Entry Nickname: Attempting Average
Title: Love and Fat-Free Cheese
Word Count: 68,000
Genre: Romantic Suspense
With her love of ice cream and disdain for yoga, Juliet Easton seems like an average twenty-three-year-old woman. Seemingly average, because no one knows about her involvement in the disappearance of her sister’s fiancé two years ago.
Now, with a new job, a doting boyfriend, an irresistibly handsome boss, and a jealous, diamond-covered rival, it seems she can move on. However, hopes of putting her past behind her are dashed when she walks through her front door to find the missing fiancé sitting on her couch.
His arrival and the chaos that ensues prove that someone close to her can’t be trusted. Is her boyfriend only pretending to care for her to discover her family’s secrets? Is her boss, with his ambiguous past and financial trouble, somehow involved? In order to protect herself and her family from the choices they made two years ago, she must figure out who’s betraying her and on whom she can rely. As she’s forced to trust one of them, she hopes happiness is found when caution is lost.
First 250 Words:
I thought yoga was supposed to make me feel tranquil, peaceful, and sculpt my legs into those of a Greek goddess. However, as I strain every muscle in my body in an effort to do this Downward-Facing Dog pose, I feel anything but calm or goddess-like. I guess it is clearing my mind. For the last three minutes, I’ve been too focused on the intense physical pain that this relaxing exercise is causing me to think about how nervous I am to step foot inside The Bradley Corporation.
“Breathe. Remember to breathe,” the instructor sporting head-to-toe spandex sings out as she demonstrates a One-Legged King Pigeon. Where do the names of these poses come from? I already feel ridiculous as I try these positions. I’m turning purple, gasping for breath, shaking profusely, and have sweat pouring down my face, but to top it off, I’m being referred to as a boat, camel, cow-face, plow, and now a one-legged king pigeon.
I want to scream out that I can’t breathe when trying to touch my feet to my head. Instead I slip in a giant puddle of sweat. I flop down on my mat, ignoring the angry look from the woman next to me. Her shirt bejeweled with the word “Enlightened” is contradicted by her furrowed eyebrows. Closing my eyes, I picture myself inside The Bradley Corporation meeting a man whom I know nothing about. I do have his name and office number written on a paper in my purse, Owen Denny, 9B.