![]() She sighed and leaned out of bed to grope around for the beeping phone. That thought lasted approximately three seconds before curiosity won out. With a sour grunt, she contemplated turning her cell off and catching more shut-eye. ![]() It was one of those immutable commandments of journalism for god’s sake. Only people with a death wish would harass an entertainment reporter before ten on a weekend. She turned to look at her clock radio-some incessantly cheerful red thing-and squinted until the numbers came into view-7:33 a.m. Not quite the worst part of her job, but way up there. All that air-kissing invariably had a downside. ![]() She groaned and twisted only to get a face full of her own hair, which reeked of assorted socialites’ perfumes and industrial-strength hair sprays. ![]() Her cell phone gave a faint beep from somewhere on her hardwood floor. Nothing like waking up to a full-blown head cold with a side of pink boa. Her swollen tongue tasted like glitter, feathers, and faux fur. Lauren King rolled over, coughed miserably, and buried her face in her pillow. My book would be a lesser offering without you all. Thanks go to the enthusiastic and fabulous Astrid at Ylva Publishing for taking a chance on an untried Aussie writer, and to Cheri, Bonnie, and Sheri, who helped me whip my scribblings into shape. ![]() Her patience has been remarkable and her warmth sustains me. ![]()
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