Thursday, 25 October 2018

What’s Love Got To Do With It - blog tour




BLOG TOUR

What’s Love Got to Do With It? - Anna Premoli

About the author

Anna was born in Croatia but moved to Milan as a young child and has lived there since. She has worked in the Asset Management industry for JPMorgan and is now employed in Private Banking for an Italian bank, where she manages HNW positions. She started writing romantic comedies to fight financial markets stress after the Lehman crack, when she was expecting her son, now six. Writing was supposed to be only a hobby, but her husband self-published her first novel as a birthday present four years ago, and it was a great success in Italy.


About the book
Kayla David is a high-flying journalist in New York City, spending all her time drinking martinis and writing about fashion trends. She is perfectly happy with her life, and she certainly has no time for falling in love.

That is, until, her boss decides to send her on a secret mission back to her hometown of Arkansas: she is tasked with exposing the truth about the fracking industry and to use her reputation as a lifestyle columnist as a disguise. She is horrified at the thought of returning to this boring country town, but up for the challenge.

Yet, she didn’t plan on having to deal with Grayson Moir, the sexy but aloof mayor of Heber Spring. As Kayla settles into life there she soon realises that it might be a bit more difficult than she thought to keep her real mission a secret. And what’s more, she finds it increasingly difficult to keep her heart under control too…


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EXTRACT

While I’m trying to study the horizon, I hear someone braking very close to me. Startled, I turn to see a dark pickup truck pulling up behind my car. Before it appeared the dust had almost settled, but now the air’s full of it again, damn it!
“Oh, what the hell!” I can’t help shouting. And my next instinct is to go grab the pepper spray I keep in my bag: you never know how many psychopaths there are roaming the streets these days – especially the dustier ones. And on top of that, I’m a New Yorker, and we’re suspicious of everything. The world is full of serial killers, and given my luck, I might have bumped into one just as soon as I entered this state with its dusty pull-ins.
The door of the pickup opens and out climbs a guy dressed in clothes that have seen better days: his jeans look so old that the pair I’ve got at the back of the closet, and that I considered totally out of fashion, look almost brand new in comparison. He’s also wearing a very dusty black t-shirt, worn boots, sunglasses, and has a cowboy hat on his head.
Is this guy actually wearing a cowboy hat in 2015? Someone should tell him this isn’t Texas. I wouldn’t wear one of those things if they put a gun to my head. My expression is half worried by the possibility that he might be dangerous and half amused at the sight of him – he’s a very different specimen from the city people I’m used to seeing. His tight t-shirt reveals very toned muscles, which makes me think that if he is a serial killer, at least he’s a buff one. Not that it makes the situation any better… Ok, I’ll admit it: it does make it a tiny bit better.
He notices my rigid posture and takes off his hat and glasses as though to reassure me. The sight of his face makes me at least relax my grip on my bag and its contents a little. Maybe I won’t need to use my pepper spray after all.
His dark blond hair is cut very well. It’s short and practical in a way that suits his face perfectly. But there is nothing at all practical about those eyes, though: they are light blue and somehow remind me of my friend Amalia’s. I’m guessing a man with eyes as beautiful as those can’t be a psychopath, right?
“Do you need help?” he asks. The man has a deep voice, and I can’t detect any accent. That is a very suspicious trait around these parts. I stand there perplexed for a moment. Should I ask for directions or shouldn’t I? I can’t decide.
He waits for me to say something, but after my prolonged silence adds, “I saw your car parked here and was wondering if you’re having some kind of trouble.” If possible, I’m even more suspicious after those words. I’m not used to strangers stopping on a road to ask me if I need help. That type of thing just doesn’t happen in my city.
“Are you a serial killer?” I ask him seriously.
Instead of taking offence or punching me in the face, he bursts out laughing, showing his perfectly straight teeth. “Do you really think that if I were a serial killer I’d come out and tell you I was?” he asks, visibly amused.
“The world is full of crazy people, and some of them like to terrorise their victims,” I reply.
He shakes his head incredulously. “Do you know what the real problem in this country is?” he says, talking a step towards me.
I instinctively step backwards. “Is it that China owns such a large share of our public debt?” I say, hazarding a guess. It happens to me all the time when I’m stressed: I come out with weird, but strangely intelligent, things. Luckily it doesn’t happen often… He looks at me surprise. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind the answer you were expecting to hear, I get that.
“You’re not from around here,” he says with conviction.
“Why? You mean, because I just mentioned China?” I can’t help smiling.
“No, because you just mentioned ‘public debt’. Nobody from round here would ever do that.”
I know that I usually write about cocktails, or theatre premieres if I’m especially lucky, but they’re not the only things I know about! I smile angelically and avoid adding anything else. It’s always better not to get too friendly with strangers.
“Anyway, what I meant was that the real problem in this country is the number of TV shows that are all about terrorists and serial killers. People get it into their heads that they’re representative of reality and start seeing criminals everywhere,” he explains patiently. I can’t say he’s completely wrong.
“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t belong to either category, right?” I notice that I’m feeling much more relaxed now. This guy is pretty funny, and psychopaths aren’t supposed to be able to hold a conversation and act so comfortable around other people. At least, that’s what I hope.
“I solemnly swear that I’m neither a terrorist nor a serial killer,” he confirms, theatrically putting one hand on his heart. “So, how can I help you?”
He really does have a very cute smile. He’s one of those men who I find it really hard to keep my breathing normal around. I need to force myself to stop staring at him the way an alcoholic would stare at a bottle of good whiskey and try and focus back on my actual problem. “I’m not actually sure exactly where I am…” I admit.
“Have you thought of using your navigator?” he says. “They tell me that all modern phones have one.”
Okay, he’s handsome, but that doesn’t give him the right to tease me.
“Of course I did, but you won’t believe what happened to my phone,” I say defensively, crossing my arms across my chest. “Its battery just up and died.”
He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s because you women never put the darn things down. You’re always messaging someone about who knows what…”
“We’re obviously writing about you men – you give us plenty of good material.”
“I’m sure we do.”
“Well, at least we communicate…” I say. He’s definitely touched a raw nerve.
“Sure – and then you end up driving down a completely unknown road with a dead battery.” he concludes.
Touché. This guy is actually pretty annoying.
“Yes, my phone’s battery is dead, but this isn’t a completely unknown road,” I reply, instinctively defending myself. “I was born near here.” I say it before I have time to think about it. I usually don’t admit stuff like that so readily.
“You are from Arkansas?” he says and starts laughing out loud again.
I stare at him angrily. “And what’s so funny about that?”
He stops laughing and looks me up and down from head to toe. “Where should I start? Your shoes, maybe? No sane woman would ever wear heels that high. Certainly nobody from Arkansas.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” I ask in a loud, offended voice while I lift a foot to look at one.
“What colour is that even?” he asks impertinently.
“It’s quite obviously electric blue,” I reply, annoyed at having to point out the obvious.
“That’s what I mean… Is ‘electric blue’ even a colour? And what about your bag?”
I clutch it tightly and start reconsidering using my pepper spray…
“What label is it? Prada? Gucci?” he asks cheerfully.
I’m shocked at the idea that the cowboy in front of me is even aware of the existence of labels like that… It must be some weird side effect of globalisation. It really has turned the world upside down.
“No, it’s a Céline,” I correct him haughtily.
“An electric blue Céline,” he chuckles.
“Of course if I’m wearing electric blue shoes, I should have a bag the same colour! I don’t like weird combinations and haphazard matchings. I’m a purist, one of the few left, when it comes to fashion. Anyway, if you must know, in this case I got the bag first, and then went looking for a pair of shoes to match. And it wasn’t easy to find the right colour!” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. I guess I must have breathed in too much dust and it’s given me brain damage. Either that or it’s the Arkansas air: my body is already missing its dose of metropolitan pollution.
“Chicago?” he asks without specifying what he means.
“No,” I reply.
“Los Angeles?” he asks, trying again.
I open my eyes wide. “Do I look like a Californian to you?” I ask, outraged. “Do I even have a tan?”
“How would I know? Maybe you’re one of those people who never expose their skin to the sun because they don’t want to end up looking older than they really are!”
I guess he’s right, I could be one of those people. But I’m not – I’m just pale-skinned!
“New York,” I reveal before he has time to carry on with his absurd theories.
“Of course!” he laughs. “That was the most obvious choice…”


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