Wednesday, March 11, 2015

That Time I Had Words With Taylor Swift (And Plus BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FOOL'S cover!)

ALRIGHT, TSWIFT, WE NEED TO TALK.

SO THERE I AM, MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, PLANNING ON WRITING ONLY TWELVE BEATS IN A BAR BOOKS FOR 2015, AND THEN YOU HAVE THE DAMN NERVE TO RELEASE THE BLANK SPACE MUSIC VIDEO. 

I WATCHED IT EIGHT TIMES IN A ROW THE FIRST DAY. 

AND THIS IDEA THAT I HAD HAD FLOATING AROUND IN MY BRAIN FOR SIX AND A HALF YEARS FINALLY CLICKED INTO PLACE BECAUSE OF YOUR DAMN MUSIC VIDEO. 

EVEN THOUGH I HAVE APPROXIMATELY EIGHT MILLION THINGS TO DO THIS YEAR, I DROPPED EVERYTHING AND WROTE THE BOOK. 

I DID NOT SLEEP.

I DID NOT HUMAN. 

I WROTE THE BOOK EVERY SECOND I HAD. 

AND DAMN YOU, TAYLOR SWIFT, ALL I LISTENED TO WAS BLANK SPACE BECAUSE IT WAS THE ONLY SONG WITH THE RIGHT VIBE.

IT'S TWISTED AND MESSED UP AND HORRIBLE AND WONDERFUL AND IT'S COMING OUT APRIL 29TH. 

THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, TAYLOR SWIFT. ALL. YOUR. FAULT. 

(Except the cover, which the lovely Hafsah designed for me. BUT EVERYTHING ELSE IS YOUR FAULT)



ALL OF IT. 

 Beautiful Little Fool 

Eighty seven billion dollars. 
One dead New York business mogul. 
No heirs. 
No wives. 
No relatives. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
Not hers yet. 
He doesn’t deserve them. 
He doesn’t know what to do with them. 
She does. 
She always has. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
He’s overwhelmed. 
She’s prepared. 
That will should have had her name. 
Not his. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
His looks are a bonus. 
Her looks are her weapon. 
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart. 
He doesn’t know it yet. 
Eighty seven billion dollars. 
She gets everything she wants. 
He’s what she wants. 
Love has nothing to do with it. 
To get to where you’re going, sometimes you need to step on a few people to get there.  
Good thing her heels are sharp.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25004570-beautiful-little-fool 

 Excerpt.. 

Cedar had gotten the phone call at six in the morning, hours before she normally woke up. She was at home, as always, even though she had been out the night before with Lawrence, who was still trying to get her to make things more permanent. And even though he was a Foster-Herrington, he wasn’t worth the trouble that would come along with a relationship. Not to mention he wasn’t nearly good enough in bed to make up for having to date him. 
Her private line rang as she was headed toward her gym. Her private line, a number that only five people had.
“Cedar?”
It was Mr. Morris. Which could only mean one thing, because Mr. Morris never called. Ever.
“No,” Cedar whispered, her voice still hoarse from waking up.
“I’m sorry.”
“Dammit.”
“He passed away fifteen minutes ago. I called you as soon as I could.”
“Dammit.” Cedar clutched the phone tightly. “How could he?”
“I know.”
But he didn’t know, the idiot. How could he?
“He left instructions for a funeral,” Mr. Morris continued, his voice rough from a lack of sleep. He was Harold Feingold’s lawyer, which was more of a full time job than he had ever imagined it would be. The old bastard was dead, and he was still working around the clock. “He wanted you to arrange it.”
“He mentioned it to me,” Cedar said. “Earlier this week.” Dammit, why did he have to die today? Could the timing possibly be more inconvenient than it was now? Harold never gave a shit about inconveniencing others, but neither did Cedar. It was one of the reasons she liked him—genuinely liked him, and didn’t just tolerate her for where she got because of him.
“Excellent. Are you going to be at work today?”
“Of course.” Cedar headed to the gym. There was no point in throwing her schedule off entirely because someone died. 
“I’ll send over the information for the funeral arrangements he wanted you to take care of.” 
“Of course.” Cedar programmed the treadmill and started to walk. 
“I’m sorry for your loss, Cedar,” he said awkwardly.
“I’m sorry for yours,” she replied, and almost meant it. 

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