Smokin' Hot Reads: Blitz and Giveaway: Remember Trilogy by T. Torrest

For a limited time get the trilogy for only 4.99! This is a 50% savings! Don't wait because it will go back up to 9.99 soon! Click the Amazon symbol to purchase ebooks!

>>>>Click here to order the paperback boxed set<<<<

Trip Wiley used to merely be the gorgeous new guy at Layla Warren’s Catholic high school. Fifteen years later, he just happens to be Hollywood’s hottest commodity.

REMEMBER WHEN

Years before Trip Wiley could be seen on movie screens all over the world, he could be seen sitting in the desk behind me in my high school English class.

This was back in 1990, and I cite the year only to avoid dumbfounding you when references to big hair or stretch pants are mentioned. Although, come to think of it, I am from New Jersey, which may serve as explanation enough. We were teenagers then, way back in a time before anyone, himself included, could even dream he'd turn into the Hollywood commodity that he is today.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you who Trip Wiley is. But on the off chance you've been living under a rock for the past decade, just know that these days, he's the bad boy actor found at the top of every casting director's wish list. He's incredibly talented and insanely gorgeous, the combination of which has made him very rich, very famous and very desirable.

And not just to casting directors, either.

I can't confirm any of the gossip from his early years out in Tinseltown, but based on what I knew of his life before he was famous, I can tell you that the idea of Girls-Throwing-Themselves-At-Trip is not a new concept.

I should know. I was one of them.

And my life hasn't been the same since.

Remember When is the first story in an NA romance trilogy. It will take you back to that time before the real world kicked in, that limbo between adolescence and adulthood, that trial of hanging on to the past while figuring out where the future will lie.

With heart-shredding romance, steamy love scenes and hilarious eighties references, readers of all ages will find themselves rooting for Layla and dreaming about Trip for years to come. It's an endearing journey through the tumultuous world of friendship, family and high school…

…and the memory of that one incredible guy your heart just can't seem to forget.

Hysterical! Made me want to break out a can of Aqua Net and hit the Jersey shore. Loved the characters and their sweet and steamy love story. You'll find yourself rooting for Layla and dreaming about Trip for years to come.

~Mika Thomas, Fictional Person

There are so many things I loved about this sweet and funny book. The writing was flawless, the story was addictive; I cried, I laughed out loud and I swooned... I devoured every single minute... all the way through it was handled with so much love and a huge dash of humor... You felt it all and it was such a wonderful experience... Remember When was fun, it was sexy, it was a giggle a minute, it was beautiful....yep, it was perfect.

~Gitte and Jenny, Totally Booked Blog

If you think you know what this book is about based solely on the synopsis, you would be wrong. Remember When is so much more... I laughed out loud, I cried, I swooned, I squeed... I angered, I hurt, and I was in total angst a couple of times... [and] I am SO utterly, undeniably, completely, and overwhelmingly in love with Trip.

~Kathy, Romantic Reading Escapes

REMEMBER WHEN 1

Upon entering Lisa’s room, I was immediately informed of the fact that her mother had let her decorate it almost entirely by herself. It was actually painted pink and there were white, eyelet curtains at the windows and a rainbow comforter on her wicker bed. My only attempt at decorating at that time involved a Scooby Doo blanket that I had won on the boardwalk. The pictures on her walls were of David Cassidy and Scott Baio and Donny Osmond, a bit of a departure from the Burger-King-issued, 1978 Yankees and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band posters that hung on mine.

In spite of our differences, or maybe because of them, Lisa and I have been best friends ever since. It seems that it was within ten minutes of our first meeting that she taught me how to feather my hair, make braided ribbon barrettes and draw a proper unicorn, necessary survival traits for any girl in the late seventies.

Over the years, she has dragged me to the mall repeatedly, making me buy Jordache jeans, parachute pants, Guess denims and ultimately, to my enduring mortification, ZCavaricci’s. She ran me through the gauntlet of makeup and clothes enough to help me get my act together in time for high school.

Prior to that, I was sort of clueless. I used to play football with the guys at recess and spent more time climbing trees than playing dollies. That tomboy stuff was fine during elementary school, but by sixth grade, my body had begun to sprout boobs and that’s when all the boys started looking at me a little funny.

It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade when Lisa went into full-on Frankenstein mode with me. She armed me with a bottle of Love’s Baby Soft and a tube of Zinc Pink lipstick and gave me a complete beauty lesson, showing me how to put on makeup to suit my “season”, and went clothes shopping with me to find outfits that would best show off my new boobs without making me look trashy. When all was said and done, I was surprised to find the girl looking back at me through the mirror. Until that moment, I had no idea that I ever wanted to be... pretty. But there I was, all made up, hair done and dressed like a real, live girl, and I realized that Lisa’s description actually held some truth.

The makeover did wonders for my self-esteem. Not that anyone would have mistaken me for the most popular girl in school (that distinction belonged exclusively to Lisa), but I was confident that I was going to be able to carve out a nice little social status on my own, even without the fact that I had hitched my wagon to her star.

I couldn’t wait to run into my crush and his friends at the lake or the park or something, envisioning myself making a smash as big as Sandy’s at the end of Grease. I would walk onto the playground or someplace where all our friends would be hanging out and I’d snub a cigarette out with my high-heeled shoe. Every guy’s jaw would drop and then we’d all break into “We Go Together”.

That fantasy was squelched, however, when my father refused to let me buy a pair of black spandex pants that I’d found at the nearby Clothing Town. Plus, there was a slight problem with the perm that I had gotten, because it made me look more like Little Orphan Annie than Olivia Newton-John.

Lisa spent her allowance that week to buy me a home permanent kit, explaining that if we just brushed it straight through my hair and let it set for a few minutes, the afro on my head should relax.

She turned out to be right, because the treatment ended up giving me a decent head of soft waves. Thank God, because otherwise, I would have spent the summer looking like Weird Al Yankovic.

My ears perked up when I heard Mrs. Mason speaking over the din of a not-yet-settled classroom. “Thank you. You can take the desk over there behind Miss Warren, by the windows.” Teachers always tried to convey some illusion of respect by calling us by our last names.

My parents had saddled me with the unfortunate first name of Layla. My father has always explained that my mother was in the middle of a pretty heady rock-and-roll phase in the years surrounding my birth, which explains, but doesn’t excuse, the fact that my brother’s name is Bruce Springsteen Warren. I shit you not.

In any case, I hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs. Mason until I heard her say my name. I looked up and saw some new kid hand her a slip of paper then turn toward the direction of her pointed finger. The sight that greeted me was enough to stop my heart.

If I were living in a movie, the opening strains of “Crazy Train” would have piped in, creating a background for this gorgeous boy who was walking slow-motion toward me. Our eyes met for a second before I realized I’d been staring and suddenly looked away.

I’d been ripping little pieces off my pretzel and trying to pop them unnoticed into my mouth. I was mid-chew when Rymer reached across the table to grab my stack of napkins. Cleaning sauce off his Oxford, he suddenly decided to switch subjects. “Oh, hey Warren! You meet Trip yet?”

I was caught off guard enough to almost choke, but luckily, I caught myself. I still had a mouthful of food, so I shielded my lips with my hand and answered as best I could. “Uh huh. We’re in Mason’s together.” Then, I swallowed and was able to nod in Trip’s direction to add casually, “How’s it going?”

The guys were still laughing at the big, red stain that Rymer was unsuccessfully trying to wipe off his shirt, so Lisa and I were the only ones to absorb the full force of Trip’s lazy grin when he replied, “It’s good, Layla. How’s it going for you?”

I almost died at the way he said that, looking right at me with half-lidded eyes and those perfect, full lips smiling out my name. I felt Lisa kick me under the table, so I knew she caught it too. Oh my God. Was he flirting with me? As intrigued as I was, my survival instincts quickly won out. The guys would never stop busting my chops if they caught me flirting with the new guy. I smiled politely and offered evasively, “It’s good.”

Just making courteous small talk, right?

By the time school let out, I had already decided that I was good to go. This was confirmed when Trip actually showed up to meet me on the front steps. In front of everyone, he plucked me out of the crowd and put his hand at the small of my back for the walk down to his car.

Let me tell you, it felt amazing to be seen with him. I hoped everyone noticed it. Maybe rumors would get started that we were carrying on some sort of secret relationship. People would say things like, “I heard that Trip Wilmington dumped Tess Valletti for Layla Warren.”

And if anyone actually had the balls to ever ask me outright, I’d only give them the satisfaction of a mysterious smile while saying something classy like, “I never kiss and tell, dahling.”

While I was picturing who was going to play me in the movie version of my life story (Alyssa Milano, maybe?), Trip unlocked the passenger door of his Bronco and held it open until I got inside. I thought it was so cool how he did that. Maybe it was a common thing to do where he came from, but in Norman, the guys were always too aloof to treat any of us like actual ladies. God, didn’t they realize how easy it was to impress us?

Trip cruised over to his side of the truck and slid himself behind the wheel. As he put the key in the ignition, I made the decision that whatever song was playing on the radio at that moment would be burned forever into my brain as “our song”.

He turned the key... and New Kids on the Block came blaring out of the speakers singing “The Right Stuff”.

Okay, fine. The next song would be the one.

He smiled as I got out of the truck, and because I knew he was watching me, I made extra sure not to slip and wind up face-down on the sidewalk.

I was feeling a little elated from the time I’d just spent alone with him, while simultaneously feeling let down at the thought of it coming to an end. I knew I was stalling, hoping to drag a few more seconds out of our time together, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Hey, thanks for the ride.”

He leaned over toward the passenger side to talk to me out the open window. “No problem.”

I tapped my toe against the tire as I asked, “See you tomorrow?”

He winked and repeated, “See you tomorrow.”

Short of throwing myself across the hood of his truck, there was really nothing else to do at that point but say goodbye. I had just turned and was starting to walk inside when I heard him yell, “Hey Layla!” which made my stomach do a little flip.

I looked back at Trip, still leaning out the passenger window with a wide grin playing at his lips and answered, “Yes?”

His grin turned into the full-force smile, the one that stopped me dead in my tracks at lunch.

“Good luck.”

At that, he threw the truck in gear and took off.

REMEMBER WHEN 2: The Sequel

“You know how sometimes, your high school crush grows up to be an insanely famous movie star? Okay, probably not. But I do.”

~Layla Warren

Back in high school, Trip Wiley’s fanbase only encompassed the denizens of the nothing little suburb of Norman, New Jersey.

Ten years later, all that is about to change.

In the summer of 2000, Layla Warren is enjoying her career as a journalist in New York City (well, sort of), while Trip spends most of his time grabbing Hollywood by the balls. In the days before what will turn out to be his skyrocketing fame, they’ll find themselves confronted with some life-altering choices.

Remember When 2 is the second story in an NA romance trilogy. It will bring you back to that exuberant and riotous time of life in your twenties when you struggled to figure out your place in the world and the person you were meant to be…

…and the person you were meant to be with.

REMEMBER WHEN 2

It was excruciating at first, getting over Trip. Not that I ever really did, mind you. But during those first years, I had no other choice but to go on with my life. Because do you ever really get over your first love? Even during your twenties, when you experience that initial taste of being a grown-up… that teenager still lives inside you. That person you were before the world started telling you how to be, what to say, who you should be with. Before you lost yourself in expectations and plans, and could just be a work-in-progress with only the vaguest of results in mind.

At the age of twenty-six, I hadn’t yet mastered the art of growing up. Truth is, I was a bit lost. I wasn’t quite sure I knew who I was or if I’d ever be found again.

I slide a hand up his neck and start playing with the hair behind his ear. I’ve always loved that spot, and I know it’s the easiest way to turn him into putty, this beautiful man sitting on my couch. He leans his head into my hand as my palm flattens against the soft skin of his nape. He is looking at me intensely, those deadly blue eyes boring right through me, seeing into my soul like no one but him ever has. He quirks his lip and raises an eyebrow, and I feel my stomach drop. Trip was my high school sweetheart, and I am struck with how insane it is that he can still manage to stir such a reaction in me after all these years.

“What?” I ask. “What’s that look?”

His voice is sultry, his tone is teasing. “Layla, if you don’t know by now, you never will.”

“Know what?” I ask, the picture of complete innocence.

Trip knows that I’m full of it, but plays along anyway. “That look,” he starts in, sliding to lie down on the couch, “is me thinking about every dirty little thing I’m going to do to you. And you know it.”

He’s right. I do.

“Hmmm. What might some of those things be?” I ask anyway, just to lead him on.

He is now laid out on the couch, with me half on top of him; my head resting on his abdomen, my hand splayed out across his chest. Trip reaches down and gets a grip on my elbows, guiding me to skootch up closer to his face.

Dear God. That face. It is unearthly beautiful, from his full, sensuous lips to the sandy gold hair tousled across his mischievous cobalt eyes. It should be illegal to look this good in public. He should be confined to a museum and never let out in real life. His looks are distracting. They could cause an accident one day.

Our reservations were for eight o’clock, and if I didn’t get my butt in gear, I’d never make it in time.

I had already waxed my lip (lay off, I’m Italian) and tweezed my eyebrows sufficiently. I slathered on the Jolén before realizing I hadn’t yet pulled out the pair of shoes I was planning to wear.

So, there I was, racing around my apartment with cream bleach on my arms, searching high and low for my strappy gold heels when Lisa decided to call. I answered the phone and was met not with a ‘Hello’ or a ‘Hey, what’s up’ like you’d expect from a normal person. No. The first thing I hear out of my best friend’s mouth is, “What are you wearing tonight?”

“A Disney jean jacket and Hello Kitty pajama bottoms. You think I’ll be overdressed?”

During late August in New York, the heat was practically a solid. A thick, squishy, gelatinous muck rising from the blacktop of the street and the grates in the sidewalk, only to be inhaled into its inhabitants’ tired lungs. The car exhaust and pollution would settle over everything like a sprinkling of gothic fairy dust, sticking to the beads of sweat on my skin. There were days when I could swipe my face with a tissue, and I would actually see the ashy residue evidenced right there on the Kleenex.

New York City was the most awesome place on Earth.

I loved the energy, the noise, the very living and breathing pulse of it all. The rough edges of its hurried citizens only added to the appeal. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. Song lyrics as fact. Art as life.

More specifically, Greenwich Village was the most awesome neighborhood in the most awesome place on Earth. I felt more cozy and at home down there than I did amongst all that glass and steel uptown. There were no skyscrapers at our corner of the world, just our low-rise brownstones and architecturally interesting squat buildings. It was so incredibly artsy-fartsy and cool; a people-watchers paradise. It offered its own unique backdrop, between the music and the smells and the food and the people. Mere steps outside my door, there were art galleries, ninety-nine seat theaters and trendy boutiques, not to mention the beatnik coffee houses, swinging jazz clubs, and super-hip bars.

My apartment was in the West Village on the top floor of a fourth floor walkup. It was certainly no penthouse, however, but I did have a fire escape balcony—where my plants lived and died—with a staircase that led to the roof. When the weather was just right, I’d station my lawn chair up there for a day of sunbathing, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was at the beach. Cocktail in hand, blessed breeze blowing, I’d change out the sound of cars grumbling and horns honking for undulating waves and yipping seagulls.

There was a tangible shift in the air of the room; a gripping, electrical aura that stimulated the space surrounding his presence like a gravitational pull. I’d noticed this phenomenon when watching his movies, seeing the man that had emerged from the boy I once knew, but actually being in the same room with him was an entirely different animal. Trip Wilmington had been a gorgeous teenaged boy, no question. But Trip Wiley was a gorgeous young man exuding raw, unabashed sex at every turn.

It was only slightly impossible to remember how to breathe.

I was still giggling as he chastised, “You haven’t returned my calls.”

I turned in Trip’s arms and saw his shiny white grin and the glint of mischief in his eyes, barely visible from under his baseball cap, and decided to bypass his reprimand. I mean, what was I supposed to say? “Sorry, pal. Just trying to avoid climbing you like a scratching post”? So instead I jabbed, “Nice disguise there, buddy. Whadja get the whole costume department to help you with it?”

We gave each other a quick hug hello- quick being the operative word, here. Every inch of my skin had started buzzing and I wasn’t willing to risk getting caught in the melt of Trip. Again.

He ignored my jab as I pulled back, and instead smirked out his best Bogart, “Of all the movies, in all the towns, in all the world… she walks into mine.” His lips were curled back from his teeth, making him look and sound less like Bogie and more like Peter Brady.

Pork chopsh and appleshauce. Gee, that’s shwell.

But I rolled my eyes and played along, placing a hand on his cheek and returning dramatically, “We’ll always have Jersey.”

I’d originally suggested going to Lindy’s for some of their famous cheesecake, even though I knew it was basically a tourist trap. But who cared? Trip was kind of a tourist, and it was one of those places out-of-towners liked to go. But he was a little uneasy about going to such a sightseeing landmark and being put on public display. After our encounter with the couple at the theater, he didn’t want to take the chance of being recognized again. Plus, with his ripped jeans and baseball hat, he’d felt he was underdressed. I thought that with a mug like his, no one in their right minds would even notice, must less flinch at the sight of him wearing even a Hefty bag out in public.

It was sad that he had to concern himself about such things, already sacrificing any sort of private life because of his chosen career. From what I’d been able to absorb from his newest movie, I figured the fame situation was only going to get worse. His role in Swayed was a star-making performance in a blockbuster movie. When it officially premiered the following week, there would hardly be a person left on the planet who didn’t know the name Trip Wiley.

But for the time being at least, we were able to sit in relative obscurity in a booth at some no-name eatery on 45^th, polishing off the rest of our late-night snack. Seemed like old times, just sitting in a diner with Trip, as we licked the last remnants of whipped cream off our lips.

Off our own lips. Just wanted to be clear on that.

REMEMBER WHEN 3: The Finale

"I’d spent too long in limbo.
It was time to put The California Plan back into effect."
~Layla Warren

I’ve been in love with Trip Wiley since I was sixteen years old.

Yep. That Trip Wiley.

Academy award-winning actor, known philanthropist, People’s Sexiest Man Alive two years running…

Yeah.

It’s not like I’m some delusional stalker-fan. It just so happens that he was my high school sweetheart back in 1991. In the years since, he’s simply been The One That Got Away.

We just can’t seem to get on the same page at the same time.

Our timing may have sucked, but the feelings had already been confirmed. Years ago.

At least his were.

He doesn’t know that I had chosen to love him back.

I need to fix that.

And I need to do it now.

Remember When 3 is the third and final book in the Remember Trilogy.
It’s a story about taking chances and following your heart…
and knowing that sometimes, you just have to learn when to let go.

REMEMBER WHEN 3

Trip refused to let me leave his side, and if I wasn’t so thrilled about it, I would have felt a little smothered. But after all those years apart, I was anxious to make up for all the time we’d lost. I guessed he was, too.

Eventually, he led the five of us into a parlor off the main room, ditching his jacket over the back of a couch before slumping to sit down on it. Just the simple act of watching Trip unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his black shirt up to his elbows was enough to liquefy my insides. I knew I was supposed to be focusing on the solemnity of the day, but my stomach wasn’t cooperating, flipping uncontrollably at the sight of Trip lounged out on the sofa. He was pure, unadulterated male sitting there.

He was wearing his hair a bit longer than usual; still perfectly golden, artfully mussed, and practically begging me to run my hands through it. There were some new crinkles at the corners of his fathomless blue eyes, and the dimple in his left cheek had become more pronounced, but the new lines only added an effective ruggedness to his almost-pretty features.

His feet were crossed at the ankles on an ottoman, his elbow propped casually on the arm of the couch, his fingers at his temple. The emotional upheaval of the day played out on his face, his eyes taking on a smoldering squint, making him look a little sleepy. He flexed his fingers together and gave a yawn against an outstretched bicep.

Yeah. You’re right, Chester. Let’s go to bed.

Trip gauged the expression on my face, and it made a wide grin split his features. He took my hand as the hostess led us through the dining room, but when she started to put the menus down at a booth near the stage, Trip whispered something to her I couldn’t hear as he slipped a bill in her hand. She changed direction and led us to a private table in a darkened corner instead.

Once we were alone, I said, “Hey. Henry Hill. How come we didn’t come in through the kitchen?”

He got my Goodfellas reference and started to chuckle. “What am I, a clown? Do I amuse you?”

Before I could tell him what a funny guy he was, he said, “I’ve learned it’s best to tip beforehand. You get better service that way.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Wiley.”

He looked at me then, frozen in the act of placing his napkin across his lap. “You know, you’ve only called me that once before.”

I took a sip of my water. “What? Mr. Wiley?”

“Yeah. During our interview. You said that exact same thing to me. You never… You never call me by that name.”

“Because it’s not your name.”

“Yeah. But even people who knew me growing up can accept that I changed it.”

“Not legally, though, right?”

He leaned back in his seat and shot me a sham dirty look. “No. Not legally. What’s your point?”

“That it’s just… all for show. Trip Wiley is all just smoke and mirrors. Trip Wilmington’s the guy I fell in love with.”

I’d never seen him smile quite so big.

I looped my arms over his shoulders and asked, “How was your day?”

His perfect, white teeth were still grinning at me, his eyes squinting from the sun. “It was good. Except that I missed you.”

“Awww.”

“The meeting took forever. Man, that guy can talk.”

I knew his meeting was with some industry people that had been wooing him to be a part of their next production, but Trip didn’t tell me much more beyond that. He was trying to focus more on his upcoming hockey film, and he was more irritated than flattered that they required his attention in the days leading up to it. Guess they wanted to nail him down as early as possible.

I knew the feeling.

“How’d it go?”

“Alright, I guess. I’m not the biggest fan of the director they’ve got lined up, but the script is pretty phenomenal. It could be big. I don’t know.” He released his hold on me to lounge out on the steps, his elbows thrown over the edge of the pool. “I told them I’d think about it in any case.”

He seemed almost embarrassed talking about it. I guessed he was still getting used to the idea that he was so actively pursued by people other than horny women.

Although, I was one such horny woman at the moment. He wasn’t quite out of those woods yet.

I sluiced through the water to where he was sitting and straddled him against the steps. “I’m guessing you’ve got time on this. You still have an entire movie to film before you could even commit to starting it, right? Did they say they’d wait for you?”

I lowered my lips to his neck. I couldn’t help it.

I felt his throat vibrate against my mouth as he answered with a contented, “Hmmm.”

“Was that a yes?”

He put his hands at my hips and squirmed a little underneath me. “Babe? You really think I’ve got my mind on work right now?”

The next day, Trip had a “read-through” for Slap Shot, and he asked if I’d like to go with him. We took the Batmobile to the studio, and I can’t say that I wasn’t excited about it. Not only was I going to get a real insider taste of Hollywood, but I’d be seeing where Trip worked.

He stopped briefly at the gatehouse and gave a salute to the security guard, who did nothing more than salute back and say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley,” before raising the gate. Trip was well-known everywhere, but the familiarity vibe was definitely different on his home turf. He hadn’t even turned into him yet. I guessed there was no need to amp up the Wiley just for the gatekeeper.

We drove past a few low office buildings, which Trip explained were for “the moneybags,” and down a narrower street lined with trailers, for “the peons.” He maneuvered around a million identical white structures that looked like airplane hangars, and I wondered how he knew just where to go. My eyes kept darting around between the buildings, hoping to see some action. I mean, this was a Hollywood studio lot! I’d never seen one in person and only had my impression of them from the movies. So, where were all the lions on leashes? The clowns walking around on stilts? The feathered showgirls and the zombies and the cowboys?

The only humans I saw walking around were a few harried-looking, but fairly normal people.

What a gyp.

Trip was sitting in an armchair in a corner of the foyer when I met up with him. He looked positively drool-worthy, lounging out casually in his formalwear, his fingers against his temple, waiting for me.

I stood in front of his knees, gave him a twirl and asked, “How do I look?”

He didn’t break his pose, but appraised me with a scandalous perusal along my entire body. “I don’t know, babe. It hurts to look right at you. Gorgeous, in any case.”

Then he got up from his chair, wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me to him. “Stop smiling at me like that. It makes me want to blow off this whole night and just take you back to bed.”

I almost let him.

“Ladies and gentlemen… Three-time Academy Award nominee and Oscar winner for Best Actor in a Leading Role… Please welcome… Trip Wiley…”

And there he was, amidst the applause, strutting out onto the stage and taking his place at the microphone, preparing to address his peers. The thing of it was, though, is that no one was among his peers. Trip Wiley had no peers.

He was confident, polished, incredibly talented, undeniably hot. I was sure that the men in that room would give their left nut to live his life for even one day; the women would sacrifice anything to be in his bed for one night. He may have lived this part of his life with them, but he was most decidedly not among them.

He smiled as the cheering died down and his smooth voice proceeded to give a brief explanation of the category he was presenting before announcing the nominees… for cinematography.

There could be no more perfect category for that man to announce. He made sure to become familiar with the work of each and every nominee, subjecting me to an endless viewing of The Proof Beyond, where he paused practically every frame, pointing out “the brilliance” in every shot. It took about four hours to watch that movie, and I’d still really like to see it someday. My vote laid squarely with Anya’s Garden, however, and it was a much-discussed debate between the two of us all week.

But sure as shit, he opened that envelope—and I swear his eyes flicked toward me for a split second—as he smirked and announced, “And the Oscar goes to… The Proof Beyond.”

Oh, he was going to be impossible to live with after this.

T. Torrest is a New Adult fiction writer from the U.S. She has written many books, but prays that only a handful of them will ever see the light of day. Her stories are geared toward readers of any age that know how to enjoy a good laugh and a dreamy romance.

She likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. She's not much into health food, but she does enjoy talking about herself in the third person. A lifelong Jersey girl, she currently resides there with her husband and two boys.