Snark and Stage Fright
Release Date: 03/10/15
Swoon Romance
Summary from Goodreads:
Happily-ever-after isn’t as happy or forever as Jane Austen makes it look. Just something Georgia Barrett learns when her sharp tongue costs her the only guy she’s ever really cared about: Michael Endicott.
Determined to move on, Georgia lands the lead role in the school’s fall musical. But to survive on stage, she’ll need to learn to express herself without her protective shield of snark. She soon discovers being honest with others means being honest with herself, and the truth is she’s still in love with Michael.
But from the looks of Michael’s new girlfriend, Georgia isn’t the only one who tried to move on. Apparently, some people are just better at it than others. And when Michael and his girlfriend join the cast of the fall musical, Georgia finds out that snark and stage fright are the least of her worries…
About the Author
Stephanie Wardrop grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania, a town mostly famous for being a railroad card in Monopoly. After giving up on her childhood goal of becoming a pirate, she decided to become a writer but took a detour through lots of college and grad school and ended up teaching writing and British and American literature. She's the author of the Swoon Romance e-novella series Snark and Circumstance, based on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and lives in western New England with her husband, kids, cats, and gecko.
Stephanie Wardrop grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania, a town mostly famous for being a railroad card in Monopoly. After giving up on her childhood goal of becoming a pirate, she decided to become a writer but took a detour through lots of college and grad school and ended up teaching writing and British and American literature. She's the author of the Swoon Romance e-novella series Snark and Circumstance, based on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and lives in western New England with her husband, kids, cats, and gecko.
Author Links:
Excerpt:
You
would think that on a cloudless, picture-postcard-perfect summer day,
lying on a raft beside my boyfriend in his pool, I would be incapable
of worry.
But
I am good at what I do.
Michael’s
pool is one of my favorite places in the world, because it looks like
it was carved out of the woods by nature herself, like a little
lagoon accidentally popped up in a New England backyard about a
century ago. It’s very rocky and ferny and surrounded by beautiful
exotic plants, lush green and fuchsia and orange-colored plants that
shouldn’t thrive in Massachusetts but grow here like the happiest
transplants ever.
And
a month ago, on the night of the school prom, when I was one of the
least happy transplants to New England ever, Michael and I met here
and finally admitted that we actually really liked each other. It’s
where he kissed me for the very first time. So I should be
luxuriating here on the raft with him, basking in the sun and the
enticing smells of chlorine and sunscreen, but I’m not.
I’m
too busy panicking because in a few days I am going to be spending a
week at Michael’s family’s summerhouse. Before I’d moved here
to Longbourne a year ago, I’d never even met someone who has a
different house for different seasons. I don’t even know what you
wear at a summerhouse, but I tried to sound casual as I tugged at my
Target tankini and asked Michael, “So it’s your dad’s sister’s
house, right? And it’s on the beach?”
Michael
nodded and stirred the water with his fingers, making his own
personal tiny tidal wave and watching it crash against the side of
the raft. One of the reasons I love him is because he seems so
serious on the outside but in private he does these silly boyish
things like making private tsunamis in the pool. And I have to admit
he looks really good wet, with his dark curls plastered to his head
like one of those statues of Apollo at a Greek temple, only with a
tan, since he’s been teaching little kids to swim every day at the
YMCA in Netherfield.
“Are
people going to be, like, walking around in straw hats and white
linen dresses all day, sipping smart cocktails and playing croquet?”
I asked.
Michael
lifted his sunglasses, revealing his now squinting dark eyes as a
familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“We’re
going to my aunt’s house on Cape Cod, George, not into a deleted
scene from The Great Gatsby.” He laughed. “We’ll drive there,
and traffic might be a pain, but we don’t require a time machine.”
I
could tell he was amused but a little of weary of my pre-travel
angst. But summer family get-togethers at my house involve rickety
metal grills, inflatable pools for the kids, and lots of potato
salad. I’m not sure Michael understands I feel about as comfortable
walking into a weeklong celebration for his cousin Rose’s wedding
as I would be to crash-land on an island overrun by cannibals.
Cannibals wouldn’t care if I wore last season’s sandals or sipped
out of the finger bowl. They wouldn’t even have finger bowls.
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