Well Matched (Well Met #3)(94)
With every book, I realize anew how lucky I am to have a great group of people at my back: my agent, Taylor Haggerty, and my critique partners, Gwynne Jackson and Vivien Jackson, are basically my foundation. I would be flailing out here without you. I had a wonderful group of alpha readers who were basically the OG Mitch fan club: Annette Christie, Jenny Howe, Cass Scotka, Courtney Kaericher, and Lindsay Landgraf Hess. There is room enough in his heart for you all!
Jenny Howe, thanks for letting me borrow Murray. It helps my heart to know that he and Gambit are together in this book forever, and I hope it helps yours too.
ReLynn Vaughn, thank you for the inspo spam as always!
I cannot overstate how much fun I have working on these books with Kerry Donovan as my editor. It’s a genuine pleasure to have someone love and understand my characters as much as I do! Massive thanks as usual to the rest of the Berkley team: Jessica Mangicaro, Jessica Brock, Mary Geren, Mary Baker, and Angelina Krahn. Special thanks to Colleen Reinhart for yet another adorable cover!
Additional thanks this go-round to Lyssa Kay Adams and the participants of the 30-Day Draft project, which helped me get a good portion of this book written. Thanks for all the Zoom sprints and chats! And thanks as usual to my Bs—Brighton, Ellis, Esher, Ann, Melly, Helen, Laura, Elizabeth, and Suzanne—for the morning coffee Zooms, the evening boozy Zooms, and the occasional writing Zooms. So many Zooms.
Morgan, you deserve all the beer in the fridge. There’s no one I’d rather drive across the country with in a rented SUV containing three annoyed cats. I love you.
My heart goes out—and continues to go out—to the Renaissance Faires across the country that were forced to shut down during 2020 and much of 2021. Many performers and artisans lost their livelihoods and have been trying to keep it going online as much as possible. Check out digitalrenfaire.com for virtual performances and the Facebook group Faire Relief 2020 for vendors selling their crafts online. Hopefully by the time this book is published we’ll be meeting up in person again. I look forward to raising a tankard with you all someday at pub sing. Huzzah!
One last fervent THANK YOU to the readers out there. So many of you have reached out to me during this crazy time and told me how these books have been an escape, a chance to attend a fictional Renaissance Faire when the real ones were closed down. I’m so touched and grateful for the chance to distract and entertain. Thank you as well to the bookstagrammers and bloggers, the bookstores and librarians who have featured my books on their platforms. These times have been so challenging, and I appreciate every single one of you. Thank you.
Keep reading for a special preview of the next novel by Jen DeLuca
Well Traveled
Coming in Fall 2022!
I quit my job,” I said to my third glass of cider that morning. It didn’t respond.
But Stacey did. “It’s going to be okay, Lulu.” She sounded like she was talking someone out of jumping off a bridge. Except I’d already jumped, and now I was spiraling down toward scary, swirling water below. It was going to hurt like hell when I landed.
“I don’t see how.” I shook my head and took another gulp of cider, oblivious to the revelry around me. I was in a makeshift tavern, the drink in front of me served by a barmaid in a cinched-up corset and a huge smile. Nearby a frat boy in chainmail chugged a light beer, his friends in variously elaborate costumes cheering him on. A faint melody from faraway bagpipes floated by on the breeze. I should have been enjoying my time at the Renaissance Faire—a rare day off for me. But I had all the days off now.
Another fortifying sip of cider, and I looked at Stacey. “You don’t know my family. They want . . .” My stomach clenched, and the cider threatened to come right back up. Sure, I was in my late thirties, but judgment from your parents stayed with you. They’d been so proud of my upward trajectory with the law firm. There’d always been a sense of competition between my parents and their siblings, wanting their kids to be as successful as possible. My career had never been about what would make me feel fulfilled. It was about bragging rights for my mom and dad at every family function for the rest of their lives.
“Here.” Stacey took away my cider and pushed a bottle of water into my hands. “Take that and come with me. Our next show starts in a few minutes.”
I followed her like an obedient child, because I was out of options and my brain was offline. We dodged costumed fairegoers and kids with fake swords, until we reached the stage and she ushered me to a bench at the back of the audience. Words echoed in my head to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I quit my job. I quit my job. I quit my job.
It was approaching noon and the sun was high, the heat not helping things in the least. Those three ciders were hitting hard as the Dueling Kilts took the stage, so I uncapped the bottle of water and forced myself to take measured sips. Forced myself to calm down and focus on the stage in front of me.
Which . . . wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. I’d never been attracted to men in kilts—knees weren’t really my thing—but the rugged good looks of the trio of kilted musicians onstage drew my attention more than their outfits. No wonder Grandma Malone had been so taken with them last summer.
Two of them looked more closely related than the third—that odd man out played the fiddle, and he was tall and lean, with long, dark auburn hair tied back in a queue. The other two were shorter and dark haired. The one on the hand drum was boyish looking, slender with closely cropped hair, while the guitarist was more muscular, his longer hair tied carelessly back from a face that boasted sharp cheekbones and a sharper jawline. If this were a boy band from my childhood, the drummer would be the cute, non threatening lead singer, while the part in me that coveted bad boys would have gone straight for the guitar player.