Trillion(75)

Only once I started actually writing, the book started taking on a life of its own and the characters began telling ME their story the way they wanted it to be told. As a control freak-slash-planner, I don’t tend to hand over the creative reins to fictional people, but my intuition told me to with the flow and I “pantsed” the entire book (wrote without an outline).

I recently read a biography on Marilyn Monroe. Random, I know. But it gave me a major book hangover that bled into this story. Fascinated with her beautiful, tragic, short little life, I drew from her unique qualities her while dreaming up Sophie Bristol. Marilyn was undeniably stunning. Complex. Intelligent. Tortured. She could flip a switch and be whoever she needed to be in that moment, but her emotional wounds ran deep and haunted her until the very end. No one really knew the real Marilyn. Legend has it, the men in her life were always drawn to her striking beauty, but it was her vulnerability that hooked them.

They all wanted to save her—no one really knew how.

When I started writing this book, it was all about Trey. Sophie completely took it over, and I’m not mad about it. She had quite the story to tell. ;-)

All of that said, thank you SO, SO much for reading TRILLION. I truly hope you enjoyed it!



Love,

Winter



PS – Love angst and star-crossed love stories? Check out my last book, THE BEST MAN! (Page ahead for a sample!)





SAMPLE - The Best Man





CHAPTER ONE



Brie



Numbers don’t lie.

But men like the one beside me? With iridescent copper eyes, a jawline so sharp it could cut diamonds, and muscle-wrapped shoulders made for digging your fingers into as he pushes himself into the deepest parts of you?

They lie.

They lie all the time.

Especially in Hoboken hook-up bars like this one.

He told me his name, but already I’ve forgotten. Men like him don’t tend to give real names, so there’s no point in remembering. He also told me he’s from Manhattan, and that once a month he rents a car for a weekend so he can get out of the city, breathe some fresh air, and hear himself think.

Sounds made up.

A story you tell someone to impress them, to make them think you’re deep.

Different.

Special.

If I had to guess, he has a wife and a new baby in the ‘burbs. Ridgewood or Franklin Lakes. Maybe his sex life isn’t what it used to be. Maybe the family life wasn’t what he expected. In my mind’s eye I’ve imagined him packing a small suitcase, kissing his family goodbye, loading up in his luxury SUV and hauling ass to a little bar where nobody knows your name or marital status.

I steal a peek at his left hand.

It’s too dim to spot a wedding band indentation.

“How long are you in town?” He leans in when he speaks to me, his voice smooth as velvet and sending a spray of goosebumps along my neck. The faintest hint of aftershave wafts from his warm skin. Faded with a hint of vetiver and mystique, I enjoy it. But I don’t tell him that. If I flatter him, he’ll think he’s got a ‘nibble’ and he’ll try to reel me in.

I don’t want to be caught. I don’t want to be reeled in.

I want to enjoy my glass of pinot, maybe take a walk around the block, and then head back to my hotel room, paint on a charcoal mud mask, and fall asleep with Seinfeld reruns flickering on my TV screen.

“Not much longer,” I tell him, avoiding eye contact for a myriad of reasons, most of all being the fact that he’s the most beautiful stranger (physically speaking) to ever have purchased me a drink and every time I allow myself to bask in that, I lose my train of thought. “A couple more days.”

“Same.” He sips his drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. The kind of liquor you savor drop by pricey drop, the kind you don’t rush to finish. “Where did you say you worked again?”

“Phoenix.” I clear my throat. Nothing worse than a man who asks questions but doesn’t take the time to listen.

“No, I remember that part,” he proves me wrong. “I meant where? What company?”

“The Fletcher Firm.” I lie for safety reasons.

I don’t know this man from Adam—no need to give him Google ammo.

“Kind of young to be an actuary, aren’t you?”

His next question catches me off-guard, and I nearly choke on my pinot. Most men—the ones laser focused on securing a piece of ass for the night—rarely remember what I do for a living once they’ve asked me. And the ones that do, have no idea what an actuary is or the education and tests that go into becoming one.

“I am young for an actuary, yes,” I say. I turn my attention toward him without thinking twice. Big mistake. His hazel eyes glint, focused on me. My stomach tightens in response. “I fast-tracked.” Taking a sip, I add, “I don’t recommend it unless you’re willing to sacrifice your social life—or any kind of life you may have—for the majority of your twenties.”

So much of life passed me by. Semesters blurred into one another. Weekend invites were turned down in favor of studying for the next exam. In the end, I was racing to a finish line for no other reason than it felt like a safe choice in a world filled with so much uncertainty.

Go to college. Get a career. Everything else will fall into place …