Find Her, Keep Her: A Martha’s Vineyard Love Story (Love in the USA, Book 1)

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The LOVE in the USA Series is COMPLETE.

 Twelve Modern Romances filled with
FAMILY, FRIENDS, LOVE and FOREVER.  

 

Book one, Find Her, Keep Her: A Martha’s Vineyard Love Story, features Daisy Blanchard and Belmont (Jack) Lord.

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Description:

It was one intense week in late October. I probably should’ve slowed our pace but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I had just learned my boyfriend and best friend were engaged via a Facebook post, which left me heartbroken and wrestling with ghosts from my past.

But Belmont Lord was so convincing and uninhibited, unlike myself. He also had demons of his own. We threw caution to the wind. Could fate had picked a more perfect time and place for two people to meet?

Yes, it was one steamy steamy and surprising week, but was it long enough to make us last forever?

 

Book Excerpt:

 

MY EYES ACHE.

Ever since Wednesday of last week, they’ve been stuck in two modes: weeping or sleeping.

The reason why?

Well, my best friend became engaged to my boyfriend.

Apparently it happened while he and I were on a break. But it doesn’t stop there. I heard about the blissful event through Maya’s, the best friend in the equation, Facebook status update. As soon as I fully absorbed the news, I typed, “You snake,” cursed new technology, and slammed my laptop shut. I climbed into bed, and that’s when the waterworks began.

It’s a blur how I got from there to here, a quiet table for one at the Day Harbor Café in Edgartown, Massachusetts, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard.

Let’s see…

Early yesterday morning, I rolled out of bed and slogged to my home office. After sleeping away seven consecutive days, it was time to at least check email. I wasn’t recovered enough to check my voicemail and hear any voice besides the one in my head constantly moaning, why me?

Each message was more of the same.

I heard…

Call me.

What a bitch…

What a dick…

Are you alive? I’m coming over.

Your phone is off. Turn it on, and call me back.

I knocked. No answer. Are you in town?

And then there was one from the perpetrator herself. Daisy, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We should talk, don’t you think? 

I deleted that one.

I decided to not open another email. I couldn’t take all the “poor you” sympathy. I skimmed the senders and subjects of the remaining four hundred until I landed on one from Dusty Burrows of Golden Destinations magazine. It was a reply to an article I’d pitched over a year ago. Part of me was afraid to open it because I didn’t want to suffer another rejection. But then I thought, At least it isn’t pity. So I clicked on it. There, in black and white, was my justification for escaping.

I’m a travel writer, and Martha’s Vineyard was one of the few islands in the United States I had never visited–for pleasure or business. It wasn’t because I lacked the urge to jet out and explore it. Another island or city or majestic countryside always took precedence. Funny, I had been thinking about contacting Golden Destinations to follow up on my query before all hell broke loose. That message from Dusty Burrows was a gift from God.

Dear Daisy,

I apologize for the tardiness of my reply.

We are fans of your “Stumble Through In a Taxi” series and would like to host an article of yours in next year’s spring issue.

We would like to offer you the feature story. Please respond ASAP so that we can discuss this further.

Regards,

DB

Needless to say, I accepted the offer, even if I felt a certain way about it. I had pitched the idea to them before finding a tiny amount of acclaim. I really needed the money back then. Politely declining their offer would’ve been nice, since they only wanted to capitalize off my budding popularity. However, I let my instincts convince me that Martha’s Vineyard was where I’m supposed to be. Preliminary research revealed that the island had plenty of beaches, some with high cliffs—just in case I wanted to jump off one—and early November is still a good time of the year to visit weather-wise. The temperature is nice and warm, and the ocean still offers a pleasant swim.

So now I’m sitting in front of a blank screen, alone at a table in a classic New England-style café. The moment the ferry docked, I wiped away my tears, put on my work cap, and decided to block the image my brain had conjured of Maya and Adrian going at it like dogs in heat. I made a vow to stop trying to figure out how in the world they had time to stab me in the back and then fall deeply enough in love to become engaged. Adrian and I broke up only three months ago! And it wasn’t a real breakup. We had dinner. As usual, Adrian indirectly complained that I travel too much for my job, and then he said we needed to take some time apart for a while.

Three months ago!

“You’re going to stab that fork clean through the table.”

I jump in my seat and look up to see who said that. He’s a guy, but my eyes can hardly focus on him, especially since I’m pissed off at the opposite sex.

“Right,” I say and drop my fork. It clinks and bounces on the white marble.

“You came into town yesterday, didn’t you?” he asks.

“What?” I’m frowning and quite irritated he’s speaking to me so casually. Can’t he see my broken heart through my chest?

 

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