There’s one thing I find really frustrating about blogging and that it that I simply don’t have time to read all the books I’d like to. Once again my 900+ TBR has prevented me reading Who’s That Girl by Celia Hayes and I think it looks such an entertaining read.
However, at least I can take part in the launch celebrations for Who’s That Girl. I am delighted to have an extract to share with you today.
Who’s That Girl
Sam Preston appears to be living the glamorous life of a journalist at the San Francisco Chronicle…
If only that was the case… in reality, she’s frustratingly single, stuck living in her parents’ house, and oh yeah, in love with her boss, Dave, who barely knows that she exists…
Life seems like it will never change… until the day Sam is put on an assignment with Dave, reporting on the San Francisco Fashion Week. She hopes this might be a turning point in their relationship…
But things never go to plan and practically overnight, Sam becomes an accidental contestant in the Beautiful Curvy pageant and life suddenly becomes very complicated.
How will she manage her new rise to stardom, her job, and her sudden irresistibility to not only Dave, but a new man on the scene?
An Extract from Who’s That Girl
The handle turns, the hinges creak. Here we go.
I check the time: it’s half past ten. He’s punctual, as always.
I lean over the edge of my cubicle to see and almost stop breathing. If my hay fever doesn’t get me first, this unmanageable emotional incontinence of mine – the result of youthful overindulgence in Jane Austen and Lassie Come Home – is going to be the end of me.
In the meantime, I see him approaching from the opposite side of the newsroom office. It’s Dave, the walking proof of the existence of God – a God who loves ties with a Windsor knot.
He is thirty-six years old, has brown hair, green eyes and a smile that could give you a heart attack. He’s my personal standard when judging men, who I file under the categories ‘absolutely not Dave’, ‘a bit Dave’, ‘very Dave’ and ‘totally Dave’. Nobody reaches the standard of perfection of the original Dave Callaghan, though, and if there was any justice at all in the world, he would be the only possible father of my children.
Unaware of my slightly improper thoughts, The Chronicle’s vice editor takes his jacket off nonchalantly and asks Jane, the editorial secretary, to hand him his black planner. Jane has recently been upgraded to coffee bringer and chief excuse maker for any appointment he forgets.
They talk to each other for a while, mainly about work and his schedule, and she fills him in on the latest news from the Civic Centre and about the people he should talk to. Halfway through, though, their ability to co-exist in the same space runs out and they part ways. She goes back to organising the administrative office’s mail and Dave takes cover in his office, checking the notes about the meetings he has scheduled with an expression of concentration on his face.
As undignified as it is to admit it, I hold my breath until I hear him slamming the door behind me and only then, when I’m sure he can’t see me, do my cheeks regain some colour. All of which my nosy colleague seems to find absolutely hilarious.
“Not a word,” I say menacingly.
“Do you need a tissue?” she asks mockingly, perching on the edge of my desk. “You’ve got some drool dripping off your chin.”
“You’re not funny.”
“You do realise that you have no chance at all with him, right?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly aware of my situation,” I admit, “but I started hoping again after I saw Hugh Jackman’s wife. If a woman like her can net herself someone like the Wolverine, surely I can aim for a deputy editor from San Francisco.”
“Yeah, sure…” she replies sceptically.
I’m about to reply when Terry interrupts me abruptly, putting her hand over my mouth.
“Suspicious movements at twelve o’clock.”
“What?” I ask looking around.
“Shut up! He’s coming!” she warns me, picking up a random document from the pile on my desk to give the impression of being too busy to notice him.
“Who? What are you talking about?” I ask. I start hysterically fiddling with the folders too, almost sending the whole lot crashing to the floor. “You mean it’s him?”
“Yes, he’s here, hurry up!” she murmurs, pretending to read the file she’s holding.
“Oh, God, what should I do?”
“Dammit, Sam, just pick something up!” she mutters, sticking a memo into my hands. It’s the notice Jane sent me yesterday about the new time for this morning’s meeting. When Dave finally reaches my cubicle, Terry is completely absorbed in my shopping list and I am correcting imaginary mistakes on a memo I should have thrown away hours ago.
“Sam, may I have a word?” he asks, leaning over the dividing wall.
“Oh, good morning,” I greet him, pretending not to have noticed his arrival earlier. “Sure – what can I do for you?”
He gives me a smile which has an effect on me like hard drugs: it kills me very slowly and even though I am well aware of the damage it’s doing me, I don’t put up any resistance – I’m absolutely incapable of stopping my tormenter.
About Celia Hayes
Celia Hayes works as a restorer and lives in Naples. Between one restoration and another, she loves to write. Her novel Don’t Marry Thomas Clark reached number one in the Amazon Italian Ebook chart.
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