Foreplay – Review/Excerpts/Giveaway



Foreplay by Sophie Jordan


Before she goes after the life she’s always wanted, she’s about to find the one she needs.

Pepper has been hopelessly in love with her best friend’s brother, Hunter, for like ever. He’s the key to everything she’s always craved: security, stability, family. But she needs Hunter to notice her as more than just a friend. Even though she’s kissed exactly one guy, she has just the plan to go from novice to rock star in the bedroom—take a few pointers from someone who knows what he’s doing.

Her college roommates have the perfect teacher in mind. But bartender Reece is nothing like the player Pepper expects. Yes, he’s beyond gorgeous, but he’s also dangerous, deep—with a troubled past. Soon what started as lessons in attraction are turning both their worlds around, and showing just what can happen when you go past foreplay and get to what’s real…


Excerpt #1

Smoke billowed up from beneath the hood of my car in great plumes, a gray fog on the dark night. Slapping the steering wheel, I muttered a profanity and pulled to the side of the road. A quick glance confirmed that the temperature gauge was well into the red.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I killed the engine with quick, angry movements, hoping that might miraculously stop the vehicle from overheating further.

Grabbing my phone from the cup holder, I hopped out of the car into the crisp autumn night and stood well away from the vehicle. I knew nothing of engines, but I’d seen plenty of movies where the car blew up right after it started smoking. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I checked the time on my phone. Eleven thirty-five. Not too late. I could call the Campbells. They would come and get me and give me a ride back to the dorm. But that still left my car alone out here on this road. I’d only have to deal with that later, and I already had a ton to do tomorrow. I might as well handle it now.

I glanced at the quiet night around me. Crickets sang softly and wind rustled through the branches. It wasn’t exactly hopping with traffic. The Campbells lived on a few acres outside of town. I liked babysitting for them. It was a nice break from the bustle of the city. The old farmhouse felt like a real home, lived-in and cozy, very traditional with its old wood floors and stone fireplace that was always crackling at this time of year. It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The kind of life I craved someday.

Only now I didn’t quite appreciate how isolated I felt on this country road. I rubbed my arms through my long thin sleeves, wishing I had grabbed my sweatshirt before I left tonight. Barely October and it was already getting cold.

I stared grimly at my smoking car. I was going to need a tow truck. Sighing, I started scrolling through my phone, searching for tow trucks in the area. The lights of an oncoming car flashed in the distance and I froze, debating what to do. The sudden insane idea to hide seized me. An old instinct, but familiar.

This had horror movie written all over it. A girl all by herself. A lonely country road. I’d been the star of my own horror movie once upon a time. I wasn’t up for a repeat.

I moved off the road, situating myself behind my car. Not hiding exactly, but at least I wasn’t standing out in the open, an obvious target. I tried to focus on the screen of my phone and look casual standing there. Like if I ignored the approaching car its inhabitant would somehow not notice me or the smoking pile of metal. Without lifting my head, every part of me was tuned in to the slowing tires and the purring engine as the vehicle stopped.

Of course, they stopped. Sighing, I lifted my face, staring at a would-be serial killer. Or my rescuer. I knew that the latter was much more likely, but the whole scenario made me queasy and I could only think of worst-case possibilities.

It was a Jeep. The kind without a roof. Just a roll bar. The headlights gleamed off the stretch of black asphalt.

“You okay?” The deep voice belonged to a guy. Much of his face was in shadow. The light from the instrument panel cast a glow onto his face. Enough that I could determine he was youngish. Not much older than myself. Maybe mid-twenties at the most.

Most serial killers are young white males. The random factoid skittered across my thoughts, only adding to my anxiety.

“I’m fine,” I quickly said, my voice overly loud in the crisp night. I brandished my phone as if that explained everything. “I have someone coming.” I held my breath, waiting, hoping he would believe the lie and move on.

He idled there in the shadows, his hand on the gear stick. He looked up ahead at the road and then glanced behind him. Assessing just how alone we were? How ripe his opportunity was to murder me?

I wished I had a can of mace. A black belt in kung fu. Something. Anything. The fingers of my left hand tightened around my keys. I thumbed the jagged tip. I could gouge him in the face if necessary. The eyes. Yeah. I’d aim for the eyes.

He leaned across the passenger seat, away from the glow of instrument panel, plunging himself into even deeper shadow. “I could look under the hood,” his deep, disembodied voice offered.

I shook my head. “Really. It’s okay.”

Those eyes I had just contemplated gouging with my keys glittered across the distance at me. Their color was impossible to tell in the thick gloom, but they had to be pale. A blue or green. “I know you’re nervous—”

“I’m not. I’m not nervous,” I babbled quickly. Too quickly.

He leaned back in his seat, the amber glow again lighting his features. “I don’t feel right leaving you out here alone.” His voice shivered across my skin. “I know you’re afraid.”

I glanced around. The inky night pressed in thickly. “I’m not,” I denied, but my voice rang thin, lacking all conviction.

“I get it. I’m a stranger. I know it would make you more comfortable if I left, but I wouldn’t want my mother out here alone at night.”

I held his gaze for a long moment, taking his measure, attempting to see something of his character in the shadowy lines of his face. I glanced to my still smoking car and back at him. “Okay. Thanks.” The thanks followed slowly, a deep breath later, full of hesitation. I only hoped I wasn’t going to end up on the morning news.

If he wanted to hurt me he would. Or at least he would try. Whether I invited him to look at my engine or not. That was my logic as I watched him pull his Jeep in front of my car. The door swung open. He unfolded his long frame and stepped out into the night with a flashlight in his hand.

His footsteps crunched over loose gravel, the beam of his flashlight zeroing in on my still-smoldering vehicle. From the angle of his face, I didn’t think he even looked my way. He went straight for my car, lifting the hood and disappearing under it.

Arms crossed tightly in front of me, I stepped forward cautiously, edging out into the road so I could watch him as he studied the engine. He reached down and touched different things. God knows what. My knowledge of auto mechanics was right up there with my origami-making abilities.

I went back to studying his shadowy features. Something glinted. I squinted. His right eyebrow was pierced.

Suddenly another beam of lights lit up the night. My would-be-mechanic straightened from beneath the hood and stepped out, positioning himself between me and the road, his long legs braced and hands on his hips as the car approached. I had my first unfettered view of his face in the harsh glow of oncoming headlights, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

The cruel lighting might have washed him out or picked up his flaws, but no. As far as I could see he had no physical flaws.

He was hot. Plain and simple. Square jaw. Deep-set blue eyes beneath slashing dark brows. The eyebrow piercing was subtle, just a glint of silver in his right eyebrow. His hair looked like a dark blond, cut short, close to his head. Emerson would call him lickable.

This new vehicle halted beside my car and I snapped my attention away from him as the window whirred down. Lickable leaned down at the waist to peer inside.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Graham. Mrs. Graham.” He slid a hand from his jean pocket to give a small wave.

“Car trouble?” a middle-aged man asked. The backseat of the car was illuminated with the low glow of an iPad. A teenager sat there, his gaze riveted to the screen, punching buttons, seemingly oblivious that the car had even stopped.

Lickable nodded and motioned to me. “Just stopped to help. I think I see the problem.”

The woman in the passenger seat smiled at me. “Don’t worry, honey. You’re in good hands.”

Eased at the reassurance, I nodded at her. “Thank you.”

As the car drove away, we faced each other, and I realized this was the closest I had allowed myself to get to him. Now that some of my apprehension was put to rest, a whole new onslaught of emotions bombarded me. Sudden, extreme self-consciousness for starters. Well, for the most part. I tucked a strand of my unmanageable hair behind my ear and shifted uneasily on my feet.

“Neighbors,” he explained, motioning to the road.

“You live out here?”

“Yeah.” He slid one hand inside his front jean pocket. The action made his sleeve ride up and reveal more of the tattoo that crawled from his wrist up his arm. Unthreatening as he might be, he was definitely not your standard boy next door.

“I was babysitting. The Campbells. Maybe you know them.”

He moved toward my car again. “They’re down the road from my place.”

I followed. “So you think you can fix it?” Standing beside him, I peered down into the engine like I knew what I was looking at. My fingers played nervously with the edges of my sleeves. “’Cause that would be awesome. I know she’s a jalopy, but I’ve had her a long time.” And I can’t exactly afford a new car right now.

He angled his head to look at me. “Jalopy?” A corner of his mouth kicked up.

I winced. There I went again, showing off the fact that I grew up surrounded by people born before the invention of television.

“It means an old car.”

“I know what it means. Just never heard anyone but my grandmother say it.”

“Yeah. That’s where I picked it up.” From Gran and everyone else in the Chesterfield Retirement Village.

Turning, he moved to his Jeep. I continued to play with my sleeves, watching him return with a bottle of water.

“Looks like a leaky radiator hose.”

“Is that bad?”

Unscrewing the cap on the water, he poured it inside my engine. “This will cool it down. Should run now. For a while at least. How far are you going?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“It will probably make it. Don’t go farther than that or it will overheat again. Take it to a mechanic first thing tomorrow so he can replace the hose.”

I breathed easier. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Shouldn’t cost more than a couple hundred.”

I winced. That would pretty much wipe out my account. I would have to see about working a few extra shifts at the daycare or getting some more babysitting gigs. At least when I babysat, I could get in some studying after the kids went to bed.

He slammed the hood back in place.

“Thanks a lot.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Saved me from calling a tow truck.”

“So no one’s coming then?” That corner of his mouth lifted back up again and I knew I amused him.

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I might have made that up.”

“It’s okay. You weren’t exactly in an ideal situation. I know I can look scary.”

My gaze scanned his face. Scary? I knew he was probably joking, but he did have that certain edge to him. A dangerous vibe with his tattoos and piercing. Even if he was hot. He was like the dark vampire in movies that girls obsessed over. The ones that were torn between eating the girl and kissing her. I always preferred the nice mortal guy and never understood why the heroine didn’t go after him. I didn’t do dark, dangerous, and sexy. You don’t do anyone. I shoved the whisper back, batting it away. If the right guy—the one I wanted—noticed me, all that would change.

“I wouldn’t say scary … exactly.”

He chuckled softly. “Sure you would.”

Silence hovered between us for a moment. My gaze swept over him. The comfortable-looking T-shirt and well-worn jeans were casual. Guys wore them every day on campus, but he didn’t look casual. He didn’t look like any guy I ever saw around campus. He looked like trouble. The kind that girls lost their heads over. Suddenly my chest felt too tight.

“Well, thanks again.” Offering up a small wave I ducked back inside my car. He watched me turn the key. Thankfully smoke didn’t billow up from the hood.

Driving away, I refused to risk a glance back in my rearview mirror. If Emerson had been with me, I’m sure she wouldn’t have left without his phone number.

Eyes on the road again, I felt perversely glad she wasn’t there.

Excerpt #2

I craned my head to look around. “How are you going to find a table in this zoo?”

Emerson gave me an insulted look. “Oh, we’ll get a table. Leave it to me.”

“Here.” Georgia thrust some money in my hand. “First pitcher on me.”

“The only pitcher. We don’t need to buy our own drinks.” Emerson shook her head like we both had much to learn and motioned for me to move on toward the bar. “Go on. And while you’re there keep an eye out for you-know-who.”

I watched as they disappeared into the throng, convinced now that the whole point of sending me to the bar was for me to scope out the player bartender we’d come here looking for. I worked my way through the crush, wading through bodies until I stood in line behind a pair of giggling girls.

“Yeah, that’s him,” a bleached blonde said to her friend. “Lydia said he was hot, but OMG … that’s putting it mildly.”

Her friend fanned herself. “If he would mess around with Lydia, he’s going to think he hit the lottery with us.”

Who talked about themselves like that? I couldn’t help myself. A laugh escaped me. I slapped a hand over my mouth.

The dark-haired girl glared over her shoulder at me. I quickly dropped my hand and tried to look innocent, angling my neck as though I was impatient to place my drink order and not eavesdropping.

The blonde slapped her arm. “You’re so bad, Gina.”

Gina returned her attention to her friend. “Well, hopefully I’ll get to be bad with him tonight. I call dibs.” She waved a ten-dollar bill, clearly trying to gain the bartender’s attention.

I shook my head, regretting every time I’d ever judged Emerson for her lack of inhibitions. Compared to these two she was a Girl Scout. Clearly they were discussing my bartender. Wait. When did he become mine? I winced. From the sound of it, he belonged to every female that passed through Mulvaney’s doors.

I reminded myself that I would not be hooking up with anyone tonight … especially a bartender with a reputation for swapping DNA with the entire female population of Dartford. Thanks, but no. I couldn’t imagine myself with someone so undiscriminating. I had standards. There was no way I could contemplate messing around with someone like that. Even if it was to gain some much-needed experience to win over Hunter.

And then I saw him.

The air froze in my lungs. He stepped up in front of the two girls, bracing his arms against the bar top. I heard his voice, low and deep, over the steady drone of the bar. “What can I get for you?”

I gawked, unable to blink. I had an unobstructed view of him in the space between the girls. The blood rushed in my ears, and suddenly it was last night all over again and I was on a lonely stretch of country road, the acrid smoke of my overheating car filling my nostrils as I stared at his familiar face. That dark blond hair cut close to his head. The tall, lean body that had bent over the engine of my car less than twenty-four hours ago. I could see him even more clearly now, but I hadn’t been mistaken in my initial assessment. He was hot. His jaw square and strong. His features like something chiseled from marble. There was a shadowy hint of stubble on his face, and his eyes were so piercing a blue they looked almost silver.

He looked just a few years older than me. I could see that now. It was probably just the way he held himself. Experienced. Capable. He wore a well-worn cotton T-shirt with Mulvaney’s stretched across one of his impressive pecs. Dimly I wondered if his shirt looked as soft as it felt? If his chest was as solid?

The girls were tittering like seventh-graders now. Gawking at him, too. I felt like someone sucker punched me. My rescuer. My bartender. Mulvaney’s man-whore. One and the same.

“What can I get you?” he repeated.

“What’s good?” Gina propped her elbows on the bar, no doubt flashing him some of her cleavage.

He rattled off the various beers on tap like he had done it a hundred times before, which he probably had. His gaze slid the length of the bar as he talked, assessing the crowd.

“Hmm. What’s your favorite?” Gina called.

Shaking his head, he looked back down at her. “Look, I’ll come back to you when you make up your mind.” His eyes snapped over them to me. “What’ll you have?”

My mouth parted, surprised that he was addressing me, that he dismissed them so easily. Just like that. And when they were flirting with him no less.

His eyes narrowed with recognition. “Hey. You.” He nodded slightly at me. “How’s the car?”

Before I could answer, Gina sent me a withering look and then turned back to him. She waved her money in his face. “Excuse me. We were here first.”

Sighing, he looked back down at them, his expression a blend of annoyance and boredom. “Then order already.”

She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. “Forget it. The service here sucks. We’ll go somewhere else.” Turning, they shoved past me.

He didn’t even watch them depart. With his stare fixed on me, he shrugged one shoulder and flashed me a half smile that made my stomach lurch. I stepped up to the bar, trying to look confident. Like I hung out in bars all the time.

He braced his hands on the edge of the bar, leaning forward slightly. “Now what can I get for you?” His tone was decidedly friendlier than when he spoke to the other girls, and heat swarmed my face. I’m sure it was just because we knew each other—in a way—but it still made me feel special. Singled out.

I lowered my gaze, eyeing his arms. The muscles bunched. A tattoo peaked out from beneath his sleeve and crawled down his tanned bicep and forearm, stopping at his wrist. It looked like some kind of intricate feathered wing. I would have liked to study it further, but I was already conscious that I was ogling him, and I still hadn’t answered his question.

“Um. A pitcher of Sam Adams.” I knew Emerson liked microbrews.


“Oh.” I fumbled for the fake ID Emerson made me get last year for the one time she dragged me to Freemont’s.

He glanced at it and back to my face. A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Twenty-four?”

I nodded, but my face went from warm to scalding.

“Guess you just have one of those baby faces.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Still smiling faintly, he stepped away.

My eyes were drawn to his broad back. His T-shirt hugged the muscled expanse. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans, and the view from the back was almost as nice as the front. Suddenly the bar felt oppressively hot.

He set the full pitcher and a stack of cups in front of me.

“Thanks.” I handed him the money. He took it and moved to the cash register.

In the moments he was gone, I tried to think of something to say. Something cute and engaging. Anything that might draw out our conversation. I didn’t let myself consider why. Or that suddenly I wasn’t so averse to the idea of talking to him. Flirting with him. Flirting.

My throat closed up, panicking at the prospect. How did Emerson do it? She made flirting look so effortless.

He returned with my change. “Thanks,” I murmured, dropping it into the tip jar.

“Take care.”

I looked up but he was already gone, moving on to the next customer. I hesitated, staring after him. Shaking my head, I reminded myself not to ogle. Tucking the cups under one arm, I held the pitcher with two hands and dove back into the throng. Only I didn’t make it two steps before someone bumped me. The pitcher flew from my hands, somersaulting amid bodies, sloshing beer everywhere. People cried out, wiping ineffectually at their doused clothing.

“Sorry!” I apologized to their glaring faces, grateful that I, at least, had somehow managed to stay dry.

Bending, I retrieved the plastic pitcher from the plank floor just as my pocket started to buzz multiple times in quick succession.

I dug it out of my pocket and read the text.


Emerson: Found table. Still at bar? Did u see him?


Rolling my eyes, I tucked the empty pitcher under my arm and texted her back.


Me: Yes. Yes.

Sighing, I squeezed back to the front of the bar and set the pitcher down on the surface. My gaze searched for him. He was serving customers a little way down the bar now, bending his lean body over the counter to better hear orders. I waited until he caught my gaze. He sent me a nod of acknowledgment. I nodded back.

My phone vibrated in my hand again. I glanced down.


Emerson: U r taking 4ever. Better be making out w/him 2 take this long


I snorted and was in the process of typing back to her when he arrived in front of me. He nodded at the pitcher. “That was quick.”

“Yeah.” I hastily slid my phone back in my pocket, almost as if I feared him seeing the texts about him. I smiled wanly. “I didn’t make it three feet.”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding, bracing his hands on the bar top again. The action stretched his shirt taut over his chest and pulled it against his shoulders. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Nice girls get eaten alive in places like this.”

I stared at him for a moment, his words sinking in. I moistened my lips, reaching deep inside me where some reservoir of female instincts dwelled. “Maybe I’m not that nice.”

He laughed then, a short, deep sound that sent ripples eddying through me. My face flushed. I smiled hesitantly, unsure if his laughter was good or bad.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got ‘nice girl’ written all over you.”

The “sweetheart” made my stomach flutter. Until the rest of his words sank in. You’ve got “nice girl” written all over you. I frowned. Nice girls didn’t win the guy. Hunter’s ex-girlfriend flashed across my mind. She had been sexy, with sleek, surfer-blond hair and designer clothes that showed off her body. Sophisticated. Not your girl-next-door type at all. Not like me. No one would accuse her of being a nice girl.

“You might be surprised,” I bluffed.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his gaze skimming me, and suddenly I wished I had worn something besides a shapeless sweater. “I would be.”

I clamped my lips shut to stop myself from arguing with him. He thought I was a nice girl because that’s how I looked. I wasn’t going to change his mind with words. That was the kind of thing one proved.

He bent his arm and tapped his elbow. “Use your elbows to get through out there.”

He stepped away and filled another pitcher. He set it down in front of me. I fumbled for my money in the tiny purse strapped across my chest.

He swiped a hand through the air. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Really? Thanks.”

He pointed out into the main room. “Just remember to use those elbows, Nice Girl.”

With that parting tip, he moved down the bar to the next customer. I stood there and stared after him for a moment, contemplating our exchange. Nice Girl. It echoed through my head. Fantastic. That’s how he thought of me. No name. Simply that.



About Sophie

Sophie Jordan grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s also the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Avon historical romances. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes and Diet cherry Coke preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with true-crime and reality-TV shows. Sophie also writes paranormal romances under the name Sharie Kohler.

Stalk Her: Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Newsletter

Find Foreplay On: Goodreads / Amazon

Read Excerpts # 3, 4, 5 & 6 Here!



Love is Stability – Review



Once a week (ok, I’m lying…it’s more like once a day) I have a conversation with my best-friend about bad boys. Admittedly, I am a bad boy whore. Adios Prince Charming (I like Hook.) Peace out Damon! (Klaus is the man for me.) My friend GETS it. She herself is a fan of the “less than moral.” But that doesn’t mean I don’t get asked “Why?” on a fairly regular basis.

So let me tell you…once and for all.

I think BAD guys are nothing more than MISUNDERSTOOD guys, and they will ALWAYS love you better (fictionally speaking) than the ones that are wrapped up in the perfect little package. The fact of the matter is…they appreciate the small things. They are willing to defend (to the point of self-sacrifice) the ones they love…no questions asked. And once someone breaks down that emotional barrier, there is no going back. They are committed. You will NEVER catch them swapping sweaty ones with a stripper on a Saturday night. Bad boys are ultimately, the good guy. Believe it or not.

Reese, in Sophie Jordan’s very first N/A novel “Foreplay” is the evidence to my claim. (Feel free to investigate.) He’s beautiful. He’s damaged, and makes for some very intriguing dialogue (and sexy moments – que porno music.)

But first, let’s talk a little about the story itself.

Pepper (the narrator and protagonist of Foreplay) is a product of her upbringing. It’s tough sometimes to admit that our childhoods have such a profound affect on our adult lives, but that’s life. And because of Pepper’s childhood she has grown-up to be a very naive, anxious, adult who craves stability like it’s the holy grail. But not ANY stability, she craves a particular kind. And the only way she knows how to accomplish this is by fooling herself into believing she is in love with her best-friends brother. The only problem…she’s been lying to herself for so long that NOW she truly believes she IS in love. But having ZERO experience with men (because she’s been saving herself) she is at a loss as to HOW (now that he is finally single) to snag him, so she does what any rational college aged girl would do (insert appropriate amount of sarcasm) she finds a hot bartender to practice on. And so the story goes….in a direction in which I will not reveal for fear of pain by angry spoiler monkeys.

In all honesty, the story is not that original. I’m sure most of you (if given five minutes and some scratch paper) could figure it out. But it doesn’t hurt the story. Why? Because Jordan has flawless execution. You KNOW what you are going to find at the end of the rainbow, but it’s the journey OVER it that is so incredibly captivating that I found myself starting, and then subsequently finishing it in 3 1/2 hours. (Fun fact: I started the book at 10pm…) Pepper and Reece (the aforementioned bartender) leaped from the page. I felt like I KNEW them, like they were my friends. I cared what happened to them. I cringed at bad decisions, cried during others. They were EXACTLY what a fictional relationships SHOULD be. Tension filled, and full of harbored feelings.

Pepper and Reece weren’t the whole of the story though, there was also Hunter. The stability pot of gold. (Ok, I gotta stop with the lame rainbow analogies.) Hunter was (in essence) everything Reese wasn’t. He was (is) also, and incredibly nice guy which makes it hard to dislike him (though I did…I’m a cold hearted bitch.) He opens doors, offers comfort, makes the Pope look like the devil incarnate. Which is the reason Pepper has a hard time separating her feelings.

As is custom in this genre there was plenty of the “S” word (that’s sex. Duh) And though it could have taken a turn towards classless or at the very least meaningless (due to it’s “this is a lesson” nature) Jordan kept it soft. Beautiful. And…well…hot. (*waves face*) She allowed Reece to be a gentleman which was a very nice surprise. She also allowed Pepper to grow (emotionally speaking) which just illustrates Jordan’s solid writing prowess.

Now, I could keep going, but…chances are you’ve decided one way or the other whether or not you are going to read this book by now. So I’ll save my breath (aka: I have finger cramps.) And end with this…

If you like romances that feel genuine. If you want characters you can root for. If a little bit of sexy time sounds like a good idea…this is the book for you. It hits on all marks, and is bound to leave one on you as well.

Happy Reading my fellow Kindle-ites and remember: Stability and Happiness are NOT mutually exclusive.

Rating Report
Overall: 4.3


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About Misty

Your friendly neighborhood narcissist. I'm sarcastic, cynical and a bit cranky. I own a soap box so big that sometimes I have difficulty stepping down off of it, and I'm about 94% certain I have multiple personalities. I don't sleep enough, and I read more than any person should ever consider normal. I have anger management issues, especially when I'm stuck in traffic and I have an unhealthy obsession with my Kindle. I am a vampire lovin', zombie obsessed, book-in-hand, iPod freak. You either love me or hate me. You be the judge.