Every fangirl has a fantasy . . . what happens when that “if only” dream comes true?
Though she’s a single mom wedged firmly into thirty-something territory, author Kallie Reagan’s devotion to rock star Niles Russell knows no bounds. To pay homage to her muse, Kallie writes a smokin’ hot novel featuring a hero who looks and acts an awful lot like Niles — and a heroine who may or may not have a smattering of herself thrown in for fun.
When Niles learns about the book and surprise-texts Kallie, the two deliciously complicated creatives become fast friends . . . and so much more. But trying to define a relationship that’s laced with closeted skeletons, half-truths, and constant question marks proves harder than making it big. If they’re going to progress from Fangirl Infatuation to The Real Deal, these two need to give each other All Access to the most important place of all: their hearts.
Amazon Link: http://amzn.to/1Yvdy5l
I received a free copy of this book in advance thanks to CLP BLOG TOURS.
I really enjoyed this book I thought the premise of this book was interesting and I have never read anything like this. What would you do if you were obsessed with a band member and write a book about him? And what would you do if that person wanted to start a friendship with you?.
I loved the characters in this novel and I loved the development that they went through from the start of the book to the end of the book and I cant wait to read more about Kallie and Niles relationship in furture books. Nile was a heartthrob and I just loved him.
This book hooked me from the first page all the way till I finished the book I read this in one sitting. A theme in this book is about being honest and about each characters showing the other person their real self. and it also shows us that anything Is possible.
Text Me, Maybe
Ever been on the receiving end of a text from your celebrity crush?
Yeah, neither have I.
At least, I don’t think I have.
I stare at my phone, where all kinds of letters are lined up to make sentences that would normally be pretty benign. But when I see they’re from a number I don’t recognize (with a New York City area code) and they say, “So is it true? Did you write your book about me?” they go from benign to what the hell?! in a hurry.
Because my book was written with someone very specific in mind—as in Niles Russell, the lead singer of my favorite band—and it’s highly unlikely he’s at the opposite end of this texting conversation.
God, Kallie, get a grip. Of course it’s not him. No question this is just a prank and I should definitely ignore it. But, not gonna lie, I kind of have the flutters here. And I’m a little intrigued. So, I take a deep breath and type, “?? Who is this?” and hit send.
Oh, God. Did I just do that? Seriously, why am I engaging with someone who A) seems to know they’re talking to someone who wrote a book and B) also seems to know said book was inspired by someone real? I must be a special kind of crazy. I roll my eyes at myself and toss my phone back on the coffee table.
An instant later, my mystery texter’s response comes in.
“You’ve written books about other people?” it says, complete with a winky face.
Uh, no. No, I have not.
I shake my head and laugh because, duh, I get it now. This is obviously Sara, my “best friend,” clearly taking pleasure in messing with my head. She knows that even though I’m wedged firmly into thirty-something territory, I become a complete and utter fangirl whenever I talk, think, or speak about Niles. Sara’s a total goofball and she must be bored, so, hey, why not borrow someone’s phone and pretend to be Niles, just to blow my mind? Awesome.
“Sure, I’ve written tons of them,” I respond.
Let’s see how long she’ll play this out before coming clean. Hopefully not long. I have laundry to do.
“Aw, then I’m sad. Thought I was the only one.” Another winky face. “Saw a lot of myself in the Nash character and was kinda flattered. Just wanted to let you know.”
My eyebrows pop up and I look around to be sure there isn’t a hidden camera somewhere, capturing this terrible joke. She’s starting to be a little convincing, which is honestly kind of mean. You know what I would give to hear from the real Niles? I sigh and, against my better judgment, keep playing along.
“Okay, you got me. Now send me a plane ticket so I can come manhandle you and we’ll call it a day.”
Ha! If that doesn’t make her squirm, I don’t know what will.
My phone stays silent for a minute, maybe two. Yep, I got her. She has no idea how to respond.
Bloop. “So . . . about your book . . .”
Oh, okay. This is how it’s going to be? She’s going to keep going? Blerg.
“What about it?”
Sara, more than anybody, knows all about my book—the book that started out as an outlet for the fangirl crush I have on Niles and totally took on a life of its own. When I finished the thing (Shocker #1, because writing a novel is hard and takes a long time!), I reached out to my dream literary agent, who loved my book as much as I did and signed me fairly quickly (Shocker #2). The next thing I knew, she was shopping my novel to some of the biggest publishers in New York City and ultimately secured me a deal that slightly squelched the monetary fears I was having as I navigated my way through the dissolution of my twelve-year marriage (the book deal was Shocker #3; the ending of my marriage was of my own doing).
“It’s creepy,” the mystery texter says. “And awesome. Good job. But weird.”
Okay, that line twists my stomach. Sara doesn’t speak like that. She would never, ever start a sentence with “and” or “but.” And she really wouldn’t do it two times in one text. For a minute, I let myself believe it really is my muse.
Okay, minute over.
“Hey, Sar. You’re super hilarious, but quit playing with me, k? Aren’t you supposed to be heading to dinner with Jack?” Sara is going through a divorce, too, but instead of swearing off men for the next six lifetimes like me, she’s diving right back in with a guy from high school. From high school! Ack!
The next response is instantaneous. “Sara? Uh, nope.” A few seconds pass, then, “It really is me. –NR”
Okay, if my stomach had the flutters after that very first text, it’s hosting an entire community of butterflies, hummingbirds, whatevers after this one. NR. NR. NR. No freaking way! It cannot be Niles Russell! I feel woozy. If this is a game, I am so done with it. My hands shake as my fingers slowly type, “Okay, if you really are NR, then where are you right now? I know . . . but do you?”
This will definitely bust Sara—or whoever is yanking my chain. Niles and his band are on tour right now, not too far away from me. I know this because in five days I am going to see them live. Again. I know every single stop on their tour, and if I somehow can’t remember where they are on a particular day, I dash straight to their website to check. I am like a high schooler who knows every class her crush has, what halls he goes down, the drinking fountain he stops at before each period, everything. If Niles is doing it, I know about it. It’s become like a game.
“Just sound-checked in Chicago. Barely made it in time. They’re starting to let people in. Oops.” Another smiley face.
Whoa. Niles is in Chicago. I was thisclose to going there myself, but chickened out on driving alone. Nobody knows that. Not even Sara.
“Hang on. Sending you a pic.”
As I wait, my stomach flops, my heart races, and my lips hurt from clenching them so tightly together. If this really is Niles, what in the world does he want with me? How would he have gotten my number? Yeah, he was the inspiration behind my book, but it’s not like I actually called him out in there. How would he know? Why would he care?
My phone blips and my shaky hands raise the screen to eye level. The air leaves my lungs as I focus on those funky blue/green/gray eyes that have lured me in during every music video, those lips with the perfect bow, and those super white teeth that are a bit too big for his slender face. This can’t be real.
My eyes travel up to his hair—that telltale floppy brown hair that’s short on the sides and all crazy on top. It is the exact same hair I’ve seen in a million pictures and subsequently fantasized over. I want to reach through the phone to touch it.
He’s not smiling, but he’s also not not smiling. He looks exactly as quirky as I expected him to. I’m smitten all over again.
“See? Told you it was really me.”
I can’t even feel my fingers as they type, “Holy shit,” and then press send.