Joselyn Vaughn is a feel-good writer. Read one of her books and be prepared to laugh out loud, have a healthy little worry, and wrap it all up with a happily ever after. Her books are perfect summer reads. Luckily for you, she has a new book, Climbing Heartbreak Hill, coming out just in time for the season. In the strange way of serendipity, Climbing Heartbreak Hill features ex-Boston-marathoner, Ryan Grant. Joselyn is not just a writer. She’s a runner as well. And when the Boston Marathon bombing hit a month before her release, Joselyn felt it strike a chord.
Let her tell you…
As a runner writing about running and the Boston Marathon, I have to do whatever I can to
support those injured at this year’s event. I’ve worn race shirts, I’ve run 4.09 miles, I’ve run 26.2 miles (over a few days) for those who didn’t get to finish the race and I wore yellow and blue for the Boston Athletic Association at the River Bank Run. Now I’m asking you for help. A portion of my proceeds from Climbing Heartbreak Hill will go to the One Fund Boston. Every penny and every step counts. Run on!
There you have it…the perfect package. Buy a sweet book and support a sweet cause. Run, don’t walk, to get your copy now. I am.
Blurb: Professional runner, Ryan Grant, blows out his knee training for another attempt at the Boston marathon and the dreaded Heartbreak Hill. Ryan retreats home, not looking for anything more than a fast recovery, but he finds solace in the arms of his tax preparer, Tara Mansfield.
Tara’s cheerleading career ended abruptly and she faces an upward climb beating the stereotype as dumb blonde in her new calling as an accountant. Framed with defrauding the IRS during the last weeks of the tax season, Tara’s tentative confidence is shaken, but Ryan coaches her in ensnaring the true perpetrator. She cheers him on in discovering his identity as a coach rather than an athlete.
With the help of the junkyard king and a mechanical bull, can Tara and Ryan find the courage to climb Heartbreak Hill together?
Excerpt: Tara didn’t let go of the phone after hearing the dial tone. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she call the hospital? Minnie, Mark’s aunt? Leslie’s doctor? Leslie seemed awfully calm for a woman going into labor two months early, but she handled crises stoically. If Tara had been in her position, she would have been hysterical. People three blocks away would be able to time her contractions.
“Mark’s on his way. Can I get you anything?”
Leslie’s lips tightened. “If you have an epidural stashed in your desk, I’ll take it straight up. Although if I have another contraction, I’m going to ask you to knock me out with a volume of the tax code.”
Tara squeezed Leslie’s shoulder. The bell on the front door rang, and Tara scurried down the hallway wondering how Mark was able to arrive so quickly. But it wasn’t Mark.
A lanky, sandy haired man on crutches elbowed his way through the door, alternating between pushing the glass door open and inching his crutches forward. He wore a red windbreaker with ‘Lakeshore Track Club’ embroidered on the chest. Clutched between his left hand and the handle of his crutch was a wad of papers. It wasn’t the worst presentation of receipts she’d seen in the last three months, but it would make the top ten.
She experienced a brief wave of déjà vu. A flash of his face laughing in the dark. Had she seen him before somewhere? His physique didn’t match any of the football players she had been in contact with. Surely the strange bend in his nose would stand out enough in her memory. It gave him a reckless air she found appealing.
“Let me help you with that.” She hurried over to the door and kicked the stopper down to hold it open while she relieved him of the fistful of paper. A quick scan of the parking lot told her Mark’s truck hadn’t arrived yet. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Your sign said walk-ins were welcome.” His voice had a pleasant timbre. Tara didn’t miss the once-over he gave her. She was used to those. It was one of the side-effects of having breast implants not written in the tri-fold brochure from the plastic surgeon: every male and one in three females will stare at your chest. At times, Tara wanted to wear a name-tag that said ‘and yes, they are fake’ under her name.
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