Of all the places one could end up during the holidays, I never expected I’d end up in a romance novel.
The text appears to have been taken off the publishing site, but Google has the cache of Pleasure Island and the painful memories I once gave to our deserted island-bound, love-starved protagonist, Christy:
“Not on my day off and not when I forgot to tell everyone I was going.” He cursed again, kicking at the sand. “And they’re definitely not coming to search for us here.” “I’m telling you, there are magicians who can do this sort of thing. I’ve seen them.” Christy thought of her ex, Brady Carlson, but quickly shook the thought away. The man was just vindictive enough to try a stunt like this – if he could. However, if the man could afford to pay a supernatural to use magical powers, he’d have done so to zap his rock career into existence. Other than that, no one hated her this much.
I don’t appear to show up again, at least not in any of the excerpts. Maybe I reappear in the sequel to test the bounds of Christy’s newfound happiness with the sea captain, or whoever it is she ended up with. Then I rip off my head and reveal I’m Bette Midler. Or not.
