Now that I know you are, in fact, getting married in Bora Bora and wish to have Ramen noodles as surprise present for your husband as fun for the wedding, I have released the order and it will ship on time to the desired location.
Congratulate on your marriage and thank you so much for your business.
Sincerely, Sai Mahn Chu, C.H. Manager at Top Lucky Food Orders, China Direct Sales.
Blog Post from Inverse Infinity
We’re proud to announce a new gallery showing this Saturday featuring artist Dylan Thomas. Since quitting his television-host job last year, Mr. Thomas has focused full time on his art. Featured in shows across the USA and even internationally, Mr. Thomas has been making headlines and big sales with his “Infinite Orb” series. Here’s an interview we did with him this week:
II: Great to meet you in person! Can you tell us a little bit about the Infinite Orb series?
DT: Thanks for having me! It’s great to be here. Yes, the Infinite Orbs are a series of glass and metal sculptures that reflect my opinions and ideas about the world around us. Some of them are dark and mysterious, others are light and more fantastic, and some have an angry, jagged appearance. Taken together, they’re my comprehensive view of humanity, I guess you could say.
II: You were a rising star on the TV talk show circuit when you quit to focus on your art. Any regrets?
DT: None. I mean, at first there were worries. Like, am I going to be as successful financially? And, will this be a legitimate long-term career, or am I going to have to scramble in a few years to redefine myself and figure out a way to stay solvent? But once I made the move, I was really content. It’s a chance to do something I love. Not everyone gets that. If there’s a chance to follow your passion, I say do it.
II: So at first you were keeping your artistic side a secret? Why?
DT: You know, for the longest time, I was afraid to announce myself as an artist. I had the job on TV, and I figured I should focus on that separately. I didn’t want to mix the two. I didn’t want my art to see a bump in popularity just because I was on TV, because if that happened, it might affect my ego and my sense of worth, and then when sales inevitably dropped down again, I’d be, you know, sort of devastated. I wanted my art to exist on its own, not like some parasitic creature that fed off my TV fame.
II: So what changed?
DT: Well, once the secret was out, I realized it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. First of all, yes, sales did bump up because of the announcement, and dropped after the excitement wore off. But it wasn’t devastating. It actually was encouraging, because a lot of people reached out to me, and I got far more involved in the artistic community. And now that I’m doing this full time, I’m in it, you know? It’s my thing, and I love it.
II: We heard you recently got engaged. Congratulations!
DT: Thanks. She’s amazing. I’ve ah, actually dedicated my new series to her. She’s like my muse. She inspires me to be more creative and just, you know, having her by my side makes life brighter.
II: Sounds like you’ve made great choices in your career and your personal life!
DT: I absolutely have. Perfect match.
The End
Dear Readers,
Hi! Thank you so much for reading Perfect Match! Writing is one of my passions in life, and it brings me real joy to share my books with you.
There were several things that inspired me to write Perfect Match. I’ve always been intrigued with match-making services, and I wanted to write a book about a woman who falls for a man she can’t have. I also wanted to see what would happen when he fell right back, even though he said he didn’t believe in love. The “adversaries to lovers” trope has always been one of my favorites!
I started working on Perfect Match nearly a year ago. When I was invited to be in a box set, I eagerly finished Perfect Match and polished it for publication in Hot and Sinful Nights on September of 2017. Now that it’s out of the set and on its own, I’m excited to have my very own Dylan on the cover.
Of course, the model on the cover isn’t named Dylan—he’s Jacob Cooley, as shot by the amazing photographer Wander Aguiar. BUT…he looks exactly how I picture Dylan in my mind. So when I saw this picture, I knew I had to have it for my cover!
Thank you for reading, and I hope you loved the dynamic between Fia and Dylan. I enjoy hearing from readers, so please friend me on Facebook, or join my Facebook group, Graffiti Fiction
I know not everyone is a fan of Facebook (like my husband: he hates it & says he’ll never create an account!) so my newsletter is a great way to stay in touch, too.
When readers reply to my newsletters, I always write back.
Thank again and have a wonderful day! Happy reading!
XOXO from Alexis
Alexis Alvarez is an author, photographer, and digital designer who loves writing steamy romances. Her female heroines are always strong, intelligent women who fall for the sexiest guy around…and get the happy-ever-after ending of their dreams.
Alexis is a wife and mom, a former chemical engineer, a dachshund-whisperer—wait, that’s a lie. The dachshund usually does the exact opposite of what he’s told.
Do you like contemporary romance with steam and humor? Darker BDSM/erotica novels with fascinating psychological insights? Alexis has you covered. She writes in both genres.
You can usually find Alexis hanging out with her sisters, who are also romance writers, in their Facebook Group, Graffiti Fiction. The three of them love to drink wine together and laugh like hyenas while making dirty jokes and really inappropriate comments. They have a website which is not always updated here: www.graffitifiction.com
Read More by Alexis Alvarez:
Steamy, Contemporary Romance:
A Handful of Fire
Boston
Dream Girl
Kinky/BDSM Romance:
His Firm Direction
Casey’s Choice
Capturing Kate
Myka and the Millionaire
Return
Sign up for her AMAZING newsletter here.
Alexis always includes funny, interesting articles in her newsletters in addition to book samples, exclusive freebies and contest/giveaways. She’s been told that it’s the best newsletter around!
There are so many people who helped me. My two sisters, Maria Monroe and Adrienne Perry—I love you so hard! “Lemons!” I’m so glad I have you to support me and make me laugh. You are the two best sisters and beta readers in the entire world, and even Simon Chooch agrees. Big Baby.
Kacey Shea—you are my true writing BFF and I honestly could NOT have made it through this without you! OMG. Thank you for being there for all the PM’s, late nights, early mornings, and coffee breaks. XOXO. You are a true gem and I’m grateful to have you! Sometimes having you to talk to was the only thing between me and the abyss of insanity. Thank God we can laugh at the crazy stuff, right? ;)
S., thank you for meeting me for breakfast and lunch and listening to all of my stories! You’re an amazing BFF and I love you. <3
My husband and daughter, who will NEVER READ THIS, I love you. Thank you for putting up with all of it.
Kathryn Nolan, Julia Heudorf, Jodi Duggan, Joyce Hiebert & Leslie McAdam—thank you for being fun and amazing! Your support and love and joy helped me stay happy and positive for this! (Jodi: “Never talk to me or my son ever again.” LOL.)
Maggie Ryan, thank you for the editing! Wander Aguiar, Andrey Bahia & Jacob Cooley—thank you for the gorgeous photograph! Jessica Hildreth, you are a freaking AMAZING cover designer. Stacey Blake, your formatting makes me cry happy tears. XOXO
Elmer’s Tacos: You are a delicious fucker. Thank you for delivering via Door Dash. Please never change your little fat, bulging salsa packets that one needs to cut open with scissors. It’s annoying and charming all at once, and licking the salsa from my fingers reminds me of all the nights I didn’t cook dinner because I had to write.
Even from across the room, I can see that
his eyes are the color of emeralds glowing in the dark. If I thought his lean body was dangerous, if watching his muscles moving under the expensive suit made me catch my breath, the glimpse of his face only increases my attraction. He’s far more attractive in person than even his best pictures on the internet. I find it hard to believe that this is the father of my newest patient—assuming he hires me, of course; Allison explained how he thinks therapy is usually a “complete waste of time.”
He notices my gaze; a beat goes by, our eyes locked, and then he smiles. Does he know who I am yet? I stand straighter in my heels and fluff my red-brown curls with one hand. I know I look good in my blue sheath dress; I’ve been working out. My skin, coffee with a generous dose of cream, shines. Still, the people around him are a world apart in terms of elegance.
“Shai?”
I turn to my boss with a smile, tuning down the images. “Allison. This is amazing.” I gesture, the word amazing no match for the elegance of the charity champagne fundraiser our company, Frazier Pharma, has sponsored.
“Our entire team worked hard to make it happen. Thank you for being part of the effort. Having my therapy team manager here is critical for our fund-raising.” Allison Emercy is perfection in a crimson gown and blond up-do, looking younger than her fifty-two years. With her at the helm, our charity auctions bring in an unprecedented amount of money. This time our pharmaceutical company is raising money for childhood cancer research. It makes the company look good, that’s a given, but it’s something we all believe in.
“It means a lot to me.” Instinctively I touch my silver locket. It’s fancy enough that it matches any outfit, even formal wear, not that I’d care. It’s a reminder of Mani, and I’ll never take it off.
I shoot another look over at him, but he’s not looking anymore; he’s busy with a cluster of elegant people, doctors and rich patrons.
Allison looks over, too. “There’s Gabriel. When he’s free I’ll introduce you. You’re ready, yes?” She raises an eyebrow.
For a second I feel like my heart hangs at the top of a roller coaster, ready to head down, then it bangs into action, staccato. “Yes.” But lusting over a patient’s, well, a potential patient’s father, is not professional.
I keep looking. He’s in his early thirties, like I am—but he’s separated from me by a chasm of wealth and privilege. He’s got a sylph on his arm, a few handsome men around him, and several women hover, coming and going like delicate butterflies around a blazing sun.
I know these things from my internet search mixed with information from Allison: He’s a single father, widowed. One of the richest bachelors in Chicago. A difficult ten-year-old son with emotional issues and a genius I.Q. And, although this shouldn’t matter to the job at hand, I can’t help but notice that he’s breathtakingly handsome.
I remember what Allison told me at our last meeting: “Gabriel Baystock could be one of our biggest donors. He already gave to the cancer research fund, but he’s unsure about the therapy program. He doesn’t think therapy works. His son is recovering from pleuropulmonary blastoma that spread—a good prognosis, but the child is having emotional difficulties. Their surgeon recommended therapy, so Gabriel said he’d try our program, and if it helps Michael, he’ll donate to help it expand. He asked for the best child therapist—that’s you.”
When Allison asked if I could work an extra patient into my schedule and still lead the therapy team, I said, “Yes, of course.” Because she wasn’t really asking.
And how could I say no? I love the sparks of challenge and hope that come with each new child. Taking a little person and helping them replace the rotten broken railings on the hanging bridge of their mind, allowing them to cross from anger and pain to a happier place—that fulfills me.
Beneath the pride and excitement, though, came that additional feeling that I get more often these days, the ever-increasing tone of unease. I pour everything I have into this job. But my batteries are wearing out and I don’t know where to recharge them.
I remember how much it meant to me when I had a therapist help me after the incident, all those years ago, and how I promised myself that I’d devote my life to helping other kids out of their own personal hell. So if I’m running on fumes some days, I just have to figure out how to keep going. I brush my index finger down the thin scar on the side of my face, which is usually hidden by my curls, and bite my lip, trying to push back memories. This isn’t the time, or the place. I need to focus.
A passing couple in their sixties stops to greet Allison. He’s tall and lean; so is she; they both walk with the confidence you see, always, in the best surgeons. The man takes her hands and kisses both cheeks. “Dr. Emercy. It is so good to see you.” He’s got a lovely French accent.
Allison steers me forward with one hand on my shoulder. “This is Shai Bonaventura, my Therapy Outreach manager. We started a new initiative at Frazier, a way to connect with the children in our community who need help beyond the lifesaving medicines we work so hard to provide. Shai has received the Chicago’s Best Therapist Award three years in a row now. It’s a peer-driven award and a high honor.”
I smile and shake hands.
Allison adds, “There are many children who can benefit from behavioral therapy while they undergo treatment and recovery for childhood cancer and other illnesses. Shai heads our new department of therapists. For qualifying families, we will provide free therapy sessions for up to a year. Right now it’s a beta program, and after we prove our success in a limited market, we’re going to expand.” She smiles and the couple smiles back. “Shai, can I leave you with Dr. and Dr. Pelletier, Lucas and Lena, to explain more about our program?”
I take the verbal baton. “Of course.”
After I finish selling our project to the doctors, who promise to donate a sum of money that is double my annual salary, I need a moment alone to recoup. I duck out into the hallway.
There’s art on the walls—I recognize the small rapid brushstrokes of Monet; the bolder, rougher ones of Cezanne. These are originals; I’m sure of it. I regard another picture, one by an artist I don’t recognize. It’s like a photograph, but it’s painted. It’s bleak and beautiful and it tears into me immediately, fierce and sad. It’s raindrops on a window, and a shattered alley outside, the only beauty from the smeared wet colors and the perfect desolation, from the way the water distorts the reality into art.
The one next to it is diametrically opposite in tone. It’s sunlight streaming in beams across a field, waving flowers, and so much space captured in so little space that it’s a miracle. Inside bigger than the outside. A trick of a master. It’s a magic wardrobe, a sidewalk chalk painting you can jump into, a book you want to read forever. I can tell it’s by the same artist because—well, I don’t know the artistic words. But I know it in the way I can tell music by Mozart just by hearing a few bars. Songs by Madonna. A painting by Van Gogh. Prose by Hemingway. Some things are so essentially themselves that you always know them, even if you don’t have the language to explain why.
Nor do I know why someone put these two pictures here, side by side, unless they want to showcase the opposite ends of human emotion. My eye darts from one to the other, unable to choose which one is more powerful. They’re both fascinating; I can’t pick which one I like better. It’s almost like both are necessary; they work together to highlight the beauty of the other.
Allison comes up behind me, touches my shoulder. “Gabriel’s ready to meet you now, Shai. He has some time before the next speech.”
Before I can answer, he enters the hallway and comes right up to us, and my heart jumps to my throat as he reaches out his hand. “Shai? I’m Gabriel Baystock.”
I put out my hand, and when he takes it, an unmistakable spark travels down my fingertips and dissolves into my bloodstream. When it pulses to my heart, I catch my breath. “Hello.” I smile, feel my face flush, and don’t care. “It’s nice to meet you.”
His eyes are mesmerizing, deeper than both of those
pictures on the wall, and more beautiful. Also, sadder, I think; he’s guarded. This man is sexy and muscular and he seems completely unrelaxed, even though he’s confident. I wonder why.
“I understand you’re Frazier’s top therapist.” His voice sends reverberations into my skin. He’s still holding my hand, and I’m reluctant to take it back when he releases it. His eyes move up and down my body, and it’s like I can feel his fingers doing it. I suck in a breath. I’ve never been so attracted to someone so fast, felt a gaze so intense. But he’s probably just examining me. I don’t want to imagine desire in his eyes, when it’s merely the want reflecting from my own. Besides, I have to stay professional.
“Our entire team is top-rated,” I say; it’s important to highlight the fact that I’m the tip of a huge iceberg of care, although the praise makes my cheeks tingle.
“Allison and Dr. Chandler said they feel you specifically, of the entire team, have the interpersonal skills to be a match for my son. He’s had a difficult time.” His face tightens. “We’ve tried other therapists after his treatment, and they just never work out.”
“Helping children on the journey to wellness is my top priority, ” I say. Then, because this sounds clinically sterile, and because his eyes narrow, I add, “I genuinely like all of my patients. I bond with them, root for them, and do my best to help them regain self-confidence and joy. I’ve never met a child yet that I haven’t been able to help.” As I speak, I can feel my own confidence behind my words. Fumes or no fumes, this is what I do, and I’m good at it. Damn good.
Perfect Match Page 24