Author name: Vicki Batman
Book Title: San Diego or Bust
Please tell us about yourself with the following favorites:
Drink (non-alcoholic)? Diet Coke
Day of the week? Monday
Time of day to write? In the morning
Place to write? My office
Song? L-O-V-E by Nat King Cole
TV show? Scrubs
Book? Anything by Dick Francis
Author? Dick Francis
Quote? From "Strictly Ballroom" - a life lived in fear is a life half lived.
Now some easy one-word answers:
Coffee or tea? neither
Veggies or fruit? tomato
Cat or dog? cat
Plot or not? not
Desktop or laptop? desktop
Pencil or pen? Mechanical pencil
Rain or sun? sun
Mountains or ocean? mountains
Plane or train? plane
Car or motorcycle? Classic car
Run or walk? walk
Casual or dressy? dressy
Indoors or outdoors? indoors
Reading: EBook or paperback? both
Reading: Short story or novels? both
Theater or rental? theater
Vampire or shifter? No way
Horror or romance? romance
Tell us about your new/latest release:
Title: San Diego or Bust
Genre: Short contemporary Romance
Blurb: When a young woman plans a romantic getaway with her boyfriend, disaster strikes, and
she soon finds Mr. Right could be someone else.
My boyfriend is a dirt wad. I just decided.
With a humpf, I dragged my pink tote up the narrow aisle to the plane's exit, accidentally banging it into the seats along the way. The relieving notion of being back home in Sommerville caused the tension in my chest to fade a smidgen.
A quick peek to the exit told me where Davis, my boyfriend, stood waiting for the okay from the ground crew to head out. His glance my way didn't look at all pleasant. Similar to one wrapped in disappointment with a downward tilt of his mouth.
I didn't care much. I just decided.
The words creep, jerk, moron, and “why in the hell am I still dating him??” jumbled my thoughts around. My heart pounded as anxiety ratcheted inside me again.
Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should not put up with him anymore.
The deepest part of me knew I shouldn’t be with Davis Griffith Swansea, III any longer. I was just in denial. Over the past year, I’d had brief, momentary twinges of dumping him; then, he’d go and do something incredibly romantic like bring me Godiva chocolates—“I know how you love these.” Or buy me a new book by my favorite author—“I happened to see this today.” Or whisk me off to an intimate dinner à deux at the latest and greatest bistro--"I know you'll like this place."
My head had gone stupid.
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