Read more
Informationen zum Autor Beck Anderson is a RITA award-winning author who balances writing novels and screenplays, working full-time as an educator, mothering two pre-teen males, loving one post-40 husband, and making the time to walk the foothills of Boise, Idaho with the suavest Chihuahua north of the border. Visit her on the web at AuthorBeck.com. Klappentext In this modern-day Cinderella story with a charming twist, a young widow with two rambunctious sons falls for a gorgeous movie star. But can she handle life in the limelight? When Kelly Reynolds's husband died two years ago, he left her to raise their two young boys. She's barely pieced herself back together and takes refuge in her routine, running her kids around town and running the trails near their Idaho home. A chance encounter on a trail run brings famous actor Andy Pettigrew into her life. He's clearly interested in her, but Kelly hates risk, and a love affair with Andrew is certainly tempting fate. She doesn't fit into his Hollywood world. She doesn't own a pair of Louboutins, and she couldn't walk five steps in them if she did. Andrew oozes cool. She reeks of dork. Despite this, they click. But Andrew struggles with the pressures of his fame, and Kelly's hold on a so-called normal life is already tenuous. So as much as she wants to indulge the fantasy, she doesn't know how either of them is supposed to cope with stalkerazzi and tweet-happy fans with camera phones. Especially when she and Andrew both have secrets that seem impossible to keep... Leseprobe Fix You The Spaces in Between I don’t know how to describe the time that passes next. Yes, there are stages of grief. Yes, there are plenty of abysses that seem to suck into them any attempt at normalcy. But routine often saves me. When I feel things getting bad, I notice that the house has gotten overly bad too. Toilets need to be scrubbed, and dishes have multiplied while soaking in the sink. If I throw myself a life preserver of chores and errands and rides for the boys, not only does the house start to look better, but I’m able to hang on through the riptides of depression that want to pull me out to sea. This routine cannot, however, help me overlook the necessities prompted by Peter’s death. It is not routine, nor is it a standard household chore, to meet with an attorney to discuss putting things in my name that were in his. There is nothing fathomable or predictable about the way it feels to summarily strip his name off of the title to the car, for instance, or the mortgage to the house. Or to discuss the life insurance policy—the one I tried to talk him out of because we were both so young. I don’t like the way the lawyer says that policy will take care of me and the boys for a good long while. Suddenly we’re comfortable, and it’s because I’ve lost my husband. That’s the worst kind of fortune. It isn’t routine, all of this. What it is, is treason, as far as I’m concerned. It’s an admission that yes, I believe he really is gone for good, and no, I’m not waiting for him to come back. The least I could do for the person who waited for me while I fumbled around for my keys for the nine millionth time in the grocery store parking lot is wait for him. It’s the loyal thing to do. Either that or follow him in a prompt manner. Yet I have no choice but to stay. The other people in the world who rely on me for their basic survival force me to cope with what has happened. That’s actually one comfort: I don’t have any options. I can’t think about doing anything but sticking around, because there are two people who need me to be here, now more than ever. This doesn’t make it any easier, though. Gray days stretch into one another. Months slip th...
