Spotlight on Perfect On Paper (Sophie Gonzales), Excerpt, Plus Giveaway! ~ (US/Can Only)
Today we're excited to spotlight Perfect On Paper by Sophie Gonzales.
Read on for more about Sophie and her book, an guest post, plus an giveaway!
Meet Sophie Gonzales!
SOPHIE GONZALES is a YA contemporary author. She graduated from the University of Adelaide and lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she currently works as a psychologist. When she isn’t writing, she can be found ice skating, performing in musical theater, and practicing the piano. She is also the author of Only Mostly Devastated and The Law of Inertia.
Meet Perfect On Paper!
Her advice, spot on. Her love life, way off.
• Can give you the solution to any of your relationship woes―for a fee.
• Uses her power for good. Most of the time.
• Really cannot stand Alexander Brougham.
• Has maybe not the best judgement when it comes to her best friend, Brooke…who is in love with someone else.
• Does not appreciate being blackmailed.
However, when Brougham catches her in the act of collecting letters from locker 89―out of which she’s been running her questionably legal, anonymous relationship advice service―that’s exactly what happens. In exchange for keeping her secret, Darcy begrudgingly agrees to become his personal dating coach―at a generous hourly rate, at least. The goal? To help him win his ex-girlfriend back.
Darcy has a good reason to keep her identity secret. If word gets out that she’s behind the locker, some things she's not proud of will come to light, and there’s a good chance Brooke will never speak to her again.
Okay, so all she has to do is help an entitled, bratty, (annoyingly hot) guy win over a girl who’s already fallen for him once? What could go wrong?
~ Excerpt ~
At home, Ainsley had not only taken the spaghetti sauce out to defrost, she also had a fresh loaf of bread cooking in the bread maker, filling the house with the delicious, yeasty smell of a country bakery. A sloshing, watery sound told me the dishwasher was halfway through a cycle already, too, and the linoleum floor had a “newly mopped” gleam. Even scrubbed down, though, our house was generally too full of clutter to look clean, and the kitchen was no different. Every counter surface was occupied by decorative knick- knacks, from succulents in terra-cotta pots to boxes full of baking utensils to assorted mug racks. The walls were covered in pots and pans and knives hanging from various wooden displays, and the fridge was adorned with magnets
to celebrate every big moment in our family’s lives, from Disneyland trips to a Hawaii beach vacation to my kinder- garten graduation to a picture of Ainsley and Mom on the courthouse steps the day of Ainsley’s legal name change.
Since she’d started community college, Ainsley had become preoccupied with “earning her keep” around the house, like Mom hadn’t inundated her with reasons to go to college here instead of L.A. all of Ainsley’s junior year. Mom, it seemed, wasn’t ready to have the house totally empty every other week when I went to my dad’s. Not that I was complaining; not only was Ainsley a much better cook than Mom, but she was, incidentally, one of my best friends. Which was one of the weapons Mom had had in her “convince Ainsley to stick around” arsenal.
I dumped my bag by the kitchen table and slid onto one of the benches, trying and failing to catch Ainsley’s eye. As usual, she was wearing one of her personalized altered creations, a cream sweater with three-quarter sleeves and winglike frills running down the sides.
“Are you thinking of doing garlic bread, love?” Mom asked Ainsley, opening the fridge to get some water.
Ainsley glanced at the humming bread maker. “That’s a good idea, actually.”
I cleared my throat. “Ainsley, you said you were gonna alter one of your dresses for me.”
Now, to clarify, Ainsley had said no such thing. She was good for a lot of stuff, but sharing her clothes and makeup was not, and never had been, her strong suit. It did the trick, though. She looked at me, finally, albeit in bewilderment, and I took the chance to widen my eyes at her meaningfully. “Oh, of course,” she lied, tucking a lock of her long brown hair behind one ear. Her tell. Lucky Mom wasn’t paying
much attention. “I have a few minutes now if you want to look.”
“Yep, yep, let’s go.”
I didn’t visit Ainsley’s room nearly as often as she made the trip to mine, and I had a good reason for it. Where my bedroom was relatively organized, decorations where they should be, bed made, clothes hung up, Ainsley’s was orga- nized chaos. Her green and pink candy-striped walls were barely visible through the posters and paintings and pho- tos she’d stuck up haphazardly (the only photo that’d been placed with any care was the large, framed picture of the Queer and Questioning Club, taken at the end of her senior year). Her queen-sized bed was unmade—not that you could tell, with the four or five layers of clothes she’d thrown on top of it—and at the foot of the bed, a trunk she kept stuffed full of fabrics and buttons and bits and bobs she was sure she’d find a use for one day sat open, its contents spilling out onto the plush cream carpet.
As soon as I got through the door, I was olfactorily as- saulted by the thick caramel-vanilla aroma of Ainsley’s favorite candle, which she always lit when she was planning a new YouTube video. She claimed it helped her concen- trate, but my muse didn’t come in the form of a scent- induced migraine, so I could not relate.
Ainsley pulled her door shut. I threw myself onto the bundle of clothes on her bed, gagging as dramatically as I could. “What’s up?” she asked, opening the window a crack to let in some sweet oxygen.
I crawled closer to the window and sucked in a breath. “I was caught, Ains.”
She didn’t ask what I was caught doing. She didn’t have to. As the one and only confidante in the world who knew
about my locker business, she knew very well what I did immediately after school every day.
She sat heavy on the edge of the bed. “By who?” “Finn Park’s friend. Alexander Brougham.”
“Him?” She gave me a wicked smile. “He’s a snack. He looks like Bill Skarsgård!”
I chose to ignore the fact that she’d compared Brougham to a horror movie clown as a compliment. “How, because he has puffy eyes? Not my thing.”
“Because he’s a guy, or because he’s not Brooke?” “Because he’s not my type. Why would it be because he’s
“I dunno, just you usually go for girls.”
Okay, just because I’d happened to like a few girls in a row now did not mean I couldn’t like a guy.
CREDIT LINE: From Perfect on Paper by Sophie Gonzales. Copyright (c) 2021 by the author and reprinted by permission of Wednesday Books.
Perfect On Paper
By: Sophie Gonzales
Publisher: Wednesday Books
Release Date: March 9th, 2021
One winner will receive a copy of Perfect On Paper (Sophie Gonzales) ~ (US Only)
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