And it's on my TBR pile. Sounds amazing...
A wee note from Nicola...
Hello, and thanks so much for
having To My Muse on your blog today.
If I’m being honest with everyone, the tagline for this book should be,
“Loosely based on a kind of true story!”
Back in March 2017, I pinged
the extremely talented, kind, and tolerant actor Louis Herthum on Twitter and
told him that he’d helped to inspire my new dystopian SF romance novel Degree of Resistance with his
performance in Westworld. This
resulted in a brief but lovely chat, at the end of which I asked if he’d like a
print copy of Degree. To my delight,
he said yes and told me where to send the book. The next day I signed a spandy
new copy to him, packaged it up, and mailed it off, happy as a clam.
Six hours later, I had a
nervous breakdown.
See, since I write romance
novels that tend towards the explicit side of things, sex scenes don’t shock
me. They’re just another part of the plot, and not even the most interesting
part a lot of the time. But I forget that civilians don’t always share that
view, and I had just sent a perfectly nice stranger a book that had some rather
hot (well, no—extremely hot) scenes in it. Worse, I’d told him that he had
inspired the plot. I was belatedly but absolutely convinced that he would put
two and two together and come up with, “Note to self—make sure this pervert
never comes within 50 yards of me.”
Panicking, I called my friend
T. As she tried to talk me down, pointing out that 1) Lou’s a guy, so it was
highly unlikely that 2) he would read a romance novel, even one with heavy SF
themes, and 3) would probably just stick it on a shelf as a nice piece of
egoboo, I was busy coming up with an insane plan—I would fly to LA, break into
his agent’s office, steal back the book, and nobody would be the wiser.
Brilliant! It would work!
Why, yes, I’m a little
neurotic when it comes to my writing, why do you ask?
Needless to say, I was talked
out of this. But after I calmed down I did have to admit that it was a hell of
a funny idea. And when I decided to try writing a contemporary romantic comedy,
it popped back into my head and waved its little hands, saying, “Me! Use me!”
Seeing as I’d already lost some of my sanity and a largish patch of stomach
lining on the concept, I figured why not. To
My Muse is the result.
By the way, this book? No
sex. Lots of comedy and banter between my leads, but no sex. Yes, I’m shocked
as well. But boy, it was a ball to write.
Contemporary Romance,
Romantic Comedy, MF
Word Count: 67,000
Heat Level 2
Published by Belaurient Press
ISBN: 978-0-46-328424-7
BLURB:
Ever do something really,
really dumb?
When too much
tequila and an enabling BFF put Lily Nayar's romance novel Feast of Lovers
into the hands of its inspiration, sexy British actor Tom Morrison, Lily is
horrified. Now she's determined to get her book back, even if that means
breaking into Tom's hotel room to do it.
With the help of a strategic
lie and a charismatic knight, Lily's screwball plan catapults her into the
middle of her very own Cinderella story, Hollywood style. But will a vengeful
actress ruin Lily's shot at a real life HEA with Tom?
BUY LINKS:
EXCERPT
Giving Theresa a thumbs up, I
closed the door and turned my attention to the hotel room. It had already been
cleaned and the bed was neatly made. A suitcase sat on the valet stand next to
the TV, and the dresser and desk held various pieces of paper, notes, and a
couple of plastic shopping bags, all the usual stuff when you’re stuck in a
hotel room for a couple of weeks.
Of course, the fangirl part
of my brain was screeching like a gibbon at me that I was in Tom Morrison’s
hotel room. He’d slept in that very bed last night. Sat at that desk to check
his email and Facebook. Took a dump behind the closed door of what I assumed
was the bathroom. The prosaic nature of that last bit helped me regain some
self-control, and I tiptoed (why, I don’t know, I’m an idiot) over to the desk.
There was what looked like a script for GearShifter on it, as well as a
MacBook Pro, but no Feast of Lovers. Bad Tom, no leaving your expensive
computer equipment out where people can steal it.
I wanted to leaf through the
script so badly, but I ignored it and kept looking for Feast. Not on the
desk top, not on the dresser, not on the TV. I was starting to worry that he’d
taken it with him to the location when I noticed the suitcase. I truly,
honestly hated the idea of going through his personal stuff, but he might have
stuck it in there. I could just lift the lid, take a peek, maybe it was in
plain sight—
I had the lid in hand when
the bathroom door swung open and a tall, beautiful blonde in a towel strutted
out. “I thought I heard you—” she purred, before she saw me. Both face and tone
iced over. “Who the hell are you?”
I let out a noise that could
have been used as a sound effect for a creaking vault door. The blonde stalked
closer, looming over me. Up close, I could see some fine lines around her eyes,
but she was still ridiculously gorgeous. “What are you doing here?” she
snapped.
Oh. Oh, shit. My brain
informed me that I was currently sharing a room with Claudine Ellery, the
actress playing Tom’s antagonist/love interest on the show. What the hell was
she doing in his bathroom? Were they dating in real life? Why was I asking
stupid questions when I should be turning and running for my freaking life?
And then Fate decided that
she needed an even bigger chuckle because the room door opened and Tom Morrison
walked in. I caught a glimpse of an apologetic Theresa hovering in the hallway
before she was eclipsed by Tom, who was staring at Claudine and me.
Oh, God. He was even better
looking in person. Not all actors are, but Tom—he was edible. Curly
black hair, eyes the color of dark chocolate, and lips that I’d wanted to kiss
since the first time I saw him on screen. With faded jeans that fit him
perfectly, a dusty white button-down with rolled up sleeves, just the right
amount of chest hair peeping out of his collar, and the cutest smudge of dust
across one laser-sharp cheekbone, he was every one of my fantasies come to
warm, tall life right in front of me.
And I had broken into his
hotel room.
That was it. I was going to
jail, assuming that the cops didn’t just see “brown person” and shoot me when
they got here. At the very least I’d get fired from Golden State. Mom and Dad
would disown me, Dada and Dadi would die of shame, and Derek would probably
take out an ad in the LA Times saying that I was adopted. My only hope
was that Theresa had gotten the hell out of here. There was no reason for both
of us to go down for my stupidity—
“Lilian, darling, what are
you doing here?”
My brain skidded to a halt.
Words had come out of Tom Morrison’s mouth. Friendly words. While he was
staring directly at me. Looking, if I may say so, as if he was talking to
someone he knew. Which he didn’t, because I may not have remembered sending him
my book but I would definitely remember meeting him.
“Um. Hi?” I waved weakly.
“I thought you decided not to
come out this weekend.” He crossed to me, slipping an arm around my shoulders
as he stared at Claudine. He squeezed my shoulder once, kind of hard, then did
it again.
Even with my brain in fangirl
vapor lock I can take a hint. I had no idea how he knew who I was, but he
wanted me to play along. Plastering a grin on my face, I slipped my arm around
his waist and squeezed back. His torso felt like warm rock, and he smelled so
good.
“Well, I figured I needed a
road trip,” I extemporized, giving him a bright smile. “And I didn’t think
you’d mind.”
“Not at all, angel,” he
purred. Up close, I could see a hint of relief in his eyes. It disappeared as
he turned to Claudine. “Claud, why are you in my room wearing a towel?” he
asked politely.
She planted hands on slim
hips, cocking her head to the side. “Seriously? You have to ask why?”
“Yes, because if I remember
correctly, I told you that I had no interest in going to bed with you. In fact,
I’m quite sure I informed you of this on numerous occasions. And when I walk
into my hotel room and see you wearing nothing but terrycloth while my
girlfriend,” this time his squeeze was gentle, “is standing there looking
gobsmacked, I have to wonder what the actual fuck you’re up to.”
My face went rigid as it
tried to hold onto my smile. Girlfriend? Eeeeeeeee…
BIO
Nicola Cameron is
an expatriate Chicagoan who has lived in England, Canada, Holland, and Sweden,
and keeps a confusing amalgamation of languages in her head as a result.
Currently located in the clavicle of Texas, she has finally mastered the proper
use of "y'all," much to her Chicago family's dismay.
Despite a healthy
interest in romance and sex since puberty, it wasn't until 2012 that Nicola
decided to try writing about it. As it turned out, the skills she picked up
during her SF writing career transferred rather nicely to speculative romance.
When not writing, she wrangles cats, smooches her husband, makes dolls of dubious
and questionable identity, and thanks almighty Cthulhu that she doesn’t have to
work for a major telecommunications company any more (because there’s BDSM, and
then there’s just plain torture...).
Happy Reading,
love Raven x
