Everly After by Rebecca Paula
Publication Date: October 21st 2014
Genre: New Adult Romance
~Summary~
All truths burn bright and clear. I’m still waiting in the dark.
Everly Monteith has traded her life of glitter, parties, and self-destruction for waitressing at a Parisian café. She’s put the tragedy that sent her across the Atlantic in the past—until her toxic ex shows up and sends her reeling once more. Her fresh start begins slipping away until a smug British war correspondent crashes her party. But falling for Beckett means letting down her guard, something that might pull them both into the dark.
There are beautiful lies in this world, and it takes me being chased through a hallway at a rave to decide this girl is one of them. But even the most beautiful lies aren’t worth chasing.
Twenty-five-year-old Beckett Reid is forced into sabbatical after being kidnapped on assignment in Afghanistan. Back in Paris, he locks himself away to work on a novel, focused on saving his budding journalism career. But when he meets an enigmatic American heiress, his plans are quickly neglected. Everly is the perfect replacement for dangerous war zones, even if she does leave glitter on everything he owns. Reckless and wild, she runs through life making more mistakes than anyone he’s met, but Beckett is determined to fight for her, even if he must face the messy truth that he must fight for himself first.
*This New Adult romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.*
~Teaser~
“We’re like dominoes, Beckett and I. I’ve tipped us forward until everything is set in motion. I can’t stop us from colliding. I should enjoy the fall while it lasts. But I know the end is coming too. The quiet. The day where everything has fallen and there’s nothing left but a mess. ”
~Deleted Scene~
When Beckett and Everly go out on their "non-dates" around Paris, he notices a slip of red string tied around her wrist. This scene didn't make the cut, but here's Everly buying her magic bracelet:
***
“Magic.” A weathered-looking man wearing mismatched clothes and a worn cap hobbles up next to me, blocking my path. “I’ll show you a magic trick,” he says.
I shake him off, glancing over his shoulder to the Sacre-Coeur perched high upon the hill. I scan the 300 steps, the crowds of tourists battling the same siege of beggars, huskers, and string men.
The gypsy’s mouth widens, exposing a mouth of yellowed teeth. “Magic for a beautiful girl. A magic trick just for you.”
His hand shakes when he pulls out a length of red wool string from his pocket. He smells like cognac and piss, his gray hair matted to the side of his head as if he just woke up in an alley of Montmartre. His ragged breath whistles between his cracked lips, high-pitched like steam escaping the city sewers.
“Magic,” he repeats, shifting from one foot to another.
I narrow my eyes, listening to the way he says that word with firm belief. As if magic truly does exist. As if he can tie a length of cooking string around my wrist and I’ll be transported far from Paris. I’d like that, but a length of sting won’t change the fact that magic isn’t reality. With his knot at my wrist, I’ll still be Everly.
He motions for my hand. His lips curl into a snarl when I refuse. That kind, eager front a few minutes ago has washed away to a man who's hungry for money. He grips my arm and hauls me closer. “Your wrist.”
My heart drums in my chest. I’m still focused on that length of red wool in his hand and its simple con. The very idea that a length of string is worth a tourist’s time and money. That it's novelty is worth his fingers pinching my flesh when I refuse.
I have a magic trick of my own. “
Non merci.”
He releases his grip quick and steps back. No doubt he thought I was another clueless American. But the trick’s on him because he believed my con.
I lift my chin and pause, searching for something to say, but what can I say to a man who tries to sell strangers the idea of magic? I spin around and leap up a few steps, my flats sliding over the worn stone, my skirt fluttering around my knees in the spring breeze. And then I stop dead in my tracks, my hands balling up in fists as a smile spreads to my lips. I race back down to him. “
C’est combine?”
His brows draw together in a low dip. His face is dirty, his teeth decayed, but he has the most striking hazel eyes.
I stick out my wrist. “
Pas de magie.” I press my lips together, waiting.
He bows his head as he circles the string around my wrist and ties it, but I can still make out his knowing grin. He knots the bracelet, snapping the string with his filthy fingers. “
Pas de magie. But for you,” he continues in heavy accented English, “a bracelet.”
I shrug, digging into my clutch for a few Euros. I drop the money into his outstretch palm. I hadn’t made much in tips from waiting tables that morning, but I wasn’t going to run off without paying either.
All truths burn bright and clear. I’m still waiting for mine. I might be standing in at the heart of the City of Love, but I know there is no magic. Not here in Paris, not back home in Manhattan. I’m not going to stand around and wait for it to happen either.
I walk up the steps, avoiding the church, climbing past the small shops of Rue Norvins instead. Postcards and scarfs, silly Eiffel tower magnets and statues crowd the shelves, a little more subtle than the beggars on the steps. But their aim is the same—to convince tourists they can take this city home with them when they leave. But that’s a lie, too, because you can’t possibly bring a city like Paris home with you. No scarf or memento will change that.
I keep my head down to avoid someone recognizing me, my hair curtaining my face as I make my way to the small square the top of the hill. The air is sweet from sugar crepes and cappuccinos. The square is crowded with cafes and they’re busy, the ceramic clink of cups and chatter clash with the accordion player in the center of the square.
It’s easy to get caught up in the romance of it, the lovely dream that’s Paris. That’s probably why artists line the sidewalks trying to hawk art even if it’s not very good. The tourists don’t seem to mind. They enjoy the accordion player too, tossing him change as he plays
La vie en rose over and over.
I order a coffee from one of the cafes and settle against the base of a tree just beyond the bustling square. The gray roofs of Paris spread out below me. Up here, it really is like looking at life with rose-colored glasses.
~About The Author~
**Stay connected. Sign up for Rebecca's newsletter for the latest release news, exclusive excerpts, and giveaways.**It began with a boy who survived a plane crash in the wilderness.
I discovered my love of writing during a fifth grade writing assignment for Hatchet. After that, I knew I wanted to be a writer.
Always the hopeless romantic, I write late Victorian and Edwardian historical romances as well as contemporary New Adult romances.
I am a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), as well as the New Hampshire chapter (NHRWA) and the New England chapter (NECRWA). I contribute regularly to the Modern Belles of History blog, a site dedicated to writing, reading, and researching 20th century women’s historical fiction.
When I’m not writing, I’m most likely reading or daydreaming about my next travel adventure. I live in New Hampshire with my husband and our cat, Bella.
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