hoping you could help me. Create an opportunity? Like, give me something to work on?”

Miky sends Jess a link to a video of Nicolas Cage superimposed on a teenage girl’s body, wearing white panties and a tank top, swinging from a giant cement wrecking ball.

Jess clicks on it.
Charles walks by her desk right then and says, “I see.”
Later, he drops a stack of public information books on her desk. “Jones,” he says, “I need some numbers.”
“Great.”

“Should be pretty straightforward,” he says, flipping through one of the books. “If you log in to the server, you’ll see we’ve already got a template. I just need you to tune the model and run a few different comps. Got it?”

“Got it.” Jess eyes the stack of books. “When do you need this by?”

Charles says, “Yesterday.”

It doesn’t occur to Jess that she has no idea what she’s doing until it’s too late to ask for help. The only person who offers is Josh, though not because he actually wants to help, but because he is her buddy.

On her second day he appeared at her desk.

“Hey, Jess.”

She spun around so that she was face-to-face with his waist. “Josh, hey.”

“I’m your buddy,” he said.

“Excuse me?” she said, to his belt.

“Your buddy,” he said.

She pumped the lever on the side of her chair and dropped three inches in her seat. Her face was still uncomfortably close to his crotch so she stood.

“So what does that mean? You’re my buddy?”

“I’ve been assigned to help you. To answer questions if you have them,” he shrugged. “They try to pair every first-year analyst with a second-year analyst, kind of like a mentor. They picked me for you. Probably because we’re from the same undergrad.”

“But you’re not a second-year analyst.”

“Close enough,” he said. “Anyway, I’m here.” And then he walked away.

Now every night before he leaves, if it’s before she does, he asks if there is anything she needs help with. But he’s always holding his phone and his bag and wearing his jacket, and his corporate badge is already in his pocket, so that Jess can tell he doesn’t mean it. It’s just something to say and, anyway, her desk is right next to the elevator.

Of course she needs help, has questions. How is a debt capacity model different from a credit risk analysis? How does the federal funds rate affect LIBOR? How come her key card doesn’t work at the gym on the first floor?

But he is the last person she wants to ask. She can tell he thinks she’s an idiot, that she doesn’t belong here. She catches him sometimes, looking at her sideways. Interested but unimpressed. Like he’s waiting for her to mess up.

Plus, he’d already made his feelings clear.

That class they’d had together senior year: Supreme Court Topics. Each week they debated a different landmark decision, and someone was always shouting. Or sharing a

pointless personal anecdote. Or invoking the founding fathers to prove a stupid point. Jess hated it, but it fulfilled the undergraduate Law & Society requirement.

They sat around a big wooden table that was meant to foster “active dialogue,” and the discussion was student-led, the format purposefully discursive, so that even if one day, for example, the syllabus said Grutter v. Bollinger: Affirmative Action, they might spend half the class arguing about basketball and standardized tests until someone groaned: “Is anyone else completely bored of this debate?”

It was the guy from Jess’s door, JOSH HILLYER ’12, who cared about the price of gas and hated Barack Obama. Who Jess had managed to avoid since freshman year, but who had reappeared three years later. Still with the newscaster hair and the terrible takes.

Jess had turned and glared. Not because she wasn’t also bored of the debate, but because she knew he was bored for the Wrong Reasons. He’d said what he said on the front page of the school paper, but it wasn’t just that: it was everything about him. His Choate sweatshirt, for example, which made Jess think of lawns and regattas and gin cocktails and haughty blondes. And there was something about his face. It had been there in the school paper, that something, but the effect was more pronounced in real life.

He looked like what a fifth grader might come up with if asked to draw a man, all even lines and uncomplicated symmetry. Square jaw, blue eyes. Like someone to whom life had been incredibly kind. Like a guy from an old sitcom who condescended to his wife.

“It’s 2011,” Josh had argued, “why are we still having this debate? How does throwing open the doors to elite universities fix discrimination? The problem is broken homes and blighted communities. That’s where policy interventions should start. In homes, in neighborhoods, in schools.”

“This is a school,” Jess had pointed out.
“Whatever,” another classmate said. “It’s reverse racism.”
And Jess had said, “If that were a thing!”
Another classmate: “People shouldn’t get into college just because they’re Black.”

“Sure,” Jess replied, “because my college application was just the words ‘I’m Black’ repeated one thousand times.”

Someone else clarified, “I think his point is that we shouldn’t take race into account at all.”

“Exactly. Affirmative action isn’t fair.”

“It’s not meritocratic.”

“It’s not constitutional.”

“It is kind of outrageous that there’s essentially a double standard based on, you know, melanin.”

“What about the double standard for athletes and legacies!” Jess’s heart was pounding; she felt a little wild-eyed. “Isn’t that the outrage?” She searched the room—for what? For someone who might agree with her? That wasn’t going to happen. They would make their dispassionate arguments, and when class was over they would calmly pack their textbooks away and Jess would be the only one who’d felt like she’d been kicked in the teeth repeatedly.

She took a breath. “My point is just that anyone with a squash racquet or a trust fund is automatically exempt from scrutiny. No one’s asking if they’re qualified. Why?”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.” “Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it—!”

The professor cleared his throat. “Let’s bring it back to the case at hand. Was Grutter’s claim valid? Or was the court’s decision, on balance, unconstitutional?”

Jess sighed and sat back.
To her right, Josh leaned close.

He whispered, “Is that really your argument? That legacies and affirmative action are the same thing? I mean… really?”

Jess had ignored him and pretended to pay attention as someone prattled on about why it didn’t make sense for universities to “lower the bar.”

Josh slid his elbows over the table so that his clasped hands rested on Jess’s notebook. So that she could smell the fabric softener on his sleeves. “Come on,” he had said, his voice low. “I don’t believe you believe that.”

Jess had picked up her pen, drawn a series of squiggles and spirals in the upper right corner of her notebook. Avoided eye contact.

“At least you see how it’s a false equivalence, right? You do see that, don’t you?”

All Jess saw was his pale wrists, the titanium watch ticking silently. His father had probably given it to him on his eighteenth birthday. Along with a fifty-year-old bottle of scotch and the passwords to all the brokerage accounts.

Jess didn’t reply.

He leaned closer. “So you really think relaxing admissions standards for ‘underrepresented minorities’?”—here he used air quotes, which confirmed for Jess that, yes, he was the worst—“is an acceptable mechanism by which to achieve”—more air quotes—“?‘equality?’?”

This was why Jess hated Law & Society. It was always the same story: oppressed peoples, willful misrememberings of history, a whiff of white supremacy. Unlike calculus or economics, in which the professor silently scratched out the answers at the front of the lecture hall, and in which there was rarely controversy—unless someone got started on infinity!—in these liberal arts classes people insisted on shouting out their opinions, no matter how unseemly. It was a lot to endure for a couple of college credits. Yet here she was.

And there he was. Breathing. Staring. Forcing her to engage. Emanating smug entitlement. Waiting.

“So you really believe that having a certain skin color is as good as possessing some demonstrable skill or talent?” He shook his head. “Seriously?”

Why couldn’t he just go polish his watch and leave her be?

But he wouldn’t let it go. He kept shaking his head, saying, “I don’t believe you believe that,” until Jess said: “Josh?”

He leaned toward her, expectant, and Jess tugged her notebook from under his wrists. “You’re on my notes.”

He seemed momentarily startled but was undeterred. “You realize you’re essentially arguing that ‘diversity’ matters more than merit.”

She was losing patience. “Well, you’re arguing that swinging a squash racquet is equivalent to four hundred years of slavery and systemic inequality!”

Around the table conversation stopped.

Everyone looked over. It occurred to Jess that she wasn’t exactly whispering, wasn’t even really using her indoor voice anymore.

The professor frowned. “Jess? Did you have something to add?”

This always happened: She got sucked in. When she would rather say nothing, just sit quietly playing number puzzles on her phone under the table.

At the same time she accepted, begrudgingly anyway, that it was her responsibility to Say Something. This Jess had learned from her father, who, throughout her Nebraska childhood, seemed perpetually to be saying something. Demanding that the Walmart manager stock multicultural dolls while Jess stood behind him, mortified. Driving across state lines at Christmas to find the only Black Santa in the Great Plains. Pestering the principal about the lack of books about Black history in the school library.

He was doing his best, Jess knew. Compensating, probably, for the fact that her mom had died when Jess was a baby. But sometimes she wondered why he bothered. Wouldn’t it have been easier to move? Instead of yelling at her teachers for fucking up the Civil War unit? Or buying knockoff Barbies? All she had wanted was to fit in, not to read another children’s biography of Dr. Martin Luther King.

Not to have to whisper-fight with Josh, in his prep school sweatshirt with his newscaster hair; not to have to defend herself, her race, her right to be there.

Later that night, at the bar where everyone went, he tracked her down and dragged her back into the conversation. It was nine o’clock and everyone was drunk. Avenue Tavern had sticky floors and a sign above the door that said FREE BEER TOMORROW. Fifteen dollars and a fake ID bought twenty-five-cent well drinks all night long.

Jess had drunk cranberry vodkas until she ran out of quarters and when the room started spinning she found an empty booth near the bathroom. She had only been there for a minute when she felt a depression in the fabric. A body next to hers. She had opened one eye, cocked her head slightly.

“Jess, right?”—it was him—“Josh,” he introduced himself, formally, sticking out his hand. She ignored it, closed her eyes again, hoping he’d go away.
But he didn’t. She could hear him rattling ice around in his drink.
“So,” he said, “your argument in class today was pretty thin.”

Jess said nothing, slid a little bit lower in her seat.

Josh ignored her ignoring him, pressed on. “As a direct beneficiary of affirmative action I see why you’d want to defend it. I get it, I do. But you can’t really believe, I mean intellectually not emotionally, that relaxing admissions standards is an appropriate mechanism by which to address systemic inequality. Sending kids to schools that they’re not qualified to attend? That’s helping? Besides, it’s completely unenforceable. I mean the real problem with inequality in this country has nothing to do with race, right? It has to do with class. How is it fair that a rich African American kid with mediocre grades and test scores gets preference over some poor kid from Appalachia who’s had even less in life?”

“So, you’re asking me, the expert”—Jess finally opened her eyes—“why we don’t have affirmative action for poor white people?”

He nodded. “I mean that’s fairly reductive, and I sense some sarcasm, but yes, I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“My thoughts are”—she took a sip from her drink, melted ice that tasted of metal—“fuck you.”

He shook his head. “It’s like pulling teeth, trying to have an honest intellectual conversation with anyone at this school.”

“Maybe you’d be happier at Appalachia State.” “Funny,” he said, and got up.
But then he was back.

“Here.” He pushed a glass of water at her and Jess had to make an effort not to say thank you.

“So,” he said, one arm slung over the banquette, “what are you doing next year?” “What?”
“After graduation. I’m working at Goldman Sachs. You?”
“Oh.” Jess shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Really? You don’t have anything lined up?”

Jess shrugged again. “Maybe a nonprofit that does something with kids. Or an art gallery.” That was her roommate Lydia’s plan. Rent an apartment in the West Village or Brownstone Brooklyn and take taxis to her full-time internship at Christie’s in Rockefeller Center.

“A thing with kids? An art gallery?” Josh shook his head. “Those aren’t real jobs.”

“Okay, well, not everyone wants to grow up to be Gordon Gekko, yelling at their secretaries and raiding pension funds just to buy more caviar and purebred dogs. Some of us would actually like to give something back.”

“Give something back? With a forty-thousand dollar salary?” “Funny,” she said, “I didn’t realize everything was about money.”

Jess wanted to believe this more than she actually believed it. Wanted to affect a casual relationship with money. To seem like she could take it or leave it. She didn’t want to seem too hungry. Or desperate. Or striving. None of her friends wanted jobs in finance. They wanted to volunteer, to seek fulfillment, to make art. And why not? They were right. Money didn’t matter.

Unless you didn’t have any.
Or you wanted to be taken seriously.
He raised an eyebrow. “So what, you’re going to pay rent with… IOUs?” “Josh.” She looked at him, exasperated. “Why do you care?”

“I’m curious, that’s all. Is it because that’s what your friends are doing? I thought you were different.”

“Different from what?” “From your friends.”

It was true that in many ways Jess was different from her friends; from Lydia, who had attended a boarding school in the Alps where they broke at noon for cheese and chocolate and whose father was the president of a Swiss bank. Or from Miky, who wasn’t a member of the Korean royal family but who seemed like she could be—she had a way of insisting that she wasn’t that made it seem somehow truer. But they had been friends since freshman year and it rankled Jess to think that her efforts to obscure those differences had failed, and that some guy at a bar, in a pink shirt, would call it out.

“What do you mean different?”

“Not an art gallery girl.”

“I’m sorry.” Jess was taken aback. “Do you know me?”

“Don’t be defensive,” Josh said. “Some of us had to work to get here. Some of us will have to work after we leave. I’m guessing that’s you too.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You think just because I’m Black I’m poor? How enlightened.”

“Well, I mean statistically, that’s the reality. It’s just numbers. But that’s not what I was saying. It’s something else. You seem…” He stopped, searching for the right word.

Involuntarily, Jess leaned toward him. “I seem…?”

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. It whistled, low and melodic, like a whale. “Keen,” he said finally.

Keen? Keen? Jess would have been less offended if he’d told her she smelled like hot garbage.

“Josh?” she pointed across his lap. “Yeah?” he said, but didn’t move.

“I’m leaving.” She pushed past him out of the booth, spilling both of their drinks as she did.

At the bar, Lydia was ordering another round. “Who was that?” she asked, handing Jess a shot. “He’s cute! Are you going to bone?”

Jess tipped her head back and the icy liquid burned. She let a wave of nausea pass through her and then wrinkled her nose. “You don’t recognize him?”

“Should I?”
“He’s the guy from the paper. Freshman year. Devil ears?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“So no, definitely not cute.”
“Hmm.” Lydia made a face.
“What?”
“Just,” Lydia shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know,” Jess said, shaking her head, “and we hate him. He sucks.”
“I’m heading out,” Josh says. “You good?”
And because she is desperate, Jess goes off script: “Actually, I might have a question.” He looks at his watch, “What is it?”
“It’s just this model Charles asked me to do. It’s kind of giving me trouble?”
“You’re not done with that?”
“Not exactly.”

She taps her computer and it hums to life. She hopes to impress, or intimidate, him with complicated numbers and figures that appear on-screen. But he immediately recognizes what she’s doing.

“A precedent transaction analysis?” He leans over Jess, pecks at her keyboard and flips through various documents on her desktop. He narrates each document as he goes: “Discounted cash flow, balance sheet, cost of capital.” He looks at Jess. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.”

He looks at her screen. Toggles back and forth between the various spreadsheets. His face is just inches from hers. He smells like store-brand soap and Altoids. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“That depends on how you define ‘know’ and ‘doing.’?”

“Christ,” he says, wheeling over the chair from the desk next to Jess’s. He sits. “Where are you calculating the discount rate?” He is keying over the cells of Jess’s spreadsheet; his fingers dance over the keyboard like a pianist’s.

“Here.” Jess points to the screen. “This is wrong.”
Jess doesn’t disagree.

“You need to take the weighted average cost of capital”—he picks up a public information book from her desk, pages through it, picks up another and turns to the appendix—“from here”—he points to a number on a page, grabs a yellow marker and highlights it—“and then use that to drive the model assumptions”—he points to the screen—“here. See?”

She nods.

“Here, scoot over.” He rolls his seat toward her and pulls the keyboard into his lap. “Do you know how to set up dynamic named ranges?”

She shakes her head. “Christ.”
But he helps her.

He is a little hostile, but also patient, like a German schoolteacher. And eventually it gets done.

She sends the model to Charles first thing in the morning and immediately receives a response: “Come see me.”

Jess flies over to his desk. He is leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed in a triangle over the other, bouncing a rubber band ball against the corkboard wall. The model is open on his computer.

“You rang?”

He swivels toward her. “What is this?”

“It’s the model you asked for.” Jess stops herself from saying more.

“Calibri?”

“Um.”

“This isn’t a fucking humor magazine. Next time you use Arial. Or Times New Roman if you’re feeling fresh.” He snaps a single rubber band just over her shoulder. “Got it?”

Jess finds Josh in an empty conference room.

“Thanks again for your help last night,” she says.

He ignores her, just keeps scrolling through his phone.

Jess says, “No ‘You’re welcome, Jess’? No ‘Happy to help, Jess’? No ‘Anytime, Jess, what are buddies for’?”

“I had plans,” he says, still staring at his phone.
She is trying to be friendly. To say thank you. But, fine.
“What, did you miss your Young Republicans happy hour or something?” He finally puts his phone down, looks up, raises an eyebrow.

Jess wonders if she’s offended him, wonders if she cares. Implying that someone is a Republican is not an insult, not technically. Especially not at a bank. But he definitely is, Jess is pretty sure. In their Supreme Court class he was always talking about fringy

economic things, like payroll taxes and public debt. Once, she’d run into him at the school bookstore and watched him pay for a pack of gum with a hundred-dollar bill.

“Funny.” He picks up his phone again.

“Well,” Jess says, headed for the door, “for what it’s worth, I do actually appreciate your help.”

Outside, the city is teeming with new college graduates, everyone looking to have a good time. It’s late August, and the hot sticky heart of the summer has passed, so it feels like spring.

It reminds Jess of college, when the entire student body emerged from the gray winter in short shorts and plastic sunglasses and dragged couches out onto front lawns. Sometimes they would cut class, Jess and Miky and Lydia, and sit on a patio drinking sun-warmed beer and spicy margaritas until their heads would spin.

But that’s all over now.
Miky and Lydia make new friends, while Jess is stuck inside.

Their new friends, the Wine Girls, are sunny California optimists with trust funds and tangled hair whose parents grow grapes in the Napa Valley, who believe in free love and acupuncture and private space travel and electric cars.

Jess meets them one night, when she sneaks out of work at a reasonable hour. The bar slash restaurant is dark and loud, and in the heat of the crowd Jess feels nostalgic.

She finds them all sitting at a small table crammed with cocktails and tall glass bottles of sparkling water.

Everyone screams hello and then the Wine Girls shout over the music, “Why are you wearing a suit?”

Jess sits down and shout-explains that she works at Goldman Sachs.
They frown over their cocktails and shout back, “That sucks! Why do you work there?” Silently Miky slides a drink in front of Jess.
The Wine Girls don’t let up. “How can you work there!”

“It’s not that bad,” Jess shrugs.

“Not that bad! Goldman Sachs is the great vampire squid!” the Wine Girls insist, “attached to the face of the economy, sucking it dry!”

A waiter materializes.

“Ooh,” Lydia lights up, “should we order the squid?”

The Wine Girls inform Jess that, given her hundred-hour workweek, she’s essentially making minimum wage, less, probably, than she would slinging burgers at a fast-food place.

This is not true, obviously, and more importantly, working at McDonald’s doesn’t come with the imprimatur of the most powerful and important bank in the world. Or the begrudging respect of people who might otherwise write her off. Or black car rides home every night. But the Wine Girls aren’t completely wrong; Jess kind of hates her job. It’s boring, and no one is nice to her, and all the midweight wool makes her itch. She barely sees her friends, barely sleeps, barely eats anything that doesn’t come in a take-out box. When Lydia asked, Jess complained about life on the front line.

“Lyd, it’s awful. It’s just a bunch of dudes, in suits, doing shit and saying shit. All day. Every day.”

“Well,” Lydia said, “the patriarchy wasn’t dismantled in a day. At least there’s no line for the ladies’ room.”

This was not the case in Lydia’s own office, a boutique auction house, where two-thirds of the employees were women and where the toilet was always clogged with tampons and glitter.

Jess fantasizes constantly about a different job.

Like Lydia’s job at the auction house, which can be demeaning, but has a decidedly glamorous air. Or like the Wine Girls: Callie, who works at a cookie dough startup, and Noree, who works at an eco-first company that makes shoes out of recycled bamboo. Even Miky, who’s an account coordinator for the world’s biggest creative advertising agency, is still home by six every day.

It would be nice: a fake job and a nice apartment and parents who pay the bills.

Instead: student loans, a studio that eats up half her salary, people always and forever looking at her sideways.

Jess’s dad calls.

“Well,” he asks, “are you giving ’em hell?”

She knows what he wants to hear. That she’s showing up early and leaving late; that she’s beating them at their own game. Growing up he’d said it again and again. She needed to be twice as good to get half as much. He was right, she knew, but she resented it. Why did her success have to be predicated on perfection instead of, say, a vague sense that she was someone people would like to have a beer with?

Still, she tries. To keep up, to keep her head down, to make herself useful. Even though she’s not sure anyone notices. And while she’s definitely better than Rich, who graduated from Harvard but still can’t spell Wednesday, it’s not clear that she’s better than Josh, who can do a discounted cash flow with his eyes. She considers telling her dad the truth: that she feels like a baby sometimes, needy and helpless. That she is the only one at a loss, the only one who doesn’t have a strong opinion about The Things That Matter: the price of soybeans, the nuances of Glass-Steagall, the new menu at the University Club.

But she can hear him smiling, waiting, on the other end of the line.
So instead she says, “You bet. I’m great. I’m awesome. Everything’s fine.”

 

Author Bio:

Cecilia Rabess previously worked as a data scientist at Google and as an associate at Goldman Sachs. Her nonfiction has been featured in McSweeneys, FiveThirtyEight, Fast Company, and FlowingData, among other places. Everything’s Fine is her debut novel.

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