WINNER WINNER "Karen in Ohio" is the winner of a copy of Dessert is the Bomb!!!
Please email catherinebruns@outlook.com with your snail mail address and she'll pop it in the mail to you!
Jenn McKinlay: I thought the book was finished. I'd done days of research on dyslexia, visited Martha's Vineyard, scouted the Oak Bluffs public library, wrote the manuscript, and thought I was ready to hit send. I was not. Something felt off like an outfit that is too tight, too itchy, or too baggy in the butt. So, I asked for more time and I read and reread the manuscript and finally, it hit me. The main characters' names simply didn't work.
So here is a sneak peek at the first meeting of my dyslexic heroine, Samantha Gale, and the hot guy librarian hero, Ben Reynolds:
Chapter One
The ferry from Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard was standing room only. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the passengers were packed as tight as two coats of paint. I had a rowdy group of college kids at my back, which was fine as I’d carved out a spot at the rail near the bow of the ship and was taking in big gulps of salty sea air while counting down the seconds of the forty-five-minute ride.
It was the first time in ten years I’d returned to the Gale family cottage in Oak Bluffs for an extended stay, and I was feeling mostly anxious with a flicker of anticipation. Pre-occupied with the idea of spending the entire summer with my dad, his second wife, and my half brother, I did not hear the commotion at my back until it was almost too late.
“Bruh!” a deep voice yelled.
I turned around to see a gaggle of man boys in matching T-shirts – it took my dyslexic brain a moment to decipher the Greek letters on them to identify them as frat boys – roughhousing behind me.
One of them was noticeably turning a sickly shade of green and his cheeks started to swell. When he began to convulse as if a demon was punching its way up from his stomach, his friends scrambled to get away from him.
I realized with horror that he was going to vomit and the only thing between him and the open sea was me, trapped against the railing. In a panic, I looked for a viable exit. Unfortunately, I was penned in by a stalwart woman with headphones on and a hot guy reading a book. I had a split second to decide who would be easier to move. I went with reader guy, simply because I figured he could at least hear me when I yelled, “Move!”
I was wrong. He didn’t hear me and he didn’t move. In fact, he was so non-responsive, it was like he was on another planet. I gave the man a nudge. He didn’t respond. Desperate, I slapped my hand over the words in his book. He snapped his head in my direction with a peeved expression. Then he looked past me and his eyes went wide. In one motion, he grabbed me and pulled me down and to the side out of the line of fire.
The puker almost made it to the rail. Almost. I heard the hot splat of vomit on the deck behind me and hoped it didn’t land on the backs of my shoes. Mercifully, reader man’s quick thinking shielded me from the worst of it. Frat boy was hanging over the railing and as the vomiting started in earnest, the crowd finally pressed back, way back, and we scuttled out of the blast zone.
My rescuer let go of me and asked, “Are you all right?”
I opened my mouth to answer when the smell hit me. That distinctive stomach curling, nose wrinkling, gag inducing smell that accompanies undigested food and bile. My mouth pooled with saliva and I felt my throat convulse. This was an emergency of epic proportions as I am a sympathy puker. You puke, I puke, we all puke. Truly, if someone hurls near me, it becomes a gastro geyser of Old Faithful proportions. I spun away from the man in a flurry of arms that slapped his book out of his hands and sent it careening toward the ocean.
He let out a yell and made a grab for it. He missed and leaned over the railing, looking as if he was actually contemplating making a dive for it.
I felt terrible and would have apologized but I was too busy holding my fist to my mouth while trying not to lose my breakfast. The egg sandwich I’d had with bacon suddenly seemed like the worst decision ever and it took all of my powers of concentration not to hurl. I tried to breathe through my mouth but the retching sounds frat boy was making were not helping.
“Come on.” Reader guy took my arm and helped me move farther away. I turned my head away in case I was sick. I could feel my stomach heaving and then—
“Ouch! You pinched me!” I cried.
My hero, although that seemed like an overstatement given that he had just inflicted pain upon my person, had nipped the skin on the inside of my elbow with enough force to startle me and make me rub my arm.
“Still feel like throwing up?” he asked.
I paused to assess. The episode had passed. I blinked at him. He was taller than me. Lean with broad shoulders, wavy dark brown hair that reached his collar. He had nice features, arching eyebrows, sculpted cheekbones, and a defined jaw covered in a thin layer of scruff. His eyes were a blue-gray much like the ocean surrounding us. Dressed in a navy sweatshirt, Khaki shorts, and black lace up work boots, he was cute in a buy local sort of way.
He stared at me expectantly, and I realized he’d asked a question and was waiting for an answer. Feeling like an idiot for blatantly checking him out, I attempted to play it off as if I was still wrestling with the urge to upchuck. I raised my hand in a wait gesture and then slowly nodded.
“No, I think I’m okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. Then he smiled at me -- it was a dazzler -- making me forget the horror of the last few minutes. “You tossed my book into the ocean.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. Nervousness and the faint hope that I did not yet lose my breakfast caused me to try and make light of the situation. This was a bad play. “At least it was just a book and not something actually important, but I’ll absolutely buy you a replacement.”
“Not necessary.” He frowned at me and then looked at the sea where the paperback was now polluting the ocean – one more thing for me to feel bad about – and then back at me and said, “I take it you’re not a reader.”
And there it was, the judgmental tone I’d heard my whole life when it became known that I was not a natural born reader. Why were book people always so perplexed by non book people? I mean, it’s not like I wanted to be dyslexic. Naturally, when feeling defensive about my disability, I said the most offensive thing I could think of.
“Books are boring,” I said. Yes, I, Samantha Gale, went there. I knew full well this was likely heresy for this guy, and I was right. His reaction did not disappoint.
His mouth dropped open. His eyes went wide. He blinked. “Don’t hold back. Say what you feel.”
“It’s like this, why would I read a book when I can just stream the movie version, which allows me to use both hands to cram popcorn into my face at the same time?” I asked.
“Because the book is always better than the movie.”
I shook my head. “I disagree. There’s no way the book version of Jaws was better than the movie.”
“Ah!” he yelped. If he’d been wearing pearls, I was sure he’d be clutching them.
When he was about to argue, I cut him off with the duuun-dun duuun-dun duuun-dun dun dun dun from the iconic Jaws theme music, thus, winning the debate.
Words of wisdom from the master:
So, how about it Reds and Readers, do you think the book is always better than the movie? Or are there exceptions?
