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Informationen zum Autor Emma Harrison has written several YA romances including The Best Girl , Tourist Trap , Snow Queens , and Finding What's Real , as well as many TV and movie adaptations. When Emma is not writing, she loves to bake, work out, read, and watch way too much TV. She lives in New Jersey with her incredibly awesome husband and two perfectly adorable sons. Klappentext To escape her extremely sheltered life, eighteen-year-old Cecilia grabs a chance to strike out on her own in Sweetbriar, Tennessee, where she is transformed by her first job, apartment, and love but always waits for her mother, a U.S. Senator, to find her.Escaping Perfect Chapter One “Senator Montgomery! Senator Montgomery! Roll down the window! Just for a second! Senator Montgomery!” There was a bang and a shout—some photog getting so close to the limo that he tripped and slammed his camera into the side of the car—and so the most hellish part of my day from hell truly began. The rest of the paparazzi crowded around the limousine’s tinted windows as it eased through the wrought-iron gates of the South Palm Memorial Cemetery. They couldn’t see me or my mom and dad, would only go home with pictures of their own cameras’ reflections. But that didn’t stop them. Nothing ever stopped them. Some people made a living just by selling whatever pictures they could get of our family. And now the one unfamous person in my world had died, and of course the photographers were still here, clamoring for shots of the living. Sometimes I really wished their cameras would spontaneously combust in their faces. But only when I was feeling truly pissed at the world. Like now. “Five minutes, Cecilia,” my mother said tersely, glancing up from her tablet to check her Cartier watch. “We have to get this show on the road. I have a briefing at three.” I felt my father’s body go rigid, even with him sitting clear on the other side of the limo. It’s Gigi’s funeral, I thought bitterly. You couldn’t take one day off? What I said was, “Yes, ma’am.” Outside the windows, rows of white and gray headstones stretched into the distance for what seemed like miles. It was all so anonymous. My grandmother didn’t belong here, camouflaged by the dreary sameness. She belonged someplace special. My mom’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t take that tone with your mother.” The great Rebecca Montgomery, aka dear old Mom, loved to refer to herself in the third person. Ever since I was a toddler, it was: Look, Cecilia, Mommy’s on TV! Mommy will only be gone for three weeks, but don’t worry. Miss Jessica will take care of you! No, no! Mommy can’t hug you right now. This suit is couture. Yeah. The word “maternal” was not in her vocabulary. “It’s not as if I can take the time off right now,” she added, reading my mind. “Not when there’s so much work to do.” Of course there was. It was an election year. Nothing was more all-consuming for my mother than an election year. She huffed out a breath and placed the tablet aside, opening a compact to check her perfectly bobbed chestnut-brown hair. “I still don’t understand why we had to fly all the way down here to this godforsaken swamp for her funeral when we have a perfectly beautiful burial plot back in Beacon Hill.” “Because my mother lived here,” my father said, still staring out the window. “She wanted to be buried here. You never gave her anything she wanted in life, Rebecca; you’d think you could at least give her this.” “Oh. So I see everyone’s ganging up on me today.” My mother clicked the compact closed and shoved it back into her black Birkin ba...
