Promises, Promises…

By Cait O’Sullivan, author of Romancing the Seas

Romancing the SeasPromises, promises…

☺ It’s that time of the year, isn’t it? Where promises land lightly upon you, whispering seductively in your ear. The old year is passing away, and the bright, shiny, sparkly one is just beginning. As I sit here typing on New Year’s Eve 2012, I almost shiver in anticipation. I love this time of year – not Christmas, (although I’m not a bah humbug kinda gal) – rather the New Year. It’s the time when you are allowed to think that anything and everything is possible. Out with the old, in with the new. Didn’t write that book/take that trip/become a nicer person (LOL)? Well that that was last year and this is now, 2013, and the year is so squeaky clean that you can believe you’ll keep it so by doing all the things you dream about. It’s almost like flirting, isn’t it? You know, when you meet an attractive man and you see a flicker of interest in their eyes, your heart picks up a pace and, before you know it, you’re the wittiest girl alive and he’s devouring you with his eyes. And it’s all to play for – your future, his future, maybe your future together. But heck, whatever happens, this is fun…pure and unadulterated. I think bringing in the New Year is like that – it’s all to play for.

Pippa, in my debut novel, Romancing the Seas (out now, woo hoo!) has it all to play for, having packed in her life in London for one in New Zealand – here, have a bit of a read:

There were several top-of-the-range treadmills and she chose one, slowly working her stride.

But her mind refused to let up. Why had she come out here to New Zealand? She should have stayed in London, working for Marcus. Okay, maybe she would have moved to a different restaurant, but even then she would have been surrounded by the familiar, not the unknown — and the downright scary. Now she was a prisoner of her own design: new country — heck, new continent — new job, new boss, no friends, and not even any space to call her own.

Pippa heaved a sigh, then took lots of little breaths to make up for her hard working lungs. Oh, who knows, maybe she had done the right thing. How could she have stayed in London after what Marcus had done? An up and coming celebrity chef, she had supported him all the way. Until his publicist had said to him, “Lose the sous chef; she’s too ordinary a look for you. You need an it girl on your arm, so all the paparazzi will be snapping you for the celebrity magazines.”

“Look, Pippa,” Marcus had pleaded. “Just give me a couple of years to get to the top of my career and then we can be together properly. We can still be together, but just keep our relationship under cover.”

Pippa had wanted to cry, but instead picked up her bag and walked out of the flat she had never quite moved into.

She had been right to leave. But whether she had been right to leave so drastically, swapping everything she had ever known for the unknown, was very questionable.
Her heart pounded rapidly and she pressed the treadmill button to lower the speed, concentrating on breathing deeply to slow her heart rate down. A light cough from the treadmill beside her nearly threw her off her treadmill in surprise.

Her new roomie.

In an attempt not to let the machine sweep her off, she pumped her legs and finally caught back up with the pace. Great. Glances at the monitor, proudly proclaiming a heart rate of 190, made her want to curl up and die. Mr. Eagleton, on the other hand, appeared very relaxed and loose limbed beside her as he lengthened into his pace, despite a faint sheen of sweat — clearly he had been in the gym for a while.


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And whatever you do, lovely ladies, in 2013, I hope you have a wonderful and prosperous year. Thanks for reading!

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