All truths burn bright and clear. I’m still waiting in the dark.
Everly Monteith has traded her life of glitter, parties, and self-destruction for waitressing at a Parisian café. She’s put the tragedy that sent her across the Atlantic in the past—until her toxic ex shows up and sends her reeling once more. Her fresh start begins slipping away until a smug British war correspondent crashes her party. But falling for Beckett means letting down her guard, something that might pull them both into the dark.
There are beautiful lies in this world, and it takes me being chased through a hallway at a rave to decide this girl is one of them. But even the most beautiful lies aren’t worth chasing.
Twenty-five-year-old Beckett Reid is forced into sabbatical after being kidnapped on assignment in Afghanistan. Back in Paris, he locks himself away to work on a novel, focused on saving his budding journalism career. But when he meets an enigmatic American heiress, his plans are quickly neglected.
Everly is the perfect replacement for dangerous war zones, even if she does leave glitter on everything he owns. Reckless and wild, she runs through life making more mistakes than anyone he’s met, but Beckett is determined to fight for her, even if he must face the messy truth that he must fight for himself first.
*This New Adult romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.*
“You want to get out of here?” I’m not sure why I bother. She doesn’t trust me enough to even share her name. Her shoulders shake in a small shiver, and her feet stop swinging. She breaks our staring match to gaze back out over the city. Around us, life continues. Things move forward. But the two of us are suspended, waiting. “I wonder what it would be like to fly,” she whispers.
She doesn’t say any more, doesn’t answer me. She just throws out a question like that and lets it sink into the darkness between us. Her hands grip the ledge, and she bends forward as if she might push off and test her question, like she believes for a minute she has wings.</ span> She nods toward the street below.
“What would your last thought be if you fell?” Her face is a mask of peacefulness, but I know the truth. I’ve spent too many years reading people. Too many years deflecting other’s opinions of me and my circumstances— the boy with the sad story.
“There wouldn’t be time,” I say. “It’d be over before it even began.” She faces me, the corner of her mouth tipped up in a smug smile. “It wouldn’t have just begun. There’s always more.” Her fingers run through her hair, tussling it until I smell her perfume—pears and vanilla.
“Sure, I’ll go for a walk.” I don’t want to leave with her anymore, but I don’t think I should leave her alone, either. Her question still rings in my mind, and the damnedest thing is I can’t think of an answer.
I pull out my phone to text Ollie that I’m bailing, but she grabs it away. “What are you doing?” My hand flexes as I push down my temper. “Texting a friend.” As I soon as I explain, she shakes her head, a dry laugh pushing over her lips. “Of course.” She waves me off, then hands it back to me.
“Sorry.” Obviously she’s a bit skittish. And untrusting. I should head out without her, but when she looks at me again, I can’t. There’s too much about her I don’t know. She spins around, crouching on her haunches, nothing behind her except a yawning distance between this building and the next. And the street far below. I wait, stuffing my hands into my pockets, fighting back the urge to hand her down from the ledge. She’s not the type to want help. I’m not the type to offer. Usually.
When she swings her legs out to step down, her knees graze the brick. The knobby curve of one beads with blood, her skin scraped raw. She’s quiet, staring at her knee as if she can will it from bleeding. I’m not sure why I do it or why I care, but I step forward and lift up the edge of my T-shirt and press it against her knee, soaking up the blood. She keeps her head tucked down and her hands at her side as I inch closer. My free hand settles by her hip, her hair brushes against my arm.
“What’s your name, pet?” My words are barely a whisper.
Her fingers hover above my hands on her knee. I keep my eyes anchored there as she slowly entwines them with mine. That spark people talk about when two people touch— apparently it’s not a heap of shite because it happens right at that moment and I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know anything. Why I’m here with her. Why we’re not kissing. My name.
It began with a boy who survived a plane crash in the wilderness. I discovered my love of writing during a fifth grade writing assignment for Hatchet. After that, I knew I wanted to be a writer. Always the hopeless romantic, I write late Victorian and Edwardian historical romances as well as contemporary New Adult romances. I am a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), as well as the New Hampshire chapter (NHRWA) and the New England chapter (NECRWA). I contribute regularly to the Modern Belles of History blog, a site dedicated to writing, reading, and researching 20th century women’s historical fiction. When I’m not writing, I’m most likely reading or daydreaming about my next travel adventure. I live in New Hampshire with my husband and our cat, Bella.